[Jack wouldn’t recognize any subtle evidence of a man squatting in his silo, not enough of a reliable overseer to notice the small tells — the scuffling of grain in places where it wasn’t before, a trail cut through like someone might’ve walked past, or valleys in the corn where awkward steps were pressed into the grain. Were he here often enough, the signs would be clear; but he can’t even remember the last time he poked his head in this decades-old thing, making sure no scuttling rodents or stubborn mammals were making their nests somewhere in the shadows.
Luck would’ve been on someone’s side if he walked off, seeing no issue beyond the fresh new hole now splintered in the wood. But that rope of morning light, cutting in through the hatch, lands squarely on what he’s fairly certain doesn’t belong in there — a man’s hat, lying there as-you-please, and one he sure as hell doesn’t recognize.
Jack’s face angles itself into a frown. He can’t see much farther in, his viewpoint narrow and not allowing for many angles, and the lighting is dim. Could’ve been a squatter, come and gone. Could be a squatter, still hanging about. Could be something worse, a government man in a dark suit hiding out in his goddamn silo, wouldn’t that be a laugh—
His hand immediately draws his pistol, always hung at his hip, and Jack considers calling out to see if anyone’s there, but it seems like a fool thing to do, announcing his presence outright. Yet anyone with a working pair of ears would’ve heard his spat with his rebellious horse (now disappeared behind a lonesome tree in the distance), so maybe the point was moot. He’d have a bullet through his skull right now if someone meant to kill him, a thought which just irritates him more.
His eyes drift over to the ladder which leads up to the upper hatch, though he calls out towards the hole. Towards the… hat.]
If someone’s in there, it’d be wise of you to let me know.
no subject
Luck would’ve been on someone’s side if he walked off, seeing no issue beyond the fresh new hole now splintered in the wood. But that rope of morning light, cutting in through the hatch, lands squarely on what he’s fairly certain doesn’t belong in there — a man’s hat, lying there as-you-please, and one he sure as hell doesn’t recognize.
Jack’s face angles itself into a frown. He can’t see much farther in, his viewpoint narrow and not allowing for many angles, and the lighting is dim. Could’ve been a squatter, come and gone. Could be a squatter, still hanging about. Could be something worse, a government man in a dark suit hiding out in his goddamn silo, wouldn’t that be a laugh—
His hand immediately draws his pistol, always hung at his hip, and Jack considers calling out to see if anyone’s there, but it seems like a fool thing to do, announcing his presence outright. Yet anyone with a working pair of ears would’ve heard his spat with his rebellious horse (now disappeared behind a lonesome tree in the distance), so maybe the point was moot. He’d have a bullet through his skull right now if someone meant to kill him, a thought which just irritates him more.
His eyes drift over to the ladder which leads up to the upper hatch, though he calls out towards the hole. Towards the… hat.]
If someone’s in there, it’d be wise of you to let me know.
[(So he can boot him off his property.)]
Preferably right now.