Carson Keillor stood behind the bar of the Half Moon Saloon, staring out over his empire. It was a sprawling establishment with a stage for the dancing girls, rooms upstairs for the whores and even gambling tables, like craps. It was the pride of Black Hill City. He was a tall fellow, with just a hint of a middle age paunch. He was also still handsome, with a lantern jaw and sparkling blue eyes. His blonde hair had a hint of gray at the temples and a five o'clock shadow was just starting to show on his face. He was wearing an expensive green vest with a white button down shirt.<br/><br/>Across the floor prospectors and cowboys enjoyed his wares, from his booze, to his games, to his whores. He had a hand in every trick turned, every die rolled and every drink topped off. It had made him a wealthy man. He was also a ruthless man, who protected himself and what was his. No one beat his whores, or cheated at his games. If they did, then often did not live to regret their actions. The mayor and the sheriff were in his back pocket and so he had little to fear from them.<br/><br/>The saloon had an all wood floor and all of the round tables and chairs were wood. The stage had a red curtain and the doors upstairs were all painted red as well. Around the room were tasteful paintings from around the world, of nudes in repose. Behind the long, low bar, were rows of bottles of every description.<br/><br/>The evening was starting off slowly, but things would pick up. They always did. He nodded at his bartender Ralph. Ralph was a thin lad of twenty one years, with a thatch of brown hair, thick eyebrows and gleaming white teeth. He was dressed in a white shirt and a red vest, with a matching bow tie. He had been working at the saloon since he was thirteen and had worked his way up.