A Wealth of Dust

Three shadows cut the bleeding sun,
three brothers ride, the work begun.
Grimed with grit of a hundred miles,
cold as the devil’s jagged smiles.
Iron strikes the shale and dust,
in silent, rhythmic, brotherly trust.
Tombstone sleeps in a haze of gold,
unaware its death is being told.

Leather creaks like a hanging rope,
choking the dying breath of hope.
Black spit hits the desert floor,
outside the bank’s iron door.
The eldest tastes the copper air,
a wolfish grin, a predator stare.
A scarred hand grips a cold six-gun,
to finish what the devil spun.

The middle brother, lean and mean,
a ghost within the killing machine.
His spurs ring out a funeral bell,
to drag this town straight to hell.
The youngest feels his heartbeat thud,
a frantic pulse of outlaw blood.
Hammers click. The cylinders lock.
Death begins to wind the clock.

Silk pulled tight across their breath,
faceless heralds bringing death.
They swing from leather, spurs a-chime,
to step outside the reach of time.
Heavy boots on timber floor,
they breach the bank's bolted door.
The teller’s hands begin to quake,
as the eldest brother’s iron wakes.

"Fill the bags with the devil's gold,"
a gravel voice, sharp and cold.
The middle brother stalks the floor,
his shotgun levelled at the door.
"Fill the bags!" the eldest cries,
winter in his wolfish eyes.
The teller screams, a piercing sound,
to wake the lawmen all around.

The middle brother swings his sight,
to snuff that frantic, flickering light.
A sudden roar, a flash of hell,
both barrels of his twelve-gauge yell
They leap the wood to reach the safe,
like starving wolves who hunt and chafe.
No time for pleas or silvered talk,
as lawmen down the gutters stalk.

"Come out with hands held high!"
a lawman’s sharp and steady cry.
"The game is done, the street is blocked,
every rifle loaded and cocked!"
The eldest kicks the heavy door,
a thunderclap across the floor.
He fans his hammer, spitting lead,
to paint the dusty boardwalk red.

The middle brother's shotgun flares,
to answer all the lawmen's prayers.
"To the horses!" comes the shout,
as lead and thunder spin about.
They dive through haze and stinging heat,
with pounding hearts and flying feet.
The youngest swings his saddle wide,
with nowhere left for him to hide.

They reach the mounts, all tethered fast,
the town behind them falling past.
Amidst the thunder of the fray,
they gallop toward the edge of day.
A jagged crack, a spit of lead,
the eldest sways with heavy head.
A blooming rose of darkest red,
spreads now as his soul has fled.

He slumps across the saddle horn,
his duster frayed, his spirit torn.
The youngest feels the world spin 'round,
to see his brother's blood on ground.
The lawman’s lead has found its mark,
to turn the noonday sun dark.
A hollow groan, a stifled cry,
against the vast and callous sky.

The dust begins to settle slow,
as purple shadows start to grow.
The thunder of the hoof beats die,
beneath a cold and bleeding sky.
They pull the horses in the shade,
to count the bargain they have made.
The heavy sacks of stolen gold,
are heavy, heavy, hard and cold.

One brother slumped, his journey done,
beneath the dying desert sun.
The middle brother wipes his blade,
at the bitter price that has been paid.
The youngest stares with hollow eyes,
where all his boyish spirit dies.
A bag of silver, stained in red,
for one who sleeps among the dead.

The lawmen crest the ridge of stone,
with badges bright and hearts of bone.
A wall of steel and dusty blue,
to give the devil all his due.
"The game is up!" the Sheriff roars,
"You'll bleed out on these canyon floors!"
His rifle barrel glints with hate,
to seal the last two outlaws' fate.

The middle brother checks his gear,
and stares into the eyes of fear.
The youngest feels the desert heat,
with dust and gravel at his feet.
They've got the sun behind their backs
the lawmen close the final tracks.
A hundred shadows stretch out long,
where right is tangled up with wrong.

The youngest looks to middle son,
who grips the cold steel of his gun.
"We've run as far as we can run,
beneath the glare of this here sun.
The air is still, the wind is hushed,
against the rocks where water rushed.
A moment hangs in balanced grace,
before the end of this long chase.

The middle brother stands up tall,
against the sun, against it all.
He spits a glob of crimson phlegm,
and turns his iron sights on them.
"No cage for us, no hangin’ rope,"
he kills the last flickering hope.
The youngest grips his iron tight,
and steps into the blinding light.

The middle brother draws his gun,
beneath the hot and midday sun.
The dusty canyon fills with sound,
as shells fall heavy on the ground.
The lawmen stand their steady line,
reflecting back the desert shine.
The brothers fight with all their might,
across the plains in broad daylight.

The youngest brother takes his aim,
to win his life and find his fame.
The Sheriff stands his solid ground,
while iron echoes all around.
The horses bolt and shadows scatter,
hot lead makes bone and spirit splatter.
The brothers’ luck begins to fade,
beneath the bloody debts he’s made.

The rifles crack and smoke is thick,
the end is coming fast and quick.
The middle brother loses hold,
while reaching for the stolen gold.
He stumbles back and hits the sand,
the weapon slipping from his hand.
His journey ends in desert dust,
a victim of his own distrust.

The youngest fell beside the trail,
his face is drawn and deathly pale.
The heavy weight of lead and law,
is all the fleeing brothers saw.
He hears the wind begin to moan,
and finds himself entirely alone.
The canyon quiet settles deep,
as weary outlaws sink to sleep.

The desert mist begins to rise,
to cloud the Sheriff's weary eyes.
The brothers fall beneath the weight,
of iron, lead and sudden fate.
The silence grows, the echoes fade,
beneath the heat the sun has made.
The Sheriff kneels beside the pack,
to claim the heavy treasure back.

The Sheriff pauses with heavy breath,
amidst the quiet scenes of death.
He checks the bags they fought to keep,
while shadows down the mountains creep.
Not gold, nor gems, nor silver plate,
just lumps of rock, cold as fate.
The bank was empty, stripped and bare,
they died for nothing but the air.

The cost of greed was far too high,
beneath the lonely desert sky.
The bank was stripped of every cent,
a waste of lives so poorly spent.
The Sheriff holsters up his gun,
the violent work is finally done.
The desert wind begins to moan,
above the blood upon the stone.