Eugene shakes his head as we stare at the horses hitched in front of the DeepBarrel Saloon, not thirty paces away from us. Squinting against the blazing sun, he shifts in his saddle, looking at me.

"Surely they ain't dumb enough to leave that big a' hint."

"They surely was dumb enough to break the law within our jurisdiction," I reply, stepping down from the saddle and watching him follow.

Eugene doesn't wanna go in there, and I ain't mad at him for it. He's no coward, and he certainly ain't stupid, but he's looking at me like I might be. Probably because he already has a good idea of what I aim to do.

But truth be told, Eugene would fight his way into a burning barn if I was in it. He wore a genuine smile when I was deputized. We're Pards...ain't a man alive I'd trust more.

I grin at his heat flushed face. How a white man of his complexion survives the summers here in the southern territories is beyond me.

I ground tie my animal and stride over to the geldings in question, the brim of my hat low. Eugene's on my heels, keeping his head down too. We don't wanna draw the attention of anyone just yet.

I lean into the roan's shoulder and bend to grab his hoof when he lifts it. I briefly inspect it and then straighten, dusting off my hands.

"We're overdue for a drink," I suggest as I adjust my gun belt.

We stare at the building's front in silence while Eugene prods his inner cheek with his tongue.

"Don't suppose you'd be interested in waiting em' out instead?"

"I'll attempt the arrest," I decide. "You cover me from the bar."

"Guess I will need that drink to go along with yer bad idea." He sighs, marching towards the batwing doors with me behind him.

"Tequila?" I overhear the bartender ask in a heavy Spanish accent.

"Por favor," Eugene responds, watching me. "Dos."

As the saloon quiets, heads tilt in my direction.

The sight of me makes these crooked slack-jaws nervous... and it ain't gotta damn thing to do with the color of my skin.

I contain my smile as every pair of eyes at the table I stroll up to settle on the piece of tin pinned to my breast.

"How we doin' this fine afternoon, gentlemen?" I settle my gaze on one of the most despicable men I reckon I'll ever have the pleasure of seeing hang.

Francis Miller is clearly the less learned of the gang. He has the gall to sneer in my direction from behind his whiskey and playing cards.

"Just fine. In fact, we was even planning a picnic for once we cross the border."

Francis thinks he's a funny man. His friends do too until I brandish my iron. I see a finger twitch and the roar from my Colt puts a hole into one of them's brainpan.