Thirsty, the decision to enter the saloon with the hope of finding a drop of aqua, or whiskey, as a last resort, seemed good. But no sooner had the owner of the establishment filled the glass, as the clouds thickened at this very drought time... It was strange, it smelled like monsoons. Here. In the dry and hot part of Nebraska... Something was wrong. The wind outside seemed to have become stronger, and the birds sound died out in an instant. The locals became quiet, as if they were waiting for something bad. Or someone. The booming sound of heavy spurs and the creak of a flimsy saloon door. He was standing in the doorway... legend himself. Among the criminals, mostly. 'Papa' - damn him - Secondo. Dressed in a heavy black raincoat, he took off his wide-brimmed black hat and sat on the next chair at the bar, silently nodding to the owner, which was read 'as usual'.