Bill Peters the Stage Driver

Bill Peters the Stage Driver

Bill Peters was a hustler
From Independence town
He warn’t a college scholar
Nor man of great renown
But Bill had a way o’ doing things
And doin’ ‘em up brown.

Bill drive the stage from Independence
Up to the Smokey Hill
And everybody knowed him thar
As Independence Bill
Thar warn’t no feller on the route
That drive with half the skill.

Bill drive four pair of horses
Same as you’d drive a team
And you’d think you was a-travelin’
On a railroad drive by steam
And he’d git thar on time, you bet
Our Bill ‘u’d bust a seam.

He carried mail and passengers
And he started on the dot
And them teams o’ his’n, so they say
Was never know to trot
But they went it in a gallop
And kept their axles hot.

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 will all his might
He’d holler, Fellers, give ‘em hell
I ain’t got no 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 drive 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 drivin’ still.

But he chanced one day to run again
A bullet made o’ lead
Which was harder than he bargained for
And now poor Bill is dead
And when they brung his body home
A barrel of tears was shed.