Coal Smoke and a Hangman's Rope

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