gunsmoke n spurs

Perfect.

Birdie's movements were slow. Staggering fatigue performed with a twist of his torso as he felt around for his matchbox. His muscles flexed and twinged with the dull ache of outlaw life as he stood, still patting. Then, the swift click of the hammer as he thumbed it back, and the wink of his pistol in the lamplight. He was aiming it subtly at Will's gut.

This was the worst part. The ambiguity of his silence coupled with the cold detachment of his gun could lead to panic, and the last thing that he wanted was for this fella to take off running. He'd get a bullet in the back and that would be the end of Birdie and Shiloh in Saint Denis.

But this one didn't seem bull-dumb. There was something sharp in his gaze that Birdie could relate to. He'd taken his own eyes to the whetstone time and time again, after all. So he pointed those eyes to the shadowy alleyway that led to the street behind the barber's, where he'd left his horse.

While not a stranger to the sight of such a weapon, Will didn't much care for guns. They were too quick and too lethal all at once. There was no honor in bullets. Even snakes had the courtesy to rear back in warning before lurching forward in a vicious attack. And in trigger-happy hands, blood spilled all too quickly and foolishly.

The tip of Will's tongue pressed against his lower lip, head turning to look over his shoulder. He found himself mostly alone, and his eyes trained back on the gun, then on Birdie.

He knew it was unwise to provoke. But, at the same time, there wasn't much Will Moody had to his name other than his dignity. He was a proud man, refusing to grovel or show any sign of concern aside from his grit teeth and the slight rattling of his hands.

So he didn't rush and took his time drawing in and releasing a breath. His words were slow and practiced when he asked, "Reckon yourself a tough guy, hm?" Still, he displayed his surrender by raising his hands to show he got the hint. He dropped them as not to rouse suspicion and let his eyes train on the alleyway, undoubtedly where this man was trying to lure him.

"Least you could do now would be to give me that light... 'Fore you start causin' a ruckus... attractin' eyes."

For now.

In the back alleys, street kids smoked. Along the main artery of the city, red-cheeked patrons of the Théâtre Râleur and the Bastille saloon guffawed onto the sidewalks, delighting in the evening's civilised misadventures.

From a bench across the street from the Bastille, a lonely smoker watched the wealthy from beneath the brim of his worn hat. He sat with his left ankle resting on his right knee, gloved fingers hooked around the former. Every now and then, the burning amber of his cigarette glowed brighter, and nostrils flared as the man's inhale tickled the bottom of his lungs. He watched.

They'd need only one. One hostage would be enough to negotiate safe passage from the register to their horses, at least. Hell, if they got two, they might be able to make more demands, but two was always tricky. One of them might get ideas, and ideas are dangerous little sparks that might just massacre their chances of escape. Best to snuff out an idea with fear, and fear was best induced with isolation.

And so, Birdie waited. Perhaps Shiloh was having swifter luck.

Off to gather more paint, he'd explained. What coats clung to the ceiling of the Moody's front porch had begun to chip, and they couldn't afford to leave themselves unprotected against the restless spirits traveling the corpse roads. By the time Will had made it to town, a different kind of gathering had struck his attention.

Workers clustered outside of the railway stations, voices hoarse from the afternoon's wear and tear. Will found his place among them, shouting at whoever cared to listen, shouting louder at those who refused to. It wasn't until punches were thrown and guns were drawn that he ducked and managed to clamber away from the chaos.

By the time he made his escape, the general store carried two remaining cans of haint blue. It took some haggling, but Will walked away with both tins stacked atop each other. He planned on spending the rest of the evening leaned against a street lamp with a smoke before heading back to the swamps. Once he placed the cigarette between his lips, he patted his pockets only to find his matchbox missing.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before a familiar smell caught his attention. The trail brought him to a bench. After placing the paint cans on the cobbled street, he turned to face his company, eyeing him steadily.