THE KILLER
 

Dobie Bill, he went a-riding

   through the canyon, in the glow

Of a quiet Sunday morning

   from the town of Angelo;

 

Ridin' easy on that pinto

   that he dearly loved to straddle,

With a six-gun and sombrero

   that was wider than his saddle

 

And he's hummin' as he's goin'

   of a simple little song

That's a-boomin' through the cactus

   as he's gallopin' along:

 

  "Oh, I've rid from San Antony

     through the mesquite and the sand

  I'm a rarin', flarin' bucko,

     not afraid to play my hand.

 

  Well, I'm a hootin', shootin' demon

     and to have my little fun

  On my pinto called Apache

     and Adolphus -- that's my gun."

 

Well straight to Santa Fe he drifted,

   and he mills around the town

Sorta gittin' of his bearin's

   as he pours his liquor down.

 

But he's watchin', always watchin',

   every hombre in the place,

Like he's mebbe sorta lookin'

   for some certain hombre's face.

 

Then one night he saunters careless

   to the place of Monte Sam

And he does a bit of playin'

   like he doesn't give a damn.

 

Then all at once it's hushed and quiet,

   like a calm before the blow,

And the crowd is tense and nervous,

   and the playin stopped and slow.

 

At the bar a man is standin',

   sneerin' as his glances lay,

Like a challenge did he fling 'em,

   darin' 'em to make the play.

 

Two-Gun Blake, the Texas killer,

   hated, feared wherever known

Stood and drank his glass of mescal

   with assurance all his own.

 

Then the eyes of Blake, the killer,

   met the glance of Dobie Bill

And they held each one the other

   with the steel of looks that kill,

 

Then the tones of Blake came slowly,

   with a sneer in every word

"Well, you've found me!"

   But the other gave no sign he saw or heard.

 

Walkin' calmly toward the speaker,

   he advanced with steady pace

Then he grinned, and quick as lightnin',

   slapped him squarely in the face.

 

"Shoot, you snake!" he whispered hoarsely.

   "Shoot, you lily-livered cur!

Draw! You're always strong for killin';

   now I'm here to shoot for her!"

 

Some there was that claimed they saw it,

   as the killer tried to draw

But there's no one knows for certain

   just exactly what he saw;

 

I'll agree the shootin' started

   quick as Blake had made his start,

Then a brace of bullets hit him

   fair and certain through the heart.

 

As he fell, his hand was graspin'

   for the gun he'd got too late

With the notches on it showin'

   like the vagaries of fate.

 

And the man who stood there lookin'

   at the killer as he lay

Murmured, "Nell, I've kept my promise.

   I have made that scoundrel pay!"

 

Then Dobie Bill, he went a-ridin'

   from the town of Santa Fe

On a quiet Sunday morning,

   goin' happy on his way,

 

Ridin' easy on that pinto

   that he dearly loved to straddle

With a six-gun and sombrero

   that was wider than his saddle,

 

And he's a hummin' as he's goin'

   of a simple little song

That's a-boomin' through the cactus

   as he's gallopin' along:

 

"Oh, I'm goin' down the canyon,

   through the mesquite and the sand

I'm a rarin', flarin' bucko,

   not afraid to play my hand.

 

Well I'm a rootin', shootin' demon

   and I have my little fun

On my pinto called Apache, a-ha,

   and Adolphus -- that's my gun."

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