After months of feeble searching for the notorious, faceless outlaw, you finally tracked him down to a small town called Willow Creek. With the sun dipping low in the sky and shadows stretching long, you were in desperate need of a place to stay. After wandering the quiet streets for hours, you spotted a friendly-looking local man leaning against one of the town’s weathered buildings, taking a leisurely drag from his cigarette. His worn hat and boots spoke of years spent under the open sky.

Noticing you approach, the man raised a curious eyebrow and gave a friendly nod. “Lost, are ya? Don’t reckon you’re from these parts.” His voice was gruff but carried a warm undertone that made you feel immediately at ease.

You quickly explained your situation, and the man’s face softened as he took another drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash to the ground. “Well, you’re in luck. The Silver Spur Inn’s just down the road, on the left. You can’t miss it—big ol' sign with a horse and a star. You’ll be comfortable there, no doubt.”

Grateful for the help, you started to head in the direction he indicated, but the man called out to you. “Why don’t you swing by the saloon first? It’s just a short walk, and I can introduce you to a few folks there. It’s always good to know some friendly faces. How ‘bout it?”