The men in Emma Cullen's personal army are a mismatched crew of misfits and ruffians, just as liable to shoot a son of a bitch as they are to rip each other apart.
This is not, as Goodnight Robicheaux had said, when Faraday still believed the man to be every bit the famed soldier he had heard and read so much about, going to end well.
But still, Faraday stays. Because of a horse in escrow, he tells everyone who asks. Because of a debt in need of repaying. Because Faraday is a man of his word. Because he has an affinity for shiny things, and empty pockets in dire need of filling.
Not because he feels for these people, for their plight, for the shit hand given to them by a crooked dealer by the name of Bartholomew Bogue. Not because he sees a wrong in need of righting, or because for once in his sorry life, he thinks he might actually have the means to help. Not because the men Emma Cullen has hired have wormed their way under his skin, have started crawling their way into something he might call friendship.
No. Decidedly not. He wanted his horse. And saving Rose Creek was a part of the terms.
It's late in the evening when the other men finally trickle away from the table. Horne had abandoned them first, put off his drink and his food by the knowing grins the other men kept sending him. Billy and Goodnight soon after that (and Faraday wondered if he imagined the dark shadow trailing after the two of them). Vasquez not long after, scooping up his hat and parting with an amused, Get some sleep, guero.
They leave behind plates practically licked clean and empty bottles with hardly a droplet left to recommend them. Faraday surveys his surroundings, takes in the silence of the saloon. What tension hadn't already been chased away by the drink leaves his body on a slow exhale, and he sinks into his seat, shutting his eyes against the swaying of the room. For a long moment, he sits there, pretends he's floating along a cool river instead of half-drunk in a darkened groggery.
Wood groans above him, creaks and protests, and Faraday cracks up an eye to the second floor. The shadow of movement beyond the windows' curtains reminds Faraday that Sam had absconded from their dinner early in the night, and now that he thinks on it, Faraday doesn't quite recall the man ever coming back down.
Faraday frowns for a moment, feels that special brand of reluctance to move that comes on whenever he's on the wrong side of the drink, before he forces himself out of his chair with a grunt.
If nothing else, the whiskey in his system means he hardly sneaks up on Sam as he climbs the steps. The wood keens sharply as he ascends, complains as he crosses the landing to the door. The soles of his boots scuff the floor, heels clunking against the planks as he approaches. The hinges of the door squeak as Faraday steps onto the balcony into the night air – still muggy, thanks to the Californian summer's desire to make itself known at every hour of the day, but a welcome reprieve from the day's heat. He quietly shuts the door behind him, the latch catching with a soft click, and Faraday suddenly realizes he doesn't know why he's up here. Just that he feels he ought to be.
He pauses, hand still on the door's handle, before he meanders over to Chisolm's side. He leans against the railing with his forearms resting against the worn, white wood. The town is near silent, save for a few folks still wandering the streets, murmuring and laughing among themselves – a far sight cheerier than Faraday has ever seen them, though a thread of tension runs through their voices, their laughter, their frames.
After a few beats of silence, Faraday clears his throat. ]
[ the plea of a grieving widow and her gentleman caller ought to have been something sam brushed aside. he's many things, but a man drawn to a hopeless, temerarious battle he is not, and he should have left emma cullen behind in amador without a second glance.
but when the name of one of his own ghosts falls from emma's lips, well.
that changes things, doesn't it?
it's the gold sam will claim that sends him scrounging up the mismatched collection of men who now prepare rose creek for bogue's arrival. the offer of everything these poor folks have to give, every last bit of it (because that's truly what it's worth to them), and the pursuit of a man whose list of wicked deeds runs longer than the mississippi — it's what sam uses as his rallying cry for the other six. plenty of money to, in theory, make the risk of their lives seem less daunting in the face of such a reward. but for sam, there's something else that burns just under his skin; something that makes his fingers itch for his gun, for some fierce and vengeful fire that throws his caution to the winds. knowing looks from goodnight are the only thing that hints his intentions aren't nearly so focused on the money (or on justice here); it's not the gold, not the promise of giving these people back their lives.
there's something personal just below the surface — and perhaps that's one reason he can see so much of his own fire reflected in emma's eyes. it's almost like looking into a mirror, that sharp ache for revenge just waiting below the surface.
like an old friend for him to greet, these many years later.
but rose creek itself is a mess, and the men are unprepared and untrained, and even after the time spent teaching them, sam isn't certain most will see the evening after bogue's men ride into town. sam chisolm is not inclined towards false hope, and that realistic intent weighs heavy on his shoulders as he watches these good folks laugh and smile in the streets. one of the last peaceful nights they may ever see, he realizes.
