On the barren word of Andros, a quiet man reached a lone town in the middle of a rocky field where a battle once took place. The buildings were small and made out of anything the citizens could find after the Civil War. Horses were a strong means of transportations on the world, and so the man arriving also had one trusty steed under himself. The rider wore a dark green poncho, a pair of durable trousers, boots, spurs of course and a black cowboy hat. On his belt, covered by the poncho, there were a pair of revolvers and a row of bullets. Hanging from the saddle was a holster for a rifle similiar to an old Winchester.
He rode throught the busy town, looking at the gunslingers spitting on the ground, leaning onto walls and looking at the newcomer most probably on orders from the mayor. The horse stopped next to the saloon, letting the rider off to tie the beast down and then walk inside. Some gunslingers followed the rider inside, watching he didn't cause any ruckus. By the bar, the new man ordered a whiskey and set himself down on a stool, seemingly not even noticing the looks laid upon him by the gunslingers around him that worked for the mayor.
"Our posturings, our imagined self-importance,
the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe,
are challenged by this point of pale light.
Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark.
In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves."
- Carl Sagan