Wouldn'T Bother You If You Weren'T Carrying Gold

There's a fine line between fortune and fame I was riding with the Devil till my horse went lame I was all alone till loneliness came The Count of Monte Cristo must have felt the same Now I walk the dry lands of Mariposa In the sun-scorched state of California Was riding with a group that was supposed to Raise the dollar amount on my wanted poster We were moving with a man they called P.O.8 Relieving stagecoaches of unnecessary weight A poem would be left just to leave them irate A gentleman Bandit forges his own fate W.H. Taylor was a formidable man He was riding driver's box with a shotgun in his hand Mama was grit and Papa sand Taylor shot my horse and my face hit land And Roll, Roll Stagecoach roll Wouldn't bother you If you weren't carrying gold Now Roll, Roll Stagecoach roll I just want to know What your front boot hold When I woke I thought I was dead Sandy little spot I done soaked it red Picked myself up on my own accord I felt like a man that fell on his own sword All I saw was red as my anger it poured As I pictured my possie counting out their reward Now it's time to find out what becomes of me Walking across the desert at a boiling degree I can hear my mama now saying nothing's free When I got caught for the Cherry Creek robbery Now I think as I walk to my desert grave The next time around I might behave But this Highwayman Soul can never be saved Because what's in the Wells Fargo box is what I crave And Roll, Roll Stagecoach roll Wouldn't bother you If you weren't carrying gold Now Roll, Roll Stagecoach roll I just want to know What your front boot hold