A handsome lech of a man with a thin build, this man’s snowy white teeth and beard stubble are the highlights of his well formed features.  He might have been a pretty boy before the war, but those cold blue eyes pierce you when they peer out from behind those dark Raybans, and you know they have seen death inflicted by this man’s hand.  He wears a pair of jeans that’s well faded now, and a gunfighter’s belt over his hips.  Hanging off of it are two custom holsters for a matching pair of pistols with loops on the belt to hold the few loose rounds he has, all fashioned from naturally finished bullhide.  His t shirt probably once had some witty saying or logo silk screened onto it, but it’s long since faded, and his old leather jacket is too thin and full of holes to provide any protection any more.  Protruding over his shoulder is the long neck of a guitar case.  When he speaks his voice is raspy and ominous, a sharp contrast to his big inviting smile, and you notice has an unfortunate habit of casting a long eye at select members of the opposite gender.

Jack's constantly in motion.  If there's no hombre to shoot up, no lawmen to run from, and no girls to chase, he seems to become very uncomfortable with himself and is usually quick to resort to his next diversion.  Jack might run his mouth a lot, but he's not much for monologues, testimonials or speeches, but he lets on more about himself than he probably means to with his constant companion.  And no, it's not his gun.  Guns come and go as he finds what he needs for the next hombre who needs to be shot.

The trained eye recognizes his instrument as a Gibson Dove, a rare pawn shop find from before the last war, and he has a habit of strumming on it and sometimes half singing something during idle moments.  In particular he seems to go back to one song particularly often, playing it skillfully in a melancholy, muted tone to add his own inflection to a classic song.  Still, he'll be the first to tell you Willie did it best.