I let my horse hang back alongside Alex's.  The shadows are going long, and the long black arms of a reaching cloud stretch across the plains.  The scatter-shot cluster of buildings below is far removed from its neighbors, from the rail, and from any apparent mineral deposit.  Range towns like this are usually cattle towns or sheep towns, but the scraggly head that I can see from a distance don't speak volumes of confidence towards its prosperity.  Even the smoke from the chimneys is thin.<br/><br/>Nearly two months since we left New Orleans together, and Summer's coming on.  I still wear more than most would find comfortable, though my coat's been bundled up in my things for weeks now.  A black shirt hangs open on my narrow frame, the red-leather vest beneath laced tight for the sake of protection more than fashion.  I won't wear it outside any more... it was a vain and silly thing to want to be seen in it, so I keep it against my skin now rather than on the outside.<br/><br/>Anyhow... the sleeves of my shirt are turned up on my lean arms, the bare skin shows to my wrists where the kid-leather gloves take over.  My Stetson's low on my forehead, shading my one-eyed visage, my girlish features set with peaceful determination, my black leather patch meant to be demure, but somehow menacing.  All my black hair's off my neck, piled up atop my head and tucked into the crown of my hat.<br/><br/>I feel awkward riding alongside her.  More than once along the way I've fallen back a few feet just to watch her ass on the saddle, but at least she's not... well, provocatively dressed.  She's proven that she's able to handle herself, her getup is very practical now with chaps and dungarees, but she's just... well, Alex can't help but be tempting to look at, and I need to keep my mind on the trail.<br/><br/>I reckon I might be pretty myself, but it's not the same way, and lately I don't care for that kind of thinking.  It isn't like anyone will ask me to dance when I've got a damn arsenal on my back in some Podunk cattle-town, or when they need me watching their back, or if I'm tracking a killer on hard ground or chasing ghosts out in the night desert.<br/><br/>I wouldn't know how to dance even if they did ask, so it's just as well.<br/><br/>Still... it is kind of nice how she sees that in me.  And the few times I've savored her touch have been very special.  Maybe it's that we're both chosen from our goddesses, and nobody else I've known in that way has ever been.  Maybe what's moving in our bodies isn't limited in its age to the moment we were born to the day we met in the French Quarter.<br/><br/>But something's different about it, too.  As good as it is, and as much as she lights me up, something about it is acceptedly casual.  Like we're in some kind of pack and this is just what you do, and you can enjoy it as much as you want and be as close as you want, but it's not like you feel the need to run off together.<br/><br/>Hell, we were already running off before we were together, if her visions hold true... our feet just hadn't found the path yet.<br/><br/>*<br/><strong>[Only a few minutes have passed since Jenny and Sulan arrived at the Saloon.]</strong><br/><br/>We reach a saloon of some sort next to Eastman's Creek General.  Still haven't seen a soul out of doors.  Hell, for all I know the whole town could be full of mutants and weirdos.  Of course, that might be alright.  I'm a bit of a weirdo myself.<br/><br/>I shoot a look at Alex that says it, but she already knows it.  Something ain't right, and we're both keen as cats, though just as casual.<br/><br/>Other horses can be seen in the distance.  No big gangs, just a couple lone riders.<br/><br/>"Might be some company soon," I call to her softly.  It's not so strange for people to head into town at sunset, I reckon."  The rail out front of the saloon has three other horses besides ours at the moment, and I wrap the reins around with a simple twist.  "Guess people are heading in for supper."<br/><br/>The ground feels a little fuzzy under my boots after all the riding today, and I offer to tie the packhorse.  I leave him saddled, but remove the saddlebags and drape them over my left shoulder.  The twin holsters for my longarms attached.  I always bring more gun than a normal person would consider necessary.<br/><br/>Through the window I can see there's a saloon man waiting at the bar.  Maybe a couple others.  I try not to look menacing with the rifle bristles over my shoulder like a strange plume as I size up the empty porch, the rail of now six horses-- three ours, including the pack.  "...what do you think?"