Snippet #2005941

Morgan woke with a start, the rocking chair lurching forward as he straightened up. He lifted the brim of his Stetson, regarding the stranger daring to disturb his afternoon nap with steely grey eyes, and shifted in his seat, though he didn't bother to get up. He'd barely been asleep five minutes; this'd better be one hell of an important call.

"That's right," he said, his eyes travelling over the man. He didn't look too different from anyone else who'd spent their days under a hot Arizona sun- rough, tan skin, sandy blonde hair, squinting blue eyes. The scars were a point of concern, but Morgan himself had a sizable scar on his left cheek. Still, there was something crooked about the man. It was a gut feeling, and Morgan always went with his gut. But you didn't go around Splitcreek shouting your opinions and suspicions at the top of your lungs, especially when the subject of your suspicion had his hands resting on a belt that looked to concealing some wicked weaponry.

Begrudgingly, Morgan got to his feet and stuck out his hand in the most gentlemanly manner he could muster. Even after many years as a doctor, Morgan never could bring himself to go along wholeheartedly with business or social formalities. "Morgan Crowe. What can I do for you?"