Chapter Text
I
He’s half-drunk and riding the sweet high of stumbling into a decent group of card players - just not quite as good as himself - when the man in black steps into the packed saloon. He sobers up pretty quickly at that, and so do his table companions and half of the other patrons present too, from the looks of it. It makes the marrow in his bones tingle and the blood in his veins heat up in a way things seldom do nowadays.
The man in black - all in black, that cannot be comfortable but Josh can appreciate the choice in style - takes a long, silent glance of the room, his roaming eyes intense under the lapel of his hat, just barely noticeable under the shade cast by it over the upper half of his face, and it sends a shiver down Josh’s back. He can recognize a dangerous person when he sees one. Something in the way the man holds himself, both serene to the point of appearing carefree to the eye of the inexperienced, and also sharply aware of his surroundings. The man is older too, easily has ten years and then some on Josh himself, and if life after his parents’ passing, and more so after the Pistolero, has taught him anything is that luck can only help so much when you’ve got no instincts and even less brains.
Take Gunpowder Dan over by the bar for instance, Josh thinks distantly as he watches with mild amusement how the other patrons, the girls, even the fucking pianist, vacate the saloon like the devil himself is here to get them too in search for the Sheriff.
Which is a shame too, because Josh thinks plenty of them would like the man better if he offered them a drink too - he knows he does, but then again, he’s a fairly easy to please man to begin with. And the man in black follows all his demands to the tee whether he realizes it or not. Or, well, for the most part.
“Do I know you?” the man asks, taking his sweet time even as the townsfolk are raising an uproar just outside the door, watching Josh as he gathers his tentatively deserved earnings with narrowed eyes. “You look familiar.”
“Sorry, sir, but you must be thinking of someone else,” Josh deflects, not too quickly and not too slowly. “I rather think I would remember you if I’d ever crossed paths with the likes of you before.”
Josh shoots him one of his classic playful little winks, the man in black chuckles with a shake of his head, and he makes his way out without further ado but with a perfectly polite farewell. It’s starting to sound a lot like he doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever the locals have got going on at the front entrance of the saloon, and he doesn’t like the thought of someone recognizing him, even if it might be for a good reason, even if the man in black looks like fun. And the Babbington brothers are just as bad as Gunpowder Dan that it makes the trade worth it. The money he makes off with from the unfortunate brothers even sweetens the deal, but the same cannot be said about the fella holding Wild Jack hostage, for a manner of speaking, at the pens, holding court with uncanny meanness and eyeing his help skittishly doing his best to avoid being trampled to death by the even meaner stallion. Josh almost wants to tell the poor boy that he’s more likely to survive quitting the job than the horse if he keeps going like that, except he finds his metaphorical hands full before he can do that.
This is turning out to be quite the eventful little town - it’s already given him all the excitement none of the half a dozen previous settlements did, and only on his third day there!
“How much for the horse?” a man’s voice inquires from behind and off to the side of Josh, and when he carefully half-turns to look he finds none other than the man in black from back in the saloon - Chisolm.
Well, that cannot be good, and it only gets worse when the man pays for Josh without skipping a beat, makes it very clear that Jack’s his horse now, and introduces himself in the same breath he tells Josh to get on the saddle already so they can finally move along. Before the sun sets, or else. Josh, contrary son of a bitch that he is, only gives his last name in return, for all the good it does.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Joshua Faraday, hm?” Chisolm questions innocently enough and his hackles rise immediately.
He knew something was off, for fuck’s sake.
“The one and only in the whole damned continent, from the looks of it,” yet he still has no compunction to reply with an attitude.
Maybe he should have taken the opportunity to adopt another name when it had presented itself, instead of spending his first few months after the Pistolero riding out the mostly positive notoriety and all the favors that flaunting his name around gave him. Had he enjoyed those months to the fullest? That was debatable at best, but the continuous alcohol running in his veins along with the occasional company from the fairer sex - usually when he had been blacked out or nearly - had helped him forget about everything he had left behind, had kept him in his body and out of his own mind, even if it had always been nothing more than a temporary reprieve.
It had helped him ignore the still too-vivid glimpses of dark eyes like the voids between starts staring right through him, and the phantom touches of strong, work hardened palms, the sweet tickle of soft, curly hair early in the mornings when he wasn’t quite awake yet, and the rumble of laughter deep inside a chest that was not his own. And that had to have counted for something - it had at the very least kept him sane, he reckons.
