Look son, being a good shot, being quick with a pistol, that don’t do no harm, but it don’t mean much next to being cool-headed. A man who will keep his head and not get rattled under fire, like as not, he’ll kill ya.
Then he’ll be hurrying, and he’ll miss. Look here… That’s about as fast as I can draw, and aim, and hit anything more than ten feet away… ‘less it’s a barn.
Then he’ll kill ya. Yeah, that’s why there’s so few dangerous men around like old Bob, like me. It ain’t so easy to shoot a man anyhow, especially if the son-of-a-bitch is shootin’ back at you. I mean, that’ll just flat rattle some folks.
First off, Corky never carried two guns. Though he should have.
Yeah well, a lot of folks did call him “Two-Gun” but that wasn’t because he was sporting two pistols. That was because he had a dick that was so big it was longer than the barrel of that Walker Colt that he carried. And the only “insultin’ to a lady” he ever did was to stick that thing of his into this French lady that Bob here was kind of sweet on.
You see, the night that Corky walked into the Blue Bottle, and before he knows what’s happening, Bob here takes a shot at him! And he misses, ’cause he’s so damn drunk. Now that bullet whizzing by panicked old Corky, and he did the wrong thing. He went for his gun in such a hurry that he shot his own damn toe off. Meantime Bob here, he’s aiming real good, and he squeezes off another, but he misses, because he’s still so damn drunk, and he hits this thousand-dollar mirror up over the bar. And now, the Duck of Death is as good as dead. Because Corky does it right. He aims real careful, no hurry…
BAM! That Walker Colt blew up in his hand, which was a failing common to that model. You see, if old Corky had had two guns instead of just a big dick, he would have been there right to the end to defend himself.
Well, old Bob wasn’t goin’ to wait for Corky to grow a new hand. No, he just walked over there real slow – ’cause he was drunk – and shot him right through the liver. Pop!
All right, gentlemen. He’s got one barrel left. When he fires that, take out your pistols, and shoot him down like the mangy scoundrel he is!
I suppose you know, Bob, if I ever see you again I’m just going to start shooting and figure it was self-defense.
Now Ned, them whores are going to tell different lies than you. And when their lies ain’t the same as your lies… Well, I ain’t gonna hurt no woman. But I’m gonna hurt you. And not gentle like before… but bad.
I guess you think I’m kicking you, Bob. But it ain’t so. What I’m doing is talking, you hear? I’m talking to all those villains down there in Kansas. I’m talking to all those villains in Missouri. And all those villains down there in Cheyenne. And what I’m saying is there ain’t no whore’s gold. And if there was, how they wouldn’t want to come looking for it anyhow.
Haven’t you seen enough blood for one night? Hell, Alice, it’s not like they was tramps, or loafers, or bad men. Just two hard-working boys that was foolish. If they was given over to wickedness in a regular way…
Yeah, well, a lotta folks did call him “Two Gun,” but that wasn’t because he was sportin’ two pistols. No, it was because he had a dick that was so big, it was longer than the barrel on that Walther Colt that he carried. And the only insultin’ he ever did was to stick that thing of his into this French lady that English Bob here was kinda sweet on.
