And into that old town in the middle of the desert, there rode a man. Tall, strong, armed. \r\nIn his right hand peacemaker but he ain't there to make peace. His horse, black like dried blood. He never talked. He only acted. And he acted bad. His eyes were black from seeing so many evil things done by his hands and his mouth was was whistling that tune.

\r\n\r\nIn the town they were suspicious first. Like sheep sense the danger of a wolf, they sensed the danger he spread. They talked about him whenever he wasn't near. No one asked him but they knew he had loved once. But he lost his girl at the western border. Shot by a stranger without a name. That day he had turned away from god. Since then he had been whistling that tune.

\r\n\r\nBlack coffee in a tin cup he walked slow cos he killed fast. They started to give him jobs. He did what they wanted him to do. He took the cash. Lots of cash. He killed who they told him to kill. Neighbours, rich farmers, wives, husbands, kids. Some feared to sleep, others feared to to wake. Cos he was everywhere. Watching them with his black piercing eyes. And always whistling that tune.

\r\n\r\nSome tried to watch but no one dared to interfere when he came. They looked pitiful then, but on the other had that's what they all do when they die. \r\nThey didn't tell him to leave. He just did. Maybe he felt that his job was done there, maybe he went on looking for his soul.\r\nThe fact is when he left the town, he never turned back. He knew there were other towns to ride to. He clapped spurs to his horse and headed for the canyon. Still whitsling that tune. \r\n