The revolvers hanging from his belt are loaded, but at the moment, Croaker’s hands are busy with the tin coffee cup suspended less than an inch from his lips. He’s a big man of 52, and he carries his weight in front, mostly in a great stomach now clothed in a red shirt underneath suspenders, and pants the same black that his mustache must have been in his younger days. On his head is a white Stetson. He peers into the near distance and finally lets the cup fall, clattering to the wooden railing next to his shotgun, and yells, “Your days robbin’ banks is over, Dalton!”
