The vault

The marshal leaned against the rough timbered wall to steady himself, looking down at his naked torso. His dark gingham shirt and jeans lay neatly folded on the seat of an old chair, his boots and Stetson dropped next to it on the wooden floor. His pale, hairless scalp, chest, and arms were in sharp contrast to his brown sun-wrinkled face. Ain’t much to look at, he thought, eyeing the sagging folds of skin on his chest and abdomen. My muscles is all turning to flab.