Chester Miller's Final Fight Poem by David Welch

In the desert waste Chester Miller looked out,
saw the rest of the gang riding back slow,
fresh from the bank job in Copperstone Creek,
a place that Chester could dare not go.

He'd spent his teen years in that little ville,
caused much mischief of the criminal kind,
if he had rode in with the gang today
he would surely have been recognized.

So he'd drawn up a plan and then stepped back,
let the rest of the boys do the hard work,
given the sacks tied on to their saddles
they'd succeeded, and got away unhurt.

But on the horse of his right-hand man,
an old rebel who the boys called Bret,
rode a scared boy, his eyes wide with terror,
fighting not to sob with every breath.

He tossed the boy down in front of Chester,
who said, "Why did you bring a young kid here? "
Bret said, "Took a hostage, held back the marshall,
allowed us to escape with nothing to fear."

Chester looked closely at the ten-year old,
seeing something familiar in his face.
"Besides, "said Bret, "now we'll get a ransom,
his father looked the type who could pay! "

They bound the boy's hand with a stretch of rope,
but made no other effort to restrain,
as they all drank, Chester watched the boy,
where had he seen him? He wracked his brain.

As night started to fall, the gang dropped off,
Chester suddenly saw truth before him:
the brow and the forehead, the sweep of the jaw,
a spitting image of his brother Tim!

Chester knelt down, look the kid in the eyes,
asked, "By what name are you usually called? "
The boy stammered, "R-R-Ronald Miller."
Said Chester, "Named after your grandpa."

He did not have to ask any further,
the boy was his nephew, without doubt,
and with not a moment's hesitation
he pulled a long, dull Bowie knife out.

Ronald's eyes bulged from his head in fear,
until Chester quickly slashed his bond,
took the confused boy, lead him by the hand,
said, "Now we have got to move quickly, come on."

They picked their way over to his horse,
up on the saddle the small figure went.
Chester was about to clamber up to
when the night by a loud shout was rent.

Bret was awake, the others coming 'round,
they'd be drawing their irons before long,
said to the kid, "Tell Tim Chester helped you! "
Slapped the horses, and in a flash it was gone.

He turned back to see all four of his gang
staring at him, in anger and shock.
"That boy was worth thousands, "seethed out mad Bret,
his hand shifting towards his rifle stock.

Chester pull his gun in a blur of speed,
sent two slugs into the nearest forehead,
the bandit went down, but the others drew,
the air crackling with muzzle flashes and lead.

Chester hit another, straight in the heart,
then felt something bite deep into his side,
he stumbled backwards, then fired again,
his shot hit home and another man died.

Then Bret's rifle roared, shattering his shin,
he collapsed down to the group in a heap,
but he still had his Colt, two bullets left,
aimed upwards and let fly with a screech.

Two shots hit Bret right in the sternum,
soon too he collapsed down to the dirt,
both men bleeding heavy, both wounds mortal,
they faced their last minutes on this earth.

Bret choked through blood, croaked out a rough, "Why?
I though this gang meant everything to you? "
Chester coughed, "Yes, that is what I thought,
but that boy you seized was my nephew."

Bret never said anything ever again,
Chester slumped back, and looked up at cold stars,
praying that Ronald still sprinted away,
that his horse had kept pace long and hard…

A whole day passed, then the Marshall came out,
with a posse, Ronald, and Tim Miller,
they looked at the scene, shook their heads slowly,
said, "A fine final scene for these killers."

But Tim found his brother, his face at peace,
hoisted the body higher up on his horse,
the other men grumbled, but Tim would not
let his kin be brought in for a reward.

He had heard everything Ronald has told,
and though his brother down dark paths had roamed,
he'd shown he hadn't lost everything good,
and would rest quietly beneath a stone.

Back on the ranch he carved into granite
so all that who might ride by it would know,
‘Here lies Chester Miller, who lived a rough life,
but in the end managed to die a hero.'