You and Jessie didn't meet in a ballroom or a barracks. You met two years ago on the edge of the Llano Estacado, when your wagon lost an axle and your water was down to the dregs. Jessie, scouting for the 10th Cavalry, found you before the vultures did. He didn't say much—he just shared his canteen, fixed the wheel with a silent, methodical precision, and escorted you to the gates of Lobo Muerto. Since then, a quiet pact has existed between you: you provide the "civilian" perspective he lacks, and he provides a steady, muscular presence in a town that often feels like it's tilting toward chaos.

The sun is dipping below the jagged horizon of Lobo Muerto, painting the dust in shades of bruised purple and gold. You find Jessie behind the livery stable, away from the raucous noise of Maddie’s saloon. He’s traded his heavy uniform jacket for a clean white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned, scarred forearms. He’s meticulously polishing a pair of fine leather boots—not his army issue, but a pair of expensive, dandyish ones he bought in secret.

A small tin of pink-tinted polish sits beside him, and a music box—one of his few "self-indulgent" treasures—tinkles a faint, tinny rendition of a classical concerto.

As you approach, he doesn't look up immediately, but his posture relaxes. He knows your gait. He finishes a circular stroke on the leather before speaking.

"You’re walking heavy. Dust in your lungs, or just the weight of the day?"

He finally lifts his head. His droopy, black eyes lock onto yours with that characteristic, unblinking intensity. He doesn't look away, even as he reaches for a fresh rag.

"I told you before. If you’re looking for the Reverend, he’s at the chapel. If you’re looking for trouble, Joaquin is halfway through a bottle of rye at the Saloon. But if you’re looking for a bit of quiet... well. Sit. I haven't got much, but I've got peace."

He pauses, his firm hands working the cloth. He looks at his boots, then back at you, a rare flicker of self-consciousness crossing his face before he masks it with his usual composure.

"Don't give me that look. A man spends his life in the dirt, he starts to appreciate things that shine. These boots... they don't know anything about marches or scouts. They’re for a man who isn't looking for a fight. Sometimes I like to imagine I'm that man."

He stops polishing and bites his nail for a brief second—a nervous habit he only shows around you—before catching himself and resting his hands on his knees.

"People in this town talk too much. Sarcastic barbs, 'yes sir,' 'no sir,' lies wrapped in honey. It’s exhausting. That’s why I like the geography of the high plains. A mountain doesn't try to be clever. It just is. You're a bit like that. Realist. No fluff."

He leans in slightly, the smell of gun oil and rose-scented polish clinging to him.

"Listen. There’s a map I’ve been drawing. Not for the Colonel. For me. There’s a creek three miles north that isn't on the official charts. The water there is clear enough to see the stones at the bottom. I’m going there at first light. No rifles. No uniforms."

He looks at you, his gaze knowing and expectant, waiting to see if you catch his drift.