It wasn't as if the man now laying in the dirt outside of the saloon were a bad person. By anyone's definition, he could be called a layabout, a moocher, or just plain unsavory, but certainly not a bad person. The best word that could be used to describe him was a drunk. The reason he found himself lying in the dirt was because he was penniless, and was not able to pay the bar tab he'd accrued the night before. He wasn't even sure how long he'd been there. All he knew was that the sun was scorching, and that he had a hangover that could slay even the mightiest of outlaws. This combination was the reason he continued to lie in the dirt, rather than to get up and do anything.

Mind, a man such as him should not have had a reason to be penniless. His now red soil caked clothes were those of a person who was well off. His vest, worn over, what was hours ago, a pristine white gentleman's blouse, was tailored to his form, in fact, all his clothing was that of aristocracy. All of it was made from expensive materials, and put together in the Queen's own country. Even the silver watch in his vest pocket was a sign of a well to do man. It was a gift from his uncle, a higher up within the Western Pacific Railroad Company, and it bore an engraving of the driving of the Last Spike, for which his uncle had been present.

This did not matter much, though, as the uncle had disowned the young man all too recently for his uselessness and his drinking habits. He groaned a little. The heat was starting to become unbearable, and he needed to get out of it. He also needed to find some quick cash, which would be very difficult for a young man with no discernible skills. Ever so slowly, he sat up and got himself off the ground, brushing off the red clay soil.

"Well, Miles..." He mumbled to himself, looking around for someone who looked well off enough that he could attach himself to for the time being. "You've really got yourself into a mess now..." He groaned, rubbing his temples. It was going to be a long day.