“Well, if there’s any other, I haven’t met him yet,” Chisolm quips. “But I’ll make sure to let you know if I ever do.”
Josh glares at the other man, thoroughly unamused, and figures he might as well drag them straight to the point himself.
“What does my name matter to the likes of you? There are no warrants on it.”
“None that I know of, that is true,” Chisolm agrees. “Though I reckon that is only because you haven’t been caught so far - your luck might still take a turn yet.”
Caught for what? , Josh doesn’t ask, it sounds too close to tipping his own hand for comfort even inside the confines of his own head. And he doesn’t need to ask regardless, Chisolm had seen enough of him back in the town becoming a speck on the horizon to make his own assumptions and reach his own conclusions.
“If you are not planning on giving me any one straightforward answer…”
His companion only sighs, heavily, wearily, before looking back at him, head on, with a more serious set to his eyes and his shoulders.
“A call to arms was dispatched through the wire not a month ago.”
And Josh already knows that it’s only going downhill from there, but he at least keeps his mouth shut to listen to Chisolm talk about some small, lost town in the north of California called Rose Creek. He supposes it’s the very least he can do for the man after he paid for Jack.
“And if I’d rather turn the way I came and forget the little town of Rose Creek exists at all with a bottle of gin next town over?”
“Then you’ll have to do it on your own two feet, Mr. Faraday, because that horse you’re sitting on is mine now,” Chisolm replies with plenty of cheek.
He has to privately concur with his previous impression as he chuckles good-naturedly - there’s plenty to like about Sam Chisolm, even if there might also be just as much for him to dislike too.
“So you’re just gonna force my hand and make me pilot a mech again regardless of what I might have to say about it, is that it?”
“Not quite, either,” the man admits, placating. “I only have two favors to ask you, anything and everything else will be entirely up to you.”
“Two favors you say, hm? Whatever might those be, I wonder,” Josh comments with growing impatience. For all he knows, Chisolm really is trying to do exactly what Josh suspects and plans on calling it something else just to sweeten him to it.
“First things first, I need you to head over to Volcano Spring in search of an old friend of mine. D’you know the place?”
“Little supply station, yeah. Who’s your friend?”
“Goodnight Robicheaux,” Josh whistles expressively and Chisolm continues with his piece with a little sideways smirk thing going on.
“The one and only, as you’d say. He moved up to Volcano Springs with his partner after the incident in 1877 left them jobless - their mech is in good shape too, they just thought to, ah, take an extended leave. His words, not mine.”
Josh snorts roughly in reply. “Now, that’s just another way of saying folks aren’t really wanting to hire them for some reason or another…”
The expression Chisolm pulls then isn’t the kind that would make Josh think to expect an explanation, and he chooses not to pry for once.
“Anything you want me to pass along to them about Rose Creek?”
“Well, for one, that the employers aren’t railroad or ranger affiliated. The pay does come mostly from a nearby mine, but it’s the folks of the town itself holding the contract with supervision from the local church. And I’m sure you must know how willing small town churches are to turn a blind eye on things they normally wouldn’t otherwise.”
Josh chuckles at that, less cynical but more mischievous this time. “Oh, don’t I. And for two?”
“The one team left standing in Rose Creek as of right now is led by none other than Bartholomew Bogue.”
“Bart Bogue? The Bloody Baron?,” Josh comments idly, the moniker leaving a foul taste on his tongue.
One thing is Josh’s reputation still haunting him from afar and spite of the three years in between, another entirely is the way Bogue’s rep precedes him. Even back when Josh had still been in the business folks already talked about Bogue with a vague air of respect and envy, and that had only turned into fear and mistrust just as his fame had increased: that is, exponentially. The only reason he isn’t confident keeping count of the amount of teams and townsfolk that have fallen as collateral damage whenever and wherever Bogue and his Baron have been involved is because Josh knows just how much a story could grow from mouth to mouth, but something tells him that even the most extreme numbers aren’t all that far off from the reality with that man.
“Alright then, I suppose if that’s everything I have to relay over to Robicheaux, I can at least do that. What’s the other favor?”
“I’ll be making my way further north in the meantime, to hopefully find another pilot. The other favor I’m asking you is to at least give it a try .”
