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The rain had to be the worst part of whenever they had to go significantly North or East; in Cecil’s opinion, anyway. If he can count the days between each storm on his hands, it’s too much rain. He’s a desert dweller, through and through.
Henri doesn’t have as much of a quarrel with the rain. France gets a lot more downfall than the American Southwest. If anything, he missed it. The desert is exhaustingly dry, actually. The actual healthy plant life that isn’t spiky is great.
“Is someone afraid of a little rain?” Henri teases, grinning smugly at his trail partner.
“Oh shove it, you damn French harlot,” Cecil shoots back. He can tell he’s struck a chord there.
“I ain’t no damned harlot!”
“Could have fooled me.”
Henri attempts to continue, but a heavier gust of wind and rain cuts him off. It seems the sky itself is tired of their bickering. If they’re not doing something productive, they’re fighting.
“Good lord, remind me why we’re out here?” Cecil huffs, grabbing his at his hat to keep it from flying off in the storm.
“Cuz we got a good eight hundred dollars on this job- Ahck, Willis, calm yourself.”
The Willis in question, of course, was his horse, a fourteen-hand mustang with a particular distaste for directions. Cecil snorted. “Might as well start hunting fugitives for twice that.”
“Like we wouldn’t get ratted out real quick,” Henri rolls his eyes. They’d been in perhaps more than a few less than legal situations in the past six years.
“I think my face would look quite nice on a wanted poster,” Cecil counters jokingly.
“Like your face would look good on anything, not with your buck teeth.”
Henri redirects his attention to scanning the horizon. There should be a cattle ranch somewhere. His efforts are a bit fruitless, given the ever-thickening rain.
“Can’t see a damn thing.”
Cecil shook his head. “Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he grumbled. The water was soaked through his clothes, and he wasn’t excited to see what his saddle looked like. He’d neglected taking care of it was going to be damp for weeks.
Henri said something, but it was too quiet to be heard over the pounding rain. And quite possibly in French. Cecil still hadn’t picked up the language. The insults, however, were a different story. He knew those, on account of how often they were directed at him.