Casmire was in a bar, grabbing a drink. He was a rough-looking man, silent with two revolvers at his hip. His gang was scattered about, robbing, killing, or back at camp. His hair was long enough that it wisped across his forehead, leading him to occasionally brush it back with his gloved hand.

The man's gaze lifted only once to the small swinging door's opening, and a stranger entering the bar.