this cowboy had been raised in a town where shooting from the hip was the local sport.� the finest hands in the west were trained there.� he played hooky from school, and spent his days knocking tin cans off of fence posts, cigarettes out of the barber's mouth, and apples off the tops of his friends' heads.� he could do all of this over his shoulder, using only a hand mirror to see.� after a series of adventures involving indians, bears, cattle rustlers, rascally mountain men, and a few journeys abroad, he settled in what could politely be described as a one horse town.� he quickly established himself as a "hero of the beach" figure, and effortlessly disposed of any bullies that dared to jangle into town & kick sand in the faces of the townsfolk.� they didn't need a sheriff, so they had none.� he had greater instinct, bravery, and sense of fair play than ten sheriffs put together.� he kept his boots impeccably shined (no small feat, as the streets were unpaved), took two shots of whiskey with his dinner (his only vice), and practically raised half the boys in town (although none of them were his).� he realized that he could rule the town as easily as he protected it, he could go on as many trash-everything-and-terrorize-everyone ragers as he cared to (if only his conscience were to ever fail him), and that no one would have the nerve to tell him "no."� in his nightmares, he was a villain with fire in his eyes and a connoisseur's appreciation for the subtleties of blood.� he often woke on a pillow inexplicably soaked with sweat and tears.� he wondered how long it might be, before he would either have to give in to this temptation, or ride off into the sunset in order to escape it.