Angel desperately tried his best to register every name that he heard during this whole process. He couldn't. Part of it was that he was better with faces than names, and he couldn't put a face on every name at the time. But another part was that he wasn't entirely sure which names were yet worth registering. Certainly, there was something to be said about the current state of passable coefficiency but at the same time, not everyone seemed to get [i]perfectly[/i] well along and [i]some[/i] definitely seemed to rub others not-entirely-the-right-way. In a cutthroat family, there's always the eventuality of someone getting cut - be it figuratively or literally. Even so, by the end of the procedure, Angel had taken note that his name was actually mentioned. Refreshing.

A content sigh followed as the vaquero slowly moved to strap the rifle onto his back. With somewhat jerky and tired moves, he proceeded to grab onto the side of the cliff and maneuver himself downwards. It hadn't been the easiest climb the first time around, with several occurences of him falling back on his behind, but it became routine after the first few attempts. Only a foot or so off the ground, Angel felt his left hand slip away from a groove in the clifface. A short startled grunt and a frantic attempt to get a hold of the same groove later, he found that his feet hit the ground barely a second later and he'd avoided any physical injury - his pride was another matter, in case anyone had witnessed this transpire...

With a rather indignant twirl, he turned to look back at the camp. His own bedding and property were closer to where he stood now, just so he could occasionally sneak down and have a rest when no one was looking at night. Careless, but Angel figured that a tired mind and body wouldn't do anyone any favours when the time came to take action. And besides, he was hardly expected to stay awake for days and nights on end. It was hard to tell what he had in his pack. A couple of belts of ammunition, a couple of inches long piece of stowed away jerky, a large flask of water. The essentials, one might say.

The vaquero began approaching the leader lady - [i]Starts with a K[/i], he thought to himself - with determined steps, and arms held out towards his sides in a friendly manner. His voice sounded confident as he spoke, mostly thanks to the foreign accent:
"I wonder if it would not look a [i]liidle[/i] bit strange with an armed mexican standing outside the bank in the broad daylight, miss [i]Kaylee[/i]?" A broad, cocky smile spread across Angel's face afterwards, almost a grin. One could tell there was a laugh, or at least a chuckle, building up inside - ready as a response to whatever he'd be told.