Clint

The cowboy walks into the bar, its occupants, the gentlemen , their respective ladies, and the not so respectable ones go silent at the lone figure in its door, a silhouette against the setting sun. He is cut from stone, a man of the earth. The bustle of life, flowing booze, laughter and chips continue to fall but all eyes are still upon the lone figure as he saddles up to the bar.
The six gun on his hip, with weathered handle in its holster.
where did he come from,
where is he going?
Times lost and the western is dead, but the cowboy continues on, his life his own. The road before fills with wide open spaces and the call of the land.
He is a samurai, his sword ,the big iron of his dead .44
A ronin wandering , his love, his only call...the call of the wild.

The west was won, he is the lone victor.