let them enjoy it.
but this late in the night, as the voices have faded out on the first floor of the saloon, sam's already assumed most of the others have turned in. there's work waiting for them in the morning, and with the raucous dinner they enjoyed, food and drink aplenty, he's not surprised they've all wandered their way to bed. but it's the rhythm of approaching footfalls that catches sam's attention, draws his thoughts away from the consideration of the town below, though he doesn't turn to see who's come to the balcony. faraday's hardly quiet as his boots rasp across the wooden floors, and sam just barely inclines his head towards the sound, waiting patiently for the man to join him at the railing.
he catches faraday's shape out of the corner of his eye, but continues to watch the slow milling about of the folks chatting quietly at storefronts and in the well-trodden streets throughout the town. ]
Hm.
[ it's more an acknowledgement than agreement, and sam just watches the townspeople below them, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ]
[ He cuts a quick glance over to Chisolm, notes the faintest curl of his lips with some curiosity. People watching, Faraday believes is the term, though a part of him wonders if it's more like a general surveying his soldiers.
(A dark, cynical part of Faraday just sees a handful of dead men milling about the streets.)
He pulls a cigar from his vest pocket, pulls out his box of matches along with it. The whiskey warming his stomach makes his movements clumsy, but he lights the cigar without incident, the tip flaring as he pulls in a mouthful of smoke. At Chisolm's question, he turns his head, the smoke escaping from his lips. ]
So it would appear. Save for yourself, that is.
[ He replaces the cigar in his lips, takes a few more puffs, before he says in that usual light way of his, ]
Seems to me you've been enjoying the fresh air up here for quite some time.
[ sam watches faraday fumble with mild interest, though he's unsurprised. he can't think of a single night since they met that he's seen the man properly sober, and it seems now is no different.
whatever gets him through. ]
The evening provides some peace and quiet I wouldn't be findin' downstairs.
[ not with their rowdy associates (faraday included). he's glad to know they've fallen into their own sort of camaraderie, really, and he'd been heartened to hear the rounds of laughter that filled the saloon; they'll fight better this way, he thinks, looking back out to the dimly lit streets of rose creek. more to cling to when they value the lives of each other rather than only their own. ]
Might as well enjoy it while the opportunity stands.
[ A mild sort of prompting – it’s a natural conclusion to draw, in Faraday’s eyes. As the fight with Bogue draws closer and closer, Faraday had noted a certain amount of desperation. He’s seen far more laughter and smiles from the people of Rose Creek – and even the seven men Miss Emma had hired – but it’s been the helpless kind. Nervous and a little too punched out, like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff and finding he hasn’t quite fallen yet.
Faraday can’t say that he doesn’t number among them, admittedly, laughing and grinning with reckless abandon. Living his life to its fullest for as much longer as he can. There’s a noose tightening around his neck, and he expects the same must be true of everyone here. Only in a day or two will they find if they’re meant for the gallows.
(And Faraday hopes he isn’t, but if he’s honest, he knows it’s been a long time coming.) ]
Don’t know that there’s much peace to be had here, Sam.
[ as evidenced by the people laughing in the streets, by the way they all seem to reach for cheer and hope when there's arguably little of it to be found. part of sam isn't sure they've truly grasped what they're going to sacrifice for their town (if they'll even make it through), but while the rest of rose creek may have abandoned their homes for a guarantee of safety, these folks remained.
perhaps a testament to the will of man and the power of faith.
or perhaps a demonstration of what it means to truly choose where you're gonna die. ]
Folks will find comfort where they can, Faraday, even with dark days ahead.
[ He lets out a soft, noncommittal sort of sound, hummed out around his cigar. The tip flares to life as he drags in another mouthful of smoke, staring down at the little town. A man sharing a tin of coffee with his father on the porch across the way. A couple walking down the dirt road so closely their sides brush together. A group of four, laughing among themselves in the shadow of the hotel.
Faraday keeps his silence for a moment longer, exhales a wiry bit of smoke through his pursed lips.
Then, in that mild way he so frequently employs, ]
You see these same kinda dark days in Lincoln, Kansas?
now, that question comes...not unexpectedly, but sam doesn't find it to be a welcome one.
the only one among them who knows sam's history is goodnight; the only one of them who's given him those looks, that subtle call of "bullshit" that he hasn't quite voiced aloud.
"she's about the same age your sister'd be by now, huh?"
"yeah. she is."
