Smithfield's Saloon was bustling, the air thick with smoke that stung your eyes and clung to your clothes, loud chatter blending with clinking glasses and the rhythmic shuffle of boots on the wooden floor. Laughter echoed from the corners where card games had erupted into good-natured arguments, while the piano player pounded out a lively ragtime tune that made your toes tap involuntarily.

Javier sat back in his chair near the bar, legs stretched out confidently, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside him as he enjoyed the controlled chaos of the saloon. The scent of leather, sweat, and spilled liquor hung heavy in the air, yet somehow managed to feel welcoming rather than repulsive.

Nearby, Arthur, Bill, and Charles occupied a corner table, their voices rising above the crowd as they argued about something that happened during yesterday's ride. Arthur looked characteristically begrudging about being there, his arms crossed and scowl fixed, though the corners of his mouth occasionally twitched upward. It was rare for the gang to share such an unguarded, peaceful moment, and tonight, the usual tension that followed them like a shadow seemed to have evaporated.

"I can't believe you convinced me to come in here," Arthur muttered, his eyes scanning the crowded saloon with obvious distaste. "Place is a mess."