The barman and proprietor of the establishment, one Percival James Waller, did pretty well for himself in Silver Rock. It wasn’t hard, as he ran the only saloon, and the miners always came out of the ground parched and hungry. He also offered the only temporary lodging for people passing through, and while he didn’t run the dry goods store, a portion of the proceeds therein wound up in his pockets anyway, being the store owner’s brother and all.
But it seemed, as each creak of the floorboards beneath Fitcher and Clarke’s footsteps conveyed, that PJ Waller cared only to spend his earnings on what mattered. What mattered, judging by the loose floor boards, uncomfortable chairs, busted tables, and poorly tuned piano, were not creature comforts or the luxury of interior design.
The man himself, a great slab of a man with an unruly mustache and one eye that never found its mark, was one of only a few in the saloon whose attention remained with Fitcher after the initial glances. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a room, I’m guessin’,” He said, sounding like he was talking around a mouth and throat full of rocks. “‘Less this is some kinda marital dispute, y’ain’t gonna be able t’offload that feller til mornin’ anyways.”
A table of men in the far corner of the room sat hunched over their cards, though their attention was no longer on their game. They spoke to one another in low voices, taking turns looking over their shoulders or past their associates’ heads to take in the sight of bounty hunter and bounty. They were not well-suited to subtlety.
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But it seemed, as each creak of the floorboards beneath Fitcher and Clarke’s footsteps conveyed, that PJ Waller cared only to spend his earnings on what mattered. What mattered, judging by the loose floor boards, uncomfortable chairs, busted tables, and poorly tuned piano, were not creature comforts or the luxury of interior design.
The man himself, a great slab of a man with an unruly mustache and one eye that never found its mark, was one of only a few in the saloon whose attention remained with Fitcher after the initial glances. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a room, I’m guessin’,” He said, sounding like he was talking around a mouth and throat full of rocks. “‘Less this is some kinda marital dispute, y’ain’t gonna be able t’offload that feller til mornin’ anyways.”
A table of men in the far corner of the room sat hunched over their cards, though their attention was no longer on their game. They spoke to one another in low voices, taking turns looking over their shoulders or past their associates’ heads to take in the sight of bounty hunter and bounty. They were not well-suited to subtlety.