May 20, 1934
The dust was everywhere. In his hair, in his teeth, in his clothes. It was in the floorboards of the now empty home, the empty beds of his family, on their silent corpses, in the empty cabinets of the kitchen. For twenty year old Jack Reed, dust was all he had left of the life he once knew. Both his land and his family were nothing but dust. It swirled around him, attempting to swallow him up and take him away with the rest of them. The hand gun in his father's holster called to him. It coaxed him to join them all in the fate that they met. What was left for him? There was no money nor food left for him to live off of. There was no family to love him, no education to carry him. All that was left for him was dust.

With a trembling hand, Jack held the gun to his temple. It had been a good six or seven hours since the events of the night had occurred. The bodies of his brother, sister, and father had gone cold and their blood was turning a brownish color. And Jack had spent those hours sitting against the wall, in a daze of confusion and devastation. In the swirl of it all, this seemed to be the only way out. A bullet in the brain would do him proud. Or would it? What would his father think? His brothers? God? Jack scowled at the very idea of it. Why would God do this to him?

In a sudden fit of anger, Jack straightened the gun and squeezed the trigger, only to hear an unsatisfying click. He slowly opened his eyes and pulled the gun away from his temple. He checked the chamber only to find it empty. Of course. His father had fired all of the bullets at the band of criminals. Leaning back against the wall once more, Jack let out a weak whimper as a stream of tears began to flow down his face. It seemed his face was permanently damp from all the crying. What else was he to do?

"What did I do to deserve this?" he cried out, his fists clenched and his eyes swollen shut. He had called out many times during the past few hours. To whom, he wasn't sure.

Jack's hand let go of the gun, letting it slip onto the wooden floor. He couldn't bring himself to fetch the bullets to fill it. He knew, regardless of what had happened, he didn't have it in himself to take his own life. Would his death mean nothing more than that of his family's? No, he couldn't let his family die like this. He was the last of the Reed children, still breathing. He would make things work. As Jack sat against that wall, the desire for vengeance became much stronger than the desire to die. He decided he would live. He would set things right, he would go after those men. His body filled with an undying rage as he slowly got to his feet. Jack Reed was going to avenge the death of his family.

Two pairs of tires kicked high into the air of the long road that afternoon. The dryness became static, maddening in a way if it hadn't been for the engine rumble of a lone car. The sky remained an unwavering, unblemished blue; the sun now an enemy to its earth. This day was no different than the last, along with the days and months that came before it. The sun rose, the dry earth heated and cracked and sweltered below. Perhaps the world would split open and the parched ground would swallow in on itself one of these days. That is, if it wasn't for each new blanket of dust that came rolling in. It rose with the breeze and it settled in the stinging heat, layer upon layer as if to bury all traces of life beneath it. A blanket that served no good for the earth, no protection and comfort. Mother Earth tucked in her barren crops, a fruitless punishment that served no good. Even the crows found little to peck at. But it was not entirely still and desolate everywhere. Life went on, though begrudgingly, and those who had the will found a way. In the heart of the cities, in the cast out fields and plains of the country where green perished both in the soil of the land and in the wallets of most. Life everywhere boomed the decade before. Why should it die now?

A man like Declan Lancaster had pulled some strings. Metaphorically, yes, but quite literally in his own line of work as a violinist. A social frivolity but frugal at heart, he played his cards right even through the lowest blows of the economic and geographical crisis. He wasn't flashy about living comfortably – he had a place to sleep, meals to eat and his list of employers was not sparse to say the least. Perhaps it was his grandfather to be thanked for his modest affluence. His small possessions, the clothes on his back, what money he had in his trouser pocket. Even the dated, black Ford could all be credited. Could be, it seemed, if Declan hadn't stopped roadside on account of his tire. He'd already passed through the city, made it beyond a considerable span of land some miles from the hem of town and parked neatly on the side of a road which, frankly, didn't seem to be all that much of a road any longer. He drove solo, accompanied only by a worn, wooden instrument case fastened in the passenger side door and nothing but farmland until he'd reach his next point. At 29 years old, wife and childless and his heritage a walking American contradiction, Declan found himself with minimal suffering. Amazing as it may seem.

