I never laid eyes on him until that night.
He walked into the bar one hell of a sight.
His slicker was muddy, from ankle to knees.
He didn't strike me as a man who'd say please.
He was weeks past a shave, with long, dirty hair.
He smelled like a wet horse but didn't seem to care,
The color of his hat was any body's guess,
He was caked with mud and one hell of a mess.
He was a killer, that we all knew.
As we watched him, our suspicions grew.
His eyes were steel gray and could melt a block of ice.
He would probably do anything for the right price.
He moved with a quick, easy grace.
The look of pain and death on his face.
His voice was deep and his manner cold
I couldn't tell his age, but he wasn't old.
He asked for water and watched the bartender pour.
He drank it down and headed for the door.
When he reached the door, he turned with a smile.
"Thanks for the water, I needed to rest for awhile.
I'm the new preacher, the name's Burch,
Can anyone point me in the direction of the church."
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Author Notes
As the old saying goes, "You can't tell a book by it's cover."
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