It was obvious John didn't know what to do.

He'd put Abigail and Jack down in their bedroom on the bed, and she cringed at the thought of what the blood and their… fluids… would do to the fabric. After that he, well, did nothing productive.

Her everything still hurt, that impact on the ground doing nothing to help, so she'd laid by the fire, watching as he paced from one end of the room to the other, still clutching his lasso as though it were the only thing keeping him from falling through the earth. 'Ain't gonna help you, John.'

"Shit Gin, what am I gonna do? I can't, I can't shoot them, but they tried to kill me! Abigail tried to kill Jack!" he yelled suddenly, dropping the lasso to run his fingers through his greasy hair.

"Nope."

"But I have to do something, I can't just… I can't just leave them like this!"

"Nope."

"I… I have to go look for a cure. I have to fix this. They'll… they'll be fine here, right? It can't take me too long, MacDougal'll know what to do. He… he has to."

"Sure, sure he will. He's not getting high or anything."

Now with some sort of plan, he didn't look half so distressed. He stooped down to grab his lasso, and she couldn't help but to giggle when she realized he was still in his union suit, the buttons straining to keep the rear-flap closed. He coiled it up and set it on the side table before vanishing into the kitchen and returning with plates of meat. John slipped into his room, and she could hear him speaking to them, although what he was saying she couldn't tell.

He was in there long enough she began to worry—had they gotten him?—but there hadn't been much noise, only a bit of clattering, and John was a loud bastard and he surely would have made some sort of commotion if they had, so she remained laying down, trying to let the heat soak away her pains before they left.

When he did leave the room, he was ready to fight. He'd pulled on the clothing he used to wear when they'd go into the forest, hunting Skinners and bounties; just the sight of it, the sight of those clothes and the shotgun in his hand, had her blood pumping and her tail going, and she started to rise to her paws but decided against it when she saw him set the gun down, putting down his satchel and beginning to putter around the house, grabbing things and shoving them inside.

"John?" she realized suddenly, "why didn't you use that shotgun on Uncle?" but, of course, he didn't hear her, nor did he answer.

He paused, realization dawning on his face, "Shit! What am I gonna do with you?" Her? What about the others? The horses and cattle and sheep and chickens and Rufus?

"I'm going with you, dumbass."

"I could put you in the barn, I guess? If I leave you a couple troughs of water and a lot of food? You and Rufus, maybe. I shouldn't be gone too long."

"I. Am. Going. With. You." Blink.

Well, show don't tell, right? So she groaned, dragged her aching body to her paws, staring at him stubbornly. "Gin, you ain't coming with me."

At least he caught on fast?

"Like hell I'm not!"

"Gin, lie down. You ain't coming with me."

"This isn't up for debate." How he hadn't learned not to argue with her over the years was a question for the ages.

He grunted, shaking his head, and she knew that he'd try and keep her from going so, as he finished stuffing his satchel, she kept a close eye on him. The satchel was left inside as he opened the door and slipped out—he needed to fill his horse's saddle bags—but she didn't trust him not to leave it and vanish, taking just the things in his saddle bags, so she stumbled after him, trying to work the kinks out of her bones. The heat had done some good, and the adrenaline from the fight, from the Pavlovian response to his clothing, had her moving easier than she had in months.

He was tacking up Strider, the only sign of the wagon being deep gouges in the ground - the horses had probably fled in terror during the fight. And, looking around, it seemed the other animals had as well… or Uncle had had a feast before coming after them. The fence to the paddock was broken down, no animals to be seen, and she couldn't see far enough but from what she could tell the chicken pen was just plain gone.

And Rufus was nowhere to be seen.

She hadn't liked him much, but she hoped he wasn't hurt. They weren't the best of friends, but he was still a good boy.

He was turned away from her, so she slunk off to the side of the porch where she could watch him but he couldn't see her.

Now, to wait.

She watched as John went back and forth, loading up poor Strider 'til her saddlebags were stuffed full, clattering with more guns than she could count. Her tail wagged - oh, she remembered that, remembered countless hunts and bounties, handfuls of horses tacked up the same way, running at John's side, painless and free, helping to support their family, having the time of her life.

He popped his head out the door, scowling, and called "Gin? Goddammit Gin, where are you?" stepping out and looking around, "Where are you? This ain't funny, and I ain't got the time!" Well, time to face the music, she supposed, and stepped out from the side of the porch, strutting as best as she could and plopping down on her ass next to Strider.

"No, Gin." he stormed over to her, "I already said no." his hand twisted in her scruff and he tried to drag her, letting go when she squeaked, digging in her paws. "Goddammit, you stupid dog!"

"I'm going."

"You ain't goin' Gin, inside!" he let go, gesturing at the door.

"I'm going." she stared at him, unimpressed.

"Gin." he gestured again.

"Going."

"Gin, git."

"Going."

John sighed and stooped down, scooping her up, slinging her across Strider's rump, making sure she was well secured before swinging up himself and turning Strider's nose to Blackwater, reins in one hand and a revolver in the other.

"I look like you hunted me."