The rain has dwindled to a fine mist as Kate departs the Ellis Store, walking down the puddle strewn Main Street of Lincoln. The air is cool, laden with the scent of pine and moisture. As Kate’s worn boots pace the muddy road, she notices that the valley has been concealed by a light gray curtain of fog, the nearby mountains completely lost to sight.

A pair of men, one of them smoking a cigar, loiter in front of a building that is clearly a saloon, a painted sign identifying the establishment as “Wilson’s”. The two men watch Kate as she passes, their narrowed eyes communicating mute suspicion.  Further along, a man and woman emerge from a long structure that Kate quickly surmises to be the Tunstall Store, their arms laden with goods. Across the road, a woman with long red hair, a new saddle held over one shoulder, stands in front of a small shop, talking with the apron wearing shopkeeper. From the north, the wind carries a distant rumble of thunder.

Soon, the two story facade of the courthouse returns to view, the warm glow of lantern light dimly visible in a few of the first floor windows. Across the street is a well kept clapboard building, trimmed in bright read. A sign over the bat wing doors reads simply, “Thornton-Curry”.

On the porch, beneath the cover of an overhand, a dark skinned woman in a dress exchanges words with a tall man with a thick mustache, wearing dust crusted range clothing.

”You’ll regret turning me away, Miss Thornton,” the man says, his brow creased in a frown, ”When this valley belongs to The House, you’re going to need our business to get by.”

The woman, seemingly unfazed by the man’s threatening tone, replies, ”If that day comes, I imagine I’ll have found somewhere else to settle. Until then, I have all the business I need. You have yourself a good afternoon, Señor Segovia.”

The man scowls and stalks away without another word, walking east. The woman steps inside the saloon.

A wide mirror, framed in dark stained oak, adorns the wall behind the polished bar. Shelves holding glassware and bottles stand in front of the mirror. A number of round tables and wooden chairs fill the room and, to the left of the bar, an open door leads deeper into the saloon. The neat decor and papered walls lend the interior a genteel air, reminiscent of the finer homes of the Deep South.

A young, sandy haired man with a ghost of a beard sits at a table just right of the door, his attention fixed on the window beside him, and the street beyond. At a table to the left, Patrick Garrett nurses a glass of beer, nodding at Kate as she enters. At the right end of the bar, a short haired blonde woman in muddy work clothes, turns a full glass of whiskey with her fingers.

The woman in the dress steps behind the bar, her attention going to Kate as she walks in. ”Afternoon. Can I help you?”

Kate can't but help to smile and doff her hat as she passes Wilson's, giving them the glare that can see a thousand yards.  But they don't get any more of her attention than that.

The place smells wrong.

Kate walked smoking the small remains of the cigarillo and noting what she was seeing.  The saddle was of some interest; though Kate was no equestrian virtuoso she could appreciate it.

She watched the scene between the proprietress(?) bicker with the tall mustachioed man without comment.  Entering, she was mildly surprised to see the same woman behind the counter.  Kate had counted her functioning here in another capacity, but was pleasantly surprised to be wrong.

Kate tapped the bar, knocking on the wood twice in the German tradition.  "Whiskey."

While she waited for the pour, Kate went on.  "So that was a real dear man you said goodbye to out there.  Señor Segovia comes off like he has the charm of a muskrat that drowned in a rain barrel last season."

She took the last puff of the smoke and snuffed the butt.  She looked back up at the server with knowing eyes.

"And, I couldn't help but notice you didn't threaten him with the law.  That probably means you can't.  Interesting it would be so, don't ya reckon?"

The proprietress uncorks a bottle, pouring amber liquid into a clean glass. She pushes it across to Kate, her eyes narrowing as she considers the newcomer. ”Very perceptive. I’m afraid that our good Sheriff Brady would be disinclined to lock up some of our citizens, Señor Segovia among them.”

She shrugs. ”Even so, there are other ways of ridding your place of livelihood of unwanted rodents. The law might not always love me, but I’m not without friends.” Her eyes shift briefly to the young man at the door before returning to Kate.

Extending her hand, she says, ”Desiree Thornton. What brings you to Lincoln?”

Kate decided she liked her when she heard the comment about rodents.  She reached across and took a sip from the glass.

"You know, I keep asking that myself."  Kate pondered.  What was she doing here?  Why did she care so much?  Why did it matter?  Her father had never been in her life, why was she so determined to find him?

But she wasn't ready to say that was her purpose yet.  She'd look like a sad little girl lost in the world.  And maybe she was, but for now she kept her stoic behavior up.

"But for now, let's just say I've heard there's a... situation in Lincoln.  You could say... I'm a friend for hire, for dealing with difficult situations."

Kate lifted the rifle scabbard up and onto the bar for emphasis.

"It's a damn shame really when these things happen."

The woman at the far end of the bar abruptly speaks up, her tone bitter. She regards Kate with eyes that are swollen from crying. ”You mean another damned shootist. If you were any kind of friend to this town, you’d be out there trying to find...”