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say-hwaet · 3 days ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 32: The End of Outlaws, Part III Next Chapter: Coming soon! Summary: A week has passed since the Morgans left Blackwater. As Annabelle begins to resume her solo life, her past tries to haunt her. How will she handle it? Warnings: Mature themes, language, drunkenness Word Count: ~6,800

It’s been a week. A week, and everything has been ripped out from under him. One by one, it seemed that the numbers were dwindling, and now only a fistful of pawns left on the board.

Pawn to Queen 4

First was the reverend. That slimy servant of God. He should have known that he would be the first to cower, snivel off to who knows where. But when he found Arthur’s tent raided, with nothing left but pictures tacked on the wagon and a pile of provisions on the cot, he began to suspect something else.

It was solidified when John was gone. Abigail and the boy gone.

Even that damned lazy Uncle got off his rear and went with them.

People were leaving. They were slipping away when he wasn’t looking.

Pawn to King’s Bishop 4

He has tried to keep them on missions. Ever since the standoff, he’s tried to keep them busy, but even then that hasn’t worked. His people are antsy, reserved, hardly speaking to each other.

He had agreed, upon Hosea’s suggestion, to have Lenny and Jenny go out and inquire more about the real estate that the old fox was planning to use in his scheme.

They left, sharing Lenny’s horse Maggie, with that young Jenny sitting right behind him, holding his waist and leaning into his back like they were on some romantic trip.

And they never came back.

He’s losing them. They think they can just slip away without him knowing?!

Pawn to King's Knight

Dutch doesn’t want to think that Hosea knew what they would do. He didn’t look or act suspicious when he was questioned. Hosea has been loyal from the very beginning. Always concerned for him, even when they didn’t get along.

Always concerned about everyone.

Would he? Of course not. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Knight to King's Bishop 3

After returning with three animal carcasses, Charles left hunting again and never came back. He went alone. Maybe he died. Even a survivalist meets his end. Since Arthur left he really kept his mouth shut, only speaking to John in passing. When Arthur was in a drunken stupor, he formed little relationships within the gang, and it was always hard for Dutch to figure out who. It was like Charles was being secretive on purpose, like he didn’t trust anyone.

So, it was easy for him to cut the gang loose.

No matter, he was useless in serving Dutch, anyway. Couldn’t act as his spy even if he wanted to.

Bishop to King's Knight

He wonders who is next. He wonders who will try to find the opportunity to take off without even as much as a farewell. Cowards, all of them.

But he has Molly, the one consolation he has, even if she’s turned to her vanity and remains in their tent at all hours. As long as she stays there, there is no possible way that she will leave or turn on him.

Little does he know that there are conversations brewing. Thoughts being created.

Pawn to King's Knight 3

Hosea has been talking to everyone. Everyone and anyone who will listen. He knows where Arthur is, or rather, where he must be. With his woman. His children. And hopefully, far away from here.

He wishes him well. He wishes for them a life that he will never have.

He misses Bessie. If she were still alive…

He’s been asking questions, letting his words sink into their ears. Mary Beth. Karen. Sean. Tilly. Javier. Bill. Pearson. Susan. Mac. Davey. Strauss.

He helped John, Abigail, and Uncle get out. Soon there will be more.

Just one more.

And one more.

Maybe if there are no subjects to rule, the king will finally listen to his jester.

Knight to King's Bishop 3

But little does Hosea know what Dutch has been planning. He hasn’t been sharing most of his ideas. His plans. Plans to back up other failed plans. He is looking for more members. Maybe if some helpless and needy soul should appear, the rest will be willing to stay for them. It worked on Arthur. It worked on you.

He didn’t do it in time to keep Charles, John, or Abigail. But if he manages to do it this time, and soon, maybe they can stop the bleeding, plug the holes in this sinking ship of loyalty.

Pawn to King 4

The sun sinks in the west, making the shadow of the Count look like a horse’s skeleton. Dutch eyes the pedestrians as they walk by, eyeing them like a vulture in the sky. They look too fancifully dressed to be helpless and wanting. Not the sort of people he needs to turn this whole situation around.

“Keep your eyes open, boys,” he says under his breath. “We’re lookin’ for opportunities.”

Mac and Davey share a look with each other. They’ve been listening to the old fox’s words back in camp. Bill says Hosea has gone senile, with his talk of freedom beyond the life they live. “Dutch’s right,” Bill said. “What we’re doin’ is far more important than buyin’ land and livin’ like the rest of these folks! I say we stick with Dutch. He saved our lives!”

