Growing up with a mother who has always loved all things western, from cowboys and Native Americans to horses and guitar-picked ballads, I think it only fitting that I should write a post about justice and lawmen of the “Wild West” period.

I decided to do a flash jaunt of research and was fascinated by a list of archives I discovered at legendsofamerica.com. What I found most interesting about browsing the biographical blurbs there was how a number of those real-life sheriffs, deputies, rangers, and marshals lived a kind of double life — being both some sort of criminal and some sort of lawman.

That led me to think about how this concept of justice is ultimately an objective one…but that it can seem subjective, especially in self-regulating societies like the western frontier or in daily circumstances where we are right in the middle of things.

What is the difference? Essentially, it is simply in point of view. God, being high above, can see both or all sides much more equally than we can from a limited, horizontal plain.

In that light, and in honor of all the frontier-based lawmen who were really good, fair, and just, I have written the following poem to help us maintain such perspective.

After Ned Branson robbed the bank, I tracked

His mangy hide for two days. I lacked

Anything beyond my gun, coat, canteen,

And my faithful mare, Trinity.

Behind, in Silver City, I left Sally and little

Alice with my heart, and I whittled

Away the hours of riding with strokes

Of prayers for them, their best in my hope.

But I was well aware of what might be

And the violent confrontation awaiting me:

How it might not end well, how I could

Rot in this desert, fallen where I’d stood.

On the second day, I found Ned’s path

Led down, but there was a way to catch

Another view by shifting Trinity left

And climbing to a majestic cliff.

From there, I looked out just in time

To spy the tension, tuned so fine,

Between my prey and the Madder Gang,

Ned and Charlie now posed to draw and aim.

And from such heights, I could clearly see

Who drew first and whose shot streamed,

To strike a deadly mark, across the span

So that I blinked and saw Ned hit the sand.

I waited for the gang to ride away —

I would deal with them another day —

Before I descended to place Ned’s frame

In a dry and sandy shallow grave.

Then I found a stream with a patch of green

Where Trinity could feast and I could sleep

Before we turned homeward, alive and well,

To a house so love-filled, even if so small.

And on the way back, I mused aloud,

“My view from the level plain’s ground

Would not have been the same

As what I saw from high above that day.”

When I finally came to the edge of town,

Before I turned right, toward our house,

I paused to thank Almighty God

Who had, in mercy, brought me home.

And I thought of how His vast view

Is always higher, clearer, true.

I asked Him to help me always recall

How He’s the best lawman of all.