Meet the Powder Creek Cowboys: the fastest guns in Lenexa

The revolvers hanging from his belt are loaded, but at the moment, Croaker's hands are busy with the tin coffee cup suspended less than an inch from his lips. He's a big man of 52, and he carries his weight in front, mostly in a great stomach now clothed in a red shirt underneath suspenders, and pants the same black that his mustache must have been in his younger days. On his head is a white Stetson. He peers into the near distance and finally lets the cup fall, clattering to the wooden railing next to his shotgun, and yells, "Your days robbin' banks is over, Dalton!"

Croaker is left-handed so he draws the revolver on that side first, squeezing the trigger with his fast hand while pulling back the hammer with his right. The bullets meet each red, steel, cowboy-shaped target with a sonorous ring. When the gun is empty, he tugs at the other revolver. "Damn it," he says, as the gun snags against a stray bit of leather. He frees the pistol and fires again, this time aiming wide of the target on his fourth shot. The bullet embeds in the dry, bare soil of the Powder Creek Cowboys' shooting range, so abused by missed rounds and mists of gray gunpowder that only a rare patch of grass survives.

When the revolvers are finished, Croaker shuffles in an awkward crab walk a foot to the right, where more guns are waiting to be fired. The rifle is next. As he shoots and reloads, spent shells spin wildly from the stock. Again, a shot goes wide. He finishes with a shotgun, knocking back four diamond-shaped metal targets in succession.

Behind him, spotters are watching. The range is hidden from the suburban Lenexa homes that surround it, and no one fires a gun without at least three witnesses. Part of this is for protection. The revolvers don't have safeties, and the only hardware here is what was available in the 1800s. If there's a misfire and a bullet lodges in the barrel, the spotters are there to warn the shooter before the next shot blows up the gun and the shooter's hand. The other reason is to watch for accuracy. Each of Croaker's monitors raises a hand with two fingers up to signify his misses. He has fired all four guns in a whisper under 27 seconds by the timekeeper's watch, but each stray bullet will add five seconds.

Croaker picks up his weapons and walks to a nearby gun cabinet made to resemble an outhouse. The barrel of his rifle is still smoking. He lays out his guns to make sure that they're in good working order and all of the bullets fired correctly.

As Croaker services his firearms, another man in Old West gear takes his place at the Corral. This man fires both of his revolvers at once, shooting and cocking a gun in each hand. This method makes him look more like an action star but doesn't do much for his speed or accuracy.

Beyond the Corral is a small street scene, where another 70 shooters are poised at assigned spots near banks and jails and saloons, waiting to pull their triggers: It's the annual Prince of Pistoleers Tournament, the fifth to be held at the Powder Creek Cowboys' shooting range.

The competition involves scripted encounters, often with an imaginary Dalton gang. "Here's a necktie for that outlaw Emmett!" says a man at the Alamo Saloon before he starts cracking back the lever of his own Winchester.

Still at his guns, Croaker bends forward. Four spent shells tumble from the brim of his hat.

He looks at the dented golden casings lying amid his weapons and sighs.

"Shouldn't have missed that pistol," he tells himself. "No reason to."

Outside the shooting range, Croaker is known as Dennis Ryan. He has been a Leavenworth County paramedic for close to 30 years, treating wounds from car crashes and farm accidents but almost never gunshots. At Powder Creek, he's just Croaker — one of the fastest guns in east Kansas and the man who won the Prince of Pistoleers last year.

Croaker was raised around guns but didn't start competing with the local chapter of the Single Action Shooting Society until last summer. The organization has just two rules: You can shoot only the guns that were around in the Old West, and you must wear period clothing while doing it.

"I don't spend a lot of money on clothes," Croaker says. "Lots of people like to dress up. They have more money in clothes than guns. I have more money in guns than I do in clothes."

In many ways, Croaker perfectly represents the Powder Creek Cowboy. For one, there's the mustache — at the Prince of Pistoleers, a cleanshaven face is a rarity, and the mustaches vary from neatly trimmed to curled like Snidely Whiplash's.

Most of the Powder Creek Cowboys also have permits to carry concealed handguns. "Violent crime is up," Croaker says. "I've had my house broken into twice and my guns stolen twice. The last time was December 1998. We put an alarm in since then and a gun safe in since then." One morning, he says, a neighbor couple woke up with a robber standing at the foot of their bed. "He came in through the garage."