FINAL FRONTIER Meet Scotland's weekend gunslingers: Woody, the Dook, Buck, Scary Mary and the cowboy with a phobia of horses

Blueboy, stirring a pot of meat and potato stew; the General, weather-polished like an old brogue, smoothing out the lapels on his tunic; the Duke, hands like hams, practising his John Wayne swagger; and wild-eyed Scary Mary, not exactly a belle from the antebellum South, putting another log on the oil drum fire.

It's a one-horse town on the road to nowhere.

Minus the horse. Welcome to Tranquility, on a lonesome prairie of Aberdeenshire, population one - except when there's visitors.

Beneath a vast open sky Alistair Baranowski, aka Johnny B, the town marshall, makes some introductions then disappears into the saloon.

"Just holler if you need anything, " he says, in a spirited east coast accent. In a far pasture is a bunch of cattle and I gently ask if we might rustle the critters. "No, " he laughs. "No way."

It seems a man's reputation for honesty in Tranquility is his only credit card with his neighbours. The Duke sidles over. "The Dook, " shouts Blueboy reverentially, who's beside him. "This is the Dook." The smaller man squints and spits a little as he speaks.

Blueboy looks like he's been thrown down a cowboy mineshaft, his scream fading to an echo as he fell.

The Duke, nicknamed after the movie star John Wayne, is Ian Williams. He's also a brigadier general in Terry's Texas Rangers, a small re-enactment group from Paisley.

Mention Wayne and you almost have to hogtie Williams. "Ah, the Duke, " he says, wearing a distressingly tight cowboy shirt. He's as big as a rolled mattress. "He's ma hero." He puts his hand on his heart. "Moved to a new house, " says Williams, who's in his fifties, "and the wife knew Scary Mary. Scary got her into line dancing. At that time I was an international body-building judge, dragged my wife to all these shows and didn't do anything in return. So I went to a line-dancing show in Paisley. Didnae look back."

The thing that grabs your attention about Williams and holds it in its grasp like a sticky toffee apple is his rather rubbish resemblance to Wayne. Let's face it, Duke, you look like a wagon-train cook from a spaghetti western.

"Ach, come on, " he smiles. "I'm the double o' the Duke. I've got the mannerisms, the looks and stuff. The big shoulders. I feel like the Duke. I've got a brilliant John Wayne outfit.

Wish you could see it. Cracker, by the way."

He wanders off with the bow-legged gait of a Shetland pony.

The group has been together for four years portraying the law enforcement aspects of post-Civil War Texas Rangers in the form of historical re-enactments. When Texas went to war, one of the first groups to answer the call was the Rangers, led by a wealthy sugar planter, Benjamin Franklin Terry. The regiment mustered in 1861 with just over 1000 men while the war department designated the regiment as the 8th Texas Cavalry. "We distinguished ourselves throughout the war, " says Spence Canniffe, known as Woody, a Rangers ordnance sergeant. "We fought on horseback and on foot, hundreds of miles behind enemy lines to raid supply lines. The equivalent of today's SAS."

The 55-year-old joiner is a tall, laconic figure with rumpled white hair and red eyes that look like they've been boiled. He's in full military Ranger regalia - jumble-sale trousers and shirt, with newly stitched-on collars. "It gets to you and you actually start feeling, 'I am one of them.' It's not a case of you act like one, but you are one. Goes back to Saturday mornings, the Lone Ranger and that. You came out of the movies and had a gunfight along the road."

When Canniffe started doing the re-enactments he wanted to go the whole hog. The rough cowboy bit, the bloke that's been on the trail for a month and hasn't had a shave and a bath.

"Stinks to high heaven, " he says. "It must be about a year since I last had a hair cut." He wanders away to Baranowski's house where cars stand scattered in the driveway like beasts on a winter prairie.

