From head to feet, he was one hell of a man.
He owed his life to a lightening fast hand.
He never started a fight, but never ran from one.
When the fighting was over, he always won.
He married a gal, she bore him a son,
He lost them both because of the gun.
He was a quiet man, tall and thin,
Loved by the women, feared by the men.
His skin was leather tough, tanned by the sun.
Slung low on his hip was a pearl handled gun.
He was a lawman once, in a wild frontier town.
'Till a young man challenged him and he gunned him down.
Now, he never stays long, they come calling his name,
To kill a legend would win them fame.
I watched him one day, as he pondered his plight,
Aware of each sound and movement in sight.
He had to stay ready for every day to come,
He knew one day he'd face a faster gun.
Finally it happened, about sundown.
He saw a dark figure at the edge of town.
The man walked closer, sheltered by the sun.
The gunfighter never knew it was his long lost son.
In the beat of a heart, two shots rang out.
The legend was beaten, youth had won out.
Was he really slower, or maybe just tired?
Did he wait on purpose 'till the young man fired?
Was he tired of the killing, always on the run?
Did fate prevent him from killing his son?
The story is still told in that small western town,
'bout the man, the legend and the lightening fast gun.