#cornywestern

The cowpoke thrust open the rickety doors. “This the Two Cent Saloon?” he spat, a gnawed cheroot hanging off the side of his mouth. He wore a dusty black hat, ripped and torn through the years. His boots were thick with dust. His guns were ready.

The bar customers ducked.

“Well, yes it is, it’s right on the sign outside,” the bartender said. “Hows about a drink to wet yer whistle there, pardner?”

The grizzled cowboy shifted his eyes left and right, scanning the customers.