But that isn’t how Mac remembers it. He and his brother were propositioned after a bar fight. Dutch needed them, not the other way around.

And now, here is Dutch, putting himself in the same way to somehow stumble upon a wandering soul.

Who needs whom?

Sean, riding closest to Dutch, can’t help but feel like he’s being watched. He has always detested cities, if not for the opportunities but for the clear divides. He does remember fondly the times burning buildings and smashing windows, but that fades after a time. “Why we gotta come here for? I hear Strawberry is a better place for—”

“You wanna stay back in camp? Doin’ nothing but exercise futility in charmin’ Karen?” Dutch hisses. “Be my guest.”

Sean clicks his tongue. “Ah, Dutch, it ain’t like dat…! I was just…I was just…” His voice trails off, finding it pointless to defend himself.

“Exactly, Dog,” Dutch grumbles, using the code name he chose for him once before. “So either you man up or go back to camp with the other women.”

Sean would normally retract under his authoritarian thumb. He would nod his head, say his “yes, boss,” and retreat like a good dog.

But something bites. Like a flea in his skin. He is a man, who has been on his own long before this. He robbed people blind for survival. What has he learned under Dutch’s rule?

It wasn’t Dutch. It was Hosea. Arthur. Lenny, even, who had been more of a leader than the one claiming to be.

He pulls back on the reins, causing Ennis to come to a firm halt.

Davey nearly bumps into him, steering his mare just in time. “Ach, Maguire!”

His outburst causes Dutch to turn around and he eyes Sean, noticing how he stopped suddenly. “Sean?”

Sean looks at his hands, holding onto the reins, squeezing them till they creak and groan under his grip. Maybe he is a dog.

But a dog knows when he no longer needs a master.

He lifts his eyes, staring into Dutch for a split second before spinning Ennis around and galloping down the main treet, drifting around the corner, and disappearing.

“Should we go after him?” Davey asks. “I’ll catch him before he makes it back to–”

“No.” Dutch’s voice is low as he gives his answer, turning to face the road in front of him. “We don’t need him for this mission.”

Davey pushes up his glasses, the sun catching them and nearly blinding Mac for a mere second. He’s become more observant since donning the second pair of eyes, keeping his fists clenched but his mouth closed.

They’ve always been fighters, brawlers, warriors, but it seems lately they’re more like dogs.

Like Sean. But they’re dogs bred for being thrown into a ring, garnering profits for their master.

Maybe that’s how it has always been. They were just too absorbed in their own thirst for violence to see it until now.

And the look in Arthur’s eyes, his gun raised, as his roar carried into the sky.

If you follow him, you’ll be followin’ him to your deaths! He thinks he’s a shepherd? Well, he’s leadin’ us to slaughter!

Davey had heard the expression once: a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He never fancied metaphors much, but lately they seem more real than the leather reins in his hands or the clouds in the sky. The reality of their predicament settles heavier with each passing day, like dust on an abandoned road.

As the sun dips further behind the horizon, painting the sky a deep crimson, Dutch's gaze intensifies. His eyes flicker with a hint of desperation mixed with cunning—a dangerous combination for a man cornered by his own crumbling empire. He leans forward slightly, his shadow stretching grotesquely across the dusty ground, mirroring the dark thoughts brewing within him.

"Maybe it ain't just lost souls we should be looking for," Dutch mutters to himself, though loud enough for Mac and Davey to catch bits of his musing. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this is where desertion begins.” He lifts his head and regards the hotel, the curtains flowing out of open windows. “Where they could hide.”

Mac lets out a snort. “They ain’t like rats, Dutch. They all can’t be hidin’ out here.”

Dutch pulls on the reins, halting the Count instantly, and turns to look at Mac right in the eyes, wide and fierce despite his expressionless face. “They may as well be. This town is a sanctuary for cowards and traitors.” His voice is low, tinged with a growl as he speaks.

Davey glances around warily, the tension palpable between the three men. “Maybe we oughta just head back,” he suggests cautiously. “If folks are runnin’, then we should be back there makin’ sure—”

“No! We stick to the plan. We find more…” Dutch’s eyes fall on a sign reading “Wilson’s Diner and Saloon.” This is it; this is the ticket.

And without giving any order or direction, he steers the Count to the right, stopping him right in front of a hitching post. Mac and Davey soon follow, readying themselves for what may come.

***

“Alright, for this last week I owe you ten dollars,” Mr. Wilson smiles as he pulls out a tin money box. Unlocking it with a special key, he begins to finger through bills, counting mentally.

