Leathery hands fix the fraying rope against the post. Dan gives the rope a hard tug to ensure its security. The thing’s sturdy.

Satisfied, he grabs his satchel and pushes past the swinging doors and into the saloon. It’s not too busy this time of day — just empty enough one lonesome drink. Dan plops down onto one of the stools.

“Gimme th’hard stuff.” He watches as the bartender pours him a shot, the golden liquid threatening to overflow. “Tha’s enough. Ain’t got that kinda gold.”