I ain't gon' lie to you, partner. When I rode into town last night with that Plains breeze to my back I was expecting a fight. I been in plenty of them in my day- whether they started at a card table, brothel, or saloon- and, frankly, I've grown to like 'em. Guess you could say I've picked my share fights. Instead, I encountered a bunch of lily livered "men", and that's a term I ain't never used so loosely, wearing womanfolk quilts and insulting colors. They hit like women, too.
Yessir, that gang didn't belong in these parts, and I made sure to see to it that whatever's left of them won't ever come back, neither. Shoot, it probably won't be long till the government comes and scoops us this swampland, shuts down their whole sad, impotent operation. I didn't got a scrape on my hand, didn't lose one stray bullet... never saw my horse this calm. I suppose I should welcome a good whoopin' every once in a while, but I'm not even sure this scrap amounted to that. Heck, I even legged out a triple like it wasn't nothin'. But you already knew about my athletic conditioning.
That last night wasn't no gunfight, that was like shootin' bait minnows in a barrel. Like taken a 12 gauge down to the watering hole and scooping up dinner after squeezing off a few rounds. Could have thrown five or six more of them perfect innings, felt like. Next time, maybe these cowards will step up, stop insulting me with these minor league challengers.
But it won't matter none. Not as long as the Sheriff is in your town.