Introduction
Everyone thought Dean Martin was just a singer who happened to be in westerns. The guy with the drink in his hand, the jokes on his lips. The man who made everything look effortless. But on November 22nd, 1967, on the dusty backlot of Warner Brothers Studios, Dean Martin did something that left Clint Eastwood, the fastest gun in Hollywood, speechless. In exactly 0.20 20 seconds.
The King of Cool proved that beneath the martini glass and the easy smile lived the reflexes of a genuine gunfighter. And what happened next became the most legendary moment of respect in Western movie history. The late afternoon sun was painting the fake frontier town in golden hues when Clint Eastwood first noticed the commotion on the adjacent set.
He was taking a break from rehearsals for Hang Am High, still wearing his signature brown leather vest and the minimalist Buscadero gun belt that had helped redefine the movie Cowboy. In his mouth, as always, was the thin cigar that had become as much a part of his image as the squint and the draw. From his position near the saloon facade, Clint could see the rough night in Jericho crew setting up for what looked like a standard quick draw scene.
But something about the atmosphere felt different. The crew wasn’t moving with their usual efficiency. They were gathered in a loose circle, watching something with the kind of attention usually reserved for watching a master at work. At the center of it all, stood Dean Martin. At 50, Dean was at the absolute peak of his powers.
His custom-tailored western vest fit him like it had been designed by a sculptor, emphasizing the broad shoulders and trim waist that 20 years of stage performance had carved. His white shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up exactly one turn, never sloppy, never overly formal, and on his hip hung a gun belt that most people probably assumed was just another prop. They were wrong.
Clint had worked with dozens of actors who played cowboys. He’d seen them struggle with the weight of authentic period weapons, watched them fumble with holsters, observed them trying to look natural with equipment they clearly didn’t understand. But Dean Martin’s stance was different. The gun belt didn’t hang on him like a costume piece.
It looked like it belonged there, like it had always been there. You know Dean was saying to his co-star George Peppard, his voice carrying that familiar lazy confidence. Most fellas spend so much time trying to look fast, they forget to actually be fast. Pepper laughed. Easy for you to say, Dean.
You’ve been practicing this stuff for what, 20 years? Something like that, Dean replied, adjusting his position slightly. The movement was minimal, but Clint noticed it immediately. Dean’s right foot had shifted back exactly 3 in. His weight redistributed in a way that would provide maximum stability and mobility. This wasn’t the stance of an actor trying to look the part.
This was the stance of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. The assistant director called for quiet on the set. The scene they were preparing to shoot was simple. Dean’s character would be confronted by three gunmen and he would outdraw all of them. Standard western fair. the kind of thing Clint himself had done a hundred times.
But as the cameras prepared to roll, Clint found himself moving closer, drawn by something he couldn’t quite identify. “Places, everyone,” the director called. “Dean, whenever you’re ready.” Dean Martin took a sip from the glass of what everyone assumed was whiskey, but was actually apple juice. His longtime trick for maintaining the illusion of the drinking man while staying sharp for performance.
He set the glass down on a nearby barrel with deliberate care, then walked to his mark with that characteristic loose-limmed stride that made everything look effortless. What Clint saw next changed his understanding of Dean Martin forever. As Dean settled into his gunfighter stance, something shifted in his entire demeanor.
The easy smile remained. The relaxed shoulders stayed exactly where they were. But suddenly there was something else there. Something predatory and precise hiding beneath the casual exterior. His right hand hung loose at his side, fingers barely brushing the grip of his weapon. “Action!” the director called. Three stunt performers playing gunmen reached for their weapons, moving with the practice speed of professionals who’d been doing quickdraw scenes for years.
They never had a chance. Dean Martin’s hand moved like lightning given form. One moment it was hanging casually at his side. The next it was filled with cold steel, the gun drawn and aimed with a precision that would have done credit to a surgeon. The metallic click of the hammer being cocked echoed across the set like thunder.
The entire sequence, draw, aim, had taken exactly 0.20 seconds. Clint Eastwood, a man who had built his career on being the fastest gun in movies, stood motionless. He’d seen fast draws before. He’d practiced them, perfected them, made them his trademark. But what Dean Martin had just demonstrated wasn’t just fast. It was impossible.
