Easy Does It

They say he walked out of a desert mirage one August noon when the heat had every man seeing double. But he was no illusion - just six feet of pure swagger wrapped in denim and devil-may-care attitude. That cigarette isn't just perched on his lips; it's making love to fate itself, dancing with the same casual grace that's made him infamous from Tucson to Tombstone. Born in a thunderstorm to a rodeo clown and a jazz singer who took her final bow too soon, he learned early that life's sweetest moments come at their own pace. The locals whisper about how he once tamed a wild mustang just by staring it down, took three days doing what other men rush through in hours. Even his gunfights move like molasses - they say he draws so slow it's almost lazy, but no one's ever seen him lose. That tilt of his head toward the sun isn't arrogance; it's the quiet confidence of a man who knows time itself will wait for him. When he rides into town, even the dust takes its time settling, and trouble? Well