Across the frozen plain he rode.
Ol' Dollar served him well.
Braced against the bitter cold.
Hide hard as hammered hell.

On frozen ground he would bed down
And oft times would recall
The days he spent at Shiloh
And the men he there saw fall.

He'd reflect on when he was a lad
Raised up in Arkansas;
His brothers and two sisters
And his dirt poor ma and pa.

He'd ponder how things might'a been
If a bit of luck he'd had
And where he might be this cold night
Had he not been labeled "Bad!"

But, the cards were dealt and well he knew
That he must play them out
Even though he might be dead
When they took the final count.

So, in the morning he would ride
Ahead of forty men
Who'd be pushing hard to kill him
For the bounty on his head.

Hell bent on killing they would come
From out the rising sun
All on fresh-fed horses
And with fully loaded guns

He'd ride ol' Dollar to the ground
Then stop to make his stand.
He'd take no gruff from anyone;
And, he'd die there like a man.

So, at first light he saddled up
And with the rising sun
Ol' Dollar broke into a trot
And then into a run.

He made it twenty miles before
Ol' Dollar tripped and fell.
He knew the riders soon would come
To blast him into hell.

So here was where he'd make his stand
And here was where he'd fall.
And there was where he made his peace
With God, once and for all.

-Charles Edwards Moss

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