It was raining hard in Collinsville, sluicing sheets of water sloshed down the windowpane of the Bridle Bit Saloon and formed a miniature river below the single doorstep. Successive claps of thunder seemed to rock the entire building, an ominous echo within the cafe. But part of the sound wasn't thunder, it was the coughing boom of long-barreled .45s, whose hammers were thumbed by outlaws. Suddenly, the door of the Bridle Bit swung open...