As the dust settles out on that ol' lonesome trail, a trio of weary tone wranglers amble towards what they hope to be a place of refuge for the evening. The men have journeyed for what seems like years, and the sights along the way have become monotonously familiar. As the unknown destination draws closer, the sounds of sweet tone fill the air. The smell of melting solder fills their tired noses, and glowing bottles reflect in their eyes like embers in a dying campfire. A man appears from out of the shadows and says, "Welcome to Greerville. Check your guns at the bar, kick off your boots, and sit a spell. We don't want no trouble 'round here, but we sure hope you'll stay and do a little pickin'."