(and maybe that's another part of it, sam's thought. if his sister had had the years, she'd be emma cullen's age, maybe already married off and enjoying her own life. maybe both of his sisters could've had something they loved just as fiercely as emma loved her husband and loved her town.
maybe. just maybe.) ]
I've seen these sorts of dark days in plenty'a towns.
[ He watches Chisolm by the dim light of the lamp, but he's got as good of a poker face as Faraday has ever seen. Faraday sees little bits of it, now and again, something dark far beneath the surface – the same sort of flicker he's seen in all the other men. Scars hidden deep beneath some carefully constructed exterior.
Sometimes, when Chisolm doesn't think anyone's looking, Faraday catches a glimpse of something. A distant look in his eyes. A hand running along his throat. A look on his face that tell Faraday that Chisolm isn't there. The same sort of look he had seen on Goodnight, that first afternoon in Rose Creek.
Faraday isn't sure if it's dangerous, yet. Doesn't know if it's going to bite them in the ass, like Goodnight's ghosts just might.
He taps ash from his cigar over the railing, lets it fall to the dirt below. Another man would probably leave this alone, considering Chisolm clearly would rather not speak on this.
But Faraday is not that man. And his usual nosy attitude is made all the worse for the drink. ]
Bullshit, Sam.
[ In that uniquely chipper way of his. ]
You've got a personal stake in this fight, and we all know it.
[ lord, but faraday's persistent. sam's known that since he met the man, and it doesn't surprise him now — though that doesn't make the way he pries any kind of acceptable. ]
Only stake I reckon I've got is all they're offering, should we make it through the week.
[ all that gold. everything the town has, but— well, that hadn't been enough for sam at first. hadn't been the right kind of motivator.
not until bogue's name came up to call on sam's old ghosts, now hovering in this small town, hanging over him like a too-dark cloud of promised vengeance.
see this through, and see bogue pay.
and with the same impassive look, that unfazed tone, ]
Thought that would be reason enough for all of us.
[ He makes a dismissive noise, rocking his weight from one leg to the other. ]
Speak for yourself. Some of us just owe a debt.
[ Faraday still hasn't made good on his horse yet, after all.
They both know, though, how easily Faraday could run off into the night with Jack. Wouldn't be the first time he'd done just that, and if he survives the battle, it isn't likely to be the last, either. But something has kept him tethered here, something he doesn't quite understand just yet, nor is he likely to, with only a couple of sunrises left before Bogue is due to arrive.
Another drag on his cigar, and he turns his head a little to blow the smoke up and away into the dark sky. ]
Just wanna figure out the shape of that shadow trailin' after you, is all.
[ He casts Chisolm a sidelong glance. ]
Tryin' to figure out just how hard it's gonna fall on our shoulders, come the day of the fight.
[ It's a funny thing, that first day in Rose Creek. Sam and Goodnight cobble together a plan using Emma's map and any information she and Teddy can offer. It had come as a surprise, just how much Emma knew of the Blackstones' tactics, how they preferred to overwhelm trouble with sheer numbers, how they kept a man or two on high to thin out any possible herds.
(The seven of them exchanged glances all around, and while Faraday wasn't entirely sure, he expected all of them resolved to stop underestimating the widow.)
The thing of it is, though, that in a real firefight, even the most intricate of plans gets thrown out the window. Forces a man to think on his feet, to trust his instincts more than his head. They had the general idea – Kill the Blackstones. Leave the sheriff alive. Don't let anyone else get hurt. – but aside from that, they were left to their own devices, fell back on years of experience to see them through it. And Faraday trusts his instincts. Trusts his reflexes. They've kept him alive all these years, after all, and when bullets start flying, he shuts off his mind. Acts before he thinks.
And somehow, his instincts brought him into the middle of the dirt road. Brought him back to back with Vasquez – that flashy, Mexican cuss – and for a few moments, it was easy, trusting the other man with his life.
A little harder to justify, though, once conscious thought came back into play. Once he realized just what the hell he had done, leaving his back unguarded like that. It's probably why his hackles had raised so terribly, why it translated to a fierce burst of competition in the center of town, goading Vasquez into throwing down.
(Just as well they didn't. If Faraday were honest, as evenly matched as their skills were, the likelihood of them killing one another was far higher than one of them walking away unscathed.)
But Vasquez isn't so bad, he decides after that first night in Rose Creek. Evidently they shared the same sense of humor, the same love of danger, the same penchant for drifting wherever the wind takes them. The man still needles under Faraday's skin, of course, but there's no one that doesn't, even on Faraday's best days.
