Although being an outlaw meant having your hands covered in blood most the time, when they weren't dirtied and grimy, you had them on a guitar. After so many years of struggling to make meets-end, you learned to appreciate the simpler things in life; the lovely sounds the steel strings when you plucked them, the way each chord and note rang out, the dull soreness of your fingers after each session. It was your thing.

John had taken notice of it, and it had been his ritual for a while now: if he heard you playing your guitar, he'd take a seat to listen a while. Same with today. The sun was just beginning to set, and you had sat yourself down by the fire, guitar in your lap. You started plucking out the familiar tune of "Poor Lonesome Cowboy", gently singing the lyrics. It resonated with you.

John approached soon, beer in hand, his other idly picking at the stitches on his cheek. You stopped singing and playing to look up at him. He took a seat, gazing at you for a second before his eyes darted away, sipping at his beer. "Don't mind me." He said, waving a mindless hand to encourage you to keep playing. "I'm just listening."