Back then, things weren’t too strange between us strangers. We were grifters. Traveling one town to another in search for work. Gold mines, farmhands. Hell, even the role of barhand. But what we were really looking for wasn’t work. It was trouble. Any time those saloon doors swung open was like the tumbling of a slot machine you’d find on one of them fancy river boats out east. Always hoping it was gonna be a jackpot, hoping it was someone with fat pockets walking in. Maybe rich from oil. “Black gold” is what they’d call it.

Those doors swung open, the slots start turning, and sure enough he came walking in. The son of man who’s father struck oil. Walking on in reeking of whiskey and cigars, belligerent– but armed. Shooting him dead and taking his money would be easier than shooting fish in a barrel. But he knew that, too. Slamming a fist full of coins on the bar top demanding an entire bottle of whiskey, ah, but he must have noticed the look in my eye. The next words he uttered were plain and simple as he fixed his hand upon his six-shooter, “go ahead… Take your shot, stranger. You’ll only get one.”