Declan watched as the man ran with all of his might only for his feet to fail him with those two shots. He didn't flinch, be it from his head pounding or his senses dulled from the noise he wasn't quite sure. One thing was certain though, that this new man had it out for these men – for whatever reason, the young man poured every ounce of passion straight to the finger that pulled the trigger of the pistol and saving the rest for the firm beating the next and final man took to the face. He wasn't more than a few feet away before being taken care of as well, only this time with a pair of fists. Declan was on his back, propped up by his elbows and his neck craned curiously to watch. Two lines of blood, both from his nose and the gash of his lip made a steady stream to his chin. One eye was already swollen and limited his vision. But he'd be damned if he missed this kind of action, especially from a farm boy. 

And just like that, after each smash of Jack's rampant fists against the final man's face, he was out like a light. Declan became an observer, almost as if he'd fizzled off into nothing and was a ghost by then. Jack seemed to thoroughly tenderize the last criminal, and with piquing curiosity he watched the kid deliver each blow. It was impressive to say the least, but for a boy Jack's age it was mind blowing how mechanically he moved from one to the other, as if checking them off of a list. He was on fire, the kind that burned someone from the inside out. A dangerous, growing [i]thing[/i]. But Declan didn't feel the heat, even as he sounded off his pistol; even when the face below his fists crunched. He laid there as an idle observer, someone miles and miles away until finally Jack stood up and extended a red hand. 

Luckily Declan's limbs managed to be unbroken. He checked his teeth with a run of his tongue over them. Bloody, but all there, followed by a nudge at his nose and finding that it too had survived the attack. Bumped and bruised maybe, but nothing broken but his skin and perhaps an ounce of pride. With that luck, he straightened his wool jacket, finger-brushed his hair as best as he could and turned to the young man who'd quite possibly saved his life. 

“I'll be hurtin' for weeks. But 'm not dead,” the Irish panted, stood crookedly, then turned his eyes over to the struggling man some ways away. He was somewhere between a pathetic crawl and stumble, with a good trail of blood leaking behind him. “Where'd a boy like you learn to shoot like that?”