The saloon stands against the painted sunset like a carving in the sky. Éponine's eyes remain trained on it, doing her best to purposefully not look towards the boss, who would just sneer and tell her to pay attention. There are four of them standing in the desert town. Their fifth is inside the saloon, drinking the way he always does. It is what he does best, after all.

Bahorel sneaks up behind Éponine and taps her shoulder. "You ready to go, Johnny?"

Éponine smiles at their strongest fighter. "You bet, Bahorel."

"Shut up, you two," Enjolras, 'the boss', hisses. Éponine rolls her eyes as far back as she can.

"Like it makes much of a difference, boss," she snorts. "it's not like they can hear us. If they can, it's not like they care."

"John—"

"Enjolras, he's right," Joly, their medic, points out. Enjolras huffs but keeps his own trap shut. He stares at the door as if it has done him a most grievous wrong. Bahorel stands close beside Éponine; ever since she quite nearly got bowled over when they ran their last job, he has been overly protective of her. Joly stands back, ready to run with a causality should they have one. It will most likely be Grantaire if it is anyone, Éponine thinks. He'll fall flat on his face and knock himself out if the drink doesn't do it first.

"Come on, Lorraine!" They hear the cue words very clearly from the swinging saloon door. The owner's daughter, a pretty little red-head named Lorraine, stumbles from the door, holding Grantaire with her. The two nearly fall over their own feet in their falsified drunkenness. As soon as they enter the shadows, they both stand up.

Enjolras leads their rag-tag group to the door, on the way pressing a kiss to Lorraine's freckled cheek and handing her a penny or two. She blushes sweetly and dances to the back entrance. In the meantime, Enjolras leads with Éponine and Bahorel on either side of him.

Éponine's hair is braided tightly under a wide-brimmed hat, and her shirt is baggy around her chest. Her trousers cling a little too much to her backside, and her feet and hands are small and feminine. Other than that, though, she can pass quite easily for a simple cowboy who took a wrong turn in life. Hell, Grantaire was the only one who knew her true identity.

So when they come into the smoky room, the barmaid immediately slides an arm through both Éponine and Enjolras's crooked arms. "How can I help you boys?" she looks down at Éponine, whose head comes to an unfortunate level that is the same as the woman's protruding breasts. The woman frowns at her, "Aren't you a little young to be drinkin' and whorin' around?"

"That's the thing, ma'am," Enjolras is cordial as he pulls away from her. He calmly draws the gun from its place tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. The barmaid gasps and stumbles away. The chattering in the tavern dies to gasps of fear and the pianist stops playing. Enjolras looks around cooly. "We're not here to drink."

"Well—" Éponine starts, but Bahorel hits her. Maybe her sassy mouth is not so useful during a job as she likes to think it is.

"Where is your boss?" He asks her. The gun is held steadily in his hand. The woman is distressed and crying too hard to answer. She has obviously never seen a gun before; she is the exact timed kind that Éponine's father used to bring to her parent's marital bed. Her mother would just turn away and wipe the hurt somewhere deep within her heart.

Éponine steps forward and smacks the woman as hard as she can. The maid stumbles to her bottom, staring up at Éponine in fear. At least she is not crying anymore. "Calm down, woman. Bring us to the owner of this shindig," Éponine commands.

The woman seems considerably calmer. She still gasps and cries, but it is less of a distressed sobbing. As Éponine and Enjolras follow her—Bahorel has their back—, Enjolras's hand on her elbow is a little too tight. Éponine winces; she must have taken it a touch too far.

They are lead to a back room, where the saloon owner stands with three men, all who are lined up with money. They look infuriated.

"I don't know where my slut of a daughter is!" The man is saying of Lorraine. Enjolras's pale, boyish cheeks are flushed with anger as he fires the gun into the ceiling. The crowd jumps and looks towards Enjolras, whose handgun is smoking.

"Give us all your savings," Enjolras is calm yet loud. "All your earnings, everything you've got." When he is particularly incensed, his deep Atlanta accent emerges. For Éponine, it is her French.

"Who are you?" The owner asks, even as he empties his pockets and gives the money to Bahorel, whose hands are open and waiting for the clink of change. Even when it comes, Bahorel's hand remains open until there is nothing left of the Saloon's money.

"I am the Chief," Enjolras sneers. His accent is strong enough that Éponine, even having such a deep understanding of this American language and its various sub-dialects, struggles to understand.

"Who's your little slave boy?" one of the men sneers. Bahorel's hand folds over the cash as he seems ready to attack the asker. Enjolras holds him back with a glance.

"Johnny's no slave," his regulated accent is back. "And I think you all owe me money,"

The men groan in protest. "You ain't got nothing against us," says the one who called Éponine a slave. "Just take it from him and let us on our merry way."

After a single shot from Enjolras's gun, he is not speaking anymore.

They leave after a successful night, emerging into the dusty desert night to find Grantaire drinking beside Lorraine. Enjolras tosses the girl a little sack of coins. She stares at it with an open mouth.

"Leave this place," Enjolras's voice is cold but kind. Lorraine nods hurriedly and leaves.

"So it was successful, Chief?" Grantaire asks. Enjolras does not reply. Instead, he looks to Joly.

"Joly—go get our horses. We're leaving tonight. I killed a man,"

"Enjolras, we talked about this, you've got to be more careful." Joly scolds. Enjolras snaps his head towards Éponine. For a moment, the taunt muscles in his neck glow with contained moonlight and his wild curls fall around his head like a golden halo.

"He called Johnny a slave boy,"

"Oh," Joly has nothing else to say to this, and runs off to grab their rides."

Éponine, thankful for Enjolras defending her, tries to tell him so. The thanks are heavy in her mouth, rolling off her tongue until Enjolras cuts her off with a swift cuff to the ear. Éponine's first reaction is to make sure that her hat stays on.

"Merde! What was that for?" She asks. Enjolras seizes her shoulders and seems ready to shake her.

"Never hit a woman in front of me again," he hisses.

Éponine rolls her eyes for what feels like the hundredth time that night. "Oh, right, I forgot. You have mommy issues."

"My mother had to whore herself out until she died to keep me alive," Enjolras spits. "I had to watch men hit her every night, some as young as you are. Do not treat a woman with disrespect."

Éponine keeps her mouth shut. As Enjolras's beautiful form turns to face the approaching Joly, she thinks almost sadly, it is a shame that you will never realize who I am.

"We'll be at a trading post by dawn if we leave right now," Enjolras has lost his frustrated mother's boy emotion and is back to bossing their small crew around. "So make sure to wrap up. Grantaire," he looks with disgust at the man who, in his own way, is crucial to their missions, even if Enjolras never seems to realize it. "You may want to strap in. You've had too much to drink tonight,"

Grantaire, ignoring Enjolras, hoists himself up into the saddle without assistance. "It's my job, boss."

"Perhaps you ought to ease up on working, then," Enjolras can be downright sassy when he wishes to be, and it appears that this is most prominent tonight for whatever reason.

"That's rich coming from you," Éponine snorts. "Your job is your life,"

Enjolras coolly responds, "It's all I have left."