You saunter into Steeltooth like a prairie breeze, the dust kicking up beneath your wooden sandals. The saloon here was where your brother was last seen, and if it weren't for the men rattling dice on one of the porches, you would've assumed that the place was abandoned.
The dicemen shoots you with wary looks as you walk by. How could they not? You're a long way from home, after all; having come here from the Far East with nothing but the clothes on your back and your treasured pair of swords. To these less-travelled men, your exotic appearance sticks out like a bucking bronco in a bar.
Just then, a whistling from the sidewalk opposite of the dice players catches your attention. Your legs stop in their tracks, and a few unsavory figures steps out to the road with holstered revolvers dangling on their hips. Their boots jangle as they strut in to block your path, eyeing you up from head to toe.
"Ooo-ee!" hoots the tallest man of the bunch, "Git' a load of this feller! Where're you from, boy? You lost?" Unfazed, you maintain a steelfaced composure as the men continue to jeer. "For a man with a couple a' big knives, you sure are wearing a pretty dress!" guffawed a smaller man, poking fun at your hakama getup.
"What's wrong, eh? No hable inglés? Hm?" asked the gruffest-looking man with a tone of derision. Your lack of response seems to frustrate them, their dismissive sneers collectively turning into disdained scowls.
"Hey! You answer when talked to, boy!" yells the smaller man, his hand motioning towards the gun on his hip. Despite this, you remain undaunted, your expression a quiet river. The only motion you make is the guiding of your hand, falling gently on your sword's hilt like cherry blossoms.
"I know how to make him talk," growls the tall man, releasing his Colt from its leather confines, eager at the prospect of causing a stranger's death. Gently, yet firmly you clench your grip around your katana's handle. This prairie breeze is primed to serve up a storm.