"Well that was easier than I thought, boss," a punitive man claimed as he and the posse he was with ran through town with several bags of money with them and their pistols pointed at anyone who dared to challenge them.

"I told you fellas: the Bank of Sturtevant is the easiest place to steal. With no lawman to watch over it, it's a cinch." The men smirked at their success; the townspeople were not as amused.

"Someone stole from the bank!" a woman screeched.

"Somebody stop them!" another demanded. However, no one seemed to respond to said demand. Fortunately, that call did not go unanswered for long.

"Hey!"

All four members of the Pickman Posse stopped and turned around to glare are three men facing them. The one of the left was the smallest of the three, but still looked lean and muscular enough to fight. The one on the right was large in the chest and arms and looked like the linebacker of the trio. The one in the middle was the median of the group; he was more muscular than the smallest member, but not as muscular as the biggest member. He held a stance that connoted that he was the leader.

He stated, "Don't you think you need to return that money?"

Rod Pickman, the boss of the posse, guffawed at the thought.

"You're kiddin', right son?" The leader continued to glare at Rod.

"You realize that your outnumbered four to three, right? Unless you three really want to die tonight, I suggest that you move along." Rod's cautious Southern accent did nothing to move the trio.

"Fine," Rod exasperatedly said, "I have no problem getting rid of vermin like you. Boys, show 'em hell!" At the command, the three other members of Rod's posse lifted their guns only for two of the men to have their guns shot out of their hands and the third member to be shot in the arm.

"Ahhh!" The man wailed out in excruciating pain, as Rod gazed astonished at his injured henchman. He finally remembered that he had a gun and lifted it up, only to have it shot out of his hand as well. As he looked to his rivals, he saw the leader blowing the smoke from his pistol away and placing it back in his holster. The other two men also put their guns into their holsters.

"Now," the leader stated, "would you be so kind as to return that money to us? We wouldn't want to show you hell." Rod breathed heavily in irritation; he was not about to be beaten by three men who were young enough to be his sons. Sure, he could continue running, or he could pick up his gun, although that would result in what he believed to be instant death. He decided on a third option: fight.

As he took off his holster, he bargained, "How about this? We fight y'all for the right to leave?" At that last word, he rushed towards the leader. While he could have just shot Rod there, he decided to oblige his request for battle and met him halfway. Meanwhile, the two henchmen did what their boss did and charged at the leader's two men.

As the brawl went on, it became a curb stomp battle. The largest member of the trio dealt devastating punches to the largest member of the posse, causing his knees to buckle from the pain. After the sixth punch, which went to the gut, the large member of the posse coughed, releasing spittle, and collapsed.

The smallest member of the trio was quick on his attacks as he repeatedly kicked his opponent at his sides. Finally, he ended his match by delivering a roundhouse kick to his opponent's head, causing him to lose consciousness.

The leader's battle was just as short-lived. While Rod continued to through aimless punches, the leader carefully aimed his punches to be precise: head, gut, chest, gut, chest, head. The leader delivered two kicks to Rod's chest before ending his battle with a punch to his face. The punch was powerful enough to not only knock Rod unconscious, but to cause a nose bleed. The brawl was over.

The townspeople that watched the battle ensue were initially shocked at how easily the men defeated the posse. After getting over the astonishment, the people applauded the trio, lauding them for their accomplishment.

As the mayor of Sturtevant thanked them, the newspaper editor wiggled his way through the crowd.

"Men, men! Would you mind telling me your names for the paper?"

The leader looked at his two companions for confirmation.

"Well, I know I wouldn't mind," the smallest member stated.

"Of course you wouldn't; this is the type of stuff you enjoy getting praised for," the leader countered.

He then turned to the burly member. "What about you, big buddy?"

"I don't mind," he stated in a Texan drawl.

"Well, it seems like we're in agreement. My name's Allen."

"Chance," the smallest member replied.

"Buck," the largest member responded.

"Do you have anything to say about this? Any reason why you stopped them?" the editor inquired.

"Well, we wanted to collect their bounty," Allen stated jokingly; the editor did not seem to respond accordingly.

"But, more importantly, it was the just thing to do."

"And do you three have a collective name?"

"Like a group name?"

"Yes."

All three of them looked at each other cluelessly.

"Not really. Just vigilantes who wanted to do some good."

"Oh," the editor responded despondently.

"But," Allen continued, "if it suits you, you can call us whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Just as long as it is doesn't give up a bad rep."

"Can do. Thank you, gentlemen."

"Sure," Chance and Allen responded.

"Yep," Buck added.

The next day, the newspaper that circulated through the Jefferson-Wilton County had the following headline:

"'DO-GOOD VIGILANTES STOP PICKMAN POSSE"