Pardner

A cowboy walks into the Sherdonae Saloon of Crackassadia, the doors swinging back as he makes his way in, a few of the patrons grabbed by the entrance and click and clatter of his spurs and boots. Customers talk and chatter and laugh, playing cards and poker, telling stories as well.

He nods at one of them at a table as they play cards. "Pardner."

The man tips his hat as he chews on an ear of wheat. "Pardner." He shoots a glance at the bartender as he cleans glass with a dirty washcloth. "Pardner."

The bartender with the slightly up done black hair nods. "Pardner." The cowboy nods as he goes over to the piano and slams down two coins.

"Pardner?" The woman takes the coins and nods, placing them in a jar with other coins on top of the instrument and plays an upbeat tune that's having some guys in the back clap while some ladies in dresses spun around together.

The cowboy chuckles to himself as he goes to the bar, sitting down and placing his had out just as the bartender slid down a glass of whiskey; it slides perfectly into his palm, and the cowboy nods and slides a few more coins down his way and he nods as well.

All is good and peaceful as the bar is full of chatter and talks and laughter, people just enjoying their drinks in the midday.

The doors bang open again and once people hear it and then see who it is. The bartender is the first to know who they are, and so he gasps, grasping everyone's attention, bringing the music to a sudden halt in the wrong keys. Not one, but two cowboys enter. Both of their hats and bandanas block their identities as they stare down at the ground, hands at their sides of their cowboy gear, near their pistols. The shorter cowboy on the left has on a pink bandana while the taller one has wisps of their blonde hair behind their grey one.

Their eyes glance up to around the bar, dangerous eyes questioning if anyone dared to make a move.

The saloon goes back to what it was doing, weary eyes still alert and avoiding the two as the pianist starts up her music once more. The bartender steels himself as the two new cowboys come to sit at the middle of the bar, the shorter one placing down a wad of cash and coins onto the bar.

He nods, trying to steady his voice as he stutters, "P-pardner." He grabs two tumblers and the bottle, trying not to shake all around as he picks up the bottle of alcohol, able to pour it without spilling it around the tumblers. They lower their bandanas to sip on it, thankful for the drink to cool them down.

The bartender already knew, but these two cowgirls were Camila Alverez and Debra Peterson, Alvereze in the pink bandana and Debra in grey. They started out in Mathelia, making their way around to try and gather as much cash as they could from robbin' off dead bodies they killed. And it worked sometimes. Other times, they just raided villages and held them hostage till they got what they wanted.

Every partner and cowboy, girl, or person, has always gone by their last name. It was tradition from their ancestors, wanting to keep on the family name. If anyone called them otherwise, they'd be staring down the barell of a pistol.

"This town ain't big enough for the both of us." The two look over at the end of the bar furthest into the saloon and spot another cowboy with long red hair from under their hat and a red bandana to match.

"And who might you be?" Alverez asks in a small Honduras accent.

"Pardner, we're the Reckoners from Crackassadia."

"I never heard o' that town in my life," Peterson scoffs in her own Texas drawl.

"That's 'cause you never met us before," they say, lowering their bandana to reveal they're also a cowgirl.