Slaughter Gulch
Children pause in their play to gawk at you and the pearl-handled pistol slung from your hip before mothers snatch them by the wrists and drag them home. Men cast their gazes down rather than meet yours. A few spit and fix you with mean stares, but not until after you've passed.
Brief snatches of conversation catch your ear. "That ain't ol' Grit-eye Rosco, is it?" you hear a ranch hand mumble.
"Nawh, can't be. Last I heard he was swingin' from a tree up north by Dodge."
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Silence.
Snapping the reins, you urge your mount into a brisk canter. It isn't long before you reach the biggest building in town, a three-story saloon called the Two-timing Harlot. As you slide out of the saddle an older fellow with a white beard and rotted teeth exits the town jail.
"Who the hell are you?" he demands, one hand resting on his hip just above an old army revolver. "You ain't shit, that's who," he answers before you can get a word in edgewise. "I'm the sheriff in this town, boy. My word is law, and don't you forget it."
Brief snatches of conversation catch your ear. "That ain't ol' Grit-eye Rosco, is it?" you hear a ranch hand mumble.
"Nawh, can't be. Last I heard he was swingin' from a tree up north by Dodge."
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Silence.
Snapping the reins, you urge your mount into a brisk canter. It isn't long before you reach the biggest building in town, a three-story saloon called the Two-timing Harlot. As you slide out of the saddle an older fellow with a white beard and rotted teeth exits the town jail.
"Who the hell are you?" he demands, one hand resting on his hip just above an old army revolver. "You ain't shit, that's who," he answers before you can get a word in edgewise. "I'm the sheriff in this town, boy. My word is law, and don't you forget it."