~ The Ghost of Marion Lear ~
In the year of our Lord, 1834, a man rode in to Tucker's Sound,
with fiery black eyes, he was one despised, folks ran when he came 'round.
Now, it was said old Randy Red wanted Marion for his wife,
but Miss Lear held another dear – she longed for a better life.
Sheriff seen him comin'– took off a' runnin' – headed for the square.
Randy hitched Ole Blue then stared into the eyes of a lawman standin' there.
“Now, I don't want no trouble, Red, so I'll jest take that piece ya got.”
But Randy Red had blood to shed; he felled the Sheriff with one shot.
With the lawman dead Randy Red sauntered toward the Shady Lady saloon,
where Mandy Chan – from the Mongol Clan – was a' singin' a mournful tune.
He burst through the door, spit on the floor, then took a seat down at the bar.
The place got quiet, folks sensed a riot — as Randy Red exposed a scar.
"Y'all see this here, an' lissen up – I ain't a man of many words;
thet young Lear gal, and her lover pal, stuck me an' left me for the birds.
In the desert there – out yonder where – my body would not be found.
They bushwhacked me, but Blue, ya' see, came a' runnin' to stomp 'em down.
I know they's here" – Randy Red drew near – "I may be mean, but shore ain't dumb.
If'n y'all jest tell me where they's at, I'll go on back from where I come."
Folks sat in silence, showing stout defiance of Randy's Red's request.
Marion's new beau, as gunslingers go, wasn't one with whom they'd mess.
None spoke ill, nor guts would they spill, of Marion's lover, Joe Macbeth.
The town's folk knew – Randy Red did too – doin' so meant their death.
If they gave him up, so said the town's gossip, it'd surely spell their doom.
Joe caught wind – so a note he'd send – for Randy to meet him at noon.
The stage was set, some wages bet, as the two men met face to face.
Silence was thick, nails chewed to the quick; as a hush fell about the place.
The tumbleweed steamed while the hot sun beamed, as all gathered 'round the show.
Dry winds blew, dust engulfed the two — how it would end, no one could know.
The die was cast, folks gathered fast, as they both squared off in the street.
Little Jimmy Hall couldn't see at all – quickly grabbed a front row seat.
The sun beat down on arid ground, as the desert winds whistled and howled.
When they drew, breath was held as the two vanished in a smoky cloud.
Cracks of gunfire spelled a funeral pyre fer one a' them men, fer sure.
When, as the dust cleared, to the town it appeared, Randy was the one who'd endured.
Joe lay sprawled, as young Marion bawled, o'er her handsome young gunslinger's fate.
She ran to his side, knelt beside him, then cried, so sorry she'd got there too late.
Randy sneered, a few admirers cheered, as the gambler holstered his gun;
he knelt by the gal in high chaparral — she'd be his, the killin' was done.
To the towns folk's surprise, between his black eyes, he took a hot slug of his own.
Marion rose with care, tossed Joe's derringer where Randy's dead body lay prone.
She wouldn't recover, would ne'er love another, and remained a spinster for life.
Though many would try, she'd only cry, for she'd ne'er be Joe's darlin' wife.
Ghosts of Tucker's Sound, oh... they're still around – and if you listen closely you'll hear,
desert winds carry cryin' as a gal's love lay dyin', of a ghost named Marion Lear.