On the second night, after witnessing just how hopeless the farmers of Rose Creek are at shooting sacks of hay on sticks, Faraday sets to the bottles early in the evening, drowning out that icy coil in his stomach telling him to run. By the time dinner is over and the others have wandered away, Faraday's mind and body is abuzz with the drink, fuzzy and warm and swirling, and he pulls his deck of cards from his waist pocket. ]
Care for a game, hombre? [ The pronunciation on the borrowed word is imprecise, round and lilting – and the wry tilt of his smile betrays that it's willfully so. He cuts the deck in an easy overhand shuffle, hands steady despite the drink. ] Friendly one. No stakes.
[ teamwork doesn't come easy to vasquez. the only back he knows to watch is his own, and that's just the way he likes it. the company of others is nothing he's actively sought in years, not when it's so much simpler to be responsible for himself — and that hardly leaves room in his interests for another soul. that's part of what sits so strangely with him as he's followed chisolm to this little one horse town. it's the sort of place vasquez would avoid altogether, given the chance (too few faces, too easy for him to be recognized, if someone out for $500 catches sight of him), but he's here nonetheless, and that first day, he fights beside those six other men and guns down blackstones without an ounce of hesitation.
(but maybe a little bit of glee.)
fighting beside faraday, however? oh, now that's another oddity that leaves him rankled at first. the gambler talks too much, drinks even more than that, and he provokes vasquez in all the wrong ways. but he'd so easily fallen into letting the other man keep those bullets off his back, just as he'd shot down any gun aimed right for faraday.
teamwork, strange as it was — even if, directly after the skirmish, he nearly has his pistol back in hand with a bullet ready for that very man he'd fought beside. just vasquez's nature, really, and at that point, what did he even owe this stranger that's come along with chisolm? why should he show restraint when faraday's spurring vasquez into a fight? he's not one to shrink from a challenge, but it's undoubtedly in both their favors when that spark is just as quickly doused by more immediate concerns.
but that night in the saloon is strangely lighthearted after the fact, and vasquez finds himself laughing alongside faraday, all sharp grins and whiskey-fueled jokes. he later realizes it's more than he's laughed in...well. a while. it feels good, if he's honest.
(not that he has any mind to be.)
the sound of poorly pronounced spanish draws his attention back to faraday and the cards in his hands, a lift of vasquez's eyebrow offering skepticism in response. ]
I am not sure "friendly" is part of your vocabulary, guero.
[ more than two syllables, after all. ]
No stakes — so you won't start to cheat when you lose?
[ that toothy grin is back, smoothed out a touch by the whiskey he's more than happily imbibed alongside the gambler. ]
[ Faraday should probably scowl at the criticism, should insist on just how approachable he is – he makes his living on it, after all, on coaxing men into friendly games until they start betting more than they ought to part with – but Faraday can't say Vasquez is wrong.
Faraday, after all, is not a very friendly man.
So instead of snapping a denial, his smile merely widens a hair. What he does deny is this: ]
I never cheat. [ A lie, but an easy one. A practiced one. ] And neither do I see a need to, so long as I'm playin' against you.
[ His smile turns into a wolfish grin. ]
I'll go easy on you, even.
[ The cards whisper in his hands as he moves them, the paper hissing as the cards brush against each other during his shuffle. ]
[ ah, but there's that competitive flare in vasquez's chest, a similar urge to rise to faraday's challenge like he'd nearly done earlier in the day — but this time, there's less of a risk that this particular provocation will end in both of them bleeding on the ground.
...in theory.
he straightens up, nudging aside his bottle of whiskey with the backs of his knuckles before pointing a finger at faraday. ]
Anything to wipe that grin off your face is worth my time, eh?
[ a short huff of a laugh, his own smile still in place. ]
[ At the boast, Faraday makes a point of keeping his smile on his face, his eyes narrowing slightly at the challenge. That familiar spark kicks up in his gut, and instead of the easy way he cuts the deck, he sits up in his seat, splitting the deck into multiple packets. The packets turn and twist in his hands – over, under, around. Mesmerizing and complicated-looking, surely, and quite possibly surprising that he can manage it with such ease, despite the drink in his system. ]
Twenty-one? Poker? Hell, maybe even Find the Lady?
[ Though that last one was more of a con than anything – but it certainly felt like a game to Faraday, so long as he was the dealer. ]
[ only the faint rise of vasquez's eyebrow gives away any hint that he might be impressed by the movement of faraday's cards, the little twists and spins of each section catching his gaze, but then he's looking right back at faraday. a short snort at the last suggestion, and he waves his hand dismissively. ]
I'm no easy mark, cabrón.
