Dusty, dark and lean.
Narrow eyes peer sharp and mean.
From under a flat brimmed hat.
You can bet he’ll cut you no slack.
Rode into town on a dapple gray.
Needs to find something that pays.
Heads his horse towards the livery stable.
Shakes off the dust not much like the fable.
Of the fancy dudes in some snappy duds.
His, with range dust and west Texas mud.
Carries tattered wanted posters
Behind his belt and holster.
Which help him recollect.
Which faces their bounty to collect.
Walks up the street, the tumble weed rolls by.
Sees the day die in a flame red sky.
Well trained hand draws the single action Colt.
From this man death comes in the thunderbolt.
Of the flash from cold blue steel.
Of the bullet that makes men reel.
He checks his gun as naturally as he breathes.
Carries a Derringer up his left sleeve.
Holsters it and walks into the saloon.
Filled with rough necks, loud mouths and buffoons.
Walks up to the bar and orders a drink.
Wonders who he’ll take to the brink.
Young gun at the end of the bar.
Drunk and removed from home afar.
Is being watched by gunfighter vision.
Young gun may die from the wrong decision.
Boy’s gun is low and shirt open to the chest.
Brags that he’s faster than all the rest.
Wild as a panhandle Texas twister.
Young gun says “I’m callin you out mister.”
“Your drunk son” says the man in black.
The only man he’s ever cut any slack.
A deathly silence falls over the place.
Tonight a young man will die in his haste.
The gunfighter turns and uncovers his gun.
“Don’t make me kill you tonight young son.”
Tension so thick could be cut by a knife.
Will this young man take his own life?
Faster than the eye can follow.
Gunfighter’s Colt makes the young gun swallow.
Sees dark man’s muzzle before his clears leather.
To live or die he must decide whether.
Time has stopped for the two pistoleros.
Gunfighter waits for the death bolero.
Young man pushes his Colt back home.
His young girl glad she won’t be alone.
Young gun can’t believe he was beaten so bad.
Swaggering and drunk, ashamed and mad.
Collapses back in his chair totally unaware.
The Grim Reaper’s fingers were in his golden hair.
The Gunfighter re holsters his side arm.
The barkeep says”Okay folks no cause for alarm.”
The Gunfighter finishes his drink and turns for the door.
Looks over his back sees the young gun passed out on the floor.
Smiles and remembers when he was that age.
Glad he was able to abate the young man’s rage.
Steps out onto the board walk breathes the cool night air.
Removes his hat, runs his hands through his hair.
Glad he didn’t have to take a life so fair.
Puzzled that he even bothered to care.