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say-hwaet · 26 days ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 14: The Callander Brothers Next Chapter: fifteen Summary: In a rare moment of bonding time with the old guard, Arthur, Dutch, and John are caught up in a bar fight. Warnings: Mature themes, language, violence Word Count: ~8,000

The earth is cool beneath you as you lie on your back and look at the sky. The children are taking their afternoon nap, allowing you a quiet moment to yourself. Your eye catches a Quaking Aspen leaf break from its hold and falls softly, gently downward. It lands just beside your face, along with the many others that have fallen, creating a bed of gold surrounding you.

You’ve missed Idaho. If you were ambitious enough you could travel southward and make it back to Aspen’s Way. You’re tempted, but you made a silent vow that you would stay long enough for Abigail’s pregnancy. Figuring the time and the size that she is, she’s about six months pregnant. She will be having a winter baby.

You hope to travel south before then. Having a baby in the dead of winter is no picnic, and you’re glad that you don’t have to experience that again.

Unless…

No, you can’t think about that.

You blink to let the thought fade away and rest a hand on the spine of your book as it lays open on your stomach. You found it in your tent one day, shortly after Arthur came back with a broken nose. It’s the History of the Gaels, battles and figures etched into the fabric of time long gone. You’ve always had a taste for history, and you imagine that you would have made a decent teacher if you were given the chance. Thoughts and dreams linger in your mind as you cast your eyes at the blue sky, thinking about your own history, and how it's intertwined with the man who keeps leaving and returning like the seasons.

Since the battle with the O’Driscolls, Arthur has been on more frequent jobs. Things seem to be going well in terms of success, and the gang seems to be sitting comfortably. You’ve noticed that provisions have improved, changing from salted offal and hardtack to canned strawberries and cheeses. You and Pearson have been able to cook things other than stews, like biscuits in the Dutch oven and thick cuts of pan-fried venison steaks.

And with fall now here, you feel the foreboding urgency to ready yourself and your children for winter.

And get what you need to help Abigail prepare for delivery.

Things have become stagnant between her and John. No more teasing and exchanged glances, just silent pauses and awkward stances. You aren’t sure if John rejects the baby, but he isn’t stepping forward to accept it either. Abigail, though tough as nails, carries worry in the lines around her eyes, fearing she might raise this child alone. You’ve taken it upon yourself to be there for her, especially since you understand the loneliness that gnaws at a mother's heart.

You sigh deeply, turning your attention back to the book, and you sit up to get in a comfortable position to read it. You flip the book away from your abdomen, letting it rest in your hands and you tuck some loose hair behind your ear. The heat of the sun is warm against your back, contrasting the cool breeze that sweeps into the leaves of the trees. More leaves fall down like gentle rain but you don’t mind.

Interrupting your reading of Dunadd kings, a gentle rumble calls your name. “Eliza.”

You look up and casting a shadow over you is Arthur. You eye his nose, healed up now, but the shape of its bridge is forever altered. His eyes, still sharp as ever, carry a heaviness—a weariness from the roads traveled and the weight of leading a life that never strays far from danger.

“The children up from their nap?” you ask, shifting the book to your lap, attempting to mask the stir of emotions his sudden presence always ignites in you.

He smiles softly, shaking his head. “No,” he answers, and he eases himself to sit down, moving to sit closer to you. “Just thought I’d come find you before I head out.”

“Oh?” You close your book, your curiosity now found elsewhere. “Another job?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not shoah.” He takes off his hat and the gentle breeze stirs his fawn-colored strands. “But Dutch is only wantin’ John and I to go. So it must be an easy job.” He sets his hat down next to him. “He keeps complainin’ we need more guns. Not enough men to really do the big jobs he keeps dreamin’ up.”

You nod, the news settling like a stone in your stomach. This life, always on the brink of some danger, still refuses to sit right with you, especially with your children to think about. You watch Arthur as he runs a hand through his hair, the lines of his face deepening with thought.

"You worried?" you ask as you set the book down on the ground beside you and bring up your knees.

He shakes his head, bunching his lips as he brings up a knee and rests his arm on it. “Nah, just…” He tucks his chin, as though he can hide his face. “Just been gone a lot, is all. Days at a time.”

You can’t help but chuckle, finding the irony in his statement. “And being gone for almost a year isn’t?”

He peeks at you from over his arm. “Point made.”

You snort, glad that he finds amusement in your teasing despite the harshness of your shared reality. Arthur chuckles—a sound that carries a note of both resignation and fondness, reflecting his complex feelings about his constant departures and returns.

“I’ve never asked…” he begins to say, his voice taking a vulnerable tone. “But when you was pregnant with Alice…”

“She’s yours,” you say quickly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

His eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “No, I never doubted that, Eliza. She’s too much like her daddy to be otherwise.” He chortles, then he pauses, his eyes searching yours. “I just...I wonder how you managed. Alone, with little Isaac and bein’ with child.” He looks away again. “I was gone for a while.”

You feel a swell of emotions as the memories flood back—the loneliness, the fear, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. But you swallow them back, knowing that it doesn’t do any good to bring them up. “I told you already that I worried about you. You hadn’t been gone that long since back when we first met. I thought the worst had happened.”

“But what about how I left you? After August, after what we–?” he asks again, stopping himself from finishing his question. It’s only ever been words since then. Since he took you in his arms and felt your flesh melt in his hands. You’ve said you love him, but he can’t even get the words to leave his lips. He meant to do what he did, that night, under that hot August moon.

And lately, he’s been wishing for those times again.

He isn’t sure what has triggered it. Is it Abigail? Is it the symmetry of circumstances? How is it that John gets off easy while he did what he could by you?

How could he have left you? Why didn’t he stay?

You watch as he turns his body towards you, his movements gentler, warmer. The look in his eyes is a remnant of the times he looked sweetly at you, like you were the only person in the world that mattered. It’s a look that can both soothe and stir turmoil within you, for it brings with it the weight of old dreams and hopes.

“I got by,” you reply softly as you finally answer, the words feeling inadequate for what you actually went through. “The days were long and the nights longer. But that’s the way it always was. I held onto the hope that…” He brings his hand to your cheek, caressing the side of your face, nearly causing you to lose your words. “…that you would…come back.”

Arthur's touch sends a shiver through you, the warmth of his hand contrasting sharply with the cool afternoon air that surrounds the woods and camp just beyond them. His eyes never waver from yours, and in them, you see a torrent of emotions he's often left unspoken.

"You always was strong," he mutters softly. “How’d the children get so lucky to have a mama like you?”

His words are a salve, yet they reopen wounds that have never quite healed—the pain of those endless nights, the uncertainty of each day without him. You summon a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. "Just lucky, I guess." you answer, your voice steady despite the trembling feeling inside you.

He chortles at that, nodding softly. “Yeah, I reckon so.” His thumb caresses your cheek and you begin to wish that he’d kiss you. You’ve begun to forget what he feels like, how his lips would taste of tobacco and the outdoors. But he pulls away, leaving a cold void where his warmth had been.

The silence stretches between you, thick and tense. Finally, Arthur clears his throat, his gaze firm and resolute. "Abigail seems to be doin’ alright,” he starts, his voice more candid. “She’s got a lotta people helpin’ her.”

You nod, licking your lips. “Has John said anything to you?”

Arthur shakes his head, disappointed to not have a good report. “He don’t talk to me lately. I think he’s still dealin’ with the news.”

You snort at that. “He should be over that hump by now.”

But Arthur whips his head to look back at you, his brow lowering. “John’s just a kid. And he’s had different raisin’ than me. A different way of seein’ things.”

“But didn’t Dutch and Hosea raise you both as brothers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath his weathered shirt. "Yeah, in a manner of speakin'. But we took to different parts of their teachin’, and it's shaped us in ways that ain't easy to reconcile sometimes." Then he shakes his head. “But it ain’t that simple. He had some years before joinin’ us. When he was a boah. Those times can affect a person.”

You can understand what he means, the complexities of a harsh life combined with Dutch's charismatic yet often misguided principles. It isn't just a question of right or wrong; it is a question of survival, of loyalty divided like the branch of a split tree. "I suppose we all pick our paths," you say quietly, the breeze lifting strands of your hair like whispers around your face.

“Not always.”

You shake your head, your opinion in this pretty firm. You know it wasn’t your fault that your parents died, but you had the choice as to what to do with your life. You could have chosen a path far different than being a lowly waitress. “We always have a choice, even if the choices aren’t good ones.”

“Tell that to a six-year-old boah who lost his mama, and his daddy hung when he was eleven.”

You look back at him, your brow lifted and eyes soft. “That what happened to John?”

Arthur falls silent and you know that it isn’t John’s story he’s telling. “Arthur…” Your voice is nearly a whimper, and you reach for him, placing your hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what happened…?”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, his eyes flickering with a somber glow. “John lost his folks, too. I ain’t special.”

But you are, is what you want to say. You’re special to me.

But you simply squeeze his arm. “You think that’s why he’s acting like he is?”

Arthur nods his head softly, not meeting your eyes. “He’s independent, like a wild animal you’re tryin’ to tame.”

You can actually see that. You picture a raccoon or a wolf pup, gnawing on anything that moves, distrusting everything. “Makes sense.”

“He takes time to look at things, if you can believe that. He may be a fool, but he keeps a lot inside.”

You blink softly as you observe the sullenness in his eyes, the way he picks at the grass in the space between his legs. “Like you do?”

“I got a journal to hold my thoughts. He got nothin’.”

“He’s got us,” you say, your voice firm but gentle. “He may not think so, but he’s got people.” You look down at his hand and you let your hand glide down his arm to take it in yours. “We didn’t.”

Arthur squeezes your hand, chortling softly. “Yeah, you did. You had…Betty, or what’s ‘er name.”

“Bethy,” you correct, finding delight that he’d even remember her at all. With Arthur’s hand still in yours, you lift it away from his bent knee, bringing it close to you as you observe the healed cuts on his knuckles. “You know…I kinda named Alice after her.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know Elizabeth is already a name on its own, but her middle name is a combination of mine and Bethy’s.”

Arthur's gaze finally lifts, meeting yours with a flicker of surprise. “That hadn’t really occurred to me. But it makes sense.”

You nod, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “She was good to me, Arthur. After everything…she took me under her wing when my folks died and was supportive when I became pregnant. She let me make my own choices, but still cared enough to tell me the truth.” You sigh deeply at the thought. You wonder what has become of her, if she ended up with Joe and now helps him run the restaurant as an owner rather than a waitress. “I want to be that for Abigail. She shouldn’t have things candy-coated. Life will be harder for her otherwise.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he absorbs your words. He and you both are all too familiar with life being hard. It seems that, with the exception of a few moments, that is all it has ever been.

Arthur lifts his eyes and regards the sky and notices how much time has passed. A soft “oh” escapes his lips and, letting your hand go, he rises to his feet. “I need to get goin’.”

You watch him stand, tall and imposing against the backdrop of the late afternoon sun. The red hues cast shadows across his features, making them appear softer, almost gentle. “Will I see you soon?” you ask, the uncertainty in your voice more pronounced than you intended.

Arthur pauses and looks back down at you with those piercing marine eyes. “Hopefully sometime tonight, darlin’.”

Darling. There he goes again. You swallow thickly, trying to keep a straight face, and you get up from the soft, leaf-coated earth. “Let’s wake up the children. Say goodbye to them before you go.”

He makes a sweeping gesture towards camp, putting his hat back on his head. “After you.”

You lead the way. Arthur keeps a few paces behind you and you both ignore the stares from Hosea and Susan as you pass them by. Reaching your tent, you pull back the canvas flap slowly and peek inside. Yes, the children are still sleeping.

Isaac, sprawled like a little starfish across his rough blanket on the floor of the tent, snores softly while Alice clutches a patchwork fox you made out of old shirts close to her chest. The sight makes you feel proud, blessed, to be fortunate to have such precious children.

You turn to meet Arthur’s eyes and raise a forefinger to your lips. Taking the lead, you step into the tent and Arthur follows behind you.

You kneel down beside your sleeping babies and bowing toward the floor you lean close to Isaac and run a gentle hand up and down his back. “Isaac…” you beckon. “time to wake up from your nap…”

Isaac stirs, his little face scrunching in a mix of sleepiness and resistance before his eyes flutter open. He looks up, sees you, blinks twice, and then his gaze shifts to Arthur standing slightly behind you. A sleepy smile spreads across his young face.

“Sleep good, partner?” Arthur asks his son.

Isaac's smile widens, and he nods, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with small fists. "Yeah, Daddy," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep but ringing with the innocence and joy only a child can possess.

Arthur kneels down beside you, his presence like a sturdy oak tree in a storm. The warmth radiating off him almost tangible in the cool air of the tent. “Hey there, Alice,” he whispers tenderness seeping into his voice as he extends a hand to gently shake your daughter awake.

Alice stirs, her little body curling tighter around the stuffed fox before her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the tent. She blinks up at Arthur, her small face breaking into a sleepy, yet radiant smile as recognition dawns. "Dada…" she gasps in a hushed tone, her arms flinging open as if inviting the whole world into her embrace.

Arthur’s rough hand, hardened by years of life on the run and battles fought, scoops her up, bringing her close to his chest. The little girl’s giggles fill the tent, a sound pure and liberating, mingling with the rustle of canvas and the distant calls of birds outside. “You keep growin’,” Arthur murmurs into her hair, his voice a low rumble of wonder and affection. "It’s like I blink and you grow inches."

The safety of this moment blankets you like the warmth of a sunrise, pushing back the shadows that linger from life's hardships. Yet, the peace is a fleeting companion in your world. You know Arthur needs to say goodbye to them, his impending mission with Dutch already prolonged.

“Well,” Arthur begins, and you can hear it in his voice. Giving you a knowing look, he hands Alice over to you and you set her in your lap as you remain kneeling.

Isaac senses it too, for his smile instantly disappears. “You goin’, Daddy?”

Arthur nods. “‘Fraid so, partner.” Then he places his palm on the top of his son’s head and gives it a good tousle. “But it’s a short bit. Got some things to do with John and Dutch.”

Isaac's eyes darken with a sudden storm of worry and disappointment. "But when will you be back, Daddy? You said last time—"

Arthur's gaze softens as he looks at his son, the lines around his eyes tightening with sorrow at the promise of uncertainty. “I know what I said, son. But this is different. You live with me, and I always come back. I gotta work to take care of you, your sister, and your mama, don’t I?”

After thinking about it, Isaac nods his head. “Yeah…” His voice trails off into a whisper, heavy with an uneasy acceptance. Arthur leans down to press his forehead against Isaac's, a silent promise passing between them—a momentary bond in the transient life they are currently living.

Arthur lifts his head and pats Isaac’s head. “You’re a good kid, Isaac.” He rises to his feet and groans as he stretches. “You need me to bring back anythin’?” he asks you.

You shake your head as you caress Alice’s head, coiling your finger in the ends of her little curls. “No. We should be fine.”

“Alright.” Arthur turns and heads out of the tent.