[ he takes a moment to consider, drawing his hand down his jaw thoughtfully. ]
[ He considers Vasquez for a second, then looks back down at the deck in his hands. He gives the card one last shuffle – a proper one, this time, rather than the flashy trick shuffle that left the cards arranged exactly as they started.
The cards bridge between his hands, and he straightens them, sliding them across the table to Vasquez. ]
You'd better not be makin' up a game just to make a fool of me.
Making a new game would be too much work just to make a fool of you, guero.
[ vasquez is content to just wait and watch faraday with the cards, but with the deck slid across the table to him, he plucks them up without a second thought. he runs his thumb along the short edge, feeling along the side of the deck as he starts to explain, ]
It's simple. We each have a hand of five cards, and there is a third hand, face-down, that we do not see. You can keep your cards at first or exchange them for the hand on the table without seeing what you may pick up. If either of us picks up the spare hand, we set our old hand down as what can be exchanged next. The second time around, we may pick one card or all five or keep our hands. We do this until we keep our hands, and then show the cards.
[ vasquez starts to deal the three hands as he speaks. ]
If we played for anything, you would pay for having the worst hand, and you would continue to pay until you have nothing left. Scores are the same as poker — quintilla, flor imperial, poquer, whatever else.
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the duly sworn warrant officer pls; lmk if i need to edit!
The town itself is hardly a fortress.
The men in Emma Cullen's personal army are a mismatched crew of misfits and ruffians, just as liable to shoot a son of a bitch as they are to rip each other apart.
This is not, as Goodnight Robicheaux had said, when Faraday still believed the man to be every bit the famed soldier he had heard and read so much about, going to end well.
But still, Faraday stays. Because of a horse in escrow, he tells everyone who asks. Because of a debt in need of repaying. Because Faraday is a man of his word. Because he has an affinity for shiny things, and empty pockets in dire need of filling.
Not because he feels for these people, for their plight, for the shit hand given to them by a crooked dealer by the name of Bartholomew Bogue. Not because he sees a wrong in need of righting, or because for once in his sorry life, he thinks he might actually have the means to help. Not because the men Emma Cullen has hired have wormed their way under his skin, have started crawling their way into something he might call friendship.
No. Decidedly not. He wanted his horse. And saving Rose Creek was a part of the terms.
It's late in the evening when the other men finally trickle away from the table. Horne had abandoned them first, put off his drink and his food by the knowing grins the other men kept sending him. Billy and Goodnight soon after that (and Faraday wondered if he imagined the dark shadow trailing after the two of them). Vasquez not long after, scooping up his hat and parting with an amused, Get some sleep, guero.
They leave behind plates practically licked clean and empty bottles with hardly a droplet left to recommend them. Faraday surveys his surroundings, takes in the silence of the saloon. What tension hadn't already been chased away by the drink leaves his body on a slow exhale, and he sinks into his seat, shutting his eyes against the swaying of the room. For a long moment, he sits there, pretends he's floating along a cool river instead of half-drunk in a darkened groggery.
Wood groans above him, creaks and protests, and Faraday cracks up an eye to the second floor. The shadow of movement beyond the windows' curtains reminds Faraday that Sam had absconded from their dinner early in the night, and now that he thinks on it, Faraday doesn't quite recall the man ever coming back down.
Faraday frowns for a moment, feels that special brand of reluctance to move that comes on whenever he's on the wrong side of the drink, before he forces himself out of his chair with a grunt.
If nothing else, the whiskey in his system means he hardly sneaks up on Sam as he climbs the steps. The wood keens sharply as he ascends, complains as he crosses the landing to the door. The soles of his boots scuff the floor, heels clunking against the planks as he approaches. The hinges of the door squeak as Faraday steps onto the balcony into the night air – still muggy, thanks to the Californian summer's desire to make itself known at every hour of the day, but a welcome reprieve from the day's heat. He quietly shuts the door behind him, the latch catching with a soft click, and Faraday suddenly realizes he doesn't know why he's up here. Just that he feels he ought to be.
He pauses, hand still on the door's handle, before he meanders over to Chisolm's side. He leans against the railing with his forearms resting against the worn, white wood. The town is near silent, save for a few folks still wandering the streets, murmuring and laughing among themselves – a far sight cheerier than Faraday has ever seen them, though a thread of tension runs through their voices, their laughter, their frames.
