I recently found an old home live recording of a couple of guys singing and playing guitar. There are a bunch of songs that I don't recognize but I like them. I would appreciate any information such as title, writer, artist, and commercial recording of this song. Here are the lyrics:

Nobody knew where he came from,
They only knew he came in.
Slowly he walked to the end of the bar,
And he ordered up one slug of gin.
I could see that he wasn't a large man,
I could tell that he wasn't too tall.
I judged him to be about five foot three,
In his voice was a soft Texas drawl.

Said he was needin' some wages,
Before he could ride for the West,
He said he could do 'most all kind of work,
He said he could ride with the best.
There in his blue eyes was sadness,
That comes from the need of a friend,
And though he tried, he still couldn't hide
The loneliness there deep within.

Said he would work through the winter
For thirty a month and his board,
I started to say where he might land a job,
When a fella came in through the door.
I could tell that he was lookin' for trouble,
By the way that he came stompin' in.
He told me to leave Shorty there by himself,
And come down and wait on a man.

Well the eyes of the little man narrowed,
The smile disappeared from his face,
Gone was the friendliness that I had seen,
And a wild look of hate took it's place.
But the big one continued to mock him,
and told me that I'd better go
Find him a couple of glasses of milk,
And then maybe Shorty would grow.

When the little man spoke there was stillness,
He made sure everyone heard.
Slowly he walked away from the bar,
And I still remember these words:
It's plain that you're lookin' for trouble,
Trouble's what I try to shun.
But if that's what you want, then that's what you'll get,
'Cause, Cowboy, we're both packin' guns.

His hand was already positioned,
His feet wide apart on the floor,
I hadn't noticed them there on his hip,
Was a short-barrelled fat forty four.
It was plain he was ready and waitin',
As he leaned a bit forward and said:
When you call me Shorty, say "Mister," my friend,
Or maybe you'd rather be dead.

In the room was a terrible silence,
The big one stepped out on the floor,
All drinkin' stopped, and the tick of the clock
Said Death would wait ten seconds more.
He cursed once or twice in a whisper,
Then said with a snarl on his lips:
Nobody's "Mister" to me, little man,
And he grabbed for the gun on his hip.

But the little man's hand was like lightning,
The fat forty four was the same.
The forty four spoke, and it sent lead and smoke,
And seventeen inches of flame.
But the big one had never hit leather,
Even before he could start,
A little round hole had appeared on his shirt,
And a bullet went clear through his heart.

The little man stood there a moment,
Then holstered the fat forty four.
It's always this way, so I never stay,
And slowly he walked out the door.
Nobody knew where he came from,
But they won't forget he came by.
They won't forget how a forty four gun,
One night made the difference in size.

As for me I remember the sadness
Shown in the eyes of the man,
And if we meet someday, you can bet I will say,
That it's me, Mister Shorty, your friend.