"I ain't a-gonna jaw 'bout my pa, ya gussied-up, panty-waist!" screams the outlaw. "The no-good pole cat whupped up on ma an' I plugged his ornery hide!...I mean drilled....Dang ya!" McMaster's dirty face turns deep red with frustration. "I done went an' blasted the varmit! Now tell me how my brother got hisself kilt or I'm a-gonna shoot ya down like the dirty dog ya are!"

Just then, four pretty dance hall girls walk over from the adjacent Longhorn Saloon. "Afternoon Marshal. I hope we're still on for supper, tonight," smiles the lovely redhead, sporting a short, green petticoated dress.

"Who in blazes are you, lady?" McMaster snaps. "Don't-cha know I'm a-fixin' ta blast this parfumed little weasel from har ta kindom come? He's done et his last supper, Missy!"

"I am Alison Wolfworthy," the fancy lady replies. "I own the Longhorn Saloon." She studies the scruffy outlaw for a moment, then seems to dismiss him from her mind. "Marshal," the lovely Alison smiles at Jung, "we have some new faces in the Longhorn, fresh off the morning stage. May I introduce my new saloon manager, Jolen Casper?"

Dr. Jung bows from the waist. "I am charmed beyond words, Miss Casper."

The singer flutters her dark eyelashes. "I've heard so much about you, Marshal. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"And this is Miss Savanah Jude," the saloon owner continues. "She comes with a guarantee to charm the pants off any lonely cowboy with her own southern comfort style."

"How delightful," the marshal winks."

 The stunning girl curtsies. "I'm so pleased to meet such a refined gentlemen. I just know we'll get along splendedly, Marshal."

"And last, but by no means least," Alison says, presenting the third among the new arrivals, "another beautiful southern belle, Miss Glata Galore."

The marshal removes his black bowler and smiles. "Ladies, welcome to Ford City."

McMaster slams his stained and battered hat onto the dusty street. His unshaven face, a mask of primal anger. Suddenly his cracked voice echos off the wooden buildings. "Whut in tarnation is wrong with ya dingy female jackasses? Have y'all gone plumb crazy-loco in the head? This har mincin' marshal is a dead man! Ya high-steppin' dance hall gals jest seem too plow-mule dumb ta know whut the sam hill's-a goin' on har!"

"Mr. McMaster," Jung says quietly, "I find you to be extremely exacerbating, to be quite frank, sir."

McMaster's weathered face goes from red to purple. "Ya best watch that garbage mouth-a yors, pretty boy!" he warns. "Ya ain't a-never found me a-doin' nuthin'! I aint a-never seed yer girlyfied face afore today!" A look of embarrassment flickers across the desperado's craggy features. "My ma was the onliest soul alive ta ever find me a-doin' it!"

The outlaw stomps on his hat and spins in a circle, prompting the saloon girls to clear the street within seconds. "Great leapin' lizards," McMasters fumes, "looky whut ya got me a-sayin!"

The bank robber snatches his tattered hat from the street. "I'm a-gonna shoot ya so fulla holes, yer a-gonna look like a bloodied-up chaw a swiss cheese! Now ya gonna tell me how ya kilt ma brother or am I a-gonna mow ya down right where ya stand?" McMaster clears leather and points his big .44 at Jung.

Sigmund sighs heavily. "I can see we have a lot of issues to deal with before I can even begin to help you in your emotional recovery, Mr. McMaster," he says, shaking his handsome head. "But I shall tell you what you wish to know."

Marshaal Jung takes several seconds to jot down more notes in his little black book. "You and your recently-departed brother, Boomerang Bruce, must have been very close indeed to precipitate such a maelstrom of unbridled aggression within your painfully troubled psyche, Mr. McMaster."

The big outlaw looks perplexed. "Whut?"