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Slaughter Gulch

The Mexican takes a swig from his bottle and nods. "That's what I like to hear. Name's Manuel. Remember: behind the blacksmith after dark." He turns and starts down the street.

Finally! Time to get a shot of whiskey and maybe a cheap woman for the night. You push through the swinging doors and immediately your nostrils are assaulted with the acrid stench of stale cigar and cheap liquor. It brings back memories. Claiming a seat at the bar, you order up a bottle of Wild Turkey and study your fellow patrons from the corner of an eye.

Three stools down from you stoops a squinty-eyed man with muttonchops and a battered hat pulled over his salt and pepper locks. He nurses a glass of whiskey, pausing only to toss menacing glances at a dark-haired man leaning beside a broken piano. Mexican? No, not quite. Indian? Mixed perhaps.

He's dressed like anyone else in this backwater hicktown: dusty breeches, big boots, an unbuttoned vest, and a wide-brimmed hat canted low over his eyes. Only things that set him apart are the tone of his skin, the straight black hair which brushes his shoulders, and the bone necklace around his throat.

You hear the doors swing open again and several men filter in. Ranchers you guess by the cut of their clothes and their weathered faces. Muttonchops motions them over and they converse in hushed tones. Every so often one of them casts a glance at the native.

Your bottle arrives along with a smudged glass which you fill to the brim.