Published March 2004
The boots sounded loudly and hollowly upon the boardwalk, and when the man stepped into the room the occupants couldn't help but notice. The room quieted instantly. Partly it was the size of the man that caught their notice, partly the low-tied gun, and partly the fact that he was a stranger.
The man was a shade over six feet tall, forty pounds above two hundred, and he hadn't shaved for several days. Behind the stubble of beard and mustache lay a grim face without expression. Several of the loops on the man's gunbelt were empty and there was a tear in his checked shirt, such a tear as might be made when a bullet rips through cloth. The man's hat was pulled low, shading his eyes, and every person in the saloon felt as if he were being scrutinized by the stranger.
He stopped two feet inside the door and looked the place over for a full minute without saying anything. Finally, he took a step forward and started for the bar. Lounging up against the wooden structure, he waited while the barkeep finished polishing the glass in his hands and set it down nervously, the cup tracing ovals as it came to rest unevenly. Hesitantly, the redheaded bartender shuffled toward the end of the counter where the stranger waited. The redhead cleared his throat as he neared the man.
"Whiskey." The stranger asked for the drink in an even tone, and their eyes met for a moment. The redhead felt an icy chill climb down his back when he looked into the limitless black eyes of the stranger, and he quickly looked away, stifling a gulp. The bartender nodded quickly, setting a glass up on the counter and sloshing the whiskey into the glass, spilling several drops over the edge and onto the counter.
When the stranger talked, it caught the attention of everyone present.
"Reed Williams around here?"
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