Josh doesn’t say anything about that last part - mostly because it would be stupid of him to commit to it, but also because he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to reply either way. He only asks how he is even going to get him a co-pilot to try with, given he won’t be buying the other poor sod’s horse back too or anything like that.
“Don’t you worry about that - I think I know just what to do.”
Cryptic and not at all trustworthy, but hey, that’s Chisolm’s prerogative, not Josh’s, so he lets it go, asks where and when to meet him with the other team, and departs at a light run as soon as that’s settled. He could stick with the other man for another while, that’s for sure, but it’s more convenient for him to cut across to Volcano Springs. The terrain is plenty flat and easy to traverse in between, with a couple of small settlements for him to stop by last he knew, the presence of the occasional rancher and outpost along the way making it just that little bit safer for him to simply travel alone.
Barely a half-day later, he’s approaching the outskirts of the city quicker than he’d expected, right as the sun is beginning to approach the mountain range in the near horizon. Well, that is just as good too, gives him plenty time to find the men he is after before pitch dark falls, and he could make use of a room and an actual bed for the night, and then they can still take it easy making their way back to meet with Chisolm and whatever poor soul he’s managed to pull up with on their way to Rose Creek. And Josh could most certainly use a drink or ten before that, too.
Robicheaux and Rocks - because he refuses to say Goody like Chisolm does, and the mere thought of attempting Billy gives him pause at first - are plenty good company for the first day or so they’re together, mostly spent drinking and playing cards after the team arranges the send off of their mech all the way to Rose Creek, or at least to as close to Rose Creek as possible. He’s not particularly interested in the logistics, and Chisolm had assured him the second mech was already secured. How , exactly, he didn’t really care, though he could likely guess - either way, not his problem and it wasn’t one of the favors he owed Chisolm.
After that first day however, it’s anyone’s guess - Josh is too busy moving past pleasantly buzzed and towards drunk out of his mind from the moment they leave town and hit the road. Which, admittedly, likely doesn’t make him good company, rather than the other way around, not that he cares all that much: if they’re bound to work together for the foreseeable, if maybe short, future, it might do them well to start being subjected to everything that makes Josh, well, Josh . To build up resistance, if one will.
And call it some sort of sixth sense leftover from way back when, survival instincts kicking in, or simply his subconscious catching up before the rest of him does, but something nags at him in the back of his mind, that he might just need the extra liquor for what awaits for them alongside Chisolm outside Junction City. Josh is always keen on heeding his gut feelings, it’s partly how he’s made it so far - relatively speaking - in life, and he’s not about to stop now.
And he’s likely not about to stop ever, he thinks when they finally approach the two men waiting under the cool shade of a large, exuberant tree with their horses and Josh recognizes the shape and slant of the second body before he can quite make out the fellow’s features. Just by the shadow and silhouette alone, Jesus Christ Almighty.
“Oh, good, we got us a Mexican,” Josh exclaims as he carefully stumbles off Wild Jack, because people have never accused him of being sensible , or tactful.
And hey, he’s absolutely proven right, because when Alejandro Vásquez socks him in the face so hard it sends him straight to the half-bare ground, he barely feels a thing, and continues to feel little to nothing even after he comes back to a while later thanks to the godsend that is alcohol.
That’s physically speaking, at least. Emotionally - now, that’s an entirely different matter.
II
The hard truth of the matter is - he deserves that punch in the face, and Chisolm’s aggrieved sigh, and Robicheaux’ impressed little whistle and Rocks’ judgmental little eyebrow raise. Hell, he might deserve a whole lot more than that: they don’t even leave him behind after that, but admittedly that might just be because experienced mech pilots don’t come a dime a dozen and their chances of finding more prospects on their way to Rose Creek isn’t exactly favourable. If anything, simply stumbling into one that isn’t already well employed along the way would be nothing short of miraculous, Josh reckons.
He just doesn’t have enough to drink to deal with this, not that he thinks there’s any amount of alcohol that’d be sufficient for him right now, riding tail with Robicheaux and most definitely shooting forlorn little glances Alejandro’s way up ahead by Chisolm’s side.
“I reckon there’s a story somewhere in there,” Robicheaux quips tentatively.
“You don’t wanna know it,” Josh grunts, not bothering with taking his own eyes off of Ale’s back.
“Maybe I do?”
