Reardon and Wilona
December 29, 1873
 

December 29th, 1873 Reardon pushes open the saloon doors, and steps inside. He's still out of place, in this saloon, no matter how hard he tries to fit in, isn't he? Not as glaringly as he was a few years ago, but still. It's something in his posture, maybe. His carriage. Wilona looks up at the rush of cold air, a look of suprise crossing her features. Its been a while. Not that she's been avoiding him, openly, but since she moved back into the saloon full time on the premise of watching out for her girls, it is as it happened. She swallows, "John." Reardon nods, hat swept off with a gesture that is familiar to him now. See, he's much loosened up. Honest. He's not still scary, is he? He smiles, even if she's nervous, and steps toward the bar. "Wilona. It's good to see you, again. I thought I might send you running, at first sight." Wilona offers a nervous laugh at that statement before turning back to the wooden crate she is packing, "Now John, that's just plain silly." Not far from the truth, but definately silly. She glances at his reflection in the mirror, "You do not come by the saloon very much, I imagine the same could be said in reverse." Another bottle slips into the crate before she offers demurely, "Sending you running, I mean." All the way back to Boston again. Reardon takes a seat on a stool. "Maybe we've both done enough running, then, hmm?" His hat is set on the counter top. "You've heard, I imagine, about the Indians. The raids." Concern touches his expression. "You're packing?" Wilona nods then lets out a soft laugh, "Not for myself! Heaven's no. I just thought the men could use a little something to keep them warm." She lifts the lid to reveal the bottles within before sealing it. Cutter hurries over from outside. Wilona is behind the bar speaking with Reardon who is on one of the stools. Cutter glances around the saloon room before slowly making his way to the bar. He nods a greeting to Wilona, and another to the man at the bar a few stools down. Reardon ahhs and nods. Then he chuckles, quietly, and says, "I admit, that was a hopeful question. I don't much like the idea of you here, if there's trouble." And what else? "How's Travis?" Wilona seals the crate infront of her, her smile faultering a little before she returns Cutter's nod. All business now, or perhaps an escape from Reardon's questions. "Drink, sir?" Reardon will let you do business, Wilona. Not to worry. He has no travel plans. Cutter leans against the table of the bar, letting out a small sigh, "Please. Whiskey." He glances briefly at Reardon, gives a faint smile, and then finds something else to occupy his attention, not intending to interupt the conversation. Oh, Please, Cutter, do interrupt. She pours the whiskey as provided, lingering before him to make note of the faded Cavalry shirt. "You wouldn't be one of the men Lt. York sent in for the Posse would you?" O'Mally hurries over from outside. O'Mally shrugs off the cold before stepping up the bar alongside Reardon. Cutter takes hold of the glass casually, looking up at the question posed to him, "Lt. York?" He shakes his head, "Nope. I'm retired. Work out at the Brandts' now." Cutter lifts the glass, taking a sip, and then asks in return, "Posse for what?" Someone doesn't know? Reardon glances over at the man. "You've been out of town, perhaps? There's been some trouble. Indian trouble," he continues, with a pointed glance at Wilona. Wilona nods, looking a touch disappointed before staring at the box she just packed. "Haven't you heard? Most of the law are gathering up at the schoolhouse to head north to Selby, seems some Indians have been raiding up there." She glances at Reardon, only now realizing he might be going. This is news to Cutter, but he doesn't seem all that surprised. Nodding he sets the glass down again and answers Reardon's half asked question, "Yeah. I don't make it into town much." O'Mally waits while he hears the story for the dozen time, all he wants is a glass of whiskey, time of day be damned. Sneed unnerved him. Wilona smiles understandingly, "The Brandt Ranch is very self sufficient." She moves to lift the crate then pauses, her question a touch hesitant. "John, could you help me carry this into the Kitchen?" Reardon would be only too glad to help carry things into the Kitchen. He rises, and steps to the end of the bar, and then around it. "All you had to do was ask," he answers, simply enough. Cutter smiles faintly at Wilona, and turns to regard the Marshal. Wilona nods, stepping back to allow Reardon to lift the box then moves to follow him. O'Mally glances back at Cutter. Sure, where were you when I needed you outside. He sighs as Wilona leaves before managing to catch Louey's attention. "Whiskey." That task aside, he looks back at Cutter. "Not planning to ride with the posse then, I reckon?" Wilona strides off towards the door that leads to the kitchen. Cutter shakes his head, "Hadn't heard of it til now, Marshal. My hand needed?" O'Mally purses his lips, his eyes straying to the doors and the porch beyond. "No. I reckon not. Mebbe even do better to have you nearby." He extends a hand, "Name's O'Mally." Cutter takes the hand firmly, nodding, "Tyree. Cutter Tyree." O'Mally nods, "Nice to meet you." He glances down at the gunbelt, "You know how to use that?" Cutter follows the look, catching its puprose. Chuckling, he nods again. "I do." Simple answer, but he seems to mean it. Finishing off the whiskey in his own glass, he regards the Marshal again, "You thinking there'll be trouble while everyone's away?" O'Mally finishes his own whiskey before offering a small nod. "I do. You know what they say about the cat being away...." He puts his hat back on and drops a coin on the counter. "Its just turning ripe for something to happen." Cutter wavces a hand to order another drink before returning his attention to O'Mally. "I don't get into town much, Marshal, but I'd be glad to help if you need it." O'Mally nods, "Even if you could make it a point to come into town a little more often till the men get back, I'd be grateful. Not looking forward to the kind of hell that could break loose once their gone." Cutter smiles thinly, "I'd be happy to." O'Mally nods, "Much obliged." He heads out then, back into the bitter cold.