When a towering, dust-covered cowboy struts into a saloon with a glare that could melt iron, the local outlaws usually know better than to push their luck.
This particular drifter tied his stallion to the hitching post, walked inside, and downed a stiff glass of whiskey to wash away the trail dust. But when he stepped back out onto the porch, his eyes narrowed—his horse had been stolen.
Storming back inside, he slammed his heavy fist onto the bar with a crack that sounded like a gunshot. The music stopped. The poker table froze.
“Alright, listen up!” the cowboy growled, his eyes scanning the terrified room. “I’m ordering one more drink. If my horse isn’t back where I left it by the time I finish… I’m gonna do exactly what I did back in Texas. And God help me, I really don’t want to have to do that again!”
The bartender swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he poured another shot. The local thugs exchanged nervous, sweaty glances, terrified of whatever horrific bloodbath “Texas” implied.
The cowboy slowly drained his glass, threw down a coin, and walked out into the sun.
Sure enough, a panicked thief had already returned the horse, tying it perfectly to the post. As the cowboy saddled up to leave, the bartender nervously crept out to the porch. “Uh, excuse me, mister… what exactly did you have to do back in Texas?”
The cowboy tipped his Stetson hat, sighed heavily, and replied:
“I walked home.”
