ENTRANCE/TURN: Galt staggered out of the tavern's restroom. A thin string of spittle hung out of his mouth, forming a slender bridge between chin and collar. He was once more reminded why the bar had earned the name "Rotgut". Out near the window, his dog, Lil' Rearden, sat happily on a bench. His attention was caught by the giant at the bar. He wondered how much sedative it would take to knock him out. Just enough to break even with what the Feds are paying for laborers nowadays. Not worth the effort he thought.
His eyes drifted to the man laying on the floor. Some joke of an EMT was attending to a nasty gash on the downed man's leg. Taking care to step over the body, Galt made his way back to his seat and continued eating the unrecognizable morsel in front of him. He tossed a piece to Rearden and tried to plan his next move. He figured that if he was able to leave town in a few days, he'd be able to catch the caravan coming in. Take out the trailing wagon and he'd land a nice prize. He scanned a faded map for any possible feature along the road to give him a nice spot to wait. A junk heap crudely marked near the edge of the paper seemed like a decent enough spot. His old wreck would blend right in. His chuckling was interrupted by Rearden's whining. Galt gently backhanded the mongrel in an effort to buy his silence.
