I ain’t the type

Well now, partner, I reckon you got about three seconds to make up your mind. Three little heartbeats b’fore the dust settles and the sun dips low, 'fore that rattler in your gut tells you you done made the wrong choice, 'fore my fingers even think 'bout twitchin toward this here iron at my hip. Cause I ain't the type to waste bullets on a man who ain't worth buryin, but I also ain't the type to walk away from a fight when the good Lord's watchin close, so you best speak real clear, real slow, and real smart-like, 'cause I ain't in the habit of repeatin myself. And if you so much as blink the wrong way, I reckon that wheat chalk in my teeth's gonna be the last thing you see before the world goes dark and you get to askin yourself why in all of God's great creation you ever thought it was a fine idea to cross my spinning boots that honoured more gunfights than you got years left to count. I've watched better men than you feed their dreams to the buzzards, boy-Men who uttered like the crack of a whip, left shadows on the sun, walked like tempests on this blue sand. But this old world's got a way of chewin' up prophets and spittin' out philosophers. Go on, plant your flag on that hill you're ready to die on, make your grand speech. Someday, when you grow some silver in that hair, you'll find yourself right where I'm standin, starin down at some other bright-eyed fool who thinks he's the first man to ever strike a match against the dark. And maybe then you'll understand: every rebellion I ever killed was just mercy with dirty hands.