Scary Mary shouts us over for dinner, her voice breaking like a beetle being tramped underfoot. Everyone fills a plate the size of a dustbin lid with a hearty stew, echoing Homer Simpson's dictum, "you don't win friends with salad". Scary Mary sits on the porch, like a lonely bag lady on a station bench. Her real name is Mary Bruce, the wife of Blueboy. She doesn't say much unless provoked by the others. That's how she gets her name. Say something to her and she threatens to put you in Boothill Cemetery in the corner. I shuffle alongside Baranowski, amid a swirl of blue jeans and napkins. In most cowboy towns it was lawlessness that ruled. Here, tidiness is the rule.

In 2004 Baranowski travelled to a Wild West re-enactment in Kent and knew he had to do the same in his home town near Huntly, Aberdeenshire. The 53-year-old founder member of Open Range, a national association of Wild West enthusiasts and a member of the Arizona Rangers, had bought a house in the country with two acres of land which, while not in Apache territory, did face hostility. He told council planners he wanted seven buildings but only managed to get away with the saloon bar, which was completed in April.

His plans came under enemy fire when neighbours complained the cowboy gatherings would be noisy with "shouting, gunfire and drinking". And the shots would scare the birds and other wildlife. After a bit of a skirmish, planners confirmed he could add a sheriff's office, jail and undertaker's, provided he gets permission from a local landowner to gain access to his land (with a few other minor conditions attached).

Like the rest of the cowboys in Tranquility, Baranowski has loved the Wild West ever since he was a young boy, watching Wayne and Clint Eastwood in the cinema. For 22 years the bachelor worked as a history and geography teacher before running a post office, but he has always been a member of local re-enactment groups in Scotland until, one by one, they closed down and he was forced to travel to England to indulge his passion. "When I got my first job, " he says, "I went travelling to America and saw all these places and the interest stayed."

Building Tranquility was slow work but, with volunteer help, it took shape. It is simply the culmination of a childhood dream. "We get angry when people think we're just gun nuts.

It's not like that. They pass laws to make it harder for us to enjoy this. The gun crowd are very safety conscious and we are not criminals.

We have licences and that for whatever we use." His voice softens. "When I was a teacher I couldn't wait for the day to be over. But with this . . ." He trails off.

Dinner over, it's time for little quickdraw before the flag, perched at the end of the property, is lowered. Stephen Ramsay, whose cowboy name is Buck, stands alongside David, his 15-year-old soft-spoken son, known as Ringo, and their friend Stuart Milne, alias Cougar. Ringo's wearing a jacket that looks like it's been sewn together from dead raccoons. "I was brought up with guns, " says 42-year-old Ramsay, from nearby Port Knockie. "A gun's a tool, like a saw or a hammer. In the hands of a maniac it's bad but in the hands of someone normal it's just a tool." Milne, from Portsoy, wearing a buckle the size of a soup plate that says he'll only give up his gun when they prise it "from my cold dead fingers", nods. "A lot of folk used to look at you, " he says, "after Dunblane [the school shooting in which 16 children and their teacher were murdered in 1996] as if you were weird.

I was in the army as well and I've always been into guns. Once I left the army I joined a fullbore gun club. I met Buck when we worked in a factory together and he used to take me shooting up his dad's farm and then I got him into the gun club. Made it easier for him to get certain rifles if he was a member." Ramsay smiles. "Before I joined the club I was allowed two shotguns and a .22 rifle, " he says. "After I joined I had a bloody armoury."

Nowadays they can own "pretty much anything" except handguns or fully automatic weapons. Today, they've got black powder loading pistols. "When they banned the handguns, " says Milne, "they banned you from having guns that could actually fire bullets." He shows me the barrel - it's blocked.

"It will never fire a bullet."

Ramsay suggests a quickdraw and, surprisingly, I beat him two to one. Next, I line up against Simon, the photographer, who's declared himself "the handsome Ranger" but the group decide on a more suitable moniker - Wee Bill Hiccup. We stand a few feet apart.

I'm wearing a black shirt with embroidered eagles and get accused of being a line-dancer.

Simon's in a white lace effort and something resembling an ornate ladies' hat. Line-dancing is like a swear word round these parts; a thinly veiled sign of passive homosexuality. There's a few jokes about Brokeback Mountain, the Oscar-winning film about gay cowboys. "More like Broken-arse Mountain, " shouts someone.

