The Man.

I heard the smash of an old whiskey bottle as I was leaving the saloon. I looked up into the bright sunlight only to see the silhouette of a strong, chiseled cowboy. He came into the light, with his hat shadowing half of his dirty, beaten face. His scruff was like grass, finally sprouting to the surface of the soil. His eyes looked at me as if I was a deer and he was a coyote, ready to attack. He gripped the handle of his gun with all his strength, ready to use it at any time. His jacket was made of worn leather, rips and tears throughout. The jeans he was wearing were loose and worn, they looked as if they have survived many adventures. I wonder what those adventures are.