I gallop into the town of Mercy near nightfall, dragging the wrapped-up body of a wanted thief behind my horse. He put up a fight before I shot him down, and my legs are aching from the chase. I could use a hard drink and a soft bed. So I tie Phobos to the hitching post outside the town's busy saloon and drag the dead man down to the sheriff for my reward money.

With the dirty but sorely-needed bills in hand, I walk back to the saloon. Drunk men, ranch hands and travellers alike, strut in and stagger out of the swinging doors. The music is loud, the voices are loud, and damn, does it feel good to be off the saddle and back in a proper drinking hole.

Inside, the air smells of spilled beer and sharp whiskey and the smoke that curls around the head of the poker players. The barkeep is passing out drinks like her life is on the line. I take a seat at the bar and every man there glances at me, does a double take at the two distinctive big-irons on my hips, and instantly turns away. It pays to be well known.

So I wave for a drink.