Sunday freight, brakes hiss in the rain,

boots kick dust off the back of a vein.

Nobody’s talkin’, but the jukebox coughs,

barmaid catches the scent — blood with exhaust.

---

Hat brim cracked like a dry-lip grin,

one’s got a pouch with a ring stuffed in.

Voices curl up like smoke round gin,

’bout a lawman buried past County Line Inn.

---

Knives tap-tap like a snare misplayed,

band half-tuned, but the chords decay.

Ain’t no lullaby, no sweet sing-along —

just the hum of the hunt still dragging on.

---

Scalp hunters — name in a glass, sip slow.()

Scalp hunters — gone by the time you know.

When the train cries out, that’s your sign —

they’ve already crossed that county line.

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Sixty-three, canyon pass in the storm,

sixty-five, cattle gone before dawn.

Someone swore they snatched the preacher’s kid,

sold him for rye and a rusted lid.

---

No newsprint, no church parade,

just hair in a sack and a steel-blade fade.

Never said grace, never blessed their gin,

but they rode where the wind curves hard at the rim.

---

Scalp hunters — name in a glass, sip slow.

Scalp hunters — gone by the time you know.

When the train cries out, that’s your sign —

they’ve already crossed that county line.

---

One day rain might spill the tale,

whose braid it carried, whose boots went pale.

Till then, back to the wall, hands stop,

eyes on the Red skin that don’t pay the bill.

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Sunday freight… brakes hiss in the rain —

by Monday night, no one remembers your name.