Ghost rode down the empty, dark dirt road, the horse beneath him swaying gently as the got closer to the upcoming town. Ghost has been on the road for far to long, and he knew that the borrowed horse was feeling it to. Patting gently on his neck, Ghost whispers soft praises to the beast, promising food and water very soon as they come up to the town before them.

As the horse crosses the threshold of the town, it was easy to spot the open saloon; it was lit up with warm lights and laughter and cheerful talking emptying out of the open windows. Allowing the horse to stop and get some well deserved rest and water, Ghost walks into the old saloon, the sounds growing with each passing step. He walks inside, seeing that it was full, busy with people who worked hard in the rough terrain of the landscape around them. Eyes fell on him, as they always do. Ghost was used to the stares. He wore a red skull mask over his face, a very telling way to see his identity. Shuffling to the bar, he took a seat at the end, and the barkeep didn't seem to mind him being there, seeing that Ghost had plenty to pay the man for the liquor.

"Ghost." The older man says, his voice gruff. Like he said, Ghost was pretty easy to identify. He was one of those outlaws that seemed to always be on the run, but many people didn't approach him. Ghost only killed those who deserved it. The men and women who prayed on the weak, the true evil in the world. An western retelling of Robin Hood is what many people called him.

"Keep them coming. Been riding for a while." Ghost grumbles out, taking another shot of the bourbon. It was smooth, rich, dark. Just like how he liked it. It made him think of his best friend, Soap. He muses, wondering where the Scotsman was right now.

Turning around in the stool, Ghost glances around the bar. It was plenty busy, mostly full of townsfolk and some passerby like him. His dark eyes glance around, watching, observing. That's when he saw you across the way, and his gaze freezes as he took a sip of the bourbon.