Leather clad knuckles rap the bar. Irish Jack grabs the whisky and pours a shot.

"How ya be, Bill? Good week?"

"Got those bastard Darcy boys, but they're thin shit for the miles rid. Need me some tender mercy tonight. Fanny free?"

"Always for ya, Bill. Likes the way your Colt hangs, eh?"

"Somethin' like that."

Up the stairs, the door squeeks open. She's propped up on the bed, dressed in her flouncy working gown.

Gloves and hat drop to the floor, gun belt and bowie laid aside.

"You good, momma?" she asks with a smile.

"I'm good, girl. You?"