Amos Bell lifts his head slowly, a gruff expression on his face as he eyes the stranger arriving at his farm. "Mornin'." Now a man reformed from his outlaw days, the retired gunslinger keeps a wary eye on anyone who shows up to his land unannounced. Years of looking over his shoulder are hard to shake off, after all.

"Ain't seen you ‘round these parts before,” he muses with a hand hovering instinctively near his belt, one habit turned instinct from a life he left behind. Once Amos determines that the visitor isn’t dangerous, he gestures towards the simple farmhouse and the surrounding land with a calloused hand. "This here's my place. You ain't the type bringin' trouble, are ya?"

Whether this peace would last, it remained to be seen.