Across a dusty plain, a lone rider heads onward. Where he's headed, he doesn't know. All he knows is he can't go back -- the bank bags on his saddle won't let him do that. His shootin' irons are dried up, his whiskey ran out days ago, and the first snow is hot on his trail. By the time he gets far enough that his face won't be recognized, he'll probably be at the Pearly Gates or Ol' Mexico. Either one will do. He sings an old cowboy ballad and follows the Harvest Moon overhead, wherever it decides to take him. ♫ As I walked out on the streets of Laredo. As I walked out on Laredo one day... ♫