scurlock | oom: barlow estate (2)

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oom: barlow estate (2)

He sleeps well enough, curled on his side (after he manages to fall asleep, of course, nerves in his belly twisting at him for a while after the drink and conversation) and wakes with the first sounds of someone moving around the bunkhouse.

It's Jim.

Doc gives the older hand a few minutes of head start before he hauls himself out of bed and begins getting ready for the day. He notices that Jim, and the rest of the boys, all wear their guns, so once he's dressed himself, he settles his at his hip.

It's not dawn, yet, not by a longshot, when he makes his way over to the stables and barn in order to check on his horse - and see if Jim wants a hand in getting things taken care of. Might as well offer, after all.

"Hey, Jim...don't forget t'mind your hat," he mentions, quietly, as he enters the barn. His own is hanging around his neck by the cord, where he'll keep it out of reach of the horse as best he can. "You need a hand with anything?"

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"Looks like."

A flock of geese take off from the tall grass a few feet off, on their approach. The area is sparsely wooded, but it's mostly tickseed and tall grass, and cattails where the land turns a bit marshy.

A ways over the fence, beyond the brush, you can make out cotton fields.

"Neighbors."

(The rapid flutter of wings from the rising geese, the rustle of the grass, does nothing to help him try to forget about the day Murphy's men took John. He pushes the tight feeling out of his chest.)

"They got cotton."

It's a statement, more than a question. Jay leads Cortez up to the edge of the damaged fence and then stops, causing the horse to take a few side steps as he surveys the damage.

"Christ, and what else, elephants?"

"Yeah, they got cotton," Samuel says quietly, stonily, eyes on the field beyond as he dismounts.

"Ain't th'only thing they got," John mutters, inclining his chin to the bush, before pointing for Jay's benefit.

The men and women working the field are black, already looking tired, worn, and raggedy.

Samuel stops at the fence, brushing his nose with his thumb absently as he sniffs, staring out at the fields across the way. At some length, he drops his eyes to the fence and begins to assess the work they have in front of them.

He follows the indicated direction that John points out as he climbs off his mount, and his eyes narrow slightly.

"Now I know I'm young, but if I ain't mistaken...President Lincoln had somethin' to say 'bout that, quite a few years ago," he remarks, voice soft with a hint of edge to it, but it's not that rough.

Jay's careful to tie Cortez firm, since he's well aware that this is going to take some time to fix proper.

"He's not the only one," says Samuel, voice even and gaze firmly locked on the fence. You can see the edge on his face, but for all intents and purposes he seems--he sounds--calm.

"Oh, they're hired hands," John says as he dismounts, snorting softly and coming around to Jay's side. "It's all perfectly legal. Jus' forget the fact that they ain't got not one white on their staff, or the conditions they work 'em under, or them supposed wages they earn."

He rolls his eyes and sighs.

Samuel is already working on repairing the fence, quiet and focused.

"Sounds like bullshit if I ever heard it, an' I've heard a helluva lot of bullshit, trust me."

Jay chances one more glance at the cotton field across the way and then shakes his head, before he moves to join Samuel at repairing the fence, the broken wire bent and twisted.

It's obvious this wasn't a minor break, or accidental, but Jay holds his tongue in that regard, as he kneels in the dirt at her father's side.

John may go on for a bit, but that's all Samuel has to say on the matter. He keeps his focus on his work and his jaw shut, dark eyes the color of a sea storm.

Eventually, John gets the hint, and he falls into silence himself.

The fence needs a good deal of work, which isn't a surprise, given just how damaged it is. The three of them keep quiet, and the horses munch idly on the tall grass while standing around, flicking their tails a bit in the hot sun to bat at the occasional fly.

Eventually, the silence breaks, but it's not any of the three of them talking. John and Samuel are working on a tight piece of wire, and he's knelt a few paces off, working on a smaller section when he hears the voices. Faint, but his ears are tuned to it.

(His heart slams against his ribs, and he shifts slightly on his heel, one hand moving to flick that loop off the hammer of his gun in the holster before he even realizes he's done it.)

