Only once before had his
eyes fallen on his foe,
A time long ago that still
tears his heart so,
Bringing back the boil to
his bloods flow,
An arctic cold, his eyes now
show,
He sees her die once more.
With an oath that he swore
to and kept,
Every hour practiced, tears
he wept,
Until he became the best,
Vowing, no longer will tears
be shed,
Until he put him to rest.
Gilead, some knew as a drifter,
Others thought maybe just a
grifter,
But those that lay dead once
thinking they were faster,
Knew him to be a genuine
Gunslinger,
And as the legend is told,
there was only one man better,
The man Gilead‘s was quest
for.
Wandering from town to town
all across the land,
Gilead remembered a seventeen year
olds hand,
Now his guns were drawn by a
man,
Many who saw Gilead bowed as if he were grand,
Giving a wide berth from
where he stands,
He often wondered if they
honestly gave a damn.
In a town of shacks and mud,
Some place called Roland or
such,
Either way, as a town it
wasn’t much,
Gilead stood in front of a church,
boots covered in muck,
The shadow of its cross
between him and the one called Frost.
Staring at a man that seemed
to defy age,
It all came back as Gilead stood before him in leather and lace,
The way his quarry had an
ever changing face,
One glance he was Frost, the
next a preacher fallen from Gods grace,
Then without warning he saw
his beloved and for a second lost his faith,
Never seeing the bullet
fired that tore through his lace.
On the ground, he knew his
blood flowed,
As he looked up at the man
he’d grown to loathe,
Expecting a gloating face to
be shown,
He saw instead a hand
lifting him slow,
With a voice that captured
all ages while whispery low,
Frost laid Gilead
a stunning blow,
With words that he knew held
no ploy,
“There’s much to be said,
things you should know.”
Outside of town, such as it
was,
Gilead favored his arm that
stopped squirting blood,
“The times have changed,
much I have forgot,
You think I’m the man you
seek, let me prove I’m not,
For even though I held the
gun that fired the fatal shot,
It was the need of another
that makes your blood run hot.
As the night covered
everything but their fire,
Frost and Gilead
talked for hours,
One about the loss of a
Father and lover,
The other about a son lost
because of another.
March
15, 2008
@Bradley S. Hartman
www.bradleyshartman.com