Sheriff Watson made no claim to being a two-handed shot.

He was a simple, unpretentious man; not a heroic figure as he stood, his weight resting on the sides of his feet, looking out of the window down the long and wind-swept street of Ellisville.
Gradually the gaze of the sheriff focused, becoming occupied with the figure of a horseman whose steady riding seemed to have a purpose other than that of merely showing his joy in living and riding.

This rider passed other riders without pausing.

He came up the street at a gallop until opposite the office door, where he jerked up his horse sharply and sprang from the saddle.

As he came into the room he pulled off his hat and mopped his face as far as he could reach with the corner of his neckerchief.
"Mornin', Bill," he said.
"Mornin', Curly," said the sheriff pleasantly.