The next morning Thomas discovered he had misplaced Dilly; or, rather more precisely, Dilly was absent from where Thomas had last left her.

He had left early the room that he had secured with O'Brien the night before, his neighbours having decided that dawn was a good enough time as any to start arguing about what was owed to whom; and as Thomas cared not to discover the outcome of such a squabble, he had risen with the sun, slipped on his trousers, and clipped his gun belt to sit low on his narrow hips. He had slipped down the back stairs and emerged in the open space behind Carson's formidable structure, looking towards the slap-dash sheltering that the owners of the establishment thought would serve as a stable for its patrons and where Thomas had deposited his horse last night. When he returned, ready to greet Dilly a good morning, however, he had found her absent, having sometime before absconded from her ties and wandered out of her stall, through the closed doors of the stable without so much as a bray goodbye.

It was all very peculiar and unlike Dilly, as doors were a particular difficulty for her.

He squatted and examined the hay that littered the floor of her former stall. Thomas spit into the straw, recognising the deep impressions in its strands for what they were—tracks that could only have been left by man. Someone, while Thomas slept dead to the world under the deep dark pull of whiskey, had come and taken Dilly. He stood and brushed at his knees.

That would not do.

The heels of his boots ricocheted like bullets against the wooden floors as he strode into Carson's. What few patrons remained, half sitting and sprawled over tables as litter abandoned, lifted their heads and squinted at his entrance—more bewildered than angry for the disruption. A bored woman in a revealing slip—no older than sixteen, Thomas figured—watched him from a table in the corner with jaded eyes that took in the cut of his suit for longer than he appreciated.

Extinguished were the hanging lamps that had lent the room some sense of warmth the night before, and the unforgiving light of the morning revealed it to be a lonely and tired place with its wood stained in whiskey and spent tobacco. It was little more than a room with an assortment of tables and chairs, and Thomas was saddened he had spent so much of his night warming a stool within the space.

With fresh insult blooming salty in his mouth, he turned in distaste towards the bar. He found O'Brien staring at him with an eyebrow raised, half turned from the same sickly man she had been whispering with when Thomas first arrived. Her acquaintance was also staring, sight greedy with the idea that it was his god given right to pin Thomas with such a blatant look.

"Did the whiskey find its retribution this morning, Mr. Kent?" O'Brien looked pleased to think this.

At her question her acquaintance picked up a broom and pushed it across the floor, for what little good it would do. Thomas watched the man take upon such a useless endeavour, for a moment observing the dust and sand bloom in the hazy beams of sunlight breaking through the few windows. He was halfway disappointed that the man had left on his own volition, robbing Thomas of the satisfaction of telling him to make himself scarce. He pinned the contemptible barmaid with the full heat of his glare.

"Where is my horse?" He didn't deign her question worthy of answering—the whiskey, while still giving heat to his limbs, was not the source of his fever.

"Your horse?" She set a small glass before her and filled it with a clear liquid, "Why, you left it out back, if I remember correctly."

His steps slowly devoured the space between them as he crossed the floor to reach the bar. O'Brien looked nonplussed as she swallowed her drink.

"My horse is not out back, as I had left her," He placed his palms onto the still sticky surface of the bar, containing a grimace, and let his eyes bore into hers, "so I will ask again: Where. Is. My. Horse, Miss O'Brien?"

She held his eyes and the corner of her mouth curled marginally, as if his display amused her. He felt something burn hotly against his ribs, and he understood it to be a wrath eager for release pressing against his chest.

"Are you accusing me of stealing your horse?" She didn't wait for his answer, "I've no want for your horse, Mister Kent, for I have no place to be but here. Perhaps, instead, you should reconsider you knot-tying skills after drinking from my bottle of whiskey."

Whatever mirth pulled at her mouth soured on her lips, leaving them pursed in annoyance, "You best remember where exactly you are when you make an accusation like that."

Thomas remembered the gun that hung at her hip and felt the weight of his own.

"Now, Sarah, that isn't any way to treat a man distraught over the loss of his beloved horse." A deep baritone sounded from behind Thomas.

He turned to look over his shoulder and saw a man dressed entirely in black, his suit fitted and faintly pinstriped, standing at the foot of the stairs. Thomas instantly recognised from his paunch as the one belonging to the man on the balcony the evening of his arrival. He hadn't heard him descend, nor did he know how long he had been listening.

