The saloon doors swung open and three cowpokes, still dusty from the trail, strode in. Two of them were tall, kind of handsome in a grizzled sort of way, and wore their hats pulled low over their eyes in a way calculated to start the ladies fluttering and gossping about who they might be. The third, walking between them, was five foot nothing, tobacco dripping from the end of the grey bristles that stuck out from his jutting chin, and loooked like he'd seen more days in the saddle than both of his companions put together. It was like Gary Cooper and Randolph Scott had teamed up with Gabby Hayes.

Spurs jangling, they made straight for the bar, where they noticed right away that the barmaid was wearing what must have been the shortest dress ever seen in the West - and they couldn't be sure she was wearing a great deal beneath it. It was that kind of establishment.

What they really wanted was a whiskey. But what they wanted even more was to find out what those rustling folds beneath the barmaid's belt concealed. The whiskey was right there behind the bar. But the more unusual drinks, the ones that didn't hardly ever get asked for, were way up a height, right on the top shelves. So high that any bar employee wanting to reach them would have to use a ladder. And there was the ladder, waiting to be used.

The first guy took a look along the topmost shelf. "Gimme a raisin wine," he growled. And three pairs of eyes lifted in unison as the long, smooth legs climbed ladder, and continued to watch as they descended. The owner of the lanky limbs poured the wine. then climbed the ladder to return the bottle to its niche, still with an appreciative audience.

"What are you having, Mister?" she asked the second customer. He knew what to do. "I'll have the raisin wine," he said, and so the whole routine was repeated.

After she returned to the floor level she turned to the third. "What about you, old timer? Is yours a raisin?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "But it sure is a-twitchin'."