Josh sighs, gathers up what little composure and patience graces him from above on a semi regular basis, and tries again with his most measured voice: “Let me rephrase that: you don’t wanna ask me it.”
Robicheaux - born and raised in southern high society and a fairly high ranking officer during the war - glances between the two of them in quick succession a few times before seemingly deciding that listening to him might just be worthwhile, at least this one time. He’ll probably go politely pester Ale as soon as he has the chance though, and for what it’s worth, Josh does wish him the best with that. Knowing Ale - at least the Ale from three years ago -, the man could do with it. There was a reason the two of them did so well before, and it had nothing to do with niceness or selflessness.
At least Robicheaux changes subjects, goes back to being as entertaining as ever, and Rocks lets the vague threat slide with only an eloquent glance of his own, which Josh very much appreciates. Chisolm still spares him the same attitude from before they’d split up, one part exasperated, one part amused, and one part unimpressed, which Josh is counting as a win. And Ale…
Ale spends most of the time he’s supposed to interact with Josh either blatantly ignoring or glaring daggers at him, which Josh considers nothing short of divine intervention because he knows just exactly what the man could do to him if he put his mind to it, and if Josh thinks he deserves worse than a punch in the face, then Ale must feel entirely entitled to thorough, impactful, lasting retribution. Maybe even some of that irreversible kind.
But for the most part, at least they manage to keep the peace while they’re on the road, even if it’s simply by keeping to themselves, Chisolm and Robicheaux taking charge to organize them so that the two of them are always on opposite ends of the line. Whether they have company or not in the form of their de facto leaders, at least Rocks is between them at all times, and Josh knows that he is not particularly keen on testing the man, doesn’t see Ale being interested in it either. Rocks might be considerably smaller than either of them, quite shorter than Ale and much slighter than Josh himself, but there’s an edge to him that not even Chisolm or Robicheaux, or even Ale himself, have that makes him seem especially dangerous, even if he’s likely at the same baseline as the rest of them in practice. Or it might just be the fact that the man really knows his way around those knives posing as pretty, fancy hair pins, and he’s clearly not afraid to use them where Robicheaux is concerned, or even just because he’s in the mood to stick someone like a pig.
“He does have a quiet temper, mon cher,” Robicheaux admits with a fond chuckle when Josh points out his partner’s vaguely murderous tendencies. “Just don’t bother him too much and you’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise.
“We’ve already been riding together for four days,” Josh points out dubiously. “I can’t really tell you I’m liking my odds.”
Robicheaux laughs at his concerns with entirely too much, too honest amusement and falls back to dive into a conversation or another with Ale at the tail end, the only bit of which Josh catches being something or another about how their grandfathers may or may not have fought each other at the Alamo. This has the unfortunate effect of leaving Josh between a rock - perhaps too literally - and a hard place - Chisolm -, and Josh would love to keep all his limbs attached and his blood inside, so he chooses the latter.
“So, how come you’re still sticking with us? You’re a warrants officer, not a wrangler, and it’s clear Robicheaux knows the way just as well as you do,” and promptly goes about sticking his foot in his mouth, but then again, what else is he supposed to do? He’s growing bored by the hour and trying to poke at Ale will put him on the wrong side of yet another punch more likely than will get him a poke back like in the old times.
Chisolm just shakes his head lightly with a sigh. “I do have my reasons, Faraday, and out of everyone here, I’d expect you to understand my wanting to keep them to myself the most.”
“Can’t understand them if I dunno the first thing about ‘em, but you know what? I’ll let you off the hook for now.”
“How gracious of you,” Chisolm mutters with a darkening mood, so Josh quickly changes the subject to something lighter - which amounts to asking about their current route and if he has any other prospective pilots in mind.
He’s not much of a talker, Chisolm, much more of a listener, but he’s good enough company nonetheless and he’s as clever as they come when he puts his mind to it. That’s all Josh can really ask from any man, and it’s not like he’s going to be doing much thinking about how fun Chisolm or anyone else when Ale’s in shooting distance - he might just lose a finger or two, or worse.
Then again, he might not lose much of anything and Ale may only dedicate the fella a heads up and a prayer for their soul, he can’t be sure.
