The more of this place he saw, the less he liked. What wasn't covered in actual filth, wore the stink of something else. Something he'd maybe sensed or waded knee-deep through at a time in his life when the weight of a rifle on his back meant more than any possible coin in the future. The men, exhausted and fearful, had taken to Miller the way he'd anticipated. Their foreman had likewise proven to be as simpering and innefectual as he'd expected. Clint knew Max Cheney. Uncle Max, as Missy would scathingly refer to him. The man was a step above waste and usually half in the bag. The only strange thing, so far as Clint could figure from any of it, was that he hadn't been a regular at the town's brothel.<br/><br/>This man, who'd introduced himself as Calvin Jacobs, was of the same breed. All bluster and pandering; the right answer always in back pocket. At the ready to defend the company over the man. So much clearly demonstrated by his own ramshackle quarters. While it hadn't been put together with the roughest, pest ridden lumber and worn, surplus canvas the miners could find, it at least imitated standard living quarters. Miles beyond the less than ideal tents and fire pits he'd observed on his trot in.<br/><br/>"I believe I had..." Jacobs was babbling, shuffling through a stack of papers. "Ah, here. The initial reports." He handed them off to Clint as though they were his ticket to absolution, folding hands and sealing already thin lips into a severe grimace. He'd been sweating nearly the moment Clint had shown himself in to his quarters. Buffeting through indignance at first. Perhaps still a bit miffed from possibly being had by the inquisitive Miss Prewitt, but eventually settling into quiet acceptance after reading a finely printed card from the big man.<br/><br/>A golden seal, the shapes of tracks and picks overlayed, was usually enough to shut his kind up. Though, after a moment of silence while Clint poured through testimony, he cleared his throat and spoke.<br/><br/>"H-how..." stuttering again, coughing as though it helped, "I suppose I'm confused as to how this is a, uh, well a Huntington Man's concern. Respectfully." His jowells quivered when he talked. Clint rather hated it. Letting silence suffice for an answer a moment longer, the big man would toss the stack of papers to the man's desk.<br/><br/>"Mr. Huntington has three engines through here a week, Jacobs. That's men on our end, distribution, fuel, three times a week. Bringing supplies for those men. For that mine. That big hole in the ground with all those men standin' around it." Jacobs sank a bit, beginning to see the point but still hoping to play a card in his favor. Before he could interject, Clint continued. "Now, if you have a reason why nothing has been done to get those bodies down the hill and properly handled, or why that investment out there is going to pot..."<br/><br/>"I, please, Mr. Cheney wi-"<br/><br/>"Mr. Cheney delegated control of this mine to you, Jacobs. And so far, your handling of the matter has been less than ideal. If you have anything useful to contribute, going forward, I'd suggest you get your ass down the hill, find Miss Huntington, and hope she's in a good mood."<br/><br/>Jacobs frowned, chubby fist clenching as pieces began to click. "That woman then? Asking all the questions. She's with you?"<br/><br/>Clint probably hesitated longer than he should have. Shifting in his seat, he'd recall the only woman he could've been referencing; the brunette with a million questions in her eyes and a fierceness kept barely in check. He'd offered her nothing save for the briefest of glances as he'd trotted by. Noting to no one but himself the confidence in her stride and how charmingly strange he found it. Ambitious or not, her presence had been odd in the first place, leaving him to go back through the events of the morning as he'd witnessed them.<br/><br/>The attitude. The printing press that'd been offloaded in town. The tall woman who'd shrank in the sunlight as he and a small dispersement of dark dressed men had poured down the street. Similar bone structure. There alone? No. And neither was the brunette. Family affair? Maybe. It was foolishness or extreme stubbornness that would drive a woman, alone, to the outskirts of a town on the nearer side of Hell. Eyes like that didn't speak foolishness.<br/><br/>Stubborn then. Dedicated.<br/><br/>The press.<br/><br/>With a grunt, Clint realized he could have easily dismantled the woman's designs -whatever they may have been- with a simple word: No.<br/><br/>"We have a team. Ready to clean up this mess." He replied with a brusque finality. "And I'd get moving. Miss Huntington is a busy woman."<br/><br/>If it was possible for the man to sink even further, he did. Defeated, Jacobs went to stand and move around the desk even as another question formed. He hesitated to ask, the man looked like he'd just as soon open the door with his head as he would fire him on the spot. The lever action across his lap -while overtly non threatening- had communicated a point loudly enough. None of this mess had made sense to Jacobs. There'd been shouting one morning, men running to the mine, panic. Limbs torn from their posts and body cavities ruptured. The fact that some of them men had still be locked in their death throes; hands locked on throats and the like, had stuck at the foreman most. Something he'd been consulting a bottle about in the days since.<br/><br/>"<i>M-Miss</i>...Huntington?" He asked when the question could no longer be ignored.<br/><br/>"That's right." Clint grumbled, not turning, giving the documents another once over. "By the grace of God she beat her father here. You're lucky." He ran his thumb across a dried bit of blood near the bottom of a page. "She's much more receptive to apologies."<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">~​</div><br/>"That'd make you Miss Prewitt?" He'd found her, unsurprisingly, not far from the foreman's quarters. As he saw it then, she'd probably spotted the weapon coupled with his quick dismissal and narrow focus and assumed there'd be a shouting match to be heard. And reported on. She'd managed to collect a trio of the miners, each eyeing her warily but seeming glad to have an open ear. Since the incident, they'd only been met with tight lips and vague promises of a plan. Scattering the hangers on had been as easy as putting a time limit on that dollar they hoped to earn.<br/><br/>If she was smart, which she was, she'd have intercepted the men Miller had approached. Capitalizing on their wetted appetite for easy money with a few, seemingly, innocuous questions. Once the last of the miners had begun their long, dusty walk back toward town, the big man turned and emitted an ear piercing whistle that caught Miller's attention. Though faded, he saw the discoloration along her fingertips and worked into her nailbeds.<br/><br/>"This is a warning," he was saying among the thunder of approaching hooves. "I understand you've got a job to do. Provided this all turns out the way we hope it will, be glad to have a representative speak to ya." Mounting on his own Finn, the big man would turn slightly, unsure if he'd heard the faintest pop from over a shallow ridge. Miller sidled along as well, eyes glancing between Jess and Clint.<br/><br/>"For now, no questions. No talking to the men until we've cleared it." Turning the massive, dark beast toward her, he'd tip lenses down and offer her a very sincere, dark-eyed stare. Nothing born of malice, or even incidental threat. Only placid, reptilian calmness.<br/><br/>"We clear?"<br/><br/>Another pop. And this one, he was certain he'd heard. Only one thing carried across open plain and lazy hillside that way.