"Forgive me my barmaid, for she can be ill-tempered in the morning." The man walked towards Thomas, who could tell that the man had a profound capacity for asperity despite his current display of diplomacy. Thomas figured it was a character trait necessary in the running of a successful business that catered to the kind of clientele Carson's favoured, but it singled him out as a man untrustworthy. Meanwhile Thomas could tell Carson was recognising some arcane qualities buried deep within his skin. In the time it took him to walk over, he had measured the profile Thomas cut and found him lacking in a glaring way. It was a realisation that made Thomas feel small, almost physically shrinking from the man, despite him being a stranger. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin slightly to compensate, angry at the man for the reaction he had caused.

"Mr. Carson," The man nodded in introduction but didn't offer his hand to shake, "And you are, from what I gather, Mr. Kent."

"Pleasure," Thomas grunted, feeling anything but at their meeting.

Mr. Carson's responding hum was so low it nearly vibrated Thomas' chest, revealing that he knew the sentiment to be false and perhaps felt the same, "You are missing your horse, yes?"

Thomas nodded.

"And you had last left her at our stables?"

When Thomas nodded a second time, Mr. Carson narrowed his eyes. Thomas thought it was to accuse the disappearance of his horse as a mess of his own making with its roots tangled in neglect. He bristled at the charge and the eventual implication that Thomas was a liar angling to swindle such a lecherous business.

"Richards!"

The man pushing the broom spooked and looked up from his task, "Yes, Mr. Carson?" Thomas found his voice to be as weak as his biceps looked braced against the handle of the broom.

"Why is this man's horse missing from the stables?"

Richards looked puzzled, eyes jumping from Mr. Carson and Thomas—his lower lip trembling pendulous in anticipation of the owner's response. When his answer wasn't prompt enough, Carson asked again, only louder.

"I—I don't know, sir?"

Thomas found himself part of a very unusual tableau, unsure of how Richards fit into Dilly's disappearance. He watched curiously as O'Brien avoided the exchange, keeping her eyes to the drink-stained bar, chaste in solidarity with her targeted colleague. Looking back towards Mr. Carson he saw a man whose plenteous black brown was furrowed, belying a violence lurking in an otherwise calm posture. Thomas wished to step back and distance himself from such volatility, but he didn't dare make a move.

Mr. Carson stared at Richards for a time—long enough that the man began to tremble under the weight.

"Mr. Carson, I—I"

"Go to my office," Mr. Carson said.

"Mr. Car—"

"Go to my office," he enunciated, "and wait for me there."

Richards took to the stairs slowly and Thomas watched the ascent of a man doomed. Mr. Carson waited until the creak of the steps halted and were replaced by the groan of the floorboards of the second storey. Then he returned his gaze to Thomas, who bore the weight of his attention with considerable grace.

"My sincerest apology, Mr. Kent. It is challenging to find reliable help here," Mr. Carson clasped his shoulder and Thomas found himself directed towards the door, "Your room will be complimentary until your search proves successful."

Thomas blinked against a particularly bright beam of sun, having been positioned before the exit. He stepped out from under the heavy hand of Carson's and adjusted his duster, mindful that Carson watched him do so.

"Of which, I have no doubt it will be. Your horse is bound to be somewhere. Until then, don't hesitate to ask anything of O'Brien." Mr. Carson turned, heading towards the stairs, "Good luck in reclaiming your horse, Mr. Kent!"

For a moment, Thomas had a mind to go back into Carson's and demand from the man immediate compensation for his horse, but as he had been effectively ejected from the bar, Thomas was confident that he had all but himself to rely upon to find Dilly. He didn't want to depend upon the man in any way, for as much as Carson had discovered him wanting in some profound manner, so too had Thomas found him lacking. Carson was not a man to be engaged, and Thomas should avoid him at all costs, accepting his free accommodations as fair and moving on to find Dilly by himself.

