It didn't take long for Declan to go down. Not with three men and the surprise of being rammed head first into his car. It left a dent, that's for sure, one that Declan likely wouldn't see. Perhaps so, if their attack hadn't been disturbed. To both his luck and misfortune Declan went out easily, even while he was croaking out each time a foot lodged itself forcefully beneath his ribs, to his side and even his back when he'd been flipped over finally. Had he been awake throughout it would have been downright shameful for a man who was no stranger to throwing a fist and popping a few noses if necessary. And in the back of his mind – the deepest, darkest regions of whatever lingering consciousness, he was right there wailing himself along with these men. 

Declan had seen and started his fair share of fistfights. In the seedy alleyways of the ghettos, the run down speakeasies as a teenager. It was all the same, violent dance ever since he'd grown enough muscle to pack a punch. He wasn't angry, not like the bitter men who'd starved, strained, suffered growing up in tenements, all packed in like sardines. It wasn't out of hurt or fear or some sort of retribution, but out of sheer boredom and the thrill of a brawl that kept him on his feet. Usually, at least. Perhaps at heart he was nothing but an Irish thug, a no-good troublemaker with privilege as his fallback. Did he lack the blunt, burning passion that grew inside of someone who had all the more reason to pick fights and hunt men? Maybe. But Declan wasn't an aggressor and never needed to be. All it took was a cool laugh and a wrong look to get someone fired up, usually in a crummy sort of town, and if someone invited him to a match then all the better. He didn't rest well at the idea of settling into a life without adventure.

But Declan didn't have a single second to get a solid glimpse of his attackers. A cheap shot, if you ask him, but a fight wasn't what they were looking to get. They wanted money, they wanted his car and they wanted to rob him of every notable cent that he was made up of. Most of all, they wanted Declan smashed into the dirt before he could note their faces. 

The men were spooked as soon as the first blast sounded. They hadn't even noticed Jack approach by horse, too busy scrambling around and kicking up gravel to both rob and subdue their target and barking orders at one another to hurry and take what they could. When the first shot had been fired time froze and what was left of the men had halted in their tracks. The third, busy at work counting through the bills of Declan's money clip was the only body that crumpled in on himself. He collapsed without a single sound, soaking the the thirsty dirt with blood. The other two looked up to Jack, bug-eyed and mid motion, tempted to flee altogether. But Jack already had his two pistols locked on them as if to dare them to move. To so much as take a single step in the opposite direction.

Declan seemed to come to by this point. He stretched his sore limbs out with a groan, picking his face up from the ground and worked through figuring exactly who was responsible for the sudden ambush. Narrowing it down to the men crouched over him and not the one sitting horsetop, pistols ready,  he raised himself onto his elbows and spit what tasted like a combination of saliva and blood. Finally, now that he'd gotten his bearings together and the world wasn't a complete see-saw, he narrowed his eyes at the one holding the wooden case. 

“It's none of your business doing this!” One of the two men had shouted to Jack, timidly looking back and forth between him and the body. “You murderer, you'll be put away for th –!” But he was cut short when a pair of feet came slamming against his knees. His howl seemed to set the last one in motion, dropping whatever was in his hands and spiraling whichever open direction to escape.