“Ten? Is that a raise I’m hearin’?” Annabelle asks, retrieving her money purse. “It makes me think that times are not so bad around here.”

“Figured I oughta give my best employee a little extra, now that I’m searchin’ for a new waitress.”

“At least you have a cook,” Annabelle teases. “No one has keeled over and died yet.”

Mr. Wilson clicks his tongue, folding several bills in his hand as he offers them to her. “Yeah, but no one cooks like Mrs. Leland. I’m sure as hell gonna miss her.” Annabelle takes the money and slips it into her purse as Mr. Wilson watches her thoughtfully. “I guess everything worked out for that inheritance of hers, huh?” He then chuckles softly. “Enough to get her to quit?”

Annabelle nods, laughing as she tightens the drawstring of her purse. Little does he know. “Indeed, it was. Life changing.” Mr. Wilson closes the money box and locks it once again. “I’ll be back at work Monday night, like always. We got anyone special comin’ in?”

The businessman thinks about it for a moment, shaking his head. “Not anyone that will come through here, I reckon. Got some folks comin’ off a ferry boat and some detectives, I hear, but I doubt they’ll be in the saloon.”

Annabelle grins from ear to ear. “They might if you advertise. Didn’t you just say that I’m the greatest entertainment in Blackwater?”

Mr. Wilson waves her off. “Oh, I just gave you a raise, Ms. Leland. That should be enough…!”

The conversation ending, she waves him goodbye and turns, taking a moment to glance through the glass windows as she heads for the door.

That is when she sees a man on a white horse.

Annabelle's heart skips a beat as recognition dawns on her. The silhouette is unmistakable, even from behind the dusty pane—the broad shoulders, the confident posture on horseback.

A man that she thought she would never see again.

It’s Dutch. He’s come back to Blackwater, and this time he has found her.

She remembers that Dutch’s mother is buried here. He told her so once. Maybe that’s why he’s here? She’d rather believe that.

Maybe he hasn’t seen her, yet. There is still time to duck away. She quickly turns on her heels, making a break for the kitchen.

Mr. Wilson chortles, his look of confusion mingled with curiosity. “Now, where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Oh, you know, a change of scenery…!” she jests and pushes the swinging door just as she hears footfalls and jingling spurs enter the diner.

The clink of spurs grows louder, the sound a chilling echo in Annabelle's ears as she ducks around the front wall of the kitchen, her heart pounding against her ribs like a drum. She can sense Dutch's presence, a menacing shadow that seems to loom even larger now that she knows he is so close.

“Afternoon, fellas!” Mr. Wilson greets the men as they come in. “You’re just in time, the bar’s now open!”

Edging herself as close to the entryway as she can without being seen, Annabelle listens closely.

The first to speak isn’t Dutch, but with the slight Scottish accent and deep timbre, she can already tell that it is Mac Callander. “Music to my ears,” he sighs, and he presses his body against the counter.

But before Mac can order anything, Dutch pushes his way to the counter, eyeing Mr. Wilson. “Gotta couple of questions,” he begins. “Would you say many newcomers pass through here? Many travelers?”

Annabelle doesn’t know how to feel, hearing his voice again. Now that she’s gained a new perspective, a clear head, she can really hear him for who he is. A prowler. His voice was always on the edge of a growl, always scheming and planning.

Some part of her had hoped that he would change. Maybe her death would be the thing that would cause him to reevaluate things. But with what Arthur had said and knowing the truth all too well, she knows that is nothing but a pipe dream.

He will never change.

And he will keep going until everyone around him is either dead or too deep in the mire to save themselves.

If only she could do something.

Mr. Wilson shrugs, avoiding the stranger’s gaze but for a moment or two to catch a reprieve. “Not any different than your regular run-of-the-mill type of town. Blackwater gets a lotta ferry boats, people comin’ in to travel somewhere else. I see more regulars than strangers.”

“Ferry boats carry anythin’ else?” Dutch asks.

Mr. Wilson regards the three men before him, keeping his hands busily cleaning glasses. He knows these men are new here, and there’s something about them that puts him at unease. The youngest of the three, the strawberry blond, wears glasses which seem to make him look less intimidating, but the gun belt at his hip and the bandolier strapped across his chest send a different kind of signal. The dark-haired one, with piercing eyes, asks the sort of questions that escort trouble, and by the way his favored employee disappeared into the kitchen, something doesn’t sit right at all.

