Faraday's always been good about keeping his emotions off his face – a necessity for how often he finds himself at card tables, making his living on lying through his teeth. He puts it to good use now, listening as Vasquez nervously works his way through his explanation.

Things are different now, Vasquez says, and Faraday wonders if he means the bounty on his head, or if he means the company he keeps, or if he means Faraday, in particular. And he wonders, more than that, if Vasquez finds it a hindrance. Wouldn't be the first time Faraday's made a nuisance of himself, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time his presence had been an unwelcome one; if Faraday were in the habit of being honest, he'd admit that he's suspected Vasquez would eventually tire of him.

(Most folks do.)

Vasquez's preferences hardly surprise him. Traveling as much as he has, Faraday's met more than a few men who shared those same particular interests. Faraday thinks he knows what he likes – dark hair, dark eyes, a sharp wit and a clever tongue. Like Henrietta, whose bell-like laughter rings out with the men she's amusing at their table. Like Maria, months and months ago, with her clever hands in a darkened room. Like Ethel before her, with a voice like a nightingale, singing in a crowded saloon.

He's not sure why he feels that bitter twinge in his gut, why something rakes at the back of his ribs when Faraday glances over at Josiah, busying himself with another order. He keeps it from showing, though, that mask of ease and vague amusement clinging to his face.

"Why not indulge?" is what Faraday hears himself asking, even if he wants to kick himself for it.