After a few beats of silence, Faraday clears his throat. ]
Awful latish to still be out, don't you think?
also a licensed peace officer yanno yanno
but when the name of one of his own ghosts falls from emma's lips, well.
that changes things, doesn't it?
it's the gold sam will claim that sends him scrounging up the mismatched collection of men who now prepare rose creek for bogue's arrival. the offer of everything these poor folks have to give, every last bit of it (because that's truly what it's worth to them), and the pursuit of a man whose list of wicked deeds runs longer than the mississippi — it's what sam uses as his rallying cry for the other six. plenty of money to, in theory, make the risk of their lives seem less daunting in the face of such a reward. but for sam, there's something else that burns just under his skin; something that makes his fingers itch for his gun, for some fierce and vengeful fire that throws his caution to the winds. knowing looks from goodnight are the only thing that hints his intentions aren't nearly so focused on the money (or on justice here); it's not the gold, not the promise of giving these people back their lives.
there's something personal just below the surface — and perhaps that's one reason he can see so much of his own fire reflected in emma's eyes. it's almost like looking into a mirror, that sharp ache for revenge just waiting below the surface.
like an old friend for him to greet, these many years later.
but rose creek itself is a mess, and the men are unprepared and untrained, and even after the time spent teaching them, sam isn't certain most will see the evening after bogue's men ride into town. sam chisolm is not inclined towards false hope, and that realistic intent weighs heavy on his shoulders as he watches these good folks laugh and smile in the streets. one of the last peaceful nights they may ever see, he realizes.
let them enjoy it.
but this late in the night, as the voices have faded out on the first floor of the saloon, sam's already assumed most of the others have turned in. there's work waiting for them in the morning, and with the raucous dinner they enjoyed, food and drink aplenty, he's not surprised they've all wandered their way to bed. but it's the rhythm of approaching footfalls that catches sam's attention, draws his thoughts away from the consideration of the town below, though he doesn't turn to see who's come to the balcony. faraday's hardly quiet as his boots rasp across the wooden floors, and sam just barely inclines his head towards the sound, waiting patiently for the man to join him at the railing.
he catches faraday's shape out of the corner of his eye, but continues to watch the slow milling about of the folks chatting quietly at storefronts and in the well-trodden streets throughout the town. ]
Hm.
[ it's more an acknowledgement than agreement, and sam just watches the townspeople below them, a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ]
Thought I could use some fresh air.
[ sam finally turns to glance at him. ]
You the last one up?
no subject
(A dark, cynical part of Faraday just sees a handful of dead men milling about the streets.)
He pulls a cigar from his vest pocket, pulls out his box of matches along with it. The whiskey warming his stomach makes his movements clumsy, but he lights the cigar without incident, the tip flaring as he pulls in a mouthful of smoke. At Chisolm's question, he turns his head, the smoke escaping from his lips. ]
So it would appear. Save for yourself, that is.
[ He replaces the cigar in his lips, takes a few more puffs, before he says in that usual light way of his, ]
Seems to me you've been enjoying the fresh air up here for quite some time.
no subject
whatever gets him through. ]
The evening provides some peace and quiet I wouldn't be findin' downstairs.
[ not with their rowdy associates (faraday included). he's glad to know they've fallen into their own sort of camaraderie, really, and he'd been heartened to hear the rounds of laughter that filled the saloon; they'll fight better this way, he thinks, looking back out to the dimly lit streets of rose creek. more to cling to when they value the lives of each other rather than only their own. ]
Might as well enjoy it while the opportunity stands.
no subject
[ A mild sort of prompting – it’s a natural conclusion to draw, in Faraday’s eyes. As the fight with Bogue draws closer and closer, Faraday had noted a certain amount of desperation. He’s seen far more laughter and smiles from the people of Rose Creek – and even the seven men Miss Emma had hired – but it’s been the helpless kind. Nervous and a little too punched out, like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff and finding he hasn’t quite fallen yet.
Faraday can’t say that he doesn’t number among them, admittedly, laughing and grinning with reckless abandon. Living his life to its fullest for as much longer as he can. There’s a noose tightening around his neck, and he expects the same must be true of everyone here. Only in a day or two will they find if they’re meant for the gallows.
(And Faraday hopes he isn’t, but if he’s honest, he knows it’s been a long time coming.) ]
Don’t know that there’s much peace to be had here, Sam.
no subject
Won't stop a man from looking for it.
[ as evidenced by the people laughing in the streets, by the way they all seem to reach for cheer and hope when there's arguably little of it to be found. part of sam isn't sure they've truly grasped what they're going to sacrifice for their town (if they'll even make it through), but while the rest of rose creek may have abandoned their homes for a guarantee of safety, these folks remained.
perhaps a testament to the will of man and the power of faith.
or perhaps a demonstration of what it means to truly choose where you're gonna die. ]
Folks will find comfort where they can, Faraday, even with dark days ahead.
no subject
Faraday keeps his silence for a moment longer, exhales a wiry bit of smoke through his pursed lips.
