Merrell's Bottom Dollar


<b>I</b>t was {~|a muggy|an overcast|a dreary} day as Merrell left his rundown hotel and headed for the White Hat Saloon in {~Tuscon|Yuma|Tombstone}, Arizona. In normal circumstances, he would have been able to afford better logging, but all of his coin was tied up for the buy-in on what was probably going to be the most important poker game of his whole life.
As he walked through the door of the saloon, the hot, thick air rushed against his face. There was an astounding number of people crammed into the saloon; surely not all of them people were poker players. Merrell decided that he would spend some time getting acquainted while he waited for the game to begin.
The best place to start in any saloon, naturally, is the bar. The bartender was a woman who looked to be in her 40s with a serious demeanor and a scar under her left eye. On a second glimpse, it occurred to Merrell that he may have misjudged her age and that it was possible that her years had just treated her harshly.
"Where did you get that scar?"
"I'll have a bourbon, please."
"So, what do you know about the game here tonight?"