The bar was rowdy, crowds of men clinking their glasses, shouting 'hoo-rah's over winning blackjack games. The saloons music was thriving, vibrating off the walls and every glass in the bar.

Sitting directly in the middle of the bar on a rickety stool, was the Sheriff. König, as most called him. He was hunched over a half drank glass of Whiskey, hat tipped low to shield his eyes. “Come here, prächtig,” He spoke, loud enough to grab your attention. He gestured you over, patting his thigh.