There was a time when the Hunter wouldn't seek out violence. A time when he would rather stay home with his lovely wife and kids.
Before disaster, his home was a place where he would love, cherish, and hold his family tightly. It was a place that was full of comfort and joy. Food on the table, clothes on their back, laughter echoing within the four corners of the house.
But it was now a place that was broken, dilapidated, and burnt down. And his family...the Hunter's family was mutilated. Tortured. Murdered. Burned along with his home.
Now the time of peace was long gone. Now was time for war. For revenge.
The Hunter stood in front of the saloon with a poncho across his back, two six-round, single-action revolvers on his sides. As he started toward the place, the spurs on his boots clicked with each step.
Six months since his family's killing had led him to this moment. Nothing was going to stop him now.
The Hunter swung open the doors, which creaked as he pushed them, but he shoved them so hard they ended up slamming against the walls. The lively chatter, and honky-tonk piano playing coming from inside, came to an abrupt stop.
The gentlemen playing poker, the bartender, the drunkards at the bar, and the whores surrounding the saloon's customers, stared at the Hunter.
Fear was in their eyes. Some of the cowboys had their hands ready at their hips, waiting for him to start trouble. The wenches ready to run if there was to be any shooting.
The thing that scared them, and the thing that scared most people, was the fact that no one ever knew his intentions. The Hunter's father always told him that you could see a man's intentions in his eyes.
But the Hunter wore a hat. His head was always looking down so that the brim of his hat hid his eyes until he looked directly at you. Yet, seeing his eyes was somehow more horrifying than simply gazing upon the Hunter. The brown eyes he held were eyes that had nothing behind them. Eyes that showed he was a broken man, and had nothing left to lose.
The tension in the saloon was now high. The Hunter made his way toward the bartender, who glanced awkwardly around the building. He didn't want to even look at the man who had walked into his place of business.
"N-now look mister," Mr. Bartender stammered, waving his hands. "We don't want any troub-"
"I know you don't," said the Hunter, cutting him off. His brim still hid his eyes, but the bartender could see the lower half of his face, which revealed a smirk. "I just want the bottle."
The Hunter pointed behind Mr. Bartender with a finger that had heavy gunpowder underneath his nail. That's when the man behind the counter turned around, noticing the bottle of whiskey that was being pointed at. Promptly, Mr. Bartender reached behind him and grabbed the alcohol.
"$2," he told the Hunter.
The Hunter replied by reaching into his pocket, grabbing a couple of crumpled bills, and putting them on the counter. The man in front of the Hunter took the cash, then gave him a glass along with the bottle. The Hunter grabbed both items, and walked away from the bar, the drunkards at the counter drinking away, not giving the dangerous cowboy the time of day.
The place was still quieter than when he walked in, but chatter was starting to resume, with the piano player playing a bouncy tune.
The Hunter walked over to a table, where five men were playing poker. Classic Texas Hold 'Em was the game, he observed.
"Need a sixth?" he asked the gentlemen at the table. Without waiting for an answer, he set down his bottle and glass, and took a seat.
"Why, sure," said one fellow sitting next to him, trying to be polite. Shortly after, he pulled out a small box from his breast pocket. He held the box out to the Hunter and offered by saying, "Cigarette?"
