Dust mixed with gunsmoke swirled across the road leading to Fort Boise. Rypien the Kid stood alone on the dirt track, watching as the cougarskin-clad gunslinger he’d just bested was dragged back to Provo by his posse.
“Hokey religions and weird clothing are no match for a good six shooter at your side” he muttered, mostly to himself. Turning back to the fort and the saloon nearby, he began a slow walk toward leaving his troubles at the bottom of a bottle.
Rypien kicked open the door to the bar, and wearily sat at the nearest table.