Mr. Wilson clears his throat. “How should I know?” he answers bluntly, his last syllable rolling into a chuckle. “I don’t got that kind of time to be knowin’ everything that gets on and off those boats.”

Dutch narrows his eyes, as if that could be possible. “How’s the hotel here? Ain’t one of them hovels, is it?”

Mr. Wilson furrows his brow, unable to help but feel defensive over the town he’s lived in most of his life. “I’ll have you know our town runs good business here! The hotel has never had complaints.”

Dutch cackles. “Well, that would be a first, then.”

Mac, quickly disinterested, his mind heavy with other things, lets the palm of his left hand hit the table. “Got any saloon girls?” He glances around the diner. “Seems like ye need business of yer own.”

Relieved to change the subject, Mr. Wilson nods his head, despite disagreeing. “On the contrary, we have the most talented and beautiful singer this side of West Elizabeth…!” With the glass still in his hand, he makes a general sweep with his arm and points to where the piano and small stage are placed. “Come Monday, this whole saloon gets packed full! You best get here early if you want a good seat.”

Dutch shakes his head. That isn’t what he’s after, despite what Mac or Davey might be interested in. “Ain’t lookin’ for entertainment,” he grumbles.

“Aw, was kinda hopin’ for a good time, boss.” Mac pulls out a toothpick from his pocket and sets it between his teeth, baring them in a lopsided grin as he stares the bartender down. “So, what then? Yer just dead on weekends without the lassies?”

Davey rolls his eyes and turns around. Here, his brother goes, picking fights again.

Mr. Wilson only stares the rogue down. “Do you want somethin’ to drink or not?”

Dutch raises three fingers. ”Three beers, if you’d be so kind.” They’re here early before the dreamers and refuse come through, so they may as well bide their time. “Put it on my tab.”

Davey perks up. It’s been a long time since anyone bought him anything, and free beer makes it feel like it’s his birthday. “Hell, thank ye, Boss.”

Mr. Wilson steps away to serve them the beers, looking toward the kitchen. He wonders if Annabelle slipped away already, and if she hasn’t, he’s prepared to ask her why she acted so strangely. The normally cool and collected night singer turned damsel? Unheard of!

But Annabelle still lingers. She doesn’t know why, though her feet feel like they have irons strapped to them. She was flying just moments before, freedom being so natural to her.

And now, just the very presence of him brings her back to her cage.

She clenches the money purse in her hand. No. She will never let herself be brought down again.

She isn’t bound by him anymore. She can do what she should have done years ago. Take a gamble and save the lives of everyone in camp and those associated with him. It’s time things end, and there is now so much power in her hands.

Annabelle's resolve hardens as she hears the clink of glasses and the low murmur of voices from the diner. She steps back, pressing her back against the cool bricks of the kitchen wall, taking deep breaths to steady her racing heart.

It is time to go.

Walking around the kitchen, she heads for the back door, stepping into the early evening air. The sky has begun to turn into a haze of orange and pink, the sun falling behind the horizon. She walks calmly between buildings, back towards the front of the diner, as not too far is where she left her new horse, a Dutch Warmblood she named Crusoe. Farm Boy is now enjoying his retirement back at home.

Finding the wagon cart, she hops on quickly while simultaneously picking up the reins.

She affords one last look towards the diner, allowing herself to speak. “Goodbye, Dutch.”

And with a flick of the reins, she drives toward the sheriff’s office.

***

Davey runs his finger up and down the glass of his beer, tracing a translucent line through the condensation. He watches the bubbles in the golden brew rise up, joining the frothy foam that sits on the top. He hasn’t really touched his drink, only having a sip or two. He feels that he ought to have his wits about him this time, just in case something happens and he needs to think his way out rather than fight his way out.

Maybe it’s been these last few months. Maybe it’s the heat of the sun on him all day, he doesn’t know. But what he has been thinking is that the search for adventure hasn’t been sated. It seems that living with a bunch of people, taking treasures and taking names, only appeals for so long.

He's starting to realize that perhaps the thrill isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe there's more to life than the constant chase, the endless battles, and fleeting highs of their conquests. Davey shifts in his seat, his mind wandering to the quiet moments he once shared with Arthur and the others around a campfire, the faces of those he once only saw as a simple blur, but now ingrained in his memory. Even you and the children, whom he once saw as annoyances, became almost comforting.

He has, or had, many siblings. It became just Mac and him, fighting against the world, but family almost seemed like a good thing once he joined the gang.

But it was all a guise. This was no family.

