setting the bottle down on the rough board sidewalk, I watch the approach of this newcomer as she makes her way toward me. For all her perceived caution, I could blow several holes in that tin star on her chest before she takes another step. But whether it's the booze, or the sounds of the fight inside the saloon, I'm feeling a bit more like a good old fashioned scrape, then adding a notch to my pistol. Besides, there will be time for that soon enough.
My eyes pass over her, sizing her up as she steps closer, and issues her ridiculous command. Wearing a look of mild amusement, I swing my feet down off the railing, and plant them flat on the ground. Addressing her patiently, as if speaking to a slow child. "You seem to know who I am, but I don't recall having met you before. Don't take it personal, this line of work affords the opportunity to meet all sorts of folks, albeit, only once. Not that it's of any consequence. I may not know WHO you are, but I know WHAT you are. Because, if you were anything other than a goddamned fool, you'd know that I'm not fixing to anything, except grind your empty skull into the dust of main street." Rising to my feet, I boost myself lightly over the rail, to face this fool on equal footing. "Putting a tin star on a worn out, dance hall whore, don't make a marshal. No more than painting stripes on a house cat makes a tiger. You've picked a hell of a hill to die on, bitch. And I promise, I don't plan to ease your passing!"
