Dusty and saddle-worn, I always was. Never much cotton to stick’n to one place for very long. My feet get itchy, and I got to move. Comes down to it, though, a man’s gotta stand. You saw me. I stood when it was right. Now time’s finally come round, not to stand, not to run; it’ll be a sort of change, I reckon. I’ll go to the hunting grounds, or the dirt, or maybe there’s a heaven. It’s just, I ain’t too partial to the idea of lying in a hole in the ground. So, sirs, that’s all I’ll ask:
Dusty | Part I
Tale Told 