Bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem.
The dance is done. Shots crack as one. The crowd shoves for the door.
Broncho Bill is lying there and blood upon the floor.
"You've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and
Mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell.
And I must ride the trail alone. Goodbye to Belle McClure."
Downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white,
Upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright.
Round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot;
Laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot.
Broncho Bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight.
Don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?
Don't you hear the banjo speaking?
Don't you hear the big spurs jingle?
Don't you feel the red blood tingle?
Faces dyed with desert brown,