(B. Herndon, S. Patterson)
My brocade vest holds my grandpas' watch,
his sixshooters on my hip.
Had just enough time at the last trail stop
to get myself a dip.
The sun is hot as a carcass rots
on the way to Santa Fe.
The coach is rough, and there's lots of dust,
driver find a way.
Chorus:
Who's ridin' shotgun?
He's a man that saves your life.
Who's ridin' shotgun?
A dead aim to end your strife.
If Billy the Kid or some ol' bandido,
tries to hold the stage;
Who's ridin' shotgun?
As the coach cuts through the sage.
There's gold in them-thar hills
I heard the old prospector say.
Left wife and child at home back east
took off to Cali forn i a.
As a refinded man, I know I can
make a way for them to come.
Headed out west may be right for me
but I know it ain't right for some.
Chorus
Instrumental
Now the coach is stopped, the drivers dead
took an arrow to the chest.
I wonder if I was in my right mind,
to want to head out west?
I crawled up top, my six-gun blazin'
drippin' sweat, I took the reigns.
My right-hand man sittin' at my side,
we crossed the sun-scorched plains.
Chorus
Instrumental fade
