Snippet #2004504

Morgan was still nursing his drink at the bar, quiet as you please. The man on the horse (he was fairly certain it was man), had taken off, though he (she? It was possible) seemed to have run into trouble down the street. He looked up at the ceiling as he heard a clatter and crash from upstairs. So far as he could remember, and he had a pretty decent memory, despite all he'd had to drink, he didn't recall there being any guests in the Silver Spur last night, which meant it must be the owner, Jan Hass.

And lord, how Morgan hated Jan Hass. Not that that was uncommon. Hass was a pretty hated man in Splitcreek. Greediest penny pincher you ever did meet, and mean to bet. Morgan shook his head as the short, pudgy man came rushing down the stairs, his beady eyes scanning the room. Dee-lightful. Hass was currently interrogating a clueless (and very, very drunk miner), who, rather than answer Hass, had decided to talk about how his wife left him and now all he had was his banjo. Really, the whole thing was very funny, but Morgan could tell Hass was getting fed up, and there was nothing worse than a fed-up Hass.

"I'll tell you what's going on," Morgan barked from his seat at the bar. "Some good-for-nothin' outlaw's passing through, that's all. So why don't you get back to bed, you drunken buffoon." Downing the last of his fourth and final beer, Morgan stood up from the bar, tipping his hat to the man. "Oh, and thanks for the beer."