"Not if I can help it," Erron answered easily enough from behind closed eyes, his head lolling absently against the back of the seat. The heavy warmth of Arthur's presence in his lap seemed to seep down deep into his bones, bring him back to that place in his mind, the rare golden hours of comfort and safety. He heard the whisper of cloth pulling free, the soft thud of the saddlebag returning to the porch, and cracked his eyes. "I used to think I'd be livin' like 'em by now — back when I was too young and hungry to reckon I knew nothin' 'bout nothin'. Then I saw what they were really like — how they lived out their lives."

"Been all by my lonesome all my life besides," Erron scrubbed the worst of the mess off his hand with the handkerchief, balled it up and leaned up with a grunt to start in on his belly. "Ain't like I got nobody to leave it to when I die. I'm all I got — so I reckon I might as well act like it."

It was never the amount of money that counted; he had far too many bolt holes and caches scattered about to count anyhow. The thrill was in the acquisition of it — always had been, and always would be. Erron loved money, no doubt about it, but he loved spending and gambling with it more. Creature comforts and a well maintained arsenal were all he needed.