He strode into the dusty bar, which smelled of sweaty men and hard spirits all baked in the heat of the desert sun. No wind blew in through the swinging batwing doors and the air was stifling. His right hand hovered near the butt of his pistol. His left hand pushed back the brim of his hat.
The man seemed to shimmer, reflecting light from the outside and the dim, oily light of the lanterns that hung from the rafters. Seeing him, Horace the bartender gulped nervously.
"Is he an angel," whispered Jimmy the washer boy as he passed one of the tables while carrying a tray of empty mugs.
"No," whispered the man at the table. "They call him Glitter Pants."