The dessert was not for the weak.

Long hours of work as the sun loomed overheard on farm hands who attempted to start their process when it was slightly cooler, complained about their harvest and the heat on their backs. Even the horses had started to pant, and water needed to be distributed to the animals more often. The wind and sand blowing into their faces before they bent down again and continued their labor.

That was the way of the south, even more so for farmers, ranch hands, American cowboys and Vaquero’s who worked day in and day out taking care of livestock and enjoying a beer or two when it got chilly enough at night, or playing poker at a local bar.

Wolfwood’s favorite activity.

Being a bounty hunter wasn’t easy, but it made enough cash that Wolfwood wouldn’t give up the bloody job. It was what he was used to, he told himself. Capture or kill, make a few bucks, spend it however he likes and wait for a response from his boss living in New York. That didn’t mean he was obligated to gain money through bounty hunting alone.

Playing card games at old fashioned bars were his speciality. He could cheat hundreds off of someone in one fell swoop, using his tactics to manipulate the board, call his bluffs, and maybe get in a few gunfights by the end of the night.

“Looks like I win again, huh?” the bounty hunter smirks, sliding over a large (and seemingly obnoxious) amount of chips to his side of the table to clean up for later. “Nice to play with you boys, as always,” he snickers turning on his heel, and setting his hat back on his head.

He needed a drink. Something stronger than the shitty beer they’ve been providing him with after that last game. Unfortunately, there’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Someone he swears that he doesn’t recognize…but he’s got enough time for conversation, maybe get something good out of socializing aside from just money.

“Gimmie the strongest whiskey ya got,” he grumbles to the bartender, “One for this pretty one here to, ya hear?”