Some dozen or so miles from the town of Archangel, Toby Scrimshaw pushed through the batwing doors of the only saloon in the first place he rode into, and walked straight up to the makeshift bar. Two old, buckled and misshapen barn doors set upon eight barrels were the sorry excuse for a counter, behind which was a creaking set of shelves holding a number of dust-ingrained glasses and several half empty bottles of various sizes. There were three round tables, with accompanying chairs, arranged in the room, but only two were occupied, by two grizzled old leathery-faced men playing cards.
Toby cleared his throat and one of them, after snapping down a bent and torn playing card, looked up. “Whisky?”
“You have beer?”
The two men exchanged a look. Faces split into grins and the old man stood
