‘We?’ [ That seems to tickle him -- his eyes are bright, creases cinched in tight at the corners, trace evidence of a crooked grin behind the veil of his bandanna. Filthy water pummels the wide brim of his hat and creeps through the snake-hide texture of his coat, black on black, and he’s having the time of his life. ]

The hell are you talking about, ‘we?’

[ He lifts his revolver into a lazy point at Chilton’s head, taking things from bad to worse easy as the flick of a horse’s ear. ]

You looking for a promotion? Hostage to bandito?

[ Cruel humor twists his brows up into a prompt -- but he’s not angry. More like this is a brand of ambition he can get behind. ]

Better get up off your knees and grab that money bag.