A Coward's Death Poem by David Welch

Cyril Flint walked Buckton's center street,
the new sheriff of this Nebraska town,
he walked his beat, pacing up and down,
content to take in the cool morning's peace.

A shot rang out, Cyril turned his head,
nobody ran throughout the small ville,
no people into the dusty street spilled,
instead more shots came, flying lead.

He raced for McCrullers's great bank,
it was from here the shots had come,
he heard screams amidst the guns,
his stomach rose, and courage sank.

A scatter-gun blasted out a window,
Cyril drove behind a large horse-trough,
said, "Where the hell is Deputy Scott? !
He should be here, where did he go? "

Voices laughed amidst the madness,
Cyril could hear three storming outside,
he knew he should shoot, but much as he tried,
the fear struck him with paralysis.

"The damn bastards are getting away! "
That was the shout that came at him,
from the town's barber, Old Dandy Jim,
but Cyril's gun hand would not raise.

Another cried, "They killed deputy Scott! "
It came from the widow Allandale,
she stepped out of the bank, so frail
that she teetered about like a top.

Cyril finally managed to stand up,
walked gingerly to the bank's door,
saw six bodies lying on the floor,
then heard voices, loud and rough:

"Where were you, oh Sheriff Flint?
Hiding down low like a damned snake,
when lives and money they did take,
and you could not even go in! "

The words from Jim struck him hard,
He said, "I, uh, see, my deputy—"
"Don't even try that stuff with me! "
Charged Jim, "You yellow coward! "

Cyril couldn't speak up for himself,
he felt the knives of probing glares,
wanted to run away from there,
so he slinked back behind the hotel.

The months that followed were not kind,
a recall soon took his post from him,
and the angry eyes of the grieving kin
weighed so heavily upon his mind.

And word had gone out 'cross the land,
that Cyril Flint, he lacked real grit,
and people had died because of it,
nobody would hire such a man.

The next year would not go by fast,
Cyril spent most of his days dunk,
got by doing odd jobs, fit for skunks,
forever haunted by the echoing past.

In his despair he found himself asking
why he'd thought himself fit for the star
when couldn't boast of a single scar,
was bravery such a hard-earned thing?

It seemed so clear to him in retrospect,
his ego hand hungered for the prestige,
he'd never been much for humility…
so much hubris on which to reflect.

As he puzzled on this one half-drunk morn,
a team of horses on a wagon stout,
jolted and reeled at the sight of a mouse,
and away with the wagon they tore.

They sprinted straight for widow Allandale,
Cyril threw himself hard into her side,
struck by the force, the widow did fly,
in wild circles did her arms flail.

She struggled to stay on her feet,
quit angry until a sickening crack,
Caught her attention, turning her back,
from her lips leapt a panicked shriek.

On the group lay Cyril's bent shape,
trampled by hooves and iron rims,
half the bones in his body broken,
bloody from his shins to his pate.

Folks rushed up quickly to surround,
made no move to help, it was clear
there was nothing a doctor could do here,
his last moments in agony profound.

As he wavered in that morning's light,
the very last words that he ever heard
was, "At least he didn't die a coward, "
then on came that cold, endless night.