Slaughter Gulch

With a disgusted grunt you holster your revolver. The sheriff gasps and backpedals away from you, but his foot lands in a rut and he falls on his ass. It doesn't slow him, though. He scrambles on hands and knees to his office, not daring to look back until he's safely locked up within. "I ain't gonna forget this," he hollers out the window, shaking his fist at you.

A Mexican with a shaggy mane of hair and a bottle of tequila intercepts you on your way into the saloon. "Hey gringo," he says with a toothy smile, "you got some big cojones. Might be I got some work for a man like you. If you're interested, meet me behind the blacksmith after sunset. We need to talk."