As was often the case, Fawn was the first to notice a newcomer. Even so, she didn't pay much mind to the girl, at least at first. Not until, that is, Owen also caught a glance of her over the rim of his glass of gin.

	Nudging his sister and whispering sharply, he hissed "Fawn! That's Annie Oakley! The sharpshooter, the one from the circuses and all that!" He shot another quick glance at the gunslinger, somewhat in awe. He'd heard tales of her, some probably true, some which couldn't possibly be. Sure, she could probably kill a cricket at forty yards, on a good day. Everyone had their talents. But the idea that she had out-ridden Yellow Horse, or that she could hold her hand above flames without feeling the pain of their tongues... well, some things just couldn't be so.

	Fawn was less in awe. Turning immediately, she stood and moved a couple stools down, next to the famed sharpshooter. She motioned for Owen to do the same, and with a moment of hesitation, she did. Extending a hand roughened somewhat by a life of hunting and tracking, she introduced herself.

	"Fawn Farrow. And you're Miss Oakley, if I'm not mistaken, isn't that right? It's a pleasure." She motioned behind her. "The fellow over there trying to look all suave is Owen, my brother." She looked carefully at Annie for a moment, reading her expression as well as she could, while taking a swig from her glass. People usually assumed they weren't related, and the questions of that nature had begun to wear on her after years of it.

	Owen looked rather unsure of himself, his hand still near the split of his vest, ready to go for his Derringer at a moment's notice. He felt jumpy, despite the relaxed atmosphere of the saloon. He'd been out in the wild for too long, perhaps. Even so, he nodded his agreement with Fawn's words, waving his hand casually to the legend seated a few stools away.