Jack Muldoon

[Jasper Brush]

All the best to everyone for Christmas.

My wife thinks the plot in my poem is overworked and mundane.
My daughter, Andrea, told me to shorten the stanzas from an octet to a quatrain.
ORIGINAL: ababcdcd to abab abab.

Casting:
The Stranger: an unshaven Clint Eastwood.
Jack: Charles Bronson.
Ma: Maureen O’Hara
Pa: William Holden
Tate: Jack Palance
Quinn: Mick Jagger

Jack Muldoon.
THE stranger stepped into the bar and leaned against the wall
and quietly studied drinkers in the room
Then from his waistband drew a pistol and said to one and all
I’m looking for a bloke called— Jack Muldoon?’

Noise dissolved by silence, drinkers stood frozen to the spot,
and nervous eyes stared at the strangers face
Then a man with a white moustache said. ‘Jack don’t drink here a lot.
You can find him in the bar, at Thomo’s place.’

The stranger, relaxed, and shoved the gun back inside his band
‘And where do I find this drinking place?’ He said.
Another amongst them raised his voice. ‘It’s called `The Grand’
It’s the pub beside the smithies, shoeing shed.’

Once again the stranger nodded. ‘I’ll meet sorrow here today,’
and with a chink of spurs, bid the bar farewell.
Then he unhitched his horse and moved out along the way,
to seek justice for the deaths at ‘Corondell.’

The stranger stepped into the bar and leaned against the wall
and, contemplating, chewed upon a straw.
He paused for a moment, spat, then in a deep voice gave a call
‘Is there a Jack Muldoon out there, on the floor?’

A handsome man, in riding clothes, replied. ‘Yes— here by your side,
I know why you’re here and what I’m wanted for.’
The stranger softly whispered. ‘Jack, there’s nowhere left to hide.’
and quickly escorted Muldoon out the door.


I’ve a warrant for your arrest for murder, many years ago,
and for taking flight, absconding, from the law.
From now-on—you are my prisoner, and I’m bound to let you know;
I’m taking you back for trial, at Bungendore.

Next door there’s a horse shod and saddled, waiting in the shed,
perchance you’re dressed for comfort and the ride.
I’m expecting you to behave— Jack. There’s long road up-ahead;
and I’ve a tale to tell, about a mother’s pride.

Six months back I stood beside your Ma, who laboured short of breath,
She told me— she had a story to relate
It was about your Pa’s cattle duffing and how he met his death:
struck down by a rogue trooper— Edward Tate.

Troopers, Quinn and Tate, called one night to find Ma and Pa in bed
‘Muldoon— upon— the law—surrender,’ Tate cried.
Then, before your Pa could raise his arms, Tate shot him in the head
Shot down like a dog— your Pa gave, a gasp, and died.

Then you arrived and found Quinn, naked, cavorting with your mum;
as she, distressed, lay—screaming on her back.
You aimed your pistol, and in a rage, shot down the no good scum;
This is how your late Ma, described it—Jack.

Not done, one last job, you turned and faced, Pa’s killer— Tate,
who stood between your Ma and the lifeless Quinn.
You fired, once more, your aim was good, Tate, fell across his mate.
It was your bravery that cleansed the house of sin.

The policeman cocked his head. ‘Is there any truth in what I’ve said?’
‘You speak the truth. I swear to God.’ Jack replied.
At age sixteen I did those deeds and with my mother’s blessing fled,
to trust my luck with providence as my guide.

It was here in Tamworth I found a job at Wilson’s homestead,
I’ve worked for years; I’m treated like a son.
`Twas in the station’s chapel that me and sweetheart Wendy wed
We are well liked and friends with everyone.


They stood, in the afternoon heat, breathing-in dust, pushing out sweat
tanned faces leaning on rays of the sun.
For Jack, his regret, the deaths, and leaving his Ma to cope, and yet,
what he did, for respect, any son would have done.

The policeman, after months had reached the end of the trail, though
there is a twist to this tale—of love and sin.
Out of the blue the policemen spoke. I’m Ned Muldoon, you know,
I’m your half-brother, the son of Patrick Quinn.


