12th June: The noose for the long-eared

The rifleman was on a mission. A delicate, secret mission to which few would be privy. So few in fact that perhaps the only man that he might allow himself to speak to, would be a batman of the officer under which he was serving. His good mood was made strong a mere day ago and the relationship which had caused it seemed promising. It was also rather productive and educational, although the knowledge he gained he would possible not be able to much use. But the words remained in his mind and the accent he mastered as well as he was able, lucky to have what many of the illiterate did. Excellent memory for things. In his case it was made better when it was a thing he was interested in.

He had kept in camp as promised to his captain, and stayed in sight of some of the riflemen so that they would be able to call on him if the officer so desired. Since he was to be in a company of another, even much closer to the officer than others, he was safe to disappear from the sight of others.

"..'scuse me." He cleared his throat and then glancing about, more quietly he spoke: "Dia duit."

Cotton was sitting by the fire, seeing to Captain Vickery's sword, whistling contentedly as he worked. If the truth were known, it didn't need much work, really, but looking after the Captain's things was part of Cotton's duty, and there was no time like the present to do so.

A shadow fell across him, and he nearly scrambled to his feet before realising that it was another Rifleman. He breathed a quiet sigh when he realised it was Pye.

"Mornin', Pye. What d'you want?" he asked and winced at the abruptness of his words. "Sorry. Din't mean to sound so... sharp, like."

Pye paused and took a short breath holding it. Gabriel's reaction did not surprise him too much. He had hoped for something better, but a sigh was certainly not as bad as it could have been, also. It did cause him to reconsider if he truly ought to speak with the other man. He started to shake his head, but then pursed his lips stubbornly and stood his ground. He had nothing to be sorry about and thus he should not just leave. His 'sacrifice' had helped them all to come here.

"Morning." With some defiance he repeated. "Dia duit." He tilted his head slightly and then began. "I've.. wanted ter see if you was busy at t' moment."

Cotton frowned, but not at Pye himself. "Where'd you learn to speak so... outlandish, like?" he asked. There couldn't be any good to come from Pye learning what sounded very like Irish, to Cotton's ear.

"Ain't so busy as all that," he replied, ignoring the fact he had the Captain's sword laying across his lap, with its scabbard by his side. "There's water in the kettle, if you'm wantin' tea," he added, determined to do his duties as host, despite his misgivings about Pye since their eventful escape from the French.

"...m' somewhere." He spoke deciding he did not want to point a finger at his new partner if Cotton might think it a bad thing as well. "I lissen." He nodded, which was not a lie. He asked, maybe, but he had to hear it to know it. "It's a greetin'. You know. Like a 'ello, sort o'."

He glanced at the kettle and debated going for it first. He glanced at the sword in Cotton's lap and was not surprised that it was in as good a state as the batman could have it be. Vickery would not need to worry about having a dull blade, nor one damaged by rust or whatnot.

"..Would yer like some, too?" He incquired, not yet decided on having some.

"Oh, right." Cotton shrugged. "Wouldn't mind a bit of tea, no. Plenty of water for two, an' it ain't so far off the boil as all that." He shifted, reaching into his cartouche to withdraw a leather pouch. "Don't keep your tea-leaves loose, if you can help," he said, untying the leather thong and shaking some leaves into his tin mug. "There."

He put the pouch away. "Anyhow. What brings you a-visitin'?"

"Why?" He asked and took the offered mug. He moved across to the kettle to see if the water was ready and waited until it was before filling the mug with it. He stirred a little and then carried the mug back to the rifleman.

"I thought ter see you." He paused. "..an' tell yer was right. T' captain. He gave me wot' you said he would." He paused waiting for Cotton to take his mug.

"Harder to get hold of, an' you'm goin' to end up with powder mixed in with 'em - not that you won't anyway, o' course. Jus' you won't have so much powder in with 'em."

He had returned to rubbing the steel blade with an oil-soaked cloth, but paused to take his mug back, frowning as he did so. "Gave you what?" he said, before his expression cleared. "Oh. Who did he put you with, then?" He put the mug aside to cool and continued rubbing the sword down.

"T' new one. Rifleman Brendan Burke." The lad smiled broadly. "You was right." And he looked proud, even if Cotton was still awkward around him, it did not dampen his excitement.

"He's got plenny o' experience, him. An' he's friendly." He liked him, that showed. "An' he talks English not German, though I'm goin' ter learn German...sumhow." Just to understand. He learned the power of understanding and speaking a language, and slowly he was warming up to knowing more than his own tongue. The Irish was clearly showing that too.

