Forsaking my dignity I reached past my gunbelt and adjusted my junk. Too many trips to the punch bowl last night had left me hungover and hurting.

But I had a job to do.

I looked to Larry who adjusted his Stetson.

“Is this the place?”

He nodded and turned the handle. We burst in, pulling our tools from our holsters.

A circle of stunned men stared at us.

“Uh,” said one, “I’m pretty sure we ordered the cowgirls. And you’re certainly not putting that thing in me.

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