It had been a few hours before Joey arrived in a small town. It had appeared out of nowhere, as towns did in the west, and its sudden appearance had confused him. He was sure the small native tribe was around here somewhere, but it had been a long time since he had been this far west. Maybe they had already been massacred, their land taken and their women befouled. The thought made him sick. He was ashamed of his own race.

He stopped Night outside a saloon, tying the horse up near a water trough. The horse looked so tired, and gratefully drunk from the trough. Joey felt bad that the pastures were no longer here. How long had it been? He glanced up at the saloon's name, seeing that the town was named Dritfwood. He adjusted his hat again and made sure his buckle was sitting right before entering the dark bar.

Inside many drunks sat, playing poker and chewing on tobacco. They looked up when he walked in and stared in awe, as if they knew who he was. He gave them a look and they quickly returned to their games. He walked slowly up to the bar, sitting on a stool and waiting for the bartender to turn towards him.

"What can I do for ya, stranger?" the man asked him, cleaning a glass with the dirty apron he wore. Joey screwed his nose up, but didn't comment.

"Whisky," he muttered, digging into his pockets and slamming two silver coins onto the table. The barman nodded and grabbed a dusty bottle, placing it by Joey as he took the money. "Barkeep, what happened here? Last time I was by, there was a tribe of natives here, not a town for white folk."

The bartender smiled slightly. "Our town mayor took care of them, he did. Killed a few of 'em and the rest ran away into the desert." Joey scowled, but asked no more questions. He opened the bottle and took a swig, enjoying the familiar taste of alcohol as it washed down his throat. As he drunk, he couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two men that were sitting nearby. One seemed to be excited about something, while the other was way too drunk to form proper sentences.

"Caught him red-handed, and I mean the pun of course," the excited young one said with a chuckle. "Bloody thieving natives. Seems to think he has a white man name."

"Spaks piddy gud anglelisf fur a red-skuned fulla," the drunk slurred, picking up a chipped mug and sloshing the dark liquid over his front.

"I suppose so, but that won't stop a hanging. We haven't had a good one for a long time. I can't wait for tomorrow," the excited man said, lifting up his glass of red liquid and sipping it carefully.

Joey looked over to where they sat. "Excuse me young fella, what were you saying about a native?" he asked, getting the men's attention.

"Oh, we caught a red-skin who had stolen the mayor's horse. He's in the gaol right now awaiting trail. But don't you worry, sir, I am the prosecutor in this here town, and I will make sure it's a hanging we'll see tomorrow."

"We ull lek dem hangyings," the drunk cheered, raising his mug and taking a big drink from it. Joey showed his disgust, standing up suddenly.

"Sir, don't forget your whiskey," the barkeep called after him as he made his way out of the saloon. Joey looked back at the prosecutor and drunk.

"He can have it. I found it too... Weak." He left the dingy place and looked about the town, sighting the gaol just down the dusty street. It was next door to the sheriff's office, which sat just beside what seemed like a town hall. Joey brought the scarf up around his face and pulled his hat down, walking towards the place. Outside the town hall, a beautiful white mare was tied. She was whinnying, as though crying about something. The horse was beautiful, and from how her mane was braided and how obvious it was she hadn't been shoed or wore no saddle, he could tell it was the horse of a native. The one that had been caught and accused of a crime he didn't commit. The thought sickened Joey.