It was a hot, dusty afternoon when the stranger rode into town. “Heard there’s an hombre ‘round these parts with a screw loose,” he said, and we all knew he was talkin’ ‘bout One-Eye Mulligan. “Reckon somebody oughta fix his wagon.”

The stranger was tall and sunburnt, with a bushy red mustache. He was dressed all in buckskins, and in the broken-in holster on his hip was the tool of his trade: the Bit Shooter Screwdriver.

“You tell old One-Eye Mulligan I was askin’ after him,” the stranger said to all of us who’d gathered ‘round. “You tell him he can come find me—or I’ll come find him.” He pulled a well-worn glove onto his hand. “And you tell him he’s screwed either way!”

With that, the stranger spat a fat wad of tobacco juice over his shoulder, nailing the widow Callahan right in the ear, completely ruining the drama of the moment, which had otherwise been pretty high.

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