Thomas stood for a moment on the deck of Carson's before the full weight of the task before him revealed itself. Thomas sucked at his teeth as he surveyed the crowded thoroughfare before him, arms braced on his hips. He was in a predicament. Without Dilly there was no way for him to leave this town this morning as he had intended, and leaving without her was as unsavoury as it was unfeasible. He had money, but none of it could be spared on a new horse; he had collected and saved just enough cash to push him north and nothing more. A new mare of Dilly's calibre would set him back enough so that he'd never make it as far as he wanted, stuck within the long the reach of the Crawleys. But without a horse at all he was stuck here, even closer to their grasping hands, for the long miles he'd have to traverse to reach his destination were impossible by foot.

The consistent tic of the second hand had an ominous echo in his mind as Thomas felt himself wasting time he couldn't afford. He had already spent too much time in this shanty town, and if he were to find Dilly, barring that she was to be found, he'd be spending even more than he preferred. With time came people, and Thomas knew he couldn't afford to be making any ties with anyone. He needed to leave the south without a trace.

It was a damn unacceptable state of affairs.

But a man could do no good on an empty stomach, and Thomas intended to correct that. He would have his fill of breakfast and then begin his search for Dilly properly, for he had to hope that Dilly was still in camp, waiting for him instead of any of the alternatives.

He pushed his way through the walking stream and made his way towards the boarding house he had seen upon his arrival. He remembered seeing a chalk sign listing the price of a plate of food on the side of its building and hoped it would still be available. Upon entering its doors, Thomas realised he was not the only man to have seen the sign and thought it just as appetizing.

A long line of hungry bellies, clothed in dirty linens and pressed suits alike, stood waiting to be served by a short, round woman with a shock of orange curls bursting through her bonnet. As they passed her, they would extend an empty plate with a polite silence and a coin and she would serve up something resembling biscuits and gravy.

Thomas took up a plate from a stack nearing the end of the line and joined its queue, waiting to be served. While he stood, he considered Dilly and where she might be. He thought about her and wondered under whose hands she had wandered away—whose feet now sullied her stirrups. Jealousy was an intense and familiar feeling that flushed his system with a distracting heat, making it hard for Thomas to think.

It was the strength of these thoughts that made Thomas oblivious to the keen stare of the server's companion at first, but eventually the familiar weight of eyes pressed heavy against his person, as if the gaze pushed physically against his skin, chipped away against his concentration. Thomas shifted and moved to do the only thing he knew how; he looked up to challenge it.

A balding man of middling age and middling description had sidled up beside the woman with a new tray of biscuits that were still steaming. He wore suspenders over a white shirt stained at the belly, suggesting time spent wrestling with cookery at a counter waist high. His sleeves were rolled up and pinned at the elbows, with no vest or jacket to speak of. Though he wasn't doing anything to conceal his astonished glare, no one besides Thomas had yet to observe his gaping and in turn, follow his gaze to notice Thomas.

To his extreme displeasure, the man opened his mouth.

"You're new, aren't you?"

Thomas contemplated the unnecessary question with as much intensity as he considered the man's hairline—which is to say, with very little of anything except annoyed indifference.

The man took Thomas' silence as encouragement so he continued, "Only, I haven't seen you here before, and I see most people when they come." He set the biscuits down, allowing his full concentration to fall upon Thomas, "You didn't stay the night here, did you? Oh! Or are you planning to stay the night… tonight?"

"Molesley," his woman friend, still serving another patron, all but screeched, "Leave the poor man alone! Go see if Daisy's finished the beans."

The man—Molesley, his name rolling ungainly on the tongue attached to the voice of his mind—had the presence to look mollified and left, giving Thomas a friendly nod suggesting that there would be more of his curiosity at a time better suited for questions.

"You'll have to excuse Mr. Molesley. He can get a little over familiar when things excite him," the cook said, grabbing Thomas' plate. She loaded it with an extra biscuit and drowned it in a thick, white gravy. On top of it, she spooned out a good amount of baked beans swimming in molasses, quickly spreading into the gravy until their combined sauces filled the plate. Thomas' stomach gurgled in greeting.

She smiled having heard it, "Welcome to Patmore's," and then turned to grab the next empty plate on offer, "There's coffee further on," and Thomas felt distinctly dismissed from her presence.

True to her word, there was a small station filled with cups and a large, silver urn. After filling one for himself, he surveyed the small seating area provided and realised that he would have to share a table in order to eat.

