Draw.

It was August, 1882. Wyatt Earp had just kicked the legs out from under the Cowboys when he buried a handfull of shot into Curly Bill's belly. Course kicking out someones legs don't always bring them down, not if they know how to scrap and shoot from their knees like the Cowboys did. No, to drop someone like that, after you kick their legs out you gotta lean on 'em, and I was just the guy to do it. But don't think me no hero for going after those theives. I was a train robber, and it was just good business.

I'd been working for years with a tall lanky dead-eye named Marcus Halberd. To look at him you'd swear he was the sickly type, pale skin creeping out of his long coat and a tremble in his hand everytime he lifted a cigarette to his mouth, which he did constantly. But give him a reason and you'd see that tremble disappear as he pulled out the long bolt-action that he kept slung over his shoulder, and you'd swear that all his sickness jumped clear out of his body, like it was suddenly scared of somethin'. He brought down many a man while I was slingin' my six shooters, and he was so reliable I got to where I could fight like a demon, not having to worry about checking my back all the time. But when it came to cowboys, we both knew it wasn't enough. We needed one more. We needed a man big enough to roll into a saloon and win half the fight just by glaring. A man who could handle the biggest shotgun ever made and take the recoil like it was a harlot's kiss. We needed a walking thunder. Turns out, walking thunder called itself "Drew."