It's a sweltering day in July of 1875, and it's made especially worse by the arid climate of the untamed west. Vast desert lays before those that come, a reminder of what America has yet to lay claim to.

Upon arriving in one of the many pop-up settler towns, Colt ties Uli-Us' lead to a fence post and gives her some water. "Good girl," he murmurs quietly in his southern drawl. He turns to look around in the town. It's nothing out of the ordinary -- a couple of shops, markets, the usual -- but his eyes land on the saloon.

He saunters into the cool shade of the oak building, studying the set-up carefully. Some of the other patrons glare at him a bit. However, if Colt got mad at every dirty glance he got, he'd have been taken out already. He sits at the corner of the bar, calling over a bartender. "Could I get a whiskey, please?"