Most tables were at capacity, full of men conversing over their shared breakfasts. Thomas spotted a table that was occupied by only one man with bright red hair near a window. Thomas sat with his head down and began to shovel his baked beans into his mouth with the slow, methodical motions of someone who wanted people to think he was engrossed with his food and was not to be engaged in conversation of any kind. He lifted his coffee mug to his lips, instantly grimacing at its contents.

"Welcome to Patmore's, home to the first coffee that could stand on its own," his seatmate said with a grin. He lifted his own cup in a cheer and swallowed thickly around the viscous fluid.

"It's like tar," Thomas said, tilting his mug to examine how the coffee swirled, moving like no coffee Thomas had ever seen.

"I like to think it a black, bitter custard," the stranger said, "then that way it's like dessert in the morning."

An inane thing to hope for—out here, at this time in the day—Thomas thought, but his companion was young enough to be pleased with the thought of something sweet before noon. Thomas chose to find sweetness in the beans instead and continued to spoon his breakfast into his awaiting mouth.

"What brings you to camp?"

Thomas glared at the ginger. "Nothing brings me here, so you can wipe the smile that suggests you think something has off your face. You don't know me; I don't know you, so let us return to our beans in silence."

"All right," he said around a mouthful of biscuit, hands still clutching his cutlery lifted in supplication, "Forget I asked."

Their moment was interrupted by the pull of the chair next to them, legs dragging against the wooden floorboards in a piercing manner. Another man dropped into the seat, placing his plate on the table before him.

"Hey there, Alfred," he said before turning towards with a nod Thomas, "Mister,"

The redhead—the titular Alfred—moved closer to the new addition, leaning over the table as if to create some secrecy in th table that wasn't there. Thomas stared in distaste as he watched Alfred's linen shirt come dangerously close to meeting his gravy-filled plate. "Don't dare speak to this one, Dunn. He's an ornery fuck."

Since that was largely true, Thomas largely ignored Alfred's comment.

The other man looked towards Thomas with a bemused smirk, "No, I'm sure he's just sore somebody's taken his horse".

Breakfast forgotten, Thomas glared, "How—?"

"Only fools think to leave their horses in the hut that Carson calls a stable behind his place," the man said, "I happened to be in Carson's when you stormed in—but I suppose you were busy and didn't see me."

Thomas straightened in his hard chair and the legs of it scratched against the flooring, giving soundtrack to the resentment for having been marked a chump by a man who frequented Carson's in the middle of the morning. "You're calling me a fool?"

The man smiled sympathetically as he cut into a biscuit with the side of his fork, uncaring for the tension that now ironed Thomas' spine erect as his eyes followed only his food , "Yes, but we all were when we were new to town. You learn to realise where Carson's strengths fall, and where they do not. Just like everything else in the camp, it has its purpose, and horse stabling is not one of Carson's."

Thomas set his spoon down on the side of his plate and considered the stranger's words to find their hidden intent but found no such malice undertone. The man was merely making conversation, helpful at that; though Thomas found pretence in the implication that like the former new visitors of the town, he too would stay long enough to become learned of the town's peculiarities.

"So what, his horse's stolen?" Alfred asked of his companion, having deemed Thomas undesirable in dialogue and set to avoid interaction with him at all costs.

Dunn nodded but asked of Thomas, "Have you begun your search for it yet?"

"Her," Thomas clarified for reason he didn't understand, "And no, not yet. I figured I would start after breakfast. Perhaps canvass the local businesses to see if anyone had seen her."

"If anyone has, it'd be Price. He'd know the breed, how many hands it stood stall, and what it ate for breakfast with just a look—and he'd be looking."

"Where would I find this Price?"

"At a real stable," Dunn indulged in a smile which Thomas allowed, "he runs the town's horse livery. You can find it just off the main road, about a quarter mile east of here, past the hardware store."

Thomas nodded in appreciation, having thought that the stables would be the best place to start his search; or—he would have, had he started to think about strategies beyond dulling the aches of hunger. He stood and downed his coffee without a thought, the thickness surprisingly complimentary to the clinging syrup of the beans left on his tongue. He tipped his hat in the direction of his helpful seatmate and said a passing thank you before making for the door.

"Hope you find her, Mister," the stranger said, fishing for a name.

Thomas waved without turning his back and left the man's lure for the next stranger.