Easing my horse to a trot as we enter the main throughfare. My eyes casting about, ever vigilant as I reign up in front of the Silver Dollar Saloon. What few townsfolk are about there business on the street at this early hour wisely steer clear, giving me a wide berth, lest they find themselves reduced to notches on my gun belt, as many a brave, or foolish soul has learned the hard way.
Dismounting out front, I tie the reigns to the hitching post, and step onto the rough board sidewalk, stomping the trail dust from my boots. Taking one last glance back at the newly deserted street behind me, and pushing through the swinging double doors.
The bar is is indistinguishable from any other watering hole in these shithole towns that populate the boarder lands. A few soot covered miners, fresh off the graveyard shift, a drunk face down on the back table, somehow managing to avoid being rousted. A couple working girls, looking as worn as the tattered shifts and stockings they're wearing, lingering on one end of the large, angled bar, smoking lazily. Pushing my black Stetson back, I saunter to the nearest stool, and slide on, shifting the large, pearl handled colt at my hip to cradle it between my thighs.
Slipping a coin from between my breasts, I spin it on the counter, and slam it flat. "Whiskey. And leave the bottle." The bartender says nothing, only slides a fresh bottle and shot glass across the bar. It's clear from my expression im in no mood for small talk. I take the bandana from around my neck, wiping the sweat and grime of a hard nights ride from my face, before pouring my first drink of the morning. "I think things will be livening up here, directly. But 'til then, no reason for a gal to go thirsty."
