Night had fallen on the frontier boom town of Fox Den, Colorado. As was their custom when the sun went down, Sam and Flat had likewise fallen into their usual place at the bar counter of Simpson's Saloon.

Simpson's Saloon was a large establishment as far as such places went; in part this was because in the town's early days it had doubled as both a community meeting house and even the church until separate buildings had been constructed. There were plenty of tables for patrons who wanted them, though this evening the place was mostly deserted, apart from a party of four local ranch hands playing Faro in the corner.

Sam and Flat, who could almost be considered saloon regulars, seldom took to a table; Sam in particular preferred drinking the bar counter, even though it meant standing instead of sitting. It didn't matter- Sam was of good health as his rugged and chiseled physical features demonstrated. He had warm brown eyes that matched the thick chestnut hair that he kept well-groomed on his head (though it usually was hidden underneath his hat). Just past thirty, he was still a young man.

"Two whiskeys," Sam said holding up corresponding fingers, "your best, at that. We don't want none of that watered down spit you usually give us."

He flashed a smile in the direction of his friend Flat. Flat, however, did not share in the jovial expression, giving back a glare instead.

Flat, unlike Sam, was a bit shorter and stockier. Still chiseled and ruggedly handsome in his own way, he had a thick blonde mustache that did little to help him look older; where Sam may have looked his age, Flat appeared at least five years younger.

Simpson Holmes, the old bartender and namesake proprietor of the saloon, dryly looked over at the pair to see who was ordering. "I thought that was your voice, Sam. That 'spit' I give you is what's in your price range. I ain't giving you anything fancier until I know you can pay for it."

"Ah, don't worry about that, Simpson. We just got paid for a job today," Sam glanced about to make sure no one else apart from Flat was listening. His smile grew slightly. "Got paid real well, in fact. Maybe make it four whiskeys- two for me, two for Flat here. I know he's good to cover next round."

Flat continued to shoot an icy gaze in his companion's direction.

"Let me see what you got first," Simpson insisted.

Once more glancing about to make sure no one unintended was around to note his newfound wealth, Sam reached into his front pocket and held up some coins. Simpson stared at them for a moment.

"Must've been quite the job," he finally said as he set four whiskey glasses on the counter.

"You better believe it!" Sam replied gleefully.

"Stop it," Flat remarked in a hushed but firm voice intending that only Sam would hear.

"Stop what?"

"You said we'd keep this quiet."

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"I am keeping this quiet, Flat. There's no one else here to listen."

"Simpson's listening. You're telling him all about the 'great job'."

"Simpson's not gonna tell anyone. He cares about the money, not where it came from."

"Speaking of money," Simpson suddenly interjected as he poured whisky from a ornate bottle into the glasses before them, "I would guess this 'job' of yours today was outside of town?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, a hint of confusion to his voice, "why do you ask?"

"Then you haven't heard about robbery this afternoon at Fox Den National Bank."

"'Robbery'?" Flat repeated, his eyes wide.

"Yeah, been the talk of the town. Guess someone robbed the place of nearly all they had in the vault. Lots of money. Like the kind you’re waving around right now."

Flat shot Sam a nervous glance. Sam could feel his friend's gaze- no doubt out of fear their unrelated newfound wealth might be tied to that crime.

"In broad daylight?"

"Yeah, broad daylight. In front of witnesses too. There's no doubt who committed the crime."

Both men let out audible sighs.

"What, did you think I was accusing you two of doing it?" Simpson smirked slightly. "I know what business you two are in. It ain't right, but it ain't bank robbing."

Flat's nervous expression remained, but Sam seemed back to his normal calm demeanor. Simpson pushed two whiskey glasses in front of each man.

"So...it was a gang, then? To take so much money?" inquired Sam.

"No, that's just it- witnesses said it was only one man. A big man- folks say he was at least seven feet tall."

"What? Some sort of giant robbed the bank?"

"That's what they've been saying. Strange looking too. Face apparently wasn't one to win the ladies over. Was supposedly dressed strange too- in all gray, with dark gray cloak and gray hat and all. Dressed top to bottom in gray, Well, except for his right arm."

"What about his right arm?"

"Well, guess it was exposed, that's what was strange. Sleeve rolled all the way up as if intentionally showing it off. Apparently that arm has some muscle to it, too, as the fellow was able to tear the bank vault door off with it alone."

"What?!" both Sam and Flat exclaimed.

"I'm just repeating what I've heard. This robber tore the door off with one arm and put all he could get in a sack and walked out. Broad daylight."

"Did he have a gun?" ventured Flat.

"Well, he pointed a gun at the banker with his other hand to get in there. But he didn't use it on anyone, no shots fired. Not that anyone tried to stop him once they saw him tear the vault door off like that. Folks got a good look at him, especially that muscular arm, but no one seems to know who he is. Rumors are that there's been a few similar robberies like this a few towns north of here, but no one believed any of that, at least not until they saw this fellow's strength in action today!"

Sam slowly sipped his first glass of whisky. He appeared to be momentarily lost in thought.

"What's that, Sam? Enjoying the good stuff or is that quality of whisky too strong for you? I got plenty of 'spit' if you want to switch back."

Sam paused a moment still.

"No, I'm just thinking. I swear when I first came to Fox Den I heard tell of someone here who was strong enough to do something like that."

"Like what?"

"Like rip the vault door of a bank open with one arm."

Simpson scratched the back of his head. "The only man that comes to mind who ever demonstrated strength close to that is Sheriff Reynold. In his youth, he was undeniably the strongest man in Colorado, if not the entire country. But since that unfortunate accident years ago..." he trailed off. "Well, he don't talk about it none. It changed him, made him how he is today. Now, mind, I ain't knocking the sheriff, he does a mighty fine job enforcing the law around here. But he's changed from the man he was in his youth."

"He doesn't do that good at enforcing the law," muttered Sam with a hint of arrogance, "he ain't caught us yet."

Before Flat could respond in protest to Sam's loose talk another voice came from behind: "maybe that’s because you're of more use to me free."

Sam and Flat turned to see Sheriff Reynold himself standing casually by a nearby empty table.