She stares at him blankly.


She really, really doesn't know what to say first.



"Reverend?" is what she eventually settles on. "Hell, Ben, you look about as much as a reverend as I do the Virgin Mary!"

Standing there in her dirty faun britches and untucked button-down, her cowboy hat hanging at her back and hair in a messy braid, wearing cowboy boots and spurs, for the love of god. But the horse is approaching fast, and there aren't a lot of options open to them right now. Besides, that kerchief will help her obscure her face, and she does have the undernourished physique of someone who could, indeed, suffer with the disease. She snatches the blue cloth out of his hand, her eyes, speaking volumes on hellfire, do not depart from his until the rider is almost upon them.

She glances up -- man, middle-aged, bearded, no badge -- and coughs into the kerchief, turning her back to him to give Ben one last sizzling look.

'Prudence?!' is what forms on her lips, though not a breath of sound escapes her throat.

"Ho!" calls the rider, pulling his mount to a stop.