The flap falls behind him with a soft thud, and the absence of his presence wraps around you like a cold wind whipping through the trees. You clutch Alice tighter, and she stirs slightly in your arms, wanting to get out and play, now that she’s awake. Isaac rises to his feet and hurries out of the tent.

“Daddy…!” Isaac calls out and sees his father mounting Boadicea.

Arthur looks over to see Isaac running up to him. “Forget somethin’, partner?”

“Can you bring me a horse?”

Arthur lifts his brow. “A horse?” he chuckles, the sound mingling with the dust swirling around Boadicea’s hooves. "Well now, how about we talk about that when I get back?" His voice carries a hint of promise, making Isaac's face light up once more despite his earlier dismay.

"Okay, Daddy!" Isaac shouts, grinning as he takes a step back. “But don’t forget, okay?”

“Let’s go, Arthur!” Dutch calls, steering The Count away from camp.

Arthur takes one last look at his boy and smiles. “You listen to your mama.”

And just as John and Dutch ride off, Arthur kicks Boadicea’s barrel gently and they gallop after them.

***

“So, you gonna tell us what this job is, Dutch?” John asks after the camp is no longer in sight.

Dutch maneuvers so he rides between John and Arthur and looks at each of them, one at a time. “We’re heading into town. The saloon.”

John snorts. “Every time you end up in a saloon, you bring back trouble.” He shakes his head. “Would rather go to church than that.”

Arthur knows he’s joking, but he can’t help but feel a little irritated by his remarks. By trouble, he means Abigail and that doesn’t seem to appear like he feels the way he did when this all started. It isn’t all on Abigail that she got pregnant. John may be a fool, but he isn’t that stupid.

“Maybe goin’ to a church can teach you about forgiveness, John,” Arthur says cleverly. “Maybe about, I don’t know, responsibility?”

“I always thought you hated churches, Arthur,” Dutch says snarkily. “Goin’ all high and mighty on us now?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He was merely trying to make a point. He knows how the folks in Low Falls had helped you, and while he’s seen his share of corrupt people under the guise of the cloth, he’s come to find that there are still some good people out there. “I just think that he should be a little more understandin’, is all.” He looks straight ahead, the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. “That don’t make me high and mighty.”

Dutch laughs, a deep sound that echoes slightly in the crisp air around them. “Maybe you need to get out more. You need to be reminded that the world ain't all about feelings and emotions, Arthur." His eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief that only Dutch can muster. John chuckles softly beside them, shaking his head.

As the trio nears the town, the familiar outlines of buildings and streets come into view. The setting sun casts a low arc of light through the town’s main street, giving the final call for townsfolk to either get home or join the nightlife.

Dutch takes the lead, riding up towards the saloon and dismounting before coming to a full stop. He is quite eager, and that does little to settle Arthur’s curiosity. He pulls up beside The Count, and John follows and, after dismounting and tying Boadicea, he catches up with Dutch as he waits at the base of the steps.

Dutch already has a cigar pulled out and he lights it, the orange glow illuminating his face. “You boys ready?” he asks.

Arthur glances in John’s direction just as he steps up reluctantly. “Yeah,” Arthur answers half-heartedly.

Dutch nods, either ignoring the lack of enthusiasm or not even noticing. He inhales slowly, then lets a long stream of smoke escape his lips. “Good.” He then turns toward the saloon’s entrance. “Let’s go in.”

As they enter the saloon, the atmosphere shifts tangibly, from the open, crisp air outside to a haze of tobacco smoke and the scent of liquor that permeates the room. The din of voices and clinking glasses fills Arthur's ears as he scans the crowded space. Men clustered around card tables, a piano player banging away as a woman sings a sad love song. Arthur hopes that she isn’t the reason they’re here. As Dutch steps forward, he sneaks a glance over at John, who shares a knowing look. Arthur wants to talk to him, to see if he has changed at all toward Abigail. He knows he can’t be so heartless as to turn her away. Does he really think that the baby isn’t his?

“Boys.” Arthur lifts his head to see Dutch wave them over just as he leans over the bar counter.

They walk calmly over, their strides confident and casual. Arthur rests his hands on his gun belt and leans sideways into the counter, facing Dutch and John and keeping his back to the main entrance.

The bartender, noticing his new patrons, approaches the three strangers as he has his fist in a glass, cleaning it with a dry rag. “What’ll it be, folks?”

Dutch holds up his ringed forefinger. “I’ll have a gin.” Then he points to John. “And you, son?”

John shifts on his feet, the uncertainty of the purpose of them even being here still on his mind. He turns around, letting his back hit the counter. “Whiskey.”

The bartender meets Arthur’s eyes and the outlaw feels inclined to answer. “I’ll have a whiskey, too.”

The bartender nods. “Comin’ right up, fellas.” Turning away, he walks down the aisle and begins to pull out glasses that he’s cleaned already.

Arthur's eyes drift around the saloon again, settling on a shadowed corner where a young, strawberry-blonde man nurses a drink. Something about the way he sits while another man next to him, chestnut-haired and larger, about Arthur’s size and build, hovers over a table, playing poker with two others. It is as though the excitement of the poker game isn’t enough to rouse his attention, but the way he clutches his glass shows something else.

With the bartender out of earshot, Arthur leans close to Dutch. “So, what’re we doin’ here? Waitin’ for a lead or somethin’?”

Dutch doesn’t turn his head, but looks at Arthur with a sideways glance. “Can’t a man enjoy a drink with his sons?”

John lets out a chortle. “Oh, come on, Dutch—” And as he turns again he sees the seriousness in his leader’s eyes. “Wait, you ain’t jokin’?”

Dutch’s face remains an unreadable mask as he slowly shifts his gaze from John to Arthur. “No, I ain’t. We are just havin’ a drink.”

John shakes his head. “I ain’t convinced.”

The drinks come quickly over, sliding down the counter. With his reflexes, Arthur catches his drink with a quick flick of his wrist, barely making a sound as the glass settles. The bartender lingers for a moment, eyeing them cautiously before retreating back to his post.

A tense silence falls over the trio, broken intermittently by the clinks of glasses and the low murmur of conversations around them. Dutch finally speaks, raising the glass in front of his eyes the clear drink in his crystal glass, letting it swirl around. “Well, if I had just said to ride all the way into town with me for a drink, would you have come?”

Well, hell, he has a point, but neither Arthur or John, care to admit it.

John merely scowls and picks up his glass of whiskey. “I thought we was needin’ more money.” He throws back the drink and drinks it in one gulp, and nearly slams the glass down. “Don’t have time to sit and drink.”

Dutch grins, his eyes twinkling. “We’re sittin’ pretty, son! We’ve had the best couple months in a good spell.” He takes a cultured sip of his gin, letting the liquid go down his throat. “I figured it had been too long since we, the original members of the gang, had relaxed for a bit.”

That’s it? Arthur thinks to himself. If he wants to relax, he’d much rather be spending it back at camp with his family, or riding in the wilderness on his own. But still, there remains a crack in Dutch’s reasons for coming all this way.

“What about Hosea?” Arthur asks. “If you want the whole old guard, ain’t he an important part of that?”

Dutch rolls his shoulders, taking another sip. “He can get beer back at camp, if he’s so inclined. But I did ask him, in case you’re wondering. He’s tryin’ to stay sober.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, sensing the underlying tension that laces Dutch's words. It isn’t like Dutch to gather them like this without a real purpose. “So, what’s really goin’ on, Dutch? It ain't just about missin’ old times,” Arthur presses, his voice low and wary.

Dutch sets his glass down with a long exhale. “It is.”

Arthur finally drinks his whiskey and sets the glass down with a satisfying thud. "You're lyin'," he states flatly, his eyes steady on Dutch's.

Dutch's smile fades, and the warmth in his eyes cools into something sharper. He leans in, resting his elbows on the table, the jovial mask falling away to reveal a more calculated demeanor. "I ain’t. If you don’t believe me. You can just go on home."

Arthur's jaw tightens, his mind racing through the implications of Dutch's thinly veiled threat. Beside him, John shifts uncomfortably, eyeing both men with a wary expression. “C’mon, Arthur. Let’s just…relax, alright?” He leans into the counter and taps his glass, signaling for another. “I know I could sure use it.”

Dutch nods soberly, patting John on the shoulder. “You certainly do, son.”

Arthur wants to leave, but he knows better than to openly challenge Dutch in a place like this. The rest of the evening drags on with an uneasy calm, the bartender handing out more drinks, and the conversation looping back to old heists and narrow escapes, casting a thin veneer over the tension that Arthur feels coursing through him like a chill.

And, after having a couple more drinks, Arthur needs to relieve himself. He leans away from the counter and pats Dutch’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” And he turns to leave.

When he steps out into the cool air, he pauses to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Stepping around the corner, he walks down the alley in search of the outhouse near the back of the saloon. The alley is completely dark, so when he hears an odd scraping sound, he instantly reaches for his gun.

The shadows seem to shift, and his heart pounds against his ribs, primal alertness taking over. His fingers close around the cool metal of the gun as he strains to distinguish any movement in the pitch-black alleyway.

Suddenly, the scraping sound morphs into a lowly growl.

This isn’t human, but animal. And there are only a couple things that growl around here.

“Easy,” Arthur says into the dark, and after putting away his gun, he reaches for a match, hoping that it will offer some light.

He strikes the match with a steady hand, and the feeble light flickers, casting eerie shadows against the craggy walls of the alley. The small flame reveals the outline of a medium, copper-coated beast, its eyes reflecting a golden yellow in the dim light. Arthur's heart settles as he realizes he's face to face with a stray dog.

He sighs, chuckling at himself. “Nearly pissed myself.” And with the limited visibility, he sees a box of rubbish knocked over, evidence of the dog’s search for food. “You hungry, boah?” he asks with a softer tone. The dog growls again, still distrusting of this stranger. “I don’t blame you,” Arthur says as he carefully reaches into his satchel. “It’s every man for himself out here…” He pulls out a wrapped morsel of cured beef and taking it out of the paper, tosses it in the pup’s direction. “Here.”

The dog flinches but doesn’t run away. Instead, it inches forward, nose twitching as it catches the scent of the beef. Arthur holds his breath, not moving a muscle, letting the dog make its decision. The tension in the alley is palpable as the stray hesitates, and then slowly approaches the tossed meat. It sniffs cautiously before finally grabbing it and swiftly running away.

Arthur chuckles to himself and before the match burns his fingers, he drops it to the dirt and steps on it, twisting his boot. With the way through the alley clear, he continues on toward the outhouse.

***

Buttoning his fly, Arthur steps out of the outhouse and makes his way back to the saloon. He thinks to look for the dog, to see if it is perhaps still around, but doesn’t spot him anywhere, not that the limited light helps, anyway. If only it were that easy to tame the wilds of man and beast alike. As Arthur reenters the pulsating heart of the saloon, the clatter and raucous laughter bathe him in a false sense of security. He can't shake off the feeling of being watched, the same eerie sensation that prickled his neck in the darkness.

So when something pokes him in the back, he whips around quicker than he normally would.

A woman stands behind him, wearing nothing but a smile and form-fitted clothing. “I saw you earlier,” she hums. “You ain’t like most men that come ‘round here.”

Arthur isn’t interested and he turns to walk away. “I’m busy,” he excuses flippantly, hoping that will be enough.

But this woman is clearly persistent, for she grabs his arm and pulls. He isn’t about to get aggressive with her, so he merely offers her a tight-lipped smile before shaking off her grip gently but firmly. "Ma'am, I reckon you find someone else to pester tonight."

She hums a laugh, sharp as the click of a revolver, and then lets him go with a flutter of her eyelashes. “How is it pesterin’ when all I want’s a bit of comp’ny?” Her voice laces through the noisy backdrop, trying to pull at the threads of his attention once more.

Arthur shakes his head, stepping away to merge with the crowd swirling around him. It's safer there, in the thrum of life where his back isn't as exposed. But he backs into the stairway leading upstairs, blocking his way of exit.

She grins coquettishly and presses her body against him, letting her hand run up his chest. “You look lonely…” she hums. “I can fix that…”

He needs to get away. With a last resorted effort, he grabs her by the wrist firmly. “I ain’t interested,” he says with a rumble and almost tosses her aside.

She screeches as she fumbles, and this gathers the attention of some nearby men at the poker table. One quickly rises and with the look in his eyes and the gait in his stride, Arthur already knows that this is not the kind of evening he, or Dutch, was ever planning on.

“You messin’ with my Lucy?!” the man roars, his face flush with anger and the veins in his neck bulging. Arthur raises his hands, an attempt to show he means no conflict, but the man is already closing in, fists clenched and eyes wild.

"Was just leavin', friend," Arthur tries, his voice steady despite the chaos brewing.

But the man isn’t in the mood to listen and recoils his arm, readying for a powerful swing. But just in time, Arthur ducks, and the man’s fist makes contact with the stairway’s newel post.

The loud crack of bone meeting wood echoes through the saloon, momentarily silencing the raucous. The man bellows in pain, clutching his possibly broken hand, while Arthur quickly uses the opening to slip away.

But another ‘John’ has already joined in the fight, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and spinning him around. “Oh no you don’t!”

The man’s fist makes contact with Arthur’s jaw, but thankfully the punch is weak. Not needing much time to recover, Arthur realizes that this fight isn’t the kind he can just leave. This is one he needs to finish.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Arthur growls, and clenching his fist, he punches the man square in the nose.

“Oh, yeah!” an excited roar comes from the poker table, as the tall, chestnut-haired man rises. “I’ve been waitin’ for a moment like this!” And, reaching across the poker table, he pulls the man sitting across from him to his feet before laying a sucker punch right across his jaw. “C’mon, Davey! This the excitement ye was wantin’!”

The sullen man who had been nursing his drink stands up, as though revived, and goes after the closest man nearby, tackling him to the ground with a thud that shakes the nearby tables. The saloon instantly erupts into a cacophony of shouts, the clatter of chairs, and the sharp cracks of fists meeting flesh.

And Arthur, now fully engaged, is caught up in the midst of it, fending off strangers, the sounds of chairs scraping and glasses breaking as the brawl intensifies. The bartender, being no stranger to such events, ducks beneath the counter to hide.

Arthur dodges another clumsy punch, sending his attacker sprawling onto a nearby table, which collapses under the weight. He scans the room quickly, calculating his next move just as a bottle flies over his head. Following its trajectory, he sees John get jumped on. Dutch, however, is still leaning on the counter with an amused grin, observing the two freckle-faced brawlers. “Did you see that?!” he asks John excitedly, completely oblivious that his so-called son is no longer at the counter, but on the floor, wrestling with one of the poker players. “That’s some fightin’ skills those boys got!”

Arthur has since been occupied, and he grips the neck of his opponent, forcing his head against the wall, and knocks him out instantly. “You alright, John?” he grunts.

“Yeah!” he hears behind him, followed by the cracking sound of flesh contacting bone. He turns around and sees a man fall at John’s feet. “He ain’t gettin’ up for a while.” John’s sigh nearly echoes in the room, the once loud and raucous fight dying down.

Arthur looks around, and sees that there aren’t many guests standing. Breathing heavily, he wipes the blood from his lip and glances around the saloon. The air is thick with dust and the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. Glasses lay shattered, their contents making the wooden floor slick and dangerous. Above the din, he hears Dutch's laughter, rich and booming like thunder. “Arthur…!” Whipping around, Arthur sees Dutch approaching. “They’re about to leave…!”

Arthur’s brow pinches. “Who?”

“Those two boys! They’re clearing’ off the poker table.” He claps Arthur’s shoulder and he winces. “Let’s go introduce ourselves…”

Arthur wants to protest, but Dutch is already making his way over to the two strangers, quickly sweeping their arms over the table to collect the money into a saddle bag. They don’t seem to notice their torn shirts and bruised faces, their focus solely on getting the money.

Arthur follows Dutch through the wreckage of the saloon, the crunching of broken glass and dust under his boots.

As they draw near, the taller of the two men looks up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The younger one, perhaps the more reckless, already has his hand resting casually on the butt of his gun. Dutch, with a confidence that could disarm a raging bull, extends his hand with a grin.

“Gentlemen!” he greets, his grin more Cheshire cat than cordial. “That’s some fine fightin’ skills you boys exhibited back there.”

The taller one, seems almost flattered, the corner of his mouth turning as a toothpick moves from one side of his mouth to the other. He looks at Dutch's hand but doesn’t take it. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, assessing the offer laid before him with a critical eye. "What’s the hand for?" he asks gruffly, voice thick with distrust. The younger man, his hand still hovering near his gun, says nothing, just scrutinizes the outstretched hand before him.

Dutch’s grin doesn’t falter but he does pull his hand back, lifting both hands defensively. “Just what friendly folks do when greetin’ one another.”

The taller man seems disinterested and resumes collecting the coins and dollars on the table. “I ain’t lookin’ for friends.” His tongue rolls heavily, an accent Dutch has only heard a few times in his life. A mix of the wild west and from across the sea, to the highlands of green and blue. Scottish-Americans. The man swings the saddle bag over his shoulder and turns to the younger beside him. “Couple a roasters, eh, Davey?”

The strawberry blond, now named Davey, snickers and kicks the chair in front of him out of his way. “This place could use some decoratin’…!” And he heads for the front doors.

The tall one cackles and follows Davey out, completely ignoring Dutch and Arthur.

While the disappointment is riddled on Dutch’s face, Arthur finds it amusing. “I guess there’s a first time for everythin’…” he teases, folding his bruised arms.

But Dutch isn’t about to give up that easily. He puffs his chest and steeling himself, hurries after them.

Hearing a scuffle behind him, Arthur turns to see John nearly trip over a broken chair as he makes his way over. “What is Dutch doin’?”

“Tryin’ to convert some more members,” he answers dryly as he points to the doors as they swing on their hinges. “Let’s go make shoah he don’t get himself killed.”

“After seein’ how those two boys fight?” John looks toward the door and shivers. “I’m tempted to just walk away now and cut my losses.”

Arthur chuckles and slaps John’s arm. “Shut up. Come on.”

They exit the saloon, the night still waning. The street lamps light up the street, granting enough visibility for Arthur and John to catch up to Dutch toward the two brawlers, his silver tongue already unwinding a new spiel.

“Boys, boys!” Dutch calls out, his voice carrying over the dirt and air to the men’s ears. “I suppose you like to fight often?”

This catches Davey’s attention, for he hesitates after putting his foot in the stirrup to his waiting horse.

He turns, squinting slightly under the brim of his hat, sizing up Dutch with a skeptical eye. "And what's it to ye, huh?" His tone is cautious but intrigued, the prospect of a challenge always sparking interest in his wild heart.

“Davey,” the tall one growls. “We’re leavin’.”

“Well, Mac! This boggin roaster is tryin’ to get in my business!”

Dutch, never one to miss an opportunity, steps closer, his hands raised placatingly. "Not tryin’ to interfere, just offering an opportunity. You fellows look like you could handle more than just barroom brawls."

Davey's eyes narrow, his gaze flickering between Dutch and his horse, his mind clearly wrestling with curiosity and caution. Mac huffs impatiently, clearly not keen on the prospect of lingering any longer. "We ain't got time for this, Davey. We gotta get movin’." His voice is gruff, packed with impatience, but there's an underlying tone that suggests he might just be curious enough to stay.

But Davey seems to wrestle with his decision and he eyes Arthur and John as they approach. “Ye hostin’ a fightin’ ring?” he asks with a jut of his chin towards them.

Dutch twists at his waist, looking back at his unruly sons. “They can fight, that’s for certain, but that ain’t what we’re all about." He waves a dismissive hand, then steps a bit closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We deal in bigger stakes, boys. Bigger than any pot of money at a simple bar fight."

There’s no turning back, Arthur can see that now. When Dutch’s mind is made up, there can be no rhyme or reason with him. If he’s to leave this town and get back to his family, he needs to help things along. And so, seeing the hesitation on Davey's face, he chimes in with a yarn of his own. “Dutch, we ain’t got no use for these clowns,” he says with a rumble. “If we want more gang members, we best go somewhere else.”

Arthur's words, meant to stir a reaction, do just that. Davey's face tightens, a flicker of pride sparking in his eyes. "Clowns, huh?!" His hand drifts toward the handle of his pistol, an instinctual reaction smoothed by years of brawling and living on the edge. “I’ll show ye—!”

But Arthur is quick to the draw, grabbing his revolver and shooting the gun right out of Davey’s hands. Expecting another fight, Arthur, Dutch, and John steel themselves, taking fighting stances.

But Arthur is soon bewildered, when Davey only looks down at the gun, throws his head back, and laughs. “Well, slap me naked and hand me to Mammie!” He turns back to Mac, his laugh rolling in the night. “Did you see that?! Did you really see that?”

Mac rolls his eyes, but does little to hide his mutual astonishment and he dismounts his horse. “Aye, I seen it.” He walks up to the three men and nods towards Arthur in grudging respect. "Ye got a mean shot, fella. Maybe ye ain't all talk after all." The tension that clung to the air like the heat of the desert dissipates ever so slightly, turning the potential for violence into a mutual acknowledgment of skill.

Dutch, never failing to seize an opportunity, prepares his sales pitch that could nearly hold a candle to Hosea’s silver tongue. “Arthur Morgan is nothin’ but the best. My greatest protege.” Behind him, John scoffs, turning away his head like a jealous kid. “But that don’t mean that we have fully arrived. Success is like a body, it needs all its components to survive. The heart, the brain, the hands, and feet. And right now, we're like a crippled man." Dutch's analogy draws a few chuckles from the group, lightening the mood further. He studies Mac and Davey, pausing for effect. “We need strong boys like you to help us walk again.”

Mac grunts, considering the offer, his gaze shifting from Arthur to Dutch, then back again. Davey picks up his gun from the ground, eyes still wide with a mix of shock and newfound respect. He dusts it off and holsters it slowly, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Yer one helluva shot, Morgan,” he admits, a crooked smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Mighty impressive.”

But Mac isn’t as easily distracted, asking needed questions. “Say we go wit’chye boys, what’s in it for us?”

Dutch grins, nodding his head as though he anticipated this question. “I'm glad you asked. Aside from the freedom of riding with our gang, you’ll have more excitement than the occasional bar fight, and you’ll encounter actual low lives more worth your time brawlin’.” He leans closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that carries with it a promise of fortunes to be won and lost. "We lay our hands on more wealth than you can imagine—gold, jewelry, whatever you fancy. All in exchange for your loyalty and a bit of muscle work." Dutch's eyes glint under the street lights, like pearls of great price.

“That include lassies?” Davey asks and Arthur feels himself tense at this. “A bonnie lass would ease the deal.”

Arthur steps forward, his jaw setting firm, the muscle ticking as his eyes narrow on Davey. "That ain't part of the deal," he growls, voice low and menacing. There's a certain fire that sparks behind his gaze—a protective blaze reserved for those he considers family.

But Dutch holds out a hand, stopping Arthur. “Arthur’s a little sensitive, he thinks everyone has their eyes on his woman. Little does he know that she ain’t everyone’s cup of tea.” He looks back at Mac and Davey, choosing his words carefully. “But that don’t mean that there won’t be tea to drink.”

Davey grins at this, catching his meaning.

Mac also seems satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fair enough,” he says finally, nodding slightly as if calculating the risks and rewards in his head. The tension between Arthur and the Scottish brothers simmers just below the surface, a silent battle of wills and strength.

“Well?” Dutch asks. “What do you say you ride back with us?”

The brothers exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them through the narrowing of eyes and the set of their jaws. After a moment, Davey nods, clapping his brother on the back. "Aye, we'll ride with ye. Could use a bit of a change anyway," he announces, his accent warm but with a hint of skepticism.

Dutch nods and puffs his chest as he claps his hands. “Welcome to the Van Der Linde gang, boys.”

Thanks for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur x eliza #mac callander #davey callander #dutch being dutch #mixed signals as usual #van der linde gang origins #outlaws for life #arthur morgan x eliza!reader #can i pet that dog?

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verdemoun · 9 months ago

Note

Sean, who still sometimes calls Kieran “O’Driscoll boy”, accidentally slips up and reveals to Mac and Davey that kieran used to be an O’Driscoll before joining the Van Der Linde gang.

also i want to specify mac would rank in one of kieran's top 5 favorite people because mac's intimidation factor means whenever they are out in public people give them a wide berth and mac is always down to talk about horses even if it's just cool horse facts

sean definitely slips up but when mac asks he frantically covers his ass like aha yeah we call him o'driscoll boy cause he was killed by the o'driscolls and all ahahahaaha. mac thinks that's fucked up even for sean but rolls with it

makes a comment he doubts kieran likes being called o'driscoll boy which kieran can easily agree with. he still hates it and sean is trying to break the habit. it never completely goes away esp when they're bickering because there's still something deeply funny about how whiny kieran sounds when he says i ain't an o'driscoll

mac doesn't find out until a solid 2-3 years after mac and kieran become friends and mac is living at the ranch with bill for completely non homoerotic reasons. mac suggests they invite kieran out because he gets to ride a horse and also mac in certain he would enjoy the open space

not only does kieran love it but being on a horse is such a comfort for him he's thriving. anxiety gone, no overwhelming modern sensory issues being out on the land, and he's having the time of his life and casually bragging he already knows how to herd because he was quite the accomplished livestock rustler in his canon era days

bill, being relaxed and and having a tentative friendship with kieran, laughs and makes a comment 'not bad for an o'driscoll'

kieran pales and baulks meanwhile bill is yet to realize he fucked up. when mac immediately asks about the 'an' o'driscoll part bill starts laughing about how they found him in colter and how nervy he was. did not realize it was a secret until seeing the look on kieran's face. starts backpedalling: talking about how kieran saved arthur's life at six point cabin and he really wasn't much of an o'driscoll or at least not a very good one

just before kieran decides yeah this random horse probably trusts me enough to jump the fence and i could go live in the woods mac snickers and just says he's glad he didn't run into him in the old days because damn straight he would've killed him before asking his name. admittedly makes a lot more sense than sean trying to make a joke out of the gang that killed him, and agrees kieran doesn't look much like an o'driscoll at all

before long mac and bill are laughing so hard they're spooking the sheep at the idea of kieran in full o'driscoll garb trying to rob them and mimicking his voice trying to say 't-t-this is a robbery' meanwhile kieran is trying to argue he can be intimidating when he wants to be which just makes them laugh harder.

it's so unbelivable the idea of kieran duffy horsegirl o'driscoll, mac becomes one of the few who will correct anyone who slips up and is very effective at it with just how ruthless and terrifying he was and still is

when davey finds out it's the first time davey tries to have an actual conversation with kieran, asking him what it was like. kieran replies hell and davey's laugh is a lot less comforting. says he reckons he could've ridden with the o'driscolls if they weren't a bunch of teagues but appreciated colm's leadership tactics

kieran made the decision to never be in a room with davey again unless the gang kids were there because while the slur made his skin crawl, anyone who would even joke about riding with the o'driscolls is not someone who should be around children ever. he will very intentionally pull the kids close to stop them going anywhere near davey. the gang don't know why kieran has decided davey is a threat but find it very endearing how protective he is over the kiddos, including adult aged jack and isaac

#rdr2 timewarp au #kieran duffy #mac callander #bill williamson

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cinnamonsprinkle-stuff · 6 months ago

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wanted to doodle my fav guys who we barely see!

(one doesn't even have a face claim, the other is only seen when he's bleeding out and sickly.)

anyways. the brothers ever

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #mac callander #davey callander #i headcanon mac's full name to be MacKinley #and davey is DAVID #anyways #these guys!

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red-dead-cryptids · 11 months ago

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As is my headcanon, Bill Williamson and Mac Callander had a relationship of sorts before the Blackwater Massacre. That is now canon in this AU

#red dead cryptids au #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fandom #red dead au #cryptids au #bill williamson #mac callander

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paradox-valleyy · 3 months ago

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Lost and found

Pre-Canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Taglist: @photo1030 @radio96

Word count: 3,5k

Notes: I know this took forever, I just couldn’t get it to sound right. I kept fighting with myself on how to write it properly and make it work the way I wanted.

The camp was nestled in a hollow by the familiar trickling creek, its waters weaving a gentle melody that mingled with the fading light of the evening. Shadows stretched long and soft against wagons and makeshift tents, as though the day itself were reluctant to surrender its hold. The low murmur of voices carried through the air, interspersed with bursts of laughter and the rhythmic scrape of metal against wood.

Jolene walked a step behind Arthur, her small frame taut with unease. Her eyes darted nervously from one figure to the next, catching glimpses of rough-hewn faces and the glint of weapons at every hip. The air was rich with the aroma of stew bubbling over a fire, blended with the sharper tang of horses, leather, and faint traces of tobacco smoke. Her stomach growled softly, a reminder of her hunger, but she ignored it. The sheer strangeness of the camp—the energy of the place, so raw and alive—was enough to drown out her body’s needs. These people were unlike the townsfolk she was accustomed to: bold, loud, and utterly unrepentant in their manner.

Arthur said nothing as he led her deeper into the camp, nodding occasionally to familiar faces. Jolene startled as a voice—rich and unmistakable familiar—called out to them.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said a man standing by the largest tent. His words were accompanied by a slow, bemused smile that deepened the lines around his mouth.

Dutch.

“Well, if it ain’t Joel. Thought we’d seen the last of you.”

Arthur, puzzled, glanced at Dutch. “You know the boy?” he asked, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Yes, we met before.”

As Dutch launched into the tale of how they first met, his booming voice laced with theatrical flair, Jolene's attention wavered. Her gaze drifted past him to the grand tent rising prominently behind the man. It was larger than any of the others, adorned with subtle flourishes that hinted at its occupant's importance. For a moment, her eyes caught on a peculiar contraption inside-its brass horn gleaming faintly in the flickering firelight.

She'd seen one like it once, sitting in the window of a shop back in a town she could no longer recall. It made music somehow, though the mechanics of it were beyond her understanding.

Her curiosity lingered, but the weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her thoughts back sharply to the present.

Jolene turned her head slightly, startled to see Dutch grinning down at her, his hand firm and commanding.

"Ain't that right, Joel?" he said, his smile widening like a predator's, his charm as much a weapon as the revolver on his hip.

Jolene hesitated, her gaze darting between Dutch and Arthur, who stood a few paces away. Arthur's expression was inscrutable, though his eyes betrayed a quiet scrutiny as they rested on her. She couldn't tell if he was amused, suspicious, or something else entirely.

Unsure of what else to do, Jolene nodded faintly, her face a careful mask.

Dutch erupted into laughter, joined by Arthur’s deep chuckle. Their laughter felt like a verdict, though she couldn’t tell what crime she’d been accused of. Jolene forced a smile, but a prickling unease crept up her spine. She’d known from the moment she stumbled into this camp that these were no ordinary folk. Criminals—every one of them. Guns hung from hips as casually as belts, shotguns leaned against barrels, and the air carried a tension that spoke of lives lived on the edge.

“Alright then,” Dutch said, waving them off with a smirk. “Go on, get to your business.”

Arthur started walking again, and Jolene hurried to follow. As they wove through the camp, she asked, her voice low, “Where’s Hosea?”

Arthur muttered without turning back, “Probably out huntin’ or something.”

Jolene nodded, though he couldn’t see the gesture. The camp’s atmosphere pressed down on her, and she startled again at the sound of another voice.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

A woman approached, her bearing stern and her plain dress immaculate. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun that seemed to amplify the sharpness of her gaze. Jolene instinctively straightened, feeling suddenly small beneath the woman’s scrutiny.

“You brought a boy, Arthur?” she asked, her tone carrying a note of exasperation. “We ain’t runnin’ an orphanage.”

Arthur grunted, clearly uninterested in engaging, and wandered off without so much as a backward glance. Jolene was left standing alone, dwarfed by the woman’s commanding presence.

“You reek,” the woman declared, wrinkling her nose. “When’s the last time you saw a bar of soap, boy?”

Panic shot through Jolene like lightning. Bathing was a dangerous proposition, one that risked revealing the secret she’d fought so hard to keep. Dropping her gaze, she mumbled, “Been a while, ma’am.”

The woman pursed her lips but said no more on the matter. “Long as you keep your stink away from me,” she said curtly. Then, narrowing her eyes, she asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Joel,” Jolene muttered.

“Joel what? Or d’you not have a last name?”

Jolene’s throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to lie, but her mind blanked under the woman’s unrelenting stare.

“Joel Winslow”

“Winslow,” Grimshaw repeated, her sharp tone laced with skepticism. After a moment, she straightened, seeming satisfied enough. “Susan Grimshaw,” she said. “Miss Grimshaw to you.”

Jolene nodded, a weak gesture of acknowledgment. The woman’s scrutiny lingered a beat longer before she finally turned and strode off with purposeful steps, her back as rigid as steel.

Left alone once again, Jolene exhaled shakily. Her gaze flickered to the campfire, its glow comforting yet insufficient to dispel the growing sense of isolation. Arthur had vanished, leaving her adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and dangerous intentions.

As she resolved to search for him, determined not to stand idle and draw further attention, another voice called out behind her.

“Hey, kid. Over here.”

She turned to see a tall man with sandy hair sitting on a crate, his grin and relaxed posture offering an unexpected reprieve from the tension. A small toolkit was spread out on another crate beside him.

“Name’s Mac,” he said, waving her over. “Arthur says your chain needs mendin’.”

Jolene watched as he inspected the broken chain. The firelight caught its broken link, the gold glinting faintly like a wounded treasure.

Mac whistled softly as he examined it. “Not too bad. Where’d this come from?”

“It was my mother’s,” Jolene said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.

Mac’s expression softened. “A fine piece. The ring goes onto it?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It was hers too.”

Mac nodded, his hands steady as he picked up a pair of pliers and a small hammer. He began threading the broken ends of the chain together with care.

“Y’know,” he said after a moment, “a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link. But lucky for you, this one’s got plenty of life left in it.”

Jolene managed a faint smile, though she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Still, his words brought a flicker of warmth to her chest, momentarily pushing aside the sting of recent memories.

“Don’t look so glum,” Mac said, glancing up. “Things’ll work out for you, you’ll see.”

Jolene frowned slightly, her thoughts drifting to the sheriff’s harsh slap. “You can’t know that.”

Mac shrugged with an easy grin. “Sure I can. You’re scrappy, ain’t too ugly. And you’re lucky—Dutch and Hosea don’t just take to anyone. You must’ve done somethin’ right.”

She didn’t reply, but his words stirred an unfamiliar warmth in her chest. Mac studied her for a moment, his tone light when he spoke again.

“You’re all alone right?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Thought so. You’ve got a look about you—like trouble’s been a close companion. But trouble’s the best teacher there is, so maybe that’s not all bad.”

Jolene cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was teasing or sincere.

“Almost done,” Mac said, holding the chain up to inspect his handiwork. “A little polish, and it’ll be good as new.”

When he finally handed the repaired chain back to her, Jolene felt a surge of relief and gratitude. The links gleamed in the firelight, and the ring swayed gently from the end.

“Good as new,” Mac said with a grin. “Go on, take a look.”

Jolene turned the chain over in her hands, her fingers trembling with excitement. She wanted to leap with joy, to hug Mac and thank him profusely, but instead, she simply said, “Thank you.”

Mac’s grin widened. “Don’t mention it, kid. Take care of it. I reckon it’s got plenty more stories to tell.”

Jolene nodded, clutching the chain tightly. For a moment, Mac’s gaze lingered, but he said nothing more.

“Go on now,” he said, waving her off. Jolene slipped away, the chain held close to her chest like a fragile piece of hope.

After a few more moments of careful inspection, Jolene slipped the repaired chain around her neck, feeling its familiar weight settle against her chest. She tucked it securely into her shirt and exhaled, her fingers lingering briefly over the fabric before she dropped her hand.

Standing near the horses, she took a moment to survey the camp. The animals were unsaddled, most of them nipping lazily at the ground, their tails swishing in the dim light. Her gaze lingered on them, drawn to their quiet, grounded presence. Among them, she spotted Boadicea, Arthur’s steadfast mare—the first horse Jolene had ever ridden. A faint smile ghosted across her lips at the memory, the sensation of the animal’s strength beneath her still vivid in her mind.

Her attention shifted to the camp itself. She stood cloaked in the shadows, unnoticed by most as she observed the scene before her. Arthur sat at a table, a bowl of stew in hand, speaking in low tones to a pair of unfamiliar men. His manner was calm, his movements steady. Further off, she spotted Mac, the kind man who had mended her chain. He was perched on a log, a plate of food balanced on his knee, his hearty laugh carrying faintly through the evening air. The firelight caught the sauce that clung to his thick beard, and Jolene’s lips twitched in an involuntary smile. Around him, a small group of people sat, their faces warm with the camaraderie of shared stories and laughter.

The crunch of footsteps startled her, and she turned quickly to see a woman standing beside her. She was young and strikingly pretty, with black hair swept into a loose braid and a soft glow about her—likely the result of her pregnancy, which was unmistakable in the way her belly curved beneath her dress. Despite her condition, she carried herself with a quiet strength, leaning down slightly to meet Jolene’s gaze.

“I saw you earlier,” the woman said, her voice kind and curious. “Are you stayin’ with us?”

Jolene hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know. After Mac had fixed her chain and sent her on her way, no one had told her what was next. Should she leave? The thought of returning to the town—the sheriff’s cruelty and the pain of earlier events—made her stomach twist. But staying felt uncertain, too, like stepping into a world she didn’t fully understan. “I don’t know,” she admitted, shrugging her small shoulders.

The woman sighed, a sound more empathetic than exasperated. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I’m Abigail. And you?” Her tone remained gentle, encouraging.

“Joel,” Jolene replied quickly, sticking to the name she’d given before.

Abigail nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Well, Joel, you look thin as a rail. Come eat with us.” She straightened with some effort, extending a hand to Jolene.

Jolene hesitated for only a moment before accepting. Despite everything, she was grateful for being small for her age—her slight frame seemed to invite less scrutiny. Abigail’s hand was warm and firm, and together they made their way into the heart of the camp.

Abigail led her to a quieter corner, where a nearly empty table stood. A young girl, her skin a deep, rich brown, sat there already, eating her stew with measured bites. Abigail gestured for Jolene to sit. “I’ll bring us two portions,” she said, her tone decisive.

“Are you sure? I can carry them,” Jolene offered, her voice tinged with worry as she glanced at Abigail’s pregnant form.

Abigail smiled, brushing off the concern with a shake of her head. “I’ve got it. You sit.”

With that, she left, leaving Jolene alone with the other girl, who paused mid-bite to look up and smile warmly. “What’s your name?” the girl asked, her voice light and friendly.

“Joel,” Jolene replied, keeping her answer brief.

“Tilly,” the girl introduced herself. “Tilly Jackson.” She smiled again before returning to her stew, her demeanor calm and unassuming.

Jolene sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. Abigail returned soon after, balancing two bowls of steaming stew with practiced ease. She set one in front of Jolene and the other for herself before settling into the seat beside her. The aroma of the hearty meal was comforting, and Jolene felt a flicker of gratitude as she picked up the spoon. For now, she was safe, and that was enough.

Jolene ate her stew with unrestrained joy, her spoon diving eagerly into the bowl with each bite. If she’d been alone, she might’ve wriggled like a happy worm, her body unable to contain the sheer delight of warm food. It had been so long—years, even—since a hot meal had been anything but a rare treat. In recent times, she’d been lucky to taste such comfort once a month. Now, with the savory broth warming her insides, she allowed herself a moment of peace, the harsh edges of her world temporarily dulled.

The table was quiet as the three of them ate. Tilly offered the occasional friendly glance, but no words were exchanged. Abigail seemed preoccupied, her thoughts elsewhere as she methodically spooned stew into her mouth. Jolene appreciated the silence—it gave her time to savor her food without distraction.

That peace was interrupted when Dutch approached, a bowl of stew in hand. He greeted them warmly, his voice carrying the easy charm that seemed to envelop everything he did. Without asking, he took a seat at their table, nodding to Abigail and Tilly before focusing his attention on Jolene.

“So,” he began after taking a few bites of his meal, “how’re you likin’ it here, Joel?”

Jolene froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Her instincts warned her to tread carefully, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “It’s nice,” she replied simply, keeping her tone neutral.

Dutch chuckled, his grin widening. “Nice, eh? Well, I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He leaned back slightly, the firelight dancing in his sharp eyes. “But you’ve seen enough of the world to know nice ain’t always easy to come by. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jolene nodded hesitantly, unsure where this was going. She studied Dutch closely, her mind racing. She wasn’t dumb—uneducated, yes, but not stupid. She couldn’t read or write, didn’t know what came after 109 in a count, but she could piece things together quickly enough. It didn’t take long to understand that Dutch was the leader here. The way people deferred to him, the way he carried himself—it was clear.

At first, Dutch had struck her as charming, even kind. But now, sitting at this table with him, her wariness grew. He was the leader of a gang of criminals, after all. Her world had taught her that someone like him wasn’t to be trusted. The sisters at the church had drilled it into her head—outlaws were cruel, violent, and wicked. Yet here was Dutch, smiling and polite, offering her food and a place to sit. How many people had he killed with those same hands that held her shoulders so warmly?

Arthur, too, didn’t fit the mold of the villains she’d imagined. He’d gone out of his way to help her, had been patient and kind, even when she’d had little to offer in return. And Mac—he’d mended her chain with a fatherly sort of care, as if her small troubles mattered to him. These people baffled her. Their camaraderie, their apparent contentment—it all clashed with the stories she’d been told. Were these the same “nasty, mean” outlaws the sisters had warned her about?

Dutch’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He leaned forward, his expression warm yet commanding, as though he could see the questions swirling in her mind.

“Joel,” he began, his tone softer now, “I imagine you’ve been through your share of hard times. Most folks like us have. You don’t end up out here without a little trouble behind you. But that don’t mean trouble has to follow you forever.” He gestured toward the camp with a sweep of his hand. “Look around. What do you see? You see folks who’ve been given up on by the rest of the world. People like Arthur, like Tilly, like me—forgotten, left to fend for themselves. And yet, here we are. Together. Strong. Safe.”

Jolene listened, her stew forgotten as his words washed over her. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he spoke, his voice weaving a picture of safety and belonging that was hard to resist.

“This here,” Dutch continued, “isn’t just a camp. It’s a family. A real family. One that looks out for each other, that fights for each other. You’re young, but you’re sharp. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got potential, Joel. And out there?” He nodded toward the darkened world beyond the firelight. “Out there, the world’ll eat you alive. But here? With us? You’ll have a chance. A chance to make somethin’ of yourself.”

Jolene felt her heart beat faster. His words were persuasive, tugging at something deep inside her—a longing for security, for belonging, for a life that wasn’t just survival. And yet, a small, skeptical voice in the back of her mind whispered warnings.

Dutch leaned in closer, his gaze steady and intent. “It’s your choice, of course. I’d never force you to stay. But think about it, Joel. Think about what you want. Safety. Family. Opportunity.” He smiled, a gleam in his eye. “Those are things worth fightin’ for, don’t you think?”

Jolene nodded slowly, unsure of what else to do. Dutch sat back, satisfied, and returned to his stew. But his words lingered, weaving their way into her thoughts as the night wore on.

Jolene’s thoughts spun like a whirlwind as she continued eating the stew, her spoon moving mechanically as the weight of Dutch’s words settled over her. She wasn’t Joel, wasn’t eleven, wasn’t a boy—her mind felt like a maze, full of walls she couldn’t climb, paths she couldn’t see. She kept eating, her hands trembling a little, but she couldn’t stop the questions that churned in her chest. Would it be different if they knew?

Would they trust her?

Her mind flickered with terrifying possibilities. What if they found out? What if they kicked her out, just like the town had? Or worse, what if they decided she wasn’t worth keeping around—what if they killed those they couldn’t trust? A cold sweat prickled at the back of her neck, her stomach tightening with fear. She felt the panic start to rise, a knot in her throat as her heart raced faster than she could think.

But as the panic swelled, it started to subside, her breath evening out. They wouldn’t kill a young girl, right? she told herself. She was just a child, barely fifteen. Surely, that was enough to save her, to make her inconspicuous enough that they’d never think to harm her. The lie she’d told, that she was Joel, would be harmless, right? After all, Dutch had said it himself—he knew what it was like to come from hard times. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? He might even appreciate it, the way she was just doing what she had to, surviving the best she could.

A small, quiet voice in the back of her head told her she was fooling herself, but she pushed it down, focusing instead on the plan beginning to form in her mind. Hide it at first, she thought. Let them think she’s Joel. They’d never question it. And when the time was right… she’d tell them the truth. When she was bigger. When it wouldn’t matter so much. Maybe they’d accept her then.

She could leave once she was older, stronger, but still not manly. She’d make a life of her own, maybe find a place in this strange, chaotic world. And maybe—just maybe—there’d be a place for her here, among these outlaws.

As her thoughts continued to churn, her nerves slowly calmed. The swirling confusion settled into a plan—fragile, uncertain, but a plan nonetheless. She finished the last spoonful of stew, forcing herself to keep calm. She could do this. She just needed to keep up the charade for now. Keep it hidden. They didn’t have to know the truth. Not yet.

Tilly stood and carried her empty bowl away, breaking Jolene’s reverie. She watched the girl go, her movements easy and familiar, and then turned her attention back to the camp around her. Her mind was still racing, but her thoughts were sharper now, more focused on the idea of not just surviving but living. If she stayed, she felt like she actually had a chance.

Jolene set her bowl down, the warmth of the stew still lingering in her stomach as she looked up at Dutch. Her hands were steady now, her heart still pounding but with a newfound resolve. She swallowed her fear and, in a quiet but firm voice, said, “I want to stay. With you… with the gang.”

The words felt strange, almost foreign on her tongue, but they were true. The offer, this chance, was something she couldn’t let slip through her fingers. This was her chance to survive, to find something better than the streets, the town, the constant fear.

She might not understand everything, but she knew one thing for sure—she wouldn’t let this chance pass her by. She couldn’t.

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westerndreamin · 2 months ago

Text

Okay y'all. Been working on this Red Dead Redemption fic since the summer. Finally feel like I have this first part ready to post. I've not come up with a title I like. Suggestions a welcome.

Word count: 12,790

CW: brief mentions of animal death, injuries inflicted by wolf mauling, minor character death, mentions of the Donner Party and Franklin Expedition, probably more that are escaping me right now.

Colter

The wind howled, snow coming down in sheets. Three days of this peculiar weather. It was May, if it snowed at all it shouldn’t be sticking like it was; then again we was far up in the Eastern Grizzlies and late snowstorms weren't unheard of; even in mid May. I was riding behind the lead wagon, my horse, like me, exhausted from the flight from Blackwater. At least behind the wagon we were sheltered from the worst of the wind. Someone stepped down from the wagon…the Reverend.

“How is he, Reverend?” I asked.

“Abigail says he's dyin',” came the Reverend's response before moving to tell the driver of the wagon.

I knew Davey was dying. Had known since helping Abigail tend to the wound. Just didn’t have the heart to voice anything other than reassurances that he'd be alright. Being gut shot was a death sentence, it was just a matter of one's will to live and how much internal bleeding was happening. Periodically, the dying man's moans of pain could be heard over the din of the blizzard.

“Miss Heyes.” It was the Reverend again.

I nodded in acknowledgment so he would go on.

“Dutch wants to see you for a moment.”

“Thanks, Reverend.” I allowed him to step back up onto the back of the wagon before urging my horse out around and to the front of the wagon to speak to our leader.

“…Just hope the law got as lost and turned around as we have,” I heard Mr. Matthews say as I came up even with the front of the wagon.

“Mr. Matthews, Mr. Van Der Linde,” I greeted.

“Ah, Miss Heyes,” Dutch returned. “I sent Arthur out ahead to scout for shelter. Should have met back up by now. Take a lantern and see if you can find him.”

“And lead him back?” I asked. All I got in response was a nod and was handed a lit lantern. Again, I nodded. “See you soon,” I said before riding off, alone into the storm.

Even with the light of the lantern, visibility wasn’t ideal. Calling out was nigh on useless because of the wind, which I was now feeling full force without the wagon blocking most of it. I pulled my horse up to let her rest for a moment before continuing on. If we kept going like this she wouldn’t last much longer; I probably wouldn’t last much longer without her. “It’s okay, girl,” I murmured, patting her neck. “Just hang in there a little bit longer. Hopefully, Mr. Morgan has found a place for all of us to rest up for a while.” Guilt-ridden, I gave her a gentle kick and on we went.

“Arthur!” I called, though it seemed to be drowned out by the wind. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have used his first name as we weren’t all that well acquainted. I’d only been riding with this group for four or five months…less time then even the newest full members. I was little more than a camp follower.

“Who goes there?” I could just hear the question over the wind. The voice was unmistakably that of Mr. Morgan.

“Me, Emma,” I called back, hoping he'd be able to hear.

“Miss Heyes?” I could see him in the light of the lantern now. “Wha'chu doin’ away from the caravan?”

“Was sent to look for your sorry ass.” It was a jest to try and keep the mood light. This weather had brought everyone’s spirits down. “Mr. Van Der Linde seemed to be under the impression you'd gone and ridden off the side of a cliff or something.”

I could just hear his light chuckle. I was glad this man I had come to know as fairly serious had found the humor in what I had said. “Found a place on up the trail for us to get out of this weather.” There was a slight pause and I saw his features grow more serious. “How's Davey?”

“It’s not good, Mr. Morgan. Be lucky if he survives the night,” Be lucky if Davey survives long enough to enjoy a little of being out of the cold… I answered somberly, leaving the thought unsaid. “Abigail and I done the best we could…” Seems like it won’t be enough.

“Did your best, s'all that matters.”

I nodded, but still felt guilty about not being able to do more.

“There. Miss Heyes. Arthur, any luck?” It was Mr. Van Der Linde. All the wagons had come to a stop in a line in front of us.

“Found a place up ahead where we can get some shelter; let Davey rest while he…y’know.” All seriousness had remained in Mr. Morgan's voice. A moment of silence…minus the wind passed. “Old mining town, long abandoned, ain’t too far. Let's go.”

I stayed up in front with Mr. Morgan as we got underway again. Seemed useless to resume my spot behind one of the wagons. I felt my horse stumble under me. Exhaustion was starting to catch up to her. “Just a little further, girl. You'll be able to rest soon, I promise,” I murmured, patting her shoulder.

“You good?” I was surprised by the concern in Mr. Morgan’s voice. It felt like he was concerned both for me and for my horse. It was unexpected, though greatly appreciated.

“Fine and dandy, Mr. Morgan.” I didn’t for one second believe what I said though. My horse was dying. I had raised her from a little filly. Her momma had been my Daddy's trusty sorrel mare. She stumbled again, this time losing her footing and going down. Luckily, I wasn’t pinned under her. The lantern broke and was quickly extinguished by the snow and wind.

“Miss Heyes, you okay?” Mr. Morgan asked.

I nodded as I got to my feet. “I am.” I knew my horse, my dear Rosa Clay, was not. I knelt back down by her head and gently stroked her forehead as she panted for breath. Grabbing her reins I tried to get her to stand up. To her credit, she tried…twice before giving a low wicker and looking at me with sad brown eyes. She was played out. I knew what I had to do, but dreaded it. “Can I see your revolver for a moment? Be kinder to put her out of her misery now than to let her slowly freeze….” My voice cracked.

The outlaw nodded and dismounted his own horse. “Say your goodbyes and gather your saddlebags and your rifle. I'll take care of this part.” He rested his right hand on the butt of the Colt on his hip to make his point. I was surprised by how sympathetic his tone was; like he was speaking from experience, and that experience had been fairly recent.

I was glad we were a bit ahead of the wagons. I was sure they would be able to hear the gunshot over the wind when it rang out and would come running expecting trouble. I stroked Rosa's forehead and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, girl. Wish I could have done better by you in this moment. You were a good girl…the best. Thank you...” With that I got up and gathered my saddlebags and gun off the saddle. I then took the knife from the scabbard at my hip and cut a bit of hair from Rosa's tail, so I’d have a bit of her with me. I then turned to Mr. Morgan and nodded.

“Turn around, you don’t want this to be your last memory of her.” Again, his voice was gentle and full of sympathy. It was a stark contrast to the gruff and imposing man I had come to be somewhat acquainted with.

I turned away. A heartbeat later, a single shot rang out. It was over and she was no longer suffering.

***

True to his word the little town of Colter, or what was left of it, hadn't been too much farther ahead. I had opted to walk the rest of the way, not wanting to over burden Mr. Morgan's own horse. Though he had insisted that he take my saddlebags at least. I had wanted to protest, but I just nodded, too tired to argue.

Most of the buildings still looked suitable for habitation. What had been a little general store, the saloon, the livery, the schoolhouse, which was the closest building as we came into town, and a couple odd houses would be the best to suit our uses. The blacksmith’s forge would do for Mr. Pearson to set up an outdoor kitchen with what little food we had been able to gather before…all that mess. Other buildings, such as the church, had lost most of their roofs or were completely caved in and little more than piles of rubble. The latter was the case for a privy and what might have at one time been an ice storage house.

We all gathered in what had been the schoolhouse. Davey was brought in and laid across two desks that Mr. Matthews had pushed together. He didn’t look to be conscious, which wasn’t surprising; he had been in and out of wakefulness since pulling the bullet out; he'd only lost the strength to keep his eyes open during wakefulness within the last day. If he was fully unconscious, it had just happened within the last hour or so. It was a blessing he had lived this long after losing so much blood…blood that had just three days ago stained my hands and shirt as Abigail and I removed the lead slug. Davey didn’t even seem to be breathing now as he lay on the table in front of us. I didn’t have the heart to speak up, nor did I have the courage to check for a pulse.

“Davey's dead.” Abigail's announcement brought a hush to the room.

“There's nothing more you could have done,” Reverend Swanson said, then glanced at me.

All eyes seemed to find me in that moment. I then met Mr. Morgan's gaze. His face was serious, but his blue-green eyes held a softer look. He gave me a small nod as if to say the same words he had said nearly an hour ago; Did your best, s'all that matters.

Someone placed two coins over Davey's eyes. All the while Ms. Grimshaw was ordering a fire to be lit and blankets to be brought in. I retreated into a corner, looking for a hint of solitude.

“Everyone, your attention please; just for a moment,” Mr. Van Der Linde said from in front of the door flanked by Mr. Matthews and Mr. Morgan. All eyes seemed to fall on him. “It’s been a rough few days. I loved Davey, Jenny; Sean and Mac might be okay, we don’t know. We've lost some folks. And if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I’d do it gladly…”

I stopped paying attention there for a moment. Now was not the time to make a speech. Now was the time to bury our lost friend, then hunker down and survive until the weather broke.

“…Ms. Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days.” With that, Mr. Van Der Linde and Mr. Morgan stepped out into the night.

I spent the next couple of hours lighting fire places and setting up sleeping spaces in the buildings that were suitable for habitation. I also helped Pearson get his kitchen set up in the blacksmith’s forge. Eventually, Ms. Grimshaw came to me with a trunk and pointed over to the house by the general store. “Here, get yourself and Mr. Morgan set up in that house.”

I took the trunk and nodded then turned to go. And then it dawned on me what the camp matron had said. “Am I not bunking with the other women?” I asked turning back toward Grimshaw.

“Thought you'd want a room to yourself tonight. Only way to accomplish that is to have you in the same building as Mr. Morgan,” she replied. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you are taking Davey's death pretty hard, coupled with the fact you walked in here on foot leads me to believe you also lost your horse at some point tonight.” They all would have seen the body of my horse. I was surprised no one else had asked about it.

I nodded. Her observations were indeed right, though I hadn't been all that close to Davey. His brother Mac, on the other hand, I had been exceptionally close to. Though the man was a little over fourteen years my senior, Mac had taken a special interest in me from the moment I had stumbled my way into the camp. To the point that a few days before the ill-fated ferry job I had given Mac the small pewter pentacle I had been wearing around my neck as a good luck charm of sorts. Something that I now deeply regretted as it seems to have jinxed the job for all who were directly involved. I didn’t know how I would be able to break the news to Mac that his older brother was dead and that it had been partly my fault. Then there was Sean Macguire. Yeah he was a loud mouthed drunken idiot most of the time, but I found it somewhat endearing. I truly hoped they both were still alive and would find their way back into the fold. “Yeah, I appreciate that. Thanks, Ms. Grimshaw.”

“You’re welcome, Dearie,” Ms. Grimshaw replied. Her face then took on a serious look. “Don’t get used to the special treatment.”

“Yes ma'am, I mean, no ma'am… I’ll just go and make a comfortable space for however long we're stuck here.” The last bit of her statement caught me off guard to the point of confusing what yes and no mean.

After getting the two bedrooms set up I set to work on setting up the main room to be a little sitting area…like we were going to get any company other than our other gang members coming in and out.

I assumed it was near midnight when I heard the muffled sound of horses walking up. Like everyone else, I came out of the relative warmth of the building I was in to see what was going on.

Mr. Morgan and Mr. Van Der Linde had returned with one of the men, Bell I thought, who had been sent ahead to look for game, which wasn’t going to be caught out in this weather, or other supplies we needed. There was also a woman with them. She was hardly dressed for this weather in just a night shift and a wool blanket draped over her shoulders.

Apparently, the woman had been made a widow by members of a rival gang, the O'Driscolls. I couldn’t help but shudder, from the cold and from the venom in which Mr. Van Der Linde spoke the name. Reminded me of how Daddy spoke of his run-ins with the Doughty Brothers in the years before I was born…the last nearly costing him his life.

I'd heard a little of why there was a feud between Van Der Linde and the O’Driscolls. Something about Mr. Van Der Linde killing one of the O'Driscoll brothers and the living brother taking revenge by killing the girl Mr. Van Der Linde was seeing at the time.

“I haven’t slept in three days.” I could hear the exhaustion in our leader's voice with that statement.

“Mr. Van Der Linde, you’re set up over there in that house; Miss O'Shea will show you the way,” Ms. Grimshaw said. “Mr. Morgan you’re set up over there. And I hope you don’t mind sharing the space with Miss Heyes.”

“Not at all. Thanks, Ms. Grimshaw,” Mr. Morgan replied. “After you, Miss Heyes.”

As I lead the way back to the house I heard Ms. Grimshaw tell Mr. Bell where he would be staying.

“Why does Arthur get a room, with a gal, while I have to share a bunk bed next to Bill Williamson and a bunch of…” the last word was cut off by the door slamming against the wind. Given how Micah seemed to talk to those in our party who had darker complexions, I figured it was probably, most likely, a slur.

“Don’t pay no mind to him,” Mr. Morgan said. “But don’t trust him as far as you can spit either. Trouble seems to follow in his wake.”

I nodded. “Hopefully John will be alright tonight. I don’t envy him having to sleep outside in this.”

“He'll be fine, prob’bly be back by morning.”

“For Abigail’s sake I hope you’re right.”

“You know, Miss Heyes, you've been running with us for around five months or so now; think it's ‘bout time I get to know you a little better.” He sure had a way of quickly changing the subject.

“Not much to get to know, Mr. Morgan,” I said sitting down at the table wishing there was a pot of coffee to be drank over this conversation.

“First things first; drop the mister and call me Arthur. I know I’m old, but I ain’t that old yet.”

“Fine, so long as you call me Emma.” I motioned to the chair across from me. “What would you like to know?”

Arthur sat down, then took a pack of cigarettes and matches out of his satchel. He took one cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips before lighting it. He took a drag then offered me the pack. I took one out and to my surprise he was quick to light it. “Well, that answers one question about you.” He said as I took a drag, instantly feeling the effects of the tobacco.

“I enjoy whiskey every now and again too, if you was wondering anymore about my chosen vices in life.”

“Woman after my own heart,” he replied with a chuckle, taking another drag off his cigarette. “I’ve over heard you talking about your Daddy and Momma a few times with Mary-Beth and Karen. They leave you alone in this ol’ world?”

“No, they’re still living. Have a ranch out near Salt River,” I answered. “They raise horses.”

“Sounds like you had a good life. Why leave it and join a bunch of degenerate outlaws?”

“Much to my parents' dismay, I am the only one of their four children that has fully inherited my father's sense of wanderlust…well my older brother, Joshua, has it too, but he has followed his to gainful employment as an officer in the Navy. I, on the other hand, left home looking for adventure and found you all's camp by pure accident.” I took another pull from my cigarette.

“I believe that. We try to stick to being off the beaten path as much as possible…most of us ain’t much on civilization.” A slight grin graced his lips, the first I’d seen in three days. “Wanderlust is a mighty powerful thing. You keep in touch with your folks?”

I nodded. “I generally send them a telegraph every time I’m in a town. Last one I sent was before…all that mess in Blackwater. I was in camp…what all went down on that ferry, other than the obvious?”

“Not shoah ‘bout all that myself. Hosea and I were working on our own thing. Micah was the one pushing to do that job on that boat.” His tone held a slight edge when mentioning Mr. Bell.

“Bad business. Part of the reason Daddy and his cousin quit the outlaw life. Safes were nigh on impossible to crack by hand, lawmen were already starting to become more organized…” I trailed off, memories of Daddy's stories during his outlaw days flooding my mind.

“Your Daddy was an outlaw? That there explains a whole hell of a lot more. Couldn’t figure why you fell into our ways here in camp so easily; now it makes sense. Might have to test you out on a few jobs now,” Arthur said. He finished his cigarette and crushed it out on the table. “Now the question is, just who is your Daddy?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Aww, c’mon now. I’m not expecting Billy the Kid or John Wesley Hardin."

“Think on it a moment, Arthur. My last name is Heyes.”

Those blue-green eyes widened as I finished off my cigarette and crushed it out. “No…ain’t no way Hannibal Heyes is your daddy.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, we need to get you on a job with a safe. Bet you got your Daddy's safe cracking abilities. If you do, that will save us a bunch of dynamite.”

“I can assure you he is.” I ignored the quip about safe cracking. Wasn’t a safe around these days that could be opened by manipulating the tumblers.

Arthur looked dumbfounded for a few moments, smiled the first true smile I’d seen from anyone in three days, then said, “You got grit, I’ll give you that much.”

I had no idea what he meant by that, but it meant a lot coming from a seasoned outlaw. “Thank you,” I managed.

“’bout time we call it a night. Trip's been hard on us all, ‘specially for you ladies.”

I couldn’t have agreed more with that statement. I got up from the table and headed for the room I was sleeping in for the night. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Night, Emma.”

Try as I might I just couldn’t get to sleep. Even with both the fire place in the one bedroom and the old cook-stove lit, the house Arthur and I were sharing was still drafty. I suppose my horse was still on my mind as well. Hated having to leave my saddle behind. It had been special ordered for me by Daddy for my 16th birthday. I was dreading sending that bit of news home…if Momma and Daddy still wanted to have me send correspondence. No doubt they had heard about what happened in Blackwater in the papers. My name likely wouldn’t have appeared in print as I hadn’t been in the center of the action.

When dawn broke I was back to sitting at the table. Looking out the cracked, dusty window I saw the weather was still bad. My mind went to John Marston who was still out on this godforsaken mountain. Though I’d never been religious I prayed to whatever higher power was listening that he was alright.

I got up from the table and opened the door as quietly as possible to let Arthur have just a few more minutes of good sleep and went out into the blowing snow; and made my way over to the blacksmith’s forge to see if Pearson had anything made for breakfast, even if it was just a thin broth and weak coffee.

“Morning, Mr. Pearson,” I said as I walked up to where the fire was blazing in the old forge hearth.

“Miss Heyes, how you doing this fine morning?” the camp cook replied.

“Fine, be better if this weather would break so we could get out of here and back down into the flatlands,” I answered. “Got some coffee ready?”

“Coffee’s about the only thing we got round here for to sustain ourselves…and a few bottles of this.” I watched as Pearson pulled a bottle out of a crate.

“Is that…rum?” I asked, not expecting fermented cane sugar to be on the bill of fair.

“Yes ma'am. Authentic, standard issue Navy Rum. It’s the only thing that'll keep you sane.”

“I'll have to take your word on that, Pearson. Never much cared for rum…my brother Joshua on the other hand might’ve taken you up on that as he is a Navy man himself." I chuckled at the thought of my straight laced older brother bonding with Pearson over a few bottles of rum. “I'll just take two cups of coffee, neat. Don’t think getting drunk will do any of us any favors.”

“It'll keep you warm,” the cook replied, filling two tin mugs with the steaming hot brew. “Tell Mr. Morgan that I’ll need someone to go kill us some game before too long or we’ll be the next Franklin Expedition or Donner Party.”

“I'll mention something to him, but if it’s alright with you, I’ll leave out the part about becoming the next Donner Party,” I said as I took the two mugs. “Might need to consider sending a search party for John when this snowfall breaks. Starting to worry about him a little.”

Pearson nodded and I made my way back to the house. As I entered I saw Arthur at the table, smoking the last drags off a cigarette. I sat down across from him, close to the cook-stove to try and warm up my bones after being out in the cold, even though I had spent the time near a blazing fire.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Arthur greeted with a small grin gracing his lips. A few days of scruff covered his face, making him look the picture of ruggedness. “And you brought coffee.”

“Its about the only thing Pearson has for us to live on…soon as the weather breaks someone, or a few people need to go hunting; else we're liable to end up like the Franklin Expedition,” I said passing him one of the mugs.

“The what?” Arthur asked taking the mug.

“Pearson mentioned it while I was getting the coffee. Must be some old Navy legend or something,” I answered, a light yawn escaping my lips.

Arthur made a noncommittal sound, then looked up. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I dozed off for a little while before dawn.”

“That’s not sleep, Emma. Drink your coffee then go lay down there in the room with the fireplace,” he replied, standing and taking a pull from the coffee mug. “Won’t be any good to us if you die of exhaustion. And I’d prefer not to have to put you down out of your misery.” A slight smile graced his lips.

I assumed he was trying to keep the mood light. But it just made me think of the night before and losing Rosa. That single shot rang through my memory again.

“Hey…Emma, you okay?”

“Huh…?” It took me a moment to come back to the present. “Yeah, fine…just more tired than I thought.”

“Go on, finish your coffee then get in bed; I’ll see to it Ms. Grimshaw leaves you alone.”

“Thanks,” I said as I finished my coffee. “Whatever you get into today, just be careful; can’t lose a good gunman like you.”

“Get yourself to bed, woman.”

***

John returned to us the next day, with a little help from Arthur and Javier. The man had it rough for the past two days. A couple long gashes to what was a handsome face when it wasn’t bruised and bloodied, his left eye red and swollen; and likely not to have the same amount of vision as the right after healing, and a long deep gash to his right thigh. Only two possibilities could account for those injuries: a bear or a wolf. Had it been a bear, John probably would have been just a lifeless body on that ledge where he was found, and since they had to fight off wolves on the way back, I figured they were the culprits.

John was damned lucky infection hadn’t set into his wounds. One saving grace of this late blizzard I supposed. He was also lucky I had salve to dress his wounds with to stave off infection as well. I would be glad when we got out of the mountains, I was running short on the herbs I had picked and dried for teas the summer before, and the tonics and tinctures I had made with some as well. I was the closest thing this camp had to a trained doctor…next to Herr Strauss ….

“Emma, thank you,” Abigail said, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I replied. “Davey did the same thing after regaining consciousness right after we recovered that bullet from him, and now he's…gone. You and John can thank me proper when he's back on his feet.”

“I ain’t plannin' on dyin', Emma. ‘m too stubborn for that.” John’s voice sounded like it had more gravel to it. In all honesty, it suited him.

“John, you shut up and get some rest. I'll be back to change those bandages in a few hours, till then, Abigail, make sure he stays in bed.”

I turned and made my way back to the house Arthur and I were sharing. I’d barely made it out the schoolhouse when I saw Mr. Van Der Linde coming in my direction.

“Miss Heyes, just the woman I wanted to see,” he said, falling into step beside me.

“Mr. Van Der Linde,” I returned. “Keeping warm, I hope.”

“Yes, ma'am, trying to, at least.” His jovial tone turned serious. “How's John?”

I stopped walking and turned to face him. “He'll live. Can’t promise he'll have full vision in that left eye or he won’t have a few scars on his face when he's healed up, but I can promise he won’t be joining Jenny or Davey any time soon if I have anything to say about it.”

“And if he should take a turn for the worse and pass on?”

“Then you can dole out justice as you see fit…by putting me in the ground yourself should it come down to that,” I replied. “My soul is prepared, whenever the good Lord see fit to call me on.”

“I doubt I would have to resort to such…extremely drastic measures, Miss Heyes; but it is comforting and refreshing to know that you are willing to put your life on the line like that.” Mr. Van Der Linde gave a slight smile. “And please, you've been running with us long enough, call me Dutch.”

“Only if you call me Emma,” I countered.

“Emma, that short for something?”

“Emmeline is my given name, though no one has ever really called me that.”

“Well then, would you permit me to do so?”

“As you wish, Mr. Van…er…I mean, Dutch.” I waved my hand dismissively.

“Well Emmeline, go on and inside somewhere warm, don’t need you catching your death of cold.”

I nodded, then continued on my way once more, hoping not to be stopped again. I needed to be alone, or at least in comfortable silence; something I had grown used to while bunking with Arthur. I could feel my heart racing as I entered the house. My thoughts now drifted once more to Sean and Mac. I hoped they both had escaped Blackwater and the law. Guilt for both Jenny and Davey's deaths weighing heavy on my mind and heart. I glanced at Arthur; he was sitting at the table writing in his journal. The door shut harder than I had anticipated as the wind caught it and slammed it in its weathered frame.

“Emma, how's John?”

I hardly heard Arthur’s voice over my heart's pounding.

“Hey, Emma, you okay?”

I couldn’t find the words to respond. I felt like I was being pulled under water and my vision was going black at the edges. All sound was muffled. I blinked a couple of times trying to clear my head. Next thing I knew I was at the table and helped to sit down.

“Emma. Hey, you with me?” A calloused hand lightly pat my cheek as my vision cleared.

“Arthur? What…how did I get over here?” I asked.

“Looked like you was about to black out so I helped you over here to sit down. You feeling alright?” Arthur countered as he sat down across from me.

I sighed. “I'm alright, just tired and stressed. I know we all are tired and stressed by this whole situation…”

Arthur nodded. “Fair enough, but you also have taken on the responsibility of trying to keep us all alive before all this blew up. Now you have more limited supplies to do that.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, my mind drifting back to Mac, hoping he was somewhere else, much warmer than where we were.

“He'll be alright. Mac's a tough sonuvabitch, and if he don’t find us, we'll find him. Sean too for that matter,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Now, I'm gonna see if Pearson has any more of that thin stew we've been living on and bring us some to eat. You stay here and keep warm.”

I nodded as he left the house. Getting up I went to the cook-stove and placed another log in the fire, same with the fireplace in the master bedroom while I waited for Arthur to return, hopefully with a meager meal.

***

A couple of days later I found myself following Arthur over to the old saloon where the rest of the boys were sleeping.

“Guess folks just miss them… who fell,” I heard Bill say as we entered.

“Yeah, well, when I fall I don’t want there to be no fuss,” Micah retorted.

“When you fall, there'll be a party,” Lenny returned after taking a drag off his cigarette.

We all got a chuckle out of that.

I'll dance on your grave, Micah. I thought to myself. In all honesty, after running with Dutch's Boys for the last five months, the only person who would shed any tears for the slimy blond outlaw would be Dutch.

Of course Micah took offense to what Lenny had said and lunged at Bill, surprisingly; saying he didn’t want to be laughed at by the likes of the ex Calvary-man. Thankfully he was held back by Charles and Arthur before a fight could start. And of course that’s when Dutch decided to grace us with his presence.

“That’s enough, all of you,” he said in a commanding voice. “Punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s need punching, hard? C'mon.”

We all exited and each man made his way to his mount. Dutch and Arthur had a short conversation where the younger man received a rifle and a rope from our leader and was chastised for “doubting". After mounting, Dutch turned to me.

“Emmeline, you any good with that old Henry you pack?” he asked.

I nodded. “I can hold my own.”

“Come see me when we get back, then. Might need you on the train job,” Dutch replied. “Until then, you, Mr. Matthews, Mr. Pearson, and Mr. Smith keep an eye on the place, there are O'Driscolls about.”

I caught Arthur's eye as they left and gave him a slight nod. When they had gone I turned to the others. “Shall we take shifts, gentlemen?” I asked.

“You go give Abigail a break from sitting at John's side, I think the three of us can handle any O’Driscolls that come sniffing about,” Hosea replied.

I nodded, then headed over to schoolhouse and made my way to the back of the room. John seemed to be resting comfortably on the cot. I couldn’t tell if the man was actually asleep or just resting his eyes. Abigail sitting steadfastly by his side. I lightly cleared my throat as not to startle her, or wake John.

“Oh, Emma,” Abigail said turning to face me. “Didn’t see you there."

“It's alright. Why don’t you go get some rest, I’ll sit with him here for a while,” I said.

“I should check on Jack…he's been complaining of having a sore throat,” Abigail replied. “Do you have anything that might help?”

“I'll have to check what I have, Abigail….most of my apothecary supplies had to be left behind in Blackwater…if I have nothing I'll ask Herr Strauss if he has anything for the boy,” I said.

The young mother got up and handed me the blanket that had covered her lap. I sat down in the chair and settled in. I gently laid the back of my hand against John's cheek. He was warm, but not feverish. That was a good sign. I moved my fingers to the hollow of his neck just under his jaw; the pulse I found there was steady and strong; another good sign.

“’m I on Death's door, Doc?” John asked, thick and gravely from sleep.

“Just the opposite, John. Should be back on your feet in a week or two doing light work around the camp. Be back to outlawing a week or so after that,” I replied, chuckling a bit about being called Doc.

“Overheard Dutch and Hosea talking about hitting a train, think I’ll be back on my feet when it’s time to pull the job?” He asked.

“As much as I want to say yes, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to be on horse back any time soon. Might reopen that wound on your leg,” I answered. “I’m supposed to talk with Dutch when he gets back…he was asking if I was any good with that Henry rifle I carry.”

“He'll need the extra gun, for sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “But I’ve never fired that old rifle at anything with two legs, only deer.”

John nodded. “First time is always the hardest Emma. But remember, it’s them or you. And always fire on empty lungs.”

“I’m not a kid just learning how to shoot. Hell, I had the best teacher to teach me,” I replied with a shake of my head.

“Couldn’t have been Dutch or Hosea, you only just met them just a few months ago, ‘nd I don’t know anyone whose better shots than them, ‘cept for Arthur.”

“You ever hear of a man named Kid Curry?” I asked.

“What'd you do, threaten to turn him in for the bounty if he didn’t teach you how to shoot?”

“No, you idiot. He's family, first cousin once removed or something like that. He's my Daddy's first cousin by blood.” I just rolled my eyes. “Ain’t no bounty on him now anyway. He was pardoned some 20 years back now.”

“That would mean that your daddy is…. Why Emma Heyes, you've been holding out on us. Daughter of Hannibal Heyes hisself. Dutch would be a fool not to start including you on jobs now.” John was smiling ear to ear, putting undue strain on the stitches in his right cheek.

There were some gasps from around the fireplace. The eyes of Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, Miss O'Shea, and Ms. Grimshaw all found their way over to me and the wounded man. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was only a matter of time till the cat was well and truly out of the bag. I didn’t count on it being Marston who spilled my secret.

“John, you better stop smiling before you bust those stitches and make those scars worse. And would you speak up, I don’t think the whole camp heard you.” The last bit was dripping in sarcasm. I had done a great job up till now of keeping who I was under wraps. Not that I was ashamed of who I was, I just didn’t want any special treatment because my daddy had once been the most famous outlaw west of the Lannahatchee river.

The men came back in a jovial mood. The raid on the O’Driscoll’s camp just down the way had been successful. Dynamite, detonators, blasting caps, the works to blow a hole in the side of a mountain, or…in our case railroad tracks. The name Leviticus Cornwall had been mentioned. I had heard the name before, but said nothing as I didn’t feel it was my place. What little I knew about the man boiled down to Rich Bastard, a man deserving of being robbed. Back in the day my Daddy would have robbed him blind…several times.

I had left John's side about an hour before the men returned at Ms. Grimshaw’s insistence. When the men returned I had been cleaning my rifle in preparation for after whatever it was that Dutch wanted to talk to me about, after all I didn’t expect the man to just take me at my word on my skill with a shooting iron. I was just getting up from cleaning and reloading my gun when Arthur came in.

“Nothing scares me more than a woman with a recently cleaned and loaded gun,” he said. I knew it was a jest. I didn’t think there was much that could scare the hardened outlaw before me. “Where you going with that? It'll be dark soon, so you can’t be going hunting.”

“Gonna go see Dutch. He was asking if I was any good with this Henry before y'all left; I assume he wants to see me in action,” I replied. “Go on and get some rest.”

“Nope, we gonna go find Dutch, you gonna show him your skill, then I got a little surprise for you over in the stable…just don’t pay no mind to the O’Driscoll tied up in the corner,” he replied. “You’re also gonna need to show Dutch how well you can handle a pistol.”

I nodded. “Well c'mon then.”

It didn’t take long to find Dutch. He was setting up various cans and bottles on the split rail fence surrounding the small cemetery behind the church.

I sighed. “I figured you'd want to see my skill first hand, Dutch, but this is a might disrespectful to the resting dead, is it not?” I asked.

“The dead aren’t gonna care, that’s the nature of being dead; Emmeline,” Dutch responded. “Now, Arthur, hand her your revolver so she can show us what she's got.”

Arthur did as he was told and handed me his colt. I, of course, took it and familiarized myself with the weight and balance for a few moments before looking to Dutch.

“Guess this is a hell of a time to tell ya I ain’t never shot at a person before,” I said nervously.

“With any luck you won’t have to. And I know, shooting at cans ain’t the same as shooting at someone shooting back at you,” Arthur reassured.

I nodded. That was all the encouragement I needed. Quick as lightning I cocked the hammer back and fired the chamber empty. Six shots found their marks in the cans and bottles. I heard a low whistle from Dutch. Arthur wore a crooked little grin as I handed the empty revolver back to him.

“Well now, Emmeline, who taught you how to shoot like that?” Dutch asked, his tone conveyed just how impressed he was.

“I’ll tell ya, after I’ve unloaded this here rifle,” I answered.

Dutch was all smiles as he set up more cans. When he was done he stepped back and nodded. I shouldered the Henry, cocked the hammer, and fired her empty. And again both men looked impressed at my speed and accuracy. And now it was time to let the cat the whole way out of the bag. Knowing Arthur's skill with firearms, I was sure I could give him a run for his money.

“My cousin, Jed “Kid" Curry, taught me how to shoot. Though…I’m not the fastest draw, he down right refused to teach me how to quick draw,” I said.

“Well, I'll be damned, Emmeline. And you’re a Heyes…hmmm…that means ol' Hannibal himself is your daddy. Outlaw Princess of the first water, in my camp…” Dutch went on like that for a good minute.

“No offense, Dutch, but don’t build me up like that in your mind when the only crime I’ve committed in my life is aiding and abetting y'all in this camp,” I said.

“None taken, you two go on and get a good night's rest. I got a train robbery to plan out.”

Arthur nodded then motioned for me to walk out first. We then made our way over to the stable. Like he said there was a young man hogtied in a far stall. He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than me. Our eyes met for a few moments, his wild with fear.

“Emma, over here,” Arthur said waving me over to another stall.

I walked down to see what this surprise was. In the stall was a liver chestnut colored gelding with gentle eyes. He had a bold white blaze on his nose. “Arthur, he's beautiful,” I said, holding out my hand for him to sniff and nuzzle.

“He's yours if you want him. Took him from that O’Driscoll camp today; Javier brought him back while I brought that O’Driscoll boy back here,” Arthur replied. “And the morning after we got here I back tracked and got your saddle and bridle. Bill's getting it all cleaned and oiled up right now.”

“I ain’t no O’Driscoll, mister. My name is Duffy, Kieran Duffy,” the kid in the stall said.

“That's 11 more bones, kid. Only takes a single broke rib to kill a man,” Arthur retorted, silencing the boy.

It was the first time I had witnessed Arthur acting as gang enforcer, and even I was scared to say anything more for fear of drawing his ire on me. The dirty blond outlaw seemed to sense my apprehension to speak.

“How ‘bout you stay here and get to know this boy for awhile,” Arthur suggested.

I nodded. I knew he meant the horse, but I also took it to apply to Kieran as well. Figured I might as well, should he be killed by my compatriots he deserved to have at least one person say some kind words as he is laid low.

Arthur gave me a light pat on the shoulder before moving to the stable doors. He turned and gave a pointed look at Kieran. “I better not hear that you were bothering the lady, O’Driscoll.” And he stepped out into the quickly falling dusk.

I slowly entered the gelding’s stall. “Easy, boy,” I soothed as I gently ran my hand along his top line. He still carried his winter coat. Shaggy as it made him look, the hair itself was shiny and soft under my un-gloved hands. Though the stable had no fire to keep it warm, it was fairly comfortable inside due to the amount of horses. There was a slight draft, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the draft in the saloon or the schoolhouse. The gelding gave a soft wicker and started to nuzzle around my coat pockets. “You’re just as bad as Rosa was,” I said as I pulled a sugar cube from one of my pockets and held it out for him in the flat of my palm. I sighed, knowing I would have to come up with a name for him, but I would have rather called him by the name he was use to hearing.

“If you’re wondering, his name is Ranger,” Kieran said.

“Ranger…it suits him,” I murmured.

“He'll be a good horse for you, ma'am.”

While in the stable I saw to the needs if the other horses. One horse I gave particular attention to was a blue roan gelding with a coal-black head, mane and tail.

“Good boy, Thunder…” I murmured to him. I sighed, we were soon going to be out of food, both fresh and canned. If we couldn’t get someone out to hunt soon, we'd probably have to sacrifice one or two of the horses. And with Mac being missing, his mount was probably going to be the first butchered if it came to that. Having grown up on a horse ranch, I'd rather starve before considering eating and animal that gave such loyalty to their rider.

Thunder snorted softly, lowering his head and resting his forehead against my shoulder. I ran a hand down his neck, his hide soft and silky under my fingertips. “I miss him, Thunder…you are all I have left of him…”

Thunder nickered softly as if to agree. He lifted his head a little and bent his neck over my shoulder as if to give me a hug.

I moved to the side and ran a hand over his flank and rested my head on his shoulder. The strong, steady beat of Thunder's heart brought me a small measure of comfort.

***

I made my way to the cook shack in what was once the blacksmith’s forge. I wasn’t even halfway there when I heard Pearson remark about only having a few canned goods and a skinny rabbit to feed all of us…numbering about 12 minus Duffy who was only being given a half cup of coffee, if that.

“’sides we can eat you, you’re the fattest; if it comes to that,” Arthur said as I stepped up to the open fire to warm my hands.

I let out a light chuckle. “Think I’d rather eat a mule deer that self marinated on sagebrush a little too long.”

“Look I sent Lenny and Bill out hunting yesterday and they came back with nothing,” Pearson said.

“Well, Lenny's more into book learning than hunting and Bill's a fool, ain’t no wonder they came back with nothing. Unless there's game out there that wants to read…” Arthur retorted.

“If there's game out there, I'll find it,” Charles said this. The man didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was right to the point.

“You need to rest, Charles,” I said. “You can’t pull a bow or shoot a gun for that matter right now with your hand like it is.”

“If there's game, I’ll find it and Arthur can kill it.”

“Maybe I should come with you boys. If you get something, you might need help keeping the scavengers away. The smell of fresh blood will call them all in for miles,” I replied.

“She makes a good point, Charles.”

“Well, here. Y'all will need something to eat out there,” Pearson said, tossing a can in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur caught it and read the label. “Assorted Salted Offal…starving would be preferable…”

Charles shook his head and made a motion for us to follow him to the stable to collect our horses.

I entered Ranger's stall and gave him a quick brush before putting my saddle on him. He pranced a little, seemingly excited to get out for a little while. “Okay, calm down a little, boy. You act like this while we're out you'll scare the game away.” Ranger seemed to understand and calmed down as I put his bridle on.

I glanced over at Thunder and felt guilty for not taking him. He looked at me with sad, dark eyes. I got the feeling he was resigned to his fate, whatever that might be. As I led Ranger out of the stable, I gave the blue roan an affectionate pat. “You'll be alright, Thunder. I'll make sure nothing happens to you,” I murmured as I closed the stable door and mounted Ranger.

I met up with the boys on the edge of camp. I was kind of excited about hunting with Charles and Arthur as it had been a while since I had gone hunting with anyone. Since joining the camp I had been stuck doing more domestic chores like doing laundry or helping Pearson with meal preparation. I didn’t mind doing these chores, but I had more skills to offer than just what one would call housekeeping. Before fleeing from Blackwater I had been darning socks wishing I had been out foraging for wild herbs and roots.

Surprisingly, the hunt went well, even with Arthur's limited experience with a bow. With Charles' instruction he had downed two deer; and I was able to bag three rabbits. It would be enough food to see us through at least another week or two if the weather didn’t break here soon. The days were sunny and clear, melting a little bit of the snow, only for a new inch or so to fall over night.

The way back to camp was peaceful and uneventful, minus coming across a large bear. We rode a wide berth around him, but he seemed to just be curious about us and still a little groggy from waking up from his long winter's nap. Charles had remarked that late snowfalls like this were the worst for animals that sleep though the winter and I had to agree. That bear could have easily killed us and our horses if he had caught wind of the dead meat. In that respect we were lucky.

When we returned with our kills, Pearson seemed pleased when we brought the meat back.

“This will do nicely to keep us fed for the next few days,” he said as he and Arthur dragged the deer into the forge, and I brought the brace of rabbits in and set them on the table next to one of the deer. “We'll be eating good tonight for the first time in a while.”

Of course, both Arthur and I practically had to drag Charles back to the saloon so he could rest that hand of his; I had to redress the burn anyway. Arthur returned to the cook shack to help Pearson to dress the kills.

“I'm fine, Emma, really,” Charles muttered.

“I’m sure you are, but…humor me,” I replied, taking the small jar of salve out of my coat pocket along with some clean bandage cloth.

“Fine.”

I gently removed the bandage from his hand and inspected the burn. “This is healing up nicely. Should be good as new in just a few more days,” I said as I applied more salve and re-bandaged the burn.

“That salve you use, it’s made with pine, isn’t it?” Charles asked.

“And a few other ingredients,” I answered.

Charles nodded, then walked off toward the stables to tend the horses. I just shook my head. The man was stubborn. Eventually, that trait would serve him well.

***

A few days later, I found my way back in the schoolhouse looking after John with Reverend Swanson. Graciously, the reverend was sober, but was administering some morphine to the wolf-bit man.

“I thought you'd be reading him his last rites, Reverend,” Arthur said as he walked up to us. “Now I see you're introducing him to your other passion in life.”

“I'll mind you to pay me some respect, Mr. Morgan,” Swanson replied, getting up to leave.

“Mind away, Reverend,” Arthur said as the fallen man of the cloth walked off.

“You know Last Rites is a Catholic thing, right?” I asked. “Given his vestments, I’d say Swanson was of the Presbyterian persuasion at one time or another.”

“And here I thought you wasn’t the religious type,” Arthur answered.

“I'm not, though I did attend services often growing up.” I sighed. “I also keep ways that most church folk look down their noses at…”

“You mean, like…witchcraft?”

“I prefer spiritual, but most God fearing, Christian folk will and do call it witchcraft.” I sighed. “The herbal salves, tonics, and tinctures I make would certainly fall under the umbrella of ‘witchcraft’ to those people.”

“Will you two shut up, and let me rest?” John asked.

“Sorry, John…” I answered.

John nodded and looked slightly behind me. “Thanks, Arthur. I'll owe you one.”

“And you'll pay me,” Arthur replied. “But for now, just rest and get back on your feet.”

John chuckled. “I owe you, Javier, and Emma here in equal measure.”

“You staying alive is payment enough for me, John; no need for monetary repayment or some other grand gesture of gratitude,” I said. “I'm here for the long haul boys. To the bullet or the noose.”

“Well, Emmeline, it’s good to know where your loyalties lie,” said Dutch as he walked up to the three of us. “Anyway, I think it's time we hit that train.”

“Want me to come?” John asked.”

“Of course I do…but look at you,” Dutch replied.

I rolled my eyes. John didn’t need to be up on that leg yet.

“I've always been ugly Dutch,” John returned, trying to get up.

“Just lay still, son,” Dutch said, gently pushing him back down onto the cot.

At that moment Abigail and little Jack came in. I hardly paid attention to her exchange with the father of her child. In all of this, Jack was the one I felt most sorry for. The poor kid was under five and had known more death in the last few weeks with the loss of Jenny and Davey; Lord, I hoped beyond hope that Mac and Sean had gotten out of Blackwater and were laying low somewhere, hopefully it was someplace much warmer than here. I could see the worry written over his small features, though he was braver than I for not voicing it. Had to give the boy credit, he would grow up to be a pretty tough nut to crack.

“Emmeline,” Dutch's voice pulled me from my thoughts, “I do hope you will be joining us on this job.”

I was stunned speechless for a moment. “I…I think I am needed more here in camp…” I stammered.

“S'alright, I think we can pull this job off with just the six of us. There'll be other jobs Emma can help us on, Dutch. ‘sides, someone has to stay back and look after the invalids.” Arthur chuckled dryly.

“Alright,” Dutch relented. “C'mon Arthur.”

While the men were off robbing the Cornwall train, the rest of us set to work packing up the camp. The last few days had warmed to the point that the wagons were no longer snowed in and the nights no longer brought fresh snowfall. I took it upon myself to pack myself and Arthur's belongings up and get them onto a wagon, granted most of my belongings were able to be packed in my saddlebags. I had packed light when I left home…it felt like a lifetime ago now; though had in reality only been just over two years ago.

Spring 1897: Heyes Ranch, Salt River, Wyoming

I sighed. I knew it was late, nearly dark out. I had hoped I would be able to slip away to see the world before either of my parents noticed. "For a ride,” I answered vaguely.

I was in the stable saddling my horse, Rosa Clay. I couldn’t take it anymore, ranch life was the same thing every day…boring. I wanted more form life than just living comfortably, and domestic bliss after getting married. As I checked that the cinch was tight I heard the stable door open.

“Emma?” it was my father, the former outlaw, Hannibal Heyes.

“Down here,” I called, leading my horse out of her stall.

“Where are you off to at this hour?” Daddy asked.

I nodded. It wasn’t a lie, not really, I just wasn’t sure when I would be, or if I would be, returning home.

“A ride. With a bedroll and full saddlebags; and your mother's old henry rifle in the saddle scabbard?”

I sighed. “I know. I…I just want to see the world, like you and Cousin Jed, before I settle down and put down roots.”

A small smile formed on my father's lips as a soft chuckle escaped him. “My darling girl, my youngest daughter. I know what running away looks like, I was just a few years younger than you when I ran from that awful orphanage in Amberino.”

“MISS HEYES!” Ms. Grimshaw's shrill voice pulled me out of the memory. “I’ve seen shit with more common sense than you. Unpack that wagon, and repack it properly this time.”

“Seems reasonable, though you can’t blame your old man and your mother for the worrying we will do while you’re out traveling…so we have some conditions.”

I was stunned. They were letting me go. “What conditions?” I asked.

“We only ask that you find respectable work for yourself and write as often as you are able.”

I was regretting not going out with the men...probably would have died, but that was preferable at the moment. Being a child of the west, I had absolutely no idea how to “properly" pack a wagon for long distance travel. Packing a wagon with goods recently bought at the general store for the journey back to the ranch on the other hand, that I could do blindfolded and hogtied. Luckily for me, Herr Strauss was willing to lend a hand.

“Fraulein, might I offer some assistance?” Strauss asked.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Herr Strauss,” I replied.

Together we packed the wagon to Grimshaw's standards. We worked in silence for the most part, except for the occasional muttered Austrian and German curses coming from the man helping me. I did my best not to laugh or even betray the fact that I knew exactly what he was saying. Thanks to my father's insistence I had learned Spanish, as he felt I would need to know it; and then of my own volition had learned French and German as well as a just in case.

“Fraulein, I believe we are ready to hitch the horses now.” Strauss' voice startled me from my thoughts.

I nodded. “Looks like there is some room, go ask Ms. Grimshaw how we plan to transport the captured O'Driscoll gang member down the mountain. I cant imagine we would allow him to ride horseback.”

Strauss nodded and trotted off to ask the camp matron. While he was off doing that I busied myself with getting the draft horses harnessed and hitched to the wagon. While focusing on that task I found my mind wandering back to the men out on the robbery. Hopefully everything was going according to Dutch's plan…even though that plan had only seemed to be half planned in my opinion. It had seemed to me that the O’Driscolls had specifically taken on more men to pull this job off. I wasn’t exactly sure what was of such great value on this train, but since Leviticus Cornwall was the owner I could imagine there was either a large payroll being shipped to one of his businesses, or some valuable commodity he had a vested interest in being transported to its final destination. Naturally, this would mean the train would be heavily guarded by both riders along the track and armed guards on the train itself. No doubt a gun fight would have been nearly inevitable. Then there was both the private car for Cornwall and the car containing whatever cargo; both likely would need to be blasted open, guards dealt with…more than a six man job. Hell, more than a seven man job if I had gone along. Hosea was right, a fool's errand.

By the time the men had returned it was starting to get dark. This would be our last night in this frozen hellhole, and for that I was glad. It had warmed and thawed enough that we would have little to no trouble descending the mountains and fording the little streams and creeks. We had survived, and the law was nowhere in sight…for now.

After a light breakfast the next morning we packed the rest of our supplies into the wagons and made ready to leave. I was standing near the rear wagon with Ranger making sure the saddle was secure.

“Arthur you're with this one. Take Hosea. I know you two like to talk about the good ol’ days and what happened to ol' Dutch,” Dutch said, mounting the Count. “Emmeline, you mind riding drag?”

“Been swallowing trail dust since I was old enough to ride, Dutch,” I said, mounting up. “I got our back.”

Dutch gave a nod and gave the order to move out. The ride down the mountain was pretty enough. After a few hours the snow that was left gradually faded into the tender greens of fresh spring growth. As we went I hummed to myself and kept a few yards back from the wagon in front of me. Periodically, I looked over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t being followed. We probably weren’t, but I figured I should check anyway as it was my job.

Around noon, Arthur stopped the wagon and signaled me with a whistle and a wave. I jogged Ranger up to the front of the wagon and reined him in.

“What's up, Arthur?” I asked.

“Tie your horse to the back of the wagon and hop up here with me and Hosea,” Arthur replied.

“We thought you could use some conversation,” Hosea added.

“Will Dutch be alright with this?” I asked, not wanting to abandon my post. Unlike everyone else here, I was untested; I had yet to prove myself to the senior leadership.

“Emma I’m going to clue you into a little secret. I’m the real leader of this gang. Dutch is my right hand man,” Hosea answered.

I nodded, but didn’t believe the older man. If Arthur's smirk was anything to go by, then I knew Hosea was pulling my leg. “Hosea, my Daddy was also a con man. Do you really think you can con a con man's daughter?”

The older man let out a hearty “Ha!” and shook his head. “Do like Arthur says and climb aboard. If Dutch has a problem with it, I’ll smooth it over with him.”

I did as I was told and tied Ranger to the back of the wagon before climbing aboard, sitting in the back just behind the jockey box.

“Get up here with us. Might be a little tight, but it'll be a little more comfortable than you sitting atop whatever we got packed back there,” Arthur said.

“I ain��t some delicate flower, Arthur. I’m fine back here...unless you want to take a break and let me drive for a bit,” I replied.

Arthur just let out a chuckle as he got us going again. I settled in and again started humming. It wasn’t necessarily a particular song, just a light melody if found myself coming back to time and again. I knew I had heard it somewhere at one time or another; where though was the question. Might have been at a theatre show I attended before I left home; could have been in the saloon in Blackwater before all the recent…unpleasantness that happened there. Either way the tune was firmly stuck in my mind.

“How about you sing us a song there, Emma?” Hosea asked.

“Oh no. Of my many talents, singing is most definitely not one of them,” I replied. Truth was I could sing, quite well, in my own opinion; the problem was singing for groups and not as a part of one. I had done my share of singing in camp when Javier played his guitar, but I was easily able to blend into the group of rough shot harmony then. Solos were not my speed, nor was public speaking, but that's a story of another time…just not right now.

“Aw, now come on, Emma. You sound pretty good when we all sing around the fire,” Arthur pressed.

“It's easier for me to sing as part of a group rather than alone for some reason,” I admitted. “I’m sure there's a term for it, but it's escaping me right now.”

Arthur and Hosea nodded seemingly satisfied with my answer. We talked about this and that for a good while. Hosea even took the time to make a paste with some yarrow and ginseng root, claiming it was good for the health when Arthur inquired as to what he was doing; a fact I was quick to confirm. I even listed off some of the medicinal properties of each of the plants.

“I'll be glad that I’ll be able to forage for herbs here now,” I said. “Be more cost effective for me to make most of the tonics and tinctures we need rather than buy them in a general store or an apothecary.”

Hosea nodded in agreement. “Do you have medical training? I do know you have done a good job with Charles and John, and did your best with Davey.”

I hung my head a little. Davey's death, though not my fault, still weighed heavily on my mind. I don’t know how many times I had whispered apologies to the dead man over the last week or so. “No, at least not any form of formal training. Most of what I know comes from helping my mother and older sister when they would help out the midwife in Salt River. Mamma did get her education as a nurse from the Women's Medical Collage in Philadelphia, though. Ol' Doc Harris actually covered her tuition. I know she would have preferred me pursuing nursing rather than giving into my wanderlust like I have.”

“That would be a good job for you to go into in the future.” Arthur looked over his shoulder and smiled. “The way you've been taking care of John and little Jack tells me all I need to know."

I could only dip my head to hide my blush from the two men on the seat in front of me. Most of the men in camp viewed me with indifference like the other women, except Grimshaw. Until the flight from Blackwater and our time in Colter, Arthur had been much the same way until seeing my skill with a firearm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I murmured.

There was a short lull in the conversation as we continued over a small stream. There was now a noticeable difference in the temperature now. I undid the buttons on my coat for the first time in a few weeks, or at least it felt that way. The cool breeze felt nice.

An hour or so later we came up on the bank of the last creek we would have to cross. The wagons in front of us were able to ford it with relative ease. Hosea gave a nod and gave Arthur the go ahead to cross the river and advised me to hold on. Not needing to be told twice, I took hold of the back of the jockey box as we started to cross. It was a fairly smooth crossing, the problems occurred coming up the other bank. The back left wheel came off, nearly sending me flying off the wagon.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered as he and Hosea got off the wagon to see how bad our situation was.

I hopped down and untied Ranger so he wouldn’t be in the way. The wagon in front of us stopped.

“Everything alright?” Bill called.

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur retorted.

“What happened?” Javier pressed.

“Broke the Goddamn wheel,” Arthur replied, somewhat annoyed.

“Need a hand fixing it?” Charles asked.

“I reckon we can handle it,” Hosea said. “You help me lift this up and Arthur can put the wheel back on.”

Of course, Arthur made a comment on Hosea's age and still being strong enough to lift a wagon. If I hadn’t known any better I would have sworn the two were actually blood kin. I ground tied Ranger and made my way over, figuring I should attempt to make myself useful in some way. The men of course said they had the wagon well in hand, so I started gathering up what supplies fell when the wheel came off. Hosea and Charles then gave me a hand as Arthur finished re-securing the wheel to the axle.

While Arthur got the wheel secured and the other two men and I repacked whet fell off the wagon, three men on horseback appeared on the bluff above us.

“What do you think?” Arthur asked, quietly.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them,” Charles replied.

“C'mon you three, let's not press our luck,” Hosea said.

I mounted Ranger as the other three got on the wagon, Hosea saying something about how bad the government had screwed over the Natives that once called this area home. I stayed close to the wagon as we continued on our way to a place Hosea had called Horseshoe Overlook, named for a bend in the Dakota River. Every now and again I’d look back over my shoulder to be sure the three men we encountered weren’t following. At one point I jogged up next to the front of the wagon.

“Think Dutch will need to hear about what happened?” I asked.

“Three men on horseback just watching us from a bluff isn’t something too concerning. Charles thinks it might have been a small hunting party from a nearby reservation,” Hosea answered.

I nodded. If the older man wasn’t too concerned then I had nothing to worry about, though I had a gut feeling we would encounter them again in the future. I made a mental note to consult the cards when I had a moment, maybe even do readings for the rest of the gang one night. I could already make a few guesses at some of the possible cards that would come up for some people and if I did a reading for the gang as a whole.

Though Grandma Margaret had died before I was a shimmer in Mamma's eye, Mamma had seen to it that I knew all the mystical things she and my grandmother had known. We were “gifted women" as Mamma had said. She wasn’t specific as to who had given us this “gift", though. Sometimes she said it was a gift from God, other times she said it was from “The Green" meaning Mother Nature and the Earth itself. My great grandmother had been from Eastern Tennessee, and as I understood it still had distance relatives there, Walker was their family name. Most of the women in that family practiced what I came to know as “Granny Magic", practitioners of the old ways from Ireland and Scotland before Christianity became the norm.

***

It was late afternoon by the time the four of us made it to the new campsite. Most of the tents had already been set up, a fire in the center was already merrily blazing away and being tended by Uncle. Grimshaw caught my eye and immediately made her way over as I dismounted Ranger.

“Miss Heyes, you are late. We needed you to help set things up here,”

“We had some issues with the wagon that held us up after crossing that last creek. Let me see to my horse, then I will be at your disposal,” I replied.

The camp matron seemed to accept the reasons for why we were late getting to camp and walked off to dole out orders to one of the other girls. I led Ranger over to where the other horses were and removed my saddle from his back after retrieving his brush from my saddlebags. As I brushed my horse I hummed a tune my father was fond of. I was most at ease around horses. After a few moments I heard footsteps approaching, looking up I saw it was Bill. I groaned internally and gave an anemic wave, but wasn’t really up to talking to him at the moment.

“Hey, Heyes,” he called.

I tried not to roll my eyes at that. I didn’t mind being called by my last name, but preferred to be called by my first. “Yes, Bill?”

“How'd y'all make out?” he asked.

“We all got back alive, didn’t we?” I countered.

“How serious was the break?” Bill pressed.

“The wheel just came loose and off the axle, nothing too serious. Won't need a blacksmith or anything,” I replied.

The ex-cavalryman nodded and walked off, seemingly satisfied by my answer. I quickly finished brushing Ranger and gave him a sugar cube before returning to the camp proper to find Ms. Grimshaw and get a list of chores and other tasks I was to complete. Of course, Dutch made a speech. This one about how it was time to prosper and make more money so we could head back out into the far reaches of the west. Of course, anything we made, or found, or more accurately stole the camp would get it's cut of it.

I stopped paying attention there. I knew I would probably be stuck doing house chores around camp most of the time, but that was fine by me. At least if I now had a bounty on my head it would only be for aiding and abetting wanted criminals rather than robbery and murder.

As evening fell, I found myself sitting around the fire with a few others. Glad to be out of the mountains, glad to be away from Blackwater, and most importantly glad to be alive.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr oc #slight crossover fic #alias smith and jones #female gunslinger #arthur morgan #john marston #mac callander

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