Boots

 

 

The young fool is out here somewhere.

I don’t know where.

I don’t even know his name

But I remember the look on his face

when he stood over that body in the saloon,

Pistol still smoking in his hand.

He kept saying, “This isn’t my fault.”

I didn’t see it that way

and told him as much

when I went to arrest him.

He said he didn’t want to kill no lawman

and told me to get out his way.

Since he had the drop on me, I did.

But I knew I would have to come after him later

Only he didn’t leave right away.

He said he wanted the dead man’s boots

and he put a couple of bullets in the floor until he got them.

These weren’t newer boots or better boots than most men wear.

But when that boy left

he had the boots clutched in one hand and his gun in the other.

Maybe the circuit judge will see things his way

when I bring the boy back for trial.

Maybe the other witnesses saw it all better than I did.

Maybe the only reason I’m even out here

is to find out why he took those damned boots.