The Holy Ranger rides a horse of steel, six-gun and guitar strapped to his mount. In pursuit of Skull Riders, up from hell that night. Screaming into the canyon along Amarillo Road. The Holy Ranger's bullets are cast from gold, shaped under moonlight. Beneath a starless sky, the devil himself is afraid to show. Sending his regulators instead out to Amarillo Road. Jesse James rode fast to where the Holy Ranger knew. The Skull Riders would approach, if only to deliver warning. About Bob Ford, who led this evil band. The Holy Ranger said thank you and then shook Jesse's cold hand. Once inside the canyon, the devil's henchmen turned brown. To witness the Holy Ranger riding on hallowed ground. His cold pistol is smoking, it's fire hotter than hell's. Scattering Skull Riders, sending them back to fallen waste. Then sitting at a campfire, kindling the bones. The Holy Ranger sang his thunder of poems. Jesse James stoked the flames and stared at the Holy Ranger's steel mount. Saying that fair revenge was gotten, that he could not be laid to rest. The Holy Ranger did not say much, not after that. He just emptied the coffee pot, ounce of cinders that rose. Into morning's first light, as he rode out of the canyon. Breathing that air that still flowed that day on Amarillo Road. *