In front of Happy Jack’s saloon, a guy with drooping handlebar mustaches, who wore an outlandish getup that consisted of low-slung Mexican sombrero, red silk scarf, black leather chaps, black cotton shirt, black work pants tucked into black, tooled-leather boots, and absurdly roweled silver spurs, was staggering into the crowd, bawling at the top of his lungs. “Gonna win me that medal, y’hear? Joey Tyrolin’s the name, gonna win that shootin’ match, l’il lady!”
He accosted a tourist who wore a buckskin skirt and blouse. She staggered back, apparently from the smell of his breath. Joey Tyrolin, drunker than any skunk Margo had yet seen in Frontier Town, drew a fancy pair of Colt Single-Action Army pistols and executed an equally fancy roadhouse spin, marred significantly by the amount of alcohol he’d recently consumed. One of the .45 caliber revolvers came adrift mid-air and splashed into a nearby horse trough. Laughter exploded in every direction. A scowl as dark as his clothes appeared in a face that matched his red silk bandanna.
“Gonna win me that shootin’ match, y’hear! Joey Tyrolin c’n shoot th’ eye outta an eagle at three hunnerd yards . . .” He bent, gingerly fishing his gun out of the horse trough.
Margo muttered, “Maybe he’ll fall in and drown? God, am I ever glad we’re going to London, not Denver.”
Kit, too, eyed the pistolero askance. “Let’s hope he confines his shooting to that black-powder competition he’s bragging about. I’ve seen far too many idiots like that one go down time to Denver and challenge some local to a gunfight. Occasionally, they choose the wrong local, someone who can’t be killed because he’s too important to history. Now and again, they come back to the station in canvas bags.”