He Sat The Saddle Loose

He sat the saddle loose,
his body whipcord lean,
his Bisley Colt in crossdraw style,
his face not soft, nor mean.

The sun and wind and sand,
etched Arroyos on his face -
His Stetson making shadows,
brim down and low in place.

He nudged his appaloosa
to a gentle walk down hill,
the morning sun behind him
as he made the town of Gill.

The main street was deserted,
except for one lone man -
His name was Chester Martin,
a gun from Johnson's clan.

He reined the appaloosa,
at the Texas Jack saloon,
dismounted slow, and eyed the man,
each waiting on their doom.

Neither spoke, just stood apart,
'bout thirty feet or so,
as if waiting on a signal -
some sign they both would know.

The hand of Johnson's man
moved slightly toward his hip -
But the Bisley hand was quicker,
and his shot cracked like a whip.

The Johnson's man, suspended,
not dead, but not alive,
slowly crumpled to the street…
then stared with lifeless eyes.

The Bisley Colt returned
to his holster like a ghost,
as the lean man slowly shuffled
to the wind worn hitching post.

He mounted appaloosa,
turned from the Texas Jack,
then rode around the body,
the sun still at his back.

He sat his saddle loose,
his body whipcord lean,
his Bisley Colt in crossdraw style,
his face not soft, nor mean.

                         Regis McCafferty
                         Copyright 2000



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