Thomas had spent the past hour or so surrounded by the sulfuric smell of gun oil, his shotgun lying disassembled on a little wooden bench behind him. Though he had no need for self-defense or hunting these days, a prudent regimen of care was good for the soul, and of course, good for the equipment.
His newly-constructed abode, for it's part, served the purpose well; pot-belly stove, cot, and bench being all the spartan requirements he needed. Having a room to himself was good, for more than a few reasons. The few nights spent in the saloon with Arabella as a primary source of company had been a little trying, to say the least, and with Mr. Ryker's kind offer of help, producing a structure that was both comfortable and convenient had been fairly simple. Planks of wood were certainly more homely than the open forest and musky smell of horse.
He whistled a little song as he worked, tune to The Unquiet Grave punctuating the scratching of a ramrod against metal, and so engrossed was the priest in his task that he hardly noticed the silhouetted figures through the curtained window until there was an all-too familiar knock at the door. That Arabella had turned out to be quite the reverent saloon girl, spending enough time playing that harmonium that she'd up and established a secret code for her comings and goings.
“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” came the whisper at the door, and Thomas set down the bore of the weapon with a sigh, before sweeping it's deconstructed pieces to the side. Martin Luther's retelling of Psalm 46 was a bizarre choice, but arguing with Arabella would no doubt have been a pointless affair.
He stood and crossed to the door, mumbling a 'come forward' to indulge her, before opening it to not one, but three teenagers.
"Hello Arabella. Who've you brought with you?" he asked, as he gave a welcoming smile to the other two, though already he was wondering what antics the rest of the afternoon held in store.