The Ballad of Whispering Boone
He paused at the swingin doors and eye-balled the entire saloon.
He cast a long shadow on the floor, from the bright sunshine of Noon.
His hard eyes roved, checking us out, not a single soul was exempt.
His scornful gaze left no doubt he viewed us all with contempt.
He wore two Colts, tied down low. We knew we were seeing a ringer.
Hat pulled low, black as a crow, the rattlesnake band said, "Gunslinger!"
He asked the bar man for gin, then sat with his back to the wall,
Over where the light was dim, where he had a good view of us all.
Our card game then resumed, with no one making any fuss.
It was probably safe to assume that he wasn't looking for us.
Then, in a voice that rang loud in that tense and quiet saloon,
The stranger asked the crowd if we knew "Whispering Boone."
Of course, we all knew the gent. A local celebrity, you might say.
His normal voice up and went when a lynch-rope took it away.
Young Boone and Tim McMann were rivals for a rancher's daughter.
Deciding Tim couldn't have her hand, she returned the ring he bought her.
Stolen horses found on Boone's land made it seem he was a horse thief.
They'd been left there by Tim McMann, trying to bring Young Boone to grief.
Several horses had been taken lately. It appeared Young Boone did the job.
The townspeople reacted irately. Tim McMann turned them into a mob.
Young Boone found the stolen horses. He hurried to town at a lope.
McMann's ranch hands incited the crowd. One yelled, "I've got a rope!"
Boone meant to report the horses found, but was pulled down by angry men.
Suddenly he found himself on the ground, a hangman's noose under his chin.
The Sheriff arrived a few seconds late. The mob got what they were after.
It seemed Young Boone had met his fate. He swung from a livery barn rafter.
Some friends quickly cut him down, but his neck took an awful cinching.
Barely able to make a sound, he vowed he'd avenge his lynching.
He was lucky to still be alive, but his vocal cords had met their doom.
Of his voice, just a whisper remained. Hence the nickname, "Whispering Boone."
Daily he practiced his fast draw. He worked hard at it like it was a job,
Becoming the quickest you ever saw. They he went after the lynch mob.
His revenge was swift and sure. He settled the score with hot lead.
His injury received a cure of sorts. The lynch leaders wound up dead.
Frontier justice was hard and fast, dispensed with the roar of a gun.
But enmity will sometimes last, with new problems often begun.
Old George McMann wanted revenge. He sent for a professional gun hand,
So his son, Tim, might be avenged. This black-hatted feller was the man.
Just then the swinging doors opened, flashing the brightness of Noon,
And the saloon's quiet mood was broken. At the door stood "Whispering Boone."
His eyes locked on the gunslinger, who had suddenly jumped to his feet.
Boone smiled and pointed his finger, whispering, "Meet me out in the street."
The gunslinger said, "How's this going to be? I'm willing to do it your way."
Boone whispered, "How about I count three?" The gunfighter smirked, "That's okay."
At twenty paces they took their stand. Suddenly the gunfighter felt fear.
Boone's lips were moving. He flexed his gun hand. "Speak up, will you, I can't hear!"
Suddenly the gunfighter was confused. How many times had Boone's lips moved?
Is he counting? Was that a two? The gunfighter, in a panic, suddenly drew.
He never knew who won that day. He had paid the ultimate cost.
He never heard the soft whisper say, "So sorry, Mister. You lost."
© 2002, Neal Torrey
More Neal Torrey Cowboy Poetry is at:
http://www.cowboypoetry.com/nt.htm