"You'm goin' to end speakin' more languages than the Captain, the rate you'm goin' at," Cotton said dryly, holding the sword up to the light to see if it needed any further work. "You'll learn German without even realisin' it. Leastways, you'll learn all the commands an' stuff without realisin' it."

"...I won't. " Pye frowned at the tone and looked at Cotton. It was unfair. "..Not more than t' captain..but I will learn t' German.. Lissenin'." He studied the sword. "Cotton... can yer please 'ate me less n' you do?..Jus' pretend fer a moment that 's allright 'couse you are back here with your girl an' that you won't mind me askin' somethin' of ya?... jus' for a moment?" The hurt in his voice was not masked, though the expression on the boy's face remained reserved.

"Hate?" Cotton lowered the sword, startled. "I don't hate you. I..." He wasn't sure exactly how he felt, but he knew that he didn't hate Pye. "Hate's a terr'ble strong word," he said instead.

"Go on, then, if you've got summat to ask," he continued, reaching for his mug and blowing the steam off its contents.

"I don' know wot' ter call it if'n not hate." The lad answered, his mug empty both from tea leaves as much as hot water. He had shared his supply frequently enough in the past few days that he now had almost none of it left.

"..yer sigh an' are crisp when I come, yer look at me that'a way..an' ye made it feel ye'd rather I was gone n' bein' here." He shook his head. "..wot' is it then?" He paused at the invitation to ask and slumped his shoulders a bit, not expecting an affirmative answer to his soon to be a request.

"..jus' wanted ter ask if you could teach me ter make traps fer t' rabbits like you make 'em.." At this he was quiet. He shifted a little and sat himself down, but at enough distance from Cotton that the man could not feel offended by his liberty.

"I'm sorry if you think I hate you," Cotton said after a moment's silence. "I jus'... I dunno." He picked the scabbard up and sheathed the sword before laying it aside and reaching for his pack.

"You ain't goin' to see too much if'n you'm all the way over there," he added, unbuckling the flap and opening it to root around inside. He pulled out some wire and a ball of string.

"..Tell me wot' do ye then.. couse I don't think it's fair." He scooted closer and stubbornly kept his gaze only on the hands and the wire and string that Cotton brought out.

He noted both as an indication that the rifleman was willing to show him how to make a trap and not that he meant to do work with both on the sword. Alas, he knew he could be mistaken though he could not picture how wire and string could be useful around the other weapon.

"Life ain't fair," Cotton pointed out, and shrugged. "Look, I ain't exactly goin' to jump for joy when you show up, am I? An' if I hated you, I'd've laid you out cold yesterday an' would't be talkin' to you now."

He formed a small loop in one end of the wire, a couple of inches from the end, and twisted the end tightly around the wire to ensure the loop would hold. "Got to be tight, that, else it'll come undone an' that's your rabbit, gone," he said, and fed the other end of the wire through the small loop to form a circle. "This's the bit that'll catch the rabbit, see," he said, holding it up, before forming a small loop in the same way as he had the first one.

"I'd rather you had struck me till you was satisfied...and we was better than.. t' hostile feelin' I got from you instead. T' silent looks s' worse n' any beatin' could be... Even that o' t' man who struck me .."

The man he now knew who he was, but was regretfully captive with the French.

"..or me ol' Master at t' orphanage." His eyes narrowed on Cotton, then shied away much like a submissive pup. He observed the loops being made and twitched his fingers - but for the two injured ones - in a fashion as if he was holding some string himself and tying his own little loops in the same fashion. It didn't look too hard, though a bit complicated what the way of making the noose was concerned.

"Tie a bit o' string to this loop here," Cotton said, indicating the second small loop, "an' tie the other end to a bush or a tree an' your rabbit's as good as caught." He showed how the length of wire slipped easily through the first small loop. "It jus' tightens round the rabbit's neck as it's runnin' along, see."

He looked at Pye. "You might be able to trust me, but I seen you do summat I never thought I'd ever see a Rifleman do. You've told me why you done it, but that don't change the fact you did do it. An' it's goin' to take time for me trust you again. I don't hate you - what good would that do? It'd only make me feel bad." He shrugged.

He now knew how to make a little trap for a rabbit that would be successful in catching it. He decided that finding a rabbit hole first and using this to be put infront of it, would improve his chances in catching a good one.

"..I see, thank 'ee." He murmured. The second thing he had to do was acquire wire and string, but that he could easily buy somewhere, couldn't he?

