In some lonely frontier town one day, the local barflies were gathered in the saloon drinking and chewing the fat. Suddenly a man came bursting through the swinging doors, shouted “Black Bart is coming!”, and ran back out. The barkeep ducked behind the bar. Everyone else scattered out doors and windows, except for one brave fellow who peeked his head out the door and looked down the trail into town.
On the very horizon he saw a small cloud of dust, gradually getting larger. Soon he could see a rider coming at top speed. Riding a buffalo. Whipping it. With a rattlesnake.
The rider pulled up at the saloon and dismounted. Rather than tying up the buffalo to the hitching post, he slammed it with his elbow, knocking it out. Then he strode into the saloon and up to the bar. “Whiskey!” he roared.
A hand came up from behind the bar, put a glass on the bar, ducked down again, then came up with a whiskey bottle, poured. The rider downed the glass, grabbed the bottle, whacked it against the bar to break off the neck, then guzzled down the rest of the whiskey.
From below the bar came a quavering voice. “A-another one, stranger?”
The rider wiped his mouth on his sleeve, belched, then said. “Can’t. Gotta go. I hear Black Bart is coming.”