The Lone Wolf

     I shivered as he entered the room. I had heard his name in the the past, but this was the first time I had seen the man himself. He stood tall and proud, like an oak tree towering over the forest. A long brown coat swung behind him hanging from his broad shoulders as if he had a pair of leathery wings. His beard was made of rows of small thistles that connected to his wavy brown hair. There was a smell in the room, as if you were in an old library filled with dusty leather-bound books. The skin on his face and hands had been worn out, looking like it was made of sandpaper and cooked by the heat of the sun. The spurs on his boots jingled like deadly silver bells. Sunlight from the windows reflected of the metal of his gun, creating the small twinkle of stars at night. As he walked to the bar and ordered his drink, he spoke with a low raspy voice like the distant humming of a lawnmower. He sat there, as if there was no one else in the bar, a lone wolf.