Catfight At The Old Gal Canteen

Just a bit south of Yuma and

East of the California line,

Where copper, gold, silver have run out,

And there’s nothing left to mine.

A hole in the ground had been dug out,

By the picks and the shovels of men,

That knew not where they’d be going,

And couldn’t tell where they have been.

The hole was the size of a crater,

It gaped through the ground up a wash,

That old, dried-up, creek bed was hated,

By the miners with axes, by Gosh!

This place had a name new to gringos,

Here above old Mexico,

The Indians taught them to say it,

It was called “Arroyo Seco”.

So that’s what the townsfolk called it,

This broke western town in a lurch,

A whitewashed sign at the stagecoach stop,

Read: Welcome to Dry Gulch .

The smithy worked only part-time,

The sheriff worked not at all,

The Pastor left his chapel,

The town’s trick horse left his stall.

The general store took credit,

‘Till its creditors took the store.

Why it wasn’t a ghost town?

Those there, couldn’t go, they’re too poor.

The one concern that kept going,

The one place of business it seemed,

Whose doors were still open to commerce,

Was the rustic, “Old Gal Canteen.”

First opened by Mr. Roscoe

A first rate gent it was said.

But on business in Cochise County

Phineas Clanton shot him dead.

They found him lying in his own pooled blood,

The found him face down at noon,

Felled by Clanton’s slug to his head,

Behind the Alhambra Saloon.

Folded in his left vest pocket,

Unstained and close to his heart,

Carefully opened was “Roscoe’s

Will”, read (then by) Sheriff Bart.

It goes to my own two darlings,

It goes for their own mother’s sake,

It goes to my daughter, Sally Sarah,

And her sister, Florence Kate.

“That’s it, then”, said Sheriff Bart,

Who gave the will to John Behan.

It was final to all who had heard it,

It seemed likely that was the end.

The end of poor Mr. Roscoe,

The start as something unfurls,

The news that was coming to Dry Gulch,

“The Old Gal” had gone to the girls.

Phineas was cleared by Judge Stilwell,

Phineas was cleared of arrest.

Years later, when asked, the judge dropped his shot glass,

“Roscoe shot from behind?” he’d protest.

Behan gave Phineas the paper.

“Post with the Dry Gulch Clerk, pal.”

“Find out about Sally, follow up Kate,

But learn all about THE OLD GAL”.

Phineas was there in a hurry,

Beat the Stagecoach, due in 6 o’clock,

On board was the new dentist,

Who said his name was just, Doc.

At 4:30, Phineas posted,

The will with the town’s clerk.

“Good God”, he said, “It’s Mr. Roscoe’s”.

“So you can read, you four-eyed jerk”.

The rider then left the office,

He scanned the small town with a scrowl.

His boots kicked up dirt, cross the street he did skirt,

And made his way in The Old Gal.

So in walked Phineas Clanton,

And to all he called himself, Flynn,

But everyone there that had known him,

Fell back to calling him, “Slim”.

Clanton stood next to a bar stool,

While standing, he ordered a beer.

Florence Kate drew him a cool one,

And served the tall stranger with cheer.

Sally Sarah caught the eye of the stranger,

From the stage, as she sang her solo.

Then she picked up two ostrich feathers,

And danced the ol’ Fandango.

Sally was blonde and blue-eyed,

Flo, green-eyed with Auburn hair,

Save Frisco at best, Clanton had guessed,

To The Old Gal none could compare.

Sal left the stage, down the back way,

To enter the bar from the side.

No longer stood there, the stranger,

Nor Flo! She left with that guy.

Up rose Sal Sara’s anger,

A she lion, she had become.

She’d set her sister Flo’s mind right

She’d set Flo on her butt, rum-dumb.

She’d always pull crap ‘bout the birthright,

She’d always ‘cuz she was born first.

Sal thought Flo thought Sal deserved seconds

But Sal wanted first to besmirch.

Sal found both in the booze closet.

“You dirty old hag, my dear Flo!”

“Why are you her and what do you want?

You know, Sal you’re due with the show.”

“A Show they’re going to be given,

A Show where they’ll see the true you,

A disrobed, tawdry, hussie,

I’ll introduce Floozy McGoo”.

Florence, now red hot and raging,

To think she had cleaned the blonde’s nose,

“Oh sister of mine, I think its now time,

To learn where this beer bottle goes”.

The miners thought live caps were in there,

As the girls blew from closet to floor.

And Phineas Clanton had wondered,

Which bottle to open and pour.

The two were rolling and scrapping,

They made, in the room, quite a whir,

Kind of an indoors cyclone,

Spewing fabrics and curses and fur.

Off the stage coach jumped the good Doctor,

And followed the clerk in The Old Gal,

Phineas, who broke a few bottles,

Walked back to the bar for a towel.

There Clanton spied the clerk standing

And threatened his life just for sport,

“Drop your pistol or prepare to meet Jesus”,

The room heard the young doctor snort.

Clanton swung ‘round his pistol,

To where the doctor stood, looming,

But the blaze that came from the Colt 45

Forced Clanton back in the wall, zooming.

The shock wave stopped the young ladies,

Who both clearly were still a bit mad,

“What’s happened?” asked Sally with feathers,

And Florence, all ears, still unclad.

Phineas lie next to the spittoon,

Dazed, with a new crease on his head,

Now his hair part was sporty and modern,

And looking much better, t'was said.

“This Clanton shot poor Mr. Roscoe.”

Said Doc, “And all charges were dropped.”

“It’s true”, said the clerk. “All true, what he’s said.

The will’s in my office, now locked”.

Behan forgot to tell Clanton,

So Clanton had learned for himself,

Hell hath no fury and that times two,

Reposits a guy to the shelf.

“This man has taken our father,

This man sees a woman, a sow,

This man will go back where he came from,

But now goes back an Old Gal.

The Doc saw four rustlers seated

The Doc pulled a chair and said “Pards”,

The Doc began to shuffle,

“A friendly game of cards?”

It went unknown to attendees,

For noboby’d care, I would say.

But the dentist with whom they were gambling

Was the one, young, Doc Holiday.

Clanton screamed till shock let him quiver,

The girls dropped the church key and knife,

And giggling held up his man parts,

Then ran out to encroaching night.

Like two of three Scottish Witches,

The yeller porch dog merely yawns,

The sisters sought out the Smithy,

To test his craft in bronze.

Copyright 2010