He found no reason to worry crouched down at the side of his Ford, inspecting whatever damage had been done at his car's left shoulder and narrowing it down to a faulty tire. It would certainly put a delay on his travels. But with scattered farm houses lying ahead and the city no more than a few miles behind him, it wasn't as if he was stranded, not when an oncoming buggy had stopped beside him and three men his age hopped out of their top-down in unison. Perhaps if he were lost he would have fared better against the events thereafter, when he found himself smashed against the hood of the tire, shot forward full-force followed by an entire cosmos of color and stars flashing behind his eyes at each blast against metal, rubber, and knuckles. It was a cowardly attack, but a ruthless one at that. Declan was in no position to counter them, to defend himself from each unfair blow. He felt his clothing ransacked until each pocket was emptied of his money, Ids and whatever loose lingering coins had been scrounged as well. He felt the side of his forehead swelling into a knot almost instantly, his temple splitting, and if he wasn't mistaken by its incredible warmth a sticky stream of blood running down the side of his head and soaked up finally by the collar of his shirt. Miraculously enough, his teeth and nose had been spared despite being slammed almost face-first into the side of his automobile. If this was how he was going to die it sure wasn't a death to be proud of, and oddly enough Declan felt more disdain at the thought of his violin being stolen than his life.

The morning came quickly, the sunlight accompanying the sound of singing birds. With each waking hour, Jack's rage grew and grew. It swelled inside him until it almost nearly consumed him. He dug a plot in the yard near his mother and brother's graves, big enough for the three of his family members to fit in. Perhaps if he wasn't in such a rush, he would have taken the time to dig three individual plots. But vengeance waits for no man.

Upon buring his father, brother, and sister, Jack returned to the house. He searched every corner, every hole, every square inch of that house, nearly turning it inside out in the process. If he was going to set out on this quest, he would need to bring whatever food and money the family had left. After nearly two hours of searching, it was not looking good for Jack. The men had taken a good portion of what little the family had left. By the time 9:00 am rolled around, he had nothing more but twenty five dollars and two jars of beans. That was until he perched on an old trunk in his parent's bedroom, burrowing his face in his hands out of frustration. He kicked his heel back against the trunk out of anger, only to hear a loud thud. The trunk certainly contained more than Jack had originally thought.

Out of both confusion and curiosity, Jack opened the trunk. He had gone through it earlier that morning only to find clothing. But there was definitely something more in there. He threw out all the clothing onto the floor until he reached the bottom of the trunk. This time, he noticed that the bottom of the trunk was not only uneven but was not sealed. Reaching down, Jack pulled up the flat piece of wood to reveal a folded blanket. He unraveled it carefully, finding an aged hand gun and an envelope. Inside the envelope was a thin wad of cash, adding up to $200. Whatever excitement Jack had was being suppressed. He couldn't bring himself to smile yet. But he couldn't help but feel more optimistic.

Everything was set. His bags were packed, his guns loaded, his money secure. It was nearing noon by the time Jack exited the house and made his way to the stable. Without a car to travel, Jack was left with only one option - horseback. The Reed's had sold close to all of their livestock earlier on. However, two animals remained. One of which was Clover, his father's horse. Clover was remarkably healthy and was well fed as he was the only horse left. Jack was unsure how long Clover could help him for but he intended to keep him alive and safe as long as possible. With the sun beating down on the thirsty land, Jack took off, headed north.

The tire tracks in the dust pointed north. Jack's father was the real tracker of the family but Jack had picked up quite a bit from him. He intended to keep on the trail of the tracks until they went off the road. Jack was sure these criminals did not live in the city.

As his horse maintained a slow gallop, Jack began to make out something in the distance. He squinted through the swirling dust, trying to make out the scene that was at least a hundred feet infront of him. As he neared closer, he could faintly make out two cars and three humanoid figures. No, four. One was collapsed on the ground, barely moving. It appeared that the other three men were searching the man on the ground...and then shredding through the contents of his vehicle. Jack's stomach quickly began to spin, an odd mixture of anxiousness and excitement inside him. Were those the men? Could he really be so lucky as to stumble upon them after a mere twenty minutes? Only time would tell.

