He climbed off his horse, stretched and looked up and down the deserted street. It was always that way; people suddenly disappearing when he came through town. It didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked it that way. He patted his horse, threw the reins over the hitching post and walked slowly to the saloon. Standing in the doorway, the stranger surveyed the room through wary eyes. Spotting a table in the corner of the room, he strode over to it, swung a long leg over the back of the chair, and sat down, his back to the wall. Eyes alert under a wide-brimmed hat, he kept his hand on the holster of his gun. His body was tense, ready to react to the slightest movement. His dark, leathery face wore no expression. A scar ran the length of his cheek, the result of a near miss. He had won that gunfight, just as he had won so many others. He motioned to Jake, the bartender. “Whiskey,” he said. “Bring the bottle.” Jake hurried over, placed a bottle and a glass in front of the man, and went back to the bar.
