Gunsmoke Smith stood in the bar of the Crazy Horse Saloon. Sweat and dust covered his shirt and chaps. He had just come off the trail and a rawhide whip hung from his belt.

As he leaned on the bar he took in the room with a studied stare from his raven black eyes, hesitating slightly at the sight of the heavily built man dealing cards at the poker table.

He sensed trouble and moved sideways to ease up his peacemaker when he realised he was not wearing his gun belt. The muscle in his jaw tightened and he felt the tremor of anticipated action in his hand. He placed both hands on the bar and stared intently into the mirror behind it.

‘Whiskey,’ he ordered.

Before the barmen could pour the drink a voice said, ‘Since when have we served pigs in here?’

A silent expectancy hit the room, and the barmen hesitated, casting a nervous glance at the poker table.

‘Fill it up,’ Gunsmoke ordered.

‘There’s a hell of a stink in here, why don’t we clear it out?’

The barman's hand trembled as he poured the drink, slopping some onto the bar.

‘You’re wasting some fine rye whiskey, someone ought to pay for that,' drawled Gunsmoke. 

The poker player lifted his head revealing a scar across one cheek.  ‘You’ll do the paying this time Smith,’ he said, swinging up a heavy Colt Army revolver.

Gunsmoke Smith stared at the reflection in the mirror recognising an army bounty hunter. In one action he flung the glass of whiskey across the room and unleashed his bull whip. The sound of the gun firing reverberated around the bar as the snaking bull whip sliced the revolver into the air. The bounty hunter’s eyes were mesmerised as the recoiling rawhide cracked in the air and reached out again cutting across his other cheek.

‘Two for the price of one,’ drawled Gunsmoke, ‘Someone always has to pay!’