You stood in the corner of the rowdy bar, the brim of your hat shielding all other vision than your view of the infamous Billy Kid. He was playing poker, deadly focused on his hand. He had this sort of aura about him, this sort of bubble that made it known to anyone in it he meant business. You might’ve thought it was even alluring if your mission wasn’t to interrogate him.

He was thought to have been associated with a nearby robbery, and when you reviewed all the evidence and witness accounts , it all added up. Now he seemed to be on the run, getting drunk in some sketchy saloon and eyeing you from across the room; he must’ve noticed your glare.

What he didn’t know, however, was that you meant business too. The room seemed to part as you walked through the crowd. They were smart enough to know who you were: a damn good sheriff and a fine detective, someone not to be messed with.

Your suspect must’ve noticed the growing nervous silence in the room, and when you neared his table he looked up at you. His eyes were brown, innocent, even as he sized you up, and his scruffy hair of the same color poked up from under his hat.

“Would you like to play, Miss?”

You just shook your head, sliding the images of the jewelry and such stolen across to him on the old wood table. Your tone was the opposite of his, cold and piercing through his attempt at politeness.

“I’m not here for that.”