Prelude: Don't Drink The Water ((Trace, Katy))
Every time Hargrave stopped in a saloon such as this, his thoughts always drifted to home. Summer always brought blackberries in the valley, which led to the making of blackberry mead. Since coming to these shores, everything he'd drunk had paled in comparison to that bewitching elixir. For now, until his drifting came to an end, beer would have to suffice.
He'd found a corner table that provided him with a clear view of the room. As was his habit, he'd brought his rifle with him, the lone possession he always made certain he had close at hand. He'd left it in its boot, propping it against the wall beside his chair in easy reach. Sipping his beer, he surveyed the room, taking in the gathered patrons, mostly ranch hands and drifters like himself, travelers passing through to El Paso. Despite old man Johnson letting him off guard duty for the night, he couldn't resist listening in to the to the talk in the bar, alert to any bragging that cattle thieves were occasionally prone to when the whiskey took hold of them.
Returning his attention to his beer, he took another sip, his thoughts drifting briefly to Roswell, the next town he meant to travel to when the job here was done. He was already feeling restless, ready to move on. Pushing those feelings aside, he resolved to focus on the present, remaining attentive to his surroundings, while doing his best to appear concerned only with his own affairs.