Ducky, after a hard day's ride down from the ole' watering hole, settled down in the saloon in town for a pitcher of beer (he didn't have time for a glass). Removing his one-gallon hat, he set about to forget his troubles. But, unbeknownst to this time-lost platypus, forgetting his troubles would be the least of his troubles that day.

A familiar creek creeked throughout the saloon. Ducky's eyes turned a 45°. In the doorway stood a man nearly as round as he was tall. He was known around town by the name Rustlin' Ross, the second fastest gun in the county. Ducky knew that in truth his real name was actually Ropin' Ross, and he meant troubles.

Ross's mustachio twitched all the way up and down as his gandering gaze wandered over the blue mammal. Ducky tried to pretend to not notice, but it was all for naught.

"Our business ain't over, ya varmint. We had a deal," his mouth flapped.

Ducky rotated in his stool. With a twinkle in his bill, Ducky intoned, "You didn't live up to your end, so the deal's off."

The fat man's little eyes grew even littler. "I did what I had to, now you'd better give it up, just as we agreed. If yer gonna start as a tadpole you'd better end up as a frog." The man had a knack for metaphors.

This vague conversation went on for a few more pitchers. But finally Platy the Duckapus had enough. "Outside. Let's settle this like men," he gestured, even though he wasn't one.

(Fun fact: Ducky doesn't wear spurs, as Platypi have natural, poisonous ones. Needless to say his horse is in a sorry state.)