Stanley Pines

It was a quiet day today. The balmy sun slathered over the land, in a hot, dry climate. Stanley had just retreated into Nevada after pulling off a large scheme— which benefitted no one but himself in the end. Suffice to say, he was going to be laying low for a little. Instead of big scams, the grifter would have to settle for smaller thefts and a bit of pickpocketing. Not as thrilling, but Stanley knew when he was on thin ice. He had a good amount of achievements over the years, he supposed the later half of 1870 could be an uneventful one.

He left his horse safe where he was staying. This town wasn't swarming with people, but it wasn't small, either; it landed on a middle-ground leaning closer to the former. There were enough to keep himself unsuspected if someone had quote unquote "mysteriously" lost their pouch of silver coins. It was only his first week here, so Stanley didn't want to cause too much trouble just yet. He laid back in a comfortable chair outside of a saloon: under a porch roof, dusty with sand. A smouldering cigar was held between his teeth and Stanley tipped his hat over his eyes to slump back and relax.

After a while, the sound of boots approached. Stanley thought that they were just heading into the saloon, but a few thoughts shot through his head as the footfalls stopped right on the wooden porch. A moment of silence passed. Then, a voice.

"Yer sittin' in my seat, bucko."