"I bloody well paid to see it, " shouts Lewis Shewan, aka Dakota, a 53-year-old former bouncer from Banff.

A few more jokes and then I quickdraw Simon five-to-one. The dyin' photographer drifts off. Some say it was one of the best shoot-outs the town has seen. Four slugs from a .44, no less, no more. Or something like that. I blow smoke from the business end of my four-and-three-quarter-inch Colt Peacemaker. The shorter the barrel, the quicker the draw, they tell me.

"Long barrels are hard for fast draw, " says Canniffe, "because they're harder to get out the holster." Baranowski nods. "But fast draw, well, it's not like the movies. You could barely shoot accurately over 25 yards at all."

Aglowing peach moon and an evening chill settle over Tranquility.

The camp fires are burning, the tea is stewing in the old kettle and someone is murdering a twangy old cowboy song. It's time for the lowering of the third national flag. The Duke calls to the rest of the Rangers: Woody, the General - Raymond Graham, who "works for a transportation company" (he's a bus driver) - Scary Mary and Blueboy walk reverentially towards the flag, past the tomahawk stand and archery board. "Companee, ten-shun, " shouts Williams in an iffy transatlantic accent. "Trooper, lower the colours." Everyone salutes. The General raises his 60-quid sabre. "Companee dismissed." Dakota is the gun marshal for the night. He checks everyone's gun to see if they are empty of their shells.

I head into the saloon to listen to some very tall tales. But, even when you suspect a Westerner of a bald-faced lie, it's dangerous to express that opinion out loud. Graham wanders over. He's got a bruised look as though he's been dragged through hard times.

He's changed out of his formal wear into his Western clobber, now going by the name of Mississippi. It gets even more confusing. In the Texas Rangers, Mississippi is, technically, a trooper, but he's actually a major-general in the Confederate States Army (CSA). The constitution of the Texas Rangers states that anybody joining them must do so as a trooper.

Graham's full title is Major-General, Confederate States Army Commander, REAL LIVES Scottish Command, United Kingdom. He's got "about 20 men" under his command. "But we're expanding all the time." What he's trying to do is bring as many Western groups as possible under the command of the CSA, which was formed in February 1861 to defend the Confederate States of America, itself formed that same year when seven southern states seceded from the US. "The CSA is very firmly political, " chimes Graham. "We have the intention of returning a Confederate States government in America." How does he propose that? "Em, by education. I can't actually take an active role in the reinstatement of it. What I can do is bring in support for the president of the Confederate States."

Graham, who's 56 and from Penilee in Glasgow, was bitten by the Western bug when he went with his brother-in-law to the Grand Ole Opry in his native city. He met a few guys "in the Confederate thing" and thought there should be more being done about it. It's only been in the last eight months that the CSA has started a military wing. "We now have the CSA honour guard of which I am a majorgeneral, " he says, his chest puffing out slowly.

Williams has been listening intently. He's been eight years under his American commander in Texas. "It's took me years to build up to this rank, " he says proudly. "Yeah. I'm sitting here as brigadier-general right now and could probably take the whole shebang. Full general.

That's the potential for every recruit, oh yeah, the potential's there." There's a thought.

The Texas Rangers meet twice a month in St Ninian's Church Hall in Paisley, one of the lesser-known last redoubts of the US Civil War. Isn't the cowboy obsession a bit weird?

Williams laughs. "It's the closest thing you get to joining the army, " he says. "Seriously." He shows me what he's wearing: charity shop and jumble-sale cast-offs. "This is our ceremonial gear. The red shirt is for fancy stuff.

The impact is, boof!" Hands are thrown in the air. "Mind you, I get pelters at work."

Canniffe, who's leaning against the saloon door like a tired animal, nods sagely. "You get to the stage where you feel more comfortable with your Western gear than ordinary gear. I walk the dog with that on [his kepi], go to Tesco. Sometimes in my full gear. I don't care.

As close to the real thing as you'll get . . . We're Westerners. I really believe I am." Out of the corner of his veined eyes, Graham looks at me.

"I'd love to be a saddle tramp, but I've got a thing about horses. I'm scared of them.