Approaching the scene, Jack pulled Clover to a stop and pulled the two hand guns that were holstered at his hip. If he acted now, he could catch them off guard, as they were preoccupied with the car. "Good afternoon, men," he announced his presence before shooting the third man in the gut and holding the other two at gunpoint. He noted the close to unconscious man laying on the road, as one of the men had what looked to be an instrument case in his hands. Looking at them now, in the daylight, he knew these weren't the men from last night. He could just take off right now if he wanted to. But what kind of man would that make him?

"That don't belong to you," the young man said from atop his horse. The whole thing was very unlike him. But this new found rage had turned him into an entirely different person.

It didn't take long for Declan to go down. Not with three men and the surprise of being rammed head first into his car. It left a dent, that's for sure, one that Declan likely wouldn't see. Perhaps so, if their attack hadn't been disturbed. To both his luck and misfortune Declan went out easily, even while he was croaking out each time a foot lodged itself forcefully beneath his ribs, to his side and even his back when he'd been flipped over finally. Had he been awake throughout it would have been downright shameful for a man who was no stranger to throwing a fist and popping a few noses if necessary. And in the back of his mind – the deepest, darkest regions of whatever lingering consciousness, he was right there wailing himself along with these men.

Declan had seen and started his fair share of fistfights. In the seedy alleyways of the ghettos, the run down speakeasies as a teenager. It was all the same, violent dance ever since he'd grown enough muscle to pack a punch. He wasn't angry, not like the bitter men who'd starved, strained, suffered growing up in tenements, all packed in like sardines. It wasn't out of hurt or fear or some sort of retribution, but out of sheer boredom and the thrill of a brawl that kept him on his feet. Usually, at least. Perhaps at heart he was nothing but an Irish thug, a no-good troublemaker with privilege as his fallback. Did he lack the blunt, burning passion that grew inside of someone who had all the more reason to pick fights and hunt men? Maybe. But Declan wasn't an aggressor and never needed to be. All it took was a cool laugh and a wrong look to get someone fired up, usually in a crummy sort of town, and if someone invited him to a match then all the better. He didn't rest well at the idea of settling into a life without adventure.

But Declan didn't have a single second to get a solid glimpse of his attackers. A cheap shot, if you ask him, but a fight wasn't what they were looking to get. They wanted money, they wanted his car and they wanted to rob him of every notable cent that he was made up of. Most of all, they wanted Declan smashed into the dirt before he could note their faces.

The men were spooked as soon as the first blast sounded. They hadn't even noticed Jack approach by horse, too busy scrambling around and kicking up gravel to both rob and subdue their target and barking orders at one another to hurry and take what they could. When the first shot had been fired time froze and what was left of the men had halted in their tracks. The third, busy at work counting through the bills of Declan's money clip was the only body that crumpled in on himself. He collapsed without a single sound, soaking the the thirsty dirt with blood. The other two looked up to Jack, bug-eyed and mid motion, tempted to flee altogether. But Jack already had his two pistols locked on them as if to dare them to move. To so much as take a single step in the opposite direction.

Declan seemed to come to by this point. He stretched his sore limbs out with a groan, picking his face up from the ground and worked through figuring exactly who was responsible for the sudden ambush. Narrowing it down to the men crouched over him and not the one sitting horsetop, pistols ready, he raised himself onto his elbows and spit what tasted like a combination of saliva and blood. Finally, now that he'd gotten his bearings together and the world wasn't a complete see-saw, he narrowed his eyes at the one holding the wooden case.

“It's none of your business doing this!” One of the two men had shouted to Jack, timidly looking back and forth between him and the body. “You murderer, you'll be put away for th –!” But he was cut short when a pair of feet came slamming against his knees. His howl seemed to set the last one in motion, dropping whatever was in his hands and spiraling whichever open direction to escape.

The sudden attack by the man on the ground caused Jack's eyes to dart away from his target momentarily. He hadn't noticed that the man was awake yet. Upon the attack, the one man left standing had made a run for it, his boots kicking up dust as he ran. He was smart enough not to waste his time with starting up the car but stupid enough to believe Jack was going to let him get away unscathed. The rage had driven him mad - his hesitance to shoot or kill had nearly dissolved. His discretion barely functioned at this point. He wouldn't be traced for a crime committed against a couple of robbers out in the desert land.

