Kate Bender and her felonious family: America’s first serial killers

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The “Bloody Benders” were a hell of a family

They spent part of their lives on a killing spree

Sister Kate the attraction

With victims a distraction

A cold-blooded flirting; but their death not a fantasy

 

Pa “Bill” was the head of this fiendish clan

By all accounts he was a mountain of a man

Fathered John, a dumb son

Yet both killed for fun

And a means to prosper in their adopted new land

 

Eleven travelers at their Kansas inn waylaid

Hammer to skulls and slit throats was how the corpses were made

Then stripped and robbed in the cellar

By accomplice kin of the killer

And buried in Ma’s garden where they finally stayed

 

A percentage who care for this sort of bloody history

Prefer to keep the Bender’s fates shrouded in mystery

Cuz’ justice wasn’t served by the courts

All we have are three reports

Of vigilante justice by the vengeful hands of a posse

 

Colonel York was the brother of the Bender’s last kill

He swore that he would see all Bender’s sent to hell

A much deserved fate

They even burned Kate

So say posse members who threw their bodies down a well

 

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Jack Helm: a lawless lawman

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Jack Helm was a racist S.O.B.

Who wore the grey and favored slavery.

He even did wrong

Over a Yankee song

That a black man whistled with bravery.

 

And when there was no Civil War,

You could find him with a star that he bore

In the great state of Texas

Where he hated the Mex’s,

And everyone else that’s for sure.

 

Helm got caught-up in the Sutton-Taylor feud;

The type of duty that befit his evil mood.

A prime instigator,

He was head regulator,

And the days he didn’t kill he’d sulk and brood.

 

His body count raised his reputation.

The Governor even gave him a new station.

But when deeds come to light

Causing citizen’s fright,

He’s sent back to DeWitt for the duration.

 

John Wesley Hardin was one of Helm’s foes:

A kin to the Taylor’s, or so the story goes.

Several times they met,

Their back-ups vented and wet,

Yet Hardin and Helm escaped the death throes.

 

But in eighteen-seventy-three, in the month of July,

The two evil rivals would have one more try.

Helm came from the rear,

Hardin turned with a sneer,

To blast Helm with buckshot: his day to die.

 

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Outlaw Dick Fellows has no horse sense

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They say “there’s no accountin’ fer’ taste.”

Perhaps it’s the same fer’ brains.

Like choosin’ a horse bearin’ criminal path

while unable ta’ control the reigns.

Dick Fellows was just such a fool,

though others would claim he was wiley.

Yet the mistakes he had made were of such a low grade

he would admit them quite rare, an’ then only shyly.

Assault an’ a robbery had bought him some time,

an’ the place he was sent was San Quentin.

Though the time that he got was cut rather short

on account of the faith he was hintin’.

He acted quiet pious, an’ bowed ta’ his knees,

then quoted a verse here an’ there.

A jailhouse conversion of the first magnitude,

with a personal testimony ta’ share.

Well, Governor Booth got wind of the change,

“let’s cut that poor Fellows some slack.”

So they unlocked the shackles an’ set Fellows free,

but the guards, they knew he’d be back.

He weren’t much of a worker, but wished ta’ be rich,

so to crime once more he did turn.

Yet ta’ rob a stagecoach he needed a horse,

but horses caused his innards ta’ churn.

Fellows went ta’ the livery ta’ rent a cayuse,

then sought a Wells Fargo stage he did fancy.

But on the way ta’ the hold-up, the ridden got wind of the rider,

an’ the spirited horse became antsy.

It bucked an’ it reared an’ threw Fellows down,

then ran off back ta’ the livery.

The timing now off, the first got away,

he switched targets fer’ the second delivery.

The Bakersfield stage he got ta’ hold-up,

then realized he forgot vital tools.

He could not break the locks so he carried the box.

How foolish ta’ forget all the rules.

The second horse then took off like the first,

leavin’ Fellows ta’ hump his own load.

But he’d gone this far, so carry he would,

just hopin’ he’d got him some gold.

So he shouldered the box, an’ walked in the dark,

then took a near twenty foot fall.

Down the number five tunnel of the Southern Pacific,

where he broke his leg an’ wanted ta’ bawl.

He drug himself ta’ a Chinaman’s tent,

an’ he found an axe ta’ steal.

Made himself a crutch, then chopped open the box,

“Eighteen-hundred, my God, what a deal!”

He then limped along ta’ the Fountain Ranch,

where he stole himself a new horse.

Then made his way ta’ an abandoned shack,

where he was arrested by detectives, of course.

Fer’ the crime he committed the verdict came down,

eight long years he must do.

Though the very next day Fellows could not be found,

a tunnel in the floor he went thru.

He stole one more horse, but had similar luck,

the law caught him before he could run.

Shipped him straight ta’ San Quentin, the guards had been right,

he was back there under the gun.

He was freed in five years, instead of the eight,

but quickly forewent honest means.

So he held-up a stage an’ got clean away,

but with only ten dollars in his jeans.

Well, he tried it again, but it was worse than before,

the cash box contained a mere letter.

Then the third attempt, after waitin’ some time,

had a similar outcome, not better.

Less than a year from the time of his release

back behind bars he did go.

He was sentenced ta’ life, at Folsom this time,

yet he escaped once more, don’t ya’ know:

though he hadn’t learned nothin’ in all his attempts,

as he mounted an’ grabbed up the reigns.

The horse bucked him off, the lawmen did scoff,

cuz’ once more the horse showed all the brains.

© JW Thomas

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