"I figure I can do that." Declan smoothed his hand over the menace of a dent on his door. He grimaced at it, more out of annoyance than anything else. But he was quick to return to a more cheery demeanor, cool and collected despite the mayhem of the day. He may have gotten a face full of bruises, but Jack undoubtedly was having it more rough of the kid felt so urged to slaughter more men past the three some few minutes ago. 

The engine of his car rumbled low, heaving the shirt below into a swirling, red fog. Frankly, he liked the rush of cities better than unfruitful farmlands and it seemed that they proved safer than a more crowded route. But for a man who traveled often it was the first time anyone had been so quick to jump him without much warning other than the scrape of a haunting buggy. Declan could hold his own any other time. He had a fighter spirit, the kind that rose to powerful flames if anyone gave him a reason. Other times, like now, he was chillingly calm. "You saved my life no doubt. I feel I owe you something for that.  Don't I?" It wasn't much of a question so much as a statement. He then gave Jack an affirmative stare as if to answer himself. 

"'m on my way to see an old friend. Asked me to fill a chair in his concerts these next few weeks and I shouldn't let a few criminals keep me from it. Thanks to you. Now," one foot was still grounded on the dirt, even as he sat in his car. A strike of a match had a fresh cigarette lit and he waved what was left of the pack in offering. Declan didn't suppose it would soothe any of Jack's afflictions, but it was the principle of the gesture that counted. 

"These men take somethin' of yours?"