In eighteen-ninety, Harlan town
A payroll wagon rolled on down
Three masked riders met it by the creek
And one of them was my brother Zeke
Sheriff swore he'd hang a man by Sunday
Didn't matter much to him which one
Zeke rode west with the silver in his saddle
I stayed home, I never owned a gun
Coal smoke, hangman's rope
Blood runs thicker than the truth I spoke
Now the gallows creak beneath the moon
Preacher hums a solemn tune
I could say his name and walk out free
But kin is kin, so let it fall on me
Coal smoke, hangman's rope
Blood runs thicker than the truth I spoke
