The panel doors whisked open. A tall man Gil had never seen in town before staggered in. He looked chilled to the bone. And hurt. Well Gil could fix that. Get him drunk if he wanted. Warm him up and wash all his pain away. The man scanned the room. Other patrons raised their heads, took in the dust, sweat, and blood sprinkled on the man, determined he was much like every other patron, and went back to nursing their drinks and problems. Gil could not tell if he was looking for someone specific or simply letting his vision adjust to the inside of the dim saloon.

The man swaggered up to the bar, head down, hiding his features under his onyx Stetson hat.

"What'll it be stranger?" asked Gil.

A gruff voice rose from beneath the hat. "Need to sterilize the dust in my throat."

Mick butted in, stumbling towards Gil and the stranger, sloshing his own drink. "Spaghetti cider is what you need brother."

"Spaghetti cider?"

Gil glared at Mick, backing him away from the stranger with his fiery gaze. Mick had a bad habit of encroaching on other's space. Then, to the stranger, "It's a fermented tomato ale, but everyone calls it cider."

"Pass."

"Whiskey then." Gil produced a shot glass and a bottle of Thark's. "Best whiskey in all of Tharsis. That's not saying much though."

The man's metal hand clinked against the glass as he snatched it up and slammed the shot in one motion. Aside from that quick motion, the man kept his head down and Gil still hadn't gotten a good look at his face. Oh well. If the man wanted anonymity, so be it.

"Water," he croaked.

"Water's extra."

The stranger nodded, so Gil slipped a half glass in front of the man and poured the cool clear liquid.

The stranger took a gulp, then slowed, sipping the water, savoring it. Gil served several other patrons, but the stranger tugged at his curiosity. The man tilted his ear towards the keyboard bot playing the synthwave ragtime version of She'll be Comin' 'Round the Asteroid Belt. He nodded his head to the tempo and grinned.

Gil limped back over to the man. He made a point to gaze at a patch of dried blood on the man's flesh hand. "Hard day at work, huh?"

"You could say that."

"You with the oxygen treatment plant?"

The man shook his head.

"Water plant?"

Another shake.

"Bullet train railman?"

"You'll never guess."

The man didn't want to talk, so Gil didn't press him. A gnawing feeling crept from his gut up into his chest. The counter next to the man's cup remained void of a comm unit, which meant no creds or tip.

Gil suggested a plate of hot food would pair well with the drinks, testing the stranger's gall. The stranger obliged, taking the bait. "Better have creds to pay," Gil muttered under his breath. Then to the man, "You want real meat? Synthetic is cheaper. Comes in a nice brick shape, like meatloaf."

"I'll spare my intestines. Give me the real deal."

Gil had to hold back from violently shaking his head as he put the order in with the kitchen. After a few minutes he slipped a steaming plate of real meat, albeit a small portion, along with some veggies and mashed taters. The man inhaled the food. It did not seem to Gil that he appreciated the organic goods. A homely meal back on a wealthy planet like Terra. But here on Rubrum, it was a delicacy to the layman.

Gil noticed the man's skin, though of a dark tan complexion, did not have the faint red hue of a native born. "I don't peg you for a union worker. What brings you to Tharsis?"

"Just visiting."

"Here?"

"Naw. Mars."

Gil guffawed through his gapped tooth grin. "Nobody just visits Mars, man. You a homesteader? Got you a government plot of land from Terra?"

"You could say I'm here searching for truth. You right about one thing. I am from Earth."

At the mention of the mother planet, several sweaty patrons came to a full stop, eyeing the stranger.

Gil gave a nervous laugh, trying to deflate the trouble before it started. He didn't need roughhousing in his saloon. He'd been joking about Terra. He didn't realize the man was actually from there. "So, you really just got here. We don't say that name 'round here, proper or not. Brings up certain...unpleasant feelings in the locals."

The stranger grinned at the other patrons in unbelief. "Touchy. Okay. Meant no harm by it."

Just visiting from Earth. That told Gil about all he needed to know. Gil's gapped tooth smile vanished and he scratched the thick scar on his leg, just above the knee. It seemed like all his years of pent up frustration and anger came to a focal point in that scar. Whenever his irritation rose, that spot itched something fierce. But it wasn't proper to scratch your pants so much in public, especially not when you served people food and drinks with those same hands.

Something the man said stuck out. "Searching for truth, huh?"

The brim of the man's hat lifted. A faraway look appeared in his green pupils, like twin gun barrels pointed dead ahead. Gil shivered against his will, then shook it off and sniggered. "What is truth, right?"

"Truth always leaves a trail. And sometimes—" he gulped the water, "it's a trail of blood."

Gil's arm hairs stood on end. It wasn't because the man said it in a threatening way. It was the surety with which he said it. The stranger spoke from experience. Years of it. Gil frowned, unsure if he agreed. The only truth he regarded were creds for a day's work.

The stranger didn't seem to realize he bothered Gil. Instead he elaborated.

