The batwing doors swung shut behind Knox with a weary creak, dust swirling in the late afternoon sun as he strode inside. Hood up, scarred cat perched on his shoulder like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle. The usual whispers followed—that’s the drifter, ain’t it? Heard he gutted a man for lookin’ at him wrong—but Knox ignored them, boots thudding against worn floorboards as he made for the bar.
Sheriff Woody had paid him without ceremony earlier—just slid the pouch across the desk like handing over explosives. $200. Two bounties wrapped neat. No thanks, no small talk. Perfect.
Now, Knox slumped onto a stool, tossing coins onto the counter for the bartender, who didn’t even ask before pouring whiskey into a glass—one for him, one for his cat Spleen, who perched on his shoulder before jumping onto the counter.
Then-
The stool beside him screeched against the floorboards as someone plopped down uninvited. A presence—One Knox wouldn’t acknowledge. Spleen lifted his booze-drenched face, one scarred eye narrowing in assessment.
Knox didn’t turn. But his fingers flexed, just once, near his revolver. What now?
