There's No Manslaughter Without Laughter
(A.K.A The Ballad of Gideon Caine)


The old man tapped his pipe against the fireplace, emptying the spent ash.
"Yep." he sighed.  "Been a long time since folks round these parts heard that particular name spoke."
He eased himself back down into his rocking chair and reached for his tobacco pouch; an old, black faded thing with a rather peculiar symbol on the front.  The old man looked up and noticed it had caught my attention.
"Oh, you like that do ya'?"  I nodded my interest.  He leaned forward conspiratorially.  
"It was his y'know."  He turned his head, looking from left to right, as if he expected someone to come walking suddenly out of the woods.  He leaned even closer, his voice a near whisper.
"It was Caine's."  He leaned back in his chair, a smug 'now-ain't-that-something' look in his eyes.  He went to work loading his pipe with tobacco, then lit it.  Inhaling, he settled all the way down in his chair, and began gently rocking back and forth, blowing tight puffs of smoke into the air.  
It wafted in my direction, carried by the light breeze, and I found myself taking in deep breaths of the sweet aroma.  The reporter in me wanted to prod him for more information, get the story moving faster.  But I had grown up around these parts and new better than to try and take the story from him.  He'd start talking when he was good and ready; no sooner, no later.
Finally, his icy blue eyes caught me in their steely grip.
"So.  You wanna know the story of Gideon Caine do ya'?"
I didn't break eye contact.  "If'n you have the time Sir, I'd be much obliged."
He stared me down a moment longer, then turned his gaze toward the West.
"I reckon so." he nodded.  Then, taking a deep breath, he began to sing The Ballad of Gideon Caine .....