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The mid afternoon sun illuminated the saloon, specks of dust frolicking through the sun rays to the harmony of creaking floorboards and the player-piano. The music was drowned by a  cacophony of chatter from the few dozen patrons of the establishment who took to their food and drink in celebration of another work day done.

The saloon doors swung open with a loud croak, and a massive shadow flooded the room, drawing silence and stares alike from those inside. A towering figure, both in height and stature stepped through the open portal, cherry red boots with shining, polished spurs a stark contrast to the dull, worn brown of the floorboards. A long red poncho with white trim covered his ample torso, the tattered ends stopping just before his chap-covered knees. A shimmer of light revealed a pair of six-shooters strapped to his hips, just barely poking out from behind the poncho, almost as if the man wanted all around him to know the weapons were there. His face was framed by a bright white beard, a red stain running down from the middle just under the man’s mouth. A candy cane with more than a few chew marks hung from the corner of the man’s mouth. His eyes were hidden behind the wide-brim of his Stetson, the hat a sun-faded shade of the same red as his poncho.

Everyone watched as the red-poncho’d man took a few steps into the saloon. The bartender reached his hands underneath the bar, fumbling around until he felt the shotgun that was tucked away for situations just like these. A few of the patrons made a quick exit, giving the wide red man as much space as they could, whispers of “it’s him” and “he’s real” filling the silent air as they fled.

“W-we don’t want no problems here, mister,” the bartender said. His voice quivered with fear.

The red man looked up, revealing icy blue eyes beneath his hat. He scanned the room, those cold eyes cutting through the souls of all they fell upon. He crunched down on the candy cane before turning and spitting it to the ground. It shattered, the pieces of candied sugar and peppermint dancing across the wood in every direction before falling to their final rest on the dirt covered floor. He pulled the poncho aside, giving everyone another view of the oversized six-shooters that adorned his hips as he reached a hand underneath.

The room held its collective breath as the men inside reacted to the red man’s movement. In the blink of an eye, the red man had a dozen pistols, a few rifles, and one very shaky shotgun held by the uneasy bartender pointed at the newcomer. 

The room was silent. The player piano, as if by providence, had ceased its unending tune. No one dared to speak or even breathe loudly, as if the slightest of sounds would be the spark that ignited this powder keg. Even the dust that had filled the sunbeams only seconds before seemed to have fled as the tension became palpable, like a pair of hands wrapped around the neck and gripping ever tighter with each passing moment

“Easy there, fellers,” the red man said. He slowly and deliberately pulled a scroll of paper from his chest pocket. He unrolled the weathered parchment and let one end drop to the floor, revealing a long list of names to the men staring down at him from behind their guns. Many of the carefully written names had large, red X’s hastily drawn over them.

“I ain’t here for all of you.” He spoke calmly and swept across the room once more with those deathly cold eyes. The red man closed his eyes and exhaled. He rested his free hand on the polished wooden handle of one of his pistols, and then looked back up, his eyes narrow and focused like those of a beast upon its prey. 

“But a few of y’all are on my naughty list…”