"..Cotton. Yer feel I betrayed yer for doin' that. When I didn'. You know I tole you that 'fore... you asked, an' I explained and I stand 'ere and remain where others can see me, 'couse that's easier fer t' captain ter have me t' moment he'll want me. I will stand trial if'n I have to. I won't run even if I know that t' people there will think like you. Will think I dess't.. rather n' tried a... a way to have you out safely. I know words ain't changin' how yer feel. 'specially not mine. Not changin' your feelings, not nothing. But I'll stay here If'n I need ter be 'anged ter prove me loyalty ter t' riflemen and Captain Vickery. Then ..so be it." He did not know whether there would be a trial. Considering that he had been given a partner he began to doubt that. Glad it was so. He was not loyal to some great ideal, just the men here. Certain men and the captain.

"I didn't dessert. I didn't. I took that coat as much as it pained me, 'couse I wanted you lot free. If I could've had more o' em out. The women. I would have done it. I couldn't." His voice rose as he said all that and then, it was hushed again, and the boy was staring at the loop and wire angrily. "I don' have t' money ter repay you fer yer help n' acceptance o' me t' first time I came to the rifles. I don' have t' skills ter make summat splendid. I'm grateful ,was so. ..an'.." He was talking too much, knowing full well that Cotton would not change his mind. It angered him, it pained him and he felt upset with himself for the nattering. When he had lived on his own at least he did not need to excuse his actions to anyone. He sighed.

"...where d' ye buy this...."Much better asking that, wasn't it?

"You know how to set 'em?" Cotton asked, remembering showing the lad once. It seemed as though that was years ago, now. He shoved the piece of wire to one side, suddenly irritated. "You can stop tellin' me, all right? I did hear you the first time. An' I can' help feelin' how I do. I'm sorry I ain't a bleedin' saint, but don't try an' make me one, 'cause I ain't. I can't change me mind about summat overnight - jus' give me time, all right? An'... well. Show me that I'd be right to trust you again, if that's what you want."

He sighed. "I know there wasn't no way to bring the women back. Zeb Palmer's a fool sometimes, but I know how he was feelin'. It'd've cut me up somethin' awful if that had bin me an' Maggie. An' when a man feels like that, he ain't goin' to hear sense 'cause, well."

He turned to buckle his pack up again. "Captain trusts you. Reckon that'll be good enough for me, for now." The captain was probably a damn fool for doing so, but that was an opinion Cotton would voice to nobody, least of all Pye.

"Got the wire in Coimbra," he added. "Here, you c'n have this'n." He held the newly-formed snare out to Pye, feeling somewhat drained.

Pye flinched and remained poised in the same 'smallish' position for much of Cotton's response. He kept his gaze low, listened and chewed at his lower lip. Indeed, fists were better than hearing those words, they hurt more at first, but they faded away with the bruises, words remained and their meaning persisted.

He blinked, and jerked back when Cotton extended his hand towards him, then realised he was holding something out. He paused, then stared at the snare that he was offered. He blinked again and lifted his gaze a margin. He was hesitant. And Cotton had almost understood that they could not have brought the women back with them. It took him a moment to register that as well. He touched the wire carefully feeling along it to the loop before taking a faint hold of it.

"Wot' do I owe you for it?" He asked at length, bringing the snare into his lap.

"Owe?" Cotton said, startled. "Nothin'. I might ask a favour from you sometime, but you don't hafta buy it off me."

Pye resembled nothing so much as a whipped puppy, and Cotton felt mean for having made him miserable. "Pye... Look, mate. I ain't goin' to hurt you, I promise. Jus' give me a bit of time. It was an awful shock you give me when I seen you wearin' that coat an' actin' the way you done. The way you made me feel then... that ain't so easy got over. See what I mean?"

He could do any favour Cotton wanted him to. He would do it, and at that the lad nodded quickly, sharply.

Gabriel Cotton may have thought he was no saint, but Pye thought that if he was not one, he was fairly close to being it, or something better. He was a good man, even now. Saints were overrated and he really did not much know what they were much like. The words made him look up again, and when he nodded that time, a small, faint albeit unsure smile, was on his lips. "I .. I understand." He could have said more, and mentally he promised many things, amongst others, that he would prove the other man he was worthy of trust, and that he was sorry.

"A'right." He murmured and added another timid. "Thank yer fer showin' me this."

"You're welcome," Cotton said, and paused. "Pye," he began, and stopped. "For God's sake, tell me you ain't scared of me," he said, feeling sick inside at the thought that Pye might well be scared of him.

What a bloody mess.

Pye wanted to say no. And in a way he might not have been afraid of Cotton as he had been of the sergeant of the 33rd. He was more afraid of loosing Cotton's trust for good.

"No." He said so timidly, that the whipped puppy look might only have looked more fitting. "Not 'fraid of yer fists." He said with more confidence, and tried to smile genuinely.