There's excruciating pain blooming across Billy's chest with every breath, the sick feeling of choking on blood and not actually enough to drown him. Honestly, to any outsider, it might look like he has consumption with how he hides his bleeding breast behind the black of his clothes.

All the same, there's a man holding court in the tent, a decent enough distraction while he gears himself up for hauling the canned goods and jugs of water back home.

That's what he'd come here for in the first place, after all, not drinking some red swill that would leave him with some wound that appeared out of nowhere.

Just don't ask about the plethora of knives and at least one pistol around his waist, Rufus. He isn't in the mood for explaining.