"You don't look like a gunman, son."
The boy sitting across the bar didn't answer, so intent was he on staring into the dregs at the bottom of his shotglass with an unhealthy pallor on his sunburned face. He was maybe seventeen, maybe younger -he was pockmarked with acne and there was naught but peach fuzz on his angular chin. Sitting on the barstool his legs didn't quite reach the floor, and every few seconds there was a thunk as the toe of his boot met the wood of the bar. His hands fidgeted with the shotglass.
"You alright, boy?" the bartender asked, refilling the glass, and the boy gave a small start and looked up.
"I said you don't look like a gunman." The bartender nodded to the holster and silver-plated pistol slung across the bartop near the boy's elbow. "That's a fine weapon for a kid your age. Or is it your pa's, and you're just out for a fling with it?"
"Ain't my pa's," the boy muttered.