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Summary
“'m hunting,” the man muttered, his focus solely on the arrow in his hand. He managed to tie that arrow off, and shakily moved to the next. “Hunting squirrels.”
Charles blinked.
“Squirrels?”
“Yup,” Arthur emphasized the word, tying off another arrow. “Woods are full of them.”
“They are,” Charles agreed quietly, watching with an edge of concern. “Does this...bother you?”
“Little bastards,” he growled, with vitriol Charles had only heard when Arthur spoke of the likes of Pinkertons or O’Driscoll’s, “Fast, fast little shits. Weavin’ all up and down, back n’ forth, runnin’ and laughin’ like they know somethin’, “ he held up the newly fashioned arrow with a grin, “We’ll see who’s laughin’ when I’m through with ‘em. We— we’ll see who knows somethin!”
That concern was growing.