Lennie and Lee Reilly decided to while away the afternoon at the saloon in Eagle Bend. In their early twenties, they were farm boys with dreams of grandeur, though their one claim to local fame was that they'd read every dime novel on gunslingers they could get their hands on. Today, their conversation was taken up with the reported presence of Chris Larabee in town.

"Bet I could shoot as fast as him." Lennie said.

"Bet you could." Lee agreed with him. "Bet he'd be beggin' us t'ride with him. Prob'ly use a couple good men, help him clean all them desperadoes away from decent folks."

"Bet I could shoot faster'n him." Lennie decided.

"Bet you could." Lee agreed with him.

The saloon door opened and the two brothers turned to watch a boy walk in. Couldn't even be as old as them, and his fancy clothes and bowler hat spoke a greenhorn city boy, no matter the uncommon rig he was totin'. He came to stand near them and ordered a beer. Deciding he was of no consequence, the Reillys turned back to their discussion.

"I read in that last book that it took Larabee a whole year t'track down the gang what burned his house down and killed his wife and daughter." Lee said.

"Bet I coulda done it in six months." Lennie told him.

"Bet you could." Lee agreed with him.

"You talkin' about Chris Larabee?" the boy had the nerve to interrupt them. The brothers did him the supreme honor of turning to look at him. "Wasn't a gang killed his family, and he lost his wife and son, not a daughter." After a lofty glare at the interloper, Lee and Lennie turned away.

"And the other one I read said y'can always tell how much he was paid to do a job by iffen he shot 'em from the front, or shot 'em in the back."

The kid spoke up again. "Chris Larabee never shot anybody in the back." he insisted. More stares, more glares. Lee and Lennie went on as though they hadn't heard.

"Bet I woulda made more money'n him." Lennie said.

"Bet you woulda." Lee agreed with him.

The saloon door opened, and the brothers turned again - and froze. There - big as life, the fading sunlight sparking the dust that swirled in the air around him, striding toward them with murderous glee in his eye - there was Chris Larabee. The story would be recounted a dozen or more different ways in the days and months to come, but for now, Lennie and Lee Reilly stood fixed to the floor, staring at the incarnation of every fear and aspiration they could name, as he headed right for them, sure that finally he'd come to call them out.

Instead he walked right past them and went to the boy who stood near them, who wasn't paying any attention to what was happening. Larabee probably heard the kid talking like he knew him and meant to blow him to hell. They watched in fascination as the long arm of death reached out and clamped onto the kid's shoulder and spun him around.

Then Larabee spoke. "JD! Thanks for coming to meet me. I got here half a day sooner than I expected. C'mon, let me buy you dinner, and I'll fill you in on the Judge's wire."

And with that, with not even a backward glance, not a scowl, a glare, a threat - with no more souvenir of the encounter than their memory, Lennie and Lee Reilly gaped open mouthed as Chris Larabee, the deadliest gunslinger west of the Mississippi, north of Mexico, and south of Canada, Chris Larabee who could scare a man to death with a whisper, as Chris Larabee laid a light hand on the kid's shoulder while reaching forward to open the saloon door.

Then they were gone.

"Bet he was just scared of us." Lennie pronounced.

"Bet he was." Lee agreed with him.

The End