Narrowing his eyes, Jack adjusted his pistol, aiming it at the running man's foot. He shot at it twice, watching the man tumble to the ground, a flurry of dust flouting up as he fell. It was at this point that he turned his attention to the two men on the ground. The one man had lacerations and bruises scattered all over his face and appeared in bad shape. The thought occurred to Jack that, if he had not intervened, this man would have met the same fate as his family.

With swiftness, he dismounted the horse, pacing over to the robber on the ground. Without any hesitation or warning, Jack laid into the man's face with his fist, hitting him until he passed out. Panting heavily, he straightened up again and pushed his hair away from his face with a blood stained hand. It scared him that he could do such acts without the thinnest shred of guilt. Jack had never felt such a burning rage before. The desire to kill or harm another man had rarely occurred to him throughout his life. He was known as the peaceful child. The only that consistently obeyed and made sacrifices to keep the peace. Now, peace was the last thing on his mind.

"You hurt bad?" Jack finally addressed the man that had been ambushed, extending his hand to him to help him to his feet. The third robber was about fifteen feet away, attempting to get back to his feet. Jack, however, was not worried about him. He had something in mind for him and he wouldn't be going far in his condition.

Declan watched as the man ran with all of his might only for his feet to fail him with those two shots. He didn't flinch, be it from his head pounding or his senses dulled from the noise he wasn't quite sure. One thing was certain though, that this new man had it out for these men – for whatever reason, the young man poured every ounce of passion straight to the finger that pulled the trigger of the pistol and saving the rest for the firm beating the next and final man took to the face. He wasn't more than a few feet away before being taken care of as well, only this time with a pair of fists. Declan was on his back, propped up by his elbows and his neck craned curiously to watch. Two lines of blood, both from his nose and the gash of his lip made a steady stream to his chin. One eye was already swollen and limited his vision. But he'd be damned if he missed this kind of action, especially from a farm boy.

And just like that, after each smash of Jack's rampant fists against the final man's face, he was out like a light. Declan became an observer, almost as if he'd fizzled off into nothing and was a ghost by then. Jack seemed to thoroughly tenderize the last criminal, and with piquing curiosity he watched the kid deliver each blow. It was impressive to say the least, but for a boy Jack's age it was mind blowing how mechanically he moved from one to the other, as if checking them off of a list. He was on fire, the kind that burned someone from the inside out. A dangerous, growing thing. But Declan didn't feel the heat, even as he sounded off his pistol; even when the face below his fists crunched. He laid there as an idle observer, someone miles and miles away until finally Jack stood up and extended a red hand.

Luckily Declan's limbs managed to be unbroken. He checked his teeth with a run of his tongue over them. Bloody, but all there, followed by a nudge at his nose and finding that it too had survived the attack. Bumped and bruised maybe, but nothing broken but his skin and perhaps an ounce of pride. With that luck, he straightened his wool jacket, finger-brushed his hair as best as he could and turned to the young man who'd quite possibly saved his life.

“I'll be hurtin' for weeks. But 'm not dead,” the Irish panted, stood crookedly, then turned his eyes over to the struggling man some ways away. He was somewhere between a pathetic crawl and stumble, with a good trail of blood leaking behind him. “Where'd a boy like you learn to shoot like that?”

Jack merely grunted at the man's response, only slightly lightened by the fact that the man had managed to come out of the attack without any major injuries. His mind was on the crawling pathetic exuse for a man some ways down the road. He would get to him with time, he just wanted to make sure he didn't manage to pull something while Jack wasn't paying attention. He felt it was his personal duty to rid the world of these men. While they had not wronged him nor gotten away with their attempted robbery of the man that stood next to him, Jack was sure they had gotten away with the robbery and murder of others.

The man's question prompted a pain in the back of Jack's throat, the urge to cry tugging at his eyes. He would've thought that, after crying for seven hours straight, he wouldn't have any tears left in him to shed. Such an assumption would be wrong. Furrowing his brow and blinking the tears back, Jack gained eye contact with the man for the first time. "My father." He then pulled one of the pistols from his holster and began to stride forward towards the crawling man. "'Scuse me for a minute."

It didn't take long for Jack to catch up with the last man, a trail of blood leading Jack straight to him. He seemed so pathetic, squirming and dragging himself under the unforgiving sun. The dust swirled about with each gust of wind and even when Jack pulled along side the man, he continued to move forward. It was not until Jack physically stood in the man's path with his gun drawn that he began to plead.

