Across the Nebraska prairie a cold wind blows
Soon comes long days filled with snow
Watching this herd shiver and freeze
I dream of a warm Texas breeze
If crazy Waco hadn't pulled his gun
I would still be in the warm Texas sun
Shoot down a Marshal dead
You end up with a price on your head
So here we are with another mans steers
Hoping that a posse isn't near
A young cowboy bound for hell
The man was a Marshal how was I to know
When I backed a play made by old Waco
Now we travel with no place to go
Riding the valleys trying to stay low
The only path for me is the owl hoot trail
A young cowboy bound for hell
I curse this damn gun on my hip
And Waco for running his lip
So ride we must to make our get away
But knowing soon will come the judgment day
When it's either hot lead or the rope
One is quick the other slow around you throat
The cards are dealt and the low hand comes
And there is no other place to run
The Devil calls in the chips and rings his bell
A young cowboy is bound for hell