Bitterroot Valley Enter, Pursued by a Memory

Shit outta my ass? He echoed. You ain't ever heard a man talk to a lady? At least, to him, referring to the women of the gang lovingly, affectionately, was the norm. You'd be punished if you disrespected them, and he'd learned from a life of being an annoying pre-teen that even scoffing was enough to deserve an ass-whoopin'.
He noticed the branch she pushed; ducked past it and gave her a nod. But, again, Barrett spoke: If ya hate the conve'sation, say so, he pointed out, a grin still warm upon his face, though his tail flicked in a manner that betrayed his demeanor. If she wanted him to stop talking, he knew how to shut up.
But, still, she kept it going. Bigger means my legs too, princess, he smiled. Means I can move further, quicker. Got them big strides, ya hear? I could catch ya, and still, he insisted. Cute, huh? Ya wanna test that? A baseless threat. One that he made with a smirk on his face. Playful still.
However, a small part of the outlaw wished for her to accept. So that he may chase, and find, and catch, and so that they may laugh, and laugh, and laugh. However odd a thing that may be to wish for. However impossible.
He would wish still.