Sure, families bicker and fight sometimes. That is what he enjoyed most. But after a while, it was all they’d done. No bonding or sentiment. No trace of it at all.

Where is the camaraderie?

He feels a nudge jostling him from his thoughts and turns his head slowly to see his brother leaning close. “C’mon, brother. We gotta be lookin’ for men to join us, remember?” He leans back to pull the waitress girl who just served them beer closer. She giggles, not too bothered by his rough charm, having been flirting with each other for the past hour. It would be easier to resist him if he weren’t so easy on the eyes. “Somebody’s gotta.”

But Davey doesn’t want to look around, to do as he was bid. “What for?”

Mac rolls his eyes, turning his head just enough to talk to his brother, not letting the woman in his grip leave his vision. “C’mon, ye know what for.” But there lacks an earnestness in Mac’s voice, as though he finds it hard to believe himself. Alright, he doesn’t believe it. “Dutch wants to find others like us.”

"That's just it, Mac," Davey answers quietly, his gaze drifting toward Dutch at a poker table, thankfully at a good distance. Is he having a conversation with them? How does one go about converting members, anyway? It almost seems that the only way members showed up was by happenstance, not direct recruitment, and less through some grand plan. “I don’t think Dutch and us can go in the same sentence.”

Mac looks around, careful not to speak before checking to make sure no one else hears them. He sees Dutch, who is now deep in conversation with the strangers at that poker table. What’s abnormal about that?

And furthermore, what does he mean by not being in the same sentence? His brow furrows. How many beers had Davey had when he wasn’t looking?

He turns to the barmaid, eyeing her softly before dismissing her with a pat on her bottom. “Later, lassie.” She gasps coquettishly, smiling as she turns and walks away. That’s when Mac looks over at his brother, whispering through gritted teeth. “The hell ye on about?”

Davey shrugs. He can just quit here, put it off as a drunken rambling, but he’s too sober for that. "It dinnae feel right anymore. Everything's a gamble, but not the kinda gamble that pays off in the end. Aye, we’ve had a few good runs, but I dinnae want to spin on this wheel no more.”

Mac leans back, considering his brother’s words with a mix of confusion and concern. "And what then? Ye just gonna walk away like Sean?"

Davey nods, finally taking a gulp from his beer, the bitter taste somehow fitting his mood. "If that’s what he did, maybe. Or maybe find a different kind of life. One that ain’t under someone else’s thumb.” He pushes the beer away from him.

“Ye ain’t becomin’ all high and mighty are ye?” Mac asks angrily. “Goin’ soft on me? I never took ye for a pansy–”

“I ain’t sayin’ I am a saint! I’m not about to bat me eyelashes and jig myself into the sheriff’s office, but I can get me appetite for fightin’ and adventure elsewhere.” He licks his lips, pushing up on his glasses. “You heard what Hosea said in camp. What Arthur said. This whole outfit is doomed. I wanna get out before we get caught up in it.”

“Scared, are ye?”

Davey’s eyes suddenly burn with an anger Mac has seen times before, the look he makes before landing a closed fist in the face. He jerks in his seat, clenching his fists. “No!” he spits, and in a rare case of self-control, he leans back and takes a sharp breath, calming himself momentarily before speaking again. “I’m just gettin’ wise. Gonna do somethin’ else.”

Mac snorts once. “Oh yeah? What?”

His brother shrugs, almost reluctant to share his thoughts. “I dinnae ken…bounty huntin’? Or bein’ a hired gun?”

Mac scrunches his nose, as though he has just smelled something rank. “Ye sound like a eejit.”

Davey gestures to the gathering of patrons and gamblers around them. “How long have we been sittin’ here, Mac? A few hours? And what? Do you think we really gonna get anywhere? Find another pair of brothers to brawl with?!” Noticing his voice getting too loud, he pauses for a moment, then lets out a frustrated sigh. “We haven’t made money since the fire. No one brings food in. We’ll die if we stay with…” And he turns to eye Dutch, letting his gesture complete his sentence. “Not that I wouldn’t mind dyin’ beside ye, but I picture me life havin’ a few good years before then.”

Mac turns to look back at the gambling table. It almost seems like the allure of finding new converts has lost its luster. Dutch’s head hangs low, and he brings a pint of beer to his lips. The man’s drunk, too drunk to sweet-talk anyone into listening to his cause. Even if the cause was as tempting as it was years ago, Davey’s words are becoming more validating as each second passes.

