Bad Company Page #2

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- My money!

God, I never heard so much fuss

about a couple o' dollars!

Listen!

Now, listen.

You got as much chance of gettin'

on a wagon train as a dead n*gger.

You stick around here,

the army's gonna get you.

You can't go it alone. There's

outlaws, Indians, all them things.

Now... There's safeties in numbers,

if you heard of that.

It just so happens,

I'm heading west myself...

me and some others,

hand-picked for gumption...

which you got.

So, less'n you're dumber

than I think,

you'll throw in with us.

- What?!

- We started on the wrong foot

- but that don't mean nothin'.

- Drew? Drew?

- Well...

- Wait!

I feel like I'm running barefoot

in horseshit.

You ain't got much choice now, pard.

They'll be after you

with tar and feathers.

- Where's your stuff?

- Delesseps Hotel.

You're paying to sleep?!

You got a lot to learn,

and your first lesson is a drummer's

farewell - out the back window.

Hey, c'mon!

All right... Now...

Give me back my money.

- What?

- The money you stole off me.

- Didn't I give that back to you?

- No.

- How much was that?

- $7 and 85 cents.

- Coulda swore it was five.

- Uh-uh.

Well, we'll call it seven even.

One, two, three... And how much was

that hotel room? Two dollars, right?

Four, five, six...

One dollar for me, and we're even.

- Well, how do you figure that?

- Well, I saved you two dollars.

I keep one,

and you're still a dollar ahead.

Boy, you're lucky you fell in with us.

Yes, sir. We'll have us some high

old times, hunting and fishing.

That's our racket, living off the land.

Whoo! Well, call me a chink.

I ain't introduced myself. Jake

Rumsey, Pennsylvania bred and born.

- Drew Dixon.

- Pleased to meet you, Drew.

Boys, meet Drew Dixon here.

I got him to throw in with us.

Drew here's raised by the ragtail

and the bobtail. Right, Drew?

Oh, well...

That's near the truth, I s'pose...

Yeah, Drew here's

dodging the army of the Potomac.

Aw, hell. Don't take on.

We gotta lay our cards on the table.

That's the Logan brothers,

Jim Bob and Loney.

- They're runnin' from the same.

- Oh, is that right?

Hell, we had the whole militia

of Illinois chasing us, didn't we?

When are you gonna stop flapping

your jaw, damn it?

- Howdy, Dixon.

- This here is Arthur Simms.

- He's running from his pa.

- Pleased to know you.

Here, junior. Wet your whistle.

That piece o' peckerwood's

Boog Bookin. He's barely off the tit.

- How old are you, Boog?

- Eleven.

- He's ten.

- Go to hell, you sh*t-toed bastard!

How'd you do on that lady's purse?

Well, the ways

of the Lord are strange.

- Meaning what?

- Meaning it just didn't pan out.

Well, what are we gonna do now?

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