Then, in that mild way he so frequently employs, ]
You see these same kinda dark days in Lincoln, Kansas?
no subject
now, that question comes...not unexpectedly, but sam doesn't find it to be a welcome one.
the only one among them who knows sam's history is goodnight; the only one of them who's given him those looks, that subtle call of "bullshit" that he hasn't quite voiced aloud.
"she's about the same age your sister'd be by now, huh?"
"yeah. she is."
(and maybe that's another part of it, sam's thought. if his sister had had the years, she'd be emma cullen's age, maybe already married off and enjoying her own life. maybe both of his sisters could've had something they loved just as fiercely as emma loved her husband and loved her town.
maybe. just maybe.) ]
I've seen these sorts of dark days in plenty'a towns.
[ evasion at its finest. ]
Lotta places with brutal odds in brutal times.
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Sometimes, when Chisolm doesn't think anyone's looking, Faraday catches a glimpse of something. A distant look in his eyes. A hand running along his throat. A look on his face that tell Faraday that Chisolm isn't there. The same sort of look he had seen on Goodnight, that first afternoon in Rose Creek.
Faraday isn't sure if it's dangerous, yet. Doesn't know if it's going to bite them in the ass, like Goodnight's ghosts just might.
He taps ash from his cigar over the railing, lets it fall to the dirt below. Another man would probably leave this alone, considering Chisolm clearly would rather not speak on this.
But Faraday is not that man. And his usual nosy attitude is made all the worse for the drink. ]
Bullshit, Sam.
[ In that uniquely chipper way of his. ]
You've got a personal stake in this fight, and we all know it.
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Only stake I reckon I've got is all they're offering, should we make it through the week.
[ all that gold. everything the town has, but— well, that hadn't been enough for sam at first. hadn't been the right kind of motivator.
not until bogue's name came up to call on sam's old ghosts, now hovering in this small town, hanging over him like a too-dark cloud of promised vengeance.
see this through, and see bogue pay.
and with the same impassive look, that unfazed tone, ]
Thought that would be reason enough for all of us.
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Speak for yourself. Some of us just owe a debt.
[ Faraday still hasn't made good on his horse yet, after all.
They both know, though, how easily Faraday could run off into the night with Jack. Wouldn't be the first time he'd done just that, and if he survives the battle, it isn't likely to be the last, either. But something has kept him tethered here, something he doesn't quite understand just yet, nor is he likely to, with only a couple of sunrises left before Bogue is due to arrive.
Another drag on his cigar, and he turns his head a little to blow the smoke up and away into the dark sky. ]
Just wanna figure out the shape of that shadow trailin' after you, is all.
[ He casts Chisolm a sidelong glance. ]
Tryin' to figure out just how hard it's gonna fall on our shoulders, come the day of the fight.
that one asshole pls
(The seven of them exchanged glances all around, and while Faraday wasn't entirely sure, he expected all of them resolved to stop underestimating the widow.)
The thing of it is, though, that in a real firefight, even the most intricate of plans gets thrown out the window. Forces a man to think on his feet, to trust his instincts more than his head. They had the general idea – Kill the Blackstones. Leave the sheriff alive. Don't let anyone else get hurt. – but aside from that, they were left to their own devices, fell back on years of experience to see them through it. And Faraday trusts his instincts. Trusts his reflexes. They've kept him alive all these years, after all, and when bullets start flying, he shuts off his mind. Acts before he thinks.
And somehow, his instincts brought him into the middle of the dirt road. Brought him back to back with Vasquez – that flashy, Mexican cuss – and for a few moments, it was easy, trusting the other man with his life.
A little harder to justify, though, once conscious thought came back into play. Once he realized just what the hell he had done, leaving his back unguarded like that. It's probably why his hackles had raised so terribly, why it translated to a fierce burst of competition in the center of town, goading Vasquez into throwing down.
(Just as well they didn't. If Faraday were honest, as evenly matched as their skills were, the likelihood of them killing one another was far higher than one of them walking away unscathed.)
But Vasquez isn't so bad, he decides after that first night in Rose Creek. Evidently they shared the same sense of humor, the same love of danger, the same penchant for drifting wherever the wind takes them. The man still needles under Faraday's skin, of course, but there's no one that doesn't, even on Faraday's best days.
