He stares at the water.

Cut up like a motherfucker; his skin is painted with purples, blacks, and yellows. His muscles are sore. The fibers are torn apart and stinging. Tongue pushing against the roof of his mouth, he can feel blood pooling underneath and the only thing he could think about was that'd had been the worst fight he'd found himself in in a very long time. There's pride in surviving an ambush but it never really outweighs the shame in allowing yourself to be ambushed in the first place -- at least for him, anyway. He got cocky, stayed reckless, and ended up in some back country fields with four very tough pricks. Not sure who hired `em. Couldn't get it out of `em before he put a few bullets in three of `em but there's high hopes for the last one he's dragged all the way over to this stream. Guess it really doesn't matter who hired `em because, let's be honest, could damn near be anyone. He has a very long fan list. Guess he just likes going through the motions.

"Jim O'Dael -- he hired us. Says he's a new player looking to make a power move. Figures takin` out you would make a splash."

The prick volunteers this information without prompt (arguement could be made killing his friends could be constrewed as prompting ) from behind him. He doesn't turn around in favor of kneeling down and dipping the tips of his fingers into the water. "Fake name. Not the worst lie I ever heard, just enough information, but fake name." He brings his fingers to his lips, wets the cracks, before speaking again. "They say this spring has healing properties. Suppose to have every mineral the human body needs and maybe a little more. Back during the American Revolution, four British soliders got messed up pretty good, left for dead. Big hearted natives found `em and laid them in the spring; couple months later and they're right as rain. The natives though, famous for bad trades, ain't they? Gave away the spring and the land in a trade for corn."

He straightens back out, finally turns, and shifts his attention back to the prick in a bloody heap on the ground. Prick is in pretty bad shape. Might have taken too many negative feelings out on him but the jerk off did try to kill him so it's pretty hard to balance the scale. "History lost track of all the dealings but it ends up in another dude's hands sometime in the 1940's. Guy believes that something as magnificent as this place should be shared by everyone. So you know what the motherfucker does? He deeds the land to God. The holy eye in the sky." The gun pulls slow from his holster, hangs there at his side. "Probably a miracle two sinners like ourselves are even able to step foot on God's Acre. Or maybe it speaks volumes in the other direction. Both kinda make your skin crawl, don't they?"

It's at this point a local wanders through the brush with two large jugs, probably intent to fill them up with the oh so magical healing water until he spots the gun. Eye contact, maybe deep understanding, eventually backing away and the scene resets.

"You're not gonna let me go. Even if I talk."

"No -- no, I'm not." Both voices keep low, not necessarily somber, but in the region. There's an air of acceptance for what was coming next. He closes the distance between them with a few steps, stops, and looks the prick right in the soul before putting a bullet between his eyes. The shot rings out, causes some panic in the foilage of the trees but everything settles down fairly quick. He drags the prick fully into the stream and lays him face up. "But if the stories are true, and God sees fit, give it a few months and maybe we'll run into one another again."

He walks away.