The brothers, gripped each-others hand and vowed to right the wrong,
and with haste took the road south to Bungendore.
And so it happened, Ned’s deposition, in court at Wollongong—
saw Jack receive— a pardon from the law.

Then later, Jack and Wendy arrived back home at `Corondell,’
back to reclaim his roots, where this tale began.
And, by instinct, Jack’s father’s inbred methods treated them well,
Under the watchful eye of Ned the honest lawman.


John Macleod© 25/12/2010

[Neville Briggs]

G'day John. It could be debatable, that justice has been done in this instance.
Despite what people think there are ( or were ) cops out there who know the old biblical saying " mercy triumphs over judgement" I know a certain cop who had to round up a bloke who was reported for stealing from KFC , not paying for his chicken dinner. When the cop found out that the malefactor was a down and out homeless bloke...well ....it only cost a few dollars to fix the bill and pacify the KFC store.



Neville

[warooa]

So you went easy on the old chook thief, eh Briggsy? Shades of Ned Muldoon. Good yarn John, though I did find the metre a bit 'jaunty'.

Enjoyed it all the same . .

Cheers, Marty

[Jasper Brush]

G'day Neville

G'day John. It could be debatable, that justice has been done in this instance.
Despite what people think there are ( or were ) cops out there who know the old biblical saying " mercy triumphs over judgement" I know a certain cop who had to round up a bloke who was reported for stealing from KFC , not paying for his chicken dinner. When the cop found out that the malefactor was a down and out homeless bloke...well ....it only cost a few dollars to fix the bill and pacify the KFC store.

I didn't realise you were an EX- lawman.

Yes, a policemans justice is reality and common sense. He was a good cop.

A very good friend of mine is a retired AFP senior officer MR who lives in our village.

Look at Ben Hall. His sister done wrong by the law. He was thrown into prison for a trumpted up minor offence. His homestead was abandoned while he served his time. He came home to find everything in ruins and his cattle starved to death.

If I was Ben Hall I reckon I'd be justified to have a grudge.

Was it Thunderbolt, who used to tether his horse one paddock away from the shanty and then walk atop of the rails to leave no hoof marks or footmarks. Then spend the night with his mates. If the troopers arrived for a drink. Thunderbolt would be upstairs in a bedroom with a few friends quietly drinking until the law left. He would be gone before sun-up.

The romance of our folklore, mate.

It's been good to have a yarn, Neville.

Regards,


John

[Jasper Brush]

G'day Marty,

Yeah, your correct about the metre.

I wanted to finish the last four verses by Christmas day.

I'll redo them. I think, before those, things weren't too bad.

I threw a lot of , ; and things around.

I do find it a privilage to be here mate.

So I have too keep up with you and other poets.

Good to hear from you mate.

John

[Jasper Brush]

Whew, Matt.

What was that!

My IQ is about 90.

I wish you and your family all the best for the New Year.

I do appreciate your comments, mate.


John

[Neville Briggs]

G'day Marty, John. There's nothing more ex than an ex...thank goodness.

John, I'll bet Thunderbolt couldn't walk on the top rails when he departed after drinking the moonshine. I suppose John , if we only knew, there were motives and schemes and ambitions that were far removed from simple opposition of law and lawless. Try blowing the whistle on a crooked politician, you'll soon find out.



Neville


Ah Matt, I know exactly what you mean

[Jasper Brush]

G'day, Neville.

Well, in NSW, today's police force is the last bastion of union rule, which I agree with.

The past, to me, is the romantic. The good blokes and the good police. The bad and the bad.

The Weddin mountains and the hidden cave.

The bumbling Pottinger.

The 'Bushrangers'pub at Collector.

Eugowra.

The Victorian/NSW border.

Sam Poo.

The Northern rock hideout of C/Starlight.

Gilbert/Hall. I don't think Hall killed anyone?

The above would not last ten minutes today with our modern electronic technology.

I agree, very much so, with the outcome of the Kentucky Fried Chicken affair.

Though the headlines could read. 'Research into the effectiveness of the ***** police force has shown that forty per cent of officers are not enforcing the law'

Modern Times.

Australia was more wild west than America ever was. I know there are a lot 'Muldoon stories' that have never come to light.

I think Paterson was more of a romantic than Lawson in relation cops and robbers.

Regards,


John