(Untitled)

[most_feared]

Who: Kurtis Cunningham, Nathan Desaid, and Bruce Wayne
What: Two lawmen go to pick up a potential murderer and there is cagey conversation
When: After this.
Where: Desaid's Ranch, Bargewood
Warnings & Notes: I would predict swearing

Comments

[fivestepsahead]

It was a good thing that Bruce wasn't much of a man of words either. The silence was comfortable to him, and he took the chance to watch Cunningham- there was a lot that one could find out about a man from the way he handled a horse and how he rode. Bruce had heard things about him- about both Desaid and Cunningham, really, though never much together, and though he wasn't a man who used rumours as a basis for his opinions, they were sometimes useful.

Bruce saw the body, and even as he nodded to acknowledge the words, he stopped his horse and leaped down from it. He tied it before walking over to the body, not yet acknowledging Cunningham's words.

There was a moment when he turned the body over, placing a hand to the throat- no pulse, of course, and the skin's cold even though the sand here was hot. That part of Reaver's story was right, at least. Kid's shot through the back. Poor thing.

"Aye, I know that much, at least," he sighed. "Man's not a nuisance 'round town, and he's not a bad sort. And I've seen enough bad sorts ta know one when I see one."

His own brother was one, after all.

He stood up, seeing Desaid in the house. He turned to Cunningham, "Want me ta give ya a couple of moments alone? I know ya know 'im from before."

[most_feared]

He watched as Bruce checked the boy's pulse. Seemed a little off. But Desaid wasn't shooting at them (yet, anyway). "Put him on the back of my horse behind the saddle, I'll go talk to 'im first if'n that arrangement's agreeable."

Even if it wasn't, he still went to talk to Desaid first as recommended, walking up on the porch. He didn't shy from that shotgun, just put his hands in the pockets of his long overcoat. "Didn't think I'd hear your name again."

He looked back to Bruce and the young man, the motion of his eyes indicating more what he was wondering about than any questions that he actually spoke out loud. "You might remember mine. Cunningham. Texas. Must have been two goddamn decades ago."

Still, no questions pertaining to what happened. But he wanted him to know first what was Desaid's business was his business and vice versa. Maybe not trust, but an understanding before he tried to find out what in the fluttering fuck happened out there.

[impure_tale]

Desaid watched him long and hard, his face unmoving. The faintest glimmer of recognition did find his eyes, but his fingers tensed ever-so-slightly on the barrel of his gun. This was already going to be an uncomfortable venture underway, already his actions scrutinized, judgments cast -- this was not new; he was accustomed, and he did not live his life in a way that excluded such things from his existence. There might even be the end of a rope in his future. Or perhaps exile again.

What he didn't want, was this. What he didn't want, was more reason to stack against him. Old faces meant memories. Meant secrets, things he had believed safe.

"You come to arrest me?" he asked.

[fivestepsahead]

He let Cunningham go, watching them from under his hat even as he picked up the boy's body gingerly and carried him back to the horse. He was careful with the corpse, all respectful-like because- well, this was a man once, one with full potential.

He learnt to read lips while he was away from town, at the big city getting an education (what he learnt was something far more than what people expected him to, really), and though he knew his duty was to say yes to Desaid's question, to step forward and cuff him, Bruce didn't.

It was obvious that Cunningham had some kind of information. So he just, stood back for a bit and... watched. Listened and waited. Not interfere in the conversaton- not just yet.

[most_feared]

"Yeah, Nathan." He nods. "I figure I did." Which, if Mr. Wayne was waiting on details, he wasn't getting them. Mr. Cunningham was too much of a gentleman to talk about it out loud.

"If you got a piece to say, I'd say it with the gun down. Sound has trouble gettin' past a barrel 'cause the only word people can think about 'bullet'."