The streets of Ghost Town.

A desert landscape, out of which rises a scene straight out of a spaghetti-western. Old buildings, lonely streets. Wooden and crumbling brick facades standing sentry over the abandoned land like old soldiers, scarred by the battles with dust and wind and rain and heat, strong and stubborn, staring at each other across a narrow strip of dust.

Silence, for the most part, reins in the daylight hours, when the heat of the day keeps those who so choose to make this place home indoors, either home or else near a watering hole that they choose to drown their sorrows in.

As evening falls, things may liven up a bit, and with the approach of night's darkness feasting upon the land, there may be more revealed stil..

But this place will never lose that sense, that image or feeling of timeless exhaustion.

Of ghosts and watchfullness.

Of silence.

It is as evening falls that the faint, rythmic sound of silver spurs chiming in time to the metronomic sound of boots clocking their way into the streets. A gust of hot, dry wind blows, ripping dust and sand from the earth and swirling it around, a twisting, whirling dervish of a dust devil straight out of desert legend. The gust of wind gusts hard one final time before dying as suddenly as it came, and the dust and sand drop abruptly to the earth as though it had been a mere puppet whose strings had been cut, and out of the cloud comes walking a man.

He is the epitome of every Old West, dusty, rugged gunslinger that ever strode the lonely roads and pathways of the desert. Tall, wearing a broad-brimmed gunslinger's hat, a dark grey duster, jeans, spurred boots and a faded shirt, the only thing that stands out of the ordinary on his person is around his neck - a thick, silver rope-style chain, from which dangles a single, teardrop-shaped, jet black stone amulet.

The wind gusts slightly again, just enough to open the duster and push it back to reveal, on either hip, the silver handles of two very old-looking, very large pistols, placed in worn but well-cared-for holsters. He walks along with a steady stride, right down the center of the street, before stopping at just about the mid-point of the main thoroughfare of the town.

From under the hat, all that can be seen of his face is a strong chin, unshaven, and a mouth that is generous but hardened, though at the corners one can see what may be smile-lines. The rest of his face is hidden in shadow, with the exception of his eyes - ice-crystal blue, very active eyes, which never seem to stay on any one thing for more than a few moments, just long enough to assess it, before moving on to the next.

"Feels just like home t'me."

The voice is low, husky and gravelly, but with a certain, musical twang behind it - the unmistakable touch of Texas.

Y'all.

Fred McCarty, the gunslinger Guardian, had just walked into Ghost Town.

His ears catch the whistle, a single, long, piercing note that cuts through the silence like a knife through warm butter. A signal of some kind, perhaps?

As soon the whistle fades to silince, he spots the small, black-furred animal. His eyes, skilled at picking things out of a dusty backdrop through long practice, recognize it as a dog.

As it runs up to him, he kneels slightly. He's always like dogs of any size or temperament, and has largely had little difficulty getting them to make friends. This one, however, seems to have some other agenda.

It runs around him, one, two, three laps before darting off to a large, old-looking and run-down hotel whose sign names itself as the Penny Moon Hotel.

And there it stops, right at the door, sitting down and letting out a volley of continuous barking. Not angry barks, or warning barks - he knows those sounds by heart, has heard them plenty. This one is slightly different, as if the dog were trying to call him closer. He'd know that sound, all right - he had heard it often enough in the various dogs he had cared for at one point or another, when they were looking for food. Or company.

"All right, li'l lady, hold yer horses. I'm a-comin'."

How does he know it's a girl? Well...he has really good hearing, come to that. The pitch of the bark tells him.

He walks over to the hotel, his stride that same, steady, metronomic pace, clocking solidly along as he walks over to the building and ascends the stairs. As he reaches the top of them, he kneels again, putting a hand out for the dog to scent. "All right, li'l girl...you gonna come make friends, or you gonna lead me somehwere else now?"

He is still, keeping his hand out as the wolf scents him. He'd been taught, as a child, that when making friends with an animal - particulalrly canines - it's best to let them get comfortable before making a move. As the animal sniffs past his hand, he moves, slowly, unhurriedly, running his calloused fingers into its fur. No shortage of muscle under that coat, but not a lot of fat - someone cares for this animal, and cares for it well.

As the wolf heads to the door after sniffing him out, he stands again, coming to his feet in a smooth, unhurried motion. What he's not expecting is the face beyond the door when it opens. Ice-crystal blue eyes look her over once again, a faint pulse of crimson light shining for a moment in the depths of his gaze, easily visible under the shade of his broad-brimmed hat. Imagination and sharp senses lend weight to that stare as he assesses the woman, those eyes of his seeming to x-ray her as his gaze travels along her form.

Just two gunfighters, giving each other the once-over. Right?

As she steps back to let him in, a slight grin touches the corners of his lips. "Much obliged, 'Jezebel'," he says softly, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers, the classic gunhand's salute. With that same, classically unhurried stride, he steps over the threshold, into the shaded interior of the old building.

The smells and sounds - old wood and dust, the groan of a building protesting the heat, the smell of frying grease and the soft babble of people talking amongst themselves - all remind him of home, of a time long since past. Until she speaks again, he's lost in memories. But the words are welcome.

"Well, you'd be right on that account, ma'am. But it'd go down a lot better with some good company. And by the way, the name's McCarty, if'n you'd be so kind."