The atmosphere is thick with laughter and tension. There's trouble here, as prairie men buy female company and hard liquor. Head down, he makes his way to the bar.
“Whiskey,” he commands, dropping coins on the counter. The shot rips over his throat, all sand and acid, stoking fire in his gut.
Behind him, silence falls as chairs are knocked over and tables scraped. He turns to see two angry men squaring off, whether over a woman or a card is unclear.
Making sure he's out of the firing line, he pushes back his hat to enjoy the show.
They face each other, eyes locked, while all around patrons and employees scramble for cover. Time slows, nothing moves, tension stretches impossibly thin.
Beyond the saloon, a cacophony smashes the moment. Bells ring, shouts are heard. “They're coming! They're coming! Goblins raiders! Man the defences, now!”
The adversaries break as he heads to the street. In the near distance, dust billows as the raiders draw closer. He casts about for vantage point, spying the barber's window. Keeping low, he scuttles across the street to the shop doorway. Drawing his pistol, he twists the doorknob to slide his way in.
