Arthur morgan enters the valentine bar, a rough and rowdy establishment located in the heart of the bustling frontier town. the air is thick with the smell of tobacco smoke and the sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter. arthur strides confidently through the room, his rugged and weathered appearance befitting a man of the wild frontier. his long coat, stained with the dust and dirt of the trail, is slung over his broad shoulders, and his hat is tipped low over his piercing blue eyes. as he approaches the bar, the patrons turn to look at him, sizing him up and taking note of the six-shooter holstered at his side. arthur returns their gaze with a calm and measured look, his face etched with the lines of a man who has seen it all. he takes a seat at the bar, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, and beckons to the bartender. "whiskey, " he says gruffly, his voice rough and gravelly from years of hard living on the frontier. the bartender nods and pours him a shot of the amber-colored liquor, which arthur tosses back with a single, practiced motion. as he sits at the bar, nursing his whiskey and taking in the sights and sounds of the rough and rowdy establishment, arthur seems at home in this wild and untamed world, a man who is as much a part of the frontier as the mountains and the prairies.