"Boss," he hisses, low and urgent, to get Samuel's attention.

The tone of his voice gets Samuel's attention, all right. His head snaps around, and he lifts a hand to shush John before the question has time to even halfway leave his lips.

"I hear it too," he whispers, edging closer to Jay without standing to his full height.

Another tense moment of listening.

"I think about thirty yards southwest, beyond the trees there," he tells them, gesturing up a ways beyond cattail and reed, to where there's a small clustering of trees.

John has the loop flicked off the piece at his hip as well, and without speaking another word, Samuel gestures to both men:

'Jay, circle around to the left. John, to the right. I'm going back for my gun.'

They'll pin them down, and then Samuel can see just what the hell is going on on his property.

He nods, once, then draws the Colt from his hip. He's almost grateful for the feel of worn wood against the leather of the glove against his palm, and pulls it back to a half-cock before he glances at John and tips his head.

Let's go.

Whoever it is, whatever they are doing, they are not going anywhere.

Jay keeps himself hidden among the tall grass, ignoring the way some of it sticks to his shirt and pants as he makes his way back around to the left. The ground's soft in spots, which helps hide his footsteps - though there is a bit of mud and water that he has to creep through when he hits the marshy bit of reed.

(He honestly doesn't care about if his boots get wet, at this point.)

The voices get louder as he gets closer to the trees.

Laughter.

"Aw, shit. You couldn't hit a barn door if you were sitting on the handle!"

"Shut yer yap, you peckerwood. I ain't seein' you doin' no better!"

"I bagged them two geese, just last mornin'!"

John is just as quiet on his feet, circling around opposite Jay. They stay soundless, out of sight, moving slow like the wind through the grass, and he doesn't stop until he's straight across from them, where he has them in his sights.

Two boys, no more than twenty. They're still arguing.

Until the click of a rifle cuts through their dialog, and with cussing and flailing they scrabble for their own rifles while Samuel ducks out of the brush dead in front of them.

John is up in an instant, pistol drawn and trained on the two.

And Jay is right there on the other side, gun drawn and a dull fire smoldering in his eyes.

(The urge to pull the trigger and blast both the little shits to hell right that very instant is so hard to fight back that his finger actually twitches against his own will, but he fights it off and sets his jaw.)

"Suggest you boys put those back on the ground 'fore someone gets hurt."

It's not a suggestion, despite the word used in the sentence.

He doesn't say another word. It's not his place.

If there's any question left in those boy's minds, Samuel nods his head from their guns to the earth. "And I suggest you listen to the man."

The guns are back in the dirt before the words have died from the balmy air.

"Don't shoot us, sir!"

"Andrew Crocker, what makes you think I'm gonna shoot you?" asks Samuel Barlow, tone bemused.

(His rifle is still trained on the boys.)

"We was just huntin' game, Sir! N-not so much, just a bit. Sir!"

"I don't see no signs sayin' this here is free huntin' ground!" John snipes. "In fact, I'd say that fence over yonder does a pretty damn good job of conveyin' just the opposite, shitheads."

"You boys do the number on my fence?" Samuel asks, voice still sweet and calm.

Jay says nothing, just watches the situation unfold. He's reading their body language and putting away the ticks and tells in his brain, saving them for later. There are a half dozen things a man does before he moves to draw his gun or go for a knife, and every man is different.

The more he knows, the less likely he is to run into trouble later.

So he stands there, with cold eyes and a gunfighter's stance - ready to hit the deck at any split second - and watches the two of them. Occasionally his eyes will move to John, or Samuel, but his focus is on those boys.

And possibly scaring the ever living hell out of them, but that's another matter entirely.

The boys exchange glances.

They see John and Jay, and they're sure as hell scared out of their minds without that dagger's edge in his gray-green eyes.

"Yes, sir." They're not stupid enough to lie.

"You want to tell me why, boys?" asks Samuel.

There's a moment's hesitation, before one of them plucks up a little courage. "You been botherin' our pa somethin' fierce for a while, now! We was just givin' you a taste of your own medicine!"

That may be a growl coming from John's direction.

Jay does more than growl.

