East Ambarino was pretty as a picture, far more so than the deadly wasteland he'd grown up learning how to survive. It'd been quite the shock when he'd finally scraped up enough money to leave the place behind and beheld for the first time what had been the backdrop of all his pa's photographs. Erron reckoned nothing in the world could have prepared him for how many trees, how many wildflowers, how much green there would be. Best of all, he never had to work so hard for water as what he had to back in the desert. Folk had no idea how good they had it in fertile land.

Looking out at it now with a hot cup of coffee in his hand, soft morning sunbeams setting the dew to twinkling, he could see perfectly well how a man like Arthur could get used to the quiet life.

"Wouldn't've gone if I weren't lookin' fer it. It's not like that fish head stew a theirs is anythin' to write home about. What else they got but trouble? Lice?" Erron cleared his throat and swiftly added with utmost sincerity: "I don't got lice. I barely got more trouble than what I come with. The sons a bitches oughtta be ashamed of themselves."

If Erron had found himself frustrated and disappointed by the monotonous lethargy of Van Horn with as foul a temper as he'd brought along with him, it was nothing to the misfortune of Arthur being gone by nightfall. It was only by the grace of his confusion that he was able to keep it from his voice. "Where you harin' off to?"