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American Ballads and Folk Songs |
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THE KILLER*
Dobe Bill, he came a-riding from the canyon, in the glow Of a quiet Sunday morning from the town of Angelo; Ridin' easy on the 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 ridin' of a simple little song That's a-rumblin' through the cactus as he's gallopin' along:
"Oh, I've rid from San Antony through the mesquite and the sand,
I'm a r'arin', flarin' bucko, not afraid to play my hand.
I'm a hootin', shootin' demon and I has my little fun
With my pinto called Apache and Adolphus—that's my gun."
Straight to Santa Fe he drifted, and he mills around the town, Sorta gittin' of his bearin's while 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.
All at once it's still and quiet, like a calm before a blow,
And the crowd is tense and nervous, and the playin's 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 a play. "Two-Gun" Blake, the Pecos killer, hated, feared wherever known, Stood and drank his glass of mescal with assurance all his own.
Then the eyes of Blake, the killer, caught the glance of Dobe Bill, And they held each one the other with the steel of looks that kill.
* Source unknown. First published in Wild West Weekly (Street & Smith, 29 Seventh Ave., New York City).
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