In Tommy Maaltman's Wild, Wild West, two is one too many.

Lassiter rode into Rawlings in a typical Wyoming, wind blowing sideways, storm, dismounted his steed, Blaze, and walked into Stella's Saloon. Standing at the far end of the bar was Jake "The Widowmaker" Bridger who took one step sideways away from the bar and squared up facing Lassiter who immediately stopped and assumed the position of a gunslinger, killer for hire. As their cold steely gray eyes met and locked all the patrons of the saloon scrambled and dove under the tables expecting a firestorm of lead in the air to erupt at any moment. For what seemed like an eternity, the two men stood frozen in time, feet spread shoulder width apart, waist coats flung back exposing leathered 44 Magnums, hands steady, poised ready to draw, no twitch, no tremor. Then magically the two killers stood down, walked to a table and sat down. Professional killers don't kill professional killers, it's professional courtesy. The Widowmaker said, "What brings you to these parts?" Lassiter responded, "Business, you?" The Widowmaker said, "Just drifting between jobs." Neither man said much. They didn't need to. They said more by saying nothing than most men say in a lifetime. Stella knew both men as well as you can know a stone cold, lone gunman, killer for hire and brought a bottle of Ardbeg Mor, 57.3 vol., with a straw color, phenol and tar nose, oily peat, brine and citrus taste, and long smoky finish. After savoring their drams, both men got up and walked out the door heading in opposite directions. Lassiter took three steps and slowly turned around to see the Widowmaker already facing him. The last thing the Widowmaker heard was Lassiter saying, "Its not personal, just business" as he squeezed the trigger sending a 44 magnum lead slug through the Widowmaker's cold, blackened heart. The territory just wasn't big enough for two lone gunman. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman