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Chapter Text

The yellowing grass swayed lazily in the midday sun as fields of sparse flora sprawled for miles under the mellow springtime rays. A wagon trundled slowly along one of many dusty tracks winding away from Blackwater, a prospering town overlooking the still, dark waters of Flat Iron Lake. A gentle wind swept over the sprawling countryside, breezing westwards where the hills rose higher and a forest loomed in the distance.

Standing low against the pale blue horizon was a cluster of shabby buildings; two and a half crooked huts barely standing, with windowless wooden walls and corrugated tin roofs. Loitering like shifty coyotes on the meagre property were two men, one smoking a cigarette while the other had his eyes on the path, thoughts wandering back to the town just a few miles down the road. The first man sighed, flicking ash into the dirt and turning to face the other, adjusting the brim of his worn leather hat.

“You sure this is gonna work, Hosea? Goes without sayin’ but this place don’t look like much.”

Hosea turned around, a wry grin on his face. “Oh, have a little faith, Arthur, I've been running these scams since before you were born.”

“Faith?” Arthur repeated, eyebrow arched in faint amusement. “You’re startin’ to sound like Dutch”

The two men chuckled, sharing the private joke between themselves. It was then that Arthur threw the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and ground it beneath his heel. He stepped out of the meagre shade cast by the dilapidated building and threw one last glance at the place before slowly treading towards two horses hitched at the edge of the property. Hosea followed a step behind, the older man still had a grin on his face and his silvering hair shone in the sunlight.

“C’mon, we best get goin’ before the others start to miss us.” called Arthur gruffly. He had been distracted for most of the morning, ever since they left camp. Their ever-shifting home was only a short ride north, positioned strategically on the southern bank of the Upper Montana River. Dutch had been planning, like he always did, and typically Arthur would be right there alongside him with his gun at the ready. Today, however, he and Hosea had embarked on a different endeavour: scams were dishonest and long-winded but almost always profitable - if you could get away with it.

The pair of them reached the hitching post and mounted their horses, kicking them into a casual trot so they could ride alongside each other. Despite the buzz that had inhabited camp that morning at the prospect of some big job in town, they were in no hurry to get back. If the others wanted to stir up trouble, they could damn well get themselves out of it, too. Although, Arthur secretly worried every time Dutch was planning something big: sometimes he got too confident, and with overconfidence came carelessness. Still, it had been refreshing to work with Hosea again. Perhaps running property scams wasn't the most exciting business in the world but it was easy money and Hosea made for good, pleasant company.

Hosea cast a sideways glance at his companion, twitching the reins of his shining grey Turkoman mount, Silver Dollar. “Got something on your mind, son?”

“Hm?” replied Arthur, despondent.

“You’ve got that look in your eye, what’re you thinking about?”

Arthur hid his eyes beneath the brim of his hat, turning away from Hosea. The trouble that comes with knowing someone for twenty years or so is that, eventually, they learn how to read you. There was no hiding anything from Hosea, and honestly, Arthur found he rarely minded.

“You know me too well.” he sighed, turning back to face Hosea once again with an honest expression. “It's this job - the ferry. Just… wonderin’ how they’re gettin’ on”

Hosea looked thoughtful at this, it was obvious that the older man had also been thinking about what the others were up to - hell, he always was. Hosea worried about the gang like it was his job. Most days that felt like the truth; the weight of responsibility over others was settled on his shoulders and it rarely left. He trusted they knew how to handle themselves, though, and the whole operation had been planned down to the finest detail.

The gang would be fine. The gunslinger lifestyle was a tough one, but they all knew what they were getting into.

“Hey, we’ve still got some time. Why don’t we stop and do some fishin’, like in the good old days.” Hosea made the suggestion just as much for his own benefit as he did for Arthur’s. He brought Silver Dollar to a stop just as the path peeled off to their left, leading to the Upper Montana.

Arthur tugged lightly on the reins, slowing his mare, Boadicea, to a halt beside them. He gave her neck a rough pat, dust erupting from her mahogany coat in thin clouds. “Fishin’?” he questioned lightly.

“Sure. That’ll take your mind off’a things.” Hosea tempted once again.

Arthur considered this: spending more time with Hosea would be nice, as recently they hadn’t been on nearly as many hunting or fishing trips as they used to venture out on together. However, Blackwater lingered in the corner of his eye and drew his mind back to the ferry job. Maybe he didn’t want any part in this score, but sitting on the sidelines made him just as anxious. He looked towards the river, then down the gritty road to town and finally his gaze landed back on Hosea before he made his decision.

“Maybe some other time, the fish ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Arthur said, before spurring Boadicea into a trot once again and heading over the hills to Blackwater. Hosea sighed, but seemed content to follow, once again urging Silver Dollar to fall into step beside the gorgeous Missouri Fox Trotter.

—

They knew something was wrong when they saw the pillar of smoke rising up in the distance.

A blackened sky hung above them and, from their vantage point on the ridge, they could see the chaos that sprawled below. The whole town was in disarray: folk running to the nearest building or cowering in alleys, horses loosed from their wagons tearing up the streets and, most concerningly, lawmen swarming the place. Most of the ruckus seemed to be happening at the docks, where a large, ornate ferry sat spewing smoke over the murky water.

“Pinkertons…” Arthur hissed, frustration rearing inside him. The scene before him wasn’t pretty, and they had clearly made it just in time to see the action. He dragged a hand over his face, trying in vain to quell his racing thoughts.

“This isn’t good… there wasn’t supposed to be nearly this amount of security in town.” Hosea said. A frown had settled onto his features, one deep with concern and confusion. He was right, of course, it was like the Pinkertons had come out of nowhere. They had overwhelming numbers and the element of surprise, Arthur and Hosea had seen jobs go bad before, and they both knew that things were about to get ugly.

“Well we’ve gotta get down there an’ help ‘em!” Arthur urged, already giving Boadicea a hearty kick and steering her towards the edge of town.

Hosea had no time to argue and no choice but to follow as they galloped with the wind. The pair circled the long way around town to evade the law for as long as they could, following the perimeter until they reached the northernmost corner of Blackwater. Eventually, the pair of them dismounted behind the cover of a half-constructed building and crept the rest of the way on foot. They had just managed to duck for cover by the edge of the docks when another horde of Pinkerton agents burst onto the scene.

Arthur, ready to hurl himself into the fray at a moment’s notice, leapt onto the timber planks and couched low behind a pile of crates. Hosea was hanging back, trying to get his attention and come up with some sort of plan. They both listened intently to the ever-increasing din, straining to hear familiar voices among the shouting. Every so often, gunshots would crack past them or echo down from the deck of the ferry, whipping the wind in their wake. Arthur couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation - couldn’t see what went wrong or where the gang was - and as he cast a desperate glance back to Hosea, it was obvious that the other man had little to no idea about what could be done either.

A shout, commanding and unfamiliar, sounded from the front of the ferry and most of the gunfire ceased. The air was alive, electric with tension, and neither Arthur nor Hosea dared breathe. Suddenly, a shrill scream pierced the air, a shriek that was feminine and desperate. The woman sounded unfamiliar but that hardly mattered, it was all Arthur needed to spring from behind the crates to the next available cover. He heard Hosea snap at him to stay put, to stay back or stick together, but those pleas fell on deaf ears. Silently, Arthur weaved his way further onto the dock until the smoke got so thick he could barely see. It was stinging his eyes now, and burning in the back of his throat, but Arthur was thankful for the extra cover that concealed him from the watchful eyes of the law.

He had just picked up a stray glass bottle, ready to cause a distraction and slip by unnoticed, when the screaming started up again. The hysterical woman wailed desperately before being abruptly cut off - a single gunshot ringing out, punctuating the brief yet deafening silence that followed.

It took about three seconds for the uproar to begin again, louder than ever before, and Arthur took the opportunity to throw the bottle as hard as he could. It smashed somewhere off to his right and the simple distraction worked: a handful of eager Pinkertons dashed towards the sound while Arthur hurried up the nearest gangplank, finally on the ferry.

The smoke was thicker than ever now and it took all of Arthur’s effort not to splutter and cough as he made his way around the outside deck of the ship. He stayed light on his feet and close to the ground until the scuffle of boots made him freeze. Spurs jangled as heavy footsteps rounded the corner and a harsh, familiarly accented whisper eased his nerves a bit.

“Dutch, what the hell was that?!”

Javier’s voice was hoarse and his breathing was heavy. Arthur listened as he was hushed sharply in response. He stood, stepping carefully into view and finding Dutch, Javier and Charles hurrying towards him.

“Is someone gonna tell me what the hell is goin’ on here?” Arthur said, keeping his voice low. He watched as three pairs of frantic eyes all found his, familiarity dawning on their faces. Dutch was the first to address him, stifling a cough.

“Arthur? What are you doin’ here boy, I thought you had nothin’ to do with this!”

It sounded less like a question and more like an accusation. Arthur was about to reply, to defend his right to plunge into the fray, when he was interrupted by Dutch. The man looked uncharacteristically nervous: normally when Arthur looked to Dutch as everything went wrong he saw confidence and cockiness, but that facade had been melted away.

“Nevermind, we just- we need to get outta here, jump off the sides an’ swim for it before they catch us up.”

With that, Dutch strode past him and almost vanished into the smoke. He looked in every direction for signs of movement and attempted to beckon the three younger men forward when Charles spoke up, stepping forward with a flash of desperation and defiance in his eyes. Arthur didn't miss how he was also cradling his hand close to his chest, his sleeve stained an unmistakable shade of crimson.

“What about the others? We can’t just leave them.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, standing shoulder to shoulder with Charles. Javier, however, was slowly creeping forwards, following close on Dutch’s heels. Dutch looked back at them, levelling the pair with a razor-sharp glare halfway between frustrated and afraid. He paused for a moment, considering, and looked as though he were about to lose his patience when a commotion thundered down from the deck above them.

“Get offa me you bastard!”

Marston. Of course John would be the one in need of rescuing, Arthur thought bitterly, but he turned on his heel nonetheless. When Charles went to follow him Arthur turned and met his eyes.

“I can handle this, the rest o’ you round up the others and get the hell outta dodge!” He didn't wait for them to protest, instead swinging through a nearby doorway and pounding up a flight of stairs.

The smoke was thinner now he was higher up, and he could see one Pinkerton agent wrestling with a figure that was undoubtedly John. They flew across the deck, both apparently going for the same discarded revolver. While the pinkerton had his back turned, Arthur took the opportunity to level his own cattleman revolver at them and cleared his throat. He got the attention of both the Pinkerton and Marston, the latter of whom looked at Arthur with a surprised, yet gratified expression.

The pinkerton agent sneered at him as he slowly raised his hands, his ratty moustache twitching like it was about to jump off his face. At the same time, John took the opportunity to snatch the revolver up from off the deck. Arthur smirked with satisfaction at the Pinkerton being surrounded. Unfortunately, he deemed the situation a success much too soon.

Everything changed in a split second: one minute he and John had the moustached agent cornered, next there were bright stars dancing across his vision and a burning pain lit up the back of his head. a second Pinkerton had emerged from the smog and pistol whipped him from behind. Arthur stumbled and felt a sharp kick crack the back of his knee; he fell forwards just in time to feel the air twist as a bullet whizzed over his skull. He knew the shot connected when the Pinkerton behind him cried out.The man fell back, thumping against the boards like a sack of potatoes while clutching his midsection.

It didn’t take long for Arthur to recover his senses, shoving his hat back into place and getting unsteadily back to his feet. He realised with a twinge of concern that his pistol had been dropped and spun off into the sheet of smoke carpeting the floor, nowhere to be seen. John and the remaining Pinkerton were wrestling for the gun again and Arthur, driven by instinct, rushed forwards without hesitation. Arthur let out a snarl, ferocious and deadly like a hungry wolf, as his arm snapped out and yanked the agent back.

The pinkerton was on him in an instant, and a flurry of jabs passed between them in seconds. Arthur found himself pinned between the railing and the furious agent, but when the Pinkerton hit him, Arthur hit back harder. He lashed out with a powerful right hook and kicked the man hard in his stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor against the wall of the ferry.

Arthur straightened, ready to finish off his opponent, but the unmistakable gleam of iron to the Pinkerton’s immediate left had him frozen to the spot. Time slowed, the seconds seemed to drag on like they were moving through molasses: Arthur watched as Pinkerton raised his gun - Arthur’s own revolver - and squeezed the trigger. John was too slow to kick the gun out of the agent’s hand, the bullet already having left the chamber.

The bullet connected just below his eyebrow, spraying a halo of blood onto the alabaster underside of the deck above them. Arthur hardly registered the pain as it continued to carve a gorge from his brow, up his forehead, all the way to his hairline. His head being thrown back by the impact, as well as the angle of the shooter, was what saved him. What could have been a new hole in his skull instead became a near miss - though, it certainly didn't look like it. The momentum sent him reeling even further backwards until he toppled over the railing and fell ungracefully into the smoke and water below, a suffocating blackness eating him whole.

“Shit- Arthur!” Cried John, throwing himself against the railing.

For just a moment, Marston lost himself to grief. Ignorant to the increasing number of agents materialising out of the smoke. Then, it was as if a switch had been flipped. The feeling of loss froze over to be thawed out later, instead replaced by a burning rage - a fury that blinded him until he was on top of the Pinkerton that shot Arthur, pummelling the man with every ounce of energy he had left. He might have heard more gunshots, felt an alarming warmth spread across his shoulder until his nerves burned in a crescendo of agony, but it was all ignored until that Pinkerton agent’s stupid whiskery face was nothing but a bloody pulp beneath John Marston’s knuckles.

—

There was light breaking through the murky thickness above him. As the ferry rocked rhythmically it created waves that disturbed the water, sending the weak shafts of sunlight dancing across the distant surface. Or maybe it was fire, flames licking at the ripples stretching out to the fuzzy edges of his vision. Arthur couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell up from down, nor east from west. It wasn't until he saw the bubbles rising up to the surface - the last pockets of his rapidly dwindling air supply - that his senses snapped back into sharpened focus.

Arthur pushed himself upwards, fingers reaching out to break the surface. When he finally managed to throw his head up and out of the icy lakewater he realised that it wasn’t that much easier to breathe: the smoke was everywhere, coiled around him like a black, spectral snake. Trying to consume him. Arthur gasped for breath anyway, ignoring how his lungs squeezed tightly in his chest, burning as he hacked and wheezed and tried to stay afloat.

As he looked around, frantically whipping his head from side to side, Arthur realised that his vision out of his left eye was obscured by a steady stream of crimson gushing from the wound in his head. He reached up as if to touch it but immediately abandoned the fruitless gesture, instead taking some deeper, steadier breaths. He had to focus on staying afloat, to figure out which way to go.

Looking around again, more careful this time, Arthur spotted a shape floating on the surface of the black water. Fumbling closer, he realised it was his hat. Funny thing really, how it always seemed to return to him no matter where he ended up. He placed the sopping wet gambler hat back on his aching head, thankful for the familiarity that came with it.

Arthur was just fretting over which way to swim - smoke blanketing his senses and obscuring his vision - when he heard the next round of gunshots ricocheting across the water. Normally, one would immediately start heading away from the deadly racket, however, Arthur ran the risk of swimming further into the lake and drowning before he could climb his way out. No, he was Arthur Morgan: the sound of violence and gunfire was like a lantern guiding him though life, right to the bitter end.

—

Things had gone so astronomically wrong.

At first, the job had gone off without a hitch: Dutch had strolled right onto the ferry with his boys at his back, Micha was at his side, assuring him that the plan was perfect and the money was plentiful. He wasn’t wrong - the $150,000 dollars of bank money they ended up liberating was looking to be one of their biggest scores yet. Then the law descended upon them, Pinkertons, more lawmen than there should have been across all of Blackwater.

Most of them had managed to escape the ferry only to get caught up on the docs. Sean had been grabbed first, tackled harshly by two agents and knocked unconscious; Mac had tried to slip away only to end up with a gang of Pinkertons behind him and poor, young Jenny was slumped over in a scarlet puddle. The rest of them had to hang back, helplessly trying to shoot themselves an opening. Unfortunately, the Pinkertons shot back, and there were significantly more of them.

Getting out of Blackwater had been a blur, Dutch still distracted by the blood drying on his hands - blood that wasn’t his. John was withdrawn too, staring absently at the ground and holding his wounded shoulder as the group thundered away on horseback, leaving behind their money, belongings and good men alike. Hosea joined back up with them on the road, his advantageous position back at the docks had resulted in him flanking the Pinkertons and luring half of them away, leaving an opening for the rest of them to escape with their hides (mostly) intact.

No one spoke a word, slowed their horses or chanced a look back at Blackwater shrinking behind them until they were back at camp. As soon as they arrived, however, the faction devolved into utter chaos. Dutch simply ignored everything else - tried not to think about Arthur’s absence, or Davey slung unconscious and bleeding over the back of Javier’s horse, or that poor woman screaming her head off when all he’d wanted her to do was shut the fuck up. Instead, Dutch stood tall. He was a pillar of strength in their time of need, shouting orders for people to take care of the wounded and pack up the wagons. Like herding blind sheep in a snowstorm. He just needed to figure out where to go next…

“North,” Said Hosea, as if he had read Dutch’s mind. “We can shake the law in the mountains, then cut east through the Grizzlies.”

Hosea was looking at him, eyes hard as steel and boring into his soul. He was searching for something - confirmation. Waiting for Dutch to give the word. He nodded in agreement, It was likely the only way they could go, it's not like Dutch had any better ideas.

“Did you see Arthur in there?”

That had been the last thing he’d wanted to hear. How was he supposed to explain to Hosea that he let the stubborn bastard go? And now they were probably going to have to leave without him. Subconsciously, Dutch found himself seeking out Marston’s face in the sea of pandemonium that had swept up their encampment. What had happened back on the ferry? Why didn’t his boys stick together?

“Dutch?” Hosea grabbed his arm. Not roughly; it was probably supposed to be more of a grounding gesture but it still made Dutch tense up under the light touch.

“John saw him last,” He answered, flatly. “But I’m sure he’s fine, just-”

A commotion at the edge of camp had both men whirling around. Expecting the worst, most of the men - and even some of the women - armed themselves, drawing pistols or cocking rifles. It wasn’t the law, however. The horse’s saddle was empty. Instead, Boadicea thrashed and bucked, having returned to camp without her rider. Her flanks were streaked with scarlet grooves, grazes from gunshots that stained her glossy coat in a layer of thick, sticky blood.

Charles approached her carefully, he clutched one bandaged hand to his chest while trying to placate Boadicea with the other. His calming murmurs finally got through to the mare and she ceased her fervent thrashing, allowing Charles to give her an affectionate pat and cautiously reach for her reins. He eyed her injuries with concern: Arthur had a strong bond with Boadicea and she wouldn’t have left him unless she was truly in danger.

Gradually, the rest of camp resumed packing up and fell back into a whirlwind of activity, but seeing Arthur’s horse return alone had left people on edge; whispers were passed back and forth and tension hung in the air like a humid morning mist. John, shoulder freshly treated and bandaged, knew he should be saying something: he was the only one to see what had happened to Arthur and it would be unfair to leave the rest of the gang in the dark.

He stood slowly from his spot leaning against a dusty poker table, heading for Dutch and Hosea. John couldn't help but recall the time he had to inform a woman that her son had died, the young man having been shot off of his horse right in front of John on a job gone sour. Her heartbroken scream had haunted him in his sleep for years after, and it had started up again after Jack was born. John didn't want to be the bearer of such bad news but Dutch and Hosea deserved to know. Arthur was their family, and now he was gone.

"John, tell me what's going on." Dutch insisted, eyes boring into John the moment he approached. "Where is my son?"

"Uh- back on the ferry, Arthur he…" John stood tensely, avoiding Dutch's gaze. Briefly his eyes flicked to Hosea, but the older man was looking at him with a concerned yet hopeful expression that only made him feel worse. Breathing a heavy sigh, John reached for his holster and pulled out Arthur's revolver, holding it out like a peace offering while a war waged around them.

All the activity around them faded to an unimportant blur. Dutch took the revolver and suddenly it was the heaviest thing he had ever held, as if he was carrying the weight of the world along with it. Running his thumb along the visage of a stag carved into the ebony handle, Dutch realised his hand had started to shake.

"Tell me what happened."

"When I was tryin' to get off the ferry I- well there was this damn Pinkerton. Bastard caught me off guard. Arthur - I didn't even realise he was there - he came outta nowhere, an' he- he saved me…" Trembling like a leaf in a gale, John forced himself to take a breath. "...but then more Pinkertons showed up an' we was fightin' an- if I'd been quicker then maybe- but…" He squeezed his eyes shut, grappling with the idea that maybe he could have done something. He should have.

"John," Hosea reached out, "We're listening."

"Pinkerton shot 'im… right-” He gestured vaguely to his own forehead, opening his eyes to see the realisation dawning on Hosea's face. Dutch, meanwhile, looked completely blank, the only evidence of his rage and shock being the paper-whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the orphaned cattleman revolver.

"And you're sure… sure that he's dead?" Hosea said, voice wavering. The hope that had brightened his expression before was now rapidly disappearing, replaced instead by a grief that aged his face and took the light from his eyes. John could only nod in response, head hanging low with shame and regret. He listened to Hosea inhale sharply before turning on the spot. He didn't go anywhere, but he did run his hands over his face, pushing them through his hair before finally turning back around; then Hosea reached for Arthur's gun, still held by Dutch in a vice-like grip.

Hosea covered Dutch's hands with his own, surrounding them in a warm and genuine gesture. John was still avoiding his gaze, but Hosea fearlessly looked Dutch in the eyes. There were no tears: Dutch would never cry where the rest of his gang could see. Instead Hosea started into something dark and raging, like a restless storm ravaging over the ocean.

"The man that shot him. Is he dead?" Dutch asked finally, voice hauntingly hollow.

"Killed him with my bare hands." John answered dutifully. Subconsciously, he brushed his fingers over his bruised, split knuckles. That was one choice he would never have regrets over.

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Dutch pulled out of Hosea's grip. As if suddenly repulsed by the gun in his hands, he pushed it back at Hosea and turned away quickly, looking around at his people. Hosea looked as if he wanted to say something, but Dutch swiftly composed himself, schooling a neutral expression onto his face and taking a deep, shaky breath.

"Everyone! I know we are leaving a lot in Blackwater; trust me, I hate to leave under such circumstances. However, we will move on and we will survive. Now, I have made a decision: we are going North, to lose the law up in the mountains."

As Dutch looked around, almost daring someone to challenge his decision, a murmur of confident assent rose from the gang.

"Now get a move on!"

—

After more swimming than a damn beaver, Arthur finally risked pulling himself ashore just north of Blackwater, sheltering in a small cove. At least it wasn’t John who ended up in the water, Arthur thought to himself grimly: the stupid bastard still couldn’t swim and probably would have needed rescuing twice.

Arthur risked a good look back at the stampeding town, but it seemed like the others had already left. No doubt they would pack up camp and move somewhere else the minute they had the opportunity; after this job spiralling so far out of control it would be foolish not to. Unfortunately, Arthur had no idea where the gang would be heading. He was hoping that Boadicea - ever the trusty and reliable mount - had stuck around, despite the heavy gunfire. However, from the spot in which he had decided to lay low and catch his breath, Arthur could see that both she and Silver Dollar were also long gone, hopefully safe with the others. That meant he needed to find another way of leaving town and getting back to camp.

A wave of dizziness overcame Arthur as he went to stand, hoping to simply walk up the river or nab a horse from the edge of town. He desperately wanted to leave as soon as possible, knowing that sooner or later the law would comb the grasslands like a well-trained bloodhound. His aching head, however, had different ideas. The deep graze on his forehead was still bleeding, but sluggishly, so Arthur begrudgingly removed his sopping wet neckerchief and tied it around his head. It would heal much better with half a dozen stitches and some clean bandages but those weren’t materials Arthur had the privilege of accessing. He silently cursed the absence of his satchel, still slung hastily over the horn of his saddle.

Pushing his hat back onto his head, ensuring the brim was pulled low over his eyes, Arthur steadied himself against the ridge he had been sheltering behind. There was no way he was getting back into blackwater but maybe if he clung to the outskirts of town there would be a horse he could borrow - not that he would ask before taking it.

After passing the third large farmhouse looming opposingly at the edge of town without seeing a single horse bearing an empty saddle, Arthur started to lose hope. He still didn’t dare whistle for his own horse, and all of the horses dutifully roaming around had a Pinkerton detective sitting atop them. The pompous bastards were all combing the streets with a frustrating intensity. Occasionally one of them would look Arthur's way, though in the dying light of the evening there was little chance of him being spotted at such a distance. Still, the constant surveillance felt like being circled by hungry vultures.

He was about to give up and just start walking when something eerily familiar caught his eye: standing atop one of the buildings in town was a well-dressed man in a top hat. Arthur couldn’t make out the man’s face, but the upper-class attire was a dead ringer for his good friend and dashing British associate, Trelawny. Arthur was just debating whether to approach the man who may-or-may-not-be-Trelawny when the sound of harsh bickering broke him from his thoughts.

Wagon wheels cut loudly through the dirt road just a few feet down the way, and Arthur had just enough sense to duck behind the fence bordering someone’s back garden before two great shire horses came stomping by. There was a couple sitting restlessly behind the reins, the woman was seemingly arguing against leaving, while her husband insisted Blackwater was no longer safe. They were so distracted, neither seemed to notice a dripping wet outlaw slipping noiselessly into the back of their prairie wagon.

Arthur was about to relax when a grey-muzzled dog snorted awake and raised its head, giving him a weary stare.

“Shh… Easy boy, s’okay.”

Holding his breath, He gave the hound a gentle pat on the head. The old mutt seemed to accept Arthur’s company and was quickly lulled back to sleep by the rocking of the wagon on the uneven road. Some guard dog you are, he thought. Arthur let himself relax as well, though he found himself a little unnerved when he looked back at the rooftop only to find the well-dressed figure that was standing there only moments before had now vanished into thin air.

After a short ride deep into the plains, Arthur nimbly disembarked the wagon only to fall unceremoniously into the dirt. It was a small blessing that the couple driving the wagon didn’t hear him hit the ground, and he managed to stifle a groan as he got up, albeit slowly and with a lot of effort. He was thankful for the unexpected ride, though, as now it was just a brisk walk to the riverbank where the gang had been camped for the last few weeks.

Unfortunately, camp was not there when Arthur arrived. There were clear signs that they had been there: trash scattered about like a hurricane had blown through, flattened patches of grass where the tents and wagons had been pitched and even some hitching posts and pieces of furniture abandoned. They had obviously left in a hurry, but something in Arthur’s chest twinged with hurt at the thought that they had well and truly left him behind.

That was when the reality of his situation truly hit him: they probably thought he was dead.

Somehow Arthur hadn’t considered how that fight must have looked for John: the smoke veiling everything in a layer of uncertainty, the spray of blood and Arthur’s absence from the rest of the fight. His family were probably mourning him alongside god knows who else they lost, and he had no way of telling them. He didn’t even know where to find them.

Hopelessly lost, Arthur leant against a tree and put his head in his hands only to be filled with immediate regret. The gash on his head needed some serious attention, or it was never going to stop bothering him. Now was as good a time as any to try and scrape together some supplies, so Arthur took to rooting around what was left strewn about the campsite. After sifting through discarded cans and forgotten story books, he finally scrounged up some clean bandages, some food and a nice bottle of brandy Pearson seemed to have overlooked. After patching himself up and indulging in a hearty swig of fine liquor, Arthur almost called it a night. Suddenly, his eye caught the familiar leather strap of his satchel snagged on a bush.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

He untangled his bag from the verdant branches, relieved to have some of his personal belongings back. Arthur’s mood quickly deflated when he realised what this must mean: Boadicea had returned to camp without him, and had seemingly moved on with the rest of the gang as well. Wherever he went now, it would be on foot until further notice.

Knowing that he couldn’t stay here, yet not quite wanting to leave, Arthur slowly trudged over to a half-collapsed canvas tent. There was no way he could carry the whole thing, but there was a bedroll inside he could definitely use (though from the smell of it, he probably wouldn’t sleep in it much). Arthur slung his bag full of scavenged supplies over his shoulder and grabbed a lantern, ready to go out into the wilderness armed with nothing but a hunting knife. He started on the track leading out of camp and followed the wagon tracks until morning broke, never once looking back as blackwater faded to a hazy nightmare behind him.

Chapter Text

The snow-capped mountains of Ambarino rose up imposingly in the distance as a caravan of wind-battered wagons carved its way slowly through the storm, the uncharacteristic springtime weather only adding to their misfortune. The unrelenting gale continued to whistle lowly over the rocks and the inky darkness of the night shrouded the gang of exhausted travellers with cover from prying eyes; the only sources of light were the lanterns that swung from their wagons and horses, breaking through the veil like flickering orange pinpricks.

Despite the raging winds, a dishevelled-looking man in a wide brimmed hat and a warm coat dropped from the shelter of the leading wagon, landing solidly in the snow. The frigid slush buried the gentleman well past his ankles, but he shuffled ahead to reach the two figures huddled at the front, driving the diligent horses onwards.

“Abigail says he’s dying, Dutch. We’ll have to stop some place.” he implored, looking to Dutch through the near-blinding sleet. The man looked almost frozen over, as did Hosea beside him.

“Alright, Reverend. Javier’s out looking. I sent him up ahead.”

The Reverend still had a grim look on his face, but he slowed his pace and gracelessly jumped back onto the covered wagon, taking an offered hand and settling uncomfortably back down next to Davey’s motionless body.

“If we don’t stop soon, we’ll all be dying.” Hosea muttered, “This weather, it’s May…”

He trailed off. Complaining wouldn’t get them anywhere. Some shelter or a break in the storm was all they needed, then they could get some more food, some supplies, and then… and then what? Hosea felt Dutch wrap a hand around his waist, pulling them a little closer together, but it did very little to fend off the biting cold that was chilling them all to the bone. There wasn’t much that could bring comfort to either of them at the moment.

“I’m just hoping the law got as lost as we did.”

Suddenly, a silhouette appeared in the distance; hope rising over the crest of a snowy hill and plodding slowly but surely towards them.

“There.” Hosea pointed. The shape took form and a man on horseback as he broke through the blizzard. Javier flicked the reins, bringing his horse to a stop.

“Javier! Any luck?” Shouted Dutch. Javier could barely hear him over the roaring gale, but he raised the brim of his hat and beckoned them forwards.

“Found some shelter! C’mon, it’s an old mining town, it ain’t far.”

The wagons followed suit behind Javier, rolling down a narrow, uneven road until they finally arrived. It was barely a town, though once it looked like it may have housed many families. The collection of windswept houses around them was sparse and run-down but it would be enough; a temporary respite from the snowstorm while they waited for it to blow over. People started to disembark, huddled together against the piercing winds as Hosea shouldered open the door of the nearest house, revolver at the ready. The only movement from inside was a couple of rats, scampering away to hide in the walls or under what little furniture was strewn about the dilapidated cabin.

“Bring him in here.” He said, beckoning the group forward.

Abigail was the first to hurry through the door. Then Bill and Lenny followed, carrying a stretcher between them. The occupant, Davey, was motionless. Slowly, more exhausted, snow-coated people started to file in. They all found places to settle - corners to huddle into.

"Miss Gaskill... get that fire lit quick. Miss Jones, bring in whatever blankets we have, Mr. Pearson, see what we've got in terms of food." Instructed Ms. Grimshaw firmly, sweeping into the place. She continued to eye the space with an analytic glare, already picturing how she was going to build it up into a new home.

“Davey’s dead.” said Abigail, hopeless.

Everyone began to fret and despair over what they were going to do. Questions floated up from the bunch. What would they eat? They would surely freeze before they starved. Where would they bury Davey? And who would go back for Mac and Sean and Arthur? What would become of their family?

“First of all,” Started Dutch, capturing the gang’s attention. “You are all going to stay here and get yourselves warm. Now, I sent John and Micah scouting out ahead. Javier, I want you to ride with me, see if we can find one of ‘em.”

Javier stepped forwards, ready and willing to do his part. Maybe he didn’t like Micah much, and John had lost some of his respect after taking off for a year, but they might have found something and God knows the gang would need more than what meagre supplies they had taken off with.

Dutch gave Javier an appreciative nod. He looked around the room again only to find it full of doubtful and disheartened faces. Everybody here was in need of guidance and reassurance and, as always, they were looking at him for the answer.

"Listen... Listen to me all of you for a moment. Now we've had... Well, a bad couple of days. I loved Davey, Jenny, Sean, Mac... Arthur.” He paused, swallowing back the grief that was burning in his chest and slowly clawing its way up his throat. “If I could throw myself in the ground in their stead I'd do it, gladly. But, we're gonna ride out and we are gonna find some food. Everybody, we're safe now. There ain't nobody following us through a storm like this one, by the time they get here, well, we're gonna be… we're gonna be long gone."

Dutch scanned the hungry people before him. They had seen situations like this before, living on the run was never easy. The gang that stood before him, though, were those who had persevered. They had made it because they were loyal, they were tough and they had stood by him through thick and thin.

"We've been through worse than this before,” He reassured them, despite the fact that they have never hit rock bottom quite like this. “Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days. Now all of you, all of you, get yourselves warm. Stay strong, stay with me, we ain't done yet!"

Miss Grimshaw immediately set to making sure everyone was alright, which they weren’t. Not really. Between the two of them, though, Pearson and Grimshaw would make something of the small, desolate collection of buildings in no time. The latter of the two was already putting the remaining men to work unloading the wagons and seeing to the horses, handing out blankets and, occasionally, nagging at people to carry their weight.

Meanwhile, Dutch gave Hosea a parting pat on the shoulder before snatching up a lantern and heading for the door, Javier on his heels. They stumbled through the door, back into the blinding snow.

“Which way?” Asked Javier.

“Well, we ain’t run into them yet,” Said Dutch “So, they must have headed down the hill.”

They set off towards the horses, only to run into Charles with their mounts in tow. The Count, Dutch’s gleaming white Arabian, looked displeased at being led by anyone that wasn’t his usual rider. Charles looked like he was struggling a little, his hand still bandaged, but he was nothing if not stubbornly helpful.

“Hey! You need horses?” He shouted.

“Much appreciated, Mr Smith. Now, please get indoors and rest that hand.”

"I'll live." Charles mumbled back, almost inaudible.

"Get indoors, son!" Dutch insisted. "I... We need you strong."

Charles nodded and headed for shelter, watching as the pair mounted up and took off, disappearing into the thick flurry.

—

At first, they rode in companionable silence. There was so much that could be said between the two men and Javier had been itching to discuss what had happened in Blackwater - especially what he had witnessed Dutch do on that boat - but the time never seemed right to ask. Instead, he started simpler.

“So… There was a lot of law in Blackwater. Too much. You think maybe we got set up?”

“That many men? Oh, they knew we were coming” Dutch laughed humorlessly. “But you saw how much money was on that boat. Thought I got lucky when I managed to stash what we took in town, right before we fled. Now… I don’t know if I could go back there."

Javier was trying to come up with something thoughtful to say when he spotted the dim glow of a lantern breaking through the unrelenting grey. He squinted into the distance and pointed it out.

“I think I see something.” He said.

“You up ahead! Who’s there?” Questioned Dutch authoritatively, as the figure came into view. “Micah.”

“Gentlemen.” Greeted Micah easily. The three all slowed to a stop, Micah leaning over the horn of his saddle with one hand crossed over the other. He appeared somewhat relaxed, despite the weather and the circumstances, and he looked Dutch up and down with shifty, fox-like eyes.

"Found anything?" Dutch asked. He didn’t sound very hopeful, not like when he addressed the gang as a whole. Since Blackwater, his voice seemed to lack the charisma and spark it once had, unless he knew people needed to hear it.

"I think so." Micah replied. "Found a little homestead down thataway. Place is blazing with light and noise, sounded like a party."

"Well, let's go see." Said Dutch, sounding a little more optimistic.

"Follow Me." Beckoned Micah, spurring his horse, Burdock, to ride back the way they came. Dutch and Javier followed behind, fighting the frigid winds and snowdrifts.

"How's Davey doing?" Micah asked, pulling back on the reins a little to settle into a trot beside Dutch.

"Ah, he didn't make it." Dutch said. He had to shout over the howling blizzard, but the sadness in his voice was unmissable. "Nor did little Jenny."

"That's too bad, Davey was a real fighter. Both of them Callander boys is, or was..." Micah continued. He earned a sigh of agreement from Dutch, but the older man didn’t say anything else. Micah could see his focus was slipping elsewhere.

"What about Mac and Sean? And what happened to Arthur, where’s he?"

“Arthur’s dead.” Dutch snapped. There was a long pause between the two of them.

“Quite a business.” Micah sighed, though he didn’t seem too put out by the loss of so many people. He probably should have shown some remorse, considering the Blackwater job was his idea.

“I'm glad you're alright, Micah.” Dutch said eventually.

“Always.”

When they fell back into a single-file line, Javier leaned forward and shouted up to Dutch.

“Did he say anything about John? We joinin’ up with him anywhere?”

“Didn’t say. Don’t worry about John, he’ll be alright”

Javier settled back into the saddle, but his concern didn’t quite leave him. The storm would be blowing over soon but it still wasn’t the kind of weather you’d want to get stuck in alone. Hell, maybe if they didn’t run into John soon the man would take off again, Just like he’d done before.

The trio remained silent until they reached the homestead Micah scouted. The amber glow of lamp light shining through the windows made the house look like a beacon in the blizzard and there were whoops and hollers drifting from inside. Silently stalking along the property line, the three of them could see several people inside, mostly men. Many shadows passed by the window, silhouetted against the light from inside, but they didn’t seem to notice the horses slinking through the snow or their riders dismounting and creeping closer to the house.

“Let me do the talking. We don't want to scare these folks.” Said Dutch, standing up a little straighter and dusting the snow off his coat.

“What did I say? Quite a party.” Micah sneered.

“You two, get yourselves out of sight. One lonely man is a lot less intimidating than three nasty looking degenerates.” Dutch laughed, still scoping out the property while he trudged through the snow towards the front door. “Micah, hide behind that wagon. Javier, you take that old shed.”

While Dutch caught the attention of someone in the house, spinning a tale to the visibly inebriated man about being lost in the storm, Javier and Micah laid low in the shadows. The conversation at the door seemed like it might be going somewhere until Micah pulled back the sheet covering the wagon he was crouched behind. He recoiled in alarm at the discovery of a frozen-over corpse, just barely managing to remain out of sight.

“Hey, Javier!” He whispered harshly, trying to keep his voice down. The last thing they needed was to end up in that wagon as well. “We got a problem. There’s a corpse right here.”

Javier felt a chill run down his spine, and not because of the snowstorm. “Shit…What do we do?”

The two of them unholstered their pistols, suddenly very aware of how sour the conversation between Dutch and the man at the door had become. Micah decided to take the lead, whipping out from behind cover and immediately shooting the stranger. Dutch - who was very familiar with situations devolving into madness at a moment’s notice - pulled out his own guns without question, seeking cover behind a small shed. The firefight stretched on for minutes, and the three of them found themselves outnumbered. Fortunately, though, they were not outmatched, and the house fell silent.

“C’mon, let's search the place,” Dutch said, beckoning Micah towards the now-empty house. “Javier, will you bring the horses closer? Then Join us after.”

Javier looked like he wanted to protest but resigned to turning and fetching their mounts in silence, picking his way past cooling bodies - and occasionally looting a few. Meanwhile, Dutch and Micah combed through the house, turning it upside down looking for supplies. By the end of it, they had scavenged a few cans, some crackers and a decent amount of alcohol. Dutch had also found some paperwork branding the gang of deceased outlaws as O’Driscolls, enemy gang members.

“O’Driscolls. I can’t believe it.” Dutch said, frustrated. “What’re they even doin’ here?”

“Probably same thing as us: runnin’ from the law.” Said Micah. “Colm O’Driscoll’s got a pretty big price on his head, almost as much as you.” He laughed as if he had just made an excellent joke, then spat into the fireplace.

Suddenly, a crash sounded from outside. Dutch hurried back out the door, Micah close behind him. The horses had already been brought closer, but Javier was nowhere to be seen and something was going down in the barn at the edge of the property

“Stay here. Search the place one more time if you have to.” Dutch told Micah before heading over to the barn. When he got there, he found Javier scrapping with one last O’Driscoll; the two of them were locked in a fierce fist fight, but the O’Driscoll seemed to falter when Dutch appeared. Javier took the opportunity to punch him square in the nose, breaking it with a satisfying crunch and knocking him straight to the ground.

“Sneaky fucker thought he could jump me,” Seethed Javier, proudly sporting a bloody nose and a number of bruises already blooming across his face. “What should I do with ‘im, Dutch? Should I kill ‘im?”

Dutch looked at the scrawny, bloodied O’Driscoll thoughtfully. “Not yet. Find out what they’re doing here, and where Colm is.”

Javier smirked before clocking the guy once again, then kicked him hard in the ribs. Finally, he got the O’Driscoll in a tight headlock.

“Well? Where is he? Where’s Colm?” Demanded Javier.

“With the others… At an old mining camp southwest of here, near the Lake!” He choked, breaths getting quicker and more ragged by the second.

“What the hell’re you boys doin’ up here then, huh?” Javier pressed.

“We’re fixing to rob some train, gonna blow the tracks. I don’t know more than that, I swear!” He gasped, feebly gripping Javier's forearm in a pathetic attempt to get him to loosen his grip.

“Well, I think I’ve heard everything I needed to hear. I’ll leave the rest up to you, Javier.” Said Dutch, satisfied with the new information. He turned away from the barn, leaving Javier to decide the fate of the remaining O’Driscoll. He didn’t have to wait long until Javier joined him again, O’Driscoll no longer in sight. He did, however, have a horse from the barn in tow; a healthy-looking stallion with a patchy coat.

“Looks a decent horse,” Dutch mentioned appraisingly. He started to say something else, but was interrupted by a noise coming from inside the house. Javier hastily hitched the stallion and they both rushed inside, hands on their holsters.

They were greeted with the sight of a dishevelled woman flying around the house, Micah chasing after her with a hungry look in his eyes. They danced around each other before the woman fled behind the kitchen table, throwing whatever she could get her hands on at the strangers looting her home. She was mostly aiming for Micah, who seemed to view his harassment as a game - one he was thoroughly enjoying.

“Get away from me!” She screamed.

“Micah, what the hell do you think you're doing? Leave her alone.” Dutch demanded, watching as Micah barely managed to dodge a vase.

“Look what I found in the cellar. Wild thing, ain't you?” He laughed, watching with delight as the poor woman brandished a knife and waved it at him, scared and enraged. “She's one of them O'Driscoll's.”

“No she ain't, Micah, look at her.” Sighed Dutch, sick of watching him torment the young woman. Before he could step in, though, Micah flipped the table and sent a lamp flying into the wall where it smashed and caught alight on the floor. The flames quickly spread throughout the kitchen and Javier tried fruitlessly to put them out. Meanwhile Dutch turned back to the distressed young woman still holding a teasing Micah at knifepoint.

“Miss? Miss? Are you- Oh you fool, Micah!” He hissed, wrestling Micah back and shoving him away. “Miss, everything is going to be okay. We mean you no harm. Come on. It'll be okay.”

“We need to go.” Urged Javier. The fire had engulfed the curtains and was now creeping steadily along the floorboards.

Dutch gently disarmed the woman and put an arm around her carefully. She was wearing only a nightgown, she didn't even have any shoes, but there was no way they were just going to leave her here. Clearly this homestead had belonged to her, before it was ransacked and taken over by rotten O’Driscoll’s, and the poor bastard in the wagon outside was more than likely her husband. This was all but confirmed when they got her outside, Javier fetching a blanket for her and draping it gently around her shoulders.

“They came three days ago… And my husband, they…” She was shaking and her cheeks were stained with tears. The poor woman still looked uneasy around the three of them, but with her house now alight with golden flames behind her she had no choice but to join them.

“It's okay, miss. You are safe now… and you can't stay here.” Dutch said, a twinge of guilt lacing the statement. She might have chosen to stay if Micah didn’t commit an act of impromptu arson. “You can come with us.”

“What's your name, miss?” Asked Micah, as she was helped up onto his horse.

“Adler. Sadie Adler, Mrs…” She snivelled. “He was my husband.” After that, all she could do was sob. Sadie Adler was inconsolable as they mounted up and rode away, leaving her once-beautiful homestead in flames and the memories she made there forever corrupted with grief.

—

Springtime was in full bloom across the plains of West Elizabeth, the only reminder of the brutal winter that swept up the land a few months prior was the cooling breeze blowing down from the north. The ever-snowy mountains lay far in the distance, and looking at them had hit Arthur with the sinking feeling that the rest of the gang were further away than he thought. At first, he had assumed they would flee to one of the many safehouses they had established in New Austin. However, the tracks he had been diligently following day and night only led further and further north. Eventually, the traces of horse hooves and wagon wheels left imprinted in the road had been lost through rivers or swept away by rain. As he stared hopelessly at the Grizzlies rising up on the horizon like a stairway to the heavens, Arthur began to consider the possibility that he may never find his family again.

When Arthur left Blackwater, it was with an air of grim determination and acceptance of the fact that he would have a long, lonely pilgrimage ahead of him. But now, after days of walking and walking and walking - only to lose the trail he was following and eventually lose track of where he was - that determination was beginning to wane. He was no stranger to travelling, hell, Arthur could barely recall a time when he wasn’t on the run, but he hadn’t been truly alone since he was a kid. The memories had begun to flood back in the unnatural absence of company and conversation: memories of being a small boy, orphaned and starving, living on the streets with no guarantee for his own safety. Even the sensation of holes being worn into the soles of his boots had started to feel hauntingly familiar.

Deciding that now was as good of a time as any, Arthur decided to find shelter from the glaring sun in a small copse. The forests weren’t particularly thick in this part of the country, but the patches of woodland that sparsely peppered the rolling hills for miles around were rich with fauna. Deer, rabbits, squirrels… none of which Arthur had managed to catch due to his unfortunate lack of a rifle. As he sat down amongst a tangle of tree roots, meagre supplies spread before him, Arthur realised with a twinge of frustration that he was quickly running out of options. He had one can of beans left and a small pile of wild nuts and berries, most of which would likely be gone by the end of the day. A deep sigh escaped his lips, which were chapped and sore from dehydration, and Arthur resigned to sitting back against the tree trunk behind him in an attempt to get some rest.

That was when he heard it: an unfamiliar voice drifted through the woods off to his left, immediately putting Arthur on high alert. He swiftly gathered what little belongings he had and turned to investigate who was there. Instinctively, Arthur's hand drifted to his empty holster and he silently cursed the absence of his revolver before reaching for his hunting knife instead. Prowling like a wildcat through the underbrush, his well-placed steps didn't make a sound. Arthur was able to approach the solitary man from behind without disturbance; he listened as the gentleman whittered away to himself, all the while fiddling with a complicated piece of equipment - a camera. Arthur decided that this dapper yet completely oblivious man was no threat, but as he sheathed his knife and began to turn away, his curiosity got the better of him.

Arthur forced himself to relax a little, he didn't want to come across as a menacing gunslinger; not that he seemed very threatening when he was visibly unarmed, injured and exhausted. Instead, he approached the fascinating photographer and his camera with a low whistle and a look of intrigued appreciation. The gentleman, upon having his intent focus so suddenly broken, jumped in alarm and clapped a hand dramatically over his heart. The two stood for a few seconds, appraising each other, before the stranger broke the silence.

"Oh!" He gasped, "Hello. Quite a day, isn’t it?" He threw his hands up in an expansive gesture, indicating to all the verdant life surrounding them and the clear skies above.

"Sure." Replied Arthur roughly. He hadn't spoken in days and the lack of use made his voice sound more raspy than usual.

"What a country." Continued the gentleman, who still hadn't thought to introduce himself. "I'm working on a project, photography"

Arthur smirked. "Yeah, I guessed that bit."

"Of course," The man laughed. "Wildlife, that's my thing… Or, that's what I want to be my thing. If I have to take another picture of a grumpy house frau or pompous middle class burgher I will feed myself to the lions!"

Arthur watched with amusement as the photographer adjusted his camera with deft, practised hands. He wandered about the clearing, seemingly aimless and distracted by his frustrated tirade, until he ended up in front of the lense and took a few careful steps back.

"Stand here." He instructed, looking at Arthur expectantly.

"Really?" He asked, sceptical. "You want a picture of me? I ain't exactly nice to look at on my better days"

The photographer didn't seem to mind Arthur's dishevelled, weathered appearance. That, or he was just so enamoured by their beautiful surroundings he had simply yet to notice the bandages and blood-spattered clothes. Arthur decided to humour the man anyway and joined him in front of the camera.

"Just… there." He says, satisfied, before offering Arthur his hand. "Albert Mason."

Arthur shook his hand, noticing how smooth and manicured it felt when wrapped in his own rough, calloused one. "Arthur Morgan."

"Pleasure." Chirped Albert, and, much to Arthur's surprise, he seemed very genuine. "I'm trying to find and capture images of our great predators, before our greatest predators kill them all and stick them on some clubhouse wall."

"Good luck with that." Encouraged Arthur. He couldn't see how that could ever be possible: men rich enough to hunt animals for sport and dispose of the rest when there are people starving on the street outside were typically the kind that could never be stopped; Arthur had robbed enough of them by now to know that. Still, the preservation of these animals was a noble cause, and Albert was clearly very passionate about it.

"Yes, not the easiest… But, well, I love a challenge. The trick is to leave out a big load of meat, relax and pray they don't mistake me for lunch."

As if on cue, Arthur caught a glimpse of mottled fur emerging from the brush a few feet away. Albert quickly noticed too, but instead of becoming excited at the presence of a fine-looking coyote, he became dismayed as the creature sniffed his bag and clamped its jaws around the soft, leather handle. Clearly it had taken a liking to some of the bag's contents and fancied dragging it off to have a look inside.

"Oh, good heavens! My bag, that thing is robbing me!" He cried.

"Don't worry." Said Arthur gruffly, waving dismissively in Albert's direction. He found himself already moving to pursue the mischievous coyote, despite having very little energy left to spare.

The coyote was a sneaky thing, it darted every which way as Arthur crashed through the undergrowth in close pursuit. Honestly, he felt a little ridiculous, but that feeling soon turned to triumph as he dove for the coyote and the creature had no choice but to drop the bag. Arthur struggled to his feet just in time to watch a slender, furry tail disappear behind a bush. He took a minute to catch his breath, exhausted by the chase; typically that kind of thing wouldn't wear him out so quickly, but he did give chase on an empty stomach. He carefully scooped up the bag and trudged back to the clearing to see Albert waiting with baited breath.

"I got your bag." He panted.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you sir." The photographer breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have his belongings returned in one piece. He gave Arthur a thankful look as he opened the bag and checked that all the contents were still there.

"And that 'thing' was a coyote." Arthur informed him. He adjusted his hat, which had been left sitting askew after the pursuit, subsequently exposing more of the darkened bandages still wrapped tightly over the graze on his forehead. "Bag full of meat will tend to bring out the worst in the local population."

Albert gave him a grateful pat on the shoulder. "You are a gentleman, even if your appearance may suggest otherwise." Said Albert, "This bag also has a lot of my supplies, you've saved me days. I really can't thank you enough. In fact…"

Arthur watched with interest as Albert rummaged around in the bag once more. He produced several neatly wrapped packages, including some cooked beef and a small loaf of bread. He hurriedly pushed the gifts into Arthur's hands, seemingly more than happy to be getting rid of the tempting cargo.

"Take these. Most of it was meant for the animals, but you certainly deserve it more than a rabble of pesky coyotes. I really can't thank you enough, sir."

Arthur looked at him, dumbfounded. He hadn't been expecting a reward for what was pretty much a spur-of-the-moment decision. He accepted the food nonetheless and felt slightly entertained at the idea that this bumbling 'wildlife photographer' - who was clearly out of his element - had probably just saved Arthur's life.

"Well, now that you mention it," said Arthur hesitantly, not wanting to push his luck, "You wouldn't be able to tell me where we are, exactly? Maybe point it out on this map."

"Oh, of course." Said Albert, happy to oblige. Arthur produced a weatherbeaten map from his satchel and held it out for Albert to mark their whereabouts. "We're just southeast of a lovely town named Strawberry. Such a beautiful area to be lost in."

"Thank you, I'll be on my way then." Arthur tipped his hat at Albert as he bid the unusual gentleman goodbye. "I wish you the best o' luck."

"And you as well." Replied Albert. "You take care sir."

"I ain't the one tryin' to get myself eaten." Chuckled Arthur lightheartedly.

"Yes, I realise I am a fool." Sighed Albert, "Forgive me. And thank you very much once again."

As they parted ways, Arthur couldn't help but be amazed at how lucky he was for the chance encounter. Perhaps it was rather unusual, but he was much better off than he had been before. At least now he knew where he was going. Briefly, Arthur considered going into the nearby town, Strawberry, but he dismissed the idea immediately: if the law was still looking for him they would undoubtedly have arrived in Strawberry by now. Instead, he studied the map more closely and started towards the nearby stables; they were a fair distance from the town itself and Arthur still held the ridiculous hope that he might find Boadicea. Perhaps if he didn't find her, he could still attempt to liberate an unattended horse and a saddle.

—

By the time Arthur reached the stables, evening had fallen. The setting sun cast long shadows in the swaying grass, making the fields look alive with motion in the fading light. The stables stood silhouetted on the edge of the forest and, though there wasn't much activity happening on the property, Arthur still approached it with the same silent caution as always. He ended up walking a full circle around the property, disappointed to find there were only two or three horses inside. He was about to take a closer look when somebody stopped him.

"Hey! Can I help you?" A young man snapped, voice laced with cockiness. He was holding a pitchfork with a white-knuckled grip, clearly just a stable hand.

"I'm lookin' for my horse, a mare, she got spooked and ran off a couple days ago." Said Arthur cautiously, making sure he looked relaxed and non-threatening. "Could I take a look?"

The stable hand shook his head. "We ain't got no mares here, sir. Now I recommend you scram before someone else comes along."

Arthur sighed, disappointed and slightly annoyed. Now he was this close to the doors, he could see that Boadicea wasn't here. He also decided against attempting to steal a horse after being spotted; as disheartening as it was knowing he would have to continue on foot, he really didn't want to fight this kid. In fact, with the yard illuminated a brilliant shade of gold, Arthur could see that the boy couldn't have been older than fifteen or sixteen. The stable hand was studying Arthur's own face with a renewed intensity as well, which he found slightly off-putting.

"Hey… don't I recognise you from somewhere?" He said, suspicious.

Shit. Arthur thought. He hated those words: they always sent a prickle of alarm shooting across his skin. He never knew quite how to act in those few moments of uncertainty, unsure if he was about to be caught out or not.

"No, you don't." He said, easily slipping into a more menacing demeanour. He made sure the brim of his hat was tilted low over his eyes and took a slow but deliberate step towards the kid. He didn't want to do anything drastic, but maybe if he just scared the boy off he wouldn't have to.

"Git outta here now an' it's like I never saw you here." The stable hand squawked, sounding much less defiant than he had before.

Arthur took the offer and eyed the kid one last time before immediately disappearing into the deep shadow cast by the stables. He quickly turned the corner and walked past a pile of tools, crates and a couple chairs. After deciding he wouldn't leave empty-handed, Arthur stopped to grab a sack of apples when his eyes fell upon a newspaper lying discarded on a box. The headline caused him to snatch it up before finally bolting over a fence and back into the woods.

He wouldn't be able to read it in the darkness of the encroaching night, but the headline, written in big, bold letters, had caused his heart to race. Written on the front page, just above a mugshot sketched to resemble his own image, was written: 'INFAMOUS GANG MEMBER ARTHUR MORGAN SHOT DEAD IN BLACKWATER MASSACRE'.

—

Morning dawned over Colter, lighting the sky a brilliant red. The bitter wind was still sending frigid gusts slipping through paneless windows and under doors but everyone had settled in well enough. The shelter had been just what they needed to wait out the storm, though it hadn’t quite blown over yet, and though the walls were thin and draughty they concealed the group from prying eyes. The sun was up, hidden behind heavy grey clouds, and the snow lit up everything in a blinding white. The mountains closing them in on all sides felt a little claustrophobic but there was opportunity for hunting and foraging in the vast, expansive forests that stretched for miles in every direction.

Abigail got more and more anxious every time she glanced outside. The concealment of the mountains and forests should make her feel safer: the law would have no way of tracking them through the western Grizzlies, but neither did John, her idiot husband. She hadn’t seen him since he disappeared into the mountains to go scouting two days ago and she was sick with worry. Secretly, she was still a little paranoid that he would leave her again, just like he had done before; but now he could be in real danger, and she had been meaning to ask someone to go looking for him.

Her first instinct had been to ask Arthur but, of course, he wasn’t there anymore. He probably wouldn’t have helped anyway, considering the grudge he still held against John. No use for grudges when you’re six feet under, Abigail mused sadly. She roused Jack, who had fallen asleep in her lap, and pulled out a bag of hard-boiled sweets; hopefully they would distract him long enough for her to ask someone a favour. She resigned to asking Hosea if he could spare enough people for a search party.

“Hosea? Do you think you could get a few people to go lookin’ for John?” She asked timidly. “I'm sorry to ask, but… He ain't been seen in two days. Please?”

“Of course, dear.” Said Hosea, sounding concerned yet understanding. “He should have been back by now. Javier?”

“Yes?” Javier said blearily, standing from his spot by the window.

“Javier, will you ride out with Micah to take a look for John? You're the two best fit men we've got.” Asked Hosea, a concerned Abigail hovering just behind him.

“Micah? Do I have to?”

“Well, if you don’t want to bring Micah along you can always pick someone else.” Said Hosea. “Come on, she's... We're all pretty worried about him.”

“Alright, well… I know if the situation were reversed then he'd look for me.” He reasoned, stretching and snatching his rifle up from where it was resting against the wall. “Last I know, John was headed up the river. I’ll go that way. But I’m takin’ Lenny, not Micah.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.” Abigail thanked both of them profusely. It was nice to know that there were always people who would worry about John, especially since he seemed to get himself into trouble everywhere they went.

—

Javier and Lenny almost gave up searching. They had combed the land along the river for miles but it took them ages to find anything; eventually spotting some smoke that led them to evidence of a recently-vacated camp. There was no way of telling if it had been John’s or not but Javier had suggested they follow the tracks anyway, heading higher into the mountains.

“Let's hope it’s actually John and not more of those O’Driscolls you ran into last night” Lenny quipped.

“Yeah, Let’s hope. Come on, snow’s coming in heavy and we don’t wanna lose these tracks.”

They continued further up the mountain, ploughing through the snow on thoroughly exhausted horses. The tracks got fainter and fainter as fresh layers of snow rapidly settled on top, but the pair of riders followed them dutifully past deep ravines and through narrow passes. Eventually the tracks came to a stop and the snow turned crimson-stained. The dead, half devoured carcass of a horse laid in stark contrast to the white blanket covering the mountainside.

“Shit, that's not a good sign.” Said Lenny, suddenly looking at their surroundings with a new and careful attentiveness.

“John was riding that horse when we left Blackwater,” Javier fretted. He, too, glanced around warily and strained his ears. “C’mon, let’s see if he can hear us.”

Javier pulled out his revolver and pointed it at the sky, firing a single shot. The resounding bang echoed across cliffs and mountains, carrying on for miles. Clearly John had heard it, wherever he was, because he began to yell like a maniac.

“You hear that?” Said Lenny excitedly.

“Yeah, come on, up there.” Replied Javier, kicking his horse into a steady trot.

The pair remained on horseback until the high winds and steep ledges made the path too precarious to continue. John was still shouting, but neither Javier nor Lenny could see him yet. They dismounted and continued on foot, shuffling through knee-high snow and bracing themselves against ferocious winds.

“Mierda, we’re high up here.” Javier swore, gripping onto the rocky cliff face.

“Yeah, I don’t care much for heights.” Said Lenny, peering over the edge at the dizzying drop below them.

“Just… watch your step up ahead. Don’t need to rescue two people.”

Javier’s joke earned a laugh from Lenny, but he stopped when John yelled again, asking for their help. The seriousness of the situation had them picking up the pace a bit, though they made sure to tread carefully when clinging to narrow ledges and climbing up shelves of freezing, ice-cold rock.

“John! Marston, you there?” Shouted Javier, raising his voice over the wind. They both stood still as statues, barely daring to breathe as they listened intently for an answer.

“I’m here, on the ledge!” John Yelled in response. He was definitely closer this time, off to their left.

“John!” Lenny shouted with relief.

“Over here!” John beckoned again, as the two trudged in the vague direction of his voice.

John was about to call out again when two faces appeared over the ledge to look down at him. They both hissed with sympathy when they saw his face, freshly adorned with deep gashes left behind by sharp claws. He probably didn’t look great and he certainly felt worse, but the relief that someone had found him definitely took the edge off.

“Those are some nasty scratches, compadre.” Said Javier, hopping down onto the ledge to offer him a hand. John took it gladly, wincing as Javier hauled him up and he was forced to put weight on his injured leg. “You don’t look too good at all.”

“Don’t feel too good, neither.” He replied wearily.

“Yeah, I’m glad we got to you in time.” Lenny admitted. He grabbed hold of John and dragged him back from the cliffside, propping him up as Javier scrambled back over the snowy outcrop. Javier ended up pulling John to his feet once again before bending down to lift the man over his shoulders; he wobbled a few times when they turned around to traipse through the snow, but he managed to stay upright and not drop John.

“Come on,” Javier turned to Lenny, gesturing to the steep snow bank directly in front of them. “We can't go back the way we came, let's try this way instead.”

Lenny waded ahead through the sea of snow and whistled for their horses. Eventually, the two loyal mounts came running. As they got closer, though, Lenny noticed that they looked agitated, like something had spooked them. He soothed his horse, Maggie, a gorgeous and athletic mustang. Typically, she remained calm and sturdy, but Lenny quickly spotted what was riling her up so badly.

“Wolves, look.” He whispered cautiously to the others, motioning to where a small group of wolves was approaching them slowly from a ridge to the right.

“You bring a rifle?” Asked Javier, throwing John over the back of his saddle and mounting up in a hurry.

Lenny barely had time to nod and pull out his gun before the wolves were upon them. He lost count of how many he actually managed to put down before they were back on the main path and out of hunting range. They still rode quickly, but the reason for their urgency had shifted; John had gone quiet. Javier had tried to keep him awake with questions and quips about his bad luck but the conversation had quickly grown one-sided. Now Marston was slumped silently against him, his breathing concerningly shallow and half of his face shining with blood.

“Thanks… thank you for comin’ to get me.” John mumbled, almost inaudible.

When they got back to Colter, the little mining village looking more like a proper camp now, John damn nearly fell off Javier’s horse. Abigail couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or angry with him as he was basically carried to a bed - the one that Davey had laid dead on just a day prior. She fretted and fussed over him as a few people drifted over to help, but John was just relieved to be away from the biting cold and the even bitier wildlife.

—

Tree boughs creaked harmoniously as they whipped and swayed in the wind, the dying snowstorm still sweeping through Colter in the early hours of the morning. Sleet pummeled the thin walls and snow-caked roofs of the clustered buildings while the Van-der-linde Gang sheltered within, only a few men were standing guard like sentinels with their rifles at the ready. A thin column of smoke rose from one of the battered cabins, disappearing into the clouds that hung grey and heavy overhead; the lit fire crackled quietly and illuminated the front room in dim orange flickers. Slivers of light escaped through the cracks in the curtains, throwing amber streaks into the snow outside.

Hosea shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair he had been perched in most of the night. He prodded the fire, determined to keep it going so he could revel in the warmth it provided: the chill of the mountains had not been treating him well and the inescapable cold had caused a near-constant ache to settle in his joints. He looked up at the sudden creak of nearby floorboards announcing the presence of someone else entering the room. Dutch stepped carefully into the light of the fire, the dimness of the room making his face look older than usual. The shadows under his eyes seemed to be steadily getting darker and, wrapped in the privacy provided by the night, he didn’t hold himself like a fierce leader. Now, in the small hours of the morning, Dutch and Hosea faced each other simply as themselves. Two people who had lost far too much.

“May I?” He asked tiredly, gesturing to the empty chair beside Hosea.

“Of course.”

Silence stretched between them for what might have been minutes or hours. It wasn’t awkward: it was an absent chorus that they had shared for decades, familiar and comforting. Both men knew what they needed to talk about. Discussion of where they would go and how much money they needed to recover had long been gone over, again and again. Eventually, when two people have known each other long enough, they run out of things to talk about. But there was a subject, an unspoken matter itching at the quiet, that needed to be addressed.

"I… miss him." Dutch said simply.

"I know," sighed Hosea, "I miss him too."

"It hurts," Dutch continued, voice getting thicker as the grief took over, "I didn't know it could hurt this badly."

Hosea's hand found Dutch's forearm and he held on, like it was a bridge between the two of them. He sighed deeply, trying not to break the dam of emotion that had been cracking since they left West Elizabeth.

"I know it hurts, but-"

"No, you don't know!" Dutch snapped. He shot to his feet, pulling away from Hosea so suddenly the other man flinched in surprise. Dutch had always had a violent temper, almost as violent as their very lifestyle, and now that temper was rearing its ugly head.

"I was on that boat. He was right there, Hosea! I should have- if I had just…" He began to trail off, looking into the past as clearly as if he was watching it through a window. "I should…"

Hosea, who had been ready to endure a barrage of shouting, watched in silence as Dutch had to lean against the fireplace. His breath was shaky as he rolled the events of the failed heist over in his mind again and again, searching in vain for all the things he could have done differently.

Ignoring the pain in his creaking joints as they harmonised with the creaking wooden chair, Hosea stood up and approached Dutch. He didn't say anything - neither of them did - he simply reached out and tentatively placed a hand on Dutch's arm, waiting. Dutch accepted the gesture and allowed himself to drift closer to Hosea. They wrapped each other up in a warm embrace, and if a few tears were shed, nobody else was around to see it.

"I should kill them all." Whispered Dutch. The Pinkerton Detective Agency had torn his family apart and sent them running; in his eyes, it was simply what those bastards deserved.

"That can wait." Said Hosea, ever the voice of reason. He pulled away from Dutch so they could look each other in the eye. "We can't let them do more damage than they have already done. These people need us, John and his family need us. We have to keep going."

They had lost Arthur, their son, and both men blamed themselves. Perhaps this was a hardship the two of them would need to face together.

Chapter Text

Horse hooves pounded the snow, beating the ground in a hypnotic rhythm and sending up clouds of white flakes in their wake. Baylock thundered back towards Colter, ridden by a thoroughly irritated Micah. He should be enjoying some drinks by now, celebrating the successful hit they just pulled off on a nearby O'Driscoll camp, but instead he was tasked with chasing down one last scrawny straggler. The final gang member was hogtied and thrown over the rump of his horse, ready to be brought back to Dutch and the others like a prised pig.

“Please, mister, where are you takin’ me?” He asked fearfully. The kid sounded pathetic and young, and that stupid baby face made him look soft. The constant whining and pleading for his life was really getting on Micah’s nerves, so he reached back and gave his prisoner a hard whack round the side of his head.

“What did you say your name was, little prick? We need to know what we gotta write on your tombstone.” Micah laughed cruelly.

“No! No, please! My name’s Keiran. Keiran Duffy. Please don’t kill me sir!” The young man begged, his gasping breaths becoming hitched with poorly repressed sobs.

“Well, Keiran,” Micah sneered, spitting out the name like it tasted bitter on his tongue, “I’m takin’ you somewhere you ain't gonna like. Ever heard of Dutch Van-Der-Linde?”

“Oh no…” Keiran whimpered.

Micah didn’t much care for the feud between Dutch and Colm O’Driscoll, only grasping the basics of their long running rivalry: a dead brother, a murdered girlfriend, stolen scores and general unpleasantness festered between the two of them, fuelling a complex war that had lasted decades. Clearly Keiran knew enough about the mutual hatred that he understood nothing good was waiting for him back at Colter, but Micah really only got involved because playing soldier landed him in Dutch’s good graces.

After a few minutes of steady galloping, Colter appeared in the distance, barely visible in the fading light of dusk. Micah rode in confidently, steering Baylock right into the middle of camp and swinging out of the saddle with ease. He grabbed Keiran by his coat and threw him into the snow, unceremoniously dragging him towards one of the cabins and dumping him outside.

“Look what I found!” Micah bellowed, sneering at the petrified young man on the ground.

“Found the little shit, did you Micah?” Said Dutch, impressed, as he swung the cabin door open and strode towards them. He had a large scroll of paper in his hands and Micah recognized it as the extensive plans they had found earlier, instructions for a train robbery. The plans, along with several crates of dynamite, had proven to be a very fruitful reward for the firefight they’d had with the unsuspecting O’Driscolls.

“You want me to make him talk?” Asked Micah eagerly.

Dutch took a moment to consider this. For just a few seconds, there was something horrible in his eyes; a dark, wicked look that was there and gone again in a flash. It made Keiran shrink further into the snow with a whimper.

“No, not yet.” He decided, “Now all we’ll get is lies. Uncle! Mr Williamson! Tie this maggot up someplace safe.”

Bill and Uncle, who had been waiting impatiently in the shadow of a nearby cabin, shuffled over to them through the snow. Bill had been standing in the cold so long that crystals of frost were forming on his beard. As he rubbed his gloved hands together, more frost was shaken from his winter coat. The two men looked big and scary enough that, when they hauled Keiran to his feet, the young man didn't dare try and slip from their grasp.

"We get him hungry first." Dutch continued, turning to Keiran who stood frozen in place, horrified. "I got a saying, my friend: we shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving and feed 'em as need feeding. We're gonna find out what you need."

Dutch didn't say anything else as Keiran was dragged off to one of the shacks on the outskirts of Colter. He and Micah simply listened to the kid as he begged for his life again.

"Please, you don't need to do this!" Keiran bargained, "Is this about Colm? I hate that feller, I swear! I ain't no stinkin' O'Driscoll."

"Yeah, right." Mumbled Dutch bitterly. He gave Micah a pat on the shoulder, sending a few flakes of snow that had gathered on his coat spiralling into the wind. "Good work, Micah. Now, I'm going to see about robbing this train."

"Just let me know when it's time to ride." Micah said, walking back over to Baylock and grabbing his reins.

Dutch watched him lead the stallion back over to the stables, suddenly feeling a pang of loss as he saw The Count and Boadicea grazing together. He was about to turn away from the awful feeling and head back into the cabin with the rest of the boys, but he stopped when he heard a familiar voice.

"Dutch," Hosea called, walking into the halo of light cast by a nearby fire. "We need to talk."

Dutch sighed. He knew this was coming, this lecture: Hosea was very adamant about not robbing the train. He had tried to stop Dutch from raiding the O’Driscoll camp that same morning, much to Dutch's irritation. He held the roll of plans tightly, determined to go through with them, and stood his ground.

"We're doing this, Hosea. I don't care what you have to say." Dutch insisted.

"That train belongs to Leviticus Cornwall. You know just as well as I do, Dutch. He won't take this lightly." Hosea's caution wasn't misplaced: Leviticus Cornwall was a rich and powerful man, and stealing from him would only put yet another target on their heads. Hosea stepped closer to Dutch, the fog of his breath meeting the cold air creating a misty veil between them.

"This could be it, Hosea. The money on that train could get us out of here for good." Dutch said, gesturing grandly to the snowy collection of shacks all around them.

"The weather's breaking, we could still leave." Hosea proposed, "I thought we were lying low?"

"What do you want from me, Hosea?" Asked Dutch, voice laced with annoyance.

"I just don't want any more folks to die, Dutch"

There it was, that sharp stab in the gut Dutch felt as he remembered what he had lost. Who he had lost. Suddenly, he could no longer stand to look Hosea in the eye. His gaze fell upon the stables again, and he watched as The Count nipped at Boadicea's ears, the shorter horse just barely able to reach them. Dutch looked away again with a sigh.

Hosea seemed to realise how deeply the statement had cut, reaching out to take Dutch's hand in his own. Their fingers had just barely brushed together when Dutch recoiled with a jerk. He turned back to Hosea, eyes alight with frustration.

"What choice do we have? What else am I supposed to do, tell me!" He snapped, marching back up the wooden porch steps.

"Dutch!" Hosea tried, watching as Dutch ignored him and ripped open the cabin door. He disappeared into the amber firelight and threw the door closed again behind him, leaving Hosea alone in the snow.

—

Train tracks snaked off into the distance, cutting through snow-covered fields and over foaming rivers. Even this far down the mountains, the weather was still grey and bleak, blanketing the land in a layer of frost. Patches of green emerged from the swathe of white, a flourishing sign that a thaw may finally be on its way.

Biting winds rustled the leaves and pines of the trees below, whipping between rocks and sweeping down the formidable iron tracks. Dutch surveyed the secluded area cautiously, searching for Bill in the clearing. Sure enough, the portly man was carefully securing the last few sticks of stolen dynamite in place. After checking the time with his ornate golden pocket watch, Dutch turned to Javier beside him.

“You wanna go down there, see how he's gettin’ on?” Dutch asked.

Javier nodded, happy to comply. He kicked his horse into a gentle trot and disappeared down the craggy hillside, leaving Dutch, Micah, Lenny and Charles on the ridge. The four of them sat back in their saddles and watched as Javier dismounted, greeting Bill amicably. In a few short minutes, he wired up the detonator, got back on his horse and made his way back up the mountain. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

"Okay, cover your faces, train should be here any minute now." Dutch instructed.

The gang all disguised themselves with various scarves or bandannas and pulled their hats low over their faces, concealing their identities from any eagle-eyed passengers. Suddenly, a rumbling started up on the tracks, building to a crichendo as the train rounded the corner.

Dutch watched with anticipation as it raced past a nearby water tower, then the large pile of boulders that concealed Bill and the detonator. "Gentlemen, it's time!"

As the train raced over the section of railway armed with explosives, the air was practically alight with tension. It got about half way, almost a dozen carriages full of precious cargo and unsuspecting passengers charging towards them. Bill pushed down the plunger on the detonator, awaiting the inevitable explosion. He pushed it down again and again and again… but nothing happened.

"Shit, no- what? God damn it!" He roared with frustration, fruitlessly trying the detonator once more, but to no avail.

"Oh, you have gotta be kiddin' me!" Dutch hissed, watching in alarm as the train cruised past them and into a tunnel, unscathed.

"Mierda, that's no good!" Swore Javier, jumping down from his horse, quickly being joined by Charles and Lenny.

The three of them sprinted directly over the hill, booking it to the other side of the tunnel before the train could clear it. Behind them, the rest of the gang peeled off on horseback, ready to descend the rocky trail and ride parallel to the tracks. Lenny jumped first, leaping onto the roof of the last carriage and tumbling over to the edge. Charles landed second, quickly finding his balance despite the slippery surface underfoot. Behind them, Javier managed to land on the roof but he couldn't get any purchase on the icy metal and slid off the side, hitting the ground roughly and watching in dismay as the train left him behind.

"Help! Charles? Help me!" Lenny yelled, grappling onto the roof with frozen fingers.

"It's alright, I got you." Charles assured him, offering the younger man his good hand and helping him up.

"What happened to Javier?" Lenny asked him, sounding concerned.

"He's okay, just didn't stick the landing. He'll be around."

Together, the two of them advanced slowly to the front of the carriage. They hastily dropped down from the roof, advancing into a narrow storage carriage. As Charles looked out the window, he could see Dutch and Micah riding alongside the train, keeping pace along with Lenny's horse, Maggie, and his own mount, Taima. Suddenly, footsteps thundered from the flatcar in front of them, causing Charles to reach for his gun.

"Guards ahead!" Shouted Lenny, revolver already in hand. "I'll take care of 'em."

He peered around the doorframe and fired off a couple shots, listening with relief and satisfaction as two bodies thudded to the ground. Lenny waited a few more seconds, making sure the coast was clear, before advancing across to the next carriage. He had almost finished weaving between the crates of cargo when a figure appeared on the roof above him, rifle cocked. Lenny barely had time to dive for cover before the guard opened fire.

Suddenly, a spray of blood replaced the man's head and his corpse slid off the side of the train car, leaving a crimson smear behind. Charles lowered his shotgun and approached Lenny, offering him a hand.

"Come on, coast is clear. For now." He said.

Lenny thanked him, taking the offered hand and reloading his handgun, ready for the next carriage. The pair made an excellent team as they slowly fought their way up the train. Eventually, they reached the front, but the train was still speeding down the tracks. Charles roughly grabbed the conductor and threw him into the wind, leaving him and Lenny staring at the controls.

"Let's slow this thing down." Lenny quipped, grabbing the brake lever.

Sparks flew off of the tracks like fireworks as the train screeched to a halt. As it finally stopped, Charles and Lenny dropped down from the engine car and hurried to take cover behind some large boulders whilst another group of guards arrived. Suddenly, bullets started to whizz past them, carving divots into the rock merely inches from where they were sat.

"We need to get to the car at the back, right?" Said Lenny, shouting over the hail of gunfire.

"Yeah, they're guarding it." Charles replied, hastily reloading his shotgun. "Must mean there's something good waiting for us."

They waited for a break in the barrage of bullets before diving for the next outcropping of frosted rock to take cover behind. Hide, shoot, reload and repeat: that’s how it went on for several long minutes as they worked their way back to the final carriage. Eventually, as they dashed over the crest of a snow-capped hill, the car at the back of the train came into sight, the word ‘CORNWALL’ emblazoned along the side.

“Shit, I’m almost out.” Said Lenny regretfully, flicking the chamber of his cattleman revolver closed after loading his last six bullets.

“Look!” Charles shouted, pointing to something further down the tracks. “It’s the others.”

With a cacophony of shrill whinnies and piercing gunfire, the rest of the gang rode up beside the train and opened fire on the remaining guards left fighting for control of the situation. As the last man in uniform was shot dead, landing gracelessly in a growing pool of scarlet, the air quickly fell still and silent. For just a moment, nothing could be heard except the eerily tranquil melody of birdsong drifting over from the nearby trees.

“You boys alright?” Dutch asked, breaking the silence.

Lenny popped his head out from behind where they had been sheltering, slowly standing up and looking distrustfully at the dead men strewn about the blood-painted train, as if not trusting them to stay dead. He was shortly followed by Charles, who stepped out from behind cover and headed straight for Taima.

“We’re alright,” Assured Charles, “You got here just in time.”

Now they had been reunited, the gang dismounted and gathered in front of the carriage, surveying it cautiously.

“Reckon there's people still in there?" Asked Javier.

"I reckon there is." Said Dutch, turning to address whoever was barricaded inside the train car.

"What are you boys planning on doing in there?" Dutch shouted, walking up to the door on the side of the carriage. "Listen to me: we don't want to kill any of ya - any more of ya - and I give you my word, but trust me, we will!"

"I work for Leviticus Cornwall!" A muffled voice yelled from inside.

"Come on, boys…" Warned Dutch.

"We got our orders!" The voice insisted.

"Alright, you asked for it." Dutch dismissed. "Five… Four… Three, two, one! Wake 'em up a little."

Dutch retreated back to stand with the rest of the gang and unholstered his revolver, pointing it at the side of the car and rapidly emptying the chamber into the metal wall. The others followed suit and dozens of bullets pinged loudly off the carriage, each shot reverberating loudly throughout the inside. After a few seconds, they ceased fire. Unfortunately, the gang didn't hear anything from the people huddled behind the locked door. Perhaps it was time to take some drastic measures.

"Mr. Williamson, Mr. Smith, you boys take some of that dynamite and go blow that door open." Dutch ordered.

Bill produced two sticks, one for each of them, and together they secured them to the solid metal doors. It would be more than enough to blast through the entrance and get them inside, despite the tough shell they would have to penetrate. As Bill struck a match and carefully lit the fuse, everybody took a few generous steps back. The explosion that followed was so deafening that it rattled their skulls and shook the train; even the tracks shuddered violently underneath the wheels. When the smoke cleared, a gaping hole was all that was left of the double doors.

“Come on out, fellers!” Dutch shouted, barely able to hear himself over the ringing that lingered in his ears. “We don’t wanna kill you, we just wanna rob your boss.”

Three well-dressed men stumbled out of the smoking doorway, wide eyed, and were immediately manhandled by Bill and Micah, who forced them to their knees. The three gentlemen seemed more than happy to comply now that, no matter where they looked, they were forced to stare down the barrel of a gun.

“This place is like a palace!” Lenny exclaimed, jumping into the lavish interior of the private car, shortly followed by Javier.

Charles joined them with their search, nodding at the intricate and expensive decor in silent appreciation. He had never felt the desire to live somewhere as high-class as this, especially not somewhere so large it could be described as a palace. Truthfully, living under the stars in the peaceful embrace of nature had been more than fulfilling for him, even when he had travelled alone. The last six months had been even better for Charles, providing him with all the company and excitement a man could ask for; though, recently, he felt like he had been missing something.

Charles was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when he opened a gilded cabinet and discovered a large stack of papers. He picked them up carefully, flicking through the pile. It wasn’t cash - though they had certainly found plenty already - it was bonds, lots of them. This small collection was probably worth more money than he had ever held in his life. He quickly retreated from the train, leaving the others to comb through for anything else worth taking, and took the bonds straight to Dutch.

“I found these. Do you think they’re worth much?” He asked, handing them over.

“Absolutely. Bearer bonds, I reckon we can sell these pretty easily.” Dutch assured him, satisfied with the valuable reward. “Good work in there, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you.” Said Charles. He was rather proud of himself for recovering the heist so quickly, not to mention young Lenny, who hadn’t been in the business of robbing trains for very long.

“Now, get rid of this mess.” Dutch ordered, gesturing to the train. Then he turned to the three gentlemen they had held at gunpoint. “And these fellas too. Kill ‘em, let ‘em go - I don’t much care how you do it. When you get back, we’ll be movin' on.”

“Yes sir.” Said Charles, surprised that the responsibility had fallen upon him.

Typically, this kind of thing would be Arthur’s job. Though, it’s not like he was around anymore to act as Dutch’s right-hand man on these missions, Charles mused sadly. As he watched Dutch ride away, followed suit by the rest of the gang, Charles felt a pang of sympathy for the man: he and Arthur had been very close, that much was obvious. It wasn’t hard to see why, though, as in the few months Charles had gotten to know Arthur, he had come across a respectable and genuine man. Charles turned to the hostages with a sigh. They looked at him fearfully, not daring to utter a word.

“Go,” He told them, “Get out of here.”

The trio quickly scrambled to their feet, blubbering thankful praises to Charles for sparing their lives before sprinting to the hills. It hadn’t been a difficult decision, really, since Charles always liked to avoid killing when it wasn’t necessary. In Charles’s eyes, these men were thanking him for simply doing the right thing. Unfortunately, Charles supposed, that was somewhat of a rarity nowadays. He slowly walked back to the engine car of the train, stepping over patches of blood-soaked snow and cooling bodies, and sent the machine roaring down the tracks once more. Watching it shrink into the distance, Charles vaguely wondered how long it would run for before finally slowing down, and how much time that would buy them before the law inevitably caught up.

—

Several days later, Micah found himself bored stiff staring at the cold, iron bars of his prison cell. It was dull and frustrating, being stuck in a dank, malodorous box watching people in the streets outside enjoy their freedom. Strawberry was a beautiful, prospering town with a babbling stream running right down the middle and several quaint shops lining the picture perfect roads. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad place to end up after being sent scouting for a place to settle down or scrounge up some work. Unfortunately, large towns meant saloons and saloons meant alcohol.

Micah didn’t regret dragging Lenny up to the bar and drinking until he could barely stand, but he was feeling rather remorseful for spotting those loathsome bastards he had tried very hard to forget about. Lenny hadn’t been able to stop him from shooting the two dead - right there in the street - and he hadn’t exactly tried to stop the local authorities from knocking Micah unconscious and throwing him in a cell, either.

“Micah Bell?”

Micah looked up to see two well-dressed men standing outside, looking at him through the window of his cell like a bird in a cage. Studying them closer, Micah realised that they were Pinkerton Agents - highly ranking ones, from the state of their uniforms. His face contorted into a disgusted frown, knowing that, barely a week ago, he had been on the receiving end of their rifles.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“I am Mr. Milton and this is Mr. Ross. Distinguished members of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.” Said the man on the left, Milton.

“I can see that.” Micah bit back. “You here to hang me? Get on with it then.”

Micah stood and came right up to the bars, fearlessly looking Milton in the eyes. If the law was going to string him up, he wouldn't go down without insulting as many of these pompous bastards as he could. Clearly they had come because word of his arrest had spread and, seeing as nobody had come to break him out, they wanted to make sure he was the real deal. Well, here he was, real as ever, and fucking pissed off.

“I can arrange that, if you’d like, lord knows that’s probably the smartest course of action after that mess you made in Blackwater,” Continued Milton, “But I came here to propose something a little different, if you care to listen.”

“Go on then.” Micah said, suspicious.

“I know you were in Blackwater with Dutch Van Der Linde, and I know you’ve been running around with his little band of miscreants for some time now. Van Der Linde is who I really want, and I believe it’s possible for you to hand him over to me.”

“What’s in it for me?” Asked Micah, getting straight to the point.

“Well, if you choose to - how can I put this - realign your loyalties, then it is entirely within my power to waive any and all charges against you, right up until the job is done.”

“And the reward? I’ll get all that too?” Micah questioned hungrily, already aware of the substantial amount of money he could receive. Clearly, the issue of loyalty was of little importance to him - especially to someone who had let him rot in prison long enough for the Pinkertons to take notice.

“Every penny.” Assured Milton. “Just promise to keep me and my partner here informed and you can walk out of here today a free man. Of course, I’m sure we can let you finish whatever business you have in Strawberry, as well.”

“Done.” Said Micah, reaching through the bars to offer Milton his hand. Milton shook it, closing the deal, and when his gloved hand retreated it left behind a key. Micah sat around long enough to watch them disappear down the main road before stalking up to the door of his cell, reaching around and hastily shoving the key in the lock. The door swung open and he silently stepped through it, ready to jump a few lousy lawmen, get his guns back and, eventually, collect a very large paycheck.

—

Rays of sun bounced off the glittering lake that stretched for a mile in every direction. The crystalline water bubbled through Owanjila dam, rushing below the wooden deck. A few small pickerels darted past the wooden structure, disappearing into the froth churned up by the water. A net floated loosely from one end of the dam, tied haphazardly together using stolen twine and secured to a half-submerged fence, ready and waiting for unsuspecting fish.

Arthur sat on a large tree stump nearby, finally allowing himself to relax. Owanjila had turned out to be the perfect place to settle down for a few days: the trees provided shelter and concealment and the water was teeming with potential. Unfortunately, his makeshift fishing net hadn't caught much yet, so Arthur had taken to waiting patiently by the campfire and writing in his journal. He had found himself sketching the glorious scenery multiple times since arriving at the verdant sanctuary; as he was finishing a drawing of the dam, a familiar newspaper article slipped from between a few pages. The rest of the newspaper had been torn away and used as kindling, but Arthur would hold onto the article detailing his own death for as long as he continued to disprove it.

INFAMOUS GANG MEMBER ARTHUR MORGAN SHOT DEAD IN BLACKWATER MASSACRE

-
150,000 dollars missing
-
Several criminals still at large
-
Blackwater residents terrified
-

Blackwater has suffered tremendous losses at the hands of a gang of ruthless criminals, all members of the highly dangerous Van Der Linde gang, also known as 'Dutch's Boys'. The robbery that started it all resulted in the loss of $150,000, the bank money was being held on a boat docked in the harbour with minimal security. Several criminals involved in the robbery are still at large, including Dutch Van Der Linde himself. Most notably, Arthur Morgan was shot dead on the ferry by a member of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the organisation that put a stop to the terrible heist. Arthur Morgan was considered to be a highly ranking member of the Van Der Linde gang, already guilty of armed robbery, fraud, assault and several counts of murder. Unfortunately, the robbery - now being referred to as the 'Blackwater Massacre' - resulted in one civilian casualty and the money stolen from the ferry has not yet been recovered, causing a frenzy among local law enforcement and Blackwater residents. Any news on the whereabouts of the Van Der Linde gang are to be reported immediately in exchange for a generous reward.

Arthur, who was definitely still alive and (mostly) well, still couldn't believe it. The whole world believed that he was dead and gone - all except for a stable hand and a wildlife photographer. Arthur had very briefly considered the possibility that he could start anew; on many of the nights he had spent alone, Arthur had thought of Mary. Would she miss him? Would she care? Perhaps she was a misloved ghost of his past, but Arthur had considered finding her and revealing the truth, perhaps she deserved to know he was still out there. Deep down, though, Arthur knew he couldn't stay with her, so maybe it would be cruel to seek her out.

Ultimately, Arthur decided that he would return to the gang. They were his family, the only thing he had known for the last twenty years, and he would rather have died than leave them to stand against the world alone. Dutch had started going on recently about the rapid modernisation of their country; he would get drunk and emotional and claim that the only place they could be truly free was The West - or some faraway island that sounded like it came from one of Jack's story books. Arthur was determined to find that wild West, where the law couldn't touch them and cities hadn't spread across the earth like some disease. He would lead his family into the deserts and plains and they could live peaceful and free and alive, together.

After pouring his thoughts onto the pages of his journal, Arthur put it back in his satchel. He stood, stretched, adjusted his hat to keep the glare of the sun from his eyes and walked over to his fishing net which had, unsurprisingly, caught nothing. With a sigh, he pulled it from the water and put it back in his bag, packing up camp and kicking dust onto the dying fire; now was as good of a time as any to move on. It was frustrating, really: until he saw something in the papers or stumbled upon someone familiar, all he could do was drift aimlessly across West Elizabeth.

Arthur turned his back on Owanjila, crossing the dam and picking his way through an overgrown path. He continued hiking silently along the bank of the lake until the smell of smoke made him pause. Up ahead, there was a small group of men camped out by the water, with tents pitched behind them and horses milling about at the edge of the treeline. Arthur crouched low in the brush, just a few metres away from the nearest stranger. He noticed immediately they were all armed with pistols and knives in their belts and rifles on their saddles, one man even had a shotgun resting against the log he was lounging on, right next to his fishing pole.

It was immediately obvious that these men were not the approachable type, not like the curious Albert Mason had been, and if they caught Arthur spying on them that shotgun would be put to good use. Arthur was just eyeing up the loosely tethered horses when one of the men said something that piqued his interest.

"A Micheal Bell, or somethin' like that. Somethin' beginnin' with an 'M' anyhow." One of them grumbled. "Guy strolls into town, shoots some folks dead then walks free 'bout three days later!"

"Naw, how the hell'd he get away with that?" Asked another man, sounding impressed.

"Lord only knows! But do y'know what he does after?" Continued the first man. "Feller shoots up half o' Strawberry b'fore takin' off! An' the law didn' do nothin' 'bout it."

This earned a round of uproarious laughter from the group, about four or five guys in total. The conversation dropped off after that, but Arthur stayed put. Were they really talking about Micah? He was definitely the type to shoot up a town for the hell of it, that part wasn't uncharacteristic in the slightest. But in Strawberry? Arthur deliberated on the idea of going into Strawberry for several minutes: on the one hand, there was the risk of being spotted by the law - especially after a shootout when local tensions would still be high. On the other, this was the only lead he had gotten so far, and if it was Micah, he would definitely find the rest of the gang. At least this was confirmation that they weren't far away.

After the tempting revelation that his family was nearby, Arthur decided he would search for Micah in Strawberry, as well as the surrounding area. His gaze drifted back to the horses lingering amongst the trees nearby: if he was going to look for Micah, he would need to get there quickly before the infamous outlaw was forced to move on. Clearly, Arthur would need to hitch a ride from these less-than-desirable gentlemen.

He crept silently through the underbrush, working his way around the camp and slowly approaching the horses. The one closest to him, a patchy, brown and white stallion, barely twitched as Arthur reached for his reins. Arthur also noticed that there was a well-maintained rifle strapped to the saddle, along with a large saddlebag bulging with potential. The thoroughbred was tethered so carelessly that Arthur was easily able to slip his reins off of the tree branch and begin to lead him away. He got about ten feet up the path before a yell sounded from behind him, immediately causing him to jump into the saddle and kick the horse into a gallop.

"Quick, he took Buckwheat! They're gettin' away!" One of the men shouted.

As he rode away, Arthur looked behind him to see a few of the strangers stumbling away from their camp and firing some shots in their direction. Thankfully, none of them connected, and Arthur was free to ride away on his new stallion, apparently named Buckwheat. They disappeared down the trail and left Owanjila in the dust, turning down another long, winding road and heading for Strawberry.

Chapter Text

Dust gathered in thin clouds along the meandering  streets of Strawberry, kicked up by horse hooves and wagon wheels. Apart from the occasional traveller or tradesman passing through, the normally bustling roads were deserted and the town was uncharacteristically quiet. Shutters were snapped closed over rattling windows as Arthur rode past, not a single soul daring to step foot outside when their porches were still stained scarlet. Bullet holes peppered many of the shopfronts and houses; looking at the amount of them, it was hard to believe that the town had been torn up by just one man. The man in question, Micah, was nowhere to be seen. Arthur had checked everywhere: the hotels, the saloon and even the sheriff’s, just in case.

Eventually, after receiving several unkind and suspicious looks from the locals, Arthur departed from the ghost town. The gentle silence of nature was much less eerie, and Arthur felt himself relaxing as he slowly circled the forests and hills around Strawberry. Spring was in full bloom across West Elizabeth, with an abundance of small game in the emerald woodland. After an hour of searching the area and finding no sign of Micah, Arthur decided that he would put the rifle strapped to his 'borrowed' saddle to good use.

The sun hung high in the sky and Arthur had just finished polishing the long, silver barrel of his new gun when the snapping of branches a few metres away caught his attention. A white-tailed deer appeared from between the trees, scenting the breeze floating gently through the woods. Arthur immediately took to stalking the small doe as she sprung through the brush, waiting for just the right opportunity to pull the trigger. After barely a minute of silent pursuit, Arthur found himself looking down the barrel at the deer: She was silhouetted perfectly against a backdrop of brilliant blue, grey clouds drifting idly behind her.

It was then Arthur realised that the clouds were not clouds at all: there was smoke rising up from the cliffside just a few metres in front of him. Without thinking, Arthur stood to his full height and startled the deer, causing her to flee into the forest and live another day. Arthur slung his rifle back over his shoulder and whistled for Buckwheat, who trotted up behind him and nibbled playfully at the brim of his hat.

"C'mon boy, let's go see who's over there." He whispered, grabbing the reins and leading Buckwheat downhill.

When Arthur descended the slope and rounded the large cliff face, he was finally met with the man he had been looking for. Micah sat on a ridge in front of a small campfire; he was alone - except for his horse, Baylock - and was surrounded with very few supplies. Before Arthur could announce his presence and establish himself as an (albeit rather reluctant) ally, Micah leapt to his feet and whipped out his twin revolvers.

"Put them things down!" Arthur told him, instinctively putting his hands up to show he was unarmed.  "It's me, Arthur."

Recognition and confusion immediately dawned on Micah's face, though he didn't lower the guns right away: he was either frozen in shock or truly contemplating filling Arthur full of lead. Eventually, his mind seemed to settle and he slowly reholstered his guns. Arthur let his hands fall back to his sides, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he got from seeing Micah's pistols linger at his chest for just a few seconds too long.

"Well… what- where the hell have you been, cowpoke? Folks says, well, they was sayin' you died in Blackwater." Micah stammered.

"Yeah." Grumbled Arthur, pushing his hat up to reveal the angry, red gash above his eye. "Didn't quite happen like that, but I guess it looked real enough."

"I suppose you'll be lookin' for the other's then." Micah assumed.

"Yeah, you ain't with 'em I see." Said Arthur disapprovingly. "Too busy gettin' yourself into trouble. I heard what you did in that town."

"You know how it is! I finished with my business in Strawberry, anyhow. It don't matter no more." Micah said, quickly dismissing any more discussion of his recent activities in the nearby town.

"So? Where are they?" Arthur pressed.

"Ah, I don't know exactly. We was finally leavin' the mountains when Dutch sent me off scouting again and, well, you know the rest." 

"So you can't take me to 'em." Said Arthur, getting more annoyed with Micah by the second.

"I didn't say that." Micah clarified, "But I've been a bad boy, Arthur. I can't go back empty-handed now, can I?"

"You'd be comin' back with me, Micah, I think that'll be enough." Arthur laughed, impressed with the fact that Micah seemed to be considering trying to contribute for once.

"Well I already got somethin' lined up, and I'd hate to let a good plan go to waste." He replied. "Why don't you give me a hand with it?"

"Oh, you mean a plan like the Blackwater job?" Arthur said sarcastically.

Micah rolled his eyes, snorted, and spat into the campfire. Clearly, he was still bitter about the monumental failure, though he hadn't seemed too remorseful about getting Arthur 'killed' with his poor planning. Arthur ignored the way Micah was glaring at him and took a seat by the fire, leaving Buckwheat to graze at the edge of the small camp.

"Whatever. I wasn't the one that got m'self shot, was I?" Micah snapped.

"At least I didn't get myself thrown in jail." Arthur retorted. "What's this plan of yours then? That gonna land us behind bars, too?"

"There's a banking coach that rides into Strawberry about this time." Explained Micah, "I heard one o' them O'Driscoll boys yapping about it in the cell next to mine."

"So you want me to help you hit this coach, then we're good to head over to Dutch an' the others?"

"Unless you're feelin' yellow." Micah jabbed.

"After you." Said Arthur, gesturing to the horses.

With that, they mounted up and rode off, Arthur letting Micah take the lead. The midday sun beat relentlessly on their backs as they rode past Strawberry and towards the main road. When they finally came to a stop, positioned strategically at an overlook with a good view of the main road, Arthur began to question the credibility of Micah's plan.

"What's the deal with this coach, then?" He asked. "How many guns they got? What kind of security?"

"It's nothin' we can't handle.' Micah dismissed. "Speakin' of guns, I can't help but notice you're lacking a side piece."

Arthur looked over at Micah in surprise as the man produced a revolver from his saddle bag, along with a box of bullets. He threw them over to Arthur, who gave the gun a good look and ensured the chamber was full. Micah checked his pocket watch then sat back in his saddle, one hand crossed over the other.

"Got that from the sheriff who put me away, in case you were wonderin’." Micah gloated. "He certainly ain't gonna be usin' it, and I got my own guns back, so consider it yours."

"I appreciate it." Arthur thanked him.

"Well you're hardly gonna be any help to me when you ain't got nothin' to shoot with."

Arthur briefly considered asking after his own pistol, as well as the rest of his belongings that he hadn’t seen since Blackwater, when the thundering of hooves echoed from further up the road. He leaned over the horn of his saddle to get a better look at the oncoming banking coach as it rumbled along the dirt track accompanied by four or five men on horseback, armed and alert.

“Right on time.” Micah drawled. “Come on!”

Baylock reared with a fierce whinny as Micah pulled sharply on the reins with one hand and pulled out a revolver with the other. Arthur followed close behind as they went careening down the steep slope, riding hard and fast to keep pace with the coach. The armed guards riding either side of the payload noticed them immediately, preemptively pulling out pistols and rifles.

“This is a robbery!” Shouted Micah, taking the lead. “Stop that coach right now!”

The guards were quick to open fire on them; the cacophony of gunshots echoed down the trail, fortunately, most of them tore chunks out of nearby trees or dug into the dirt track. When the coach began to pick up speed, so did Arthur and Micah. Steadily gaining on the armed escort, Arthur whipped out his own revolver and shot one of the guards off of his horse, noting with satisfaction that Micah had done the same. Soon enough, it was just the driver left, still trying to outpace them and not run the coach off of the road. Micah was quick to dispatch him: a single shot to the back of the head and the man slumped over, tumbling out of his seat.

“Alright, get on.” Said Micah, gesturing to the banking coach as it slowed to a stop. “But I’m drivin’.”

They both clambered onto the front of the liberated coach, Micah taking the reins and urging the horses onwards while Arthur whistled for their own mounts to follow behind. Examining the coach more closely, Micah noticed a spotless rifle resting on the bench next to him. He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands, examining it.

“Lookie here, a fine new rifle. I think I’ll keep this for myself, a token of a job well done.” He grinned, purposefully making a show of placing the new gun next to himself and away from Arthur.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes at Micah’s spitefulness, not letting it get to him. The last six months that Micah had been travelling with the gang had been full of crude jabs and cruel acts, sometimes you just had to ignore the man and move on. Though, Arthur still found himself unsettled by the way Micah would glance at him every few minutes: something about the look in his eyes was reminiscent of a hungry wolf waiting for the right moment.

“Say, you don't wanna just crack it open right here, be done with it?” Arthur suggested, suddenly uncomfortable being sat shoulder to shoulder with a man he didn’t entirely trust.

“Nah, could be more than we can carry.” Said Micah. “And… there might be a second crew of riders tailin’.”

“Alright then.” Arthur grumbled, still uneasy. 

“Not to mention,” Micah continued, “I ride back in with a big take and a new wagon to boot, Dutch can’t say I ain’t pullin’ my weight no more, can he?”

“I ain’t sure I trust this new act o’ yours one bit.” Arthur said suspiciously. It was supposed to come off as a joke, but he found himself believing the words more and more, especially when Micah started chuckling darkly.

“You shouldn’t.” He laughed, pulling on the reins and taking a sharp right, steering the wagon off the road and up a small hill, straight into the woods.

“The hell’re you playin’ at Micah?” Arthur hissed, gripping onto the wagon as it rumbled over the uneven ground.

“Oh, I’m playin’ a lotta people Arthur, including you.”

Suddenly, Micah lunged at Arthur, pushing him off of the coach and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Arthur’s back connected painfully with the forest floor, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he scrambled away from Micah. Micah had his pistols drawn now, and one was levelled at Arthur’s head. Arthur went to draw his own, but he swiftly realised that the chamber was empty and Micah had only given him enough rounds to rob the coach. Clearly, this had been Micah’s plan all along: trick Arthur into helping him pull off the job and then dispose of him and reap all the rewards… but why?

“Why are you doin’ this Micah? How… how did you even know I was gonna be here?” Arthur questioned, trying to keep Micah talking long enough to form some kind of plan.

Micah stalked closer and closer until Arthur could feel the cold barrel of his revolver resting right between his eyes. “I didn’t know, you was just a pleasant surprise… and an inconvenience.”

Now he was close enough, Arthur lashed out quickly, grabbing Micah’s wrist and pushing the gun away. Taken by surprise, Micah still pulled the trigger; the resounding bang making Arthur’s teeth rattle in his skull. Ears ringing, Arthur kicked out and swept Micah off of his feet, using the shift in weight to twist Micah’s arm and force him to drop one of his guns. Micah yelped and whipped Arthur across the face with his other revolver, the sudden smack only adding to his disorientation.

“Enough of this, you damn fool!” Roared Arthur, pushing Micah off of him and wrestling for the gun.

“Not until you’re dead for good,” Micah hissed. “I can’t have you gettin’ in the way.”

They continued to grapple for the revolver for several seconds, though it felt like much longer. Eventually, Arthur struck out with another strong kick, this time cracking a few ribs underneath his boot. Micah fell backwards and the revolver left his hands, flying into the tall grass and out of sight. Arthur immediately pounced on top of him, grabbing his hunting knife from his belt and holding the sharp blade to Micah’s throat.

“Of what!” He panted. “Gettin’... in the way… of what ?”

Micah began to laugh; the low, spiteful wheezing sent chills down Arthur’s spine. Sure, Micah was a bad guy, but he had never tried anything like this before. Desperate for an explanation, Arthur pulled back and plunged the knife into Micah’s thigh, just above the knee. The injury wasn't deep but it made Micah howl with pain, Arthur was barely able to fight his desperate squirming and pin him again, the blade returning to rest against Micah’s neck.

“You love Dutch so dearly,” Micah hissed breathlessly, face contorted into an evil sneer. “You would do anything for him, I seen it.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t care if I killed a rotten traitor like you!” Arthur spat.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Morgan!” Laughed Micah, hand wrapped around Arthur’s arm in a vice-like grip. He didn’t try to push the bloodied knife away, not yet: clearly he was enjoying the way that Arthur’s face creased with concern and his blood ran cold at the realisation of what Micah was planning.

“You know, you had a golden opportunity, dissapearin’ in Blackwater like that.” Micah continued. “Could have found y’self a woman and started all over again… and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do when I turn Van Der Linde over to the Pinkertons and get that sweet, sweet reward. An’ maybe that money from Blackwater, too.”

Arthur was so dumbfounded by the confession that Micah managed to catch him off guard, swinging the knife away and pulling the same trick that Arthur had: twisting his wrist and watching with satisfaction as the knife dropped into the grass. In a flash, Micah roughly grabbed Arthur by his collar and pushed him to the ground, so now Arthur was the one on his back and Micah had him pinned. Furiously trying to reach for the knife, Arthur froze when he felt rough, calloused hands wrap around his throat. Micah leaned over him with an evil grin as he squeezed; the wild, desperate look in Arthur’s eyes thrilling him to his core. Meanwhile, Arthur did everything he could to get Micah off of him, but his frantic scratching and kicking did nothing.

Feeling the strength leave his body, Arthur’s fighting got weaker and weaker until he barely had the energy to keep his eyes open. Distantly, through the haze of pain and dizziness, an idea occurred to him. Arthur stilled, letting his struggling cease and his hands drop to his sides. He felt Micah loosen his grip slightly, but he resisted the urge to gasp for breath. Instead, when Micah finally let go, Arthur’s head lolled to the side and his eyes rolled back convincingly. Micah stood and leered at Arthur, seemingly buying the act.

“You were a fool, Morgan. You should’ve just learned your place.”

As Arthur lay motionless in the grass, fighting the instinct to breathe, Micah swiftly gathered his guns and limped over to the back of the wagon. Just as he was about to crack open the safe, a bullet whizzed through the trees, coming from the direction of the river.

“There it is! They must’ve took the coach b’fore we did!” A man shouted.

“Ah, hell! Damn O’Driscoll’s, I shoulda known!” Hissed Micah. He seemed to deliberate over fighting for the reward for several seconds, even glancing back at Arthur as if expecting him to jump back up and help. Eventually, after half a dozen shots pelted the coach, he whistled for Baylock and struggled into the saddle, taking off and leaving the bank money for the O’Driscolls.

It was then that Arthur could no longer bear it, shooting straight upright and gasping for air. He barely had time to stumble over to the coach before more bullets rained down upon him. Vision swimming, Arthur realised that he still had no ammunition and his rifle was still strapped securely to Buckwheat’s saddle, the stallion nowhere to be seen. Even his hunting knife was just a little too far away, the shining scarlet blade was teasing him from just out of reach.

Arthur shifted, wheezing like he still couldn’t breathe, when his fingers brushed against cool metal: the rifle Micah had found on the coach and claimed as his own was laying abandoned in the grass where it had been thrown from the driver’s seat in their struggle. Arthur snatched it up, relieved to discover it was still fully loaded.

Footsteps immediately caught his attention: one of the O’Driscolls was approaching the banking coach and there was at least one more man close behind him. Arthur caught him by surprise, swinging the rifle into his face with a sickening crunch and shooting him dead before he hit the ground. There were only two more O’Driscoll’s after that and they didn’t put up much of a fight, so Arthur made short work of them. Arthur was aware of the fact that there was likely a larger number of O’Driscolls nearby, probably a gang of armed men who had been preparing to rob the banking coach, like Micah had mentioned, so he needed to make this quick.

Arthur rushed to the back of the coach and shot the lock off of the safe. When he ripped it open, he found a large, metal box inside. Cracking the lid off of the box, Arthur was finally able to retrieve what they had all been after: he forwent counting the bills and hastily pocketed the money.

The outcome of this trip hadn’t exactly been ideal - Arthur was already beginning to regret not killing Micah while he had the chance - but at least he had gotten paid at the end of it. Arthur decided that the issue of Micah getting away would have to wait until later when he spotted more O’Driscolls coming up the hill towards him. With his throat still raw and beginning to bruise, Arthur attempted to whistle for Buckwheat. It took a few tries, but eventually the stallion came trotting over and Arthur mounted up, riding away from the mess and disappearing further into the woods before anyone could give chase.

—

The horizon was burning a brilliant orange when Arthur finally decided to stop and rest. He had fled the forests outside Strawberry and followed the main road in an attempt to track Micah, guided by hoofprints and drops of blood. Eventually, the traces of Micah’s retreat carried him east for many miles before cutting straight through the Dakota river, causing Arthur to lose the trail. Finally accepting that Micah was out of his reach, Arthur found a decent spot to settle down in for the night, right by the swiftly flowing shallows of the stream.

The peaceful chorus of surrounding wildlife couldn't be more different to the conflict raging in Arthur's mind. Paying careful attention to his surroundings, he lit a campfire and brushed the dirt and dust from Buckwheat's coat. He tried to eat, but his throat was still painfully raw; bruises had begun to blossom across his neck and face, an ugly reminder of the scrap he had lost. Micah hadn't exactly left victorious either - not that he was aware of that fact - but Arthur deeply regretted letting the man ride away, probably back to camp where he would undoubtedly continue to deceive everyone. Eventually, Arthur decided to count out the money from the coach job, ending up with just over $300 in total.

Hooves thudding along the dirt track stole Arthur's attention away from the bills and he hastily tucked them back into his dusty satchel, laying on the ground beside his uneaten meal. The muffled rhythm of a trotting horse navigating the road running parallel to the Dakota got louder and louder as it rode up beside Arthur’s meagre camp, coming to a sudden stop as the rider halted his mount. Expecting trouble before he had even looked at the stranger, Arthur subtly reached for his rifle propped up beside him. However, the minute the man opened his mouth, Arthur realised he wasn’t a stranger at all.

“Pardon me sir, but would you be able to point me in the direction of Valentine?” The rider asked, his voice carrying an unusual yet familiar inflection.

“Trelawny!” Arthur croaked as he leapt to his feet, ignoring the way his voice sounded hoarse and head spun nauseatingly at the sudden movement.

“Arthur Morgan? Well I’ll be…” Gasped Trelawny, awestruck. “I- but I could have sworn I saw your name in the papers… I believed you were dead and gone, friend!”

“Not yet.” Arthur rasped, suddenly feeling unsteady.

“Clearly, though you do seem to be in a terrible state. Are you not travelling with Dutch and the others?” Trelawny asked as he hopped down from his appaloosa, Gwydion.

“I’m lookin’ for ‘em… Thought I’d found ‘em but it didn’t work out.” Arthur sighed. “Take a seat, if you like. I got somethin’ you need to know.”

Trelawny obliged, sitting across from Arthur and listening intently as he regaled the events from Blackwater, specifically how he had been split up from everyone else and where he’d ended up since. By the time he reached the part about Micah and his disgraceful betrayal, the fire was burning low with a soft, red effulgence. It was well into the night, and the embers illuminated Arthur’s bruised, bloodied face with an ominous glow.

“I’m tellin’ you, he’s a danger to everyone in that camp.” Arthur insisted.

“I don’t doubt that.” Trelawny assured him. “I've only met the man a handful of times myself, but he didn't exactly strike me as… honourable. But I’ll tell you what: I was just heading to Valentine to look for your friends, perhaps you can come with me.”

“I would love to, I really would, but we need to play this smarter.” Said Arthur. “How’s about you keep my state o’ bein’ alive a secret, just until I figure something out. Keep an eye on Micah an’ the rest of the gang, too.”

“Of course, of course. I would be more than happy to keep you informed.” Promised Trelawney.

“Now, what do you want in Valentine?” Arthur asked.

“Last I heard, the gang had settled somewhere near there. I was on my way to inform them that one of your friends, Sean, landed himself in quite the spot of trouble after what happened in Blackwater. Bounty hunters, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, shit.” Arthur hissed. “I don’t know what I expected out o’ Sean, really.”

“Well, I assure you he will be a free man by this time tomorrow!” Promised Trelawny, “So long as you point me in the direction of Valentine.”

“Sure.” Said Arthur, reaching into his old, leather satchel to retrieve his map. When his hand found the worn parchment and pulled it from the bag, Arthur caught sight of the dollar bills he liberated from the banking coach earlier that day. It was then that an idea occurred to him; a way to help out the gang even if he couldn’t be there for them.

“Say, you couldn’t take a little somethin’ to Dutch, could you? Anonymously, of course.” He requested, handing over a portion of the cash.

“Of course.” Trelawny said, dusting off his fine clothes before swinging back into his saddle. He took the money and tucked it neatly into an envelope, promising to have it delivered by the morning. Arthur watched Gwydion’s tail sway rhythmically as the fanciful showman left the halo of amber firelight and set off towards Valentine, yearning for the day that he could follow. For now, though, Arthur knew he couldn’t risk returning: Micah would certainly summon the Pinkertons to camp the moment Arthur threatened to expose his plans, putting everyone in danger. That meant the best he could do for now was watch from afar and come up with a way to take Micah down.

—

Fireflies buzzed serenely through the woods, gently illuminating the evening with flickers of light. The sun had just gone down, departing from the sky and kissing the horizon, leaving a blanket of deep blue stretching over the rolling hills and sheer cliffs around Horseshoe Overlook. Karen stood dutifully at the edge of camp, watching with contentment as the rest of the gang settled down for the night; there were a few notable absences, people that she missed, but this small corner of the state seemed to be a great new place to call home - for now, anyway. A sudden snap echoing through the woods caught her attention. Karen’s grip on her rifle tightened and she found her finger sliding closer to the cold, metal trigger.

"Who goes there?" She shouted into the darkness.

A large figure appeared from between the trees, melting out of the darkness and entering the golden lantern light. Micah groaned, moving from where he was slumped over the horn of his saddle to glare at Karen. He had one hand clamped over his thigh; blood glittered on his clothes and his knuckles were purple and blistered.

"Relax, bitch. It's only me." He snapped.

"Oh, sure. The sight of you is real relaxing." Karen replied scathingly, lowering the rifle and letting Micah ride past her.

Micah dismounted when he reached the hitching post, gingerly putting weight on his injured leg. He didn’t announce his arrival jovially to the rest of the gang like he usually would: it wasn’t like he had anything to tell them. Micah was tired, starving, covered in blood and in desperate need of some alcohol, so he was about to make himself scarce and scrounge up a drink when Dutch came strolling over.

Great, just great. Micah thought to himself: Dutch was the last person he had wanted to see. At least the long ride back to camp had given him time to think up some excuses for his absence.

“Dutch.” He nodded respectfully, trying to avoid making eye contact.

“Micah. Good to finally see you again!” Dutch greeted, a twinge of sarcasm lacing his words. “Young Lenny tells me you’ve been gettin’ up to no good out near Strawberry, and by the looks o’ you that seems to be the truth.”

“My apologies,” said Micah. “Got caught up with a bunch of nasty O’Driscolls while tryin’ to rustle us up some money.”

Dutch nodded sceptically, seemingly satisfied with the excuse. It wasn’t exactly untrue, but if Dutch found out Arthur had made an appearance in Strawberry, only to be promptly disposed of , Micah knew he would end up dead ten times over. Micah felt rather small at that moment, having returned to camp injured and empty-handed only to be scrutinised by Dutch.

“How’d you get out of that jail cell, Micah?” Questioned Dutch.

“Oh, you know how foolish some of these lawmen can be… see, all it took was for him to have one too many drinks and he came right up to them bars - you know I always get ‘em right where I want ‘em.” Micah laughed nervously.

The farce earned a chuckle out of Dutch. He placed a hand on Micah’s shoulder, finally seeming to forgive him for getting into trouble. “Alright, go see Miss Grimshaw. Let her take a look at that leg.” He said. “Keiran! Where are you?”

To Micah’s surprise, the mousey O’Driscoll he abducted when they were up in the mountains shuffled over nervously, free of any bonds and seemingly allowed to wander about camp without supervision.

“Yessir?” Keiran squeaked.

“Make yourself useful an’ brush down Micah’s horse, then put him over with the others, will you?” Asked Dutch.

“Will do, sir.” Complied Keiran anxiously.

Micah watched him immediately set to it, approaching Baylock with caution and carefully removing his saddle. “What’s the O’Driscoll doing out and about?” He asked.

“Oh, he ain’t no O’Driscoll, apparently .” said Dutch. “Kid gave us a lead on Colm so I took some of the boys and rode out to a camp nearby. Colm wasn’t there but the kid saved my life, so he’s been allowed to stay - so long as he earns his keep, of course.”

Not really in the mood for arguing, Micah simply nodded; maybe under different circumstances he would have protested Keiran’s presence in the camp, but the boy clearly wasn’t a threat. As Keiran brushed Baylock’s dust-caked coat, Micah silently prayed for the horse to kick him to death. He watched Dutch leave before limping over to his own tent, already planning exactly how he would bring about their downfall.

Chapter Text

Valentine saloon was alive with customers, all crowded around tables with drinks in their hands despite the fact that it was only midday. The sour stench of cheap booze and sweat mingled with the dusty air and suddenly Lenny longed for the fresh breeze that blew over the meadows outside of town. A melodious tune started up on the piano, harmonising with the clink of glasses jingling across the room like a whiskey windchime. Floorboards creaked as they settled underneath his boots when Lenny stopped to look around; he was searching for Javier and Charles, their faces momentarily lost to him among the sea of unfamiliar patrons. Eventually, a friendly voice called him over to the bar.

“Lenny!” Javier shouted over the din of drunken voices. “There you are.”

A gentle smile graced Lenny’s lips as he spotted the two of them lounging at the bar with a pair of beautiful ladies. He walked over and regarded the girls politely, but didn’t take much notice: flirting with another woman so soon after Jenny’s untimely death was simply unthinkable - not that they had ever been official. Thankfully, neither of the girls seemed particularly bothered with him, instead swooning at Charles’ natural good looks or Javier’s charm.

“I’ve been looking for you two,” Said Lenny, “Bill was s’posed to be here too, know what he’s got up to?”

“I dread to think about it.” Said Javier, knocking back the last of his drink before looking forlornly at the bottom of the empty glass.

“I just dragged Tilly and Karen out o’ their own troubles, don’t need Bill messin’ up my day as well.” Lenny sighed. He and the girls rode into town together, and not ten minutes later he had found himself coming to their aid to fight off old enemies and entitled drunks. Could be worse, Lenny thought to himself: Valentine certainly wasn’t the most pleasant town, but this was already going better than Strawberry.

Suddenly, the saloon doors swung open and Bill stumbled through. He made a beeline for a man on his immediate right, yelling something unintelligible before grabbing him by the collar and punching him.

“Excuse us ladies.” Said Javier, jumping up from his spot at the bar. The girls hurried off, disappearing somewhere in the back of the building as a brawl exploded across the saloon.

Before he knew it, Lenny was throwing punches and cursing himself for ever thinking that he could stay out of trouble longer than a few weeks in a new town. He had just managed to dodge one stranger’s swing when another man came up behind him and threw him into a table, cussing him out with some unsavoury words. As Lenny desperately struggled to get up, he watched Charles bring a half-empty beer bottle down onto the man’s head, knocking him out cold. Showered in stale beer, Lenny took the opportunity to spring towards the other stranger and send him spinning with a heavy hit to the jaw, finishing him off with a sharp kick in the ribs.

Just when he thought the fight might finally be over, a man the size of a mountain descended the stairs. His footsteps thundered loudly on every step, drawing the attention of everyone left standing.

“What the hell is goin’ on down here?” The giant shouted, levelling Lenny with a disdainful look.

Lenny froze on the spot, sensing the malice and hatred radiating off of the man; he knew immediately that someone like himself wouldn’t stand a chance against an opponent so massive. Charles may have been able to hold his own, but he was still grappling with a random drunk in the corner. The rest of the fight had died down now and Lenny looked to Bill and Javier helplessly, finding them both unoccupied yet unwilling to step in. There was only one way out of this, and Lenny wasn’t about to turn tail and run.

“We’re really sorry about this, sir.” Lenny started nervously, backing away until the back of his foot met a discarded chair, clumsily knocking it across the floor.

“Sorry ain’t gonna help you, boy.” Said the giant, furious.

Raising his hands in a placating gesture, Lenny decided to persevere. “Honest, we didn’t come here to cause trouble. In fact, I’m sure my friend over there would love to make it up to you.”

Lenny pointed at Bill, who was still loosely wielding a broken beer bottle. After seeing all eyes in the room swivel towards him, Bill sheepishly dropped the improvised weapon and his face flushed until he was as red as a tomato.

“Come on, Tommy! Leave the kid be.” Shouted the bartender, popping up from behind the slovenly counter.

The giant, Tommy, seemed to consider this. He stopped plodding towards Lenny and looked around thoughtfully, surveying the unkempt saloon. Charles had finally finished dealing with the last drunk assailant and was now standing nervously by the stairs, having left the man slumped on the floor. More unconscious people littered the room, along with broken glass and furniture strewn in every direction. Whereas Tommy seemed to be weighing up whether all that damage would be worth instigating one more fight, Lenny came up with a much better proposal.

“My friend Bill will clean this all up for you.” Lenny insisted, Levelling Bill with a stern look. “The rest of us will leave, and- and you won’t see us here again… Deal?”

Bill looked like he was about to protest, sighing in frustration and dragging a hand across his bruising face, but Javier quickly shut him up with a harsh nudge. Tommy thought about this for another few seconds, dragging the conversation on for so long it felt like they had been at it for hours.

“Fine.” Grumbled Tommy, glaring at them all one last time in an attempt to remember their faces before turning around and stomping back up the stairs.

Lenny let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, finally able to relax now the situation had been diffused. Javier walked over and gave him a pat on the shoulder, congratulating him for getting them out of trouble. Bill, however, looked less impressed with him.

“Now, why’d you go and throw me under the bus like that?” He complained, kicking up dust and broken glass as he looked hopelessly around the room.

“You’re the one that came in here and started throwing punches.” Lenny shrugged.

“Come on, Bill. Get cleaning.” Said Charles, walking over and handing Bill a broom.

“Ahh… why does nothin’ ever work out for me.” Bill sulked.

Lenny swung the doors open, eager to leave the ruined saloon. The rusting hinges squeaked like mice as Charles and Javier followed close behind, silently vowing to find somewhere else to go for drinks from now on. Eventually, the trio settled outside one of the nearby shops for a smoke, keeping an eye out for other members of the gang that might be trying to cause a ruckus.

“I have to admit, you’ve got a pretty smooth way with words Lenny,” Praised Charles, offering him a cigarette “A real negotiator.”

“Why thank you.” Lenny said, sounding rather pleased with himself. He took a long drag from the smoke, just barely stifling a cough as it stung the back of his throat. He didn’t particularly enjoy smoking, but it made him feel like he fit in. It made him feel older, too.

The three of them sat together and enjoyed the pleasantly warm afternoon, taking in what little sights there were around Valentine and observing what kind of people inhabited the town - mostly herdsmen and working-class families. Javier was just about to get up and poke around by the saloon, eager to see how Bill was getting on, when he spotted two familiar figures heading towards them.

“Dutch!” Javier greeted, “And Trelawny? It’s been a while.”

“It has indeed, Javier!” Crowed Trelawny, tipping his top hat politely. “Charles, Lenny, delighted to see you boys.”

“Found him sniffin’ about. Got some news for us, apparently.” Said Dutch.

“I do, but first…” Trelwaney paused, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a fat envelope. He handed it to Dutch, who opened it to reveal a large wad of cash inside. “This is from a contact of mine, a man you helped out some time ago. Oh, I doubt you’ll remember. He said it needed to reach Tacitus Killgore and his associates posthaste.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Dutch marvelled, counting out the bills before returning them to the envelope. “You said it was for a job?”

“Oh, it was some time ago now. My apologies for not giving it to you sooner.” Said Trelawny dismissively. “Anyways, I went to Blackwater looking for you gentlemen, it seems you aren’t very popular there. I understand you left quite a lot behind, including young Sean.”

“Sean. You found him?” Dutch asked. None of them had seen or heard from their friend Sean MacGuire since Blackwater, left to assume that he had been arrested or perhaps even killed.

“Yes, I have.” Trelawny said proudly. “He’s being held by some bounty hunters trying to see how much money the government will pay them. I know he’s in Blackwater… but there’s talk of them moving.”

“Going back to Blackwater would be incredibly risky - for all of us.” Stated Charles, chilling memories of the ferry job resurfacing at the mere mention of the town.

“You’re right… There’ll be Pinkertons all over the place, but if he’s alive we’ve gotta try.” Dutch insisted. “I won't let the law take anyone else.”

“It’s you they want, Dutch.” Trelawney remarked.

“Always is…” He sighed bitterly. “Charles, go find out what you can - carefully. Josiah, Take Javier and Lenny. I’m gonna go find Bill, wherever he’s ended up.”

“In the saloon,” Lenny chuckled, sharing a knowing look with Charkles and Javier.

“Alright.” Dutch gave Lenny an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Good luck, boys.”

At that, everyone sprung into action; heading for their horses and mounting up. Clouds of dirt and dust were kicked up behind them as the group rode out of Valentine and headed towards Blackwater once again, ready to dive back into the fray and bring Sean home.

—

Several crumbling buildings creaked unsteadily in the wind as the strong breeze whistled through empty window frames and gaps in the walls. Scorched grass crunched underfoot with every step, the earth permanently dark and dead after what could only have been a massive blaze. Arthur stood in quiet contemplation, trying to picture what the burnt-out town had looked like before falling into charred disrepair. The surrounding signs claimed that the small settlement had been called Limpany; there had been a shop, a saloon, a sheriff’s office and even a few homesteads. Now, however, the entire town was desolate and black - the perfect location for a fugitive to hide.

The deserted location hadn’t been Arthur’s only motivation to stop here, though it was certainly a bonus. Really, he had stumbled upon the ghost town while scouting the area looking for the rest of the Van Der Linde gang. He had been diligently searching the roads around Valentine when a murky memory resurfaced: Arthur could have sworn he overheard Hosea describe a beautiful location to make camp once, somewhere called Horseshoe Overlook. It had been one of many potential places to settle once they left Blackwater and Arthur was hoping that the gang had ended up there after all.

Lo and behold, Arthur finally managed to pick up their trail; hoofprints and wagon tracks had indeed confirmed that the others were safely nestled in The Heartlands, lush forests and rolling hills concealing them from the law. In fact, Arthur could faintly hear them all going about their day, just a few minutes uphill. There was a thin column of campfire smoke drifting through the trees and Arthur could have sworn he heard music drifting down from the overlook. It took all his willpower not to ride right up there and join them around the fire, but Arthur knew that rushing in unprepared would only bring trouble. Slowly but surely, he was working on a plan - a way to prove that Micah really was a rotten traitor.

For now, Arthur resigned to living alone. That was exactly the reason why he found himself treading wearily through Limpany, Buckwheat plodding along slowly behind him. Arthur threw Buckwheat’s reins over a charred hitching post before carefully heading up the stairs to what was once the sheriff’s, one of very few buildings still left (mostly) standing. Slowly, he stepped through the empty door frame and looked around. Sniffing around in abandoned buildings was a strange habit he had picked up shortly after his father died: sometimes there would be a tin of food hidden in cupboards or drawers, maybe even a stray dollar if he was lucky. If not, they still provided a place to sleep and shelter from the elements.

After casing the entire building twice, Arthur was absolutely certain that no one else was inhabiting the town. Finally able to relax, he retrieved what little belongings he had and began to make camp, ignoring how the floorboards creaked and the charcoal had already begun to cake under his nails. He was just breaking up some of the furniture to use as firewood when the subtle gleam of metal reflecting the dying light of the day caught his eye. Arthur crouched down to reach for the mysterious item, cold tin brushing against his fingertips as he pulled a lockbox out from where it had been stashed beneath the sheriff’s desk. He picked it up, noting with growing excitement that it was rather heavy, and placed it on the worktop, jamming his knife in the lock and opening it with a crack.

“Well ain’t that somethin’.” Arthur gawked, carefully admiring the gold bar that must have been hidden inside the battered box for years.

Forget cans of beans and dollar bills, this was probably the best thing Arthur had ever scavenged. The bar wasn’t huge or particularly hefty, but it was clearly genuine and definitely worth a lot of money. Arthur, getting over the initial shock of finding an entire gold bar, began to think logically about where he would sell it: he would have to find a fence, or perhaps ask Trelawny if he knew of one nearby. After careful consideration, Arthur decided to place it back in the box, along with some of his cash, and hide it somewhere close by. He stepped back outside, lockbox in hand. Buckwheat, still hitched next to the door, nibbled curiously at the tin. Arthur gently pushed the stallion’s velvet-soft nose away and gave him a loving scratch between the ears before setting off to find a good spot.

It amused him to think about how, typically, this would be Dutch’s job; always taking it upon himself to gather the gang’s savings and sneak off to hide them in a place only he - and possibly Hosea - knew about. Arthur used to try and figure out where Dutch would hide their money, pestering him with questions about where he put it. The only clue he ever got was when Dutch told him that their savings were never kept too close to camp, always somewhere a little further away. Arthur began to question this strategy now: perhaps it worked for larger groups, but maybe he should put his own cash somewhere he could keep an eye on it?

Lost in thought, Arthur almost walked directly into a small, stone building. Stopping to study the building, he realised it was a jailhouse - still standing almost completely unscathed despite the evidence of an inferno all around it. It was pretty ironic, really, that the most well-protected building was made to house criminals, inadvertently protecting the prisoners inside better than the innocents inhabiting the rest of the town.

The door creaked loudly as Arthur shoved it open, carefully stepping inside to be met with a foul smell. Clearly, protection from the fire had not benefited the two poor bastards that had been locked in the jailhouse: there were two cells in front of Arthur and both contained a shrivelled up, decaying corpse. Arthur had to cover his mouth and nose as he advanced into the jailhouse, covering his face with his sleeve in a feeble attempt to block out the odour of death. Glancing around briefly, Arthur noticed one of the corpses clutching something in a bony hand. He slipped into the jail cell on the left - probably one of the only times he had entered a cell willingly - and slowly approached the body.

Not expecting much, Arthur pried the parchment out of the dead prisoner’s hand, feeling it come loose with a sickening crunch. Once the scroll was retrieved, he quickly retreated from the Jailhouse and kicked the door closed again, shuddering at the thought of dying behind bars. Talk about a life sentence, he thought morbidly, pocketing the paper and moving on.

After a brief walk around Limpany, Arthur finally decided to hide the lockbox under the floorboards of the old saloon. Confident that no one else would come poking around, he returned to his small camp in the Sheriff’s office and sat in the charred chair in the corner, putting his feet up and retrieving the stolen roll of paper from his pocket. The sun was setting now, and he needed to light a lantern in order to see what he was reading. The amber glow filled the small, draughty space, illuminating the parchment and revealing it to be a map of sorts.

The page depicted a series of sketches seemingly detailing some docks with a boat moored nearby, stairs leading downwards and an underground passage, similar to a mineshaft. Interestingly, there was an ‘X’ marked purposefully over the last drawing, indicating that something might be stashed there, perhaps treasure? Scrawled in the corner of the page, in tiny script, were the words ‘Le Tresor des Morts, San Denis’. Puzzled by the strange map, Arthur turned the paper over in his hands, then turned it over again, making sure to study every inch of it as if more answers would appear. Alas, nothing new was on the parchment when he looked at it again, leaving him questioning whether it was just an unusual joke or an actual treasure map.

If - and that was a big if - this really did lead to some sort of treasure, it would require going all the way to San Denis. Arthur had never visited the city, but he knew that it was a long way away: he would have to ride a long time or pay for a train ticket, either way it meant he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on the gang. Furthermore, big cities meant he could be spotted by the law, and there was no telling whether this treasure was worth the risk, or if it was even real.

Arthur sat there staring at the map for a very long time, wishing there was someone else there to give him advice. Normally, he would go to one of his friends to see if they thought it was horseshit or not, and a few of them might even offer to ride with him. He could do that right now, ride up to Horseshoe Overlook and be welcomed back with open arms…

Shaking his head, Arthur carefully folded up the map and put it in his satchel. He couldn’t think about returning to the gang yet, or he might actually do it. It would be foolish to risk that kind of move with Micah still around, so until he had some solid evidence to prove that slippery bastard was up to no good, Arthur would have to keep his distance. Unfortunately, that meant he couldn't risk going after some imaginary treasure trail, either. Not unless he really needed a big score.

Arthur stood up, dusted himself off and grabbed his lantern from the rickety desk, blowing it out. Now that the sun had well and truly set, he was plunged into total inky darkness. Only the moon was left to illuminate the room, sending pale streaks of light cascading through gaps in the roof and walls. Fumbling towards his bedroll, Arthur tossed his hat to the side and dropped to the ground with a sigh. He settled down to sleep lying on his back, like usual, and looked up to see the deep, black sky pin pricked with thousands - no, millions - of stars. Arthur tried to quiet his buzzing thoughts and pretended not to notice how the stars above him blurred when his eyes welled up with tears.

—

"So, did y'all miss me?" Sean grinned, dropping from the back of Javier's horse and spreading his arms wide as he strolled into camp.

"Sean!" Karen cried, "You're back, it's good to see you."

"Ah, it's good to be back my darlin'." Sighed Sean.

"It is indeed." Dutch said, looking over Sean before regarding Charles, Javier and Lenny. "Good job, boys. I knew you would bring him home."

"Yeah, I always knew one o' yous would come an' get me. Though, it took you long enough." Laughed Sean "And do I have some stories for you, let me tell you…"

More people gathered around to greet Sean, offering him drinks and listening intently as he regaled story after story. It ended up being quite the event, with Javier even picking up his guitar to play a few songs. A few people lingered on the edges of camp, unwilling to indulge in the party: Micah was one of them, who sat glowering outside his tent. He had been isolating himself a lot since the incident in Strawberry, and the idea that the others went out to rescue Sean but not him had turned him green with jealousy.

John was also refraining from drinking with the gang, instead looking out over the green swathe of land stretching all the way to the horizon in quiet contemplation. He huffed a frustrated sigh, clearly deep in thought with his arms folded and his hat tipped low over his face, like he was purposefully trying to avoid conversation. Abigail saw how closed off John was being and decided that enough was enough. She marched over to him and planted herself in the way of his beautiful view, raising her eyebrows expectantly at her moping husband.

"Can I help you?" He mumbled.

"Is that any way to speak to your wife?" Abigail complained, taken aback by his attitude.

"Good afternoon darling wife, love and light of my life, what can I do for you?" Said John sarcastically, giving her a theatrical bow to really rub it in.

"Oh, forget it." Abigail waved him off dismissively, turning to storm away.

"No, wait," He gently grabbed her arm. "Did you… did you really want something?"

"I want you to tell me what's going on in that head of yours." Abigail sighed, turning to look into his eyes, brows creased with concern. "You've been standin' over here thinkin' about somethin' for ages, won't you just tell me what you're so hung up on?"

"Oh, uhh… " John looked away. "Well, normally I'd go over this sorta thing with Arthur, I been missin' him a lot lately, y'know."

"Go on." Encouraged Abigail.

"Well, I heard somethin' offa Uncle, who heard somethin offa Mary-Beth, who overheard somethin' about a train rollin' through Scarlett Meadows real soon." John started pacing, ignoring the growing look of frustration on his wife's face. "So I got to thinkin' that maybe if we put somethin' on the tracks, say like an oil wagon, then maybe-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there." Abigail snapped.

"I told you, I should really jus' bring this up with someone else." John sighed dismissively.

"No. No you will not." She insisted. "I won't have you goin' out and robbin' no trains, John."

"But-"

"I've got a better idea." Abigail proposed, "There's still some light left of today, so why don't you do somethin' with Jack. That'll take your mind off things."

"Darlin', I really don't think-" John started.

"Please, John. You need to step up and be there for that boy. He's your son, just spend some time with him, for the love of God." Abigail insisted, grabbing John by the arm and shoving him over to their tent.

John sheepishly stumbled over to where Jack was sitting quietly, watching the rest of the gang singing something he was probably too young to understand. John did feel bad for him sometimes: there were no other kids around camp and he almost never went into town. John remembered how boring and isolating it had felt growing up with no friends, no mother, and no one to look out for him. Suddenly, he understood why Abigail was so desperate for him to spend some time with their boy.

"Hey, kiddo." John said awkwardly. He looked back at Abigail, who made some indecipherable gesture then hurried off to sit around the campfire, leaving the two of them alone.

"Hi dad!" Chirped Jack, shooting to his feet and giving his father a wide, gap-toothed smile.

"I was thinkin', uhh, why don't we do something fun together?" John offered, mind suddenly blank; he had no idea what kids were supposed to find fun, and all the things that he found fun were illegal or just downright dangerous.

"Why don't we go fishing, huh?" He decided.

"Fishing?" Jack questioned. "Sure."

"Alright, well, you do got a fishing pole, don't you?" Asked John, trying to sound excited.

"I sure do! Uncle Hosea made me one." Jack trotted off happily, retrieving a small fishing pole and presenting it proudly to John.

"Alright, kiddo. C'mon then!"

John scooped Jack up with ease, feeling his heart melt a little as Jack giggled with delight. He hadn't been given much to smile about lately, perhaps he really should be spending more quality time with the boy. When they reached the horses, John carefully placed his son in the saddle of his hungarian half-bred, Old Boy. Jack was small, but sitting atop the huge horse made him look even smaller. John made sure he had his own fishing pole before swinging into the saddle behind Jack and gently kicking Old Boy into a slow walk.

The ride down to the river felt much longer than usual, probably because John was too scared to ride any faster than a trot. He watched the silver ribbon of rushing water grow closer at a frustratingly slow pace. Jack didn't seem to mind that they were taking their time, though, and they were on the sandy bank of the Dakota after a few long minutes. John cautiously lowered Jack to the ground first, passing him his fishing pole then dropping down from the saddle himself.

"So, what are we doing here?" Jack asked.

"Well, we gotta go a little closer to the water first, then I'll show you how to cast your line."

John gently guided Jack towards the edge of the water and patiently explained how to use the fishing pole. He remembered fondly how long it had taken to pick up the skill himself: Hosea has spent many hours with him explaining again and again how it all worked. In comparison, Jack was a very fast learner, though he got bored quickly.

"Can I take a break from fishing?" He asked. "I wanna make something."

"Course you can, son." Said John, watching as Jack placed down his fishing pole and wandered over to a small patch of flowers.

They continued on like this for maybe fifteen minutes; John caught a small fish or two, letting them go since they were a little on the small side. Meanwhile, Jack sat in the grass concentrating very hard on weaving an intricate-looking chain of ruby-petaled flowers.

Eventually, John got bored of standing around too, so he reeled in his fishing pole and went over to investigate. When he kneeled down, Jack proudly held up what he had been working on: a completed ring of flowers. John made sure to look very impressed by this, admiring the hard work and noticing how pleased Jack was with the result.

"It's a necklace for momma!" He beamed.

"I'm sure she'll love it. Why don't we head back and show it to her?" John said, standing up and turning back to where Old Boy was grazing peacefully in the grass.

"What a fine young man." Said a stranger's voice suddenly, as two men in neat, familiar uniforms approached them.

"Who might you be?" Asked John defensively. He already had an idea, since they were both wearing Pinkerton uniforms. The two men carried themselves like they had some higher purpose, a conceited habit that many lawmen seemed to have.

"John Marston… you look like you've seen better days." The man on the left said insultingly. "I suppose you're now Van Der Linde's most trusted associate, what with Arthur Morgan dead and all."

"Careful what you say to me in front of my boy." John growled. He thought about reaching for his gun, but with Jack so close by he didn't dare risk it. He could feel the boy shrink behind him, hiding.

"Relax, allow us to introduce ourselves." The man purred. "I am Agent Milton, and this is Agent Ross. Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States Government."

They slowly started getting closer, stalking towards John until he had no choice but to start backing away. He made sure that Jack was behind him at all times, grabbing onto his small hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"What the hell do you want, huh? You enjoy creepin' up on a man tryin' to spend some time with his son?" John confronted them.

Milton gave him a sly, evil stare, the smirk on his pockmarked face only making it more threatening. "We know a lot about you. You may be a father, but you're also a wanted man."

"That don't explain what you're doin' here." John pressed, getting impatient.

"We want Van Der Linde." Stated Milton flatly.

"Dutch? I don't ride with him no more." John lied.

"That so?" Questioned Milton, "Because I heard that a man fitting his description robbed a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall up near Granite Pass."

"Yeah, well I didn't rob no train." Stated John carefully.

"Perhaps you didn't. But, listen, this is my offer, Mr. Marston…" Milton said matter-of-factly, casually throwing up his hands in a conciliating manner.. "Bring in Van Der Linde and you have my word, you won't swing."

Milton wore a smile on his face but his words were sharp and serious. John was sweating now, unsure if they were really going to make a move or not. "I ain't gonna swing, that's for sure. Now I would appreciate it if you didn't bring that up in front of the boy.” he snapped.

"My deepest apologies, I suppose that means you'd rather not hear about Mac Callander." Said Milton

"Mac Callander?" John asked. Mac hadn't been seen since Blackwater, everyone assumed he'd met the same unfortunate fate as his brother, Davey. From the sounds of it, that was probably the truth.

"He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him. So really, it was more of a mercy killing." Boasted Milton. "Slow, but merciful."

"You cruel bastards." John growled, fingers itching to reach for his revolver. Ross seemed to notice this and he raised his rifle, pointing the barrel right at John's face.

"This isn't cruelty, this is justice." Milton spat. "You people venerate savagery and you will die, savagely. All of you!"

"We're done here." John backed away, as far away as he could get himself and Jack from the two agents before they reached the river's edge.

"Fine." Sighed Milton bitterly. "Good day, Mr. Marston."

"Enjoy your fishing, kid. While you still can…" Ross chuckled darkly, finally lowering his gun and they both headed back to their horses.

John watched them ride off, making sure they disappeared over the horizon before turning around to see if Jack was ok.

"Who were they?" The boy asked timidly.

"No one you need to be worryin' about." John said, gathering all of their stuff before hastily heading over to Old Boy. "Come on, son, let's get home."

The ride back was much quicker, since this time John didn't worry about kicking his horse into a brisk trot. By the time they arrived back at camp, Abigail was waiting patiently to greet the two of them, an innocent smile on her face. Once she saw John's worried expression, however, she seemed to pick up on the fact that something was wrong.

"Mommy!" Jack hurried over to her excitedly, presenting her with the flower necklace he had made earlier. "This is for you."

"Aww, ain't that sweet." Abigail smiled, allowing Jack to place the flowers around her neck and giving him a hug. When she let him go, he immediately dashed off, distracted by something else. John was glad that the encounter clearly hadn't rattled the kid too much.

"What happened?" Abigail asked, concerned.

"Nothin' major, just met some guys by the river. Don't worry about it." He reassured her. "I should go speak to Dutch."

With that, John gave Abigail a quick peck on the cheek and hurried into camp, spotting Dutch and Hosea sitting at one of the tables, drinks in their hands. Approaching them slowly, he realised that the last time they had all spoken together like this was when he had told them about Arthur. That didn't seem right: hadn’t it been weeks now? Inwardly, John began to question if he’d accidentally started to avoid people.

"Dutch, Hosea." John cleared his throat nervously. "Bad news. I was jus' down by the river with Jack and we met some folks… Pinkertons. An Agent Milton and another guy… Ross."

"Were you followed back here?" Dutch asked, concerned. He began glancing around suspiciously, watching the woods at the edge of camp.

"No, course I wasn't. They just know that we're near here somewhere an' they were awful close." Assured John. "They weren't friendly, neither."

"Well what did they want?" Questioned Hosea. "They knew who you were but they didn't arrest you, so what the hell'd they want from you?"

"Dutch." John blurted out. "They offered my freedom in exchange for Dutch. They was real keen, too."

Dutch sighed, sitting back in his chair and scratching his head nervously. There was a wild look in his eye, one John only ever saw in cornered animals - but not prey animals, it was that kind of stare you would get from a bear or a big cat as it decided whether to go down fighting.

"Why didn't you take it?" He asked simply.

"Very funny." Huffed John taking a seat at the table to stop himself from pacing nervously. "What the hell do we do 'bout this? We obviously ain't safe here no more."

"I agree. If they know we're in the area, we should leave before they find us." Suggested Hosea.

"Well I say… I say we do nothing." Proposed Dutch. "Not yet."

"We can't risk that, if they're really lookin' for us. You know they'll only be gettin' closer every day, especially now that they've spotted John." Hosea insisted.

"They are just trying to scare us into doin' somethin' stupid." Dutch leant forward in his seat, urging Hosea and John to listen to him. "We have turned a corner. We survived them mountains. We just need to stay calm."

"You should have seen 'em, Dutch. I mean, they was real riled up." John fretted.

"I know we haven't been here long but movin' on ain't a stupid idea, Dutch, it's a… safety precaution." Said Hosea, reaching across the table to grab Dutch's hand.

Dutch withdrew immediately, standing up and glancing nervously around camp once again. "I'll think about it." He grumbled, turning away from them and retreating to his tent.

Once John could see that he was out of earshot, he let out a worried sigh. "Do nothin', is he crazy?"

"Don't call him that." Hosea said dismissively, eyes lingering on Dutch's tent for a few moments before he turned to John, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. "I'll get him to change his mind, don't worry."

"That shouldn't be your responsibility."

"Feels like it always has been." Chuckled Hosea. "I've just been… worried about him, recently. Ever since Blackwater, I don't know. He's seemed… different."

"Well, let me know where we're headed in the morning." Said John, looking at the horizon to see it burning orange as the sun descended slowly towards the mountains. As long as they didn't end up lost in the grizzlies again, moving on sounded like a pretty good plan.

Chapter Text

“The thing is, well… thing is, Dutch, it isn’t-” Hosea sighed in frustration, gesturing grandly to the camp around them. “Dutch, what’s the plan?”

Dutch glared at him from where he was sitting, levelling him with an impatient look before glowering back down at the map he was hunched over. He took a deep breath but didn’t say anything, clearly resisting the urge to get into yet another shouting match. Hosea had been at it for a week now, trying to convince Dutch to move on from Horseshoe Overlook after the Pinkertons confronted John by the river: it was no longer safe for them there, Hosea knew that, but Dutch was insistent that they stay.

“I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone.” Hosea continued, “I mean, after Blackwater, we don’t want anymore deaths.”

At the mention of Blackwater, Dutch slammed his pencil down onto the table, pinching the bridge of his nose in a frustrated manner. “Don't you bring up Blackwater,” He growled dangerously, “You weren’t there, not really.”

“Tell me what we’re doin’ here then, huh? We keep headin’ east, is that it?”

“For now.” Dutch grumbled, looking at the worn map once again.

“And when do we stop, when we reach Paris?” snapped Hosea.

“Listen, Hosea. We stop when we find some place sensible, shake them that’s followin’ us and lie low. This could be that place for us.” Dutch explained, punctuating each point with a tap of his pencil.

“This is lying low? Those Pinkertons know we’re here, somewhere. This ain’t no sensible place to hide anymore, we gotta move on.” Urged Hosea, sitting down across from Dutch and gesturing to the map; he had been pointing vaguely to the west, but all of the markers Dutch had put down were scattered further east.

“You’re not listening to me.” Dutch hissed. “Pinkertons will still be patrollin’ every road that we could possibly take back west. Now, I want to shake the law just as much as you do, but if we just stay put they should blow right over us.”

“And when they don’t?”

Dutch stared at Hosea, a morose look in his eyes. “Hosea… I am willin’ to die for this gang if that is what it takes. So, you either need to start havin’ a little faith in me or just… just stay out of it.”

Hosea sighed again, throwing his hands up in frustration and looking at Dutch with disapproval. “So that’s what this is? You want to wait for these agents - Milton and Ross, whoever - to come wandering in here so you can shoot ‘em dead.”

“Well, I didn’t say that-”

“But you’re thinkin’ it!” Hosea said accusingly. “Dutch. I know what those bastards have taken from us and I know it ain’t fair, but we got people here who are relyin’ on us to keep them safe. They’re relyin’ on you.”

“I know that.” Sighed Dutch, running a hand through his hair as he glanced outside. A few of the others were sitting around camp, all chatting happily and enjoying the breezy spring afternoon. Meanwhile, rain clouds loomed heavy and grey in the distance; judging by their position, they had maybe an hour before the downpour was upon them.

“I just… They killed Arthur. An’ little Jenny, Mac an’ Davey too. We can't just let them get away with that. Listen, Micah told me about-”

“Micah?” Hosea laughed incredulously. “You’ve been listenin’ to Micah.”

“Maybe I have.” Dutch folded his arms, levelling Hosea with another hostile glare. “He certainly treats me with more respect than you do.”

“I ain’t here to respect you, Dutch. I am gonna keep tellin’ you all the things you don’t wanna hear until you see some goddamn sense!” Hissed Hosea. The pause that followed was tense and fervid; he almost got up and left it at that.

“Arthur was like a son to me - no, he was more than that - and thanks to them Pinkertons he is gone.” Dutch whispered dangerously, scratching at his head in the way he always did when things got heated. “If you seriously think I’m going to let that slide, you don’t know me at all.”

“I know that you’re selfish.” Hosea scoffed. The reaction was not what Dutch had been expecting at all and he sat forward in his chair, insulted by Hosea’s abrupt judgement.

“Excuse me?”

“He was my son too.” Said Hosea, voice thick with emotion. “I loved him just like you did and I lost him all the same… Dutch, you can't seriously think that this is what Arthur would have wanted. He would have wanted you to do what’s right and protect everyone here, not chase some selfish desire for revenge.”

Dutch was quiet for a long time after that, the strained silence engulfing them until it became almost suffocating. Hosea sat across from him, patiently waiting for him to respond, to say anything. He watched Dutch thinking carefully, his eyes darting around the tent, looking anywhere but at Hosea. Eventually, Dutch sighed and placed his head in his hands, defeated.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered hoarsely. “Of course you miss him too.”

Hosea pulled his chair forward to be closer to Dutch, placing a hand solidly on his shoulder. This time, he didn’t retreat from the touch, instead dragging a hand across his face and meeting Hosea's eyes. At that moment, Hosea knew he had won, but it didn't take away the searing grief he felt after talking about Arthur. In truth, he had no idea who Arthur would have sided with, but at least he wasn’t trying to use their son as a martyr for some suicidal revenge mission.

“We’ll move, but it’ll have to be east.” Dutch seceded, turning back to the map spread across the small table beside them. He picked up the pencil and circled a small marker plotted in Lemoyne, just over the state line and north of some town named Rhodes. “There's this creek… Micah said it should be a fine place to lie low. I know you don’t like him so I’ll send someone else out ahead of us to take a look.”

“Thank you.” Hosea smiled, giving Dutch’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come on, we need to get going.”

—

The dying coals in the firepit hissed as a few drops of rain fell from the clouds hanging heavy in the sky above. From their dark grey appearance and the rumbling of thunder in the distance, Arthur guessed the rainfall would only get heavier. He kicked some blackened dust over the fire, giving up on trying to keep it burning in the face of an oncoming downpour. A gentle patter started up as the storm swept through Limpany, more drops sliding down exposed beams and crumbling rooftops.

Buckwheat whinnied indignantly as the raindrops rolled off his glossy coat, soaking his mane and making his forelock flatten against his broad, white snout. The stallion was standing just outside of the settlement, grazing in the lush, green grass untouched by whatever deadly blaze had rendered the town abandoned. Arthur made sure that his journal and maps were tucked away safely in his satchel where they would be protected from the wet weather before trudging over to his horse.

“Hey, Buck, let’s get you outta’ this weather, huh?” He mumbled calmly, securing a rope around Buckwheat’s neck loosely and leading him back into the ghost town.

Arthur had gotten into the habit of using the old saloon as a sort of stable, as it was the biggest building left standing in Limpany with a roof that was mostly still there. He stepped up onto the creaky porch, eyeing the sign hanging crookedly above the doorway where the words ‘McCluskey's Saloon’ were just barely visible, carefully written in chipping white paint. Idly, Arthur wondered where this McCluskey feller had ended up; was he buried under all this charred rubble somewhere? Or did he manage to get out in time, settle somewhere else and build a new saloon? Arthur found himself thinking a lot lately, what with the absence of anyone to talk to.

Buckwheat’s hooves thumped loudly on the rotting floorboards as he dutifully followed Arthur inside, the sound of the downpour outside becoming muffled as they took shelter in the decommissioned building. Briefly, Arthur cast his gaze over to the patch of loose floorboards under which he had stashed his money and gold, relieved to see no signs of disturbance. After receiving a curious nip to the brim of his hat, Arthur retrieved an apple from his satchel and presented it to Buck, who crunched on it happily.

“You’re alright boy.” Arthur told him happily, giving the patchy stallion some fuss before stepping back towards the doorway.

Suddenly, a yell cut through the peaceful drum of rainfall, coming from the road just outside Limpany. Arthur swiftly ducked out of sight, peering cautiously through the window as two figures on horseback trotted past. His heart lurched when the mounts stopped by the river, giving him just enough time to recognise the two travellers as Lenny and Charles. Weaving silently between piles of rubble and collapsed buildings, Arthur got as close as he dared to the pair of them, listening intently to their conversation.

“Hey! Where are we headed again?” Asked Lenny, raising his voice to be heard over the rain and the rushing waters of the Dakota.

“Place is called Dewberry Creek, it’s near Rhodes.” Charles replied, “We’re just gonna check it out, see if it’s a good place to settle.”

“Did we really have to move now? In this weather?” Lenny complained, waiting patiently for Charles to figure out which direction was the quickest as he struggled to look at the map in his hands without getting it wet in the rain.

“Everybody’s already started packing.” Charles said, folding the map carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Besides, this rain will help us cover our tracks, make sure the law can’t follow us.”

With that, Charles kicked Taima into a trot and took the track that led eastwards, Lenny trailing just behind him. Arthur stumbled out from the cover of a wrecked homestead but it was already too late; he watched dejectedly as the pair of them disappeared down the hill and out of sight. Hurriedly taking out his journal, Arthur scribbled down what he had overheard. Dewberry creek wasn’t on his map but Rhodes was only a town over, he could easily ride over there and find out where the gang planned to make camp next.

By the time he had collected his meagre belongings and saddled up Buckwheat, Arthur had lost all trace of Charles and Lenny. Charles had been right: the rain quickly washed away any evidence that they had been there. Despite the fact that Charles had only travelled with them for about six months, Arthur had always been fond of the man, impressed by the depth of his knowledge and intelligence.

The day stretched on and eventually the rain lightened to a slow drizzle before stopping completely. Arthur cautiously rode Buck across the rushing Dakota river before following the railway towards Rhodes. By the time he crossed the border into Lemoyne, patches of vibrant blue were streaked through the sky, a sign that better weather was already on the way. He did notice that it got more humid the further south he travelled, with the air beginning to get thick and swampy. The land was visibly flatter and the dirt roads were cracked and dry, with rust-coloured dust getting kicked up in clouds underneath Buck's hooves. Lemoyne looked very different to the terrain he had gotten used to in The Heartlands, which had been a lush, wild paradise in comparison.

Throughout the journey, Arthur had wondered what the reason was for the sudden move: Valentine seemed like an alright town on the few occasions he had chanced a visit and New Hanover was an idyllic state with plenty of cover from prying eyes and ample opportunities for work. Charles had mentioned something about avoiding the law which made a lot of sense, though it was a concerning thought; they must have gotten pretty close to getting caught to pick up and move so suddenly - Arthur remembered bitterly how stubborn Dutch could be sometimes.

The sounds of civilization pulled Arthur from his thoughts as a bustling, dust-coated town came into view. His first thought was that it seemed much more well-developed than Valentine had been: it had more shops, less stinking cattle everywhere and residents that looked a little more wealthy. The further Arthur ventured into Rhodes, however, he noticed small details that suggested the town may not be as prim and proper as first appearances may suggest - undercurrents of tension and corruption were evident in the shiftiness of the town’s business owners and tradesmen, clearly lingering after effects of the civil war.

Despite the fact that Rhodes appeared to be a prospering place holding many opportunities for making money and connections, Arthur came to the instinctual conclusion that he did not like the place one bit. He stayed long enough to ask the local shopkeeper about Dewberry Creek and buy himself some fresh supplies before mounting up and kicking Buckwheat into a brisk trot, eager to escape the sordid town.

It wasn’t long before the thundering hooves of heavy draft horses pulling wagons covered with off-white canvas heralded the arrival of the caravan at a distant crossroads. Arthur had to steer Buck sharply off the road and into the cover of a thicket of trees to avoid being spotted, taken by surprise as he watched the gang travelling away from dewberry creek and towards the banks of Flat Iron Lake instead, clearly venturing further into Lemoyne before making camp. He followed far behind the final wagon with caution, noting distastefully that Micah was being trusted to bring up the rear. Obviously, the rat-faced traitor had also survived the encounter outside Strawberry and continued to deceive the gang, mainly Dutch: Arthur hadn’t missed how Micah had been convincing Dutch to pull off more and more reckless scores ever since they met, which was well over six months ago now.

Arthur watched the wagons disappear into the woods directly west of Rhodes, standing alone on a small ridge as the familiar sight slipped away from him once again. He had faith that, someday soon, the time would come where he could make his return to the gang. For now, though, Arthur took to wandering the edge of the woods, looking for a place to make camp for the night. Scarlett Meadows was abundant with wildlife but the sticky humidity and inordinate amount of bugs was beginning to grate at Arthur’s nerves. Even Buckwheat seemed to flick his ears and tail more often, slowing from a trot to a tired amble as the sun lingered oppressively overhead.

Eventually, a small shack - more a pile of rubble than an actual building - came into view. It stuck out from the earth next to a dilapidated tower, something that looked like it might have been a silo. At some point, the decayed structure may have been a farmer’s hut, as evidenced by the crumbling cobbled walls criss-crossing the surrounding plains, forming long-disused paddocks. Arthur thought it was as good of a place as any to hide out for a couple days, maybe even longer, and that it was close enough to where the gang seemed to have settled to be able to keep an eye on them.

By the time then sun was finally setting, lighting up the horizon with vibrant bands of orange and pink, Arthur had dragged his bedroll inside the shack, hitched Buck in a concealed part of the back paddock to graze and stashed his gold and cash once again: this time, his hiding place was a dried up well right next to the stone building. The golden glow of the evening shone through gaps in the bowing roof and exposed beams above where Arthur sat on his bedroll, blocking out a sketch of the shack to accompany the written account of his long journey into Lemoyne as well as his thoughts on the town of Rhodes. As he glanced at the stones around the paneless window, trying to get them just right, Arthur spotted a string of words scrawled neatly in white paint on the wall. Clearly some vandal had left their mark on the shack, possibly after hiding out in there themselves, but the phrase they had chosen to put there was strange… existential, almost.

The phrase ‘You want something new’ was slowly burned into Arthur’s mind as he pondered the meaning those words could possibly hold. It wasn’t addressed to him personally, but Arthur couldn’t help but think how relevant it was to his predicament. He thought back to what Micah had been telling him on that stagecoach, about how he could have found someone to settle down with and started all over again. He couldn’t do that - not now, when he was so determined to bring down Micah and put an end to his manipulation and lies - but in the quiet, lonesome twilight in that little run-down shack, Arthur couldn't help but let his thoughts wander to Mary, a woman whom he had once felt so strongly about.

He glanced back down at the page in his journal again, deep in thought. Slowly, he found himself taking some of the smooth pages between his rough, calloused fingers and flicking back through previous thoughts and feelings spread across the worn paper in the form of neat script and careful drawings. His gut wrenched at the sight of his most recent sketches: there were pictures of Hosea, John, Dutch, Mary-Beth, Tilly and even Boadicea - attempts at remembering what they looked like to combat the fear of forgetting his friends and family.

Determination welled up in Arthur's chest, his resolve hardening. He couldn't let himself forget the people he was doing this for, even if that fluke back in Blackwater had given him the perfect opportunity to disappear, he wouldn't take that chance if he couldn't take everyone else with him.

It was then that Arthur flicked to a new page, tearing it free from his journal and neatly writing out a letter. The careful, looping script was deceivingly presentable and did nothing to reflect Arthur’s tumultuous mind.

Mary,

I am writing this letter to reveal the truth to you, because I believe you deserve to know.

It's me, Arthur, and despite what the papers say I really am alive, still wandering this earth while the law is convinced I am no more.

I trust that you will keep this information a secret. I will always trust you, and maybe some day we might see each other again, but I fear that the future is as uncertain as it is unpredictable.

I truly wish the best for you, Mary.

- Arthur

Arthur hastily folded the paper and shoved it into an old envelope before slipping it into his satchel. Suddenly, he was unsure of whether he would ever send it; he meant every word, but sometimes things were better left unsaid. It wasn’t that he regretted ever meeting Mary - he had always thought it was fate that their stars had aligned all those years ago. The plain and unfortunate truth was that they lived very differently, and Arthur’s inability to leave the outlaw way of life behind is what had ultimately driven them apart. He certainly wasn’t about to start down the straight and honest path now, so why bother entertaining the thought that they would ever cross paths again?

—

The sound of metal pots crashing together rumbled like thunder from the south side of camp, the din only increasing as Sadie slammed yet another pot on the counter in a hurry to finish her duties in the kitchen. She growled in frustration as Pearson carelessly dumped more dirty dishes beside her, watching as her mundane workload was piled higher and higher. Between washing up and chopping vegetables, the odd jobs she had been assigned around camp to, as Miss Grimshaw had put it, ‘keep her busy’ were only making her feel worse.

The only thing worse than the asinine chores she was being burdened with was Pearsons shitty company; Sadie would sooner go deaf than have to listen to his snide comments or downright unpleasant stories all day. She had just finished prepping the carrots for tonight’s stew when she caught him grumbling about her ‘unladylike demeanour’ and suddenly she couldn’t just grin and bear it anymore.

“Say whatever you damn well please, but I tell you…” She growled, whirling around with a knife still clutched in her hand, “if I don't get out of here soon, I’m gonna kill somebody!”

Pearson stopped what he was doing and turned to meet her, levelling her with an annoyed glare. “And if you don’t stop hissin’ at me, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Come near me, sailor, and I will slice you up!” She spat through gritted teeth.

“Put that knife down or you’re gonna be missin’ a hand, young lady!” Pearson shot back, slowly stepping closer to her.

“What is goin’ on here?” Intervened Hosea, marching over to the kitchen and putting himself between the two of them. “Mrs. Adler, do you want to explain what the problem is?”

“I ain’t choppin’ vegetables for a livin’!” She said insistently, punctuating her point by driving the knife she had been brandishing at Pearson into a nearby countertop.

“Well you have to do somethin’ around here to earn your place.” Hosea explained patiently.

“Oh, I’ll work, just not this.”Huffed Sadie, storming past Pearson and away from the kitchen. Hosea followed briskly behind her, being careful not to spill his steaming mug of coffee. He waited for Sadie to compose herself, watching as she stopped, sighed and folded her arms before turning back around.

“My husband and I… we shared the work. All of it.” She explained, “I was out in the fields, I can hunt, carry a knife or use a gun. But I tell you - you keep me here… I’ll skin this fat old coot and serve ‘im for dinner!”

“Watch your damn mouth you crazy, goddamn fishwife!” Pearson retorted threateningly, pointing a chubby finger at her.

Hosea barely had time to put down his coffee before grabbing Sadie by the shoulders, surprised by her strength as she lashed out at Pearson. She may have looked slender and unassuming but Hosea could tell she certainly hadn’t been lying about her history of hard work.

“Enough!” Hosea shouted, “Both of you.”

He sighed in exasperation as he gently shoved Sadie back and shot Pearson an irritated glare, hoping this was the last time he would have to keep them both from tearing into each other. He looked Sadie up and down thoughtfully… she certainly had a fire about her, and if she really could hunt and fight like she claimed then sending her out on an errand or two might benefit both her and Pearson.

“Alright, I’ve got an idea.” Said Hosea “Sadie, you come with me. Pearson, get back to work.”

Shooting him a curious look, Sadie followed Hosea over to the horses where he grabbed the reins of a gorgeous Missouri Fox Trotter. Sadie had seen this mare many times but had never seen anybody riding her, though couldn’t fathom why. As Hosea led her over to a nearby post and hitched her up, he seemed to have a sad, distant look in his eyes.

“This is Boadicea, she belonged to someone very dear to me, a young man named Arthur.” He stated, watching fondly as Boadicea threw her head back and flicked her mane about playfully. “Since he... ain’t around anymore, there ain't anybody to ride her, but I just can't bear to part with such a good horse.”

“That’s understandable.” Sadie mumbled, smoothing down the velvety soft fur on the mare’s neck. She had heard a lot about Arthur, and though she hadn’t ever met him, Sadie knew very well what loss felt like. In fact, she sometimes wished she had something physical to remember her husband, Jake, by.

“Would you like to take her out?” Hosea asked her. “You said you could hunt, so I’ll grab you a rifle. You’ll have to go into town if you want some bait.”

“Really?” Sadie was pleasantly surprised by the offer, and honoured at the idea of being trusted with such a sacred mare.

“I don't see why not, just standing around doin’ nothing won't do either of you girls any good.” Said Hosea, patting Boadicea fondly before walking off to find her tack and a spare hunting rifle.

In no time, Sadie was out on the road atop the playful mare, who seemed elated at the prospect of stretching her legs. It felt good to be out on her own, exploring the countryside and staying far away from Pearson’s fat, greasy mug and unnecessary comments. They rode out of the woods and past a dilapidated shack, continuing down the main road to Rhodes. The breeze was warm and swampy and the lay of the land was unfamiliar, Lemoyne was strikingly different to where her home in Ambarino had been nestled. Sadie had grown to appreciate the miles of distance between where she was and where she had ended up; perhaps a bit of familiarity would have brought her comfort, but what she truly needed was change. The life she was living was different now and she couldn’t get hung up on the woman she used to be.

Suddenly, a second set of hoofbeats joined the din and a stranger trotted up beside Sadie, his patchy thoroughbred falling into step beside Boadicea. Sadie didn't know what to make of him at first, looking him up and down suspiciously as her hand subtly crept to the rifle strapped to her borrowed saddle. He was clearly an outlaw, Sadie was around enough of them these days to know that immediately. The next thing she noted about him was that he looked tired; he had dark circles under his eyes and long, lanky hair that fell partly over his face.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” The stranger greeted her politely, tipping his weatherbeaten hat in a show of friendliness.

“Can I help you?” Sadie asked bluntly, still unsure what to make of the man.

“Probably not.” He sighed, “I just couldn't help but take notice of that beautiful mare you’re ridin’.”

“If you’re lookin’ to buy her, she ain’t mine to sell.” Sadie stated honestly.

“Oh, there ain’t enough money in the world to buy a horse like that.” He said, sounding almost… forlorn? “Just wonderin’ how you went about acquirin’ her or, I suppose, who you borrowed her from.”

“Why?” Sadie asked, suspicious. This whole encounter struck her as very odd: sure, Boadicea was a beautiful and athletic horse, but this guy was asking after her like he’d seen her before. Sadie was curious, but she was also cautious.

“What’s your name, mister?” She asked.

“Oh, that ain’t important. You probably never heard of me anyway.” He replied dismissively. His voice was gravelly and rough, and the way he spoke reminded Sadie of some of the more respectable men back at camp.

“I should hope I ain’t never heard of you.” Sadie chuckled. “I’m Sadie. Mrs. Sadie Adler.”

“Nice to meet you Mrs. Adler. Now, where might you be goin’ on such a fine horse - and one that ain’t yours at that.”

“If you must know, I’m goin’ hunting.” Sadie stated rather proudly: doing something that would typically be regarded as a ‘man’s job’ always filled her with a sense of pride and accomplishment she would never achieve if she stood around chopping carrots all day.

“You're goin’ huntin’?” The stranger questioned.

“Yeah, I am. There somethin’ wrong with that?” Sadie said defensively. “Is it because I’m a woman?”

“Actually, it’s because you’re wearin’ a dress.” Corrected the man, helpfully gesturing to Sadie’s rather impractical outfit.

Sadie looked down at herself thoughtfully. She could handle hunting in a dress so long as she had a nice pair of boots on - which she did. The longer she thought about it, though, the more she liked the idea of spoiling herself with something a little more practical.

“Well, that can soon be fixed.” She smirked, before kicking Boadicea into a gallop and riding straight into Rhodes.

After a brief visit to the general store, Saide found herself donning a nice pair of pants and a brand new dandelion yellow shirt. She also made sure to purchase a few extra rounds and some bait, ensuring that her little hunting excursion would take up the rest of the day. As she exited the shop, Sadie found the stranger’s horse hitched right next to Boadicea. The stranger himself was leant up against the side of the building with a cigarette between his fingers, looking her up and down with approval.

“Well, you certainly look the part.” He said, “You ready to get goin’?”

“Did you just invite yourself on my huntin' trip?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him in a you-can't-be-serious manner. “You must be real lonely, mister.”

“Ain’t we all a little lonely?” He shot back, unhitching his mount and swinging into the saddle.

“Whatever.” Sadie brushed him off and tried her best to ignore him as she hastily shoved the bait into Boadicea’s saddlebags, mounted up and rode back into the countryside.

Eventually, the pair found themselves abandoning the dusty roads and trotting through fields of long grass and abundant shrubbery, eyes glued to the horizon or the ground as they both searched for evidence of wandering wildlife. After maybe ten minutes, the stranger piped up again, pulling Sadie's attention away from a herd of bison peppering a distant field.

“How’s about we have a bit of fun with this.” He suggested, his tone playful. “We part ways, do some huntin' and then meet back here in three hours. Whoever brings back the most is the winner, and they get to take the lot.”

Sadie considered this carefully. On the one hand, she could win and take home twice the amount of food she actually worked for, proving herself as a more-than-adequate hunter and never having to work kitchen duty with Pearson ever again. On the other hand, however, she risked returning with nothing. Sadie looked at the stranger once again; as he pushed up his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow she noticed a long scar that cut through his eyebrow and stretched all the way to his hairline. It should have made him look scary or dangerous, but the way he spoke and the mischievous look in his eye had won Sadie over. It didn’t help that she could be very competitive, either.

“Alright, stranger, you’re on.” She said, determined, and the two shook hands before riding off in opposite directions.

By the time evening swept across the land, bringing with it a cool breeze and rolling clouds, Sadie suspected that she had shot more critters in three hours than she had in all her years previous. Three squirrels and two pheasants hung from Boadicea’s saddle and a large buck was slung over her rump, along with two more pelts and a set of antlers. She didn’t need to keep the antlers but they made the haul look more impressive, so they stayed.

There was a little bit of bait left over but time was running out and she had surely won the competition, making her excited to meet back up with the stranger. Perhaps it was a little unusual that she still didn’t know his name, but he didn’t seem like much of a threat and Sadie was ready to deal with him if that changed. She sighed with satisfaction as she looked at her pile of hard work once more before gathering her spare rounds and leftover supplies to deposit in the bag attached to her borrowed saddle.

Upon opening the bag, Sadie realised it hadn’t been emptied of its previous owner’s belongings. She knew that snooping around in a dead man’s property was unbecoming, but as she pushed a pile of loose papers to the side a protograph caught her eye and her curiosity peaked. Sadie gently plucked the worn picture from the bag, depositing everything else inside so she could take the glossy square in both her hands. Looking closely, she studied every inch of the picture, not quite sure how to make sense of what she was seeing.

The photo was of three people. The two older men she recognised immediately: one was Hosea, sitting in a chair on the left, and the other was Dutch who stood in the middle of the picture with his hand on the third person’s shoulder. They both looked very young and the photograph was worn and faded, so it must have been very old. Sadie might have laughed at how unusual it was to see the both of them looking about her age, but she was stuck staring at the third man - more of a boy, really - in disbelief. The young man, who was sitting in a chair on the right with a bored look on his face, was clearly supposed to be Arthur Morgan, as he was the only member of the gang Dutch and Hosea had claimed to know for more than twenty years - besides each other, of course. But if this was the legendary Arthur, someone Sadie had been told died tragically in the Blackwater massacre over a month ago, then why did he bear a striking resemblance to the stranger she met this morning?

Hurriedly pocketing the picture, Sadie swung up into the saddle and urged Boadicea into a gallop, hurrying back to the field where she and he stranger - Arthur? She wasn’t sure - had parted ways a few hours ago. The more she thought about it, the more it was beginning to dawn on her that they were probably the same person - this was his horse, of course he was keen to know why someone he’s never met before was riding her. Sadie tried desperately to quell her racing thoughts when she spotted two figures on the horizon. Mr. Nobody and his stallion were already lingering in their meeting spot, waiting for Sadie to arrive.

She dropped from her saddle and stormed up to him, ignoring the small elk he seemed to be grinning smugly about, along with the pile of pelts and the half-dozen birds hanging like tassels from his saddle. Sadie must have looked a sight, because his smile fell away when he caught sight of her approaching; only for her to stop in her tracks when she realised that she had no idea what to say.

“You alright, miss?” Arthur looked at her expectantly, raising his unmarred eyebrow in silent question.

“You-” She began, “This… This is you, ain’t it!”

Sadie held out the picture, pointing at it accusingly. The stranger’s - Arthur’s - face dropped immediately, his brow creased deeply and his eyes softened as he carefully took the photograph from her.

“Yeah, it is.” He said with a sigh. “A long, long time ago, o’ course.”

“I can’t believe it.” Murmured Sadie, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’m guessin’ you’ve heard of me after all, then.” Arthur asked cautiously as he slipped the photo into his satchel with care.

“Oh, I’ve heard plenty - mainly about how you’re s’posed to be dead.” Sadie snapped, “But now… now, you mean to tell me you’ve just been in hidin’ this whole time, like some kind o’ coward!”

“It ain’t like that-”

“Ain’t it? I been talkin’ with folks back at camp an’ they all speak so highly o’ you, y’know.”

“I want to go back, believe me , I do. It’s just… It’s complicated.” Arthur insisted.

“Complicated?” Scoffed Sadie, “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone dear to you? This is plain selfish.”

“O’course I know what it’s like.” Said Arthur bitterly. “But I’m tellin’ you, I can't go back. Not yet, anyway. It’s a long story.”

Sadie stood there in quiet compilation, glaring at Arthur as he dragged a hand down his face with exasperation. Suddenly, he wasn’t such a stranger anymore: she had been hearing plenty about him from other members of the gang, mainly about how he was supposedly a brave and compassionate man. Right now, he didn’t seem like either of those things, but there had to be a reason for his deception, right? Especially since he had seemingly followed the gang all the way to Lemoyne.

“Okay.” Sadie sighed, “I got plenty of time. If it’s such a ‘long story’ then go ahead, tell me.”

“Can I trust you not to go back to the gang and tell them I’m here?” He asked.

“Fine.” she sighed, agreeing for no other reason than because she was rife with curiosity. “Just tell me what in hell is goin’ on here.”

They took a short walk downhill to the edge of the meadow, Arthur insisting that they find a secluded spot to talk. The pair quickly came across a pond and settled down in the shade of a grand oak tree, unburdening the horses of their long-forgotten hunting trophies and leaving them to graze. Suddenly, the undeniable serenity of their surroundings had become inconsequential; diamond-clear water and a gentle, cooling breeze felt misplaced among the tension radiating from Arthur. His forlorn expression and grim tone suggested to Sadie that she was in for a long and agonising story. She was absolutely right.

Arthur told her everything. He started with what had happened at Blackwater, helpfully shedding new light on something Sadie hadn’t dared ask about back at camp. Then, he explained how he had been sleeping rough - well, rougher than usual - all across West Elizabeth when he had encountered Micah in Strawberry, recounting how he was almost throttled to death by the rotten traitor after discovering what his plans for the gang were. Arthur also made sure to mention how he’d met Trelawny on the road not long after and that he was the only other person who knew any of this. Sadie had never heard of Trelawny, but she knew Micah well enough by now to agree that he was an evil bastard, right at his core. She truly believed what Arthur had to say about him and, admittedly, that was beginning to scare her.

“So, you and this Trelawny feller have been tryin’ to get rid o’ Micah before you come back?” Sadie asked, finally satisfied that she knew the whole story.

“That’s the idea, though I haven’t actually heard from Trelawney since I crossed the state line.” Sighed Arthur, idly wondering what kind of trouble his fanciful friend might have gotten himself into now.

“Well good riddance I say. Micah ain’t been nothin but unpleasant in the few months that i’ve known him. And boy… have they been some long months.” Sadie groaned through gritted teeth.

“All I need to do is catch him alone, preferably sooner rather than later - don’t want him spillin’ all the gang’s secrets to the nearest lawman.” Arthur assured her.

“That's gonna be a tough job, Micah almost never leaves Dutch’s side.” Sadie’s brow creased with concern. “Come to think of it, he’s started talkin’ to Dutch a lot lately, always whisperin’ somethin’ or other to him like a slimy little earwig.”

“Well that can’t be good…” Arthur took off his weatherbeaten hat and ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching in frustration.

Sadie could see the concern spreading across Arthur's face, making him look rough and tired. It seemed like he was carrying the whole screwed-up situation on his shoulders, insistently burdening himself with unravelling it all

"Alright. I won't breathe a word o' this to anyone." Assured Sadie, getting to her feet and dusting off her new jeans, "But… you have to agree to let me help you fix all this."

"You really want to help?" Arthur questioned.

"Of course. I owe the gang for takin' me in after… Well, when I needed help. And… they miss you, Arthur. They all do, and I can tell you want to be back there just as badly."

"Thank you, Mrs. Adler." Arthur said earnestly, standing up and offering her a handshake.

"Please, call me Sadie." She shook his hand and gave him a confident smile.

Sadie ended up walking all the way back to Clemens Point that evening, her saddle completely loaded with fresh game. Arthur had insisted that she take almost everything he had shot that day, despite the fact that he had clearly won their little competition. He had waved the victory away dismissively, instead urging Sadie to bring it back with her and keep the gang fed. With a heavy heart, he had also said goodbye to Boadicea: if Sadie had returned without her it might have caused some suspicion.

Returning to camp with all that food left Pearson speechless; the look on that fat, stinking idiot's face made Sadie's heart soar. Everyone else in the gang showered Sadie with Praise and respect, thrusting a beer into her hand and sitting her down by the fire to celebrate her bountiful hunting trip. She tried to enjoy herself, but it was hard to ignore Micah lurking at the edge of camp after finding out what he had planned.

Despite Micah’s unfortunate presence, Sadie regarded that day as the best one she'd had in months: the afternoon away from camp had given her a newfound taste of freedom, then her return had left her feeling admired instead of pitied, not to mention the fact that she felt a little less alone after meeting her new friend, even if she felt a little nervous about the situation she suddenly found herself tangled up in.

Chapter Text

Summer stretched warmly over the grasslands of Lemoyne, heating the earth until the roads snaking away from Rhodes became cracked and dry. Birds flew lazily overhead, carried north by a gentle wind that slowly pushed sparse, pale clouds across a cerulean sky. Shafts of sunlight shone through verdant tree branches and onto the exposed dirt surrounding a number of small caravans like a well-worn halo. The low, wooden structures stood just outside of Rhodes, home to some of the poorer residents… along with the illicit activities that kept food on their tables and liquor in their bellies.

One particular caravan was currently occupied by a well-dressed gentleman, whose apparent wealth made him stand out against the other men and women eyeing his fine clothes and full pockets hungrily. Trelawny lounged in an uncomfortable wooden chair on the porch of his home-away-from-home, his gaze switching intermittently between watching the horizon and reading the aged book in his hands; he was just about to flick to the next page when approaching hoofbeats snatched his attention to the road.

A familiar figure melted into view, one with broad shoulders and long, unkempt hair carelessly swept under a worn leather gambler’s hat. Trelawny immediately recognised the unmistakable silhouette, smiling wryly as Arthur tipped his hat in greeting, sliding out of his saddle and hitching Buckwheat to a nearby post. He had been looking a little worse for wear recently: Arthur had been meeting with Trelawney pretty regularly since settling in Lemoyne and every time he seemed more tired and downtrodden than the last. Still, he showed up every week like clockwork with a hopeful smile on his face, eager to hear whatever news Trelawny had in regards to the rest of the gang.

"Fine mornin' we're havin'. Don't mean to interrupt you there." He said warmly.

"Not at all, my friend." Trelawny smiled, snapping the book shut. "It's a pleasure to see you."

“It’s a pleasure for me to be seein’ anyone familiar nowadays.” Admitted Arthur dolefully as he made his way up the worn, wooden stairs to join Trelawny in the shade of the caravan’s porch.

“All the more reason to keep up these little clandestine meetings.” Trelawny winked, jumping up from his chair and patting Arthur on the shoulder reassuringly. They both revelled in each other’s company for a moment, as they had taken to doing in the last couple weeks. Arthur took his time to light a cigarette, taking a long drag before addressing Trelawny again.

“So… how’re you liking Lemoyne?”

“Well, I did happen to get into a spot of trouble with the local law enforcement - nothing too terrible, just a gold scam gone awry - but Dutch and some of his boys managed to come to my rescue before I ended up in a cell.”

“Really?” Arthur questioned, desperate to hear anything pertaining to the gang’s recent activities.

“Oh yes, they rounded up some rather unseemly criminals for that well-to-do Sheriff Gray in town. He made the three of them deputies, could you believe it!”

“Dutch? A lawman?” Arthur laughed heartily. “I don't think I can believe it!”

“And John, and Bill!” Trelawny continued. “Just recently they helped round up a few moonshiners, apparently they took the whole wagon away with them.”

“What the hell am I missin’ out on?” Arthur sighed, still reeling from the hilarity of the situation. “This state seems to be full o’ surprises.”

“Yes, I certainly feel a long way from home.” Lamented Trelawny.

“And where’s home for you, then?” Arthur asked, suddenly aware of the fact that he actually knew very little about Trelawny’s personal life - which was perhaps intentional on the other man’s part.

“Oh, I just have a little place in Saint Denis. It’s not too far from here, actually.”

“Saint Denis?” Said Arthur, a memory suddenly springing to mind.

He swiftly began rummaging through his leather satchel, a myriad of papers and maps rustling in harmony as he searched for something. Eventually, Arthur found what he was looking for: he produced the map he found in Limpany all those weeks ago and examined it once again, confirming that ‘Saint Denis’ was, in fact, scrawled on one side.

“You recognise this?” He asked Trelawny, who took the piece of parchment from Arthur and studied it carefully.

“Why of course…” He said, pointing at the smudged image on the top half of the page. “That’s clearly the Saint Denis dockyard. I’m guessing that the other drawings are supposed to be underground passages - I know of a few used for, well, less-than-legal business deals that run under the city.”

“You think you could find where this is and do a bit of investigatin’ next time you visit home?” Arthur asked, eager to reap any kind of possible reward that could result from following the map; if there was even a slim chance that poking around on the docks could turn over something big then it was worth a look.

“Of course, of course.” Trelawny agreed hastily, pocketing the map for safekeeping. “Do you have anything else for me, or will that be all?”

“Not for you, but…” Arthur bit his lip, hesitantly dipping his hand back into the stack of papers packed into his satchel and fishing out his letter to Mary. “Could ya post this for me?”

“Can do, friend.” Trelawny winked upon seeing the name scrawled neatly on the front of the envelope, giving Arthur a knowing look before tucking the envelope away in the same pocket as the map.

Arthur rode away shortly after, forgoing paying a visit to the fence holed up in one of the other ramshackle caravans. He still had the gold bar that he rustled up in Limpany, but trading it in for a bunch of cash seemed too risky. For now, the small stash Arthur had hidden away in the dried up well beside his makeshift camp would be left alone to silently grow in value. He tugged on Buckwheat's reins, turning away from his camp and towards Rhodes instead. He was slowly beginning to resent how empty the rundown shack had begun to feel: the lack of company for months on end made the days feel long and the nights feel lonely. Loneliness seemed to have its perks, however, as Arthur noticed his money and supplies lasted a lot longer with only himself to provide for. Himself and his horse, anyway.

Buckwheat brayed contentedly as Arthur slipped him a rosy-coloured apple, the stallion allowing himself to be hitched outside the general store at the top of Rhodes' main street. Arthur gave Buck a generous amount of attention: he was a fine, good-natured horse and, though maybe not as fast or disciplined as Boadicea, Arthur knew he was lucky to have come across such a loyal mount. He left Buckwheat to crunch on his treat happily before heading for the general store, oblivious to the wagon of moonshine sitting outside the saloon on the other side of town.

—

A lone wagon rattled down one of many cracked dirt roads cutting through Scarlett Meadows. In the back, dozens of glass bottles clinked together, the clamorous ditty drowning out every sound in a ten-foot radius. John and Hosea sat up front, almost shouting over the singing jugs of moonshine their cargo consisted of. The whole wagon was on its way to be sold back to the Braithwaites, the very same family whose distillery it was stolen from barely a week prior.

John shot an annoyed glance back to the crates of moonshine, watching the deceptively clear liquid slosh around violently in synchrony with the uneven camber of the road. He could swear that, from the awful din they were making, half the jugs were about to crack open and gush from the wagon any second. He had been there when they ignited the distillery, as instructed by Sheriff Gray; the shining, five-pointed badge he, Dutch and Bill had all received that day, officially marking them as “deputy sheriffs” still felt out of place on his vest. He tugged at the badge thoughtlessly, a frown darkening his face.

“Feels funny, bein’ made a sheriff. Never pictured myself as a lawman.” John said despondently.

“I never pictured you as a lawman either.” Laughed Hosea, “Or Dutch, for that matter. And certainly not Bill.”

“Pretty ironic, the fact that we’re s’posed to be enforcing the same laws we break all the time.”

“You three are like wolves in sheep’s clothing.” Hosea said, amused.

“We ain’t showin’ no sign of stoppin’, neither.” Continued John, “Just this mornin’ Dutch asked me to look into somethin’ with these Braithwaites, somethin’ about their horses.”

“Well, that’ll have to wait - today we’re sellin’ back what you, ah, how do I put this… liberated from them.” Hosea chuckled.

“You think we’ll get any trouble from them?” Asked John, suddenly concerned. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that these people might be pissed off enough about their stolen moonshine to simply shoot them and take it by force.

“Probably not. But if they do give us trouble, we’ll be ready.” Hosea assured him.

That was true enough: the two of them had recently come into possession of some nice new guns, courtesy of Charles and Lenny. The pair had apparently ventured through the old civil war fields outside town to an abandoned, run-down plantation house where a few local outlaws had stashed their munitions. After clearing the place and making off with a wagon full of dynamite, munitions and new rifles, the gang had been allowed to take their pick before the rest were sold off. Both Hosea and John had a shiny new rifle each, and they had made sure to bring them along in case dealings with these Braithwaites went awry.

Soon enough, Braithwaite manor came into view. The whole property was a huge, sprawling patchwork of different fields, most containing rows upon rows of crops. Hosea tugged on the rains carefully, slowing the wagon as they rumbled through the property towards front gates of the main manor. Broad and extravagant-looking, the three-floored house stood imposingly at the northernmost point of the property, framed by a row of grand oak trees on either side of the wide road they were just coming to the end of.

John found himself counting the guards around them, noting the positions of each armed man with caution as they loitered around the entrance. Most of them resembled sweaty, sun-burned gargoyles perched around a churchyard. The entire property was very well surveilled, he could just picture the fat stack of cash it must have taken to pay all these hired guns. Several of the guards stepped forward as the wagon slowed to a stop at the front gates, gripping their rifles tightly and circling the wagon like hungry dogs while Hosea did his best to win them over with a friendly greeting.

“Hello, gentlemen, how are you?” He asked through a false smile. Most of Hosea’s smiles were false nowadays, so his happy expression was plenty convincing.

“What’s that in the back there?” One of the guards asked, gesturing to the jars.

“Moonshine, my fine fellow.” Said hosea, “May I have a word with the man of the house?”

“The "man" of the house is a lady. Mrs. Catherine Braithwaite.” The guard corrected, voice laced with annoyance.

“May I speak with her?” Hosea pressed, “I want to discuss a business opportunity. I mean no harm… no harm at all - you may happily shoot me if I do.”

The guard simply rolled his eyes and waved them through. Another guard hopped on the back of the trailer, joining them for the remaining trip up to the front of the manor. The escort seemed a little unnecessary - they only had about thirty feet left to go - but neither John nor Hosea said anything, not wanting to cause trouble before they had even managed to meet this Braithwaite woman. As they finally pulled up to the house, Catherine Braithwaite herself burst through the front doors, flanked by several ugly-looking men armed with rifles and shotguns. They were all well dressed - clearly all members of the family - and Mrs Braithwaite herself was old and stern-looking. She stomped onto the porch and placed her hands on her hips, sizing up John and Hosea as they got down from the wagon. Her wrinkled eyes took on a particularly impassioned gleam as she spotted the jars of moonshine.

“What you want?” She yelled, looking down her nose at them.

“Found somethin’ out in the hills, thought maybe you was in the market for it.” Hosea started, attempting to spin a tale that helpfully left out the part where they were the ones that stole it. Whether Mrs Braithwaite was buying it, though, was a mystery.

“I ain’t in the market for what’s already mine.” She spat.

“Way we see it, it’s ours. What with us possessing it, and I checked all over, for the life of me I couldn’t see your name on it.” Hosea continued sarcastically.

The conversation went on like this for several minutes, with Hosea and Mrs. Braithwaite locked in a bitter back and forth. John dared not speak a word, knowing that verbal debate wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. Clearly the woman wasn’t interested in buying back any of the moonshine: she seemed too stubborn for that. Her idiot sons seemed insistent on shooting them, but, eventually, they managed to come to a deal.

“Pay the man.” Mrs Braithwaite laughed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her sons seemed taken aback by the decision but one of them threw a wad of cash to Hosea nonetheless.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Hosea grinned, counting the bills. “And, listen… we didn’t take it, least not without orders from-”

“Oh, I know exactly who gave you your orders. Old Sheriff Gray.” Mrs Braithwaite said, voice laced with malice. “You know what? I don’t want it. In fact, sir, now you can do me a favour… there’s an extra ten bucks if you do. Drive the stuff into Rhodes, head over to the tavern run by Mr. Gray and give the stuff out for free!”

With that, Hosea and John got back on the wagon, several dollars richer and still in possession of excessive amounts of liquor. If it wasn’t for the impossibly old and nonsensical feud between the two filthy-rich families, they might have left with none of it. They rode away from the property, jars rattling away again as they ventured through the bumpy countryside and off to Rhodes saloon. Hosea didn’t say much, stuck deep in thought, until a wicked smile crossed his face - a real, honest smile this time. John looked at him, confused, and raised his eyebrows in question when Hosea pulled out an ugly straw hat.

“What on earth are you doin’?” John asked.

“Now we’re inserting ourselves in his blood feud… We’ll need something.” Insisted Hosea, reaching over and removing John’s usual cattleman hat.

“Aw- Hosea, I ain’t playin’ dress-up.” John said, trying to swat Hosea’s hands away as the older man shoved the scratchy straw monstrosity on his head.

“Of course - you’re not playin’ nothin’, you’re… you’re a clown’s… idiot… son.” Hosea began to spin one of his hilarious tales, taking great amusement in making up a backstory for the two of them. “I’m the clown, you’re the idiot. Just… look sad and keep quiet. Even you can do that.”

“Do I have to?” John groaned, suddenly very miserable as he realised he was about to be made a fool of.

Hosea juggled with the reins as he retrieved something else. “Smoke this pipe. Bring your lip forward, just a bit… squint… Oh, perfect.”

“Why do I gotta-”

“Shh! You can’t speak, you’re turned idiot.” Hosea laughed, putting on an over-dramatically saddened voice. “Quite broke poor mammy’s heart. There there, Fenton, don’t get mad now… for your momma, she loved you so… Just a shame you had to strangle her in a rage…”

The dramatics continued as they pulled up to the saloon, grabbing a few cases of moonshine as the two of them approached the back door. John stayed sullen and silent, just as Hosea instructed. Before they knew it, they had bought their way into the saloon with their stolen liquor and John - or rather, ‘Fenton’ - had set up behind the bar. The saloon was rapidly filling up as the afternoon began slipping into evening and all eyes were on the two of them as Hosea called for the room’s attention.

“Gentlemen… Gentlemen! My name is Melvin. That’s my boy Fenton… he’s a bit funny, but boy can he pour drinks fast.” Hosea lied, “For the next thirty minutes the drinks in this here bar, in this here town, are entirely free!”

The announcement was met with cheering and clapping, the whole saloon in a state of joyful uproar.

“The only rule is that you gotta drink them! So hurry up, put old Fenton to work.” Hosea continued, ushering people up to the bar. “Don’t get him mad, though… his momma made him mad and we buried her… poor thing.”

Soon a jaunty tune had started up on the piano, accompanying the sound of flowing liquor and slamming shot glasses. Within an hour, every man in the saloon was thoroughly inebriated, laughing and falling over and coming back to the bar for more alcohol. John found that, despite his role as a mute ‘idiot’, he was having a good time. He let the music and the cheering wash over him and even knocked back a few drinks himself. Hosea was in a similar state of delight, urging strangers to drink and to dance. He was just calling for John to pour more shots when the doors to the saloon flew open, the rude interruption stopping everyone in their tracks.

A group of rough-looking men burst into the room, armed to the teeth with their scarred faces contorted into angry scowls. John recognised a few of them, momentarily transported back to when they had blown up the distillery and taken the moonshine in the first place; they had run into trouble with a local gang at the time and it had taken an awful lot of firepower to chase them off. These men were Lemoyne Raiders, a group of confederate bastards that liked to stir up trouble around Rhodes and do business with the Braithwaites.

“You’re the bastards who stole the liquor we was going to buy!” Said the raider at the front of the group, pointing an accusing finger at John as recognition dawned on his face, clearly he was one of the lucky few that had managed to get away at the distillery.

“Gentlemen, we’re in advertising… come on in, have a drink.” Hosea chuckled nervously.

“That’s our goddamn liquor!” The raider insisted.

“Ain’t your liquor if you never got the chance to buy it.” John sneered, getting a few funny looks from drunken patrons at the bar for suddenly breaking character.

The head raider glared at John, enraged, as he whipped out his revolver. “Boys… get ‘em.”

Shots immediately rained down on the bar, sending dozens of drunkards flying for the exits. John sank into cover just in time, losing his stupid straw hat to a bullet whizzing a little too close to his head for comfort. He waited for Hosea to start shooting down at the raiders from his advantageous position on the stairs, darting out from behind the bar when the gang members became distracted and dropping them one by one. The saloon was a mess in minutes, broken glass and spilled moonshine littered the floors and crunched under John’s boots as he made a break for the stairs.

John dropped almost a dozen raiders before finally making it out onto the balcony, arriving just in time to see Hosea get tackled over the railing. Conveniently, Hosea fell onto the half-empty moonshine wagon, pinned underneath a Lemoyne Raider with a scraggly beard and no sense of personal hygiene. He shot the fool quickly, pulling himself up and ignoring the twinge in his knees that probably meant he was getting a little too old for bar fights.

“Come on, Fenton!” He shouted to John, jumping into the driver’s seat and snatching up the reins.

John dropped gracelessly into the wagon and slid onto the bench beside Hosea, already returning fire on more Lemoyne Raiders as they mounted their horses. Bullets whipped past them like lead hornets as the fight continued through Rhodes and across the plains of Scarlett Meadows. John used his new rifle to blow a fair few of them to pieces before Hosea turned them off the road and sent the wagon careening into the woods, shaking the rest of their pursuers. The wagon slowed to a stop just north of Clemens Point, wheels creaking and horses stamping with agitation after the thrilling pursuit.

“You think them Braithwaite’s set us up?” John asked, jumping down from the wagon and scanning the horizon cautiously.

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe… this place is odd.” Hosea shook his head, exhausted from the evening’s pursuits.

“Tell me about it. First we get thrown in the middle of these weird rival families an’ now this gang of bastards is after us too. We’re up to our necks here.” Grumbled John.

“Some local militia, clearly not too happy to have some new competition. I’ll go visit old Ma Braithwaite, see what’s what.” Decided Hosea, already thinking of ways to meddle with the Grays and Braithwaite’s some more.

“You really think there’s money in this for us somewhere?” John asked.

“Well I heard word from some folks… allegedly there's gold. Old, confederate gold. I’m hopin’ we can get our hands on it and get the hell out of here.” Hosea’s eyes sparkled with the prospect of leaving Lemoyne, he was even beginning to entertain the thought of heading west again.

“Let's hope it really exists, then.” John said finally, receiving a light pat on the shoulder and a small, hopeful smile from Hosea. Suddenly his grin stretched into something a little more wicked as he produced John’s hat and placed it back on his head.

“That was fun, Fenton. We’ll make an actor of you yet.” He laughed as John grimaced and straightened out his weatherbeaten cattleman. Secretly, despite his best efforts to appear annoyed at the running joke, John was pleased that they had both found a way to have fun in the middle of a less-than-ideal situation. It reminded him of Arthur, of the good old days.

—

Warm beams of sunlight stretched to the earthy floor, breaking through the sparse canopy overhead to bathe the forest in dappled shades of orange and gold. Ringneck creek cut through the landscape as it flowed north from the Kamassa River, its waters crystal clear and abundant with fish. The sunset reflected on the rippling stream in a manner so beautiful that it made Arthur wish he could afford oil paints. Sometimes the sights he wished to preserve just couldn't be done justice with a pencil and paper.

He rode Boadicea along the rocky edge of the creek, taking in the gentle birdsong and familiar feeling of her coat under his fingers. Sadie trailed just behind them, sitting contentedly atop Buckwheat: they often met up to go hunting together and had recently taken to swapping horses so Arthur could spend more time with Boadicea. Sadie had lost her own horse - a sweet, old mare Jake had bought for her - when the O’Driscoll’s took her house, but she was beginning to grow just as attached to Buckwheat. Her mare had been a grey appaloosa named Dewey, different to Buck in almost every way, but his friendliness and blind loyalty had been enough to win Sadie over the minute she got in the saddle.

Trotting further into the woods, Sadie and Arthur eventually dismounted and began to follow a few deer tracks on foot. The pair had become fast friends, and so their hunting trips had become less about actually hunting things and more about spending time with each other, though Sadie always returned to camp with an impossibly large haul. Both horses were already laden with a few birds and one pronghorn and there was certainly room for more. Fortunately for Arthur and Sadie, the evening was still young and they were both enjoying the peaceful trip. The silence between them had stretched on longer than usual, though, and Arthur was desperate to broach the subject of the gang’s recent activities in Rhodes.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened at Rhodes saloon last week?” Arthur asked, turning to Sadie, “I’m guessin’ it’s got somethin’ to do with the others but by the time I heard all the shootin’ and got over there the damn place was empty.”

"John and Hosea went stirrin' up trouble on behalf of the Braithwaites and them Lemoyne Raiders came and chased 'em off." Sadie sighed, rolling her eyes as an amused smirk graced her lips. "They're okay, but they certainly ain’t made the rivalry between them two families any better."

"John and Hosea were there? I musta' just missed 'em." Arthur said, disappointed.

"I'm sorry Arthur, maybe next time." Sadie assured him.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand down his face with frustration. “These families… Should the gang really be messin’ around with them?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Sadie chewed her lip thoughtfully, “These little errands are only gettin’ more dangerous. Just the other day, John went an’’ stole a buncha’ horses off the Braithwaites just to sell ‘em off, then they went right back over to the Grays and burned half their tobacco fields.”

“That explains some o’ the stuff I been seein’,” Arthur interjected, “Like the new fence that set up by my old camp - forced me to move, less I wanted to risk bein’ spotted'. Plus, there’s more o’ them Grays hangin’ around town than usual lately… makes you wonder.”

Arthur had been particularly concerned about the new fence, these two guys that claimed they would buy any horse for a good sum of cash: they had decided to loiter way too close to his camp in the abandoned hut. He had managed to pick everything up and move, including his stash in the old well, but it had been too close for his liking. They must have been the same fellers John and the others sold those horses off to.

“What are they even after, gettin’ in between these two old families?” He asked Sadie, who had long abandoned the thought of doing any more hunting and sat down among the roots of a large oak tree, rifle resting by her side.

“Hosea says there’s gold in it.” She stated, looking up at Arthur with an unconvinced scowl on her face. “I think it’s bullshit - neither of these families have anything we need, most certainly not some ‘confederate gold’ hidden away somewhere.”

“How much gold we talkin’ here?” Arthur asked her, an idea brewing in his sedulous mind.

“None! It ain’t real.”

“But the others are convinced there's a couple gold bars floatin’ around Rhodes somewhere, right?” Explained Arthur, “So if they just found some gold, they wouldn’t have any more reason to mess with these folks.”

“Ohh, I see what you’re onto.” Sadie smirked, finally catching on: if they were to simply drop a nice amount of gold somewhere in the area and pretend like the lead came from one family or the other, it could convince the gang to stop sniffing around.. “One problem though - where the hell are we gonna get a pile of gold?”

“I’ve got a friend who followed up on somethin’ for me about a week ago, hopefully it’s turned up somethin’ good enough.” Arthur beckoned for Sadie to follow him as he strode back towards the horses.

Sadie scrambled to get up from her spot on the forest floor and join Arthur by their mounts. “Who, that Trelawny feller? I hear he’s a funny one.”

“He’s Alright. C’mon, I’ll introduce you two.” Arthur chuckled, kicking Boadicea into a trot and heading for Trelawny’s caravan.

—

The first sign of trouble was the ominous breadcrumb trail of hoofprints beaten into the dirt track that approached the ring of caravans. The multiple sets of tracks all lead to Trelawny’s lodgings where several saddled horses all loitered in the grass, occasionally twitching at the odd bang or crash coming from inside. Arthur dismounted immediately, drawing his pistol as he rushed up to the caravan. Sadie was hot on his heels, clutching her rifle as she eyed the shabby cabin uneasily. They met each other's eyes and, in a moment of silent agreement, Sadie circled around to the back of the caravan, searching for another entrance.

Voices drifted through the smashed-in window; they were unfamiliar to Arthur, all except Trelawny’s. He could hear his friend’s muffled yelling growing louder and louder as he was seemingly dragged towards the door. Suddenly, the front door flew open, kicked outwards by a man holding a shotgun. The stranger looked at Arthur in surprise, clearly not expecting someone to be waiting for him on the porch. His look of shock froze permanently on his face as he slumped sideways, dead from a bullet right to the forehead. The smoke had barely drifted from the barrel of Arthur’s cattleman before three more men emerged from the caravan, one of them holding Trelawny at gunpoint.

“The hell d'ya think yer doin’, partner?” The stranger spat, pushing the cold, iron tip of his revolver to the side of Trelawny’s head. Trelawny himself looked thoroughly beaten, bruises already blossoming on his bloodied face.

“Could ask you the same thing.” Arthur growled.

“Well-” The stranger began, eager to launch into some biting dispute, but he was cut off when his head was shot clean through from behind. Trelawny stumbled out of his grasp as he crumpled to the floor, revealing that Sadie had silently crept up behind the trio of intruders and was already reloading her hunting rifle. The remaining two men barely had time to retaliate as one was gunned down by Arthur while Sadie finished off the other.

“My, you arrived just in time.” Trelawny gasped as he looked from Arthur to Sadie, clutching his chest in a dramatic show of distress. “Thank you, both of you.”

Arthur carefully approached Trelawny, supporting him by the arm as he led him back into the caravan to sit down and catch his breath. He was still visibly shaken by the whole ordeal and Arthur could see how violent the scuffle had gotten from the state of the caravan’s interior: the furniture was smashed, belongings were scattered everywhere and there was blood - presumably Trelawny’s - marring the floor.

“No need to thank us.” Arthur dismissed, “Just glad we got here in time.”

“Who the hell were those guys?” Sadie interjected.

“If I had to guess? Bounty hunters. They look like the type.” Grumbled Arthur, shooting a worried glance at the bodies piled up on the porch. Crimson puddles were growing rapidly around the dead intruders, expanding like dark sinkholes about to swallow the cooling bodies whole.

“I suspect you might be right.” Trelawny fretted.

Arthur sighed, suddenly concerned there might be more in the area than just these four bounty men. “Maybe it’d be best to get you to the gang, or at least somewhere you ain’t gonna be alone.”

“I could escort you.” Sadie piped up, placing a reassuring hand on Trelawny’s shoulder. “I’m Sadie, by the way. Sadie Adler. I don't believe we met.”

“Oh, we haven’t.” Trelawny seemed to perk up a bit as a hint of recognition dawned on his face. “Actually, I’ve heard a bit about you - all good things, of course.”

“Well ain’t that fine.” Said Arthur nervously, “Now, can we hit the road in case more o’ these bastards show up?”

“Not so fast…” Trelawny got back on his feet unsteadily, hobbling over to a dusty, scarlet-spattered rug and nudging a fraying corner aside with his foot to reveal a loose floorboard. A mischievous smile crept onto Trelawny’s face, looking out of place among the blood and bruises. “Come on, take a look.”

“What the hell have you got under there?” Arthur asked, confused, as he knelt down and pried the floorboard out of place, sending up a thick cloud of sawdust.

The loose board clattered to the side as Arthur hastily discarded it, revealing an incredible sight: nestled beneath the floor were six gold bars, all lined up neatly as they practically glowed in the dying light of the day. The sight was almost impossible to believe, causing Arthur to break out in a fit of hearty, incredulous laughter. Sadie gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth in shock as she gaped at the incredible stash. It was just what they needed.

“Where the hell’d you get all this?” Arthur asked, still chuckling.

“That map you gave me - it led me on quite the scavenger hunt. It was worth it in the end, though.”

“Must have been some map…” Said Sadie, still dumbfounded. She crouched down next to Arthur and carefully picked up one of the gold bars, turning it over in her hands. “Did them bounty hunters come for this, too?”

“Oh, I doubt they even knew I had it.” Trelwany dismissed, “Thank goodness, they might have just killed me on the spot if that had been the case.”

“Mind if we borrow some of it?” Arthur asked, already thinking of convincing places they could plant the bars and pass it off as that ‘confederate gold’ the gang was searching so diligently for.

“You look like you have a plan, my friend.” Trelawny smirked.

“You bet we got a plan.” Sadie grinned up at him, a cunning twinkle in her eyes. “We’re gonna need a fancy chest and a good hiding spot… and I think you might just come in handy, too.”

Before long, Sadie and Trelawny were saddled up, ready to head back to the gang. Night had fallen by now so Sadie held a glowing, orange lantern in one hand and Boadicea’s reins in the other. Arthur travelled alongside them for as long as he could, but as they approached Clemens point he peeled off the path.

The gold bars clinked quietly in his saddlebag as he spurred Buckwheat onwards, heading further south until he trotted right into an old civil war battlefield, locally known as ‘Bolger Glade’. The barricades and twisted barbed wire fences were all broken down, overgrown with moss and creeping vines. Apparently, the place was pretty well known among the residents of Rhodes but few were willing to venture into a place with such bad memories associated with it, nor did they have a reason to.

In the nearly pitch-black darkness, with only moonlight and a small lantern to illuminate his surroundings, Arthur couldn't help but think how creepy the place looked. He didn’t feel unsafe, though: Arthur himself was probably the most dangerous thing for miles around, except maybe the alligators lurking in the nearby swampland. He jumped down from Buck’s saddle, grabbing his lantern and the gold bars to continue on foot. They hadn't been able to find a nice box to put the gold in, but Trelawny had rustled up a fancy, embroidered bag that would do nicely. Arthur just needed to rough up the old sack a bit so it looked more convincing, like it had been hidden away in the dirty field for a couple years.

Arthur spent some time exploring the old battlefield, tripping over several defunct cannons and almost falling into one of the many trenches carved into the earth, before finally deciding to poke around inside the collapsed building to the east of the glade. As he got closer, Arthur realised it was a church, or at least it used to be. The crumbling walls had been blown apart with cannon fire and long-since conquered by ivy. The only remaining evidence that it used to be a house of god was the decaying cross that stood atop the roof and the tarnished, brass bell hanging silently just below it.

Arthur walked a full circle around the church before deciding to stash the gold underneath one of the collapsed walls. He didn't want to make the search too difficult - the gang did actually have to come and find it, after all - but he, Trelawny and Sadie had agreed that the gold should be hidden somewhere in the old battlefield. As Arthur cleared away some debris to make room for the gold, he heard a metallic thunk. One of the bricks he had thrown to the side bounced off of a surface that was metal and hollow. Initially, Arthur brushed it off as an old, half-buried cannon or something of the sort, but when he moved the lantern to take a look he realised that there was a lockbox already nestled beside the fallen wall.

It was an impossible find, like the icing on a golden cake. Arthur swiftly used his hunting knife to pop open the box, revealing some precious jewels and a long, shiny string of pearls inside. Arthur carefully scooped the treasures up, put them in the bag with the gold bars and shut the box, sliding it back under the wall and concealing it with a few loose bricks and stones. Once the deed was done, Arthur whistled for Buckwheat, mounting up and heading back towards Rhodes. The day had been long but fortunate, and he was determined to end it on a high note by getting himself a warm meal and a hotel room with a proper bed.

—

“So, you’re sayin’ you think you found what we’re lookin’ for?” Asked Dutch, sceptical.

"I believe so, yes. Or at least, I've got a good idea of where it might be." Trelawny replied earnestly. He was looking a little less dishevelled now he had been given the chance to rest and recuperate back at camp. Both he and Sadie had decided to wait until the next morning to tell Dutch and Hosea about the gold: it meant they had plenty of time to get their story in order.

"We wanted to tell you sooner, only, it was quite the tirin' ordeal." Sadie said, doing her best to sound honest. She was no performer like Trelawny but she could spin a lie well enough.

"Of course, being attacked like that couldn't have been pleasant." Hosea sighed, "Thank goodness Sadie was nearby."

"Oh, I was only goin' to visit the fence. I didn't even know who Trelawny was at the time." Sadie shrugged.

"But these bounty hunters, they was tryin' to use you to get to us?" Dutch addressed Trelawny.

"We think so." Trelawny made a show of wincing as he leaned back in his seat, bringing a hand up to cradle his aching ribs.

"Probably sent by one o' them families you boys keep messin' with." Sadie added, "When there was only one of 'em left, he said he knew where their treasure was - said he’d show us if we let him live. Started yappin' on about some gold stashed somewhere in the old civil war battlefield."

"Did he say where, exactly?" Hosea asked.

"No… he didn't quite get the chance." Sadie admitted sheepishly, "In my defence, I thought he was makin' it up."

"That's okay, the old battlefield is a big place but at least it's a start." Said Hosea.

"Alright then. Let's go round up a search party, we've got gold to find." Dutch grinned, stalking off with Hosea to gather some of the others.

Trelawny and Sadie shared a knowing glance, pleased that Dutch and Hosea seemed to have bought it. Sadie gave her new friend (and accomplice) a parting pat on the shoulder before joining the rest of the gang all gearing up to go on a scavenger hunt. Charles and Lenny volunteered to come immediately, claiming to know the area well due to a previous foray through Bolger Glade. John ended up tagging along too, seeing as he was already tangled up with the Braithwaites and the Greys. The six of them rode out together around midday, all in high spirits, ready to find some gold.

With so many of them combing through the field at once, it only took about an hour of searching to turn up a weatherbeaten tin lockbox. John called the others over as he dumped it on the back of a broken, old artillery wagon with a heavy thunk, looking rather proud of himself as he waited for everyone to gather around. Sadie knew immediately that this was it, she just hoped that it was worth enough to satiate Dutch's obsession with hoarding more and more money for the gang. Everyone was bristling with anticipation as John pried the box open with his knife, flipping the lid to reveal a dusty, ornate bag.

"You guys ready?" He grinned, grabbing the sack by the corners.

"Just empty it already!" Lenny chuckled, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

In one swift movement, John tipped the bag upside down, sending six whole gold bars and a colourful assortment of jewels clattering into the tin. The shining display was immediately met with excited whoops and hollers, even Sadie managed to gasp convincingly at the sight of the extra treasures. Dutch gave John a hearty pat on the shoulder, eyes practically shining with glee as he thought about how much money the small horde could be worth.

“This could just be enough.” Dutch picked up a gold bar, studying it appraisingly.

“S’pose we don’t have to bother with either of those rotten families anymore.” Sadie said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“I don’t know, I quite like bein’ a sheriff.” John laughed jokingly, but Sadie knew the ruse had worked: Dutch and Hosea were already talking about how much money the treasures could fetch them, as well as how far that cash could take the gang.

“Alright,” Hosea addressed the group, “There’s six bars and six of us. You’re all gonna take one and find somewhere to fence it off. Don’t accept any deal a dollar less than five hundred bucks.”

One by one, everybody plucked a shining gold block from the tin, slipping them safely away into pockets or saddle bags. As Sadie took her bar and turned to leave, Dutch grabbed her by the shoulder, patting it just as roughly as he would for any of the boys.

“Good work, Mrs. Adler.” He told her, giving her an approving nod. “We got some ideas about where to go from here, and this money is gonna help us greatly.”

“Not to mention how nice it’ll be to wash our hands o’ this family rivalry.” Hosea sighed, “I was beginnin’ to worry it might be gettin’ out of hand.”

“It weren’t nothin’. I’m just glad somethin’ good came of all that trouble.” Sadie said innocently, knowing that, really, all the effort the rest of the gang had been going to in order to play the two families off of each other had been for nothing.

The six of them parted ways, all off to various fences and back-alley vendors. Sadie knew a little out-of-the-way place in the swamp, so she spurred Boadicea onwards and headed upriver. Shortly after leaving Bolger Glade, Sadie spotted a familiar flash of brown and white through the trees on her right as Arthur rode up beside her, settling Buck into step beside Boadicea. The two horses brayed playfully, always happy to see each other: they seem to have formed a bond similar to the one Sadie and Arthur had found between themselves.

“You find the gold alright?” Asked Arthur.

“That and then some.” Sadie smiled, “Just headin’ out to sell it off.”

“Should fetch you a decent amount. Now we gotta hope it’s enough for Dutch.”

“Don't worry, Arthur.” Sadie reassured him. “He looked happier than he had in weeks when we cracked open that box. I’m positive we’re done with them families now, we’ll get no more trouble from them once we leave ‘em be.”

“Yeah, maybe so. That ain’t gonna stop none o’ them fools back at camp from findin’ some other scheme to get themselves roped into.” Arthur sighed, anxious.

Sadie knew that was an inevitable truth and she wasn’t about to deny it, instead letting the ride continue in silence. All they could do was hope that whatever trouble the gang got into next wouldn’t cost them another small fortune.

Chapter Text

The idle sounds of birdsong and horses drifted from the edge of camp, a subtle chorus John much preferred over the harsh arguments that seemed to plague their settlement more and more often these days. A gentle breeze played through tree branches overhead, causing the occasional rustle of leaves or flapping among the canvas tents. John took one more sweeping look across camp. He had been searching for Dutch in the organised chaos, listening out for his commanding voice or waiting to see the familiar flash of his red waistcoat. Eventually, he gave up, conceding that it might be easier to just wait by Dutch’s tent.

As he approached the tent in question, John was disappointed to see that Dutch was still nowhere to be found. Not only that, but Micah had perched himself at the entrance like a crow in a graveyard. He was toying idly with one of his guns, turning the revolver over in his hands so light caught on its shiny barrel, revealing intricate carvings dancing across the iron.

“Micah? Hell’re you doin’ here.” John grumbled.

“Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called…” Micah trailed off, forgetting whatever pretentious verse he was trying to throw at John as he holstered his revolver. “Well, however it goes.”

John brushed off the proverb and ignored Micah completely. In a desperate bid to avoid having to talk to him, John turned away from Micah and instead caught sight of Molly’s familiar ginger curls.

“Molly!” He called out to her as she walked past. “Have you seen Dutch?”

John had expected Molly to know of Dutch’s whereabouts seeing as she could hardly get enough of the man. Though, their relationship had seemed a little rocky recently, with Dutch ignoring Molly or pushing her away. Clearly, Molly had become fed up with Dutch on that particular day because, at the mention of his name, she made a frustrated noise, threw her hands in the air dismissively and kept on walking. John watched with disappointment as she made a point of folding her arms abrasively and disappeared to the other side of camp.

“C’mon John, leave that whore to her moping.” Sneered Micah.

“Shut up.” John spat, sick of Micah’s distasteful comments. In fact, he was beginning to get sick of Micah’s presence in general. He was about to walk off and do another lap of Clemens Point when Micah spoke up again.

“Ain’t you curious what I got to say? Or rather… what Pearson’s got to say.”

“I don't wanna hear nothin’ from the likes o’ you.” John hissed, but he stayed put anyway once he saw Dutch enter camp, heading straight for his tent.

“While you and the old man and Dutch have been running around, digging us ever deeper into shit, old Mr. Pearson might have gone and lightened the load a little.” Explained Micah, nodding to where Pearson was slacking off from his duties. John wasn’t sure how useful Pearson actually was beyond making mediocre stew, so his curiosity suddenly peaked.

“Pearson!” Micah snapped at the camp cook, who came plodding over. Micah got to his feet and stood beside John as both Pearson and Dutch arrived.

“Gentlemen.” Dutch greeted, looking between the three of them expectantly.

“Dutch, got somethin’ for ya…” Micah grinned, elbowing Pearson harshly. “You tell ‘im, fat man.”

“It’s peace, Dutch, with the O’Driscolls.” Said Pearson eagerly, “I mean, I think there’s a way.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Dutch narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious.

“Get the words out properly, fat man!” Urged Micah.

“I met a couple of the O’Driscoll boys on the road into town an’ things were about to get ugly… but you know how I am in a fight, huh? Like a cornered tiger!” Pearson laughed, whipping out a small kitchen knife and swiping the air with it theatrically. “Anyway, somehow it didn’t, but we got to talking… they suggested a parley, to end things… like gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen? Colm O’Driscoll? Have you lost your minds?” Dutch hissed. He waved a hand dismissively at the suggestion and continued into his tent, lighting a fat cigar.

“You’re always telling us, Dutch - do what has to be done, but don’t fight wars ain’t worth fighting.” Micah averred, easily sliding past Pearson to stand closer to Dutch. John didn’t miss how Micah always seemed to end up by his side nowadays, and he didn’t much like it.

“They want a parley?” Hosea interjected, sitting at a table a few feet away. He was holding a book but clearly he hadn’t been reading it, instead listening in until it was time to give his - usually correct - opinion. “It’s a trap.”

“Well of course, it’s probably a trap, but what have we got to lose finding out?” Micah shrugged.

“I don’t know, our lives?” Countered John.

“We ain’t getting shot because you’ll be protecting us.” Micah pointed at him. “If it’s a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it ain’t a trap, that slim chance-”

“I don’t see the point in any of this…” Dutch interrupted, sighing as he turned his back on them and instead wandered over to the table Hosea was sitting at, leaning against it. Hosea tore his attention away from his book once again, shooting Dutch a wary look.

“I killed Colm’s brother, long time ago.” Dutch began, “Then he killed… a woman I loved dear.”

Dutch refused to look at any of the others now gathered around the table, letting a heavy silence stretch on for several seconds. Micah seemed determined to dredge up Dutch’s past with the O’Driscolls, but Hosea was secretly praying he would just let the matter go. As beneficial as putting an end to their rivalry would be, Dutch seemed to be at real risk of snapping if one more mission went wrong - with Hosea apparently the only person able to see it.

In fact, Hosea could still recall what had happened that awful night when Annabel was murdered, all those years ago. Now that Arthur was dead, it was just himself and Dutch that remembered the horrible fate she met at Colm’s knife. At the time, Hosea had been minutes too late to save them both. Instead, he found Dutch clinging to life and Annabel dead, eyes carved out and throat slashed wide, her crimson blood coating the floor, the walls and even Dutch’s shaking hands as he said his final goodbyes. For days after, Dutch had been disconsolate: he had barely spoken, hardly ate and instead buried his grief by attempting to track down Colm, determined to kill him. The rage that Dutch felt towards Colm had dwindled over the years, but Hosea suspected that Annabel’s blood still lingered on his hands to this day, staining a reminder of Colm’s wicked brutality onto his skin forever.

“As you say… It's a long time ago, Dutch.” Micah prompted gently.

Dutch took a minute to think, his expression hardening into something strong and determined. “Let’s go. You and me, with John protecting us… no one else.” He decided.

“What about me?” Pearson whined.

“This ain’t the time for tigers, my friend.” Dutch smirked, patting him on the shoulder as he, John and Micah headed for their horses.

Hosea feigned returning to his book as they left, but he couldn't help shooting a concerned glance at the trio as they rode away. Of course, Colm would never propose a genuine parley and Hosea had the sneaking suspicion Dutch knew that. More than likely, Dutch wasn’t out to accept an offer of peace but instead a chance to end their rivalry for real.

—

Arthur had been having a perfectly fine day. It had started out with a trip into Rhodes, then he had dropped by Trelawny’s place - which was looking more like a home again and a lot less like it had been torn apart by several bounty hunters - then finally he had ridden up to Dewberry Creek. He’d spent most of the afternoon stalking some coyote up the dried riverbed when his attention had been snatched away by a shifty-looking group of riders just over the state line. A little investigation had led him to believe that O’Driscolls were hanging around. Unfortunately, whatever business they might have had being so close to Lemoyne was beyond Arthur’s comprehension.

He was just closing in on a few horse tracks that might have guided him to wherever the O’Driscolls were headed when more hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Startled, Arthur fled from the marshy creek and hid behind some bushes. He had been expecting more O’driscolls, so when the approaching voices sounded unmistakably recognisable Arthur strained to listen to what they were saying.

“…you got that rifle, don’t you?” Asked a familiar voice, Micah’s presence souring any chance Arthur might have had at enjoying his day.

“‘Course I do.” Replied John. They were getting closer now, almost to the edge of the creek. Arthur watched from his spot in the distance as three of them crossed the marish state line.

“Then me and Dutch walk right into the lion’s den, with you to cover us.” Micah said confidently. Arthur was suddenly very concerned by this, wondering where the hell they were going and if it had anything to do with the sudden influx of O’Driscoll’s in the area. Knowing Dutch, it probably did.

“Okay, just don’t do nothin’ stupid.” John warned, sounding much less on board with whatever plan they had than Micah was.

“Oh, we’ll be fine. We’ve got you.” Dutch reassured him, dismissing any more qualms about their mystery mission.

They rode out of earshot after that, but Arthur knew immediately he should be following them. He waited a good minute or so before spurring Buckwheat onwards, crossing the creek and following three sets of tracks west into The Heartlands. At some point, right around an area known as ‘Twin Stack Pass’ for its dual cliffs and rocky hills, John split off from Dutch and Micah, heading to higher ground.

This was perfect. Arthur could get to John without being interrupted by Micah. There was a chance he could even get the drop on that rat, eliminating the problem altogether. He followed the large, deep tracks left by John’s hefty stallion, Old Boy, further uphill. About half way up the cliff, Arthur spotted what exactly John was covering Dutch and Micah for: Dutch and Colm were face to face in the grassy plain below, nearly circling each other like vicious wolves. He also didn’t miss that Colm was flanked by two of his men. Neither party had brought enough backup for a real fight, clearly that wasn’t supposed to be the nature of their meeting, but before Arthur could ponder any more on the subject he was ripped from his thoughts by a dull thud.

Racing up to a flat ridge overlooking the fields below, Arthur could see where John had settled into place with a sniper rifle, acting as a lookout. Now, though, his rifle had been thrown aside and he was slumped on the ground, unconscious. A trio of O'Driscoll's stood around John, all sneering at him as they congratulated themselves on a job well done. Arthur’s heart lurched into his throat, he could just guess what they planned to do. If these bastards wanted John dead they would have killed him on the spot, but it was clear that they wanted him alive, likely for unimaginably sinister purposes.

Arthur jumped the O’Driscoll’s, the element of surprise immediately winning him the upper hand. The first one went down easily, Arthur grabbed him roughly and snapped his neck with a satisfying crunch. The two remaining O’Driscolls froze at his sudden appearance. After a brief pause, one decided to charge at him, ignoring how his much more cowardly accomplice fled for their horses.

The next O’Driscoll was a little tougher. They exchanged heavy blows, Arthur almost doubled over from a particularly nasty jab to the stomach but he managed to wrestle the man to his knees and yank the gun from his hands. After beating the second O’Driscoll to death with the butt of his own shotgun, Arthur charged after the third, who was just pulling himself into the saddle of his horse, urging it into a gallop. Stolen shotgun at the ready, Arthur leapt into Buckwheat's saddle and dove into a quick pursuit. Shots rang down from the ridge and echoed across the plain below as the O’Driscoll turned in his saddle to shoot at Arthur. The sleazy bastard didn't even make it to the bottom of the hill - Arthur blew half his head off and watched his bloodied corpse slide to the ground with a wet thud.

Once he was sure that all three attackers were dead, Arthur returned to the ledge where John had been knocked out only to find he had already got up and left. John descended the uneven slopes, unsteadily perched in his saddle while driving Old Boy onwards in a desperate bid to reach Dutch and Micah before their meeting in the plain turned sour. In his dazed and ardent state, John had left his rifle where it had tumbled from his hands just minutes ago. Noticing the gun lying abandoned in the grass, Arthur dismounted and snatched up the sniper, looking down the scope at the scene below him. Cursing the unfortunate timing, Arthur could do nothing but watch as Marston rode back down the hill to where things had turned bloody.

—

Dutch and Micah spurred their horses deeper into the grasslands, eventually ending up on the flat expanse of emerald green below the rocky verges John would be camped along. It didn’t take long for them to spot three riders at the other end of the plain, slowly heading towards them. Dutch recognised Colm immediately, his blood running cold at the sight of the murderous bastard. They continued to venture further into the centre of the grassy field. Eventually, when there was just a few dozen feet between the two groups, they all dismounted and began to walk towards each other.

“Hello, Dutch… it’s been a while.” Colm called to them. Micah stilled by their horses, but Dutch continued to slowly step forwards until he and Colm were finally face to face.

“Sure.” Dutch answered coldly, reining in his already red-hot temper. He knew that attempting to have a civil conversation with Colm without simply shooting him would be tough, but it was proving to be even harder to resist the itch to reach for his revolver.

“So, uh… how’s your gang doing?” Sneered Colm, “They still believin’ in ya? Better world… pure world, hmm? How’s that coming along?”

“Just fine.” Dutch assured him through gritted teeth.

“How’s that score you stole off us?” Colm continued, his light, ribbing tone suddenly turning bitter.

“Which one?”

“Oh, I like that. It’s like I said - this is a charismatic leader.” Colm laughed scornfully, grinning over his shoulder at his two flunkies before turning back to Dutch. “Lot of heat on us this time, both of us. Whole heap of trouble. They offered me a price, Dutch, to bring you in.”

“Why didn’t you take it?” Dutch asked, his patience wearing thin.

“Well… still might.”

Dutch was getting sick of dancing around the real reason for their meeting: parley. It was clear that if they wanted to get anywhere with this ‘truce’ then Dutch would have to step up first and be the bigger man.

“I’m… sorry about your brother.” He apologised, albeit reluctantly. Seamus had been a real bastard and he deserved the fate he got - in fact, a bullet between the eyes might have even been too quick.

“Yeah, well I never liked him much.” Colm said dismissively.

“I… liked… Annabel.” Dutch seethed. He was close to reaching his boiling point and it was showing.

“You always loved the ladies, Dutch van der Linde.” Sighed Colm, with a snide attitude that made his flippant choice of words sound even more insulting. “I like that about you.”

“What are we doing here, Colm? Is this thing over?”

“Well, if you-” Colm was interrupted by a number of shots rolling across the grasslands, coming from the ridge where John was supposed to be keeping watch.

Immediately, things took a turn for the worst. Colm and the other O’Driscolls raised their guns only to be mirrored by Micah and his twin revolvers. Dutch was the only one who didn't reach for his weapons, instead standing frozen as he started at Colm with an unreadable expression. It was clear that he and Micah had figured out what was going on - hell, they had known pretty much from the beginning that they were walking into a trap. The gunfire only lasted for a few seconds, but the damage to their supposed ‘parley’ was already done. The only problem was, nobody seemed to want to fire first.

“I think…” Colm started carefully, slowly beginning to back away, “...that may be our queue to leave, boys.”

“Dutch… What do we do about this?” Micah’s eyes darted from Colm and his men to Dutch, waiting for the latter to take the lead. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in anticipation, not expecting for a second that Dutch would let this move slide. He was, of course, absolutely correct.

Dutch was on Colm in an instant, knocking him to the ground. The speed at which the fight broke out had thrown the other O’Driscolls completely, giving Micah time to send some lead their way. One fell immediately, dropping to the grass as a jet of scarlet shot from the back of his skull. The other O’Driscoll was not so lucky. First, he was shot through the middle, falling to his knees as he clumsily attempted to escape from Micah, who then stalked up behind him like a predator descending upon prey and finished him off with the heel of his boot.

All the while, Dutch and colm were locked in a fierce, bloodthirsty fight as decades of hatred all poured out into one final confrontation. Dutch had the upper hand at first, driving his fist into Colm’s nose and breaking it with one blow. Colm, however, still had his cattleman gripped in his right hand; he raised the revolver but found himself unable to angle the barrel to aim it directly at Dutch’s head. Instead, Colm did the next best thing he could think of: he slammed the gun against Dutch’s temple then fired it right next to his ear before Dutch had the chance to flinch away.

The crack of iron against his skull combined with the resounding BANG of the revolver going off was enough to send Dutch reeling, pain exploded across the side of his head and all he could hear was an ear-splitting ringing. Colm shoved Dutch away, readying his aim to fire directly at him this time. Thinking quickly, Dutch kicked out and his heel connected with Colm’s torso, driving a spur between his ribs and knocking the wind out of him. The brief falter in Colm’s posture allowed Dutch to slap the gun from his hand and pounce on him once again, only to be met with a bloody grin that spread across Colm’s face. Confusion overcame Dutch for the shortest of moments before he realised there was something warm and wet spreading across his side, just under his ribs. He didn’t need to look down to realise that Colm’s knife had been sunk into his skin and it was only a matter of minutes before the pain set in.

Those minutes were trimmed down to about three seconds as colm ripped the knife away, slashing a long gash in Dutch’s favourite waistcoat as well as the flesh beneath it. Blinded by pain and rage and determination, Dutch made one last attempt to lash out at his adversary. He managed to grapple Colm’s wrist and wrench the blade out of his grasp when he suddenly received a knee to his injured side. The pair flipped again and Dutch found himself looking up at Colm’s wretched face. He felt the cold metal of a gun’s barrel meet his aching temple as Colm sneered down at him, convinced that he had already won.

“Any last words, Van Der Linde?” Colm pulled back the hammer and smirked to reveal crooked, bloody teeth.

“Oh, I got plenty.” Growled Dutch, “But you won't live to hear ‘em.”

With that, Dutch tightened his grip on Colm’s hunting knife and plunged it into his head, the silver blade disappearing below his jaw. Colm’s expression changed in his last few seconds, melting from smug satisfaction into something much more shocked and afraid. Dutch felt droplets of blood spray across his face as he yanked the knife back out, sickened by the sound of metal grinding against flesh and bone. Still gripping the bloodsoaked blade, Dutch shoved Colm’s lifeless corpse to the side and shot to his feet. He took a moment to study the engraved knife carefully, locked in a morbid trance as he realised Colm had used that very same hunting knife to kill Annabel. As if it had suddenly become burning hot, Dutch dropped the blade. It fell into the grass next to Colm’s cooling body with a dull clatter.

“Hey, Dutch!” Micah yelled, snapping Dutch back into reality by placing a hand on his shoulder. “I been yellin’ at ya, can’t ya hear me?”

“Guess not.” He panted, “Ear’s ringin’ like a damn church bell. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? You’re bleedin’.” Micah pointed out, sounding concerned.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Dutch said sarcastically, wincing as he clamped a hand down over the wound in his side.

The sudden interjection of heavy hoofbeats snatched their attention to where John was riding over. He looked unsteady in his saddle and made no attempt to get down, but realisation dawned on his face as he finally got close enough to spot Colm and his men dead on the ground, the grass around their bodies marred with rust-coloured, congealing blood.

"Y'alright, son?" Dutch asked, eyeing the nasty bruise already forming along John's cheekbone. "What the hell happened up there?"

"To be truthful, I ain't too sure." John admitted.

"Well you got out alive, that's the important thing." Micah huffed. He was slowly circling Colm's corpse, even kicking it once or twice, as if to make sure he was truly dead.

"What do we do with him, Dutch?" John asked tentatively, nodding at Colm's motionless body.

"He's got a pretty big bounty." Said Micah, silently hoping they could return to camp much richer than when they had left.

Dutch looked down at Colm thoughtfully, then to the other bodies littering the grasslands. "Leave him. Leave them all." He decided, "The rest of his boys will come lookin' soon enough. Once they see this, they'll get the message."

They departed from the Heartlands shortly after, mounting up and heading back east. As they left, John looked to the ridge. There was movement up there, but no more gunfire. Instead, he glimpsed a tan hunting jacket and the flash of a dusty, white horse's tail as whoever had stepped in to save him made a silent retreat. John knew someone else had been there: shots had rung out clear as day and he hadn’t fired a single bullet. It was strange, finding a good samaritan, especially in these parts where good people seemed so hard to come by.

By the time they rode back into camp, the sun had already begun to set. Brilliant orange hues danced off the waters of flat iron lake, contrasting with the deep shadows that lurked in the treeline surrounding the settlement. Dutch slid from The Count and marched triumphantly to the centre of camp, his bloody, dishevelled appearance turning few heads. A handful of faces gathered around, waiting with baited breath as Dutch smiled at his small audience.

“Colm O’Driscoll is dead!” He announced, immediately being met with whoops and hollers of joy. “For the first time in a while, we got somethin’ to celebrate. Let's have ourselves a party!”

It wasn’t long before camp was lit up with music and cheers. Javier started up playing a lively tune on his guitar while Pearson set out crates of beers and even some of his finer bottles of liquor. Keiran seemed particularly happy, drinking and dancing with a few of the girls, mostly a bashful, rosy-cheeked Mary-Beth. Even Sadie seemed in high spirits as she cracked open a bottle of brandy. Micah immediately got to recounting what had gone down earlier that day as he sat around the fire with a drink in his hand. Lenny, Sean and Bill were all absorbed with his - albeit a little embellished - storytelling.

While happiness echoed all around, Dutch could feel fatigue pull at him, blurring the edges of his vision. Not only did he feel lightheaded, but his left ear was still ringing and the gash in his side burned painfully. Exhausted, he retreated to his tent only to be met by Hosea, who gave him a stern look of disapproval.

“What, didn’t fancy a drink?” Dutch teased, finally letting his facade of strength fall as he limped over to his bed and sat down beside Hosea.

“I fear I’m getting a little old for partying.” Hosea sighed, getting to his feet so he could get a proper look at Dutch. His brow creased with concern as he noticed the gash below Dutch’s ribs. His knees popped as he knelt down to take a closer look, swatting away Dutch’s hand and gently peeling back a few layers of bloody clothes.

“I told you it was a trap.” Hosea muttered as he got to work cleaning the wound, thankfully noting that it wasn't as deep as it looked.

“Maybe so, but apparently it weren’t meant for me.” Dutch sighed.

Hosea looked up from where he had begun to suture the gash closed. “Who’d he go for, John?”

“Tried to ambush him. I don’t know-” The words died in his throat as white-hot pain shot through his side. He sucked in a sharp breath and gritted his teeth. “I don’t know… what I would have done…”

“Me either.” Said Hosea.

After a few minutes, Hosea carefully finished the neat row of stitches. Dutch grimaced as he began to dress the wound, bandaging it tightly. “We can’t lose anyone else.” Hosea murmured.

“We won't.” Dutch assured him, gripping Hosea’s shoulder tightly. “I won't let it happen.”

“I believe you.” Hosea stepped back and gave Dutch an appraising look. He was tired and bruised, not to mention covered in blood - though Hosea had no doubt that not all of it was his own. “You should get some rest.”

“I will, you don’t need to worry ‘bout me.” Dutch smiled at him tiredly.

Hosea shook his head, amused, before sitting back down on Dutch’s left. “But I do worry. I always have.”

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment of calmness while they listened to everybody drink and enjoy themselves outside. As they sat, shoulder to shoulder, Dutch could feel the fatigue creep up on him. Just as his vision had begun to darken, Dutch realised Hosea had actually continued speaking. The ringing in his ear had stopped now, but Dutch realised a little too late that he still couldn’t hear anything on his left. All the while, Hosea was nudging him, trying to get his attention.

“-at do you think?” Hosea asked, looking at Dutch expectantly.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Hosea repeated, shooting Dutch yet another concerned look, “I’ve been goin’ into that big city, Saint Denis, to the east.”

“Yeah, yeah I been over there once or twice now.” Said Dutch, memories of the city’s stinking industrialisation and snobbish people resurfacing. Dutch hated cities with a passion: they were rife with despair and devoid of the freedom the open country held. However, big cities like Saint Denis also attracted the wealthy, like moths to a flame, and those aristocrats and their businesses made these places abundant with opportunities.

“I think I got somethin’ lined up, somethin’ big.” Hosea continued. “I’ll tell everyone about it tomorrow.”

“I think that’s for the best.” Dutch chuckled, “They’re all too full o’ liquor to plan nothin’.”

“And rightfully so, what you did today is worthy of celebration.” Hosea assured him. The corners of his eyes creased as he gave Dutch a small smile, one that only grew softer as their hands inched closer together, eventually meeting and sliding together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Just outside, the celebration raged on. Both drinks and music flowed well into the night, with people still drinking long after the sun had set. Even after everybody did eventually retire to bed, Sadie Adler remained seated around a dying fire, her mind alight with ideas. Since Colm O’Driscoll was dead, it was time to bring down the rest of his men: now that they lacked leadership and organisation it wouldn’t be long before they slid back into the shadowy corners of the earth from whence they came. There was a particular man - less of a man, more of a monster - that she would be looking for. Someone that took her home, her husband and her entire way of life. Once she found him, he would have hell to pay, but she was going to need a little help.

—

Another hunting trip had led Arthur and Sadie across the sprawling plains of Lemoyne, over state lines and into a patch of verdant woodland known as Cumberland Forest. It was a beautiful day to traipse through the underbrush in search of food, as well as pelts and trophies for the local trappers. Trees rose higher and higher above them as the pair journeyed deeper into the woods. Arthur focused intently on stalking deer and elk while Sadie trailed behind him, distracted.

Sadie was swept up in her memories, the sounds of surrounding birdsong and rustling leaves descended into a cacophony of gunfire and screaming. Breathing shakily, she found herself unable to suppress the echoes of that night when those O'Driscolls had laid waste to her house, killing her husband, Jake, and ruining any chance she had at a happy future. This had been happening a lot lately - ever since Dutch gave Colm what was coming to him, Sadie couldn’t help herself from wondering what that revenge must have felt like. Was it worth the risk? The bloodshed? Sadie could just imagine the relief that would come with avenging her husband, like the first sunny day after a snowstorm. It was all she could think about.

“Sadie, you alright there?” Arthur’s gruff voice pulled Sadie from her violent musings. “You even payin’ attention?”

“I- I’m sorry Arthur. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to come here.” Sadie sighed.

They came to a standstill. Whatever animal Arthur had been trailing was suddenly forgotten as he realised how upset Sadie looked. Not only that, but she seemed tired too. They had become quite close friends over the past few weeks, often camping together for days at a time, sharing stories and jokes around a fire while the stars stretched above them like a pinprick canopy. Naturally, this closeness meant it was much easier for Arthur to tell when something was off with Sadie. Arthur knew that she must have had a hard life - nobody ended up running with the gang if they had an easier way to live - but there was something else that had happened to Sadie, something she hadn’t told him yet. After a long pause, Sadie took a deep breath and started to explain herself.

“Colm O’Driscoll is dead, an’ I’m glad for that - I really am.” She began. “But my business with him ain’t finished yet.”

“You got business with Colm?” Questioned Arthur.

“When I… before I began livin’ this life, I was a married woman… Colm’s men took my husband. They took my peace from me.” Sadie sniffed, trying to hold herself together.

“Oh… I did wonder.” Arthur admitted.

“Dutch, John and Micah, they came ‘round lookin’ for supplies when they found me.” Sadie explained to him, “I’m glad they did but… My husband, my house, everything I had is gone now.”

“And the O’Driscoll’s?”

“Some of ‘em got away, I ain’t been able to track ‘em down until now.” Sadie pulled out a map of the surrounding states, revealing a marker placed to the northwest of West Elizabeth.

“You’re goin’ after ‘em then.?” Arthur raised his eyebrows curiously.

“I am, and ain’t nobody stoppin’ me.” Sadie insisted, “In fact… I was wonderin’ if you would join me, watch my back.”

“Of course I will.” Arthur agreed without thought.

It was a long journey: they would have to ride for miles along the state line and camp overnight. In addition to the arduous ride west, Arthur knew what the O’Driscoll’s were like and he had no doubt that the fight would be a brutal one. The pair returned to their horses, immediately mounting up and heading for the road where they fell into step beside each other. Sadie found her heart swelling with confidence as they headed for the O’Driscoll hideout - a place called Hanging Dog Ranch. She was glad to have Arthur by her side: it was nice to have a trusted friend, someone she could always confide in. Even better that they could always count on each other to shoot straight and hit hard whenever they rode head first into a fight.

—

The smell of coffee and morning dew greeted Arthur as he woke up from a deep sleep. He sat up on his bed roll and stretched, almost knocking over the low lean-too that he and Sadie had slept under that night. Well, Arthur had slept. Sadie had been up all night, tossing and turning and picturing all the different ways she could kill the fat bastard that murdered her husband. Arthur looked at her blearily as he pulled on his jacket and hat, approaching the fire and accepting a piping hot cup of coffee in silent gratitude.

“Fine mornin’ for a killing” He smirked at her, hoping to lighten the solemn mood a little.

“Sure.” Sadie said flatly as she scoped out the ranch about half a mile downhill from where they were camped.

Arthur bit in lip at the uncomfortable silence that followed: he may have become good friends with Sadie but he wasn’t great with delicate social situations like these.

“So, you seen anythin’ down there?”

“Yeah, I think there’s a bunch of them down there, and mostly drunk.” She scoffed, “But one of them, he’s a fat feller with a beard. Him… he’s mine.”

“Okay.” Arthur said, accepting that this was Sadie’s fight, not his.

“It’s a big ranch… run down… lots of folk there, but spread pretty thin. I’ll set it off and then we’ll… we’ll take it from there.” She continued, taking the lead like a natural.

“Take it from there?” Arthur questioned sarcastically, “Okay, so… no real plan then.”

“Oh, I got a plan.” Growled Sadie “Now come on.”

Once they had readied themselves and torn down their camp, Arthur and Sadie continued down the hill on foot, leaving the horses hitched at the treeline. Once the pair reached the edge of the property, they both dropped into a low crouch to evade being spotted. It might have been more of a strategic advantage to strike in at nighttime, but after careful observation they had determined that these O’Driscolls seemed somewhat nocturnal. Most of them left to go drink, rob people and make merry in the night and didn’t return until early in the morning, so Sadie decided they would attack during the day when they knew everybody would be there.

Arthur had pictured he and Sadie attempting to go in silently, taking down all the guards as quietly as possible before charging the rest of the O’driscolls while their guard was down. Sadie, however, had different ideas. Arthur looked on curiously as Sadie struck a match on the sole of her boot, using it to light a rag that she had stuffed into a half-empty bottle of liquor. The cloth went up immediately and Sadie wasted no time lobbing it at the nearest guard where it promptly smashed at his feet and quickly sent fire spreading up the splitting wooden fences and overturned wagons. As the orange flames continued to lick across the floor, rapidly consuming dry hay and dead grass, Arthur and Sadie pushed forwards.

“You take the barn, I’ll take the house.” Sadie commanded hungrily.

Simply doing as he was told, Arthur shot O’Driscoll after O’Driscoll until he could reach the tall, shabby barn. He watched with satisfaction as a sniper in the hayloft slumped backwards, no match for his sharp aim and superior rifle.

“And remember,” Sadie yelled over the gunfire, “If he’s fat and he’s got a beard, he’s mine!”

With that, Sadie disappeared into the farmhouse. More gunfire cracked from behind closed doors and boarded windows, but Arthur trusted that she could hold her own against these pigs. He wasted no time in circling the barn, shooting through the windows and ducking for cover when the men inside returned fire. It wasn’t long before the ranch fell eerily silent, even the old, cobbled farmhouse.

Biting back concern, Arthur approached the building and eased open the door. He was greeted by several bodies littering the downstairs area, strewn about like discarded toys. Bullet holes peppered the walls and scarlet streaked just about every surface in the house. Arthur was just about to check one of the rooms downstairs when a commotion sounded from the floor above. He raced up the stairs to find Sadie locked in a fierce knife fight with a portly, bearded man.

She slashed at him relentlessly, giving the bastard no time to retaliate. As he backed away from her, afraid of her ferocity, the man fell backwards with a loud thump. Sadie took her chance and pounced on top of him like a cat, screaming wildly as she drove the knife down into his chest again and again and again. By the time she was finished running the man through, Sadie was bathed in crimson and panting heavily, seemingly unaware that Arthur was watching her. He found himself both disturbed and impressed by the raw display of anger.

Sadie threw down her knife and got to her feet unsteadily. Only then did Arthur step forward and offer her a hand, guiding her to a chair where she could sit down and catch her breath. She tucked a blood-caked lock of loose hair behind her ear, trying to regain some composure after the violent outburst.

“You okay?” Arthur asked tentatively.

“Yeah. He was a good man, my Jakey.” Sadie sniffed, her breath becoming shaky. “We was always sweet on one another… I miss him every day… every moment.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say. He knew what it felt like to lose someone close to you - hell, he even had a son, once. He never spoke about the kid, Isaac, nor the boy’s mother, since their whole situation had been… complicated. That didn’t mean finding them dead hadn’t burned a hole in his heart that still ached to this day. Emotions were the most complicated part of being human, that much was true, but they were also the most important part: without them, people would be nothing - just vicious, heartless animals. Where there is love and compassion there will always be loss and despair. That's life.

Arthur rubbed Sadie on the shoulder soothingly as her tremorous breaths devolved into heavy sobbing. “They turned me into a monster, Arthur. But my memories of him… they still pure.”

Arthur stood in contemplative silence for a moment, thinking of the right thing to say. He had known Sadie for months now, and he knew that she was a fine, outspoken woman who hadn’t hesitated to help him take care of the gang. Perhaps she was fierce and short-tempered but she was hardly a monster, just someone who had been dealt a shitty hand in life and wanted to do something about it. Arthur resonated with that a fair bit: he often wondered how different his life could have been if his mother hadn’t died early and his father weren’t such an angry drunk.

“I’d like to think that this life… this life chose us, not the other way around.” He said finally. “Now C’mon, we should get away from here”

Sadie slowly rose from the chair and retrieved her knife, sheathing it and following Arthur down the creaky, wooden stairs. Once they stood out in the light of day, Arthur whistled for their horses. Boadicea approached him first, ever-loyal and affectionate. As he turned back to Sadie, Arthur gave her another once-over, frowning at the state of her bloodsoaked appearance.

“I think I need to be alone for a bit…” Sadie sighed, voice still thick with emotion.

Getting the hint, Arthur gave one final parting pat to Boadicea before moving towards Buckwheat, giving the stallion a scratch before switching over their saddlebags.

“Alright, have a safe trip back to camp.” Arthur nodded to Sadie, understanding her desire to work through her emotions alone. “Though, you might wanna get yourself cleaned up first.”

Sadie nodded and watched in silence as Arthur mounted up. Just as he was about to ride away, however, Sadie called after him.

“Arthur… Thank you.” She said, and the gratitude in her eyes conveyed more feelings than words ever could.

Arthur simply tipped his hat at her and spurred Buck into a trot, heading back into the great plains of America alone. He glanced back at the ranch, once or twice, taking in the layout and the isolated location. Minus the bodies and blood stains, Hanging Dog Ranch might have been a good location to hole up. As always, he took to analysing the lay of the land, even whipping out his journal to quickly sketch the place, as well as the mountain range behind it, from his vantage point on the hill. Searching for locations like this was a habit he had gotten into once the gang had begun to rapidly expand and suddenly they had needed to be more conscious about where they made camp, as well as how long they could stay for. Arthur snapped his journal shut with a sigh, dismissing the thought. He still missed travelling with the gang dearly, and clearly old habits die hard.

—

The ride back to camp was a long one for Sadie. After getting cleaned up and attempting to have a decent night’s sleep, she set off through New Hanover and eventually rode back into Lemoyne. Reflecting on her life with Jake, then looking to her future she would inevitably have to live without him, had taken its toll. The revenge she had gotten on the O’Driscolls that had robbed her of her peaceful life that might have been, but was tragically squandered, was both a relief but also a new burden Sadie had to bear: Jake wouldn’t have wanted this life for her. To say she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, would be an understatement.

When she finally arrived back at camp, going through the motions of removing Boadicea’s tack and brushing her down helped calm Sadie’s mind enough to finally face other people. One thing she had grown to like about the nature of travelling with the gang is that nobody asked questions. One look at her sour expression and no one dared to ask her where she had been the past few days, nor what business she had been taking care of.

Venturing further into their settlement, Sadie noticed that there was a large gathering of people all standing around a table looking at something. She wandered over, noting that Hosea and Dutch were sitting beside each other, a map and a few other complicated-looking papers spread out in front of them. John, Bill and Micah were crowded around them, listening intently as Hosea gestured at various points on a piece of paper - a floor plan for a large, open-plan building, Sadie realised.

“What’s all this?” She asked casually, leaning against the table as she studied the maps and notes, trying to make sense of them.

“It’s a job, you interested?” Asked John. He looked excited, more so than he had in weeks.

“Depends what it is, first.” Sadie grinned, knowing that she was already in, whatever it was.

“Well, we’d be happy to have you on board.” Hosea said, sliding some of the papers over to her. One was a map of San Denis, then the floor plan he had been gesturing to and finally a drawing of a large, grandiose building on a cobbled street corner. “We are going to rob Lemoyne National Bank.”

Chapter Text

Dear Arthur,

I've written this letter a hundred times or more and I cannot get it right. It's me. You know it's me from the bad hand writing. I know I said when last we spoke and I was going off to get married, that we would not speak again, and when I saw the news of your death I thought that to be true. Seems I was wrong, and I couldn’t be more happy for it. I’m glad you’re okay and I hope to never see your name in the papers again, though I know that’s probably asking too much.

I've been in Valentine for the better part of a year now. I had some bad luck and, well, it's a long story and not an interesting one, but I am here for the foreseeable future. Jamie is here too, much more grown than he was since last time you saw him. He’s not been the easiest of brothers, in fact, I’ve had to pull myself together and get him out of rather a lot of trouble. Father has been giving us trouble too, but we have been staying well clear of him as of late.

If, as you say, the law truly believes you to be dead, would it be of any risk to you to come and visit me? Jamie and I have been renting a room at Chadwick Farm, just north of Valentine. I would love to see you again.

Yours,

Mary Linton

Arthur stared at the page numbly. As he idly felt the smooth paper between his rough, calloused fingers, he couldn't help but compare the contrast in texture to the differences between himself and Mary. Her softness had always been her best quality, whereas Arthur was rough around the edges. Similarly, Mary had favoured the cushioned, secure life society gave her and it was Arthur’s unwillingness to conform that had ultimately torn them apart.

It had been so long since Arthur had sent that brief letter to Mary - the one revealing the truth about him being alive - that he’d almost forgotten about asking Trelawny to post it. The thin page flapped in the gentle breeze as if it was trying to fly free from his grip. Deep in thought, Arthur found himself chewing on his bottom lip. One the one hand, he could ride out and see Mary, maybe help her with whatever trouble she was having. On the other hand, however, reuniting with Mary could mean reigniting the feelings he used to have for her. That would undoubtedly risk them both going through the heartbreak of falling out all over again.

Handling the letter with care. Arthur gently folded up the page and slipped it back into its envelope. Just as he took out his worn, leather journal to compose a reply right away, Arthur’s train of thought was derailed by rapidly approaching footsteps. He looked up to see Sadie marching over to him, her hurried strides kicking up clouds of ochre dust.

“I been lookin’ for you all over.” Sadie huffed, putting her hands on her hips as she came to a stop in front of him.

“Why? You need me for somethin’?” Arthur asked, so concerned by her urgency that the letter from Mary was suddenly forgotten. He placed the envelope between two pages of his journal before it was slammed shut and crammed back in his satchel.

“Maybe.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “They’re gonna rob the bank, Arthur, the one in Saint Denis.”

“Sounds like a big job. You know what kinda plan they got?”

Sadie sat down on the bench next to Arthur, rubbing her hands together nervously as she recounted everything Hosea had told her about the job. The whole thing was happening in broad daylight, since the bank would be easier to access. Sadie was running distractions with Hosea: they would set off an explosion big enough to misdirect the city’s police patrols so there would be no lawmen near the bank. Meanwhile, Dutch and a few of the boys would rob the bank at gunpoint, making away with whatever was in the safes. Once they had pulled it off, the gang would regroup just outside the city and make sure they weren’t being followed before heading back to camp with their earnings.

Arthur reacted to the grand scheme with a low whistle. “That sounds like a big job, maybe even as big as Blackwater.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.” Sadie scoffed, “I only took Abigail’s place runnin’ a distraction because I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

“Who came up with the plan, Hosea?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, he’s been tryin’ to convince Dutch for days.” Sadie got up and began pacing back and forth nervously. “Dutch finally agreed to it yesterday. Claimed we need the money.”

“Well, they know what they’re doin’. Most o’ them boys have robbed banks before.” Said Arthur reassuringly.

“I don’t know… We managed to stay out of trouble this long, surely we shouldn’t go lookin’ for it now.” Sadie lamented, “Plus, we still got Micah to think about. I been tryin’ to keep my eye on him but who knows what information he could be givin’ out.”

“Shit. Micah’s in on it?” Arthur swore.

Arthur had hoped that, with Hosea planning the job, there was a chance Micah might not have been included. It made sense, seeing how Hosea had never liked Micah, not since he’d slithered his way into the gang late the previous year. Arthur found himself wishing he had listened to the early doubts that Hosea, Lenny and a few others had expressed about Micah: he should have done more than simply put up with the sleazy bastard.

Arthur sighed, wracking his brain for solutions that just weren’t coming. “I can be there, but there likely ain’t no stopping this job.”

“I know, I know.” Sadie agreed. “I should get going, make sure Micah ain’t going anywhere.”

“Good idea.” Arthur stood from the bench and headed for a nearby hitching post where Buckwheat was waiting patiently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

—

Crickets chirped incessantly in the tall grasses surrounding Clemens Point. With dusk just descending on the lakeside clearing, birdsong grew quiet while the yelps and calls of nocturnal creatures began to echo through the woods. Dutch sat alone in his tent, forgoing the usual indulgence of playing opera music from his gramophone and letting the noises of nighttime drift through the canvas walls instead. He had recently become frustrated at the revelation that the hearing in his left ear still hadn’t returned, meaning that both music and the chorus of nature only sounded half as good. Knowing that Colm had managed to take something else from him made Dutch feel bitter, even if the rotten bastard had long since turned to worm food.

He was just about to look over the plans laid out in front of him again when Molly intruded with a huff, placing her hands on her hips as she frowned at him deeply. It wasn’t uncommon to see that look on her face, in fact, she seemed to scowl at him more than she smiled nowadays.

“Can I help you, Miss O’Shea.” Dutch sighed.

“Would it kill you to call me by my first name for once?” She scoffed. The conversation was already off to a fine start.

“Can I help you, Molly.” He corrected pointedly before turning back to the map he was studying, eyes flicking between several markers strategically littering the page.

“I just want you to talk to me!” Molly practically begged him. “You don't touch me, hardly talk to me, I don’t get nothin’ from you no more.”

“What can I say, I’m very busy.” Dutch said flatly, the meagre excuse only causing Molly to become twice as frustrated.

She sighed heavily, her fiery curls bouncing with the abrupt rise and fall of her chest and disappointed slump of her shoulders. “You’re always busy. Once, there was a time where that didn’t matter!”

“Well now is not the time, Miss O’Shea.” He barked, shooting her an aggravated glance before once again turning his attention away from her.

Molly folded her arms, chewing her bottom lip in frustration until it turned cherry red. She lingered at the entrance of the tent for a few more seconds before finally conceding, forcing herself to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to get through to Dutch. Sick of reliving the same exchange every time she wanted Dutch’s affection, Molly whirled around and made a point of storming away. She only got about three paces before almost running into Hosea.

“Excuse me, Miss O’Shea.” Hosea apologised for the near-collision politely, even if he hadn’t been the one at fault.

Molly responded with a scowl, sighing in frustration as she continued her march to anywhere other than Dutch’s tent. She opted to head for the edge of camp, a place she would often go to linger in her resentment without any interruptions.

“Good luck trying to get anythin’ out o’ him.” She spat.

Hosea frowned, pausing as he watched her storm away. He felt bad for Miss O’Shea, knowing how the relationship between her and Dutch had deteriorated rapidly in the last few months. Hosea had been witness to many of Dutch’s past relationships and he knew all too well how swiftly most of them ended. Usually, they burned hot and then fizzled out. Hell, back in the day, Dutch and Hosea had been in quite the titillating relationship themselves, though that had been many many years ago. Unfortunately for Miss O’Shea, the coldness she was receiving from Dutch seemed to be hitting her hard and Hosea couldn’t help but pity her. He knew first hand how enamouring Dutch could be, but he also knew that Dutch was equally volatile and stubborn.

Pushing aside the canvas entrance to Dutch’s tent, Hosea was unsurprised to see him pouring over the plans for their bank job the gang would be pulling off the next day. While Hosea had been confident that the whole operation would go smoothly - so long as they followed his plan to the letter - Dutch had, for once, shown apprehension.

“You ain’t having second thoughts now, are you?” Hosea asked lightly. He joined Dutch to stand over the maps and annotated pictures, their shoulders brushing together lightly.

“No, not really. I’m just… nervous, I suppose.” Dutch sighed.

“You’re never nervous, that’s been my job all these years.” Hosea ribbed him lightly. It was rare for Dutch to act as the cautious one out of the two of them. In fact, his trepidation towards the job had initially concerned Hosea, who was finding that Dutch had slowly been getting more and more unpredictable.

“Well… as long as you’re sure.” Dutch scratched the back of his neck anxiously. “The money we get out of this job could be just enough… might even be our last score.”

“Enough for what, exactly?”

“Well, with these Pinkerton fellers about, it got me thinking… we could leave America, start fresh somewhere else. For that, we need money.”

“Leave America?” Hosea was taken aback by the suggestion. Sure, they had been idealising about fleeing west for years, but leaving America altogether?

“One minute you wanna stay put, the next you’re thinkin’ of leavin’ the country? Make your mind up, Dutch.”

“I’m serious.” Dutch insisted, “We could get on a boat and start all over, go somewhere far away like Tahiti or Australia.”

“Well, whether we go to California or Timbuktu, we still have to rob this bank.” Hosea chuckled. “And I’m certain we can pull it off.”

“Well, you’re the expert.” Dutch smirked, “Let’s rob this bastard.”

Satisfied that Dutch finally seemed on board with the job, Hosea gave him a pat on the shoulder before departing to ensure that everything was ready for the job. Since it would be going down during the day, they would all need to be dressed sharply to avoid suspicion. As he walked through camp, Hosea was pleased to see everybody cleaning their weapons and checking their ammunition. Sadie was over by the stagecoach they had liberated from a filthy rich band of high-society gentlemen, busy rigging it with all the explosives they would need to create an adequate distraction. Between their capable numbers and the relaxed police presence in Saint Denis, the bank job would surely go off without a hitch.

—

The sound of hooves pounding on rust-coloured dirt thundered up the road to Saint Denis as the gang rode out to rob Lemoyne National bank, a job that Dutch had confidently claimed would be their last. Clouds of thick dust mingled with the swampy, humid air as their horses and wagons rumbled along. Practically alight with excitement, the boys - and Sadie - encouraged each other with playful banter. They were all dressed to the nines, draped in the finest clothes they could afford in an attempt to camouflage themselves among the more wealthy population of Saint Denis.

Dutch called for them all to be quiet as they drew nearer to the smoggy city, insisting on going over Hosea’s meticulous plan one last time.

“Listen up boys! We go in calm and fast.” He reminded them, “John and Lenny, secure the front doors, Javier takes the side exit. Bill and Charles control the crowd. Me and Micah deal with the bank manager and vault. Got it?”

“Got it.” Micah echoed, a crooked grin spread across his face.

“Gentlemen, let us go ahead!” Hosea called from the stagecoach, its fancy exterior posing as a dangerous facade hiding an exorbitant amount of explosives.

“How long do you need?” Dutch asked him.

“Not long, fifteen minutes or less. You’ll know by the noise.” Hosea laughed, “Any problems, we’ll see you in camp.”

With that, they entered the city and went their separate ways. The streets of Saint Denis were like a maze and Sadie lost sight of the rest of the gang quickly; even the sound of horse hooves pounding on the cobbled streets was swiftly lost among the general hustle and bustle of the city. She had been anxious to join them in actually robbing the bank, but Hosea had insisted she stick to distractions seeing as she had never done a job like this before. It had frustrated her, being so far away from the action, but the huge explosion Hosea set off in a vacant, three-story building had swiftly stolen all her attention. Across town from where they both stared in awe and satisfaction at the bright orange ball of flames, the real fun was set into motion.

Dutch took the lead, bursting through the main entrance of the grandiose bank and raising his twin revolvers threateningly. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a hold up. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

The boys hurried to their places: John and Lenny flanked the front doors while Javier pushed through the crowd to secure the side exit. As Bill and Charles began to herd the terrified bystanders through a pair of double doors and into another room, Micah picked out the bank manager, roughly dragging him over to the vault’s ornate iron door.

“Do us a favour and open up that vault for us.” He sneered, gun trained right between the man’s watery eyes. The bank manager proceeded to approach the vault door and began twisting the lock with shaking hands. His fingers slid on the smooth, metal surface as his palms became slick with nervous sweat.

Time seemed to crawl as the clicking of the complicated lock filled the room, the air inside the bank practically electric as they all waited with baited breath. After a few more tense seconds ticked by, the bank manager pushed open the heavy door to reveal hundreds of draws all organised in neat columns and rows. Built into the walls between these draws was several heavy-duty safes which Dutch eyed hungrily as he and Micah sauntered into the vault. Meanwhile, Bill grabbed a hold of the bank manager, pushing the barrel of his pistol into the man’s back threateningly.

“You gonna tell us the combination of them safes?” He growled.

Voice shaking, the bank manager slowly rattled off the combinations for each safe. Dutch and Micah systematically emptied them all out, taking bonds, wads of cash and even a few shining gold bars. Once the place had been stripped bare, they exited the vault and handed off the bulging bags of valuables to the others. Much to his relief, the bank manager was then thrown into the same side room as the other whimpering bystanders.

Everything was going perfectly until John yelled from his position at the entrance.

“I think we got a problem out here!” He shouted nervously, stealing risky glances outside.

There was a commotion across the street from the bank. Dread filled the seven of them as they all flocked to the windows, discovering that the fancy stagecoach Hosea and Sadie had taken into town was now outside, along with forty or fifty Pinkerton agents.

“Dutch, get out here!” An unfamiliar voice called out. Agent Milton appeared from behind the stagecoach and Hosea was with him, being held hostage with a revolver trained at his temple. “Get out here now!”

“That’s Agent Milton, one o’ them men that found us back in New Hanover!” John hissed. “How’d they know we’d be here?”

“Someone must have squealed!” Growled Dutch, his eyes flicking between the people around him suspiciously.

Meanwhile, just outside, Sadie was caught in some Pinkerton agent’s vice-like grip. She scanned the street again and again, desperately searching for some sign of Arthur. He had promised to be there, to keep an eye out, and if he was going to step in, now would be the perfect time. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a flash of movement. Sure enough, she spotted a figure in fine, blue and black clothes sneaking a look out of a nearby alleyway. He was well disguised, with his hat pulled low over his eyes and a bandana covering the rest of his face. Arthur was lingering on the sidelines. Not all hope was lost.

“Mr. Milton, let my friend go… or folks… they are gonna get shot unnecessarily.” Dutch threatened, anxious to get a look at Hosea despite the risk that came with stepping in front of the window.

“Your friend?” Milton laughed humorlessly, “Ha, why would I do tha-”

BANG. The right side of Milton’s head exploded into bright red chunks as a bullet found its way through his skull. Hosea barely had time to process what he’d seen: a man dressed in a suit, his appearance obscured, had darted out of a side street. Whoever it was had ridden his horse straight past the front of the bank and taken Milton out with expert precision. Thrown into disarray by the loss of their leader, the surrounding Pinkerton agents scrambled to open fire on the stranger, missing him entirely as he swiftly rode away. The distraction gave Hosea just enough time to snatch up Milton’s revolver and dart into cover where he was quickly joined by Sadie, a rifle in her hands.

Shots rang out from balconies and storefronts as the Pinkertons finally redirected their sights. Hosea and Sadie, now shielded by a wagon just to the right of the bank, were glad to see the boys returning fire through shattered windows. Hosea barely spared the stranger a second glance as he joined them in cover, fleeing his horse in favour of sticking with the gang. Meanwhile, inside the bullet-peppered walls of Lemoyne National Bank, panic was slowly beginning to set in. The Pinkertons may have lost their leader but they still had everyone outnumbered, outgunned and pinned down.

“Hold them back, I got an idea!” Dutch shouted as he withdrew from his spot by one of the windows. “Just keep shooting!”

Lead and glass rained down inside the bank, the once resplendent interior ruined by chunks of plaster, brick and wood littering the floors. Bullets whizzed past Dutch as he took a brisk look at the room they were trapped in, seeing the place in a new light as dust filled the air and lead sank into the walls. He snatched up a few stray sticks of dynamite they had originally brought along to blow the safes, taking the small bundle and rigging it up to the eastern wall of the bank. Forgoing the use of a lighter, Dutch ran for cover behind the large, octagonal desk that laid at the centre of the room.

“Dynamite! Stay down, boys!” He yelled before shooting the bundle, igniting it instantly. The resulting explosion shook the building, blowing a gaping hole in the side of the bank.

Meanwhile, Hosea, Sadie and their rescuer were still holed up by the entrance, slowly trying to shoot their way out. As a result of their confined efforts, the Pinkerton’s numbers had slowly begun to dwindle. Sadie found herself locked in an intense focus, a state of mind that was suddenly broken when the explosion had ripped up the street behind them.

“What in hell was that?” Sadie shouted.

“They’ve had to make themselves another exit.” Hosea fired at a few agents, dropping them swiftly before returning to cover. “They’ll be heading to the roof, make sure these bastards don’t follow them!”

Sure enough, the boys began to leave the bank one by one and scramble up the fire escape of the building next door. Once most of the gang had abandoned their positions shooting from the front windows, only Micah, John and Dutch were left to retreat. Dutch had insisted on taking up the rear, ensuring everybody made it out. Unfortunately, with the front of the building now lacking any kind of cover fire, half a dozen agents had managed to gain entry to the bank. They burst through the front doors, one immediately grabbing hold of John and tackling him to the ground as he attempted to make a mad dash for the hole in the wall. Dutch looked on, conflicted. He was about to make an attempt at fighting off the agents when he felt a hand around his arm. He hesitated.

“Leave him, Dutch! There’s too many of them.” Micah hissed, practically dragging him away .Whether that was true or not, Dutch retreated with Micah, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders as he watched John get cuffed by lawmen.

When they finally reached the roof, the gang continued to give the Pinkertons hell. Now they had the superior vantage point, Dutch was relieved to see that not only was Hosea okay, but he, Sadie and the stranger that had swooped in to save them both were now retreating from the ruined street. He was thankful for the excellent cover fire they had all provided. No doubt the trio would be out of town in no time, though the same couldn’t be said for the six of them now stuck on the roof.

“Where’s John?” Javier asked, scanning the rooftop with a frown.

“Arrested.” Dutch shook his head. “Just keep shootin’ while I look for a way out.”

Their escape came in the form of a short jump onto the roof of a neighbouring block of apartments. No Pinkerton agents had managed to follow them, meaning that it was safe for them to holster their weapons as they traversed the skyline of Saint Denis. The gang wasn’t in the clear yet, though, as whistles echoed up and down the cobbled streets forebodingly. The law proceeded to sweep the entire city, barking out orders and interrogating terrified civilians.

Despite Bill almost losing his footing on the slick shingle roofs several times, they all managed to keep low and shake the Pinkertons. Eventually, Dutch waved them over to an abandoned brick building, briefly doing a headcount as they clambred through the boarded-up windows one by one.

“I don’t believe it.” Dutch muttered bitterly once everyone was inside.

“They knew we were coming.” Charles stated flatly. It was obvious, but he took it upon himself to speak the truth nobody else seemed to want to put a voice to.

His statement was met with groans and murmurs of agreement as they all cautiously ventured further into the run-down apartment. The six of them settled in a desolate living room, all sitting on the floor since the place lacked proper furniture. The building seemed like it had been abandoned before it was even completed: the walls were unpainted, there was a half-finished fireplace to the left and a pile of construction materials lay gathering dust in the corner. It wasn’t an ideal hideout by any means but it would at least buy them some time to rest for a couple hours.

“Well, what now?” Bill snapped, throwing their bag of long-forgotten riches to the side.

“I don’t-” Dutch sighed. “This whole town is filled with cops.”

“Well how long do you think we can stay here?” Lenny asked. He looked exhausted. They all did.

“We’ll stay until nightfall…” Dutch paced back and forth, grasping at straws as he tried to come up with an escape plan. “They’re gonna be watchin’ the roads, so… So we head down to the docks.”

Javier and Charles shared a confused and slightly concerned look between each other as Dutch explained how they could make their escape on a boat, lie low then return when the heat had died down. Bill just seemed happy to be able to get some rest, ripping off his plaid jacket and lying back against the wall behind him. Lenny fidgeted with his sleeve in the corner, idly pulling on the loose, frayed threading while he watched each of their faces in the dying daylight. That comment about a traitor in their midst hadn’t been lost on him, and Lenny wondered if that traitor was in the room with them right now.

“So, that stranger riding in, saving Hosea.” Javier spoke up suddenly. With the speed at which the whole ordeal had unfolded, many of them had nearly forgotten about the man. “You think he was one of ours?”

“No way.” Micah scoffed. “Who, exactly, do you know that would have been able to pull that off. Uncle?”

His sarcasm pulled some laughter out of the group, but Dutch had been wondering much the same thing. The cold, creeping feeling of dread that had filled him upon seeing Hosea held hostage was one that he wouldn’t soon be forgetting, but the relief when he escaped had been equally memorable. “Whoever it was, we owe him.”

From his spot in the corner, Lenny caught the unmistakable look of hatred in Micah’s eyes. He found it strange that Micah would react so strongly at the mention of someone who had just stuck their neck out for a gang he presumably had no affiliation with. Micah was an asshole, sure, but did he know something the rest of them didn’t?

—

Arthur released a breath he didn't realise he had been holding as himself, Sadie and Hosea fled through the suburbs of Saint Denis. Galloping down cobbled streets and across bridges, none of them dared to slow their horses until trees rose up around them and the ground turned soft and marshy. The law hadn’t bothered pursuing the trio for long, instead focusing on the rest of the gang as they ran from the bank, presumably with as much of its contents as they could carry. The oversight had allowed the three of them to slip away, easily shaking the few pursuers that had bothered to give chase.

Looking back over his shoulder one more time, Arthur was relieved to see that they were truly in the clear. He pulled down his bandana and threw off the fancy hat he had borrowed from a gentleman too drunk to notice its absence. Despite the circumstances, Arthur couldn’t suppress the small smile that crept across his face as he caught Hosea doing a double-take out of the corner of his eye. Hosea almost lost his balance atop Silver Dollar out of sheer surprise, his breath quickly stolen away as he finally recognised the stranger who had saved his lifer. Even Sadie smirked as she noticed the exchange taking place.

“Arthur? But- But it can’t be…” Hosea stuttered, eyes wide with disbelief. “...You’re alive.”

“Took you long enough to recognise me.” He chuckled lightheartedly.

When they arrived back at Clemens Point and jumped down from their saddles, Hosea went straight to Arthur. At first, he simply stared at Arthur, taking in his rough appearance, long hair and the thick scar marring his brow.

“I don’t believe it…” Hosea whispered, finally closing the gap between them and pulling Arthur in for a hug. Arthur returned the gesture gladly, his heart melting slightly as he realised how much he had missed his family.

“Arthur!” Another voice cried.

Tilly ran up to where they were gathered, shortly followed by Sean, Mary-Beth, Susan and a few others. They all took their time gawking excitedly at Arthur, delighted over his return. The moment was quickly squandered, however, as Abigail approached the group, Jack in her arms. She welcomed Arthur back happily, just as the rest of the gang had, but her brow furrowed deeply as she looked around camp.

“Where are the others?” She asked. “Where’s John?”

A concerned silence fell on the group as they all stared at Arthur, Hosea and Sadie expectantly. In all the excitement, the gang had overlooked their dirty, bloody clothes and weary expressions. Hosea sighed as he scanned the small crowd that had gathered in front of them - pretty much everyone had wandered over by now, and they were all waiting for answers.

“We… Don’t know.” Hosea admitted, immediately met with gasps and fearful murmurs as everybody assumed the worst.

“Well, what happened?” Miss Grimshaw frowned, “And Arthur, where the hell have you been all this time?”

“Micah happened, that’s what.” Sadie piped up, furious.

“I can explain everything.” Arthur reassured them, trying his best to stay calm and keep a level head. The reality of their situation was hitting now, and while it could have been worse, it was certainly nothing good.

After a long and arduous retelling of where he had been the past few months, Arthur felt utterly exhausted. It had been heartwarming to receive such a warm welcome home, but the events of the day were finally catching up to him, tiring him to the bone. As the gang dispersed, returning to their duties, Hosea gently took Arthur by the arm and led him to the nearest tent, which happened to be Dutch’s. Too tired to protest, Arthur sat down on the bed with a huff and shrugged off his jacket. The light of the day was finally fading, but Hosea could still make out a dark splotch on Arthur’s sleeve - his left bicep had been grazed by a bullet, leaving the material of his dress shirt a shining scarlet.

“You’re hurt.” Hosea winced in sympathy as he carefully set to work cutting away the expensive fabric.

“I can handle it, you should get some rest.” Arthur tried to wrestle his arm away, but it was no use. Hosea was set on tending to Arthur.

“Please, it’s the least I can do after such a long time apart.” Hosea mumbled as he grabbed a bottle of whisky and a rag to clean the graze, thankful the bleeding had already slowed to a stop.

“Did you really miss me that much?” Arthur asked sheepishly, hissing as he felt the sting of alcohol on the open wound.

“Arthur… I mourned you.” Hosea’s voice began to shake. “We all thought you were gone. I’ve never been so glad to be wrong about somethin’ in my life.”

Arthur let the admission roll over in his mind again and again. He had thought that staying quiet until the time was right had been for the best. The opportunity to catch a trusted member of the gang without Micah present had never presented itself. Furthermore, it hadn’t been safe for Sadie to accuse Micah herself; they had discussed it, but seeing as she was one of their newest members it was unlikely to have gone in her favour. Now, however, Arthur was finally seeing how his absence had affected those he loved: he had caused them pain by following along with the story of his death and, in turn, deprived himself of the company he so dearly craved.

“I’m sorry.” He stated simply.

“Sorry?” Hosea questioned as he finished wrapping the graze in tightly wound bandages. “Arthur, from what you and Sadie have been saying, you were only doin’ what you thought was right.”

“Well-”

“Arthur.” Hosea turned Arthur’s face gently so they could look each other in the eye. “You had our best interests at heart. You saved my life today. That is nothin’ to apologise for.”

Arthur was about to disagree when the stamping of horse hooves sounded from the edge of camp. Arthur and Hosea immediately headed over to see what the commotion was, hands resting on their holstered guns. Sadie and a few others had the same idea, not knowing whether to expect friend or foe. Fortunately, the new arrival was a familiar one.

“Charles.” Arthur greeted him warmly. “It’s been a while.”

"Arthur? But I thought... in Blackwater-" Charles began as he jumped down from Taima and walked up to Arthur, slowly drinking in the sight of him.

"Yeah, it's me." Arthur smiled reassuringly, giving him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

"But how? We all thought… Well, we thought you were dead."

"I'll go over it with you another time, I already been through it once tonight.” Arthur promised him tiredly.

Charles nodded, silently agreeing to let the subject go for the time being. Despite his burning curiosity, Charles wanted to remain respectful of Arthur, especially since the last few months couldn’t have been easy for him. Charles hadn’t failed to notice the exhaustion, the slump of his shoulders and the deep, weary lines on his face - not to mention the large scar on his forehead.

“You came back alone?” Hosea asked Charles as he scanned the darkening treeline expectantly.

“Yeah. I split from the others after we fled to the dockyard, had to distract some guards so they could sneak on a boat.”

“A boat?” Arthur asked, confused.

“Dutch said they would take a boat somewhere, lie low and then come back. I saw them get on a ship called the ‘Antenor’, one carryin’ cargo I think.” Charles explained.

“John on a boat.” Arthur smirked, shaking his head at the thought.

“Oh. John… wasn’t with us.” Charles corrected, causing Arthur’s smile to drop suddenly.

“How do you mean?” Hosea asked, hit with a cold, intense feeling of dread.

“He got arrested back at the bank. I’m sorry.”

Arthur sighed and put his hands on his hips, already weighing up their options. “Well, at least he ain’t dead.”

Obviously, they would have to get John back. He certainly faced the noose, but they would surely have time to break him out of whatever prison cell the Pinkertons put him in before it was too late. Arthur came to the decision that, first thing in the morning, he would work on finding out where they had taken John. Then it was just a matter of staging a jailbreak. They had managed to scam, swindle and scrap their way out of a few holding cells before, so how hard could it really be?

As for the others, it seemed like they would just have to find their own way back. Lord knows where they were headed on that boat or what trouble they would undoubtedly get themselves into. Arthur just hoped that they could come back, and that they hadn’t just taken a one-way trip straight off the map.

Chapter Text

Creaks and groans echoed through the bowels of the Antenor, the ship listing violently from side to side as a storm wrapped the hull in dark, massive waves. Those inside were awoken roughly from their sleep and thrown onto their feet as an unnatural rumbling shook the vessel. Fleeing the onslaught of icy water pouring into the ship, sailors and stowaways alike rushed for the deck only to be ravaged by a frigid downpour of rain and sea. If it wasn’t for the small, wooden lifeboat banging incessantly against the sinking hull, Dutch and his men would have stood no chance of survival. Their chances were still slim as paper as the dinghy was dropped into the waves, then swallowed whole by darkness while the storm swept them out to sea…

—

The sweet sound of laughter drifted through camp as Tilly won yet another game of dominoes. This was the fifth time in a row she had played against Arthur and, unbeknownst to her, he had been letting her win since round two. Hosea, who had been carefully spectating their matches, had noticed immediately, but he and Arthur were more than content to let Tilly believe she was the best Dominoes player in the world. Or perhaps that Arthur was the worst. It didn't matter to him, he would gladly lose every game of poker and dominoes and five-finger fillet if it meant he never had to leave his people again.

“You best just give up now, Arthur. You’re too rusty.” Giggled Mary-Beth, who had floated over some time during their fourth game.

“Come on, one more round.” Tilly grinned from ear to ear.

Arthur was about to agree when he spotted Charles approaching them out of the corner of his eye with a grim look on his face.

“Charles.” Arthur nodded, “I take it you ain’t here to play dominoes.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Bad news?” Asked Hosea.

“Group of bounty hunters just rode past, missed us by a hair.” Charles said nervously. “And there’s been more Pinkertons spotted in Rhodes, too.”

“You think it’s time to move?” Arthur scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Already?” Frowned Mary-Beth, “It’s startin’ to feel like we never stop moving.”

“I know it’s tough but we’ll find somewhere to settle down eventually.” Hosea assured her.

“But we can’t leave Lemoyne yet! What if Dutch and the others come back, they don't know where to find us.” Tilly fretted.

“I know a place nearby, Shady Belle, found it with Lenny a couple weeks back.” Charles said. “It’s safe, well hidden. We could go there.”

“I’ll check it out with you.” Arthur offered, getting to his feet.

“You boys go ahead, we’ll start packin’ up.” Hosea gave Arthur a parting pat on the shoulder before going to find Miss Grimshaw.

Arthur bid the girls goodbye, promising to play more dominoes later, and left to tack up Boadicea. The process of putting on her saddle and bridle was a familiar one, something he could easily do with his eyes closed, so as his hands moved without thought Arthur found his thoughts drifting elsewhere. He worried about the bountymen and Pinkerton Agents in the area: it felt like the law was slowly closing in on them, and perhaps they should have already left Clemens Point. He wondered with frustration if this had anything to do with Micah, cursing the fact that, even though the man was now presumably hundreds of miles away, he was still causing problems for the gang.

They might have moved sooner if Dutch was here, but he wasn’t. Then again, he might have also delayed their moving on as well: Hosea had been telling Arthur about how Dutch had seemed unpredictable and stubborn in the months he had been absent. Arthur had found that, in their leader’s absence, many of the important decisions were falling upon himself instead. Hosea was still considered to be at the top of the gang’s chain of command, and for good reason, but Arthur hadn’t failed to notice how Hosea always asked for his input, even with small, trivial things that he knew had obvious solutions. It was like he was being tested.

“You alright Arthur?” Charles asked suddenly, ripping Arthur from his thoughts.

“Sure.” He grunted.

“Really? Because you’re frowning. More than usual, anyway.” Charles smirked, “And you’ve been tightening that girth strap for five minutes now.”

Arthur huffed as he realised Charles was right: he should have been in the saddle already. He hastily finished the job and slipped Boadicea an apple. “Forgive me. I got a lot on my mind.”

“I’m not surprised. Are you worried about John?”

“Yeah. Him and a million other things.” Arthur admitted as he swung into Boadicea’s saddle, following Charles as he kicked Taima into a trot.

Thankfully, clearing out Shady Belle was a piece of cake. The few squatters that had laid claim to the place after Charles and Lenny had liberated the land from the Lemoyne raiders hardly put up much of a fight and it only took a couple of minutes for them to end up in the swamp.

Despite the alligators lurking in the murky waters nearby and the thick, soupy air making them sweat like pigs, Shady Belle didn’t seem like a bad place to hole up. So long as the law didn't follow them there, it would be perfect. At least it would be, once Ms. Grimshaw was done with the place.

Arthur sat on the porch of the rickety plantation house as Susan swept through their new camp, tossing out orders and putting everyone to work. He smiled as the girls all rolled their eyes and begrudgingly did as they were told, and as Jack hopped down from the wagon (along with his new canine companion, apparently named ‘Cain’) and immediately got to exploring their new home with Abigail hurrying after him. He had missed the smell of stale stew and campfire smoke. He had missed Sean’s ridiculous stories and Reverend Swanson’s drunken rambling - though he actually seemed to have cleaned up his act a bit, much to Arthur’s relief. He had missed his gang. His family.

Suddenly, Hosea pulled Arthur from his musings by taking a seat on the porch beside him.

“You glad to be back?” He asked, noticing the content look painted all over Arthur’s face.

“Sure am.”

“I’m glad you’re back, too.” Hosea smiled.

“Say, did you leave somethin’ behind at the last place? So if the other’s come back, they’ll know where to go, I mean.”

“Of course I did. And that’s when, not if.” Hosea corrected him, trying to maintain the hope that the others would return from their boat trip.

“‘Course.” Arthur said, but his voice still wavered and doubt lingered at the back of his mind.

“Anyway. I hate to send you away before you get the chance to settle in proper, but Sadie wants you to meet her in the saloon in Saint Denis.” Hosea continued, “Says she thinks she knows where they’re keepin’ John.”

“Guess I should be on my way, then.” Arthur got to his feet, eager to reunite with John and bring him home. He could just picture the look that would be on John’s face - which, apparently, looked rather different due to a foray into wolf-infested mountains.

As Arthur started towards the horses, Hosea called after him. “Arthur… Be careful.”

“I will, you can quit worryin’ about me now.” Arthur assured him, swinging into Boadicea’s saddle and heading for Saint Denis.

—

The air inside the saloon reeked of tobacco smoke and stale booze. Arthur almost preferred the swampy air outdoors, but the stench of the factories that riddled the city was something he would never get used to. How anyone could actually live in a place like this, he had no idea.

It wasn't long before he spotted Sadie lingering at the bar, the brim of her hat carefully obscuring her face. Unfortunately, hiding her face didn’t do much to prevent Sadie from drawing attention to herself: being a woman was apparently enough to draw the eyes of every man in a ten foot radius. It was for that reason exactly that Sadie had decided to meet Arthur in the seediest saloon in the city, a place she knew was already so corrupt that it wouldn’t make much of a difference if anyone recognised either of them.

Arthur took up a place beside her, casually leaning against the bar. “I hear you got a lead on John.”

“He’s on Sisika, I know he is.” Sadie assured him.

“I thought as much.” Arthur sighed. Holding cells and small jails were one thing - they had all ended up in one of those once or twice - but Sisika Island, the most secure penitentiary this side of America? This would be tough.

“How’s everyone settlin’ in back at camp? You think the new place is alright?” Sadie asked. She hadn’t been to Shady Belle herself yet, in fact, she had only caught wind that they were moving again before she left for Saint Denis that morning. It was probably for the best: who knows if Micah had squealed about the gang being at Clemens Point.

“It’ll do, at least for the time being.” Arthur sighed. That dream of finding freedom in the west would have to wait, but they couldn't leave without everyone present and accounted for. Since there was no helping Dutch, Lenny, Javier and Bill - wherever they were - Arthur was desperate to rescue John.

“Come on.” Sadie gestured for Arthur to follow her out of the bar, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “You’ll like this.”

They left the bar, mounted their horses and headed for the edge of town. Arthur became suspicious about what Sadie had in store for him. He had already assumed they were scouting Sisika Island, making sure John wasn’t locked behind bars somewhere unreachable, but from the way Sadie kept smirking at him, Arthur got the feeling she had found something… unconventional.

When they finally slowed to a stop, Arthur realised that ‘unconventional’ had been an understatement. Sat in the marshy grass before them was a huge, red-and-white-striped hot air balloon.

“We’re gonna use this to scout Sisika?” He asked incredulously.

“You are. I’ll catch up with you when you land.”

“You ain’t comin’?” Arthur scoffed.

“Of course not!” Said a stranger’s voice, coming from the basket of the hot air balloon. A man popped up from inside the wicker walls, he was unusual-looking, with a strange cap on his head and a curly, white moustache. “Women can’t fly, sir.”

“They can't?” He asked, drawn in by the man's bold eccentricity.

“Oh no sir, it does terrible damage to them. To their… vapours.” He gestured vaguely at Sadie, who was trying desperately to stifle her laughter, as if that should explain everything.

“Aurturo Bullard.” The man bowed with a flourish, “At your service, sir.”

“Arthur Morgan.”

Once introductions were over and done with, Arthur was quickly whisked into the basket of the balloon and given a crash course on how to operate it. The mechanism seemed simple enough and Arthur found that he was rather enjoying himself as they took off, ascending higher and higher into the air. He looked down with amazement to see Saint Denis shrinking below them, the smell of smog and horse shit dissipating until he was breathing the kind of cool, fresh air that you only find on mountaintops.

The sound of his ‘flight instructor’ jabbering on about nothing in particular faded into background noise as Arthur found his breath snatched away by the view of Lemoyne from above. He hardly had to focus on releasing more hot air into the balloon, sending them ever higher into the bright blue sky and cottony clouds. He was so awestruck by the view, itching for his journal to get it all down on the pages, Arthur almost forgot what their excursion into the heavens was really for.

Once they were at an appropriate altitude, Arthur began to manoeuvre the balloon towards the penitentiary. It was difficult trying to steer the balloon amongst the swift winds while simultaneously distracting Mr. Bullard with nonsensical conversation so he didn't notice the change of scenery below, but eventually they ended up hanging above the sprawling fields of Sisika, peppered with chain gangs and guard towers.

Arthur struggled to fish his binoculars out of his satchel with his one available hand, the other firmly gripping the rope controlling the hot air balloon. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, but found that they had ascended too high for him to make out any of the prisoners clearly. Determined to make sure John was out in those fields somewhere, Arthur began the process of bringing the balloon back down.

"Oh, this is most irregular." Arturo cried, as if he had only just noticed how close they were to the island. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I'm, uhh… looking for a friend of mine." Arthur admitted sheepishly, looking down at the island once again.

"A friend?" Mr. Bullard repeated, horrified.

"Sure, he just has the habit of bein' in the wrong place at the wrong time." Arthur sighed, "I hear they got him workin' in the fields in a chain gang."

"Dear God… the guards will surely spot us." Mr. Bullard trembled as Arthur took them lower and lower.

Eventually he handed back control of the balloon to Arturo, who expertly kept them steady long enough for Arthur to survey the fields. Sure enough, he spotted John working up a sweat with a pickaxe in his hands. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his greasy little brother in that ridiculous, stripy prison garb.

His amusement was quickly squandered when a bullet whizzed past the balloon, grazing the basket and sending chunks of wood and wicker flying into the wind. Another shot rang out from below, coming dangerously close to popping the balloon.

"Looks like you were right, they have spotted us." Arthur risked peering over the edge of the basket again to see that dozens of guards were looking up at the balloon in shock, swarming below them like flies.

“Oh no, oh this is absolutely insane!” Mr Bullard cried, frantically guiding them upwards once again.

Bullets were still flying from below, whipping past them and disappearing into the clouds. Arturo, clearly feeling very much out of his depth in the midst of so much action, ducked down into the basket. That left Arthur to regain control of the balloon, grabbing the ropes and casting one final glance back at Sisika penitentiary before steering them away from the volley of lead.

Soon enough, a northwesterly wind caught them, bringing them back towards the mainland. They had long since left Saint Denis behind, instead floating north along the Lannahechee River. Finding that things had calmed down and the balloon was still in one piece, Mr Bullard had ceased his cowering. Now, Arthur and his new, unlikely friend (and flying instructor) were drinking in the sight of Roanoke Ridge drifting below them. Arthur could make out the winding paths and rivers criss-crossing New Hanover, the lush, green state bordered by the imposing snow-capped mountains of the Grizzlies.

“Ah, there’s Annesburg.” Arturo said, sounding relieved. If only for a moment. “Hang on, is that… is that Mrs Adler?”

“Where?” Arthur said, noticing how Mr. Bullard's force had once again picked up a fearful tremor.

“Down there, she’s being chased!”

Sure enough, Sadie was ripping through the streets of Annesburg, a large number of armed riders in hot pursuit. She was shooting at them with expert precision and they were returning fire tenfold, chasing her from the mining town and heading south along the railway.

“Try and get us near her.” Arthur commanded, swinging his rifle off of his shoulder and steadying it against the basket of the balloon. Mr Bullard complied, though he didn't seem too happy about it. They managed to get close enough for Arthur to identify the riders as Pinkerton agents, all on horseback and gaining on Sadie at an alarming speed. Thankfully, much to Arthur’s relief, Sadie was managing to hold her own.

“Will there be more trouble, sir?” Mr. Bullard asked, sounding weary.

“I’m afraid so.” Arthur grumbled, opening fire on the agents below.

Between Sadie firing from horseback and Arthur covering her from above, they managed to dispatch most of the agents before they could catch up. Their numbers had been excessive and their presence in Annesburg and the surrounding area concerning, and as Sadie continued to ride down the tracks they had practically poured out of the trees. At some point, Arthur had the bright idea to drop a rope down to Sadie - much to Mr. Bullards dismay at the notion of a woman hitching a ride in his vessel. She grabbed onto it gladly, just as more Pinkerton reinforcements arrived, and Arthur pulled her from her horse and into the basket. It suddenly felt very cramped with the three of them crammed in together, so Mr. Bullard immediately sought out an isolated spot to land.

Arthur and Sadie bid the poor pilot goodbye and whistled for their horses, watching the dishevelled flight instructor practically collapse into the bottom of the basket. Clearly he wasn’t keen to take flight again and Arthur found he actually felt a little guilty for taking advantage like he did. Still, despite the gunfire they had endured, Arthur was thankful to have learned that rescuing John would be much easier than they ever could have wished for.

“Did ya see him?” Sadie asked excitedly as they swung into their saddles and started back towards Lemoyne, opting to ride through the woods in case any Pinkerton Agents were patrolling the paths.

“Sure did.” Arthur huffed, “He was workin’ in a chain gang in the fields, just like we thought.”

“That’s good news, at least.” Sadie sighed, clearly still troubled by the large Pinkerton presence in the state. “Tell you what, though, them agents was givin’ me a real run for my money.”

“I could see that. How the hell did you end up runnin’ into them, anyhow?” Arthur asked.

“Van Horn was crawlin’ with ‘em.” Sadie shook her head, a deep frown on her face. “Some of them recognised me from the bank job and that was that. I was hopin’ to lose them in Annesburg but there was even more of them.”

“That ain’t good.” Arthur said, adjusting his hat out of nervous habit.

“So long as they don't follow us back to camp.” Sadie chuckled nervously, “Where is this new place, anyway?”

Arthur took the lead, spurring Boadicea to pick up the pace. “Follow me. You’re gonna like this.” He said, grinning as he mirrored her words from earlier, this time sounding a little more earnest.

—

Despite their encounter with the Pinkertons in New Hanover, when Arthur and Sadie returned to camp that evening they were in high spirits: Arthur knew that John was on Sisika island and he was confident that, as a pair, he and Sadie would be able to get him out of there. Other people had been volunteering to help, but it was for the best that just the two of them went ahead with their plan - smaller numbers meant they could get in quickly and quietly. Getting out… Well, they would have to see about that when they got to it.

The two of them dismounted from their horses and headed into camp, ready to give everyone some good news. Arthur immediately headed into the house in search of Hosea, Sadie following close behind him. They found Hosea in the front room, sitting at a table with Charles. The atmosphere in the room was solemn.

“And you’re sure this was the same ship they got on in Saint Denis.” Hosea said. He sounded desperate, like he was pleading for Charles to be wrong.

“I’m sure, it was definitely called the Antenor.” Charles insisted. Hosea put his head in his hands.

When Charles looked up, spotting Arthur in the doorway, his eyes didn’t light up like they normally did. He didn’t give Arthur that small half-smile, or acknowledge him with a knowing nod. Instead, there was something dark in his eyes, something that might have been pity. Perhaps guilt, too.

It was then that Arthur noticed there was a newspaper on the table. He hurried to look at it, wondering what bad news it could possibly harbour. Sadie gasped as she saw the headline, bringing her hand up to her mouth and gently placing a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. Clearly she remembered something Arthur didn’t, because for a second his brain failed to make sense of how some cargo ship could possibly be relevant to their predicament. Then it hit him.

CARGO SHIP “ANTENOR” LOST AT SEA, NO SURVIVORS

Of course, that was the ship the others had used to escape Saint Denis after the bank job. Charles had said so at the time, claiming to have seen it happen before splitting off from them at the docks. It hadn’t struck him, initially, how far they may have actually travelled in a cargo ship, but it seems they never even reached their destination. Suddenly, all hope of ever seeing Dutch, Lenny, Javier or Bill ever again was crushed. They were gone, just like that.

“No survivors…” Arthur repeated, dumbfounded.

—

Pearly white beaches stretched for miles, wrapping their way around the tropical refuge Dutch and his boys had found themselves stranded upon. The shoreline was bordered by lush green fauna and rocky cliffs from which a chorus of unfamiliar insects echoed incessantly. Crystal clear waves, clearer than any beach or cove found in the United States, lapped at the sand before retreating back into a vast, blue expanse that stretched for as far as the eye could see.

A small campfire crackled at the edge of the treeline. Its warmth was unnecessary as the sun beat relentlessly overhead and there was no food to cook, but the five castaways huddled around it had craved the familiarity brought on by the sparing cluster of flames. They stayed there for a while, taking shelter in a small, rocky alcove where the forest met the shore. Javier briefly ventured inland and returned with very little, all he had learned was the name of the island they had washed up on. They were in ‘Guarma’.

“No money, no food, just the clothes on our backs. What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Micah grumbled, glowering at Dutch through his long, bedraggled fringe.

Dutch sighed, looking at each of them one by one. They were all grimy, exhausted and dripping with sweat in the tropical heat, but at least they had all made it off of that sinking ship alive. “We’ll figure that out, there’s gotta be a way offa’ this island. We can't lose hope yet.”

Dutch was prepared to launch into one of his signature inspirational speeches when a group of unfriendly-looking locals appeared above them, peering down at the five of them with disdain. There were six of them in total, all armed, leaving the group outnumbered and outgunned. They had no other choice but to begrudgingly raise their hands in surrender and allow some of the men to approach them, shackles and chains jangling in their hands.

“¡Encadene a estos hombres!” One of them yelled. He was clearly their leader, a shifty eyed man who had the privilege of riding atop a mule while the rest of his men were on foot.

Dutch eyed the men warily. “Gentlemen… this is quite a welcome.”

“Who are you?” Their leader barked.

“Señor, por favor. We are no one.” Dutch responded easily.

“What’s your name?”

“Aiden O’Malley.” Dutch gave the man one of his many monicers. They may be stranded on some desolate island east of Cuba but who knew how far his real name had travelled.

“Is that so?” The leader looked him up and down suspiciously. “What are you doing… Mr. O’Malley?”

“Surviving. We were lost at sea… in the storm.” Dutch told him earnestly. He cursed the fact that, on the one occasion he felt it appropriate to tell the truth, the story sounded almost too incredulous to believe.

“Is that so?” The stranger repeated. The rest of the armed men had begun to clap the boys in chains, roughly grabbing each of them and forcing them into a line so they could all be tethered together.

“No, I’m in the habit of looking like this.” Dutch replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is all of this really necessary?”

“We got enough troubles around here right now, Mr. O’Malley, without taking a chance on a bunch of vagabonds.” The leader grumbled, Kicking his mule onwards as he took the lead, gesturing for the group to follow as he began to ride along the seafront. “Behave yourselves, and no harm will befall you.”

What followed after was an arduous trek that led the chain of hostages a mile up the scorching shoreline. Between the sand beneath their feet and the shackles rattling uncomfortably around their ankles, the five of them struggled to keep pace with their armed escort. After what felt like hours of walking, they found that trying to get any kind of information out of their captors was harder than drawing blood from a stone.

Eventually, the stranger on the mule reluctantly introduced himself as Levi Simon, Senior Overseer for a man named Alberto Fussar. According to Simon, Guarma was the third most productive sugar plantation in the Northern Caribbean, and Mr. Fussar did not take kindly to strangers who may be criminals, thieves or Haitian pirates.

Lenny, who was at the very back of the group, almost ran right into Dutch before realising that they had come to a stop. Desperate to know what was going on, he craned his neck to see that the guards had found more people to chain up. The two men - who were battered, bruised and dressed in tattered clothes - were roughly shoved to the front of the line and shackled in place.

“Who d’you think they are?” Lenny whispered to Dutch nervously.

“I ain’t too sure… they got them chained and lashed, but they don’t look too dangerous.” Dutch replied before raising his voice and addressing Simon. “Excuse me, sir! Who’re our new friends here?”

“Criminales.” One of the guards grunted.

“What crime did they commit?” Dutch pushed.

“Insurrección.” Replied the same guard flatly.

“Insurrection? That’s quite a word.” Huffed one of the new prisoners, the shackles around his bony ankles rattling as he fell into step with everyone else.

“Cállate, señor Fuentes.” The guard snapped. Clearly, he was already well acquainted with their most recent captive. “¡Muévanse todos!”

The guards exchanged a few more harsh words in Spanish before continuing along the beach, harshly shoving their prisoners along while scanning the treeline nervously. The air had grown more tense and the guards became nervous, gripping their rifles tighter than they had before. Clearly, the presence of these new prisoners hailed bad things for the group.

Lo and behold, after rattling along for another short distance up the beach, a hail of bullets descended upon the guards, coming from the jungle. A guard to Dutch’s immediate left was shot dead and he wasted no time scooping up the man’s discarded pistol, shooting the chains that bound his feet. He quickly turned and did the same for Lenny, freeing them both and allowing them to dive for cover behind a rocky outcropping.

“For once, boys, I don’t think they’re shooting at us!” Dutch noted with relief as he turned to the nearest guard and sent a bullet through his head with expert precision.

The firefight ended as suddenly as it began. Dutch stood guard while Lenny snatched up a pair of keys from a deceased guard and began to free the rest of the gang. The two prisoners at the front were similarly released by their friend, the one who had instigated the fight. He sprang from the undergrowth like a wildcat, revealing himself to be a lanky, scarred man brandishing a rifle in one hand and a set of keys in the other.

“Mon Dieu…” Their rescuer cursed, staring wide eyed at another horde of armed men flooding over a distant hilltop. “We need to get out of here!”

He turned to Dutch, Lenny, Bill, Micah and Javier, beckoning them into the forest and away from the oncoming reinforcements. Both groups of men formed an uneasy alliance, fleeing into the treeline and swiftly disappearing between the thick cover of trees and bushes together.

Suddenly, Javier let out a cry of pain as a bullet pierced his leg. It gave out from under him and he tumbled to the ground, watching with dread as the armed men got closer and closer.

“Javier!” Cried Lenny, skidding to a halt as he watched Javier clutch his leg, squirming in the sand painfully.

“Get outta here. Get outta here… there’s a lot of ‘em.” Javier hissed through gritted teeth.

“What you think?” Dutch was speaking to Micah but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from where dozens of reinforcements came spilling down a nearby ridge and advanced into the jungle.

“We gotta move, Dutch!” Micah said pressingly, turning away and making a run for it without a second thought.

Dutch gave Javier one last look before grabbing Lenny by the arm and guiding him into the forest, the poor boy still desperate to go back for their fallen friend. “Don’t lose faith, son! We’ll find you!”

“Cours, Cours!” Their rescuer shouted as he beckoned frantically for them to follow him. “Run, Run!”

The group, now four instead of five, did just that. They flew through thick, unfamiliar flora until their feet ached and their impractical dress shoes were nearly falling apart. Unfortunately, they still hadn’t shaken their pursuers and it was clear they would have to put up a fight if they wanted to make it out alive. Guided by their rescuer and the two ‘insurrectionists’, they soon came upon a small, dilapidated structure that looked like a maze of crumbling walls. It made for good cover and they all hurried to find shelter before the guards bore down upon them again.

“Quickly… I have some guns stashed here.” The stranger ripped open a long wooden crate, revealing a pile of mismatched rifles and some ammunition. They all took one, loading up with shaking hands and levelling their sights on the treeline as dozens of attackers pushed towards them.

“Hold them back!” Dutch yelled, opening fire.

The jungle was suddenly filled with gunfire, the snap of bullets bending the air. Dutch found that gunfights were always the same, no matter where they took place’ his unfamiliar surroundings melted into insignificance as he honed in on target after target. An exchange of lead could take place anywhere, anytime, but the basic principles would always remain the same: aim, shoot, kill.

Silence, albeit brief, settled upon the group. The peace lasted just long enough for them to resume their retreat further inland, their rescuer beckoning for them to follow him further uphill.

Now they had finally been graced with an opportunity to talk, the turned to the four of them, eyeing each one of them with equal amounts of suspicion and curiosity. “What you doing here?”

“I have no idea…” Dutch sighed, running a hand through his bedraggled hair. “Running from somebody or something, I guess.”

“Aren’t we all? Hercule Fontaine.” The stranger introduced himself.

“Dutch van der Linde… these drowned rats are Micah, Bill and Lenny.”

“Okay. Well, Fussar will be desperate to find you. We must be very careful.” Hercule warned.

“Fussar?” Lenny asked.

“He is a tyrant, driven by nothing but power and greed. Our only purpose is to work ourselves to death… to make him rich.” Leon, one of the ‘insurrectionists’ who had been chained up in front of them, explained bitterly.

“Leon wants the people to stand up to Fussar… but most are too afraid.” Hercule added solemnly. Leon nodded in agreement, a hardened look on his face. He, too, had been sizing up each member of their group, likely looking for people brave enough - or perhaps desperate enough - to join their cause.

“And you?” Dutch turned to Hercule.

“I am not from here. I bring things in and off the islands… behind Colonel Fussar’s back.”

After a few more minutes of trudging through the undergrowth, the group came to a ridge overlooking another part of the island. It sprawled in front of them for miles, most of it covered in emerald green slopes or sheer cliffs. As they looked down at the land below them, Hercule pointed to a collection of large buildings all surrounded by tall stone walls.

“Down there is Aguadulces. Fussar’s compound.” Explained Hercule. “The sugar cane these poor men kill themselves farming gets processed in that factory there.”

“They’re little more than slaves shipped in from other islands.” Fuentes said grimly, “A group escaped yesterday into the jungle hoping to find a way back to their homes.”

“Now Fussar’s men are out hunting them down.” Hercule shook his head.

“That old fort, Cinco Torres, my men and I use that as a hideout when we are here.” Hercule continued as he pointed to another building. The fort was made entirely of stone and it sat perched on a rocky precipice at the far end of the island. It looked isolated and well protected, all the merits of a good safehouse. “Come on… I know somewhere you men can rest.”

“Can we trust you?” Dutch asked sceptically. The others hesitated as well, unwilling to follow anyone Dutch might deem unreliable.

“I don’t see you have any choice.” Hercule shrugged. “I am the only one who can arrange a boat for you. But… I need something in return. Help Leon with that group of escaped workers and then come meet me at the fort.”

“You help us get back our friend and get outta here… we will do everything we can.” Dutch promised.

“Thank you.” Hercule sounded relieved. Leon was similarly grateful, throwing them a ‘Gracias.’ before disappearing into a crumbling brick building.

The rest of the group followed behind him, cautiously making their way into the half-collapsed structure. Most of the roof was gone, along with much of the walls, but any place where they could get some rest was a welcome sight.

Hercule gestured for them to make themselves comfortable - if that was even possible in such run down conditions. “If your friend is still alive, they will have him at Fussar’s compound. There is a cave hidden below the cliffs. It will lead you right there.”

“Thank you.” Dutch nodded.

“As for the workers, they are somewhere in the jungle. Hopefully we can get to them before Fussar does.” Hercule finished.

“We will, don’t you worry.” Lenny said assuringly.

Hercule and his friends bid them goodbye after that, leaving the four of them to settle in for the night.

“Well, if this is a tropical paradise… so far it ain’t up to much.” Micah sighed, cynical as ever.

Dutch sat down on a crate, resting his head in his hands. “What a mess. I… am so sorry, boys.”

“Get some sleep, Dutch.” Bill waved the apology away, lowering himself to the ground and trying to get comfortable on the rocky dirt floor.

By the time night descended upon the island, bringing with it a suffocating darkness and a whole host of eerie sounds, Dutch found that he couldn't sleep at all. He had taken to wandering their new encampment, only darling to venture in the areas illuminated with lanterns. Eventually, he grabbed a lantern and retreated to the edge of a nearby cliff, sitting - or, more accurately, moping - just a stone’s throw from where the others were sleeping.

So entranced by staring into the impenetrable blackness before him, Dutch failed to hear someone approaching behind him and nearly jumped out of his skin when Lenny settled by his side in the grass.

“Jesus kid,” Dutch said, stifling a weary chuckle, “Give a man a warning.”

“Sorry.” He mumbled shyly.

“You can’t sleep neither?” Dutch sighed, eyeing the kid next to him with pity.

“I tried, but I just can’t do it. Bill snores so loud.” A grin stretched across Lenny’s face. Even in the worst of circumstances, he hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

Suddenly, Dutch was stuck with a pang of familiarity as he realised that was something Arthur used to do - if all else failed, it was always Arthur that would try and lighten the mood with witty banter or playful insults. The thought made Dutch feel sick.

“You remind me of Arthur.” Dutch couldn’t help but confess.

“That means a lot.” Lenny’s grin withered, his expression turning forlorn. “I wish he was here. Maybe that’s selfish, but he would make better company than Micah, that’s for sure.”

“We just gotta be thankful for the company we do have.” Dutch countered. “I know you don't like Micah, but at least we all made it out alive.”

“We’re gonna get Javier back too, right?” Lenny said hopefully.

“O’course. First thing tomorrow.” Dutch assured him, “You can come get ‘im with me while Micah and Bill rescue them workers for our new friends.”

“And then we can go home?” Lenny asked. He sounded so small, Dutch often forgot the kid was only nineteen.

“We’ll be back before you know it, son.” Dutch draped an arm around Lenny’s shoulders, letting the younger man lean into him.

After a beat of silence, Lenny glanced over his shoulder at where Bill and Micah were slumped on the ground, seeming well and truly asleep.

“Do you really trust him?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Micah, I mean.”

Dutch remained silent, seemingly unable to commit to an answer.

“Did you see how he looked back in Saint Denis, when we was talkin’ about the shooter.”

“The one who rescued Hosea and Sadie?” Dutch found he couldn’t recall much of the bank heist. It felt like such a long time ago already, and the finer details were slipping away to that place where all of his unsavoury memories ended up, never to be recalled again.

“He looked disappointed, not that the job had gone wrong, but like he’d wanted it to go worse.” Lenny fretted. “And you said it yourself, someone had to have set us up.”

“You think it was Micah?” Dutch asked. His voice was completely neutral, and somehow that scared Lenny. He found it off putting that he couldn’t read Dutch: it made him unsure of himself, suddenly afraid that he was speaking out of line.

“I’m just… putting it out there. Don’t forget Blackwater was his idea, too.” Lenny couldn’t help but push the concern that Micah wasn’t all he seemed. “And, come to think of it, he caused an awful lot of trouble in Strawberry. How the hell did he get out of that jail again?”

Dutch was completely silent, but from where he was leaning against the older man, Lenny could feel that he had become extremely tense. Waiting to hear his response was agonising and Lenny half expected to be scolded, shouted at, anything. Instead, Dutch took a deep, steady breath before patting him on the shoulder reassuringly.

“Go get some sleep, kid.” He sighed, “We got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The soft, springy marshland that covered most of Lemoyne squelched under Boadicea’s hooves as Arthur pulled on her reins, sending her off the path and towards the gently glistening shoreline of Flat Iron Lake. It was late afternoon, not long before dusk would begin to grace the skies with streaks of pink and gold. Sisika Island loomed not far in the distance, the remote penitentiary stretching for a few miles south of Copperhead Landing, the place he and Sadie had agreed to meet on the day they planned to free John.

Clearly, word of their covert meeting place had spread throughout camp because, as Arthur approached the dingy dock and dropped from his saddle, he found that two figures were standing on the rotting, wooden gangway.

“The thing is Sadie I really can’t… I must come, he’s my husband!” Abigail begged.

“I know he’s your husband but it’s gonna be… well, it’s gonna be violent.” Reasoned Sadie, telling her in as gentle of a way as possible that she wasn’t cut out for the job. She tried not to meet Abigail’s eyes as she prepared a small, wooden rowboat for their journey to Sisika.

Despite the honest warning, Abigail wasn’t deterred. “I insist!”

“Insist all you like, ain’t happening.” Sadie scoffed, putting her foot down. Then she spotted Arthur, relief flooding her eyes as she realised that Abigail was more likely to listen to him. “Arthur, tell her. Tell her she ain’t coming with us to collect her husband.”

“Abigail, you ain’t coming. That’s the end of the matter.” He said plainly, giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder before stepping into the rowboat with Sadie.

“See, there, you heard him. Now let’s go.” Sadie unmoored the boat and hurried to push them out into the dark, almost black water of the deep swamp that seperated Sisika Island from the rest of Lemoyne.

“Well… well I ain’t the crying sort, but… I’m real grateful.” Abigail called after them, lingering on the dock as she watched them shrink into the distance.

“Yeah, we know you are. We’ll bring him back to you.” Sadie promised, Arthur nodding in earnest agreement.

“Thank you! Thank you both!” Abigail clutched her hands close to her chest, pleading with whatever higher being that might be looking down on her to allow for her idiot husband to be brought back in one piece.

Meanwhile, Arthur rowed until his back was sore and his arms felt like they were about to fall off. The boggy water made it especially hard for them to move quickly, but it also had its advantages - a thick fog had rolled in and was concealing them from watchful eyes. Arthur had also thought to put on his bandana, concealing his identity in the hopes that he could keep up the charade of being dead in the eyes of the law. Sadie had, too. She had thankfully evaded any kind of infamy as a result of the bank job, likely because nobody actually knew who she was, and keeping that anonymity up for as long as possible seemed like an obvious choice.

Finally, they hit solid land and vacated the small vessel, both making a mental note of its exact location so they would know where to return to later. Sisika Island was even more soft underfoot and Arthur noted with displeasure that they were sinking up to their ankles in thick, boggy earth, spurs and all. With their boots thoroughly caked and spattered with mud, Sadie and Arthur trudged onwards to the nearest guard tower. The plan was simple, almost too simple: take out all the guards, grab John from where they had put him to work in the fields and hightail it out of there.

Arthur volunteered to go up the tower first. He slowly climbed the ladder, trying his hardest to stay quiet, and crept up behind the unsuspecting guard. It only took a few moments to grab the man and get him in a headlock, squeezing until he stopped struggling. Unceremoniously throwing their first casualty to the ground, Arthur called Sadie up and they both began surveying the fields. They brought nice, long-range rifles with fine scopes, hoping to simply pick off most of the guards at a distance. Before they did that, though, they needed to find Marston.

“I think I see him!” Sadie called from the opposite side of the tower. Before Arthur could come over and double-check, Sadie fired twice, dropping the two guards positioned either side of a group of prisoners.

“Alright, let’s go have a look.” Arthur said, already swinging his rifle back over his shoulder and heading back down the ladder.

When they arrived at the field, however, Arthur was dismayed to find that John wasn’t there. The two of them split up, intending on searching the area to make sure Sadie wasn’t mistaken, when Saide came across one of the guards she had shot only to discover he wasn’t quite dead yet. He coughed and sputtered on the ground, a fountain of scarlet bubbling up from his midsection which he clutched at in a pathetic attempt to stem the flow of blood.

Sadie quickly kicked the dying man’s rifle away and levelled her revolver at his head. “You, mister. You know John Marston?”

“He- he ain’t… workin’ today.” The man wheezed, crimson flecks were splattered across his teeth and lips and a dark stain was slowly soaking across his royal blue coat.

Suddenly, another guard appeared on Sadie’s left. He was a young man, likely new to the job, and his hands shook as he pointed a shotgun at Sadie’s chest. “Put the gun down, lady.”

Sadie hardly bothered raising her hands in mock surrender, watching as Arthur calmly ambled up behind the young man and shoved his revolver harshly against the back of his head. Now it was the guard’s turn to raise his hands, quickly throwing his shotgun to the side the moment he felt the cool bite of iron against his skin.

“No… you put the gun down.” Arthur rumbled menacingly. “Now! Where’s John Marston?”

“He ain’t in the work detail today!” The guard cried. Unfortunately, it seemed like they were both telling the truth. Sadie had been mistaken, John wasn’t there.

“What’s your name, kid?” Arthur asked, roughly readjusting his grip on the guard so he could walk forwards while still keeping his revolver trained at his head.

“Milliken.” The guard gulped, stumbling forwards as Arthur began to push him towards the main building of the Penitentiary. Meanwhile, Sadie covered them by dispatching any other guards that they came across.

“Well, Milliken, we’re gonna go get Marston together.” Arthur hissed into his ear. “Now, who runs this establishment?”

“Man by the name of Heston Jameson.” Milliken supplied, his voice quivering.

“Is he a nice feller?” Arthur asked.

“Uh… he’s been quite an exacting boss at times.” Milliken replied truthfully, slowly picking up on what Arthur was about to try.

“I look forward to meeting him.” Arthur chuckled darkly as he shoved Milliken forwards.

“They’re… they’re not gonna let you do this.”

“That’s gonna be up to you, my friend. Better hope you a popular employee.” Arthur joked. They were almost at the front gate now and , thanks to Sadie, there were no more guards left in the field to slow their approach.

“Come on. March him straight up to the front gate.” Sadie said as she fell into step beside the two of them. She was understandably nervous, uncomfortably aware of the fact that this had gotten wildly out of hand.

“We better hope someone in there actually gives a damn about this fool.” Arthur huffed, feeling much the same about their current predicament.

“Guess we’ll see.” Sadie eyed the young man as if appraising whatever value he might have to his colleagues in the penitentiary. “We’re gonna have to shoot our way out of here regardless.”

By now, many of the guards posted at Sisika’s front gates had taken notice of the situation and were shouting for more men to arrive. They all swarmed along the top of the grey brick walls that formed a perimeter to the main prison, many of them already had their rifles trained on Arthur, who was using Milliken like a skinny, blue human shield.

“Jameson!” Arthur yelled, “Is Jameson in?”

“He’s in Saint Denis!” One guard yelled down. That was most likely a good thing. Hopefully, it meant they were all scrambling in there without any proper leadership.

Another guard peered over the wall, lowering his gun when he saw that Arthur had a hostage. “He’s got Milliken!”

“Got him and going to kill him… unless you bring me John Marston, right now!” Arthur retorted. “You got one minute - I’m counting! One… Two… Three…”

Arthur trailed off, already sick of counting. “Uh, Milliken? Will you count for me? I got talking to do.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. From one or four, sir?”

“Oh, very funny… no, we must be at eleven by now.” Arthur grinned beneath his mask.

“Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen.” Milliken didn't manage to count any higher, as his tearful blubbering became full-blown sobbing.

Arthur could see the guards whispering to each other frantically on the parapets, many of them disappearing off somewhere deeper in the prison. His half-cooked plan was actually working.

“Come on, hurry up! Or this poor fool’s gonna get his brains shot out… and over what? For nothing.” Arthur yelled, really laying on the menacing gunslinger act. “M-Milliken… don’t stop counting, I can’t hear you.”

“Hurry up and bring that asshole out here you bastards! Come on… I don’t wanna die.” Milliken begged, snivelling.

“I know, I know buddy.” Arthur was both giving the poor young man a hearty pat on the shoulder and, at the same time, attempting to conceal his laughter at the cowardly display.

Suddenly, the huge, iron gates of the prison creaked open. A single guard walked out, along with a confused yet grateful-looking John Marston. Sadie immediately ran up to John, shooting the chain that was tethering his ankles together so he wouldn’t have to awkwardly waddle the rest of the way back to the boat. Despite the fact that he was now free to leave, Sadie still had to drag John away from the prison as he was momentarily frozen in place, mouth agape as he stared at Arthur. The bandana hiding his face didn’t matter - John still recognised him immediately and was, for a moment, completely numb with shock.

Arthur, too, took a moment to look John over. Everyone at camp was right - one side of his face was indeed marred by a few long scars. His hair was long and lanky and he clearly hadn’t been able to shave. But he was John. Arthur hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the bastard, so it took him a moment to regain his composure.

“Okay, today’s your lucky day.” He told Milliken before roughly shoving the man forwards.

The moment Arthur let go of his hostage, lead began to rain down upon the three of them. Thankfully, there were some large wagons and crates of what must have been supplies left half-unloaded outside the prison which provided excellent cover. Sadie shoved a spare revolver into John’s hand before they set off again, racing back towards the fields while returning fire at the guards.

John was only half paying attention, finding it nearly impossible to wrench his eyes off of Arthur. “How… Arthur, how are you- I saw you, in Blackwater, you-”

“Not now, Marston!” Arthur cut him off, “I’ll explain everything later.”

“Was that you, in the balloon?” John asked. “And- and on the ridge! You were there when Colm-”

“Yeah that was me too.” Arthur admitted, exasperated. “Now will you actually help us shoot some of these damn guards!”

“And the bank too, that was you!” John was beaming now, grinning from ear to ear.

More guards, this time on horseback, came racing onto the fields. Thankfully, the crops that John and his buddies in Sisika had been working hard tending to had made great cover. It took all their will and ammunition to fight their way back to the boat, it was basically a miracle that the three of them made it, and even more of a miracle that they seemed mostly unscathed. John hopped in first, immediately followed by Sadie who snatched up the oars and waited for Arthur to push the boat back out onto the lake.

Arthur hopped in and used his rifle to pick off the few guards that had followed them to shore. Once they were finally in the clear, he turned around to find John staring at him, wide eyed. Arthur shook his head, removing his bandana to reveal a wide grin.

“Been a while, Marston.”

“What in the hell…” John breathed. Part of him felt like none of the day’s events were really real, like he would wake up any minute now, back in his bunk.

“What? We don’t get no ‘thank you’ for draggin’ your ass out of trouble?” Sadie piped up. She was facing away from John, still rowing, but she could just picture the look on his face.

“I promise I really will explain everything to you, John.” Arthur promised, removing his hat to reveal the scar that ran from his eyebrow all the way up to his hairline. “But it’s a damn long story.”

Understanding dawned on John’s face as he took in the scar, his mind reaching back to the foggy memories he had of the Blackwater job. He had been so sure that he’d watched Arthur die. Now, knowing that he had been out there this whole time, looking out for John and the rest of the gang, it was still so hard to believe. The minute they docked at Copperhead Landing, John immediately leapt into Arthur’s arms. It should have felt awkward or forced - they hadn't genuinely embraced each other like this since before John abandoned the gang for a year - but Arthur returned the hug immediately, holding John tight and not letting go until the younger man was sufficiently convinced that he truly wasn’t dreaming.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Arthur said, pulling away and placing his hands on John’s shoulders, getting another good look at the scars on his face. “Damn. I didn’t think you could get any uglier.”

John immediately burst into laughter, well used to the insults that came with his marked-up face.

“You can talk.” He retorted, pushing up the brim of Arthur’s hat to reveal the scar from Blackwater again. “You gotta be the luckiest bastard I ever met. Luckier than Mac an’ Davey, Jenny… I assume you heard about them.”

John’s mood deflated, remembering all the good people they had lost. It felt good - amazing, in fact - to have Arthur back, but it didn’t change the fact that they still had so many to mourn. Arthur looked similarly grim, and when John glanced at Sadie he found that she was suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“John… they ain’t the only people we’ve lost.” Arthur sighed. John deserved to know what happened to everyone else at the Lemoyne National Bank robbery, but breaking the news was proving harder than he thought it would be. He looked to Sadie for support but she shot back a look that was just as helpless.

“What is it?” John pried, suddenly catching on that they had bad news for him.

“Well, after you was arrested in Saint Denis, Hosea, Sadie and I had to split up from the others.” Arthur began. He found himself searching desperately for the right words, for a way to put the news delicately, but he only succeeded in dragging it out.

“Well, after we got back to camp, they weren't there. Then Charles, he came back but- but he was alone. And he said there was this boat they all got on, y'know, to escape, but, well…” Arthur turned away from John, rubbing a hand over his beard, the stubble crackling quietly under his fingers.

“Are they dead?” John asked simply. “Don't tell me...”

Arthur nodded solemnly. He grabbed John again, giving him a rough but comforting pat on the shoulder. “They're- they're gone, John.”

John took a deep breath. His shoulders drooped and his head dropped, obscuring his face behind dark, matted curtains of hair. It felt like a trade off - Arthur had come back, as if risen from the dead, but now even more of his friends were gone. He found that loosing Dutch was particularly hard to belive: the man had been like a father to him and Arthur, certainly better than their real fathers, and he had always seemed so invincible to John. How was he supposed to accept it? John felt overwhelmed, simultaneously relishing in his freedom from Sisika and Arthur’s return while also trying to grapple with the concept that nearly everyone else in the bank job were… what had Arthur said? Lost at sea?

“I don't believe it.” He sighed, voice barely above a whisper. “Dutch, Javier, Lenny, Bill… even Micah.”

“Don’t be too sad about Micah.” Sadie interjected, “He turned out to be a whole heap of trouble, that rotten traitor.”

“Traitor? Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.” John sighed, unsurprised.

“Least he’s suffered the consequences of his actions. Just a shame he had to take the others with him.” Arthur sighed. He draped an arm over John’s shoulders - which felt smaller and bonier than they had before their time apart, likely due to his recent diet of scant prison meals - and began to lead him over to the horses. Arthur was uncomfortably aware of the fact that the prison would likely be sending out as many men as they could spare to search for John and they had already lingered at Copperhead Landing for far too long.

Sadie had picked up on this too and was already in the process of mounting up. John seemed steady enough, but Arthur still offered him a hand and pulled him up onto Boadicea. As John settled into place behind him, Arthur spotted the first of what was probably many boats appear in the distance, a lantern at the bow piercing through the fog and encroaching twilight.

“We better hurry.” Sadie said, also noticing the approaching forces. “Let’s go, we’ll explain everythin’ in better terms when we get back to camp.”

“We’re somewhere different, jus’ for the time being.” Arthur brightened up a bit, glad to give John a little bit of good news. “Abigail and Jack will be happy to see you. You’ll have a roof over your head. And a real bed.”

“And the law?” John asked, nervous.

“We’re workin’ on it.” Sadie assured him.

They rode away from the marshy coast, easily evading the law and flying through Lemoyne until they reached Shady Belle. John was greeted with a lot of excitement: after the news about Micah’s betrayal, the failure of the bank job, the sudden move and then the confirmation that Dutch and the others weren’t going to be coming back, they had all needed something to celebrate. John hardly had time to take in their new location before Abigail wrapped him in a tight hug and Sean pushed a beer into his hand. Celebrations lasted long into the night and, for a brief few hours, the gang managed to forget their woes, forget about the law on their tail and make merry until the sun chased the moon out of the sky and the liquor ran dry.

—

Bill and Micah stumbled back into camp, coated in thick layers of sweat and grime. The two of them had just returned from a foray deep into the jungle where they had fulfilled their favour to Hercule and Leon. Freeing some captives that recently escaped from under Fussar’s iron fist had proved to be difficult but now the job was done they were one step closer to getting home. Micah had loathed the idea of doing the insurrectionists’ dirty work in exchange for a boat ride home: they had no proof Hercule was telling the truth, nor could they trust any of the people they had encountered since washing up on the shore. The longer they remained in Guarma, the more they were all beginning to feel as if prison might have been a better punishment. The island certainly felt like a prison and it was proving even more difficult to escape from. Not that Micah had ever had any trouble getting himself out of a cell.

In addition to earning their passage home, there was still the issue of retrieving Javier from Fussar’s compound. As Bill wandered off to scrounge up something to eat, Micah turned a corner to find Dutch leaning against a crumbling stone wall, brooding. Dutch had promised that he and Lenny would be rescuing Javier, but Micah could clearly see that their friend was nowhere to be found. There was only Dutch, his eyes filled with a half-vacant, half-furious fog as he stared out beyond the island’s pristine white shoreline and into the sea beyond.

“Still thinkin’ about that gold we left on the ocean floor?” Micah said bitterly, jarring Dutch from his trancelike sulking.

“How did it go, with the prisoners?” He asked, carefully evading the subject of their vanished treasures.

“We got ‘em alright.” Micah assured him. “Apparently that boat’s all lined up for us, just gotta get Javier and we can leave. How’s that goin’ by the way?”

“It’s going just fine. Lenny will be along soon, we’ll have Javier back by tonight.”

“You sure you wanna bring that kid along? I could always-” Micah began an attempt at inserting himself into Dutch’s plan, as he so often did.

“You’ve done enough today, Micah. Go get some rest.” Dutch replied firmly.

“Come on Dutch, you can trust me. You know I’ll always have your back.” Pushed Micah.

“I know exactly who I can trust.” Dutch folded his arms, purposefully turning away from Micah and returning his gaze to the distant horizon. The statement sounded confident but, even as he said it, Dutch wasn’t entirely sure it was the truth.

“You sure?” Micah leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. “Y’know, I always had my suspicions about some of the boys back at home.”

“Oh?” Dutch feigned interest, turning back around and inviting Micah to run his mouth a little more.

“Didn’t you notice how John seems to have avoided all this.” He gestured vaguely to the island all around them.

“He got arrested.” Dutch reminded Micah flatly.

“That's right, but maybe that was all part of the plan. His plan. Who knows if he really got as far as a jail cell?” Micah continued, his inferences clear as day. “Couldn’t help but notice he was awful vague ‘bout what happened in Blackwater, too. Didn’t you say he was with Arthur? Look what happened there.”

Micah was under the impression that his theory had been sound - perhaps even believable - so when Dutch grabbed him roughly by the fraying collar of his dress shirt and slammed him against the jagged, stone wall, Micah’s heart shot into his throat. Taken completely by surprise, his mouth snapped shut and his hands raised in submission. Perhaps it had been a long time since Blackwater, but clearly not long enough for Dutch. His comment had struck a nerve.

“Choose your next words very carefully.” Dutch growled, his grip tightening.

“I- I jus’ want what’s best for the gang, you know that.” Micah assured Dutch, voice trembling. Previously, he thought it would be impossible to sweat any more than he already had in Guarma’s thick humidity, but his fright at Dutch’s sudden outburst had caused a fresh wave of perspiration to break out across his forehead. “I’m only suggesting that maybe- maybe we should be careful, you know, goin’ forward. I know Marston took off for a year, it just… it got me thinkin’, is all.”

Dutch’s fist was clenched so tightly around Micah’s shirt that his knuckles had turned pale and his heart hammered so loud it nearly drowned out Micah’s lame assurances. Taking a moment to process what Micah had suggested, Dutch pulled in a deep, steady breath. He was just debating whether to weigh in with his own opinion when Lenny’s youthful face popped around the corner, his eyebrows raised in surprise and his arms full of stray munitions.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lenny chuckled, looking between Micah’s terrified expression and Dutchs’ dark, furious eyes with concern (and perhaps a little amusement).

Dutch released Micah’s shirt then took a step back, allowing the greasy weasel to melt from his grip and shrink back against the wall. “No. We’re finished here.”

“Good, because I got them bullets you asked for.” Lenny deposited the odd boxes of ammunition on a nearby crate and Dutch wandered over to examine the small bounty, shooting Micah a poisonous glare as the younger man took the opportunity to slink away.

“Does this mean we’re ready to go get Javier now?” Lenny asked, excited. Clearly the god forsaken island they found themselves trapped on had not stripped Lenny of his optimism.

“It does indeed.” Dutch said, loading up his borrowed pistol and rifle before stuffing as much of the spare ammunition as he could fit in his pockets. “I found that cave Hercule mentioned, got us a guide, too.”

“A guide?” Lenny asked.

“Of sorts.”

With that, Dutch and Lenny departed from their destitute camp and set off into the jungle. They descended various slopes and hills, Dutch barely remembering which way to go when all corners of the jungle seemed to look the same, until they came upon rockier, more uneven terrain. The cliffs became more sheer and the coast grew close enough to hear the ocean battering the rocks below. A shallow path beaten into the undergrowth became apparent and they started along the new trail. Other than the occasional direction or instruction, Dutch seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet.

“Y’know… I heard what Micah was sayin’ back there.” Lenny began. He was beginning to question whether breaking the silence was actually a good idea, or if he would be thwarted once again.

“Not that I meant to eavesdrop or nothin’.” He continued, floundering nervously through the delicate subject, “I just… I don’t believe a word of what he says.”

Dutch let the silence stretch on for a few more moments - not that the jungle was a particularly quiet place. The absence of conversation was constantly punctuated by strange birdsong or the calls of distant, unfamiliar animals.

“Perhaps we should just worry about gettin’ home for now.” Dutch said, once again artfully evading a subject he had no desire to discuss.

“Sure, okay.” Lenny conceded. He still had a lot of trust and respect for Dutch, but after seeing how roughly he had handled Micah during their earlier discussion, Lenny couldn’t find the courage to push the subject any further.

Meanwhile, Dutch found that he couldn’t get the matter out of his head. The idea of John - the boy he had practically raised - committing the treachery that Micah described wouldn’t leave him. At the same time, Lenny had a point about Micah, too: the man lacked candour and, while none of them were exactly saints, Dutch found himself trusting Micah's words less and less. He rolled the debate over in his mind again and again until they finally came upon the cave.

After pausing briefly to retrieve two hidden torches and set them alight, Dutch and Lenny carefully advanced along another cliff edge that led to the mouth of the cave. The ledge was steep and Lenny felt nauseous staring down at the dizzying drop below. This was nothing like traversing through the mountains of the Grizzlies but he still felt nauseous as they waited on the ledge for this ‘guide’ Dutch had mentioned.

The guide in question appeared moments later. She was a frail, elderly woman wrapped in a shawl. She had a lantern dangling from one bony hand while she held out the other, crowing out some words in Spanish that Lenny couldn’t make sense of. Dutch seemed to understand, begrudgingly reaching into his pocket as she hissed at him like a wrinkly rattlesnake.

“Dinero…” She rasped. “The money, the gold.”

“Aqui.” Dutch grumbled, handing over a shining gold bar. The old lady snatched it close to her chest and gave it a sniff, eyeing the both of them suspiciously. “Oh, it’s genuine, you old hag.”

Lenny had to resist the urge to smile as he watched the exchange. While he had some reservations about Dutch - how couldn’t he, after witnessing the man slowly change over the last few months - Lenny found that watching Dutch beef it out with an elderly crone was the most entertaining thing he had seen since Sean took him down to that saloon in valentine weeks ago. Seemingly convinced of the gold’s authenticity, the lady spun around and hobbled back into the cave, whispering for them to follow.

Dutch turned to Lenny, his patience wearing even thinner than before. “Now that gold right there… It's the last bit of gold I have in my pocket from the bank. The rest of it is…”

“At the bottom of the sea.” Lenny finished with a grimace.

“Exactly.” Dutch said, turning back to their guide with a foul expression before venturing into the cave.

Darkness encroached around them as they travelled deeper into the cave, the flickering light of their torches causing strange shadows to dance along the walls. Eventually, the orange glow was chased away by white sunlight and they were able to discard their torches as the cave became better-lit. The way forward was clear: a rickety ladder leading directly upwards to an opening where the light was pouring in. Their only obstacle was a rusted iron gate which they were able to force open, the task likely made easier due to years of neglect. Ancient hinges screeched in protest as they shuffled through, the three gathering at the base of the ladder.

“This way?” Dutch eyed their apparent exit suspiciously.

“Sí… then you pay more.” The woman muttered insistently.

“Okay.” Dutch said, in a tone of voice that suggested things definitely weren't okay.

The woman placed herself between Dutch and the ladder, blocking their exit. Dutch, however, made no move to retrieve any more gold to pay her. Obviously, it was because they didn’t have any more, but Lenny suspected that Dutch wouldn't have handed over any more even if he could have.

Suddenly, the woman reached behind her, producing a knife that must have been concealed beneath the drapes of her shawl. She brandished it at Dutch, boldly demanding more payment. “Pay more… Pay now.”

What happened next seemed to pass by in a blur. One second, the woman had the tip of her blade held inches away from Dutch’s neck, but in the next it was flung from her hand as Dutch lashed out. He grabbed her first by her outstretched arm, twisting it in a cruel, unnatural manner until Lenny found himself dodging the wayward blade. After she had been disarmed, Dutch took her by her bony shoulders and slammed her backwards into the ladder, his hands eventually moving to her neck.

Lenny felt like he had been firmly rooted to the ground, unable to interfere. The moment he saw that Dutch intended to kill the woman, however, he lurched forward. Suddenly, he found himself between Dutch and the scrambling hag, quickly pushing Dutch away and giving the old woman the opportunity to flee. Clearly she wasn’t as desperate for more money as she had previously made herself out to be because, the minute she was able to wriggle loose from Dutch’s stranglehold, she flew from the cave like a bat out of hell and disappeared back the way they came.

“What the hell was that about!” Lenny’s big, brown eyes bore into Dutch as if they could see into his soul and measure his worth.

“She- she was gonna betray us.” He insisted. “I could see it, she was no good.”

“You damn near killed her! She’s just a greedy old woman, she ain’t gonna do nothin’.” Lenny said, coming off as more judgemental than reassuring.

“I just… wanted to scare her.”

It was a lie, Dutch knew it was a lie and somewhere, deep down, he was disgusted with his own actions. Lenny could see that it was a lie, too, but for the sake of their mission to rescue Javier he stayed quiet about it. He knew the bout of misfortune that had befallen the gang had caused a change in Dutch - there had been whispers around the campfire, or during guard duty in the dead of night - but seeing the man unravel so rapidly had frightened Lenny. Whatever it was that was happening to Dutch, Lenny hoped there was time for it to be undone.

“Come on. Let’s- let’s go.” Dutch gestured for Lenny to follow him as he climbed up the ladder, emerging in a small, concealed alcove tucked away in a far corner of Fussar’s compound.

Now that they were inside, one step closer to helping Javier, Lenny shrank back into silence and allowed for Dutch to take the lead. At some point during their time underground it had begun to rain - the relentless, strangely warm sheets of water quickly soaked their clothes and mingled with the humid air, leaving behind a thin screen of mist. They both scanned the area in search of their friend, eventually spotting a large group of armed guards entering the compound, all surrounding a tired-looking mule. Lo and behold, the mule was dragging someone behind it, their clothes becoming caked with muck as they slid across the slick, muddy courtyard.

They recognised Javier immediately, both Dutch and Lenny feeling increasingly angry at seeing their friend being treated so poorly. They also recognised that the officer they had met upon arriving in Guarma, Levi Simon, was walking with the group, along with a well-dressed man that must have been Alberto Fussar. As the two of them observed the group from afar, it became clear that they were interrogating Javier. Unfortunately, with the amount of soldiers surrounding Javier, all armed to the teeth, it was clear they would need a more nuanced plan if they were going to rescue him.

Dutch flinched as he watched one of the guards lean down and slap Javier across the face, the rest of them laughing or cheering on the mule as it continued to traipse onwards, yanking a battered Javier behind it.

“I have had enough of this.” Dutch hissed quietly, creeping out of the small, overgrown copse and behind one of the many buildings that stood on the outer edge of the compound.

Lenny followed in silence as they worked their way around the wall of the courtyard, ducking behand walls or in bushes for cover. Occasionally, they would overhear more laughter from Simon and his group of guards as they bullied Javier. They managed to remain well hidden, using the element of surprise to their advantage whenever they encountered a stray soldier or two, killing the unsuspecting men in silence and dragging the bodies to some unseen corner before pressing forward.

Eventually, they came upon a large building that, after risking a peek through one of the windows, Dutch determined to be a factory. They crept inside to see bags of sugar piled high against every wall and lots of complicated-looking machinery taking up most of the room. Lenny watched as Dutch’s eyes lit up, flicking from the bags of sugar to the roaring furnace at the far end of the building.

“We’re gonna need a distraction if we want a chance at reaching Javier.” Dutch whispered to Lenny, keeping his voice low to avoid being detected by the two bored-looking guards milling about, “I think we just found it.”

Lenny failed to see how sugar could possibly help them, but he summoned every last ounce of trust he had in Dutch and helped him dispose of the soldiers. Dutch insisted that there was no need to hide the bodies this time so they left the two men lying on the floor, the blood from their slashed throats slowly turning the floor red.

“Quick, get those windows shut.” Dutch instructed.

Lenny hurried to the crank in the corner of the room. It squeaked and protested as he would it around and around, closing all the window shutters on one side of the factory. As he turned and went to do the same on the opposite wall, Lenny paused and watched curiously as Dutch began slashing up the large sacks of sugar stored around the room, filling the place with dust that made his nose tickle.

“What are you doing?” Asked Lenny.

“Gettin’ ready to blow this place.” Dutch chuckled, grabbing a few sacks and spreading sugar all over the floor. It mingled with the spilled blood in places, creating a sticky, congealing, crimson mess.

“But… we don’t have any dynamite.”

“Oh no, we don’t need dynamite, we’ve got a furnace and lots of sugar. If we create enough dust, this place’ll go.” Dutch said, as if that explained anything.

Lenny didn’t quite understand the science behind the plan but Dutch was smart and he had no doubt it would work. He hurried to shut the second row of windows while Dutch cranked up the furnace. Once the factory was sufficiently dusty, they snuck out through a side door and shut it behind them. Dutch picked up the pace now and urged Lenny ti do the same, seemingly keeping a mental countdown of when the building should blow. Sure enough, just as they reached the far side of the courtyard, the factory gave an ominous rumble before the walls ripped outwards and a great ball of fire sent debris and smoke flying across the compound.

The distraction worked and the guards - the ones still standing, at least - scrambled in surprise. Fussar disappeared quickly at the first sign of danger, escorted by Levi Simon and a few of his men into the large, fortified building at the centre of the compound. Dutch and Lenny looked around in confusion when they realised that Javier was no longer tied to the mule. Instead, they spotted him in a large, outdoor cell, one that strongly resembled a man-sized cage.

Taking advantage while the rest of the guards were still distracted, they opened fire on the armed men and quickly made their way over to the cages. Thankfully, they had ended up rather close and Dutch made quick work of the lock by shooting it off.

“Glad to see you.” Javier smiled weakly. He was slumped against the bars and made no move to get up, not surprising considering the state he was in.

“It’s alright, we got you.” Dutch assured him, giving Javier a quick once-over. He was soaking wet and covered in mud and grime. Now Dutch was closer, he could see that Javier’s face was bruised and he curled an arm awkwardly over his torso, suggesting his ribs might have been equally battered. His leg, the one that he had injured on the beach in his thwarted attempt at an escape, was soaked in blood and clearly no good for walking on.

Dutch checked that Lenny was handling the guards, proud to see that the kid was returning fire accurately and without mercy. He turned back to Javier and gently grabbed hold of him, hauling the injured man over his shoulders. There was a brief break in the shooting, not a ceasefire, but a pause that was long enough to allow the trio to make a break for the main entrance.

As they fled through the main gate and disappeared into the fields that surrounded the compound. Neat rows of thick, leafy sugar cane made for excellent cover as a new round of bullets nipped at their heels. The guards stationed up on the high, stone walls of the compound quickly lost sight of them; the ones that had managed to follow them all the way to the jungle’s edge were gunned down by Lenny. Suddenly, the rain became an advantage as they fled through the forest and the downpour swept away any footprints they left behind, ensuring they wouldn’t be followed. Still, they made sure to wade through the shallows of a river for a mile or two, just in case.

By the time they reached camp it was nearly nightfall. Lenny still held his rifle tightly like it was stuck to his hands and Javier was slumped unconscious across Dutch’s shoulders. They didn’t have much in terms of medical supplies, or experience for that matter, but Bill had turned up some yellowing bandages and a bottle of rum, both of which were quickly put to use.

After the excitement of the day, Dutch was hoping that he would finally be able to get some sleep. That wasn’t the case, however, and instead he found himself standing on a ledge that overlooked Fussar’s compound. In the dying light of the day he could see corpses still defacing the courtyard, all lined up in rows and covered with tarps or blankets. Further in the distance, he watched a light flicker in one of the windows of Cinco Torres. When Javier was better, they would head for the old fort and finally set out for home. The only issue was, out of all the people he would be returning to, who could he really trust?

Chapter Text

While a spell of fair weather and a light, cooling breeze was sweeping through Lemoyne, leaving most of the state’s residents in a fine mood, the atmosphere around Shady Belle was glum and downcast. Truly, their new camp was nothing to shake a stick at with its added security and isolated position. After the first week, the incessant buzzing of flies and sticky humidity became easy to ignore. However, the place felt empty in the absence of their leader, along with some of their best men. No gentle strumming of Javier’s guitar at twilight, no laughter around the campfire and even the absence of their intermittent arguing made camp feel hollow. They had suffered losses before, but never in such a drastic quantity.

Arthur sat in silence on the rickety porch of Shady Belle. He had his journal in his hands, intending on drawing something from his surroundings as a means of distracting himself. Instead, the letter he had received from Mary a few weeks prior had slipped from between two yellowed pages, capturing his attention. He held it out, reading it again and again. Shame crept up on him, warming his cheeks and twisting in his gut: he had completely forgotten about Mary’s reply, the letter overshadowed by Sadie’s news of the bank job and everything that had followed.

Would Mary still want to see him? Was she even still living in Valentine? There was only one way to find out, so Arthur got to his feet and snapped his journal shut, hiding it away in his satchel.

Boadicea was happy to see him, entirely oblivious to her owner’s unhappiness. Sometimes Arthur envied animals and their unwavering innocence. The only animal that seemed to be acting any different after the bank job was The Count, Dutch’s pearly white Arabian. The poor stallion was getting more and more agitated by the day, but nobody quite knew what to do with him: he wouldn’t let anybody but Dutch ride him, so he hadn’t been able to leave camp. The stallion’s unwavering loyalty and ill temperament meant they would also never be able to sell him.

Arthur felt a sting at the thought of selling The Count, unsure of whether he could actually bring himself to get rid of any of the riderless horses they had been left with. He thought about how thankful he was that nobody had been willing to part with Boadicea and how nice it was to have her back.

Suddenly, a disturbance sounded from where the rest of the horses were grazing. The source of the frantic braying was none other than The Count. Sticking out like a sore thumb with his albino coat, the stallion was thrashing and bucking wildly. The cause of his distress was Molly O’Shea, who was clinging to his back and trying desperately to find purchase, her fingers locked tightly in his mane as he rejected her attempts to hitch a ride. After a few seconds of indignant protest, Molly was thrown from The Count. She landed in a heap on the ground and her lavish dress quickly became soaked with muck. Her ginger mop of hair was tangled around her face, curls windswept and sticking on end like a fiery halo.

“Miss O’Shea?” Arthur called out, surprised. “The hell were you thinkin’!”

He hurried over, calming The Count with gentle words and a quick pat before shooing him away. Then he helped Molly to her feet, looking her over for any injuries. She seemed okay as she dusted herself off, just a little dirty and bruised. Upon further inspection, though, Arthur noticed that Molly’s eyes were red and puffy, a sure sign that she had been crying.

“Y’alright?” Arthur asked gently.

“Do I look alright?” Molly spat back. “Course I’m not alright, I-” Molly cut herself off, taking a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes shone with more tears and she brought a handkerchief up to her cheek, gently dabbing away any stragglers.

“You miss Dutch?” Arthur guessed, sparing The Count another glance.

“I s’pose.” Molly nodded. Then, she chuckled to herself, snivelled, shook her head and dabbed away more tears.

Arthur found the answer confusing. “Uhh… Yeah, me too.”

“I shouldn’t, though, should I?” She continued, “He didn’t- I mean… In the end we basically hated each other. But… but I still loved him.” She said, choking up.

It was then that Arthur spotted a bag laying discarded in the grass, a few feet away from where The Count was petulantly stamping his hooves. It was a fine thing, and spilling out of it were even finer clothes, along with an ornate hair brush, some provisions and a half-empty bottle of gin.

“You tryin’ to leave?” Arthur asked, shocked that Molly, of all people, would be trying to leave the gang and strike out on her own - she didn’t exactly seem the type. Arthur had heard mention of how she and Dutch had been less than civil while he was away, but clearly she still felt very deeply about him; deeply enough to be making rash decisions like running away.

“I- I guess.” She sniffed, “I don’t think there’s anythin’ keepin’ me here… maybe there hasn’t for a while.”

“Maybe so, but do you actually want to leave, or do you feel like you have to?” Arthur asked her.

She looked at him, wide eyed, like she hadn’t truly considered it. “I s’pose… I guess I oughta go now- now Dutch is gone. I don’t know what else to do.”

Arthur walked over to Molly’s bag and collected her things, handing them back to her. Then, he took her gently by the elbow and led her back into camp.

“Why don’t you talk to Susan an’ some o’ the other women, maybe they’ll tell you some reasons to stick around.” Arthur offered kindly.

Arthur wasn’t great with words, but he knew Mary-Beth was a fantastic listener, Abigail was sweet as honey and Susan would always offer a distraction in the form of chores or odd jobs. In their company, Molly was sure to find some reason or other to stay with the gang. It was for the best: they would all be safer if they stayed together.

He watched as Molly clutched her bag and floated over to where some of the girls were playing cards. They all crowded around her, promising to get her cleaned up and offering kind words or gentle touches. Satisfied that Molly was in good hands, Arthur returned to the hitching post and swung into Boadicea’s saddle. He glanced at The Count one more time before setting off down the track and away from Shady Belle.

The ride to Chackwick Farm - the place where Mary said she had been renting a room - took most of the day. By the time Arthur arrived, it was late afternoon and dusk would soon be sweeping across New Hanover. As Arthur dismounted and approached the farm house, he greedily breathed in the sweet summer air, noting how it lacked the suffocating humidity that plagued Lemoyne. He thought about how much he missed living out west, which quickly spiralled into thoughts of his younger days and his time spent with Mary.

Realistically, Arthur knew he and Mary never could have worked out: his way of life seemed impossible to escape from and it differed so wildly from the life that Mary wanted they had no choice but to part ways. Especially now, with Dutch gone and the rest of the gang suddenly looking to him for leadership and guidance, he couldn’t even consider it. Still, he could afford to pay one last visit to Mary.

Arthur took a deep breath, dusted himself off and knocked on the door of the farmhouse. He had expected for it to be Mary that answered, but he was instead greeted by a young, rosy cheeked woman pointing a revolver at his chest. Arthur immediately put his hands up, but it did nothing to ease the woman’s suspicions.

“Yes?” She said nervously.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you ma’am.” Arthur found he couldn’t keep still all of a sudden, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the anticipation of seeing Mary built up inside him. “Is Mrs. Linton in?”

The woman looked him up and down, not once lowering the gun. “She and her brother left earlier today. They’re likely already on the train.”

Shit, Arthur thought, his budding excitement replaced with sharp disappointment. He was suddenly furious with himself that he didn’t remember the letter sooner. Nonetheless, he began to bargain with himself, hoping that if he rode fast enough, he could still catch them both at the train station.

Arthur apologised once again for disturbing the woman at the door and bid her a quick goodbye before swinging back into the saddle. He kicked Boadicea into a gallop and forwent sticking to the road, instead flying across the plains and bypassing the buzz of foot traffic in Valentine. Skidding to a stop outside the station, Arthur slid down from Boadicea and burst through the doors. His hat fell askew as he looked around for Mary and he hurried to straighten it out along with his jacket, wager to keep up appearances.

Miraculously, she was still there. Arthur spotted her sitting in the corner of the station, gazing out of the window with a bored look on her face. He also saw that Jamie sat across from her, and noted with a swell of pride that he had grown to be a fine young man. Arthur’s mind flooded with memories: the day he and Mary met, teaching Jamie to ride a horse, sneaking out to see Mary and their relationship being discovered by her unpleasant, disapproving father. He remembered the day they agreed to part ways and finding out she had married someone else shortly after. Receiving the news had felt like a knife being plunged into his heart. A similar feeling was beginning to come over him as he took in the sight of her for the first time in years.

“Arthur? No way!” Jamie gasped. He leapt from his seat and hurried over to Arthur, who gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder.

“Look at you, ain’t you all grown up?” Arthur grinned.

“Arthur?” Mary, too, had gotten to her feet, but hadn’t moved any closer. “Why, I-”

She was interrupted by the screeching of steel as a train pulled into the station. She turned back to the window with dismay, her dark, braided hair whipping over her shoulder.

“Lemme guess, that’s your train?” Arthur sighed. They would only have a couple of minutes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the bags.” Jamie smiled sweetly at his sister before retrieving their luggage and making for the platform. Arthur watched him leave before turning back to Mary.

She was just as he remembered her: skin like porcelain with features as youthful as the day they parted. She wore her hair the same way, wore the same ornate brooch - a gift from her mother, if he recalled correctly - and still looked at him like he was God’s gift to the earth. He would never understand why. The ache that crept up on him next was a familiar one: the ghost of heartbreak. The knowledge that they had loved once and true, but did not hold onto that love tightly enough and had instead allowed it to slip away.

“So, you are alive.” Mary smiled sadly.

“I am.” Arthur chuckled. “And I wanted to see you… one last time.”

“Last time?” She echoed.

“You know I can’t go with you, wherever you’re goin’.” Arthur dropped his gaze from hers. “I got people who’re relyin’ on me now and, well, you know what kind o’ life I lead.”

“I do.” Mary nodded. She was fiddling with something in her hands. Arthur noticed, with another wave of emotion, that it was the ring he had gifted her a lifetime ago. He watched as she slipped it off of her dainty finger and held it out. She meant for him to take it.

“It’s not that I don’t care for you Arthur - because I do, and I think I always will, but I have decided I need to let you go.”

“Oh. I see.” Arthur said, disappointed.

He bit back his bitterness as Mary took his hands in her own. For a moment, she fondly caressed the back of his hand, then she carefully placed the silver band in his palm and withdrew from his grasp. Arthur was disappointed in how their story had ended, but knew it was nobody’s fault but his own. He was also beginning to notice that this was not the same Mary he knew before, despite what he had first assumed. This Mary seemed hardened and more sure of herself than she had been before. What had happened over the years that forced her to step up in such a way, Arthur wondered to himself. A whistle blew outside and he knew he would never have the time to find out.

Mary seemed to be considering him in a similar way. Her brow creased as she looked up at him, pondering all the ways in which time and circumstance had affected them both.

“It was good to see you again.” She said finally, blinking away tears. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

Arthur met her eyes one last time. He considered her words, the idea of letting someone go.

“Goodbye, Mary.”

The ring remained clutched in Arthur’s fist, digging into his palm as he watched Mary board her train. As it departed from the station with a hiss and rolled away through emerald green fields to worlds beyond his reach, Arthur decided to finally let Mary go.

—

The imposing walls of Cinco Torres jutted up above the treeline, the dull, crumbling grey stood in stark contrast to the bright blue horizon. Dutch approached the fort with caution, quickly followed by Micah, Bill and Lenny. Javier had been so injured and exhausted from his time with Fussar’s men that he had been left at their camp to rest, waiting to be retrieved once the coast was clear and the boat that would be their salvation had arrived. That was, if the boat was even real and not a false promise being dangled in front of them as a ruse to help Hercule and Leon’s cause.

Unfortunately, upon arriving at the fort and meeting with Hercule, the four of them were disappointed to discover that the boat would not be arriving yet. In fact, they had more dirty work to do before they could even consider leaving the island. As Hercule had put it: Fussar was on the offensive, calling in armed forces from Cuba and completely blocking off the island.

“It’s like I said - Fussar knows who you are, and knows the price on your head. It’s a big problem.” Hercule explained.

“I see.” Sighed Dutch. Clearly they had attracted too much attention to themselves when raiding Fussar’s compound to retrieve Javier. Perhaps Levi Simon had even recognised them from the beginning.

“But, if we can silence him…” Hercule suggested, “Then I can help you escape before anyone has time to get here from America. That way, we all get what we want.”

“We want to get the boat you promised us.” Dutch huffed impatiently.

“And you will. But you have found yourself in the middle of a war, my friend. Fussar has called in the navy from Cuba. There’s no way a boat could leave right now.”

Hercule seemed as though he was about to say more, but they were suddenly interrupted by a man bursting into the room. He didn’t speak English, but the urgency in his voice was enough to get them all leaping into action. Feet hammering on the uneven cobbles, they followed him up several flights of stairs until they emerged on a part of the fort that overlooked the sea. From there, they watched as a huge, armed ship appeared on the horizon, growing larger and larger as it approached at an alarming pace.

“This must be the boat he called from Cuba.” Hercule gasped, trying to remain steady as the hulkling metal beast opened fire on the fort, shaking the whole structure.

“That’s a goddamn warship!” Bill exclaimed.

“You kind of have to hand it to this feller…” Micah said, staring at it in awe.

Suddenly, a small fleet of rowboats poured from the ship, each holding three men, all armed and in uniform. They watched from the fort, unable to do anything as the boats drew closer to the island but remained just out of range of their firearms. Leon’s small team of fighters all scrambled to prepare both their weapons and themselves for the oncoming storm that awaited them on the beach below. Hercule had a strange air of calmness to him: it was clear he had been expecting this kind of retaliation, likely because he had seen it happen before. Dutch and his men, however, had never experienced something of this calibre; three nervous pairs of eyes fell to Dutch as he weighed their options carefully.

“So what now?” He turned to Hercule, already knowing what the answer would be.

“We fight or we run.” Hercule said coolly. He, too, was aware that only one of those options was truly viable.

“Any o’ you boys feel like runnin’?” Dutch asked the others. He was met with determined faces and not a word of protest, not that they had much of a choice.

Hercule rushed off, claiming they had a cannon capable of destroying the ship but he needed to arm it first. That left the rest of them to put their rifles to good use, slowly picking off the armed soldiers as they landed on the beach. The sheer number of soldiers seemed impossible for the small group of wayward gunslingers and local insurgents to match. Fortunately, they had the advantage of height and fortifications, making it easy to pick off many of the soldiers before they even hit the beach. The crack of gunfire echoed off the walls of Cinco Torres, walls which were slowly being chipped away as the distant warship sent more shells their way.

“Why the hell are we doing this?” Micah yelled over the gunfire, ducking behind the ancient walls of the fort as he reloaded his rifle. “This ain’t our fight!”

Dutch spared a few seconds to glare at Micah before turning back to the base of the fort, brandishing dual revolvers and picking off the few brave soldiers that had managed to cross the shore with deadly aim. “Do you wanna get off this island or not!”

Eventually, the boats stopped arriving, but there were still soldiers swarming the entrance of Cinco Torres, attempting to gain entry. As they readied themselves to abandon their advantageous position and meet their enemy on the beach, Hercule intercepted the group, claiming he needed someone to arm the cannon. Dutch volunteered to hold off the encroaching navy, claiming that he was actually finding the whole mess rather fun. Bill and Micah followed quickly behind him, leaving Lenny to assist Hercule with pushing a huge, brass cannon into position.

The warship was unnervingly close now, close enough for Lenny to make out dozens of men rushing about on the deck like swarming ants. He took a deep breath and assumed his position behind the ten-ton gun, using every muscle in his body to heave it forwards while Hercule loaded it with rounds the size of corn husks.

“Aim at the waterline.” Hercule instructed, “We need to put a serious hole in that boat.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice!” Lenny grinned as he lined up his shot and fired. When the cannon went off, the recoil shook his skinny frame so forcefully that he needed to take a moment to steady himself. Lenny squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for his teeth to stop chattering in his skull.

When Lenny’s vision finally stopped spinning, he was delighted to see that the shot had connected. Faint alarms could be heard ringing from the ship as thick, black smoke bellowed from an area near the bow. Spurred on by excitement, Lenny didn’t hesitate to fire again, then again. He kept pelting the ship until the hull cracked open like an egg and the long, smoking silhouette began to sink below the waves. It didn’t take long for the rest of the soldiers to be rounded up and killed, so when Hercule and Lenny regrouped with the others at the entrance to Cinco Torres, an eerie quiet had overtaken the fort.

“That was quite some shootin’ boys.” Dutch declared, his pride shining through layers of blood and grime. Then, he turned to Hercule. “What now?”

“Oh, they’ll be back,” Hercule assured them, “But I found a boat for you, and it should be arriving on the dock anytime now.”

“Great. Micah, go meet with the captain. If he’s amenable and discreet, tell him we’ll be ready to set sail soon.” Dutch said, an air of excitement creeping into his voice as he allowed himself to hope that they might actually be able to get home. “Bill, Lenny, come help me collect poor old Javier.”

With that, they all split up. Micah headed off towards the nearby docks while Dutch led Bill and Lenny back through the wild to their camp. They greeted Javier, who was looking a great deal better after some much-needed rest, and told him of the great battle he had missed out on. Their epic retelling continued as they made slow progress retracing their steps through the jungle, Bill stopping briefly to fashion a torch to fend off the encroaching darkness. By the time they reconvened it was nightfall, the bodies littering the beach had been cleared away and there was a boat moored at the docks. As they approached the vessel, however, they were greeted by a dismayed Micah.

“Boys, we got a real problem.” Micah announced through gritted teeth, “Nice Mr. Fussar don’t want us going nowhere. He knows just who we are, and if he can keep us here for a few more days, well…”

“And what about the captain of the ship here?” Dutch asked, noting with concern that any kind of sailor was nowhere to be seen. Only Hercule was nearby, apparently he had come to bid them all goodbye only to discover their captain had been kidnapped.

“They got him trussed up like a hog, guards all over the place. Got us surrounded with gun positions, too, so when we try to sail out… he’s gonna blow holes in us.” Micah explained, looking grim.

“This feller is really beginning to try my patience.” Dutch growled.

Javier chuckled humorlessly from where he sat on the dock, leaning against a stack of crates while trying not to aggravate his injured leg. “Tell me about it.”

“I like the man’s style - he’s thorough, nasty and vindictive.” Micah sneered, “However, in this instance, I don’t see we got any alternative but goin’ to free our friendly captain and destroy the artillery.”

Dutch nodded, hoping that this would be their final obstacle. “I agree. Hercule?”

“Oh, I’ll fight Alberto Fussar every day I can.”

Lenny kindly volunteered to stay behind with Javier, leaving Hercule to lead Dutch, Bill and Micah inland. They passed through several clusters of ruined buildings - places that might have once been grand structures reduced to crumbling walls and piles of rubble. As the ruins became larger and more frequent they began to see guards milling about, most of them keeping a weather eye on the coastline.

Their first order of business was to destroy the artillery turrets placed in an elevated area of the fort: the large guns could easily be destroyed with some explosives, but that would no doubt draw the attention of every soldier in the area. Despite the odds being stacked against them, Dutch and Micah pressed onwards and crept up behind a few unsuspecting gunmen, silently slitting their throats and discarding the bodies.

Micah produced some questionably sourced dynamite and together they secured it to both of the large, brass turrets that sat trained on the horizon. No doubt if they had attempted to leave Guarma under Fussar’s eagle-eyed surveillance, those guns would have blown them sky high. The pair stumbled away from the ruins as the guns erupted into flames, the explosions rendering the weaponry completely unusable.

From that point forward, they were under constant assault. Lead pelted the ground at their feet as the four of them navigated through the ruins, returning fire when they could and sprinting for cover when more soldiers arrived. It was like battling the mythical, many-headed hydra: whenever one guard was gunned down, two more seemed to take his place. Eventually, Micah called them over and pointed out a ring of low, dingy buildings, claiming that their lost ship captain was in the cabin at the furthest end of the courtyard.

“The captain’s in that blue building, straight ahead.”

“Well go an’ get him, then!” Dutch commanded, providing enough covering fire for Micah to make a mad dash for the captain.

Upon reaching the blue building unscathed, Micah kept a firm grip on his pistol. He eased open the door to see the ship captain lying bloody and bruised on the ground, a rifle discarded beside him. Unfortunately, Micah was completely unaware of Levi Simon lurking in the shadows just behind him, waiting. Levi leapt out and whipped Micah across the back of the head, pushing him to the ground and squashing his face into the dirt.

“I got you now, you bastard.” Levi hissed, his revolver trained on Micah.

“We are all bastards, my friend… but only one of us… is some would be emperor’s whore.” Dutch retorted, pointing one of his own guns at Levi, causing the man to back off from Micah.

Micah recovered quickly, getting to his feet and raising his own pistol once again.

“We know who you are.” Growled Levi.

“And nobody knows who you are… not even your goddamn father.” Dutch grinned. A creak echoed from the other side of the shack and Dutch raised his other revolver.

Fussar stepped into the room, eyeing Dutch and Micah with a look of disdain and disgust. “You maggots are going to die.”

“Eventually, I’m sure we will…” Dutch said carefully. “But not today, and not because of you.”

“The US Navy is on the way.” Fussar boasted in a foolish attempt to make them sweat.

“I am sure they are, which is why you’re going to let us leave, or you are dying right here, my friend.” Dutch continued.

Micah, now stood opposite Dutch as the four of them became locked in a standoff, watched as Dutch’s gaze dropped to the rifle on the floor, then to the ship captain and finally met Micah’s own gaze. Micah understood.

“Put your guns down.” Levi commanded, squirming under the pressure that electrified the cabin.

Those would be his last words, as Micah deftly kicked the rifle towards the ship captain. The captain, who had been feigning unconsciousness until the right moment, snapped the barrel towards Levi and killed him instantly. Fussar, however, seized his opportunity to flee and spared a brief moment to send a bullet Dutch’s way before flying out of a nearby window. Dutch sprang out of Fussar’s line of fire, but Micah didn't hesitate to charge towards the man. In the time it took for Fussar to get back on his feet, Micah had burst through the door and rounded on him. First he put a bullet in Fussar’s knee, effectively preventing his escape, then he dragged the man into the middle of the courtyard, gun trained on his head. At the sight of Fussar being held hostage, his men called a cease fire. When Micah shot him in the head in front of them all, most turned tail and fled.

With most of the soldiers gone, the walk back to the docks was hauntingly, yet relievedly, quiet. The five of them retreated back to their boat just as the sun began to paint the morning sky with streaks of red. Dutch apologised to the ship captain for landing him in trouble, but the sailor seemed a hardy and forgiving man and immediately set to readying the ship for their journey back to the states.

As they all filed tiredly onto the ship, greeting Javier and Lenny who had been waiting eagerly for them to return, Dutch gave Hercule an amiable pat on the shoulder.

“Are you gonna be okay?” He asked.

“We’ll be like you. We’ll disappear, probably… back to Haiti. Believe me, we’ll be long gone by morning.” Hercule grinned. It was possibly the first time Dutch had seen the man give a proper smile.

“Good. Thank you.” He replied, bidding Hercule goodbye one last time before finally joining the others on the boat.

They all sat in silence as Guarma shrank into the distance. The small, broken island gradually swallowed by grey waves the further away they travelled. None of them were particularly thrilled about being on a boat again, but the thankfulness at leaving Guarma behind overpowered their collective discomfort at being adrift in the Gulf of Mexico. The captain assured them that it wouldn’t be much longer, a few days at most, so they set to getting some uneasy rest.

—

A thin mist settled over the water as they approached the coast of Lemoyne; a dark, moonless night concealing their vessel’s approach. Lights twinkled in the distance, the only indicator that they were, in fact, finally returning to civilization.

“Well, what now?” Bill sighed, rubbing a hand over his raw, sunburned face.

“W-What now? What do you mean, what now?” Micah huffed.

“I mean, we’re heading back to Lemoyne when we’re all wanted men, no doubt.” Bill rightfully pointed out.

“We’ll be alright.” Dutch reassured him. It had been his idea to return back to the US in the first place, insisting on going right back to the state they had to vacate in the first place. “We slip ashore one by one… find out what’s what.”

Micah had a sly look about him as he turned to Dutch. “Or… we could head back to Blackwater, get our money back then cut and run.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Micah whined, desperate to get some cash back in their pockets.

Ever since their disagreement back on Guarma, Dutch had begun to disregard Micah’s input more and more. In turn, Micah had stopped his sycophantic flattery and clingy behaviour. Instead, he acted bolder and suggested whatever he pleased. His only consistent trait seemed to be speaking down on things he disliked, much to the displeasure of his shipmates.

“Because… the last thing they’ll be thinking is for us to turn up back in Lemoyne.” Dutch reasoned. “Besides, we got people to get back to.”

His plan was slightly outlandish but he wasn’t wrong. The others would need them now more than ever: they had nothing left of their spoils from the bank job and the gold they got after messing with those Braithwaites and Grays wouldn’t last forever.

“Exactly.” Lenny interjected, glaring pointedly at Micah. “Let's hope we can still find ‘em.”

“We will, son, don’t worry.” Dutch assured Lenny, regarding the kid fondly as he gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Broke, alone, the law would pick us off one by one. We need to stick together.”

“Still gotta keep a low profile, though, before we track ‘em down.” Javier said.

“Of course. We need to split up, just for now, then regroup after we found the others.” Dutch stood and surveyed them all carefully. “Lenny and Javier, you two leave together. Bill, you go next, then Micah, then I’ll go last.”

“Actually,” Micah interjected, “I’ll leave last. I got business to attend to a little further north before we regroup.”

“Kind of you to volunteer.” Dutch nodded, too tired to pry into Micah’s personal life.

Nobody else had any qualms about the order Dutch had proposed, so they all waited patiently as the ship captain drifted up the Lannahechee River. Lenny enthusiastically helped Javier off the boat as they moored somewhere North of Saint Denis. Bill bid them all a temporary goodbye as he jumped ship a few miles further up the shore. Then it was just Dutch and Micah left standing at the prow, watching Van Horn come into view through the eerie, early morning mist

“You sure you don’t want to go after that money in Blackwater? We’re gonna need it.” He suggested again, trying to tempt Dutch in a manner reminiscent of having a devil on his shoulder.

“I already said no. Gatherin’ our family is more important right now.” Dutch insisted again. The constant suggestion was beginning to rub him the wrong way and he made a point of remaining silent for the remainder of their journey.

When he first started hiding the gang’s savings for safekeeping, Dutch swore to himself that he would never disclose the chosen location to anyone - except maybe Hosea. The stash in Blackwater was entirely Dutch’s secret and he certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone now he couldn’t go back for it, especially not Micah. Dutch was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he would eventually have to make his mind up about Micah and decide whether he could really be trusted.

Despite Micah’s apparent eagerness to recover their funds, nothing more was said. Before long, the boat silently drifted into the Van Horn dockyard. With no money for a room, a hot meal or even a drink, Dutch made a beeline for the nearest unattended horse. The scrawny nag he stole from a hitching post outside the saloon was nothing compared to The Count, but it got him to Clemens Point with little trouble. Their old campsite, of course, was empty. It looked like the gang had vacated as a precaution, as it was picked clean with nothing but trash and patches of dead grass left behind. Hopefully that meant things had been less dire for those that had remained in the country.

Finding a clue as to where they may have moved proved to be a challenge, but Dutch eventually turned up a note left behind that pointed him in the right direction. The yellowed paper was hidden in an old bottle which was purposefully concealed in the roots of the large tree that had been at the very centre of their camp. The bottle seemed as though it had already been disturbed, which Dutch took as a hopeful sign that Lenny, Javier or Bill had beaten him there, perhaps even all three of them. The letter inside was written in Hosea’s careful script. As a precaution, however, he had twisted the clue into something seemingly innocent and unrelated.

Dear Uncle Tacitus,

I do so hope you enjoyed your vacation. Lucky you! Leaving like that. And you always suggested you were too old for travel. I hope you and your cousins enjoyed yourselves. Me and your grand nieces have decided to take a trip of our own as the place has become so dreary and godforsaken in your absence. We have gone to visit relatives (from my Daddy's side, you are not yet acquainted with them) in Shady Belle, a lovely plantation house just east of Braithwaite Manor.

It's buggy and muggy but apparently neither is too bad at this time of year. The house is large and there is plenty of room, but we will only be visiting for so long. We have all missed you dearly, please come see us when you can.

Yours sincerely,

Caroline

Using a moniker and some anecdote about a vacation to veil the true nature of the letter’s contents was a clever idea, but regarding their trip to Guarma as any kind of ‘vacation’ would be like painting a pig green and calling it an alligator. Dutch was just thankful the ordeal was finally over.

After committing the enclosed directions to memory, Dutch carefully rolled up the letter, put it back into the bottle and returned it to where he found it. The ride to Shady Belle went by slower than the last leg of Dutch’s journey as his stolen horse quickly became tired and fed up. Just as the poor thing seemed like it was going to give out from under him, the sounds of celebration began to drift through the trees. A shabby, old plantation house came into view, one with three stories and a large porch that might have once been a fine piece of architecture.

Dutch dismounted and left the nag to wander off and rest, hoping he would be able to do the same. He walked over a creaky bridge and was faced with a dried, crumbling fountain flanked by a cluster of tents on either side. Despite the early hour, there were crates of drinks placed around the place and everybody seemed to be up and excited. They had good reason to be: Javier was playing his guitar like he never wanted to let it go again while Lenny and Bill seemed to be regaling a large quantity of the gang with their story.

Upon noticing Dutch’s arrival, several people came over and immediately welcomed him back, raising their drinks in celebration. Lenny even stopped in the middle of his animated retelling to make his way over, already looking healthier and happier than he had in weeks.

“Dutch, you made it!” Lenny grinned, “Sorry we started drinkin’ without you.”

Suddenly, Sean shot over to them, Karen on his tail. They were both drunk and giggly.

“He’s back! You ain’t gonna believe it but-” Sean began, only to be cut off by Karen.

“Shhhh!” She hushed him, “You’ll ruin the s’prise.”

Dutch was just about to ask what surprise they could possibly have for him when he spotted Hosea appear on the porch of the house, quickly followed by John. Was Marston the surprise, already sprung from jail? Relief quickly washed away any curiosity over the matter as they finally made their way over. Dutch could have held onto Hosea forever; even as they pulled away from each other after a long hug, Dutch still clung to Hosea’s arm in a subconscious effort to keep his friend near.

“Look at that, John. You’re free as a bird.” Dutch chuckled. “Who got you out?”

He was met with no immediate answer. Instead, Dutch looked around to see several faces full of knowing smiles. Clearly, they knew something he didn’t.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“Come on.” Hosea said, leading Dutch to the house while he shooed the others away. “The rest of you, get back to the party!”

Everybody else shuffled back to the campfire, smiling like idiots or giggling or heading for more drinks. Something was definitely afoot. Hosea and John hurriedly pushed Dutch through the front doors, but his energy was waning quickly and the familiar sight of canvas tents and warm campfires made him yearn for a good night’s sleep.

“Listen, I’m hungry and tired and in dire need of a drink, so unless-” Dutch stopped in his tracks.

Arthur stood shyly in the front room, grinning so much his cheeks began to ache. They all stood frozen for a moment, Dutch rooted to the spot in the doorway trying to process what he was seeing while Arthur waited to gauge his reaction.

“Hey.” Arthur chuckled, tipping his hat in exaggerated greeting.

“You- you’re alive?” Dutch couldn’t believe it. “This whole time… Where- What were you… How?”

“I swear I’ll explain.” Arthur promised. He closed the gap between them and was immediately pulled into a hug.

After a long, much-needed embrace, Arthur stepped back and took a long look at Dutch. With his wild eyes, sunburnt skin and clothes caked in mud, sand and blood, he clearly had an equally outlandish story to tell them.

“Looks like you got some explainin’ to do, too.” Arthur commented, “I heard a little from the others.”

“I’m just glad we’re back as a family.” Hosea said thankfully. “Explanations will come in their own time, why don’t we go out and enjoy the celebrations?”

“But what about-” Arthur started. He wanted to bring up Micah. Dutch needed to know, he deserved to know, that Micah had been playing them all.

“All in good time.” Hosea insisted, not wanting to ruin the night. They could send someone to retrieve the note from Clemens Point before Micah got to it. The rest could wait until later, when Dutch and the others didn’t look exhausted and starving and haunted.

“This… is truly unprecedented.” Dutch put an arm over Arthur’s shoulders, hardly taking his eyes off of him. “Goes without saying, things here are even better than I hoped. You boys gotta tell me everything.”

Begrudgingly avoiding the subject of Micah’s betrayal for the time being, Arthur moved the topic elsewhere. John spoke at length about how the gang had been while they were both away, and Arthur revealed all of the small things he had done to help them. Dutch seemed apprehensive at first, questioning Arthur on why he hadn’t simply returned after finding Trelawny, but was impressed when Arthur revealed the confederate gold had been their handiwork. The realisation that Arthur had been at the Lemoyne National Bank was also incredulous and Dutch, in turn, made an effort to explain what had happened after the robbery went awry.

By the time midday rolled around, the four castaways had gone through several bowls of stew each and retold some stories from their time on Guarma three times over. Eventually, though, Susan swept through camp and put an end to the festivities, ordering people to get to work. Dutch, Bill, Javier and Lenny were all thankful to be granted an exemption from her governing so they could get some clean clothes and much needed sleep.

Meanwhile, Sadie snuck off to Clemens Point to retrieve their letter to ‘Uncle Tacitus’. Hopefully, Micah would have no idea where to find them, and neither would the law. It had become abundantly obvious that wherever Micah had been, the Pinkerton Detective Agency had followed not long after. If only he had stayed on that damn island, she thought to herself.

Chapter Text

Morning dawned in golden hues over the swampy state of Lemoyne as Hosea sat on the balcony of Shady Belle, feet kicked up onto the gnarled balustrade. The muggy smell of the bayou mingled with the tang of gun oil that wafted up from the cattleman revolver in his hands as he breathed in the thick, humid air. Most of his morning had been occupied by polishing the gun until every detail was shining like new - from the burnished barrel to the ebony grip, the visage of a broad-antlered stag carved expertly into the darkened wood. The gun was not one of his own but actually Arthur’s favourite side piece recovered after the disaster in Blackwater.

Hosea would have liked to claim that he had made a habit of carefully cherishing one of the few things he had left to remember Arthur by. Unfortunately, that was far from the truth: the gun had been hidden away all this time, out of sight and out of mind. Anything belonging to Arthur in the months that passed after his supposed death had become unbearable to look at, in fact, Hosea had forgotten John had even recovered the revolver until he happened to find it tucked beneath some of his own spare munitions that very morning.

Finally content with his handiwork, Hosea held the fine piece up to catch in the light of the clear, dewy morning. He was grateful for the fact that the bitter feelings of loss and pain were no longer tied to the sight of Arthur’s belongings, instead replaced by pride and sweet relief that his wayward son had returned home. Conveniently enough, Arthur just so happened to be walking around to the front of the plantation house, stifling a hearty yawn.

“Arthur! C’mere, got something for you.” Hosea grinned, beckoning him from over the balcony railing.

“Wussat?” Arthur replied from below, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he nursed a tin cup of strong, dark coffee.

Curiosity kept him staring upwards, thankful for the wide brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the sun. Arthur felt particularly sensitive to all the sights, sounds and offensive smells wafting through camp that morning. It seemed as though the many drinks he had shared with Lenny and Bill as they regaled him with their far away adventures in Guarma were catching up to him. Despite the fact that the party of castaways had returned in the morning, the celebrations had continued throughout the day and only gotten more lively as the sun had begun to set. Hosea seemed perfectly chipper, though, as he beckoned Arthur to join him before disappearing into the house.

They met at the bottom of the stairs, Hosea using one hand to wave Arthur into the front room while the other kept something concealed behind his back. Amused, Arthur obliged and entered the parlour, taking a seat at the table and placing his steaming mug down. Hosea had a playful twinkle in his eye as he produced the perfectly polished cattleman revolver and placed it proudly on the table.

“Thought you might be missin’ this.” He winked.

Arthur took the revolver, regarding it curiously before recognition dawned on his face: it was his cattleman, the one he had lost back in Blackwater. He recognised it from the ornate carving in the walnut grip, the visage of a stag carved by Charles’s deft, talented hands. Arthur marvelled at the fine weapon, watching as sunlight reflected off of the shining barrel. It seemed to be in better condition than it was the day he’d lost it.

“Well I’ll be. I thought I’d lost this one for good.” Arthur chuckled. “You been holdin’ onto it all this time?”

Hosea smiled, glad he could finally return the gun to its rightful owner. In truth, keeping it had made for such a painful reminder of Arthur’s ‘death’ it had been hidden away in a box and left to gather dust.

“Almost forgot to give it back, but I figured you’d be needin’ it.” Hosea’s expression turned a little dark, “Y’know, if you’re goin’ after Micah an’ all.”

“So you agree he’s no good?” Arthur said as he admired the gun a second longer before slipping it back into its soft, leather holster to rest in its rightful place at his side.

“Do I agree? Arthur, I've been trying to tell everybody that since he wormed his way into Dutch’s good graces.” Hosea sighed in frustration. He wasn’t annoyed at Arthur, more at Dutch for allowing a crooked bastard like Micah to stick around for so long. Sure, they were all a little crooked, but Micah had always been bad news.

“I know, I know.” Arthur took a long sip of his coffee, hoping that the bitter sludge would knock the cotton from his mouth and the thrumming headache from between his ears. “Where is Dutch, anyway? We should talk to him about this together.”

“Still asleep upstairs.” admitted Hosea, “Just let him rest a little while longer.”

“I don’t know, he needs to hear about Micah before that damned rat does somethin’ stupid.” Arthur fretted, he knew well enough that there was no way Micah could find them at Shady Belle, but if he decided to go to the Pinkertons for help then there was no telling how many men could be searching Lemoyne for them.

“Dutch won’t want to listen to you if you wake him up on the wrong side of the bed, Arthur.” Hosea chuckled wryly. “Why don’t you come back later, go work that hangover outta your system with some fresh air why don't you?”

“But Hosea-”

“One hour, Arthur. Go check for mail, go fishing, or just go for a ride - go give yourself one morning to relax. I promise we will all be here when you get back.”

Arthur could have pouted like a child. He wanted to dig his heels in, to insist that Dutch hear what he had to say right that instant. One more hour spent doing nothing to help their uncertain situation could mean that Micah gets one hour closer to finding them. Hosea had a point, too: what if the gang wasn’t there when he returned? Arthur couldn’t deny that feeling he got every time he left camp - the feeling that maybe what happened after Blackwater would happen again and he would lose his people for good.

The thought of leaving became even more unbearable as they both stepped out onto the porch, their peaceful settlement on full display. Tents and wagons sprawled across the grassy courtyard as people Arthur considered his closest friends and family buzzed about in casual contentment.

A warm breeze swept through camp, carrying with it the smell of morning dew and whatever Pearson had cooked for breakfast. The vines climbing up the crumbling façade of Shady Belle’s old plantation house rustled quietly as the rest of the house remained similarly quiet. Arthur dragged his gaze up the weathered walls to the vacant balcony and sighed. He could hold off for one more hour, but not a minute longer.

“Fine.” He conceded, chucking back the rest of his coffee. He would go and fetch the mail, maybe bring his rifle and shoot something for dinner. That would be it.

“Excellent. I’ll keep an eye on things, you know I will.” Hosea said assuringly as he followed Arthur out to the porch, watching as he stalked off towards the horses.

Yearning for his own mug of coffee left cooling on the balcony above, Hosea turned and shuffled back into the house. His chest burned as he stifled a dry cough, trying to keep quiet as Dutch slumbered in the master bedroom. He cringed at every creaky floorboard as he ascended the stairs, pushing open the bedroom door just wide enough to slip through before carefully closing it behind him. Hosea was in his element as he moved through the space as silent as a swooping owl, years of breaking and entering meant that every step was perfectly calculated.

Rumpled blankets and sheets covered the bed, all flung to the side during the oppressive humidity that had enveloped them in the night. Hosea watched Dutch in sleep for a moment, relishing in his slack features and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Dutch hated sleeping in and, though it was still morning, he normally would have been up at the crack of dawn. Hosea had decided today would be an exception. It was well-needed, that much was clear: In the last few months, sleep was the only state in which Dutch had actually looked relaxed.

Shafts of pale gold splashed light into the room, illuminating the dusty and moth-eaten condition of their new home. The sight of Dutch’s raven black curls catching the morning rays was not a new sight for Hosea, but every time it still stole all his attention away. Those curls had grown long and unkempt in Guarma and, with the absence of any pomade, they were splayed across Dutch’s pillow like a dark halo. His beard had become similarly untamed, yet to be preened back into uniformity. All that hair almost hid the deep lines etched across his face, made ever deeper by the stress of whatever had happened on that island.

They had all heard the stories. The day before had been filled with excitement as all four men returned safe and in one piece, all apart from Micah of course. Lenny and Bill had jumped at the opportunity to tell everyone where they had been - not that anyone had believed it at first. From the look of them, though, it was clearly the truth. Even now, as Dutch laid sprawled over their bed, Hosea could see his skin was still red and raw. He looked about ten pounds lighter, too. Mrs Grimshaw had been less enthralled by their outlandish stories and more interested in forcing them all into a soapy tub while Pearson wasted no time in fattening them up.

Dutch had been uncharacteristically quiet after his return, though Hosea supposed he could have been in some state of shock. Being shipwrecked, fighting their way off of a war-torn plantation island and sailing back to America only to discover Arthur returned from the dead probably rocked the four of them like nothing else they had ever experienced. Hosea had been especially worried about poor Lenny, going through such an ordeal at only nineteen, but the kid had perked up when Javier found his guitar. By late afternoon, Bill joined the two in repeating what had transpired on that island probably three times over.

Javier had enchanted everyone with vivid descriptions of Guarma - from the idyllic beaches to the deep, uncanny jungle that blanketed the island. Mary-Beth had insisted on writing it all down, sitting there all day and diligently taking down every detail as she babbled on about how it would make an excellent book some day, much to Susan’s ire. Even Arthur had attempted to draw some of the strange animals they described as he, in turn, caught them up on his own recent whereabouts, omitting any mention of Micah to avoid spoiling the moment.

Dutch had listened from afar, his entire day spent watching as the others went about their business. He had barely spoken to Arthur after their initial reunion, hardly paid John any mind and didn't even look at Molly - not that she seemed to care much for Dutch any more. Hosea had noticed there was something eating at Dutch, there usually was, but even after a whole afternoon of prying the man had not budged. He had simply watched.

Finally, some time in the early evening, Hosea had followed Dutch to bed. Only then, in the quiet of their bedroom, did the stony façade finally crumble away. Dutch had ranted for hours, pacing back and forth like a caged animal while Hosea sat by and drank in every word like bitter gin. First he heard about how the ship went down, how water poured in and swept the five men out into pitch darkness only for them to awake on scalding sands. The actual island sounded like a nightmare, with its dense jungle that was near-impossible to navigate, apparently full of strange wildlife and completely unfamiliar terrain. Even worse were the militant inhabitants, working under an iron-fisted plantation dictator. Hosea quickly realised how much the others had been sugar-coating their adventures after hearing first hand about how Javier was captured and imprisoned. It got even worse as Dutch raved on, furious about being forced to fight through the horrors of Guarma’s civil war and put an end to Fussar’s oppressive reign just to earn their boat ride home.

Hosea didn’t think it could get any worse until he learned that, through it all, Micah had been dripping poison into Dutch’s ear. Unsurprisingly, he had insisted that the bank job going awry was not his own doing. However, for him to suggest that John was the one to orchestrate a set up like that, and for Dutch to consider it a possibility, was maddening. In hindsight, it was obvious that Micah had been crooked since the day he slithered his way into their gang - perhaps even since the day he was born - but when Dutch admitted to nearly believing that crap… Hosea could have slapped him.

Sleep eventually took Dutch during the small hours of the morning, coming in fitful and uneasy bouts. Every so often he would wake again, mostly to admit something horrible - like nearly strangling an old woman to death over some gold lost at the bottom of the ocean. At one point, when the room was still in pitch darkness, Hosea awoke to Dutch dropping out of bed with a thud. He was frantic, going on about how they were sinking, seemingly convinced that there was water spilling into the room. Hosea was glad Arthur had left Dutch to sleep for a little longer that morning: there was part of him that wondered if he had slept at all in Guarma. Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, it certainly didn’t seem like it.

Concern gnawed stronger than ever at the forefront of Hosea’s mind. Dutch had already been in a state that could only be described as unwell before the bank job. Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed much, but to Hosea the signs were unmissable. If it hadn’t been for Arthur helping them every chance he got, Hosea supposed that Dutch might have run them into the ground with his nonsensical plans and crazed decisions already. Now their boy was back, Hosea could only hope that things would get better - that Dutch would get better. He prayed that whatever had happened to his partner in crime on Guarma hadn’t driven him to a point of no return.

With barely a sound, Hosea slipped through their shared room and back to his spot on the balcony. The once-lavish master bedroom had felt too empty at first, but everyone else had just assumed he wanted it. Really, it was Dutch who always fancied himself the bigger, finer things in life. Even so, the two of them hadn’t needed to share the room: there was a vacant bedroom downstairs Hosea could have moved to, after all. Slipping into bed beside each other had just felt natural - it wouldn’t have been the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. they had shared a lot over the last few decades, a bed was hardly the most scandalous thing.

Hosea sipped on his lukewarm coffee and wondered if one day they would actually manage to build a place to call their own. Perhaps they would share a bed then, too.

—

Boadicea's hooves beat the rusty dirt track leading out of the bayou, sending up thin clouds of dust and grit as Arthur begrudgingly steered her towards Rhodes. One hour surely wouldn’t hurt, but he couldn’t shake the thought of Micah being somewhere nearby from his mind. The image of that greasy rat lurking in the bushes with an army of Pinkertons not far behind made him feel ill… or perhaps that was still the liquor from the previous night churning in his system.

Arthur had been so distracted by his racing thoughts that he didn't hear Charles approaching from behind, riding atop his nimble mare, Taima. The sound of her pounding hoofbeats synchronised with Boadicea’s own as the two mounts fell into step beside each other.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Asked Charles, one eyebrow arched in playful question, “Would you care for some company?”

Arthur sighed. He hadn’t planned to travel with the company - no other company than Boadicea, anyway. Going to fetch some letters didn’t require two people, Arthur was sure about that. He could have turned down the offer but one look at Charles, with his eyes twinkling and his lips pulled into a coy smile, and Arthur couldn’t resist. Truthfully, he had gotten too used to riding solo. There had been occasions where Sadie or Trelawny had leant their time to him, but ultimately, Arthur had grown accustomed to being alone in the past few months. Perhaps too accustomed.

“Aw, hell. Why not? I’m only goin’ into town.” He caved.

“You sure? I heard Hosea, we could go out and hit the trails, find some game if you’re up to it.” Charles said temptingly, “Sounds like we got all morning.”

“You was listening in?” Arthur was suddenly suspicious: he and Hosea had been in the parlour, with no Charles in sight.

“Uhh… Maybe a little?” Charles chuckled lightly.

“That sly old fox sent you after me, didn’t he?” Sighed Arthur, scrubbing a hand over his sweat-dampened brow. He cringed as his fingers ran over the thick ribbon of scar tissue running up into his hairline, quickly pulling his hat down low to cover it up.

“Well I’m here now, let's go find something for Pearson, huh?” Charles didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he kicked Taima into a brisk canter and disappeared into the brush, knowing Arthur would follow.

The two riders shot past the grand estate of Caliga Hall and skipped out on the visit to Rhodes, Arthur resigning to the fact that they would have to drop by on their way back. Soon, they could hear the rushing waters of the Kamassa River churn in synchrony with the calling birds and chirping insects that inhabited Lemoyne’s flourishing woodlands. Dismounting somewhere south of Ringneck Creek, Arthur suddenly yearned for the breezy beauty of New Hanover or West Elizabeth’s verdant mountains.

Lemoyne’s sticky air and oppressive summer heat was only getting worse as the days grew longer; the abundance of flies gathering around the marshy banks or ponds that cut through the state in dribs and drabs were also beginning to drive Arthur quite mad. Nonetheless, this area had become familiar to both Arthur and Charles, both men finding themselves in a state of total focus as they prowled through the undergrowth together.

Charles let his eyes rove over Arthur’s fine features, trailing along his broad shoulders and strong arms before settling on the rifle in his hands. It was a decent weapon, well maintained and kitted out with a modest scope, but Charles came to the decision that driving away all the surrounding wildlife would do nothing to benefit their hunt.

“Take this.” Charles offered, keeping his voice low. “Or else you’ll scare off anything worth shooting.”

He held his bow out to Arthur, who regarded the gracefully curved weapon with visible apprehension. By the look on his face, it was as if Charles had suggested digging a grave with a dessert spoon.

“Are you kidding?” He asked, skeptical. “Can’t say I ever used one of those before.”

“I’ll teach you.” Charles insisted, “You’re never too old to learn, I imagine.”

With that, Arthur slung his rifle back over his shoulder and took the bow from Charles. For a quick moment their hands brushed together and Arthur couldn’t deny that there was something electric in the other man’s touch. Charles patiently showed Arthur how to grip the bow properly, then how to adjust his posture as he was holding it up to aim straight ahead. With every small touch Charles made at his back or his arms, Arthur found himself leaning into it with comfortable familiarity. He really must have been lonely the past few months: it wasn’t like he and Charles had been particularly close before. Despite this, Arthur found there was something about spending time with Charles that coaxed all of the tension from his muscles and eased his mind, if only slightly.

There had been one occasion, back when they had been camping near Blackwater. Charles had still been relatively new to the gang at that point and, in an attempt to get to know Arthur, he had asked to see him draw something. Naturally, Arthur had chosen a subject he knew well: a stag, his favourite animal. After producing a quick sketch, Charles had studied the page with admiration before showing off a work of his own: a carving of a bison etched into one of his rifles. Arthur had looked between the carving and then his own drawing with fascination before placing his own cattleman revolver on the table, eagerly requesting that Charles immortalise the drawing on the walnut grip of his pistol.

That same pistol, of course, ended up being the one that nearly killed him. Now it was safely back in his own holster, however, Arthur couldn’t be more glad - it was probably the most beautiful piece of weaponry he had ever owned, and worth more than any amount of money could buy.

In no time, the bow felt comfortable in Arthur’s grip and he had an arrow nocked, ready to send a few practice shots into the broad trunk of an oak tree. The first one landed somewhere amongst the tree’s tangle of roots, the second bounced off of a knot in the bark not much higher up. Using a bow was not as easy as Charles made it look, Arthur decided.

“Clearly I aint no good at this.” Arthur sighed, his gravelly tone laced with frustration. “Why don’t you just show me how it’s done first, then I’ll scare everything off after.”

“You keep dropping the bow too quickly. Loose your arrow, take a breath, and then lower it. You can’t give up after two tries.”

Arthur rolled his eyes as he stepped forward to retrieve the two fallen arrows, plucking them from the dirt and resuming his position next to Charles. Nocking an arrow once again, Arthur got ready for his next attempt when he felt a rough hand lift his arm slightly, Charles swooping in once again to make sure he was standing just so.

“Remember to turn your hips like this.” he instructed, placing a hand on either side of Arthur’s waist and turning him ever so slightly.

It felt as if Charles was looking for an excuse just to put his hands wherever he pleased, but when Arthur felt the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck, he suddenly realised he didn't mind. His skin prickled, feeling almost cold as Charles’ touch retreated despite the cloak of humid summer air.

“Are you going to try again?” Charles asked, and Arthur suddenly realised he had been standing there like an idiot with an undrawn bow and an empty head.

“Uhh…” Was all he could muster. He wished he had an available hand to pull his hat down over his cheeks as he felt his face growing warm with abashment.

With a gentle creak, Arthur drew back the bowstring and fired, this time hitting the trunk in the very middle and at a decent height. He noted with pride that Charles actually looked impressed.

“Beat that one then, huh.” Arthur teased.

Humouring him, Charles took back the bow and deftly nocked an arrow. Muscle memory guided him as he took Arthur's spot across from the grand oak and eased into the perfect position. Flawlessly toned biceps rippled under his bronze skin as he drew the arrow back. Arthur found himself unable to take his eyes off of Charles as mid-morning sunlight drifted through the canopy and illuminated him in fluttering shafts of pale gold. There was something so enchanting about the way he looked; Arthur wanted to ask him to hold it right there, grab his journal and immortalise the moment on paper forever, but he knew no page nor pencil could do Charles justice.

Arthur completely missed the perfect bullseye Charles sent into the oak. He barely registered that the arrow had even been fired until a satisfied chuckle spilled from Charles’ lips, his chest puffed out with pride as he admired his handiwork. Arthur quit his gawking and looked over at the tree, only to resume gawking once more as he saw plain as day something he didn’t think was possible: Charles had fired with such expert precision that Arthur’s own arrow had been split right down the middle, the shaft splintering away like a blooming flower to reveal the second arrow had found its mark in directly the same spot as the first.

“Don’t feel too bad, Arthur.” Charles grinned, rolling his shoulders. “Skill takes time.”

“I don’t know, all the time in the world couldn’t have me shootin’ like that.” Admitted Arthur, shaking his head.

“How good do you think you could get in an hour?”

With that, the pair moved through the woods, passing the bow back and forth between them. Arthur would practice his technique on tree trunks and logs until they snuck up on something live, at which point Charles would nail it every time. Eventually, though, Arthur started taking down game as well, resulting in a small collection of squirrels, a few turkeys and even a fair-sized buck all strapped or slung over their saddles. Of course, when Arthur realised they had been out until noon he insisted they head back to camp.

“Thanks for the lesson, Charles.” Arthur said as he secured the last turkey to Boadicea’s side. “I’d stay longer but, y’know… we got folks to get back to.”

“We’ll have to do it again sometime.” Charles swung into his saddle, careful not to knock the antlers tied onto the back.

“That’s for sure. Let's hit the station before we head back, I told Hosea I’d stop by the post office.” Said Arthur, jumping atop his mare and starting down the trail towards Rhodes.

Arthur was a little worried about how easily they had lost track of time in the woods, but he also couldn’t think of a better way to have spent it. Suddenly, he was dreading the idea of talking to Dutch. With no way of knowing what kind of mood he’d be in, Arthur wondered if Dutch would be willing to listen to him at all. Perhaps he’d simply deny any belief that Micah would betray them like he was about to suggest. Looking over at Charles suddenly did little to ease his mind too. In fact, as he caught a glimpse of those deep umber irises, Arthur felt as if his stomach was twisting in knots. Perhaps he was still feeling queasy from all that drinking the night before.

They reached Rhodes soon enough, the usual din of wagon wheels and chattering townsfolk leaving the horses looking twitchy. They hitched far out the way of all the regular hustle and bustle, Charles electing to stay with their mounts and keep away sneaky fingers looking to steal their hard-earned hunting trophies. Meanwhile, Arthur squinted in the midday sun as he navigated through the quaint town. The train station was blessedly quiet and there was no queue for the post office, allowing Arthur to walk up and request letters addressed to all the usual monikers.

“Looks like there’s only this one for you today, sir.” Said the chipper man behind the desk, handing over a single envelope.

“Thank you kindly.” Arthur nodded, tipping his hat to bid the man good day. As he looked down at the handwriting on the letter, however, his day turned decidedly worse.

Arthur ripped open the envelope as he hurried back outside to show Charles. The letter inside was just a few lines, but he knew they would be leading to a whole heap of trouble.

“What is it?” Charles asked as Arthur handed him the crumpled page.

“That’s Micah’s handwriting.” He scowled, already getting back in his saddle. “Shoulda’ known he’d figure me out sooner or later.”

Charles got back into his own saddle as he handed the letter back to Arthur, who shoved it roughly into the pocket of his jacket. The words rolled over his mind like a tidal wave, their perfect morning ruined in just a few chicken-scratch sentences.

Morgan,

I know you’re still alive, cowpoke. Meet at Clemens Point tonight. Come alone.

           - M

“I’ll go with you.” Promised Charles, knowing there was no stopping Arthur from diving head-first into trouble.

Arthur gave him a solemn nod, his eyes full of silent gratitude, before kicking Boadicea into a gallop. The two of them raced back to camp, leaving Rhodes in the dust as the sun crested high in the sky. With luck on their side, Micah Bell would be dead in less than twelve hours.

—

“Dutch, we need to talk.”

Stood firm and confident on the front porch of Shady Belle, Arthur was ready to make his pitch: go after Micah tonight and put a bullet between his beady eyes. Hosea was nearby, leaned up the nearest pillar ready to chime if need be. The subject of Micah's treachery had been put off long enough already and they were ready to make that point clear to Dutch. With plenty of time to mull it over on the way home, Arthur was confident there was no way Dutch could remain complacent, especially with Micah’s letter still tucked away in his coat pocket.

Dutch had been nursing a glass of whiskey on the balcony of the old plantation house. He looked Arthur up and down with eyes like dark garnets which seemed to sparkle a bit brighter as he glanced at Hosea. Now that he was back in his fine clothes, complete with gold rings and a bit of hair pomade, Dutch looked a lot better than when he had first arrived back in camp the day previous. Unfortunately, he had very little insight into what the man was thinking, nor how he would react when Arthur gave him the bad news.

“Okay.” He said, sounding dubious as he gestured for Arthur to go ahead.

“It’s about Micah. I know, for some reason, you seem to like him, but he’s bad news.” Arthur began, “He’s our rat.”

Tentatively watching Dutch’s face for a reaction, Arthur was slightly unnerved when he was met with nothing. Dutch remained stoic and unfazed, carefully concealing the storm that was building in his mind.

“Go on…”

“First off, when I left Blackwater and made my way north lookin’ for y’all I reached Strawberry. I crossed paths with Micah and within an hour he tried to kill me - almost got away with it too.”

“He said it was O’Driscolls that he crossed outside Strawberry.” Dutch challenged calmly.

“They was there too, but I was the one that got him in the leg and made off with the cash. That ended up back in your hands, by the way, courtesy of Trelawny.”

Dutch nodded thoughtfully as he recalled the way Micah had limped back into camp sullen and empty-handed. Meanwhile, Arthur was pleased that his words were actually getting through; he and Hosea already had the suspicion that Dutch knew full well what Micah was doing, but why he wouldn't put a stop to it right away was a mystery. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had deceived the gang, except all those times before their problem had been dealt with swiftly and with no mercy.

With no protests from Dutch and no input from Hosea necessary, Arthur pushed on. He found himself on a roll as he recounted all of Micah’s misdeeds.

“That ain’t all. He let slip that Pinkertons was the ones that let him out of jail in the first place. You know they’re after you, Dutch. So does Micah, so he agreed to sell you out.”

Dutch stared into his glass of whiskey for a long time, meeting Arthur’s admission with contemplative silence. Arthur watched nervously as Dutch swirled the liquor around as if the amber whirlpool held all the answers. Eventually, his eyes flicked up to meet Arthur’s uneasy gaze, holding more heat and contempt than Arthur could have ever expected.

“How do you propose we get rid of our problem, then.” Dutch swiftly knocked back the rest of his drink and stood up, adjusting his gun belt deliberately.

“I ain’t sure yet, but I know where we’ll find him.” Arthur smirked, producing Micah’s letter from his coat pocket.

“Went to get the mail after all?” Hosea crowed. He had been a little worried about Dutch and his unhealthy predilection for Micah, but the fact that he seemed so easily convinced of Micah’s betrayal was a relief. Dutch’s change in attitude must have been because of what had happened on Guarma: Micah had gotten desperate and careless, he had pushed the idea of John playing traitor too soon. Finally, Dutch had seen through his bullshit.

“Micah sent it to me. Must have recognised me at the bank, think he wants us to settle some differences.” Arthur grumbled as he showed them both the letter.

“Come alone, huh?” Dutch huffed, “Well that just won’t do.”

“Not one bit. No doubt he’ll bring his own reinforcements, too.” Arthur said bitterly. He would have gone alone if necessary, like Micah requested, but where would be the sense in that?

There was a brief pause in the conversation as they all stared at the page. They had one afternoon to prepare, with no idea what they would be walking into or how many men Micah might have backing him up. All they knew was that this opportunity couldn’t be passed up. Micah had always been a problem, one left to fester for far too long, and now was the time for them to do something about it.

“Gentlemen…” Dutch smiled darkly, “I have a plan.”