"You don't have to do this. I won't go the authorities about what you did, I promise. It was all their idea anyway. They blackmailed me into helping them, I wanted no part of this! Just let-"

The man's voice was replaced by the piercing sound of a gun shot, a neat hole now ran through his head.

"Shut up."

With that, Jack returned back to the scene of the crime, holstering his weapon as he walked. He wasn't necessarily worried about the man who had been ambushed. He doubted he would go to the authorities with what Jack did after he had saved him his life, his possessions, and money. Besides, the man looked as if he were the type of person to look the other way.

Returning to the scene, Jack ran a hand through his hair once more before saying another word and extending his hand.

"Name's Jack."

By the time Jack was finished with the three men the crime scene was a scattered mess. Blood, brain and bodies littered the roadway and they, or rather Jack, was fortunate that another car didn't pass by in the time it took him to slay them. Declan looked about with a curious scan as he gathered himself, yet there was only so much one could do after a good roll in the dust. That, and he was certain that his clothing was ruined on account of all the blood.

While Jack seemed to waste no time with hearing what the criminals had to say, he walked with the gait of a man well beyond his years and with no mercy left to spare. Which was why Declan was all the more interested in how such a young man could look another straight in the eyes right before firing a bullet between them. He wasn't so much spooked by it as he was astounded that someone so young could have the will to do so without a second thought or a single hesitant finger on his pistol. Then again, Declan was used to loud noises and a gunshot wasn't all that frightening if it wasn't shot your direction, was it? He didn't suppose Jack was going to rob him even armed and dangerous as he was. Not with the way he went about saving him. Something about the boy was heavier, more bitter than a common criminal staking another's winnings. At least, that's what Declan assumed when Jack had bit back his tears right before killing the last.

Something about it all was oddly funny to him, in a peculiar kind of way. That Jack carried all of the burden and emotion of what Declan should have felt shortly after nearly being pummeled to death. And for whatever reason Jack was the one punishing these men like some kind of violent godsend while Declan watched and smeared the blood from his face with his forearm. Why then was Jack so adamant about tormenting these men before death if it was just to defend him? He toyed around with them like a falcon to a field mouse but didn't waste a second for their blubbering.

In the meantime when Jack had just finished up with the final man and the body matter that had escaped upon being shot, Declan inspected the contents of the wooden case some few yards away. He unlocked the metal clasps, relieved to find that his instrument had not perished in any way only to close it up right after as Jack approached.

Perhaps now wasn't the best time to ask if Jack was okay on account of his red eyes. He looked as though he'd spent his whole life crying despite the rest of him carrying a sort of smoothness that would have otherwise fooled him. So when he found his way back, offering a bloody hand out to him as well as a name, Declan couldn't refuse shaking the hand of the man who'd stood between him and death. Surely, there was a way to repay him after such a gratuitous rescue. With that reasoning, he extended his own hand and clasped onto Jack's.

"Declan. Now, that was quite a show there. For a moment I woulda thought you'd pick up where they left off."

If it were any other day, Jack would have snickered at Declan's remark, or at least cracked a grin. But it seemed nothing could cause the young man's lips to curve upward. Having another person speak to him began to let it sink in what he had just done. He had killed three men. It was not an accident, like when his father was young and he went swimming in a pond with his younger brother and had accidentally drowned him while playing. Jack's hand hadn't accidentally slipped on the trigger, none of this could be seen as manslaughter. Jack Reed, at the ripe age of nineteen had killed three men in cold blood. The astounding fact was that he was prepared to kill three more, and anyone who stood in his way.

Jack merely shook his head at Declan's remark after shaking his hand. "I don't have any quarrel with you," he stated. It was this point that he actually began to inspect the man he had saved. He appeared to age at least five years older than Jack and his clothing and car told him that this depression wasn't exactly been kneeing him in the gut. This made Jack wonder what Declan did for a living. And what he was doing out here, in the midst of abandonded farms and storms of dust?

