Come ten o'clock on a Friday night and the place comes alive, the place being Donegal's Saloon in Whiskey River, Texas. 

Whiskey River is not much of a town, the place in this part of the universe where a railroad and a cattle route crossed paths.   It was a place where the west that was came face to face with the west that was coming to be.  Population, maybe one hundred souls, most headed to heaven, but a share not standing much of a chance to get there.  When the cattle drive rolled into town, the stockyard down by the train station was filled with maybe five hundred cattle on the way to their doom, and with them, twenty cowboys ready to get drunk and to get laid, preferably in that order.

Donegal's Saloon was quite an enterprise, a drinking establishment, a gambling hall, a whorehouse, a hotel, a livery, all rolled into one sure fire money maker for Big Dan Donegal, an Irish immigrant who somehow had built himself a town.  Big Dan was a big fisted and bad temerped man and the saloon that bore his name was big-fisted and bad tempered as well.

Yes, the town of Whiskey River was quiet town for most of the week, but come Friday night, someone would open the doors to perdition and all hell would pour through.  This one Friday, along with all the passengers on this train to perdition, a stranger walked in.  And with the coming of that stranger, things began to change.

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