“Cut!” the director yelled, his voice filled with excitement. “Dean, that was incredible. But maybe we could slow it down just a fraction.” The camera barely caught it. Dean smiled and slipped the gun back into its holster with the same fluid motion he’d used to draw it. Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget we’re making movies, not fighting wars.
But Clint wasn’t listening to the conversation. He was replaying what he just seen. Trying to understand how a man known primarily as an entertainer had just demonstrated the fastest draw he’d ever witnessed. Dean Martin wasn’t just playing a gunfighter. He was one. As the crew reset for another take, Clint found himself walking across the space between the two sets.
He moved with the deliberate stride of a man who had something important to say, his spurs clicking softly against the wooden walkway. Dean noticed him approaching and grinned. “Well, well, Clint Eastwood heard you were shooting next door. How’s the hanging business?” “Can’t complain,” Clint replied, his voice carrying that familiar rally draw.
“Mind if I ask you something?” “Shoot.” Clint paused at the unconscious choice of words, then continued. Where the hell did you learn to draw like that? Dean’s smile widened. You liked that, did you? I liked it, Dean. I’ve been doing this for a while now, and I’ve never seen anything like what you just did. That was 0.20 seconds from leather to target.
That’s faster than most of the guys who actually lived this life back when it was real. The sincerity in Clint’s voice seemed to surprise Dean. For a moment, the entertainer’s mask slipped away, revealing something more serious underneath. “You really want to know? I really want to know.” Dean glanced around at the crew, who had stopped their preparations to listen.
“Maybe we should take this somewhere quieter.” The two men walked to a corner of the set, away from the cameras and the curious ears of the cast and crew. Dean picked up his apple juice and took a thoughtful sip before answering. I started learning when I was 16, Dean said quietly. Back in Steubenville, Ohio.
My old man thought every man should know how to handle a weapon, whether it was for hunting, protection, or just because it was part of being self-reliant. I found out I had a natural aptitude for it. Natural aptitude is one thing, Clint said. What you just did was something else entirely. Dean nodded slowly. When I got into this business into westerns, I figured I better know what I was doing.
So, I sought out the best teachers I could find. Worked with Arvo Aala, same as you probably did. Spent time with some old-timers who’d actually lived through the real thing. And I practiced every day for 20 years. But why? Clint asked. You’re one of the biggest stars in the world.
You could have just faked it like most actors do. Dean’s expression grew serious because if you’re going to do something, you do it right. Whether it’s singing a song, telling a joke, or drawing a gun, half measures are for half men. There was a weight to those words that Clint understood immediately. In a business built on illusion, Dean Martin had chosen authenticity.
While other actors learned to look the part, Dean had learned to be the part. “You want to see something really impressive?” Dean asked, his smile returning. More impressive than what I just saw? Different. Impressive. Dean positioned himself in his stance again, but this time he made a small adjustment. He moved his glass of apple juice to a small table directly to his right, positioned it so it was exactly at elbow height.
Watch the glass. Before Clint could ask what he was supposed to be watching for, Dean’s hand moved again. The draw was just as fast as before, but this time, as the gun cleared the holster, Dean’s left elbow brushed against the glass. The touch was so gentle, so precisely controlled that the glass moved exactly 1 in to the right without spilling a single drop of liquid.
Clint stared at the glass, then at Dean, then back at the glass. “That’s not possible. 20 years of practice makes a lot of impossible things possible, Dean said, holstering his weapon. The draw is just the beginning. Control is everything. As word spread through the studio that something extraordinary was happening on the western set, a small crowd began to gather.
Other actors, crew members, even some executives found reasons to wander over and watch. But the real moment came when the crowd parted to make way for someone. John Ford, the legendary director, approached the group with his characteristic swagger. At 73, Ford had directed more classic westerns than any man alive.
He’d worked with John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and every cowboy star of the past 30 years. When John Ford wanted to see something, people paid attention. “Heard there was some fancy shooting going on over here?” Ford said in hisgrally voice. “Mind if an old man takes a look?” Dean straightened up slightly. Even at the height of his fame, he wasn’t going to disrespect John Ford.
Mr. Ford, honor to meet you, sir. Ford studied Dean for a moment, taking in the authentical looking gear, the confident stance, the way the gun belt sat on his hips like it belonged there. You’re Martin, right? The singer. Singer, actor, and apparently. Dean gestured to his gun. Occasional fast draw artist. Show me, Ford said simply.
