Sheriff Root tied on his gunbelt and grabbed his rifle off the wall. It was too damn early and he was too damn tired for gunplay from the saloon. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror he had hung off beside the door, he stopped and straigtened his vest.
Root looked more like a banker than a Sheriff, and in fact had been one before the war. Having taken a round to the chest, most doctors were surprised he had even survived. After the war he had headed west for more temperate climates and what doctors had said was an easier environemnt for his weakened lung.
He picked back up his rifle and trotted across the street. It was still to dark but Root was to preoccupied to notice the time. As he crossed he heard more gunshots and quickened his pace.
Root threw the swinging doors wide and cursed. Two people lay on the floor, one of them looked to be the proprietor Boothe, both with their necks torn open. Another two men were fighting, and before he could say anything one man cracked the other across the face with a chair leg. As he fell to the floor, Root watched as the man guts ran out of the gaping hole in his stomach, his mouth streched far to wide to be normal.
"What the fuck happened in here?"
End of line.