Billy sat in the dirt near the unlit fire pit that he had recently built since they fled the Indian camp. In one hand he held a small stick that he boredly worked carving into a sharp point with his knife like he always did, not speaking a word. Westwood was tied to a nearby dead tree. Billy raised his head, lowering an eyebrow as he saw the palomino mare trotting back into camp without a rider. With a questioning huff, he got to his feet, brushing off his jeans. Peering into the dusty distance, he saw Jake returning with the black colt on his shoulder. "Well I'll be damned." He murmured, taking a couple steps towards the other man as he let the colt down. "The hell happened back there? They let ya keep the horses?" He asked curiously, giving the colt a pat on the flank.
