One of them was shorter, this one smoked a cheroot. He passed to his partner, and stepped forward, pulling up his black cowl to hide his face before it could be seen. His whole attire was black, and he didn't glisten from the heat like everyone else did. Neither did his partner, who was taller and lagged slightly behind him, clad identically in black. Their spurs dragged on the planks as they sauntered forward.
They simply oozed trouble.
The piano spat out a few troubled notes, then ceased like a dying fire. The toothless man chased down his drink completely and then moved his hand down to reassure himself his gun was still firmly by his side. The barkeep eyed them warily. Their audience held it's breath, when finally, one of the strangers spoke.
“We're looking for a man called Fletcher,” he said in a low voice.
The barkeep gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing before he replied.
“T'ain't a name I ever heard”.
The shorter figure stepped towards Bill and brushed aside his poncho, revealing part of a holster on his waist. The eyes, the only visible part of his face, narrowed.
“You quite sure about that?,” he retorted in a western drawl. His cowl didn't even move as he spoke.
Again, Bill gulped, avoiding those long-lashed, green eyes. He began to shine the pint glass again with shaking hands.
“No...I-I mean, yes- siree, sir”.
The eyes of the shorter man scanned the room, searching for something. He noted the red-haired bar girl and the toothless old man, and winked at them, a gesture which sent the toothless man falling off his chair. The stranger's eyes went on to fix on a man at the back: passed out and sprawled on his table, hat masking his face. He nodded to his partner behind him, who appeared to giggle. At the sound of this, a glass-eyed man at the bar turned to look at him suspiciously.
The shorter stranger glared at his partner, who looked down in shame.