Colby’s Ridge was a small quiet town in Kansas. It wasn’t big, maybe a hundred people lived in town itself. Most people lived out in the Wilderlands on farms and ranches in the like. The Wilderlands was a massive expanse of scrublands, forests, and deserts. What used to be the American West became complete uninhabited wilderness. Ghost cities, cities that were abandoned in favor of the four mega-metropolis’ are scattered about the Wilderlands. Colby’s Ridge is situated in just inside the border of Kansas and Colorado, along what used to be Route 36. It was built as a waypoint for one of DG International’s cross continental railways.
The tavern in Colby’s Ridge was called the Silver Bullet. It had swinging batwing doors. There is a stage squeezed into one corner with an upright piano and stool against the wall. Tables scattered about with seemingly random pattern. The bar was made of stained wood. Shelves full of various liquors sat in front of a mirror behind the bar. Well-used beer tap handles with chipped paint were set into the bar itself. Television screens hung over the bar displaying a muted Info Broadcast. It was midday, and the saloon was fairly empty. A couple of men sat at a table, they were obviously passing through. A lone figure sat at the bar. His mud-caked boots rested on the bar’s brass footrest; his sun-bleached black hat pulled low over his stubble covered face. A mane of black hair is pushed behind his ears. His brown duster was tossed carelessly on the stool next to him. His white shirt was stained a light brown from dust and sweat; a crimson waistcoat hung on his shoulders. On his hip, a silver Drachen Grapeshot Frontier Model 2031 Revolver, which was clad in a worn brown leather holster, tied tightly around his thigh. A cigarillo tucked between his lips. A thin wisp of smoke rising from underneath the brim. In his grey leather gauntlet he held an empty shot glass of whisky. His celadon green eyes looked quietly at the glass. He quietly raised the glass and the bartender stumbled over. The bartender was a fat man with red face, round nose, a burly mustache and a bowler hat. He silently poured the man another glass of the whisky that he had ordered.
“Will you like this on your tab too Mr. Jones?” he asked in a deep raspy voice. The man at the bar nodded. The bartender set the bottle down and waddled over to the cash register and typed in the order. Mr. Jones raised the glass to his lips, threw his head back and downed the drink in one gulp.
“Ahh,” he breathed. The Silver Bullet Saloon and Tavern always had the best whisky. He waved down the bartender, who came hobbling over.
“Yes Mister Jones?” he gasped.
“What do I owe ya friend?” said Mr. Jones. His voice was raspy but had an air of authority to it.
“It’ll will come to forty-five dollars,” stated the bartender. As Mr. Jones reached into his waistcoat the bartender stiffened in fear. Mr. Jones seems not to notice as he pulled out a worn leather wallet, opened it, and tossed a fifty dollar bill on the bar. He slit the wallet back into his waistcoat, stood, collected his duster, and raised his hat.
“Keep the change” he growled. He turned and strode out of the bar, the batwing doors squeaking as he pushed through them.
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