PSL; [FINALLY, SOMEONE LET ME OUT OF MY CAGE]

[accedence]

[Beecher’s Hope is about a twenty minute ride departed from neighboring towns or wandering curiosities, the wooden ranch house obscured by a jagged, cresting hill when approaching from a western direction. In its yellowing fields sits a dusty barn, a corral with restless horses stamping about their enclosures, and stretches of earth, dried and drained from crops that no longer exist. A grain silo stands watch over the land, less a sleeping sentinel and more a forgotten addition — its upper hatch is broken and no longer closes all the way (though it opens just fine), letting in a shaft of light to fall on what’s left of the neglected stock below.

And there’s not much left of it, long ruined by moisture, humidity, and neglect; molded and rotting the same way a corpse does, laying stagnant with no one person interested enough to tend to it. It is, honestly, a waste of food — perfectly good years ago, now just scattered, clumped remains. The whole silo isn’t even filled to the brim, the corn only tall enough to cover the ankle of a man’s boot. Not that there were many people wading through its interior these days.

Usually.

Jack doesn’t care enough to often wander out this far, his interest in ranching and farming and all those secondhand dreams long faded, dried up like the earth around him. But one of his horses has spooked — a black and white spotted thing, he calls him Twister, because he’s always running off and leaving him twisting in the wind — darting out this way like a bolt, leaping over the rails of the corral and knocking rotted wood over with back hooves. He can see him next to the silo, snorting out air through his nostrils, pawing at the dirt in irritation.]

Come on, I don’t got time for this right now, you dumb nag. [He clicks his tongue irritably, trying to shore up patience when he doesn’t have much of it to spare.] Come here, come here—

[Twister doesn’t care for his owner’s placating, half-hearted as it is. Offended at his approach, he gives a loud whinny, lurching up with angry hooves slicing at the air, hitting the old wood of the silo. It cracks and snaps, groaning in protest, setting the horse off even more; Twister twists his body around in the dirt and is off like an arrow shot out from a bow.]

Goddamn horse! [He starts after it, but Jack’s no fool. A few steps and he’s stopped, hand pressed hard against the silo and its new hole, cursing under his breath. His eyes lift to the damage done, and he mutters outloud like he were a man who actually cared about the state of his property, peering in:] Gonna let the damn birds in, now.

Comments

[lawbreakers]

[ 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. ]

[accedence]

[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.

[(So he can boot him off his property.)]

Preferably right now.

[lawbreakers]

[ He realizes a moment too late that his hat is not on his head where it should be. He’d kept it draped over his face while he slept and his scramble to his feet saw the damn thing to the floor.

Truly, he should have known better when he selected this as a hiding place. Only one way in, only one way out, which is a detriment for a man like him. (Of course, the horse proved that the silo is on its last leg, and a few well-placed bullets and a swift kick from his boot could probably see him outside in a matter of seconds. He’ll keep that in mind as a last resort.)

As it is, he spends a precious few moments weighing his options. He could hold his tongue, hope that the man passes by, but with such obvious evidence laying around, he doubts the stranger will leave well enough alone. He could just shoot the guy, but that won’t do him any favors either – he is at a distinct disadvantage if bullets start flying.

With little recourse left, he simply goes with the option that (hopefully) won’t get him shot. ]

Nobody in here but us chickens, amigo.

[accedence]

[He knew there were only two options — either he received a reply, or he didn’t. Even so, the words surprise him, set Jack on edge through habit alone, a thumb pulling down the hammer to his gun. Only half a second later does the quip register in his head, and he exhales harshly, refusing to make it sound like an incredulous laugh.]

Real funny. ‘Specially since there aren’t supposed to be any chickens in there, neither.

[Jack would rather be confused than slack-jawed, and he’d rather be irritated than confused. So he settles for one of the emotions he knows best — plain old weary agitation — and commits himself to his next action: clambering up that wooden ladder to reach the hatch, the silo shaking in time with each heavy step of a boot.

Figuring out what kind of threat now sits inside his rotted grain was priority, and though charging in didn’t do much to keep him safe, Jack’s recklessness pushes him forward more often than not. Gun in one hand, rungs of the ladder in the other, he continues—] You got a name, “amigo”?

