Weston sits in the shadows at the bar, a whiskey in hand. His foot taps impatiently, it’s been two weeks of chasing and he’s ready to finish this. His tongue traces his teeth methodically as he watches the saloon doors with a predatory gaze. The bartender moves to pour more whiskey into his glass and he places a firm hand over it, his eyes snapping to a set of feet as they appear below the saloon doors. Not for now, barkeep.
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