That's it, you little sons of bitches.

He advances one step forward (the boys manage not to step back, but he sees one of them nearly retreat when he does) and then turns his attention, pointing at a tree some distance away. "You see that knot on that there tree, boys? 'Bout midway up the trunk, where the branch is gone?"

He'll wait for them to acknowledge before he continues.

It takes a moment or two for them to direct their attention to where he indicates, given the level of anxiety on their features and the tremble in their hands.

His eyes are cold. Oh-so-cold.

One swallows hard, and turns his head. The other follows suit. When they turn back, the first one nods once.

"Yes, sir?"

Samuel, too, glances to the tree, before exchanging looks with John.

Jay takes one glance over at the tree, and then pulls in a steady breath and glances back at the boys, before he turns the gun and pulls the trigger.

The knot explodes in a shower of splinters, the smoke from the Colt acidic in the air between them.

The entire time, save for that first glance, his eyes have never left those boys.

"You see that?" He questions. "You see that. That's about as far as that fence-line. If you want to to come 'round here and mess with Mr. Barlow's property and give him a 'taste of his own medicine', feel free. But I want you boys to remember that, and don't say I didn't warn you none, you understand?"

The boys duck on instinct, hitting the deck as that bullet scores the tree behind them. John lets loose with an appreciative curse, hooting in amazement.

Jay has their undivided attention, now.

"Y-yes sir! W-we are sorry!"

There's a smirk on Samuel's face.

"Now, you be good boys and tell me: is there anything else you took from me that I should be made privy to?"

"N-no, sir! We jus... we just bagged a couple-a geese and one squirrel, honest!"

There's a heavy pause between them.

"Good boys. I believe you."

They don't have much time to relax, before Samuel is kindly requesting that they get the hell off his property. Which they do, in short order.

And Jay watches them to ensure that they don't get any ideas with those rifles of theirs as they hightail it off of Samuel's land and back onto their own.

Once they're gone, he looks down at the gun and then half-cocks it again, to open the loading gate so that he can replace the spent bullet.

(Always reload after the shooting stops, because you'll never know when it'll start again.)

That done, he reholsters the pistol at his hip.

"Thank God I was never that stupid," he mutters.

Edited 2009-01-16 11:29 (UTC)

"What the hell kinda sap-suckin' peckerwoods... You ain't done diddly-squat to ole Bill Crocker, but I tell you what, I'm-a fixin' to go on down myself and remedy that one part'c'lar oversight!" John hollers, waving his pistol about before holstering it again.

"They're just scared because they know I don't like the way their daddy treats his workers," Samuel says, checking the cartridges in his rifle before snapping the loading gate on the right side of the receiver shut again.

"Gotta be frank with you, boss. I don't think lettin' 'em pass back and forth through your land helps much, in that regard."

"You know my dinner table is open to whomever comes to call, John."

"Yeah, but I'm just sayin', sir." His eyes skate across to where Jay is still standing, and he shakes his head, chuckling. "Hoo-wee, that was some fancy shootin', son!"

Jay pulls his hat off and nods slightly, before he wipes the sweat off his brow and combs his hair back with a hand. Despite the heat in the air, he's still cold. The feeling will probably linger awhile yet.

But the look in his eyes fades quick enough, and he cracks a bare hint of a smile.

"Gotta have quick hands," he says.

"God dang. I don't know 'bout them boys, but I sure as hell think I need to change my britches after that!" John hoots.

Samuel can't help but laugh, sharp and lilting, then. He lifts his hat momentarily to scratch at his brow.

"Shoot, John, you couldn't scare a suckling," he snorts.

He laughs, honestly, along with him.

"Should've warned you, but I was goin' for the surprise an' all," he admits. "Teach 'em to be sneakin' 'round like that. You came clean up on 'em 'fore they even noticed you were there," he comments, to Samuel, pulling off his gloves momentarily to brush his hands clean against his pants, before he tugs the leather back on.

"You learn a thing or two, during a war," he comments offhandedly, leading the men back to the busted fence. He glances over at Jay as they go.

"You know what I mean?"

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