Then they meet Horne and things start… Either falling into place or falling apart, Josh doesn’t know yet and from the looks of it, the rest of their motley crew isn’t quite sure what to make out of it either, with Robicheaux shaking his head with something akin to pity as he lights up a smoke, and Rocks and Ale eyeing the man lumbering away with uncertainty, the bodies of the Pigeon brothers still laid down on the grass like they’re little more than dolls thrown aside by an inattentive, uncaring child.
“I do believe that bear was wearing people’s clothes,” Josh says sardonically, his voice just lively enough to belly the cold unease sinking in the pit of his stomach.
Robicheaux’ chuckle and Rocks’ bemused eye-roll go a long way to help him settle and find some of his own amusement at the situation at large back, but it’s Ale’s bright, unchecked grin that sticks with him. Josh doesn’t know if the other man simply doesn’t realize who spoke up until it’s too late or if he doesn’t care, but whichever one it is, he’ll take it.
They make camp at the edge of the outback that night, not their best, brightest decision in Josh’s opinion, but he sucks it up when Chisolm mentions he’d rather make up for lost time now that they’ve lucked out in the largest settlement on their road to Rose Creek and the chances of finding anyone else who might want to join them have slimmed down to near zero. He’d even shot down Robicheaux’ comment about finding a nice little inn to spend the night at before the last leg of the way, and they’d only stayed after speaking with Horne long enough for them to stock up on supplies and for Chisolm to send a message ahead of them.
“Remember what you told me the other day?” Chisolm asks him once he takes a seat next to him on the boulder overlooking the camp he’s perching on that night, sipping from his replenished flask and watching the others - quietly, and half-dazedly.
He tries to think back on the last few days and whatever conversation Chisolm might be referencing but gives up just as quickly, his head already filling up with whiskey flavoured cotton and his body worn down by the last days’ riding. Josh is trying to hold out for as long as he can so he can go under as exhausted and drunk as possible, that way if they really get ambushed by any locals he won’t even wake up, much less feel a thing - second best way to go, in his opinion. But it does make keeping up with any conversation more difficult than usual, and he thinks he can see Ale shooting him undecipherable little glances from where he’s already made himself at home in a half-hidden crevice opposite Josh’s spot.
“Honestly even if I do, it’s escaping me right now, what’s it?”
Chisolm looks at him with the kind of expression that would likely put the fear of God in him at any other time, he’s just too far gone at the moment to truly appreciate it.
“You’re not gonna like having me as your wrangler, now, are you?”
“I reckon I won’t, sir. Reckon I wouldn’t even if Horne came back around, took you up on your offer and did the job instead - but you, sir? You seem like a stern hand and a keen motherfucker to boot, and I sure as Hell ain’t looking forwards to either. But what else can I do, you’re holding my little Jack hostage on me.”
Chisolm barks out a candid laughter like Josh hasn’t heard until then, head half thrown back and the weight on his shoulders easing just enough for Josh to actually notice it.
“Let it be known that I do like you, Faraday. You’re a riot and a charmer, your drinking worries me more than it should, and I can see already you’ll be a thorn in my side, but damned it all, do I like you nonetheless. Remind me of someone I used to know, I figure.”
“So?” Josh asks, befuddled.
“So, I’m gonna make this experience a living Hell for you so long it means you make it through being teammates with Bogue alive and as whole as possible.”
“Chisolm… Do you go ‘round sayin’ that to every pretty mech pilot you see?”
The man laughs again and leaves him sitting by his lonesome on the boulder with a shake to his shoulder that makes his head spin slightly. The man’s still talking quietly with Robicheaux and Rocks by the time Josh stumbles onto his roll, almost asleep on his feet, very tired and more than just half-drunk. Ale’s been snoring those breathy little snores of his for a while already by then, too.
At least he goes to sleep rather early, because by the time he wakes up with an untimely start - and he does wake up, live and well, regardless of how warranted his negativity had been the prior night - he’s feeling thoroughly rested and only needs a sip or two out of his flask to keep his nasty hangover at bay as he takes up arms and a decent position for whatever Horne is yapping about having followed them. And Josh might be glad to have had the debatable joy of having woken up at all after a lie down in the territories, but this is no way to welcome a man to the morning, that’s for sure.
