Talk to nicely.

The medicine man was coming today, but right now, Waldrip had other business.

He sat at the bar in the last saloon and gulped warm whiskey down his throat before yesterday's drink could become today's hangover.

A piano man played a slow tune across the keys of the old stand-up in the corner.

While the staccato snap of worn cards against the faro tables stitched sharp texture into

the music, he signaled the bar keep for another drink, while the heat from the last still clung

to his throat, and he lowered his hand to the colt on his thigh.

He ran his thumb along the pearl inlaid grip.

He wasn't looking for a tussle, but this was brimstone, and brimstone wasn't a town where

pistols stayed cold for long. The medicine man had a bounty job for Waldrip, and once he collected

it, he'd be a thousand dollars richer, But first, he had business with the undertaker.

He pulled a pouch from his belt, turned a few coins onto the table, and took his leave,

tipping his hat to the barman as he stood. He flicked the saloon doors open and stepped onto the

main street of Brimstone. The piano man's tune melted into the heat of the day as it dripped out of the doors

behind him. The air smelled like horse shit and dust. He slung, a ragged cigar into his mouth,

and flipped a match to life with a thumbnail. The heavy tobacco drove the shit smell away,

and Wildrip stepped off toward the undertaker's place.

Brimstone looked like any other frontier town, places where the sheriff was an outlaw,

and the butcher doubled as the local sawbones. But something here always made Waldrip's hair prickle and his skin crawl. Something about the air was heavy, as if the eyes that peaked

from behind curtains added weight to the place.

He spit, and a puff of dust sprung up where the stream hit the ground.

This fucking place.

...