<div class="floatleft">(http://i247.photobucket.com/albums/gg157/onilobo/john_marston_wanted_signature_by_calebfrey11-d397z1q.jpg)</div><div align="center"><em>The Marshal ends another day at the Saguaro Saloon. (Aprox 6-7pm) </em></div><hr/><br/>The sun had set when Marshal Wrynn was pulling up to the front of the white stoned Saloon. He was dusty and tired, his thighs exhausted from a long chase into bandit country across the only bridge that connected the two countries. His clothing looked like it was in need of a good wash and so did he. The sun tended to do that, luckily the man's scent was not unpleasant like many others, or at least he had been told. Night time in the small town of Oasis was always calm, when the Marshal strolled the streets the people felt safer, a drastic change from when he was a young man. His red horse was hitched outside and he soon walked past the double doors laving the sound of his jiggling spurs behind him.<br/><br/>His duster hung down his body, parted in the middle to reveal his muscled torso, formal looking top and slacks along with the bandolier. On his back hung a rifle and on the holsters on his hips where a pair of magnums he used so much many claimed that the barrels where bent. Wrynn was only coming in for a meal, a drink and a hand of poker. He no longer had a wife back home to greet him so the ladies of the Saguaro had to take that role. He had grown cold and distant since losing her, his role as lawmen of the town was not because of some sense of righteousness he had within him, it was hatred for the bandits and filth that terrorized the town.<br/><br/>A few heads turned their heads and saw the Marshall, many looked away and those he passed made sure to get out of his way. He moved towards a seat, a corner with a booth and a table for one. The man did not give his back to anyone if avoidable, he knew a drink would come his way soon enough and once he sat he was able to relax for a moment at last.<br/><br/><br/>