It was a pretty quiet afternoon in the town. People were going about their business, the saloon was bustling with cattle drivers, frontiersmen and even gold diggers coming from the northern areas down to look for their fortune.
Vince Avery sat in the saloon, hiding from the cold while resting up after a job he pulled off a few days back. He needed to let the area cool off a bit before he could move on.
He sipped at a shot of whiskey as he sat at the bar counter. His right hand rested on one of his twin Schofields while his hat sat on the counter in front of him. He simply minded his own business, watching through the mirror the comings and goings while also listening to the different stories. One group was talking about a stagecoach that was held up by a "group of Johnny Rebs"...he couldn't help but laugh internally about that one. The rest were complaining about indian raids, cattle, the cold, all kinds of nonsense like that.
He finished the glass then topped it off with the bottle next to his hat.