Mel sat on the porch swing his callused hands absently checking the position of his double barreled shotgun as the drifter approached.

Ol' Bessie, he called her that because she kicked like a mule, was an old piece. Her stock was split in several places and her barrel bore years of rust marks from the neglect of previous owners but she had never once let Mel down.

Mel eyed the stranger warily. As far as Mel was concerned that was the only way to greet a drifter, wary eyes and Ol' Bessie usually sent them on their way quick as a bird's feather.

Something in the way this one walked set his hairs on end though. It weren't the six guns, most drifters wore some sorta iron. It weren't the cyborg arm neither, he'd seen plenty of that in his 60 years. No, it was the way he walked sure enough. The man's arms swayed as he approached just like any man's, his feet went one in front of the other as one would expect, but the thing that caught Mel's mind like a rabbit in a bear trap was that the fellow didn't even seem to realize he was wearin the irons. In Mel's experience that meant this young buck had been raised with a gun instead of a rattle. That kinda raisin usually meant trouble.

Mel waited until the newcomer was within shouting distance before greeting him. "We don't want no trouble here mister, I suggest you walk on around."

The mysterious figure, Mel hated that term but it fit, tipped his ol Stetson as he shouted back. "I'm lookin for Mel."

"Awe hell," muttered Mel as the straw he'd been chewing fell from his slack jaw. Mel hated trouble, especially when trouble was looking for him. "Ain't no one by that name here."

The stranger cocked his head to the side like he was listening for something and began talking to low for Mel to hear. This went on for a few moments until it was quite apparent that the gunslinger was arguing with himself. "Oh hell," thought Mel "he's heat mad ta boot." Mel adjusted Ol' Bessie in his lap and hoped her hair was thin enough.

The figure seemed to come to some agreement with himself and began to approach. "Look Mel, I don't want no trouble but you got somethin I need and I'd like to trade ya for it." The drifter raised his hands out slowly. At a hundred paces the sound of poorly oiled gears grated Mel's ears.

Mel set Ol' Bessie on the railing. "You ain't got nothin I want drifter."

At that the man reached his good hand into his dirty brown trench coat and started to come out with something metal.

"I suggest you drop that plainsman." Said Mel, careful to hide the fear in his voice.

The man in the Stetson did as Mel suggested. Mel squinted against the noonday sun. What he saw was a small silver box no thicker than a deck of cards. "Kick it on over."

Again the stranger complied. Mel eased himself out of his swing and limped to the edge of the porch. He looked questioningly at the young buck. The young buck raised an eyebrow. Mel weighed his options. If the drifter wanted him dead he was certain that he'd already be tastin lead so he put Ol' Bessies butt in the dirt and slowly reached for the silver box. As he did so he couldn't help but wonder which was more dangerous, the drifter or bending over. His back hadn't been right since he carried the Wallace boy out of the mines twelve years ago.

With no little effort he retrieved the shiny object and examined it. He fumbled with the latch on the side and was rewarded with the sweet smell of raisins as the case popped open on hidden springs. The old man's face lit with a toothless grin.

"Well friend, I stand corrected." Said Mel as he raised a perfectly rolled cigarette to his chapped lips. "Now, you got a light?"