Meeting Red Harvest only makes him feel even more like he hasn’t actually woken up at all. The way he strides into camp easy as he may and seemingly unworried about the many guns pointing in his general direction, dumps an entire, freshly killed deer like he’s just brought them breakfast, and offers Chisolm the still hot liver of the poor thing in some gesture of - friendship? allegiance? - only God knows what, certainly looks like the kind of thing he would’ve dreamt with after the first few times he’d drank the agua viva , way back when. Except the people, animals and landscape all around haven’t taken on any weird colors and he feels it perfectly fine when he pinches the skin at the side of his right wrist, rather than the numb ghost of a prick he would get if he were tripping, not to mention he stopped having the worst of the side effects long before he quit and - he hasn’t had any of that shit in years .
He meets Ale’s eyes from across the camp and finds some of his own agitation in them, reckons he’d find some of his same thoughts echoed back at him if he could read the man’s mind, but then again, he probably doesn’t need that much. Josh had been there for Ale’s initiation even if the reverse isn’t true; they told each other all about those things.
“This is Red Harvest,” Chisolm introduces the newcomer as he walks back to the rest of them, pointing behind himself with a careless hand and spitting a glob of blood that makes Josh’s stomach uneasy. “He’s a Comanche apprentice from a nearby settlement, says he’s looking for some team to finish his learning process.”
“And you… invited him?” Robicheaux asks, eyes jumping back and forths between the two of them, wide with bewilderment.
Chisolm shrugs nonchalantly. “He says he has some experience with wrangling, and even more with agua viva . We could use someone to stand in for Horne if he’s not available at any given time - unless you want to be guided and wrangled by Bogue’s people.”
Robicheaux shuts his trap pretty quickly at that, a feat in and of itself if the past few days have taught Josh anything about the man. Josh, for his part, doesn’t really give a damn about it, they’re close enough to Rose Creek by now that even if it was some kind of trap it’d be a very poorly planned one, and he’s heard about this type of set up before, even if he’s never seen it until now. Sometimes a local or two will come down to learn about things like wrangling, guiding or even fixing up mechs, and either stick around to work in the settler towns or go back to their own to share what they’ve learned once they’ve finished their apprenticeships. Honestly, this might just be the one thing that can bring people to work together and live regardless of where they come from or anything else, in Josh’s humble opinion, and so long as Red Harvest doesn’t cross him then he has no reason to do the same to him, which really goes for just about anyone else too, so.
It’s still funny to see Chisolm and Robicheaux discussing the matter of who’ll go where in the line for the rest of the road with increasingly weary sighs from the first and increasingly dramatic gestures from the latter in the wake of their unexpectedly plentiful breakfast and their preparations for the day ahead. In the end, Josh takes one look at Ale’s troubled expression, figures he must be feeling awkward and guilty, and decides to be the bigger person for once, walks up to the pair to assign himself and Red Harvest the rear. Whether or not he minds it, the younger man - the youngest of them all, Josh is sure of it just looking at him - doesn’t show it, only takes Chisolm’s words quietly and impassively, nodding once before going over to check on his mount.
That entire day is easily the quietest Josh gets since making acquaintances with Chisolm, at least since riding in the constant company of Robicheaux and Rocks, even if he does occasionally poke at whoever’s right in front of them a couple of times, all in good nature, of course. He’s not surprised that Ale’s the only one of them who doesn’t shoot him incredulous little glances here and there over it, but he also doesn’t particularly care about the other three he’s been riding with for the past week now staring at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head.
Josh travels alone a lot, he’s told them as much, so it’s not his business if they fail to realize that it means he knows how to be quiet. Besides, Chisolm ought to bring Horne up to speed with more urgency than their little apprentice, if only because of the whole Bogue matter. Red Harvest probably doesn’t even know who in the Hell Bart Bogue is supposed to be.
And either way, it’s not like Red Harvest’s lack of understanding of the English language is about to stop Josh from talking at the young man - far from it. If anything, it gives him the perfect chance to let out some of the thoughts that have been swirling around inside his head since he first laid eyes on Alejandro Vásquez for the second time in his life without the chance of judgment, pity or outright concern for his mental state. Not that there’s anything to be concerned about, of course.
Red Harvest, bless him, only glances his way in a vaguely suspicious or troubled manner twice or thrice in the time they spend riding side by side before noon comes and with it their first proper glance at the quaint little settler town of Rose Creek. Oh, and won’t you just look at that - the perfectly quaint little settler town is under attack.
What a lovely welcome.