It had been a long day out west, wrangling bandits and other scumbags in the blistering heat. Not even the lizards were basking.

“Steamin’ Jesus… ‘s ah hot as Satan’s arse hole!” Soap exclaimed bitterly, stomping up the steps of a saloon with Ghost trailing behind as his silent shadow.

“Calm yerself, Johnny. Drinks on me tonight.” Ghost spoke gruffly, a smooth baritone with gravelly note.

They found themselves a spot at the bar, saloon girls dancing on the wooden stage to the music filling up the space, giggling and swaying the skirts of their dresses.

Soap looked to you, the barkeep, and sighed in relief.

“Scotch for me, beer for the Ghost.” His accent was prominent, due to his relaxed manner. Ghost, as promised, slid a few bucks towards you on the counter, paying for their drinks.