Imagine a street. An expanse of hard-packed earth, coated in a swirling cloak of dust. Eddying ripples mark the progress of the tumbleweed. Follow it as it rolls, bounces and skips across the thoroughfare. It comes to rest for a moment against a boot, but only for a moment. It gently caresses the curve of the heel as the wind chivvies it back on its lonely journey.
But the boot lingers in place for a while longer.
And then it too is in motion again. Watch it as it moves forward, pauses, moves forward, pauses. This is what the boot was born to do. It walks towards the cluster of houses that make up this settlement as it has so many others. The boot has never been to this place before, but it has seen so many others exactly alike that it might as well have.
The boot and its pair keep going in step, the click of their hard soles on the harder floor counterpointed by a soft jingle from above. A pair of revolvers rock gently on a gunbelt, their intricately patterned handles revealing the sort of wear that can only come from long use, moulding themselves to fit exactly the shape of a single pair of hands.
One of those hands is now moving. The boots have ceased their repetitive marching, and turned to face the saloon. While the boots appraise the saloon, and recognise it from all its twins in all those other places, the left hand raises a match, and lights it with a flick of a thumb.
A head is lowered; the brim of the hat perched securely atop casts a shadow over the match. Flames lick at the end of a cigar, gently coaxing it to life. In the illumination, anyone watching would see a tough and unyielding face.
But of course, no-one is watching. Enough strangers have walked into their town before. Why should this one be anything new?
Indifferent to these doubts, the match is shaken out and discarded on the street. A single strand of smoke coils from its dying head and is then silenced. The left hand returns to its place. Another burst of fiery red light from the cigar before the boots resume their walk. Their call changes to a hollow thunk as they move from hard earth to wooden steps.
The doors of the saloon raise a pathetic cry for oil as they are pushed aside. The boots cross into the sea of silence. A wall of staring faces follow their progress towards the bar where a portly man waits, nervously moving filth around the inside of a glass with a cloth.
"Whisky"
A clatter of coins fall to the stained surface of the bar. The liquor is presented, and the coins removed. The left hand moves again, sweeping up the glass and raising it. The cigar slides around to the side of the mouth, and the first sip is taken. Slowly. Savouringly.
The townsfolk slowly turn back to their own tables, trusting that a man who savours their first sip so much is liable to savour the whole glass before killing anyone.
[NSP: Sorry, you said tumbleweed, and Spaghetti Western just popped into my head, y'know?]
