Old legends die hard,

And hers was the last to go.

With a tale about a fighter

And the chilling trail of gunsmoke.

The late evening sunlight

Fell on that dusty town,

And the young girl a'sittin'

In the corner of that bar.

She had a tired look

To her young and pretty face,

And the burgendy she was drinkn'

Seemed as sorrows she was chasin'.

She was silent and aloof,

Never said a word at all,

But she'd pulled a hefty weapon

From her black and dusty cloak.

She'd layed that gun on the table,

Not hidden, but in view,

So when that hombre came in,

They could see the trouble brewin'.

He strolled up to her table,

And in a slow, southern drawl,

Commented on her being there,

Said her level had begun to fall.

Her face was calm and collected,

As she responded in turn,

With a comment to the hombre,

That caused his cheeks to burn.

He reached silently for his weapon,

They say he was quick on the draw,

But the woman, she was quicker,

And her bullet said the same.

There was a silence in the room,

As they surveyed what she had done,

When she tossed a coin on the table,

And walked out the door, alone.

Many years have passes now,

Since the woman's deadly deed,

And still the gunsmoke lingers

Around the barrel of Missie's gun.