Crimson moved along the periphery of the crowd of Drifters that had come to see the sheriff. He knew they all had their reasons for coming, but he wondered about some of the younger ones; especially those that were chattering. What was the point of speculating and gossiping when, just a few moments, they'd know the answer to those questions?<br/><br/>And the false assumptions that age is an indicator of anything beyond the fact that the person in question has had the tenacity or good fortune to live that long in this cruel world... ugh. He hopes that those chuckleheads will bugger off, and lose interest.<br/><br/>As for Crimson, he was content to remain silent, and scrutinize the sheriff. He seemed to genuinely believe what he was saying. He could feel it in the man's voice; could see it in his eyes. And why not? It's a nice story. It gives one hope, if one believes in it.<br/><br/>And maybe, just maybe, there's a gem of truth to it all. Maybe he'll be able to find something out, even if he doesn't believe that their world could possibly be saved.<br/><br/>He would wait for the procession to start moving along, before directing his horse (http://fc07.deviantart.com/fs43/f/2009/089/c/c/The_Red_Hare_by_Leashe.jpg) to follow along. Just as he had come in at the tail end of the other Drifters, he would leave, bringing up the rear, where he apparently liked to be; not for the view, of course, but more so because he didn't like having people behind him.<br/><br/>As the horse moved along at a decent pace, Crimson would take the time to pull Infiltrator off of his back (it was held there by a strap), and just give it a once over; make sure the magazine was fully loaded,  that the ejection port and such were (relatively) dust free, so on, and so forth.