On the second night, after witnessing just how hopeless the farmers of Rose Creek are at shooting sacks of hay on sticks, Faraday sets to the bottles early in the evening, drowning out that icy coil in his stomach telling him to run. By the time dinner is over and the others have wandered away, Faraday's mind and body is abuzz with the drink, fuzzy and warm and swirling, and he pulls his deck of cards from his waist pocket. ]
Care for a game, hombre? [ The pronunciation on the borrowed word is imprecise, round and lilting – and the wry tilt of his smile betrays that it's willfully so. He cuts the deck in an easy overhand shuffle, hands steady despite the drink. ] Friendly one. No stakes.
u got it amigo
(but maybe a little bit of glee.)
fighting beside faraday, however? oh, now that's another oddity that leaves him rankled at first. the gambler talks too much, drinks even more than that, and he provokes vasquez in all the wrong ways. but he'd so easily fallen into letting the other man keep those bullets off his back, just as he'd shot down any gun aimed right for faraday.
teamwork, strange as it was — even if, directly after the skirmish, he nearly has his pistol back in hand with a bullet ready for that very man he'd fought beside. just vasquez's nature, really, and at that point, what did he even owe this stranger that's come along with chisolm? why should he show restraint when faraday's spurring vasquez into a fight? he's not one to shrink from a challenge, but it's undoubtedly in both their favors when that spark is just as quickly doused by more immediate concerns.
but that night in the saloon is strangely lighthearted after the fact, and vasquez finds himself laughing alongside faraday, all sharp grins and whiskey-fueled jokes. he later realizes it's more than he's laughed in...well. a while. it feels good, if he's honest.
(not that he has any mind to be.)
the sound of poorly pronounced spanish draws his attention back to faraday and the cards in his hands, a lift of vasquez's eyebrow offering skepticism in response. ]
I am not sure "friendly" is part of your vocabulary, guero.
[ more than two syllables, after all. ]
No stakes — so you won't start to cheat when you lose?
[ that toothy grin is back, smoothed out a touch by the whiskey he's more than happily imbibed alongside the gambler. ]
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Faraday, after all, is not a very friendly man.
So instead of snapping a denial, his smile merely widens a hair. What he does deny is this: ]
I never cheat. [ A lie, but an easy one. A practiced one. ] And neither do I see a need to, so long as I'm playin' against you.
[ His smile turns into a wolfish grin. ]
I'll go easy on you, even.
[ The cards whisper in his hands as he moves them, the paper hissing as the cards brush against each other during his shuffle. ]
So? Whaddya say?
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...in theory.
he straightens up, nudging aside his bottle of whiskey with the backs of his knuckles before pointing a finger at faraday. ]
Anything to wipe that grin off your face is worth my time, eh?
[ a short huff of a laugh, his own smile still in place. ]
What are we playing?
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Twenty-one? Poker? Hell, maybe even Find the Lady?
[ Though that last one was more of a con than anything – but it certainly felt like a game to Faraday, so long as he was the dealer. ]
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I'm no easy mark, cabrón.
[ he takes a moment to consider, drawing his hand down his jaw thoughtfully. ]
What do you say to La Viuda instead?
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La... Viuda?
[ He pronounces it with a little more precision than the handful of his previous attempts at Spanish, tasting the sounds carefully on his tongue.
(Later on, once he becomes more comfortable with the phrase, he'll surely return to joyfully mangling the pronunciation.) ]
Don't think I know that one.
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[ it's an attempt that amuses vasquez, but only briefly as he glances down at the cards in faraday's hands, gesturing to them vaguely. ]
Then maybe I can teach you something new, so you can add to the many ways you win money off other men.
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The cards bridge between his hands, and he straightens them, sliding them across the table to Vasquez. ]
You'd better not be makin' up a game just to make a fool of me.
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[ vasquez is content to just wait and watch faraday with the cards, but with the deck slid across the table to him, he plucks them up without a second thought. he runs his thumb along the short edge, feeling along the side of the deck as he starts to explain, ]
It's simple. We each have a hand of five cards, and there is a third hand, face-down, that we do not see. You can keep your cards at first or exchange them for the hand on the table without seeing what you may pick up. If either of us picks up the spare hand, we set our old hand down as what can be exchanged next. The second time around, we may pick one card or all five or keep our hands. We do this until we keep our hands, and then show the cards.
[ vasquez starts to deal the three hands as he speaks. ]
If we played for anything, you would pay for having the worst hand, and you would continue to pay until you have nothing left. Scores are the same as poker — quintilla, flor imperial, poquer, whatever else.
You think you can pick it up?
duly sworn et cetera et cetera