"Truth is, I'm looking for a feller. Royce Rothspalt. Might go by the name Roy."

Other patrons stirred at the mention of the name, but Gil maintained his composure. "Never heard of him."

The stranger grunted. "He's pretty infamous. Back on Ear—Terra. Rip-Roaring Roy some call him. Maybe you seen 'im."

"Depends. What's he look like."

The stranger described Roy in a methodical way, moving from the head down to the feet, like Roy was an object, not a person. The visitor was starting to smell like a lawman, but Gil just kept polishing the glasses.

"Never seen a man matching that description. But if someone possessing that name and description crosses paths with me, I'll let them know you're looking for them. Mister?"

The stranger declined to give his name. "That's alright. I'd love to surprise him. Been awhile since we...interacted."

"Uh huh."

Gil didn't like the man's cocky demeanor. So sure of himself. You don't just waltz down the ramp, fresh off the shuttle from Terra and expect welcome arms from Rubrum. Gil knew from experience. He'd earned his place though. It sure helped that his establishment existed to put people in a better mood.

He scowled. This was his establishment. He didn't need no smug Earther souring the saloon's vibes, especially if the feller was a lawman.

"Wouldn't serve you," growled Gil, "had I known you was Terran."

The saloon grew quiet as the other patrons scooted to the edge of their seats, waiting for any excuse to pounce on the Terran.

The stranger retorted without skipping a beat. "Guess you won't need any of these Terran creds. Thanks for the free meal."

The stranger turned to his side, disregarding Gil, unaware of the unease he caused, resting his ribs on the bar and lit a cigar. Even the smell of it was foreign to Gil. Alien.

Gil chastised himself for feeling fear. His hands grabbed a rag and polished a perfectly clean glass with vigor. He decided right then, there was something odd about the stranger, a feeling he couldn't shake. But he didn't have to like the patrons.

So long as they paid.

Gil shot Mick a look, giving him a nod. "You's gonna pay Terran. One way or another."

Chairs made loud scooting noises as local boys from every table rose to their boots, clenching fists.

As if he read Gil's thoughts, the man flashed him a metal star confirming his lawful authority.

A sliver of light caught the star and the name under the badge. Irving. Gil's breath caught in his throat. He knew that badge.

A vivid recollection tore him away from the saloon, from Tharsis, even from Mars, back into a memory.

He practically tasted the fear as he had laid on the asphalt, leg bleeding. Gasping and groaning on the ground, he had fought the urge to cradle his leaking leg as his fingers scraped the blacktop, attempting to crawl towards the gun that had been ripped from his hand. The silhouette of a lawman had overshadowed Gil like a blanket woven of pure trepidation. He had waited for the hammer of the gun to fall, like a gavel pronouncing his life was over. But the shot never came.

"Like it or not boys, I'm a lawman. Interfering with my mission earns you cold barrels and charged slugs."

The words spoken by the same man snapped Gil back, years forward, to the saloon.

Gil did not nod in agreement, nor did he condemn the man. He simply gripped the bar's edge and plastered on a thin-lipped, dry mouth grin, trying to match the man's gun barrel gaze with daggers of his own.

His voice squeaked. "Meal and drinks are on the house."

The men scowled at Gil, masks of confusion staring at him first, then open disappointment. Their chance to smash a Terran's face was getting up and leaving.

Without another word, the lawman left.

Did he recognize Gil? Would he be back? No, Gil had a clean slate.

The saloon owner held the edge of the bar in a vice grip well after the man left, wrestling his doubts.

"Why'd you let that Terran walk, Gil?" asked Mick. "Look like you seen an honest-to-God Martian."

The saloon owner snapped his slack jaw shut. His eyes never left the swinging sheet metal doors, as if the lawman might enter again and shoot his other leg.

"Know who that was?"

"Who Gil?"

"One of the deadliest lawmen to ever walk Terra. That was Trace the Ace."

The boys grumbled, but none pursued the stranger.

Mick slammed his pint glass down, sloshing excess ale all over the counter. "He might be someone back on Terra, but he's waaay out of his jurisdiction."

Gil ignored the comment with the shake of his chin, but he couldn't muster up a counterpoint. His bad leg throbbed.

But no, drunken Mick was right.

The authority the star held meant nothing here on the red planet.

Or it shouldn't. But Gil knew in his heart of hearts something as intangible as territory lines, Terran or Rubrum, would do nothing to stop a man like Trace the Ace from his duty.

Luckily Gil had a favor to call in with the men who did run this county-state. Their authority outranked the stranger's any red day of the week. They were the Law of the land, and they chomped at the bit to exact justice on those that crossed the line.

Gil wrestled with the pettiness of placing the call, but only for a moment. Gil had his own authority within the walls of the saloon. This fine establishment was his by blood, sweat, and spit. His only truth was creds for services rendered, but no offering had been made.

No. That lawman had it coming. If he wanted to follow the bloody trail of truth, so be it.

While he was at it, Gil figured he better contact Roy too.