[Ratchets up the sarcasm, sure, why not. Anything to steel his spine as he reaches the top, pushes back the hatch, and— well. Slowly peeks in, eyes and gun-first.

Better not shoot him, asshole.]

[lawbreakers]

[ The way the whole structure creaks and rattles is telling enough about what’s going on outside – Vasquez is about to have a visitor. The fact that he didn’t get shot on the first syllable of his rather poor retort is at least something of a good sign, and if his luck holds perhaps this man won’t have seen his face (or the poor likeness of it) printed on a wanted poster with a hefty sum emblazoned beneath it.

He keeps his place with his back to the wall, pistol in hand but certainly not raised like he means to do anything with it. The other hand lays against his vest pocket, as if the presence of the well-world playing card within might lend him some of the luck of its former owner.

At the sound of the hatch – above him and just off to the side – he casts his eyes upward. ]

Sure do. Not much inclined to share if it’s all the same to you.

[ From this angle, he can’t really see who might be looking in on him, but he’d bet his hat they’re armed. ]

You going to let me out of here?

[accedence]

[It smells musty and damp and sickly sweet inside, but Jack doesn't so much as wrinkle his nose when he pokes his head in, eyes following the sound of the voice. He spots a figure with his back pressed against the rotted side of the silo, and then points his gun at him -- a warning, the usual sort.]

Depends on what your reasoning is for thinking you could sit out here in my corn, on my ranch.

[His rotted corn and his neglected ranch, yes, but his nonetheless. Jack is like a wary cat, distrusting for reasons of his own, especially with strangers who intrude upon his property with guns in-hand. His prior experience with similar individuals is less than flattering.

He squints a little to make out his features better, but the shadows aren't doing him many favors.]

[lawbreakers]

[ Probably easy enough to spot the white of Vasquez’s shirtsleeves, but the rest is shrouded in shadow. Works for him for now, but he’ll have to step into daylight eventually. Vasquez has been in worse situations and far more tense stand-offs, but that does little not to put him at high alert, not with a gun pointed his way, even in warning.

Still, he can’t help the incredulous snort that escapes him. ]

Your ranch? What is it you grow here? Mold?

[ He kicks at some of the rotted bits of corn, the toe of his boot scuffing the floor of the silo. There is a reason he chose to squat here, and really, can anyone blame him? The place is falling apart at the seams. Surely no one still lived here.

Or so he thought. ]

Needed the shelter for the night, that’s all. I am happy to move on if you are happy to let me out without shooting me, yes?

[accedence]

Need to know why a man like you is bothering to hide out someplace at all.

[He says, and suspiciously at that, ignoring the insult aimed at his property. Maybe Jack’s biased, being raised the way he was — among men who would call themselves “family” until they were ripped apart at the seams, as all gangs do — but he knows that people who are looking for a shadowed place to stay the night often have trouble dogging at their heels.]

Who you hiding from? This ain’t no place to squat.

[Not much in any direction, unless a man’s willing to ride out to town. There’s a big difference between squatting and hiding, so far as Jack knows.]

[lawbreakers]

[ Of course. Of course, he would run across someone with enough sense to be suspicious. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Faraday’s way with words. That flashy bastard could tell a man to go to hell and he’d be halfway there before he even realized it, but now’s not the time to think on “would’s” and “if only’s”. ]

Don’t see how it much matters. You let me out and I’ll be on my way, and you can forget you ever saw me.

[ Probably not a compelling argument, but it’s all he’s got. ]

[accedence]

Uh-huh. [Jack adopts an annoyingly dismissive air, though it won't last. His true nature, irritable and impatient, is so clearly already brimming under the surface, even as he gestures impassively at the man below with the silver glint of a revolver.]

Y'could answer my question first, and then I'll think about letting you be on your way.

[Suspicious as he is, Jack's mind is already whirring. Trying to weigh his choices dependent upon what the other's reply is.]

As far as I reckon, you got the look of someone who has trouble right behind you. Unless you're going to tell me I'm just biased.