<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">A dark figure clad in thick black leather covered in the dust of travel rode up towards the building which had "The Dead Horse Saloon" planted above it. The black stetson shaded electric blue eyes as the person lifted their gaze to read it. A hand went to pat along a horse's stout and strong neck, earning a huff of breath from the mare's nose. "It don't mean nothin' Wind. Juss a sign is all. It ain't no bad omen unless some black cat crosses us or summin'," the woman consoled the steed just before a shiny, and unmistakably ebony furred feline ran past them with a mutt dog hot on its tail. A scowl painted across the obscured face of the apparent woman, and those honey colored brows drew downwards in much distaste. "Ah dammit. What the hell kinna karma is that?" That sun- browned face turned up at the sky even more and the woman shook a fist while her other clenched onto Wind's reigns tightly. "Juss 'cause Ah say it don't mean you gotta go and make it happen!" This little outburst to the "higher powers" earned quite a few odd stares, some heavy ones too, from the folk that were walking past, or sitting on rocking chairs outside their stores. <br/><br/>Shifting around in her seat, the woman dismounted her horse nimbly, and the flash of her dual revolvers broke those harsh gazes on her. People weren't fools, and especially with that man claiming to be a gunslinger inside the saloon, they recognized Wilson guns. And anyone knew that, if someone were dressed in all black, including their stetson and boots, that person was up to no good. The combination did not bode well in the eyes of the town's folk at all. There was a trouble maker in their midst now and it was time to move along before they got themselves hurt. As her feet hit the dusty street, little jingles were heard as those spurs jostled around on their metallic suspenders around the woman's boot, and even more so as she walked to tie up her companion to a wooden post. "Alright now, Wind. Juss gonna go an' have a little shot of whiskey, or two, maybe three and Ah'll be back so we can move on along 'fore Trouble shows up. Sit tight, ol' gurl," the woman spoke to Wind with a hearty pat between the tall horse's ears. <br/><br/>Strolling up to the bar doors, The Drifter placed both leather bound hands on the swinging doors, and created a long shadow on the floor before stepping over the threshold and into the riotous room. She had heard all the joy making outside, but did not realize the reason behind it all until her eyes had settled onto the stage. "Oh... dear... Lord," was her train of thought as soon as she spotted the notorious and famous Lady Magnificent. Seems instead of trouble finding her, The Drifter had found trouble instead. At least it wasn't <em>him</em>, she could give herself that much. There was a long moment of her just standing there, with hands still on the doors and contemplating. The gunslinger could leave and just travel to the next town which was about a hundred miles from here. It sounded like a mighty fine idea too, but that whiskey. The Drifter could smell it in the air from the breath of the haughty and riled men and it pulled at her belly. She had to have just one, just one little shot or even buy enough to fill her flask and she'd be out of here. That sounded like a finer plan than the first. The Drifter would just keep her face covered and no one would notice her, and hopefully—especially—not Lady Mag. <br/><br/>Crossing the room, The Drifter leaned on the counter and purposely kept her eyes from wandering around while muttering out to the bartender, "Ah need a little pick me up fer my flask and two shots of whiskey an' make 'em quick, ya hear? Ah ain't got time to be sittin' here on my ass. There's too much to see out there to waste it in this hole". While waiting for her service, the woman pulled her duster collar up higher and kept those shoulders high too while that handkerchief was tied over the lower portion of her face. All she had to do was keep her eyes low, and her stetson too and no one would notice her. Thing about that was, it was too obvious that The Drifter was trying not to have attention on her and it gained a few stares from the men and women around her. Perhaps it did not help that she was the only one dressed in all black and that stereotyping carried in from the streets into these people too. The woman, in short, stuck out like a sore thumb as the saying went. <br/><br/>A man had decided to approach her, with the thick smell of old whiskey on his cavity stained teeth, and dirty, torn clothes. His dark eyes trailed over the long, leather clad legs of the woman, scoured over the partially exposed bottom where her chaps lacked coverage, paused at the dimples inset on the small of her back, and then stood close enough to smell her hair. It was strawberries; a most fruity and sweet scent. Delicious. "Mm, you sure're a fine piece o'lady that I coul-" Quickly he found a revolver barrel stuck in the pit of his belly, just above the tent in his trousers where his erection was more than prominent. "Ah really wouldn't bother me if I were you. See, I like a man that can drank whiskey, but see... you juss ain't smart enough fer me. Move along suga'." She tossed him a look over her shoulder with raised eyebrows; deadly and dangerous—the look of an experienced gunslinger. <br/><br/>The man, who was the town drunkard and homeless named Jerry Burns, growled low in the back of his throat and drew his own revolver and set it against her temple while tangling a filth stained hand into her hair. "You really gonna threaten me, lady? You may got a gun, but I sure as hell know that you ain't gonna be able to pull that trigger before I do. Listen here, wench, I used to be the fastest gun draw and trigger sheriff in this town, and you ain't gonna beat me. Get a fuckin' room right now, and I'm gonna teach you a lesson about manners, lil' whor --" The Drifter thumbed back the hammer of her colt, and said lowly, "Now Ah now you ain't bossin' me around, but yer a man an' they tend to do that. Forgivable, Ah'll give ya that. But Ah know, so bad, that you were not juss gonna call me a derty name, mister." Jerry's hammer was thumbed back as well, as soon as hers had been though seconds far later than she. "You bet your ass I was, lady. Now, move." <br/><br/>"Now, Ah really can't do that, as you see. Ah don't really sleep with men on the first date an' all. It's not very lady like. You should juss put yer little toy down and walk away 'fore you get hurt and lose summin' mighty important to you." He wasn't listening to her threats though and with her not complying to him the way that Jerry wanted her to was pushing all the wrong buttons. He wasn't going to stand for this anymore, and that finger squeezed on the trigger of his worn down revolver, and had every intention of following through on the shot to her head. He was going to kill her. But unfortunately for dear ol' drunkard Jerry, The Drifter was a born and trained gunslinger. Each creaking of his bones was heard, the mechanisms in the gun screamed in her ears above the sounds of the bar room was heard as well. Before he could react, the woman had only leaned backward slightly from his barrel before the bullet screamed from the length of his gun, and whizzed past her face not an inch's distance. And then a small pause which hung in the air came next, as if time stopped for just a second. "Ah really didn't want to do this but ... " Another shot was fired, but this time from those famous Wilson's which ripped through the lower abdomen of Jerry Burns, and splattered blood all over the dinged up and dented, unpolished, wooden floor. <br/><br/>A loud, almost girlish screamed ripped from his throat, while he dropped his gun and clung to the gaping hole that was now in his belly. Soon he collapsed to the floor, writhing around in pain, and agony while he bled out. "Ah don't take lightly to anyone that tries to shoot me, mister," The Drifter said while looking back to the bartender for her shots of whiskey which were being held in a waitresses shaking fingers. The gunslinger took these from her, chucked them down with ease one after the other, and abandoned the idea of having her flask filled for the trip. Reaching into her duster pockets, she pulled out a small wad of paper bills and set them on the bar before turning towards the door, and stepping over the body of Jerry Burns. <br/><br/>"Ah thank it's time fer me to move on," The Drifter said to no one in particular and attempted to make for the door before anything else happened or someone decided to stop her in a challenge of authority. Damn those black cats and their bringing of bad luck. </span><br/><br/>