Cherokee Teardrops 1985 By James Richard Langston Cherokee teardrops, Soft, dark and deep, Shed by Cherokee women, Every time they weep. The tears of Cherokee women, Rolled down their cheeks, They cried for their nation, Their braves lay at their feet. Their homes all in ashes, Their children standing bare, They wiped Cherokee teardrops, With their long raven hair. A defeated Cherokee nation, Submitting to their fate, Were moved to Oklahoma, In the winter of thirty eight. Proud Cherokee teardrops, Shed on every hand, All because the white man, Found gold on Cherokee land. Cherokee teardrops, From southern mountains grand, Spread across this nation, To a wasted, dusty land. Cherokee teardrops, Falling on two stones, Left a trail of sadness, From their southern mountain homes.

"Hey, saddle tramp," said Vernon. "I don't think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men." Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. "I've had just about all the crap I'm going to take from a local loudmouth like you," Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldn't back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didn't even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldn't swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, "Ohooo, shit." .

The whistle of the train sounded, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He turned to see if the sound of the whistle had disturbed any of the other passengers. The only one that seemed to be awake was the woman with PC sown on her luggage. He still didn't know what the initials stood for. "Are you restless too?" she asked. A polite smile was written on her lips. Jim tried to warm up a smile and send it back, but he only managed to put one kink in the corner of his mouth. It wasn't that he was not attracted to her; just the sight of her burned him to the core. It was just not the time and, mainly the, place to vent the heat. "If a man wasn't restless every now and then," he said, "he would never get anything done, that is, anything worth doing." "Well said, I've always heard that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well," she said, again with that fantastic smile that penetrated Jim's very soul. "Is that your aim, to do what you do well, I mean?" "If it gets done at all, I intend to do it the best that I can," he said. This time, he managed to stretch a smile all the way across his lean face. She smiled again, very small, then turned away to continue her fruitless effort to sleep. She turned once more to glance the man. He looked tight and strangely savage in a gentle way. Pamela Cross was confused. Something about this man disturbed her as if they were destined to meet again. She watched as he went to the door, rubbed the fog from the glass and peered out into the darkness. Then he returned to his seat for a time and sat with his saddlebags and .44-.40 Winchester lying across his lap. The train was in an easy run to the springs. He listened to the chugging sound of the engine as it did its work; looked at the woman and felt a strong stirring in his loins.

JJ Byrider was taken by surprise when his cattle were rusteled and most of his crew killed in the process but he recovered and carried on but when Bert Haskins, an old enemy, beat and raped the woman JJ intended to marry, anger built up in him and exploded like steam bursting from a locomotive releaf valve. A vengence trail took him across the state of Texas to a showdown.

The whistle of the train sounded, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He turned to see if the sound of the whistle had disturbed any of the other passengers. The only one that seemed to be awake was the woman with PC sown on her luggage. He still didn't know what the initials stood for. "Are you restless too?" she asked. A polite smile was written on her lips. Jim tried to warm up a smile and send it back, but he only managed to put one kink in the corner of his mouth. It wasn't that he was not attracted to her; just the sight of her burned him to the core. It was just not the time and, mainly the, place to vent the heat. "If a man wasn't restless every now and then," he said, "he would never get anything done, that is, anything worth doing." "Well said, I've always heard that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well," she said, again with that fantastic smile that penetrated Jim's very soul. "Is that your aim, to do what you do well, I mean?" "If it gets done at all, I intend to do it the best that I can," he said. This time, he managed to stretch a smile all the way across his lean face. She smiled again, very small, then turned away to continue her fruitless effort to sleep. She turned once more to glance the man. He looked tight and strangely savage in a gentle way. Pamela Cross was confused. Something about this man disturbed her as if they were destined to meet again. She watched as he went to the door, rubbed the fog from the glass and peered out into the darkness. Then he returned to his seat for a time and sat with his saddlebags and .44-.40 Winchester lying across his lap. The train was in an easy run to the springs. He listened to the chugging sound of the engine as it did its work; looked at the woman and felt a strong stirring in his loins.

Cherokee Teardrops 1985 By James Richard Langston Cherokee teardrops, Soft, dark and deep, Shed by Cherokee women, Every time they weep. The tears of Cherokee women, Rolled down their cheeks, They cried for their nation, Their braves lay at their feet. Their homes all in ashes, Their children standing bare, They wiped Cherokee teardrops, With their long raven hair. A defeated Cherokee nation, Submitting to their fate, Were moved to Oklahoma, In the winter of thirty eight. Proud Cherokee teardrops, Shed on every hand, All because the white man, Found gold on Cherokee land. Cherokee teardrops, From southern mountains grand, Spread across this nation, To a wasted, dusty land. Cherokee teardrops, Falling on two stones, Left a trail of sadness, From their southern mountain homes.

"Hey, saddle tramp," said Vernon. "I don't think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men." Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. "I've had just about all the crap I'm going to take from a local loudmouth like you," Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldn't back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didn't even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldn't swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, "Ohooo, shit." .

JJ Byrider was taken by surprise when his cattle were rusteled and most of his crew killed in the process but he recovered and carried on but when Bert Haskins, an old enemy, beat and raped the woman JJ intended to marry, anger built up in him and exploded like steam bursting from a locomotive releaf valve. A vengence trail took him across the state of Texas to a showdown.