The first and only passenger to step off the midnight coach greeted teh sun in the traditional way somebody who wished not to see it just yet. With his right hand he pulled down his his extended brim fidora. The collar of his jack lay unbuttoned and revealed his face. Stark and tanned, the toned by heated work near core machinery.<br/><br/>A light jingle sounded softly as the man stepped off the late night ride. His spurs and the buckles runing along his long coat chimed the air. Unmistakable as the blade on his hip was the eblazon emblem of a winged shark stitched into his fine leather coat. Moving from his hat with a casual drop, the man's hand dropped upon the stock of his unusal pistol...or was it a carbine? As the breezed teased a veif of his pants from underneather that long coat, those awake could see he wore nice trousers  made of denim and boots of equally well crafted leather. The Roman numeral "VI" was emblazoned upon each boot and his gunbelt.<br/><br/>"Hope that job's still good", Orean stated plainly. He wasn't really talking to the coachman or himself. Though he had a calm to his voice, where he got the job or not, he'd flow with the wind. The carriage being late could only prove to be either an oportunity or a venture gained. As he pondered aloud he pulled his duffle from the coach. The big whte canvas bag was slung over his left shoulder as the man began to collect his bearings.<br/><br/>Just after dawn the day the of the job. Orean had worse luck in his time. Still his ashen gaze looked for the Lone Star Office. If nothing else he could play catch up, and at the least he could convince the Drifter that another steady gun was better than one less.