What'll it be?

The door closed, allowing a thin sliver of sunlight to penetrate the dimly lit room. The smell of whiskey hung thick in the air along with dust and smoke. Saloons don't usually have windows; barkeeps like their patrons to come early and stay late. "Drink 'til they've had their fill," they say. "Not when the sun tells 'em it's time to leave." This saloon was no different. The few oil lamps hung high on the walls cast a yellowish, sickly glow on everyone in the room. A glance around the room showed a single thread among the gathered - weariness. Life in these parts was hard, especially during a summer as hot as this one. Even the easiest chore brought sweat to the brow and a grimace to even the jolliest of fellows. As he strode forward, small clouds of dust rose around his feet, half fell off, half stirred up from the floor. The hard heels of his boots resounded in the quiet hovel. He was tall, but thick enough so he wasn't lanky. His hat, shirt and pants all had the same dusty hue, their true colors long ago faded by the sun. His face was rugged and hands rough, weathered by long days on his horse, out where the stray tree offered only fleeting, welcome relief. Approaching the bar, the barkeep met his eyes, his towel wiping at a spot long dried.
"What'll it be?" the keep offered, bored but jovial.