He'd got ya. Finally, after five weeks of sniffin the ground like a damn hound and following your every move to every town, well, bush, and house, he'd finally found ya. Butch tied his black steed next to the watering trough in front of the bar, letting a smug smile cross his face as he turned to stare at it. This felt real nice, it did. It was time ya started countin yer minutes. He languidly began to ensure his pistol was loaded, pullin up his bandana over his face and lowering his hat. He entered, spurrs clinking on his boots, and began silently roving his eyes over the room. Count yer fuckin minutes.