It seemed that the criminals, who now laid strewn across the dust road in a pool of their own blood, had not gotten away with a single possession of Declan's. And they had not severely injured, as they might have if Jack didn't intervene. At this point, Jack wasn't really thinking about getting anything in return for his intervention, or even cared for so much as a thank you. When he first came across the sitation, he set out to save Declan but it quickly became about killing the kind of men who took his family only hours earier. All that Jack cared about now was making sure Declan was set to travel again and then mounting his horse and resuming his tracking.

"I'mma be on my way," Jack informed Declan as he began to walk back to Clover. "You set to get going again?" Jack had assumed, with the way Declan was dressed, that he was on his way somewhere.

A good minute or so Declan reserved for simply eying the boy with the same astonishment that a young man more suited to be a farm help had the courage to pull the trigger on three men. If Jack hadn't been mounted on a horse and if his attire were more thrifty than his assumptions of Jack being just that – a farm boy, he would have thought him to be a student. But they were far from any university and they were deep in the dusty farmlands past either city that their location had been closest to. Nothing but dry grass and little fits of dust carried by the wind, a few farm houses scattered in the far off distances, either vacant or perishing and finally the long, open road. But his eyes and ears didn't deceive him, and here stood the boy, knuckles stained with the blood of another and eyes that reflected an eerie kind of emptiness. A young farm boy who had no qualms with ending the lives of his attackers and mounting back up like he'd completed a job and had just gotten paid. Declan wasn't against the idea of it. Paying him, that was.

So before Jack had remounted Clover and set off for home, or to whatever agenda he'd fixed for himself, he raised his hands up and waved them as if the younger one had forgotten something. Surely Jack wasn't going to forget about being repaid in some way. No sensible man would go out of his way to murder three fleeing men and claim it was defense only to saddle up without another word. Jack didn't strike him to be the kind to get a cheap thrill out of killing. Not with how angrily he went about it. At least, not while he was striking a man's face in with more rage than he'd seen in full grown drunks. Not with the kind of stony eyes Jack had behind the puffy lids of someone who'd spent an entire night sobbing. Declan didn't know, and frankly with how he went about his attackers without a lick of remorse he was sure any normal person wouldn't be able stomach the truth of his mission or the grotesque deeds of the faraway men who lit Jack up into a vengeful flame. But Declan was always a curious soul and he never was sure if it was a hindrance or the key of opportunities. Either way, he owed himself to Jack not only once but three times for each man he'd snuffed out in his defense.

“Just can't let you go off like that without paying you nicely for what you've done. Can I now? Owe you a lot more than money after all 'o that.” Declan reasoned. He didn't have the amount of money worth his life stored in his money clip. It was a good sum, but not a life's worth, and above anything else he wanted a proper reading on Jack before letting him slip away for good. Namely, why in heaven's sake he wasn't splitting off into the wind like any new murderer would. Carefully, he stepped over the awkward legs of the mangled man below. Jack, in all honesty, looked about as terrible as he must have felt on the inside without all of the crying. It showed, and it wasn't just the blood that gave Declan the inkling that something wasn't quite right. But above all better judgment and conscious, he was going to get digging at whatever it was and if he was going to be burned in the process then so be it. He then searched for his keys in an idle fashion, hands burrowed in his pockets until he'd managed to spot a glint of metal half burrowed in the dust. Declan plucked them from the ground, blew the keys clean and continued, “That said, your face looks 'bout as sorry as mine, boy. Does your father know you went practicing today?”

Declan's comment about payment almost caught Jack off guard. The idea of Declan actually oweing something to him for what he had done didn't seem to faze him. Perhaps it was because Jack wasn't thinking straight. Perhaps it was the surging rage and straight forward mindset that he had obtained - find the men who killed his family, and return the favour. Anything else was just a detour or a distraction from the main objective. That's what this was.

But there was more to this than met the eye. It seemed almost as if Declan was reading him like a open book, the puffiness of his eyes as the printed words, and the burning fire in his actions as the numbered pages. And the remark he made about Jack's father even furthered the uniqueness of the situation.

Jack only stared at the man, his eyes narrowed in attempt to keep the dust and sun away from his eyes. In that one look, he knew. He knew Declan was looking right through him, figuring him out with every action. "Unless my father pops his head out the grave, then I doubt he'll ever know about what happened here today." His voice quivered. As strong and powerful as Jack felt now with his charismatic trigger itch, he was still nothing but an emotional wreck of a man. Hell, he wasn't even a man. Jack was merely 19 and the only surviving child from his parents. The wounds of their deaths were too fresh to even touch.

