Pale Rider

James pressed his right ear against the closed door of Room Six with a faint cursive "6" whitewashed into the coarse pine grain. He heard what sounded like the rustling of garments. Then heard a hoarse cough and the scrape of boot heel upon floorboards.
Not bothering to knock, James threw open the door with his left hand and drew the Colt with his right. A dissipated cowpoke, his back to James, was hitching his Levis up over his lizard-skin boots. Miss Lizzie was sprawled under a dingy gray patchwork quilt. The smell of whiskey and spent semen mingled with the fumes from a kerosene lamp set upon a nightstand near the closed window. A tattered shade of faded brown muslin was drawn down even with the ledge of the windowsill.
All the man heard was the cocking of the Colt and Miss Lizzie's startled gasp. James calmly said, "Son, I guess you never learnt rule number one in the cowboy's book of manners. Never, ever, squat on your own spurs."