Been riding since I was four. But I've got hippophobia." Hippophobia is an abnormal and persistent fear of horses. "It's irrational.

But I still go on horses. Confront your fear, ye know." Is driving a bus the nearest thing to a horse? "Do I have to talk about that? Don't start that." Everyone laughs. Someone shouts "busophobia" and Graham grimaces.

Rifles and pistols are sprawled like dead fish on the table. The mournful odour of cigarette ends fills the room. It's late Saturday night and Dakota, the bartender, is sliding drinks to a giggling entourage with an infectious thirst for three fingers of redeye (the saloon has no licence, so drinkers bring their own). The soundtrack to the 1980 film Long Riders, by Ry Cooder, is playing in the background. "We shoot line dancers, don't we, " shouts one of the assembled cowboys.

A stranger sits down beside me. He's William Robert Beaton, a trucker from Macduff, also known as Billy Bob, a 56-yearold Clint Eastwood shuffle-a-like. "As a youngster I loved the Western movies, " he says, from under a black hat. I nod, sipping whisky from a plastic cup. "As a teenager too.

I joined the Gunfighters club in Aberdeen.

Dinnae ken if ye ken Charles Bronson?

Brilliant." Then Billy Bob catches me off-guard by trying to describe his past life through his favourite films - about 10 of them while his words float on fumes of whisky. I kind of lose him a wee bit. The firelight outside is fading to embers. More music. "I'm back in the saddle again." More Brokeback Mountain jokes. The music switches tempo. "Don't fence me in . . ."

The ambulance arrives in the early hours while we're sleeping in our tents. Dakota, who was staying in Johnny's house, fell down the stairs on a toilet visit, cracking open his skull.

He returns to Tranquility in the morning with a massive bandage on his head, looking like a character in search of a comedy sketch. "Not to worry, " he chirps. "Where's the bacon?"

Scary Mary, who has so far managed to avoid anything resembling a conversation, is sizzling up a feast. Everyone's getting ready for the "skirmish in the woods". The plan is to split into groups of two; hunters and hunted. Me, Cougar, Ringo, Buck, Johnny B and Dakota against the Texas Rangers and Simon. We've not really got a plan. The Rangers, I've been told, "cheat their asses off, ken".

It's pouring down. I've been given some kind of yellowish preacher's overcoat and that, coupled with my white ten-gallon hat, makes me about as inconspicuous as a bacon roll at a bar mitzvah. Switch to Plan B, the oldest trick in the cowboy handbook. I put the hat on a stick, spread the overcoat on the long grass and double back down a steep embankment. Ten minutes later Woody, the General and Scary Mary sail past me like pirate ships, pointing excitedly at my ruse. I hear some shots. They've just pumped some lead into a motionless old coat. Texas Rangers?

Paisley Numpties . . .

Ambushed, shot and maimed. I've left Scary Mary face-down in cowboy no man's land.

The only thing I'd find in Tranquility, she promised earlier, was a tombstone. Eat dirt, Scary. Now I'm after Simon, the photographer.

I take a leaf out of the unofficial Rangers' cheatin' handbook when I spot him. I dial his number on my mobile. It rings out and, when he goes to answer it, I shoot. He goes to his maker, protesting like the lily-livered Ranger turncoat he is. Half an hour later and I've been shot twice by the Duke, hiding behind a thicket. By the end Ringo is the only cowboy left standing. Almost a dozen gunslingers have died on Tranquility's harsh landscape.

The woods are filled with solitude now and the husks of dead bodies. On the way back to the saloon I ask Williams about the neighbours who have complained about Tranquility.

"Maybe they were never weans, " he says, easily. "This is our second childhood. Rightly or wrongly, everyone has their own thing. Lots of people would love to do what we do but they're afraid. Lots of us are cowboys underneath." Even from my city slicker perspective, he has a point.

Now the skirmish is over and it's time to head off into the sunset. We get our tent together, saddle up and head south on a long Honda drive home. "Watch the roads, " says one wily old cowpoke. "It's pishin'." In Aberdeenshire, it might be more like the Mild West, but not for this lot. To them, Tranquility is sacred.