imagery

     The saloon doors creak open as he enters the room, followed by the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. His eyes, just visible under his tattered hat, squint as his vision adjusts to the dimly light, dusty bar. Scanning the room like a wolf in the night looking for his prey, and starts making his way to the bank ancient wood stools. He orders whiskey, and shoots the glass down. The only time this statue talks is when ordering another drink. His 3 day beard is thick with dirt and grime that most working men get. As he opens his mouth to drink more, a fissure of white skin appears on the underside of his chin. After he finishes his third glass, he asks the bartender where the outhouse is; the bartender points him to a corner of the bar where a door leads outside; he stands and slips his coat off, as whirlwind of dust comes loose and settles to the ground like the dust that comes after you swat a moth. Removing his hat revealing his gnarled bramble of hair, and begins walking in the direction he was pointed. Just audible, over the husted mumbles of the other patrons, is the metallic ting of bullets in his pockets. The holsters clinging to hips carry the hands of god. The spurs, that accompany his worn down leather boots, are rusted and worn down. This broad shouldered man reaches the door as a meek banker walks in, almost running into him. The banker looks up and all the color drains from his  face as he sprints from the bar. Five minutes pass before he returns, just as he walks in the sheriff kicks the saloon doors open; before he can even get a word out he is falling back with a single hole between his eyes.