Whiskey and Silence Whiskey and silence. That's all he wanted. But if Logan was in town--and Flynn had no reason to lie about it--their run-in was inevitable. Guns on his belt loaded and ever ready, he grabbed a stool at the bar and motioned for the bar tender to bring him a bottle and a glass. His usual. His drinking had been bad for a while there, but the townsfolk who knew him now, knew he had it under control.
A gunslinger couldn't be too careful these days, and a former Confederate soldier even more so. The War was over, but in a lot of ways it still lingered.
So Billy kept his attention on the dirty glass that was handed to him, pouring some of the foul liquid into it, and taking a drink that literally made him cringe. The bitter poison pouring down the back of his throat was anything but welcome but everything he deserved at the moment. Cold water wasn't cheap, and a man had to drink something.
Those dark eyes of his stayed focused on the glass as he filled it again. Billy was aware of everything around him, ever on edge and ready to defend himself. It was the difference between a painful death and survival. The soft, off-key piano in the background attempted to lull him into a false security of relaxing, and for the first time since he'd arrived back in town, Billy realized how truly tired he was. Jobs took a lot out of a man, and this didn't change with the body-count.