What happened next would become a legend in Hollywood. Dean Martin performing for John Ford and Clint Eastwood drew his weapon with a speed and precision that left both men speechless. But this time he added something extra. As the gun cleared the holster, he spun it once around his finger before locking it into position. All in the same fluid 0.
20 second movement. When the gun was back in its holster, Ford was quiet for a long moment. Then he did something that shocked everyone present. John Ford, the man who had directed The Searchers and the man who shot Liberty Valance, the director who had discovered John Wayne and made him a star, removed his hat and nodded respectfully to Dean Martin. “Son,” Ford said quietly.
“That’s the real thing. I’ve seen a lot of men handle weapons in my time, including some who actually lived by them back when the West was wild. You would have survived.” The compliment hung in the air like smoke from a campfire. Coming from John Ford, it carried the weight of absolute authority. But it was what Clint Eastwood did next that created the moment that would be remembered for decades.
Clint slowly removed the thin cigar from his mouth and dropped it to the ground, crushing it under his boot. Then he took three deliberate steps toward Dean Martin, stopped exactly arms length away, and did something he had never done for another actor. He touched the brim of his hat and nodded.
It wasn’t a bow, and wasn’t overly dramatic. It was simply one professional acknowledging another, one master recognizing another master. In that gesture, Clint Eastwood, who had redefined the movie Gunfighter, who had made the western cool again for a new generation, acknowledged that Dean Martin belonged in the same conversation. “Mr.
Martin Clint said formally, “It’s been an education.” Dean’s response was characteristic. He grinned, picked up his glass of apple juice, and raised it in a mock toast. “Here’s to education, pal, and to knowing the difference between acting like something and being something.” As the crowd began to disperse, Dean and Clint found themselves alone again.
The sun was setting behind the fake storefronts, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that would have made a perfect backdrop for any western. You know, Clint said, I’ve got a question that’s been bothering me. Shoot, Dean replied, then grinned at his own choice of words again. With skills like that, why entertainment? You could have been anything.
law enforcement, military, professional marksman. Why choose singing and acting? Dean considered the question for a moment. Same reason you chose acting over actually being a gunfighter, I suppose. Being good at something doesn’t mean you have to make it your whole life. I can draw fast, but I’d rather make people laugh.
I can hit a target at 50 yards, but I’d rather hit a high note. The skills are there when I need them, but entertainment. Entertainment makes the world a little brighter. Fair enough. Clint nodded. But I have to say, it’s good to know that if the world ever goes to hell, Dean Martin will be ready for it. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Dean replied.
But if it does, I’ll be the guy standing next to you, probably with a drink in one hand and a gun in the other. They shook hands. Then two legends in their own right, connected by something that went beyond movie roles or career achievements. They were connected by the recognition of genuine skill, by the understanding that true mastery demands respect regardless of where it comes from.
As Dean walked back toward his set to finish the day shooting, Clint remained where he was, watching the man who had just redefined everything he thought he knew about Hollywood Cowboys. Dean Martin wasn’t just a singer who happened to make westerns. He wasn’t just an actor playing a role. Dean Martin was the real thing.
The story of that afternoon spread through Hollywood with the speed of wildfire. By the next morning, every actor, director, and producer in town had heard about the day Dean Martin outdrew time itself and earned the respect of Clint Eastwood and John Ford. But for those who were there who witnessed it firsthand, the story was about something more than just speed or skill.
It was about the moment when pretense fell away and authenticity stood revealed. In a business built on make believe, Dean Martin had demonstrated something absolutely real. Years later, when Clint was asked about the greatest gunfighters he’d ever seen,either real or in movies, he would always mention that afternoon. Dean Martin, he would say simply 0.
20 seconds from leather to target and smooth as silk. He didn’t just play a gunfighter, he was one. And Dean, with characteristic modesty, would always deflect the compliment with a joke. Clint being too kind, he’d say with a grin. I just figured if I was going to carry a gun in movies, I better know which end the bullet comes out of.
But those who knew both men understood the truth. On November 22nd, 1967, on a movie set designed to look like the Old West, two modern legends had met and recognized each other for what they truly were. Masters of their craft, professionals who understood that excellence was worth pursuing for its own sake.
The fake gunfight ended when the camera stopped rolling. But the respect between Dean Martin and Clint Eastwood lasted a lifetime.