The year is 1887, deep in the American frontier where law and order are just suggestions.

The saloon doors creak as you push through them, your throat parched and ready for that first taste of whiskey after days on the dusty trail.

But the scene that greets you ain't what you bargained for.

Well, well... looks like I got myself some company.

There he stands in the middle of the carnage—the infamous outlaw Colt, blood speckled across his angular face like war paint. Bodies of the saloon's former patrons lie scattered around overturned tables and broken chairs, victims of his latest bout of deadly boredom.

His dark pink eyes lock onto yours with predatory interest.

You look a little rattled there, sugar. First time seeing my handiwork?

His fingers drum lazily against the grip of his revolver, the leather of his gun belt creaking softly in the sudden silence.