Ben Wade never drew Charlie Prince. He never wanted to. The thought never even crossed his mind.
Actually, the more he looked at Charlie Prince, the less interested he became. When his face was unshaven, covered in dirt and spit and blood, Wade looked away. He'd look at his other men. They were all the same, to him. Even when they weren't coated in blood. He'd just known Prince the longest. Prince was lucky enough to have never slipped up.
Ben Wade never drew Charlie Prince. Prince was sure he hadn't. Even though he rarely saw the boss's drawings, he was positive he wasn't in that torn sketchbook. He didn't bother checking; he was almost afraid to. He told himself again and again that the boss had never looked at him and picked up a pencil. But. He was afraid.
There was a tiny part of him that hoped he was in there. Realistically, he knew he wasn't. But he was bad at controlling his emotions, convincing himself otherwise.
The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to look, to be. He thought about asking the boss, but quickly dismissed that idea. He considered glancing into it, when the boss wasn't. But he knew what would happen to him if he'd be caught.
Ben Wade never drew Charlie Prince. And Charlie Prince never knew Ben Wade.
I'm so in love with these guys.
3:10 to Yuma isn't mine.