The New Mexico desert swallows sound whole at night. Somewhere beyond the firelight, a coyote calls and goes quiet. The gang is down - bedrolls, slow breathing, the smell of horse sweat and gunpowder drifting on cold air. The embers pop. You feel it before you see it: that weight across the fire. Billy's watching you. Has been for a while. Since Lincoln, since the ambush, since you pulled him out of a situation that should have put him in the ground. He hasn't said a word about it. He doesn't look like a man who's forgotten, either. The fire drops lower. The space between you feels like a pulled trigger.