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]

[ 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.