The batwing doors of the saloon flew apart, and in stomped a gun-hung young tough, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Which one of you fellers is Durango Dune?" he demanded. Silence fell, except for the piano playing in the corner.

An old-timer near the bar turned around slowly. "What would you be wanting with him, youngster?"

"They say he's the fastest gun in the West," said the youngster, "and I'm here to see that they don't say it again after today."

The piano played on, and the old-timer laughed sadly. "My oh my, feller, that's a cold trail you've been following. I'm Durango Dune, but they've been tellin' those stories since your pappy was younger'n you. I guess if'n you'd got here forty years ago we'd have a set-to, but you're a mite late."

The tough's face fell. "You mean I've rid five hundred miles for nothin'?"

"Fraid so," said Dune, over the sound of the piano. "Along with all the time you spent learnin' your fast draw - Say, how fast are you anyway?"

"This fast," said the tough; and in a flicker of movement the Colt came into his hand and a forty-five bullet creased the piano-player's hat, but the piano played on. Dune's eyebrows lifted.

"Pretty good, youngster, but you'da needed to be quicker against me back when I was young. Why'd you try cinchin' your gunbelt up half an inch? She's ridin' a mite low."

The tough adjusted his gunbelt under Dune's guidance and drew and fired again, snapping one of the candles on the piano; but the piano played on.

"See, that's better already," said Dune. "Now, you just take this piece of sharkskin and rub down your hammer spur real smooth. That way you save a mite of time when you draw and cock your piece."

The tough did as Dune told him, and produced a still faster shot that did for the other candle on the piano; but the piano played on.

"An' now," said Dune, "all that's left is for you to take that Colt and dip it in the barrel of bear grease at the end of the bar."

"What for?" demanded the tough.

"Why," said Dune, "on account of when Wyatt Earp there gets done playin' the piano, he'll come and stick that Colt of yours right where the sun don't shine; and if you grease her up first, it won't hurt as much".