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Bill Peters, The Stage Driver
When Bill's stage 'u'd bust a tire, Or something 'u'd break down, He'd hustle round and patch her up And start off with a bound; And the wheels o' that old shack o' his Scarce ever touched the ground.
And Bill didn't low no foolin', And when Inguns hove in sight And bullets rattled at the stage, He druv with all his might; He'd holler, " Fellers, give 'em hell, I ain't got time to fight."
Then the way them wheels 'u'd rattle,
And the way the dust 'u'd fly,
You'd think a million cattle,
Had stampeded and gone by;
But the mail 'u'd get thar just the same,
If the horses had to die.
He driv that stage for many a year Along the Smokey Hill, And a pile o' wild Comanches Did Bill Peters have to kill,— And I reckon if he'd had good luck He'd been a drivin' still.
But he chanced one day to run agin A bullet made o' lead,