[ There are probably stories out there, dime novels sold in the more civilized parts of the world, that would paint the life of an outlaw as one of danger and intrigue, that to be a wanted man is to be a cunning rogue over whom the ladies swoon.
That is, in Vasquez's very extensive experience, a load of horse shit. There is no paltry sum on his head, $500 will make a bounty hunter out of most cowboys with a gun and half a brain, which means that he spends most of his days on the fringes of society. He avoids settlements as much as he can, doesn't show his face much, and puts on a mean air when he does. The less people look at him, the better. His nights are spent under the stars, in abandoned mountain cabins alongside the fly-bitten body of the place's last unfortunate owner, or tucked inside whatever sorry excuse for a structure he can find. It's not glamorous or romantic – it's dirty and unpleasant, and oft punctuated by the angry sounds of a hungry belly.
He'd thought the ranch abandoned when he saw the sorry state of the place (or what he could of it, beneath the light of the moon), and the cracked-open silo seemed as good a place as any to tuck himself into for the night. The rotted remains of the stock at the bottom of the silo hardly seemed a bother compared to some of the places he's slept, and it was easy enough to shove it all aside to give him room enough to sleep.
A light sleeper by necessity, the sound of hoofbeats in the early morning are quick to rouse him. One of his twin pistols is in his hand the instant he gets to his feet, pressing himself against the wall of the silo. At first, he's not certain the horse has a rider, until a distant voice reaches his ears, and he could kick himself for his carelessness. Either he's not the only squatter here, or the place isn't as abandoned as he first thought.
With luck, horse and man will move on, none the wiser, even when the damnable beast kicks a hole into the wall. Vasquez is fairly certain he's out of sight, except for one tiny problem – he's left his hat sitting on the floor of the silo, in full view through that hole. ]
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That is, in Vasquez's very extensive experience, a load of horse shit. There is no paltry sum on his head, $500 will make a bounty hunter out of most cowboys with a gun and half a brain, which means that he spends most of his days on the fringes of society. He avoids settlements as much as he can, doesn't show his face much, and puts on a mean air when he does. The less people look at him, the better. His nights are spent under the stars, in abandoned mountain cabins alongside the fly-bitten body of the place's last unfortunate owner, or tucked inside whatever sorry excuse for a structure he can find. It's not glamorous or romantic – it's dirty and unpleasant, and oft punctuated by the angry sounds of a hungry belly.
He'd thought the ranch abandoned when he saw the sorry state of the place (or what he could of it, beneath the light of the moon), and the cracked-open silo seemed as good a place as any to tuck himself into for the night. The rotted remains of the stock at the bottom of the silo hardly seemed a bother compared to some of the places he's slept, and it was easy enough to shove it all aside to give him room enough to sleep.
A light sleeper by necessity, the sound of hoofbeats in the early morning are quick to rouse him. One of his twin pistols is in his hand the instant he gets to his feet, pressing himself against the wall of the silo. At first, he's not certain the horse has a rider, until a distant voice reaches his ears, and he could kick himself for his carelessness. Either he's not the only squatter here, or the place isn't as abandoned as he first thought.
With luck, horse and man will move on, none the wiser, even when the damnable beast kicks a hole into the wall. Vasquez is fairly certain he's out of sight, except for one tiny problem – he's left his hat sitting on the floor of the silo, in full view through that hole. ]