But Jack couldn't help but notice that Declan had a shiny set of car keys in his hand and claimed to want to repay him.

"How much gas you got in that tank?"

And just like that Declan recognized all the white hot rage that was rolling off of him. For such a young man, Jack couldn't be older than twenty by Declan's estimation, he harbored more hate in his body than any he'd ever met. Not because of the blood smears hands, the two pistols he kept strapped to him or how he could destroy three men in cold blood. But by how his voice quaked, the two bloodshot eyes that met painfully with his each time Declan had prodded for anything personal. He'd only just scratched the surface. There was more underneath that was just begging to tear its way out and terrible as it was Declan was on a newfound mission to know exactly what.

He took a gander at the horse stationed past Jack, rolling the key in his palm before holding it up as if to feign some kind of innocence. Glancing between the key and Jack, he offered a grin despite the pain of a sore face. "It'll get you farther than the pony of yours, I bet. You need somewhere to be?" He asked. The key beckoning as though it were the one talking, held up in the sunlight and tempting.

Declan then turned to his car. The drivers side door, while dented, opened with ease. He placed the wooden box on the floor of the back seat, pushing it below one of the seats until it was both concealed and secure. Turning back to Jack and flashing him a quirked brow, he nodded his head to the bodies that lay strewn in the dust around the car. His offer still stood; he owed Jack his life and if he was a true man at all he would hold to repaying him in some way. Fair was fair, and who was he to deny Jack a favor as simple as a ride? That was unless he was looking for more. With Jack's swelling anger though it seemed far from finished.

"...Someone to meet?"

Declan's offer was tempting. No, more than tempting, it was perfect. Jack wasn't sure how far Declan would be willing to take him or just how far his car could get him, but it certainly was a better deal than following the tracks with Clover. The problem was, Jack was almost certain that the tracks would soon lead off of the road and into the hilly wilderness. The farther north, which is where th tracks appeared to be headed, the more untamed and unruly the land became. Jack had figured that was a perfect cover for escaping criminals.

Another problem was that Jack was not prepared to just abandon Clover, for someone to find and take or for him to starve. There were no fields for him to graze in. And he was his father's horse. He couldn't just leave him like this.

"I'm trackin' down a few fellas," Jack finally said after staring at the glistening keys that Declan displayed. "I'll be needin' to get at least thirty miles north until I go off roads." The old Jack would be shocked that he was actually agreeing to this, actually planning to catch a ride with a man he never knew to kill the men who took his family. When he had left the house with his satchel and guns, it still seemed unreal to him. Like his anger and pain were what was controlling him and it was all a very heroic idea. He didn't really start to realize what he was doing until now. Until there was a way to get there. Yes, the old Jack would be doing a double take. But not the Jack now.

"I figure I can do that." Declan smoothed his hand over the menace of a dent on his door. He grimaced at it, more out of annoyance than anything else. But he was quick to return to a more cheery demeanor, cool and collected despite the mayhem of the day. He may have gotten a face full of bruises, but Jack undoubtedly was having it more rough of the kid felt so urged to slaughter more men past the three some few minutes ago.

The engine of his car rumbled low, heaving the shirt below into a swirling, red fog. Frankly, he liked the rush of cities better than unfruitful farmlands and it seemed that they proved safer than a more crowded route. But for a man who traveled often it was the first time anyone had been so quick to jump him without much warning other than the scrape of a haunting buggy. Declan could hold his own any other time. He had a fighter spirit, the kind that rose to powerful flames if anyone gave him a reason. Other times, like now, he was chillingly calm. "You saved my life no doubt. I feel I owe you something for that. Don't I?" It wasn't much of a question so much as a statement. He then gave Jack an affirmative stare as if to answer himself.

"'m on my way to see an old friend. Asked me to fill a chair in his concerts these next few weeks and I shouldn't let a few criminals keep me from it. Thanks to you. Now," one foot was still grounded on the dirt, even as he sat in his car. A strike of a match had a fresh cigarette lit and he waved what was left of the pack in offering. Declan didn't suppose it would soothe any of Jack's afflictions, but it was the principle of the gesture that counted.

"These men take somethin' of yours?"