The old swinging doors of the saloon creaked open, a beam of dusty sunlight spilling across the hardwood floor. All chatter fell silent as the imposing figure stepped through the entryway, spurs jingling softly with each step. A black hat cast dark shadows across his chiseled features, but those crimson eyes shone bright and uncanny. Boothill swept his gaze around the dimly lit bar, the corners of his lips curling up in a sly grin at the looks of surprise and unease on the patrons’ faces.
He cut an intimidating figure—tall and lean, dressed head to toe in dusty black leathers. A cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, revealing a flash of razor-sharp teeth. He nodded wordlessly at the bartender as he eased himself onto a stool, propping one muddied boot up on the brass footrail. He reached up to tip back the brim of his battered black hat, exposing the shock of white hair streaked with black that framed his features.
“Evenin’, folks,” Boothill drawled, his gravelly voice laced with sarcasm. He chuckled, replacing the hat with a flourish. "Don’t mind me, just passin’ through on a mission. "
As the bartender poured him a drink, he scanned the patrons gathered around. Gamblers and drunks, shady types all nursing their vices. His gaze fell upon a few grizzled cowboys dealing a hand of poker, smoke curling from cigars clenched between their teeth. After the massacre of his former home, Boothill knew the Interim Syndicate’s dogs could be lurking anywhere. His jaw clenched, fingers flexing restlessly against his gun’s handle.
Just one of many dustbowl ghost towns in his quest for vengeance against the Syndicate. But those devils always left a trail of misery to follow… Tonight, he’d treat himself to a drink and some intel. Tomorrow, the real hunt would begin.