This isn't a history lesson. It's a story of the wild west. Grab you a whiskey and sit back and listen.
The young man rides the dusty street under the blazing noon sun. A saloon is straight ahead, the weathered wood a ghostly shade of white. The horse stops in front of the watering trough. Sliding off the saddle, the man hitches the reins to the wooden bar. He takes the kerchief from around his mouth, pumps the handle twice to wet it and the grit slides from his face. Aside from a few chickens and a dog barking at the end of the street, the town is dead. Muffled laughter and talking come from inside the saloon. He steps up onto the boardwalk.
The dark stranger pushes through the swinging saloon doors. He moves leisurely to the bar, his long black hair trailing in the breeze. He eyes the dozen or so other patrons before moving next to a blonde. He eyes her carefully. Her rose-colored plaid shirt, slender waist, twinkling light blue eyes. She straddles the stool in her long, tight denim skirt. The skirt unbuttoned to the thigh, her gun belt holding two revolvers. She looks thirty and is built sturdy.
Without taking his eyes from hers, he tips his black hat. "I'm Billy."
"I'm Annie."
"What's your poison?"
"Whiskey, I always like a stiff shot."
"Two whiskeys bartender." Looking at her, he sees the generous cleavage of a well-proportioned woman. "Are you free?"
"Hold on cowboy. You're saying you have something worth offering?"
"I'm not a cowboy ma'am, not into roping and branding, but I am in for a good ride."
