It's a breezy day, with a few tumbleweeds blowing through town. Garnet's checking each one in her mirror to make sure it's not a tumblebleed. Nate and Edie are drinking whiskey inside, and Delacy's out back on the porch with a sarsaparilla.

Silas hasn't talked much to the boy since they raided that train. To be frank, he thought they'd have lost him by now. But Delacy can hold his own, he's shown that, and he deserves a little respect. So Silas walks through the back door and pulls up a chair next to him.

Delacy doesn't say anything; they just nod at each other in greeting.

"Heard you saw Bison Billie," Silas says, after a moment.

"Yep. Even shook his hand," Delacy replies, fighting to keep a straight face. He's giddy with the thought of it.

Silas hums. "I seen him once. He did this mighty stomp, scared the thing off from charging him."

"The Nevada Stomp. Yeah, he did it to this hand that was trying to choke me out. I could have handled it, but he did a good job. Especially with his bum leg."

Silas squints at Delacy. "You sure know a lot about this fella."

He shrugs. "Not really."

"Being such a big fan, were you nervous to meet him?" Silas asks, cocking his head at the boy.

Delacy looks sharply out onto the plains. "No."

"Ain't what I heard from Edie."

"Edie lies. She told me ants don't wear pants."

"Don't think they do, son."

"Well, fine. I was a little nervous. You would be too, if you saw him."

Delacy still won't look at him. Silas gets that stirring feeling in his guts, the one that lets him know what's what. So he prods further: "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He's a real big fella, all brawny like a bison himself. And he has this way of talking to you– that is to say... nevermind." Delacy takes a swig of his root beer. "Ask Edie."

"You're telling me just fine."

"He made me – I'm not one of those city folks who cares about this stuff – but he made me think about my clothes. That I wasn't dressed good enough, you know."

Silas knows. Silas knows very well indeed.

"Do you have a picture of him?" he asks.

Delacy pulls out a folded-up poster from his pocket, and hands it to Silas. Silas holds in a smirk – Delacy has the poster on him at all times like a damn lover's locket.

Bison Billie is a handsome fella. The hole in his hat looks stupid, but it tells a story – or rather, Delacy tells the story eagerly as Silas unfolds the poster. It's his lucky hat. After all Silas has seen the last few weeks, he can't knock a superstition. Might have been the only thing keeping Bison Billie alive.

"Are you done looking yet?" Delacy asks, snatching the poster back. "You're like those fool men that start stammering around Miss Edie."

"Careful, boy," Silas challenges. "That kind of talk can get a man killed."

Delacy rolls his eyes like he doesn't care, but his leg starts a-bouncing against the deck. Now he's gone and scared the kid.

"Don't mean it's wrong," Silas follows up, quietly. "Just dangerous. Like a kid with a gun."

He nudges Delacy with his elbow – Delacy flinches.

"I'm not a kid," he growls, fixing Silas in a fiery stare.

"But you have a gun," Silas insists. "Best to keep it holstered, unless you have a sure line of sight."

Delacy huffs. He pulls out his pistol and practices spinning it, flipping it over the back of his hand. Damn fool.

Delacy runs out of the alley, cupping the blood pooling out of his nose. His other hand is gripping his pistol's butt, still in its makeshift holster.

Nate, Garnet and Edie gather round and start fawning over him, pawing at his shoulders and chest to find wounds that aren't there. Silas almost does himself; the boy's only fifteen after all, and that was a very loud scream.

"Let him talk," Silas says gruffly, over everyone's questions.

They step back, give him a little air. Delacy looks up at Silas, trying to keep bent over for the nosebleed. Silas can see it in his eyes, the way they're not just watering from the injury. He knows exactly what happened.

"Just a misunderstanding," Delacy says, after a moment.

"Where is he?" Nate asks. "Let him taste lead."

Delacy pushes Nate's pistol down. "He's not worth the trouble."

I couldn't bear to shoot him, he means. Even after he punched me in the face.

Silas knows the feeling, so he lends Delacy his jacket, even though it's nowhere near cold. Next best thing to a hug, and neither of them are the type to want one. Delacy pulls it around him tight, trying to keep the blood off it (next best thing to a thank you).

Edie patches Delacy up, and Nate tells him how awful being dead is, and Garnet doesn't talk too much but she keeps squeezing his hand. After an hour Delacy finally gets a quiet moment, sitting in the corner of the saloon. It's a shame to break the silence, but he needs a talking to. Silas sits down across from him.

"I told you, I'm fine," Delacy whines.

"That's not what I'm lookin' to hear. Do you remember what I said about making sure–"

Delacy scowls. "Of course I do. I made sure. I made sure for days, Silas, and he still spooked."

"Horse in his blood," Silas grumbles.

That gets a little smile out of him. "Maybe."

"I'd like to say it won't happen again, but..." Silas rubs the scabbed cut on his lip from a month back. "It might."

Delacy nods. "I have you all, though. Wanting to run after him and shoot him to pieces."

"Yeah. You always will," Silas says, fixing Delacy with a stare, making sure he really hears it. "Wish I had," he mutters, a moment after.

"You will too," Delacy says.

He shoots his root beer out and clinks Silas' glass. Silas returns the favor, and they both take a deep swig. Silas' jacket sleeves swamps Delacy's arms; he has to keep pushing the sleeve back so it doesn't knock the bottle out of his hand.

"Let's get you your own jacket someday soon," Silas offers.

"I don't need it. But it might be nice," Delacy corrects. He can ask for what he wants now. He doesn't need to be ashamed, not with his family around.

Silas smiles.