They were all at Tombstone to try and win the matched pair of gold-inlaid Colt Cavalry Peacemakers.
Bat Masterson was there, in dude dress and with a fancy hat.
Tom Horn was there, looking like a bold Apache war chief.
Burt Alvord was there, the ex-deputy who never brought in a living prisoner.
Wyatt Earp was there, looking like a prosperous trail-end town undertaker.
On the contest day nine men stood on the line, eight of them tall, and who could draw and shoot in half a second.
The ninth man was small, an insignificant Texan against whom the bartender of the Bucket of Blood Saloon gave odds of ten to one.
His name was Dusty Fog.