[i]The door chimed; the bartender sighed; and the women swooned hopelessly. The clicking of a heel on the ground came through the air, bouncing off each of the walls and accompanied by the rhythmic chime of metal clanging with each step of the man in boots. He kicked in small amounts of dirt with him, staining the bottom of his brown cowboy's footwear and kicking it off again with each of the large strides forward he took. Eventually the man in the duster would take a seat at the bar a few stools down from Finn McNamara, and there were a division between gazes he got; Lust, from the women, intrigue, from the men, and annoyance from the bartender who knew he'd need to restock on alcohol. The figure ordered his whiskey from the middle-aged barkeep and took a shotgun off his back, resting it up against the table with his Winchester rifle so that he appeared non-hostile. Though clearly he kept some small arms on him, as shown by the revolvers and swords that rested on his hips. From a pair of Colt Anacondas to a cavalry saber and a series of exotic blades on his hips, he looked almost nomadic. The bandolier and lasso on his chest helped give the image of bounty hunter, but the scruffy beard and hat said outlaw. But above all else, the badge on his chest said Marshal in a very literal sense. [/i]