ᴊᴏsʜ ғᴀʀᴀᴅᴀʏ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peacemakers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
etceteras2017-01-16 04:20 pm
peacemakers) wrote in etceteras2017-01-16 04:20 pm
the whole world sitting on a ticking bomb;
[ Faraday is a natural showman.
Part of his problem, he supposes, how naturally he's drawn to the spotlight. How quick he is to step into the center of attention, spinning some half-remembered incident into a captivating story. He grins and he laughs and he revels in the understanding that, at least for a little while, the men with whom he's drinking aren't likely to shoot him before the week's through.
And that's what Chisolm's little assembled team is, really – killers. Ruthless in their own ways. Faraday's own list of murdered men isn't nearly as prolific as the legendary Jack Horne's, nor is it as storied as Goodnight Robicheaux's, but he supposes he's merely here to pad out their numbers. Not that he isn't a fair shot in his own right; Faraday figures if you take the skill of all of the men in Rose Creek, they still wouldn't reach Faraday's level.
It's been a few nights, now, their days spent in hard labor, in trying to teach a handful of farmers how to hold a gun, how to actually hit what they're firing at, and it's going about as well as Faraday ever expected: badly. But Sam seems to see some potential, even if hardly anyone else does Faraday supposes it takes guts for these men and women to stand up to a mean son of a bitch like Bart Bogue. That has to account for something.
Not much, but something.
It's late in the evening by the time the saloon starts to clear out. Faraday's sides ache from laughter, the corners of his eyes wet with tears, and he scrubs them away with the back of his wrist, grinning. Horne had wandered off earlier in the evening to return to his little tent on the banks of the creek. Goodnight and Billy had excused themselves to the boarding house, and Sam— well. He was doing important things, surely. Faraday leaves all that business to him.
Which leaves him and Vasquez in the relative silence of the saloon, a whiskey bottle – still mostly full – between them. Faraday doesn't get Vasquez, and that goes beyond finding his manner of speech nearly intractable. He gets why Horne and Sam are here – some misplaced sense of honor, Faraday guesses, of wanting to help the helpless. Goodnight is here for the gold, and Billy is here for Goodnight. Red Harvest is...
Well, who the hell knows with that one?
And Faraday is here because he owes a man a horse.
But Vasquez's motivations are a little tougher to pin down. Maybe some outlaw with a heart of gold. Maybe he truly just wants Sam off his tail. Maybe he's just some capricious son of a bitch who does whatever sounds fun. (Faraday can relate to that last bit, at least.) And Faraday is curious, tends to stick his nose where it's not wanted, asks too many questions. Vasquez is exactly the sort of knot he likes to prod at, to unravel – someone unlikely to make it too easy on him, someone liable to bite and snap at him and give him a challenge.
Faraday kicks up his feet on an empty chair, pulls his cards from his vest pocket and shuffles them idly. Even with the alcohol clouding his head, his hands still move with certainty – riffling the cards, bridging them, cutting them between his hands. He flashes a crooked smile at Vasquez from across the table. ]
Care to see a trick?
Part of his problem, he supposes, how naturally he's drawn to the spotlight. How quick he is to step into the center of attention, spinning some half-remembered incident into a captivating story. He grins and he laughs and he revels in the understanding that, at least for a little while, the men with whom he's drinking aren't likely to shoot him before the week's through.
And that's what Chisolm's little assembled team is, really – killers. Ruthless in their own ways. Faraday's own list of murdered men isn't nearly as prolific as the legendary Jack Horne's, nor is it as storied as Goodnight Robicheaux's, but he supposes he's merely here to pad out their numbers. Not that he isn't a fair shot in his own right; Faraday figures if you take the skill of all of the men in Rose Creek, they still wouldn't reach Faraday's level.
It's been a few nights, now, their days spent in hard labor, in trying to teach a handful of farmers how to hold a gun, how to actually hit what they're firing at, and it's going about as well as Faraday ever expected: badly. But Sam seems to see some potential, even if hardly anyone else does Faraday supposes it takes guts for these men and women to stand up to a mean son of a bitch like Bart Bogue. That has to account for something.
Not much, but something.
It's late in the evening by the time the saloon starts to clear out. Faraday's sides ache from laughter, the corners of his eyes wet with tears, and he scrubs them away with the back of his wrist, grinning. Horne had wandered off earlier in the evening to return to his little tent on the banks of the creek. Goodnight and Billy had excused themselves to the boarding house, and Sam— well. He was doing important things, surely. Faraday leaves all that business to him.
Which leaves him and Vasquez in the relative silence of the saloon, a whiskey bottle – still mostly full – between them. Faraday doesn't get Vasquez, and that goes beyond finding his manner of speech nearly intractable. He gets why Horne and Sam are here – some misplaced sense of honor, Faraday guesses, of wanting to help the helpless. Goodnight is here for the gold, and Billy is here for Goodnight. Red Harvest is...
Well, who the hell knows with that one?
And Faraday is here because he owes a man a horse.
But Vasquez's motivations are a little tougher to pin down. Maybe some outlaw with a heart of gold. Maybe he truly just wants Sam off his tail. Maybe he's just some capricious son of a bitch who does whatever sounds fun. (Faraday can relate to that last bit, at least.) And Faraday is curious, tends to stick his nose where it's not wanted, asks too many questions. Vasquez is exactly the sort of knot he likes to prod at, to unravel – someone unlikely to make it too easy on him, someone liable to bite and snap at him and give him a challenge.
Faraday kicks up his feet on an empty chair, pulls his cards from his vest pocket and shuffles them idly. Even with the alcohol clouding his head, his hands still move with certainty – riffling the cards, bridging them, cutting them between his hands. He flashes a crooked smile at Vasquez from across the table. ]
Care to see a trick?
no subject
Difference being that we both know what I'm saying. Hardly sporting, babbling on like you do when we both aren't in on it.
no subject
Do I strike you as a good sport, guero? Because I assure you that I am not.
no subject
I remember. See if I ever take it easy on you again, chivato.
no subject
[ The last thing he wants is Faraday to go easy on him. Whatever scraps or disagreements they have, aggravating as they are, he would rather win them fairly. Or as fairly as either of them ever do anything. He steps aside to let Faraday pass, giving the other man his distance before heading off to his borrowed room.
Oh, he's going to regret this in the morning, but right now? He can't say he does. ]