Bounty Hunter

1.0

It was a lazy morning. The sun was just slowly emerging from the valley, touching only a few with its hands of rays.

Inside the saloon, there was a hubbub of noise, laughter, and the sound of shattering glass. In the large room, which was large by these standards, the smell of tobacco and sweat hung thickly in the air, overpowering the natural scent of a decently washed taxpayer. Will, seated at a wooden table, was getting ready for a round of cards. As he sorted through the deck, he listened to the bartender's tales, more suited for a campfire than such a respectable establishment.

Several modest homes scattered about, along with a huge barn, were not dreams realized, but for the inhabitants of this place, they constituted a true paradise. Valentine, as this settlement was named, belonged to those small towns where only a few lived to old age. Here, cattle, sheep, and horses were raised, and ore mined from nearby mines—iron, copper, and silver—was transported.

This guaranteed the influx of these fools who willingly forgot their troubles over cheap whiskey or among the buxom ladies of the local brothel. There were also those hoping for a bit of cash during a game, which always ended in one of the nearby taverns.

For Will, it was just another day. People came and went, sometimes sitting down with him for a game.

An hour later, to his surprise, a creak and a strange figure slipped through the doors. Spurs attached to the backs of leather boots tapped rhythmically. The stranger's movements were slow and stiff, like a corpse. He settled at the bar like a traveler who, after long weeks in the saddle, had finally found something suitable to sit his behind on.

 - A beer and a bottle, - he said gruffly to the bartender. From beneath a broad-brimmed tracker's hat, a face with sharp features emerged, covered in a few days' worth of stubble with short-cropped hair. His eyes peered ominously from behind dark glasses at those nearby, while hands hidden under black gloves tapped rhythmically on the bar. His black leather coat, clearly weathered by time, looked eerie. The dark shirt and vest were stained with sand, suggesting that this traveler had visited this part of New Hanover more than once. From the bartender's perspective, two gleaming revolvers, both gracefully engraved, and a belt full of ammunition were visible. The bartender's heart beat faster—it was a true gunslinger!, he thought, immediately averting prolonged stares as the mysterious guest seemed even more impatient.

- Sorry, but that's all we've got, - he muttered quietly, forcing his trembling hands to steady.  - Can I get you anything else?

 - Peace, - replied the stranger, his gaze scanning the other ruffians at the bar. He downed the vodka in one gulp. Then, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, dampened the ends with saliva, and placed it between his lips.

- Does anyone have matches? - he gestured, patting his empty pockets. - Because I seem to have misplaced mine.

A shorter carpenter pulled out a pack from his coat and tossed a match onto the counter. The stranger caught it mid-air and lit his cigarette in one fluid motion.

- Herders rarely come to Valentine, -  a man closer to the stranger blurted out. - Life moves too fast for them here. Or perhaps you're fast too?

The stranger raised his gaze from the glass and looked questioningly at the man, wondering if he was asking for a fight or just pretending to be tough. He adjusted his coat, further exposing two metal colts hanging on his belt.

- The fastest in your life, - his hand swiftly grasped the colt's handle, his calm voice carrying an obvious threat.

Silence fell over the table. Will's eyes widened in disbelief. He stared, unable to comprehend what he had just heard. The man's voice was deep as a well. The young man realized he was starting to run out of air. He took a deep breath and, knowing what was brewing, dove under the table.