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. ]