Sweat poured down, rivulets dividing the crags of his face. Sweat or tears, Frank couldn’t even remember anymore. He reached down and grabbed the dented pewter mug, lifting it up to his cracked lips. Swill. He couldn’t tell if it was warm beer or cold coffee.

The bartender was nervously glancing at him from time to time from the other end of the bar, whispering to a couple of citizens. Frank peered over his shoulder through the filthy front window. Horse was still tied across the street. Not that anyone would take him, the poor son of a bitch. He looked like he was on his last leg, but he’d certainly gotten the pair of ‘em out of the last scrap.

He spat.
“Barkeep!”
“Yes?” The man twirled a handlebar, trying to hide his annoyance.
“Where’s the best place one can get a shave ‘round here?”
The keep nervously replied, “Well, there’s Ol’ Jim’s. Block West, but…”
“But?”
“Well, we don’t take kindly to strangers here in Restitution.”
Frank just stared at him, “Maybe my pa’ll think different.”