As stories of long have been told,
of youths rounders searching for gold,
taking trails westward,
some as prospectors, others
working as hands on the W “Z”,
Long Bar, or the Double Diamond,
some emblem, to place by their epitaph,
of their time, spent on the land.
We were a true crew of hands,
gathering at the Blood Bucket,
there upon Virginia City's hill,
with Mildred at the bar,
so much like Ms Kitty,
as rowdy as a crew,
as she handled at the “Branch”.
Rodger Dale, drifted across the plains,
stories told he had came from Lou Ana,
not in search of gold,
but to escape some hanging,
for his battle over a Redbone Girl,
at some border town bar.
She was a true beauty,
who sat with luring eyes,
with her skirt pulled above the knee,
and left hand placed gracefully on her thigh,
and the hands of Mo Mans Land,
could not resist taking her for a “dance”,
and possible even a chance.
Some French man, with a knife,
filled with cheap whiskey,
approached Rodger Dale,
one Saturday night,
threated to take his life,
spurting that “she” was his girl,
and was going to take her for a whirl.
Roger said just meet me outside,
where he pulled a gun,
and two shots fired,
the Frenchman fell into the mud,
and Rodger sped off in his truck,
never stopping till he got across Texas,
and working westward until he got to the Bucket.
It was at the bucket,
where we hands gathered round,
Rodger would take his chew,
and when Ms Mildred's back was turned,
challenged the crew that he could ring,
the cash drawer with a direct hit.
Mildred tired of his antics,
did bring to town,
a pastors plate,
and with the wink of an eye,
caught the hit,
telling Rodger, oh, not I.
After abundant cash was accumulated,
I headed for the famed Sonoma Hills,
building a milking farm,
and hiring hands from a far,
to automatic milk,
before the days light had a start.
An old injury
did come back around,
from a bad bronco, and luck,
this is life, and its value,
sometimes are not measured,
in British pounds.
As aches, keep me late in bed,
grateful of the “dairy” and the wealth,
that it gives forth,
with my wife having long been gone,
I have my blue heeler,
to keep me warm,
and those memories up in Virginia City,
and wonder of Cafferty and his outcome.
I have heard that he ended up in the Big City,
driving with four on the floor,
and a fifth under the seat,
it all caught up with him,
the Big City was not,
as charming as Reno,
for now some newscaster on CNN.
What of Mildred,
and where is she these days,
for it is told,
she took the accumulation,
there upon the pastors plate,
one final Saturday night,
returned it to Rodge Dales' face.
Turning saying boys,
I am retiring,
removing her apron,
walking out of their lives,
and some said she got a job,
over at the Mustang Ranch,
others told of seeing her in Vegas,
spinning fools dice around.
There are always those who would play,
thinking those snake eyes,
would tumble on every roll,
Mildred would earn her take,
As she reached out with her “rake”.
Rounders are always standing round,
telling tales of youth whose times spent,
but some never knew Ms Mildred,
Roger Dale or Cafferty with his fifth,
there upon that old ford floor,
when these hands Ms Mildred
would cry out, bar the door.
These were quite a crew,
that gather with Ms. Mildred,
once a week, on payday nights,
now long, to return to that life,
but those days are now gone,
its only memories that bring comfort,
as aches take over our bones.
