He didn't see me as he had come in through the side door. I watched as he shook the light snow off and gently stomped his boots. I leaned back into the booth and watched. Sipping the bourbon warming in my hand, and watched.
He was older than I had expected. At least he looked older. His hair was longish and tucked back behind his ears. It stayed put when he removed his well weathered Stetson, the long locks curling slightly at the ends, its color segueing nicely with his close cropped mustache. His face was kind, handsome after a manly fashion, his smile genuine and simple, a word one doesn't connect with a smile, but it fit him. I liked him already. Hanging his hat on the wall, he removed his long coat dampened by the melting snow, hung it on the hook beneath, and made his way to the bar, taking a seat and asking for a Foster's from the comely barkeep, who clearly thought his smile worth spending a moment longer with.
I had first heard about him from a slaver who was more afraid of him than the Masters that had sent him into Indian country after runners. He had a reputation for putting down slavers hard and fast, no fanfare, no monologuing, just, BAM! Put down. A reputation for keeping runaway slaves free is why I was here. I tossed back the last of the whisky, and decided it was time to start this rodeo. I expected this to be a rough 8 seconds.
