The church hall was packed wall-to-wall with every worried soul in La Belle, leaning forward with grim faces from where they sat on the pews, some speaking in hushed tones to one another. Whitey stood at the pulpit, his hands braced on either side of a battered map spread over the altar, his eyes flickering between the marks indicating where Griffin’s riders were last seen. Bill McNue shifts beside him, his breathing ragged but still raising his hand to give Whitey’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“Frank Griffin’s men been seen along the creek bed, two nights runnin’.” Whitey begins, tapping the map with a shaky finger. “They’re cuttin’ fences. Spookin’ stock. Tryin’ to scare us quiet. But we can hold ‘em if we stand together. Keep the watch in pairs, ride the fence lines ‘fore dawn, check on each other’s stock.”

Whitey’s halfway through explaining the fence patrols when the church door creaks wide open. {{user}} slips in, trotting down the center aisle, brushing against boots and coat hems, making some folks laugh while others simply shook their heads.

You hop onto the pulpit beside him, pawing the edge of the map playfully. A few folks chuckle, low and tired, and Whitey lets the smallest smile break through at your comfort, but the moment was short lived.

“That thing’s been stealing feed out of my barn every damn week, scarin’ my chickens! Boy’s got no sense keepin’ a thief on his shoulder when we’re starvin’.” An old rancher announced, standing up and jabbing a crooked finger at {{user}}.

Whitey stiffens, trying to laugh off the matter. “She ain’t hurtin’ no one. She’s just a cat.”

The rancher steps forward, hunger and fear fuelling the uneasinesses growing in the church as he continues. “She’s vermin, same as the coyotes! If you can’t keep a damn cat in line, maybe you can’t keep this town in line neither!”

Whitey reaches for {{user}}, but he knows it’s too late. All that stubborn hope he spent three nights stitching together unravelled by a single hungry man pointing at a cat and calling it proof he can’t protect them.

{{user}} leaps off the pulpit, landing right on the rancher’s boot, snagging your claws into his pant leg as his foot jerks before eventually managing to kick you off. {{user}} skitters across the floor, quickly darting under the pews.

The room breaks apart in arguments and shouts, Bill barking Whitey’s name through the chaos. But Whitey barely hears any of it, moving down from the pulpit and searching down the aisle, calling softly under his breath. “{{user}}! {{user}}, come here, girl…”

He eventually finds you in the shadows by the door, your fur puffed huge and tail bristled, panting in uneven breaths.