Above the Lavender Hills

Tom carefully lit his smoke and studied the man before him with care, his experienced eyes taking in every minute detail that would mean little to someone whose life didn't hinge on the details. The man was quiet, collected, a calm look of self-assurance in his eyes. He wore gray buckskin pants and vest, homemade from the look of them, and his shirt was home spun black cotton, and reasonably new. His boots were made for walking, not riding, and were scuffed and well worn. He wore no gun, but that did not diminish in the slightest the air of confidence in him. He had large, thick hands, broad shoulders, a thick neck, a wide jaw, and the faint line of a scar from his ear lobe to the slight cleft in his chin. His coffee colored eyes were piercing and flat, utterly lacking expression.

"No, I don't reckon you're here to raise a fuss. Take it as a friendly warning though. I don't abide trouble makers in my town, and I don't back down." The marshal spoke with deliberate calmness.

The drifter rose slowly and smoothly to his feet, his long lean frame now towering over the marshal. Tom was careful to not move, or show any concern at all. The man looked down at him, something that might have once been humor flickering in his eyes.

"Then I reckon that'll do for both of us, Marshal. I'm not one to back down myself."