After a moment longer, Mac lets out a sigh, his gaze turning distant and thoughtful. "I dinnae ken, Davey…”

“I ain’t leavin’ without ye.” Mac turns to look back into his brother’s eyes. “Brothers stick together.” He places both hands on the bar counter. “If ye say we go, then we go.”

The choice is up to him. He knows it. Maybe Davey would have left long before all of this, if only he had made up his own mind. Mac has always taken the lead, and even now, he is still being given the chance to have the final say. “I need time to think about it. Can’t go rushin’ into this."

Silence hangs between them for a moment, punctuated only by the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations, drunk or sober, is being swept away by the tune of the piano.

“Since when did ye become cautious?” Davey asks with an agitated chortle.

“Since I wanted to, ye roaster,” Mac snaps back. “I ain’t about to do somethin’ stupid.” He turns to look away and sees Dutch clumsily rise from his chair and amble his way over to them.

But Davey isn’t paying attention, tugging on his brother’s sleeve. “Like stayin’ ain’t stupid?”

“Hold yer wheesht…!” Mac snaps, twisting at the waist to punch Davey hard on the shoulder.

“Ach! What the hell—?” Davey cuts himself off just as Dutch approaches, slumping into the barstool next to them. The disgruntled rabble rouser rubs his shoulder silently, staring down at the nearly full beer glass across from him.

Dutch also sees the glass and, without even bothering to ask, he stretches his arm across the counter and swipes it. Davey doesn’t bother to say anything. He wasn’t going to drink it, anyway.

Dutch’s brow is speckled in beaded sweat, his cheeks rosy red and neck shiny. He has unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

He is more drunk than a bootlegger’s pal.

Drunk as the devil himself.

The devil.

Mac and Davey watch him silently as he brings the drink to his lips, drinking it slowly, but as though he has been dying of thirst.

He drinks it almost to empty before setting it down with a loud clack on the counter. He lets out a loud sigh, leaning forward before sniffing deeply, rolling back to look at the two men beside him. “The gamblin’ here is lousy…” he slurs, his lips hardly forming a coherent sentence. “Couldn’t… hic …win a thaaaang.”

“Ye get any leads though?” Mac asks, then gestures to his brother and himself. “We’ve got nothin’ but a few words about the ferry boats again.” The barmaid that he sweet-talked earlier gave him a few more things than a tip or two, but he isn’t about to share that information.

Dutch nods. “You ain’t gettin’ nothin’ outta these people, long as you… hic …ssssit by your—ssselves like this.” He grumbles something about being useless before smacking the counter a few times. “Barkeep! Gimme a shot a whissskey…!”

The bartender, the bald man who had greeted them earlier this evening, walks calmly by as he continues his routine wipe down of the counter. “You’ve had a lot to drink, friend. Maybe slow down a bit, huh?”

Dutch’s posture shifts, tenses, and he clutches the beer glass like it is a matter of life and death. “Give. Me. A. Whiskey…!”

Mac, not wanting to be thrown out, as he still has unfinished business with a certain barmaid, offers a dollar to the bartender. “Just one to tide him over, yeah?”

The bartender hesitates, his eyes sliding between the dollar and Dutch's increasingly agitated face. He lets out a resigned sigh, picks up the bill, and turns to fetch a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. Pouring a single shot, he sets it down in front of Dutch with a wary look.

Dutch lifts his hand, dropping it suddenly to cover the small shot glass. His movements are sluggish, sloppy. Mac has never seen him this drunk. In fact, he’s never seen him drunk at all.

Any time the gang had a celebration, or shared a round of beers by the campfire, Dutch was never caught with a beverage in his hand. He just held a cigar and watched, standing beside his gramophone, observing from his throne. Was it a power move? Was it to be the only one who had his wits about him? Or was it because he knew that to lose control would be to lose everything he had meticulously built up over the years? Whatever the reason, this Dutch is a far cry from the man who once commanded respect and fear from his gang. Now he looks more like a desperate, washed-up outlaw clutching at straws.

He knocks his glass over while trying to pick it up and snarls. “Dammit!”

“Boss,” Mac begins. “I think we should—”

“Shut up, Arthur!”

Mac and Davey instantly share a look. Does Dutch have any sense right now? What do they say?

They say nothing, but watch as Dutch rubs his temples, his eyes closed tightly as if trying to squeeze out the ghosts that haunt him. “Always had a mouth on ya…” he grumbles as he begins to write illegible words in the spilled whiskey. “I think you ssshould go… hic …and search this godforsaken town…” He nods his head. “Yeah. That’sss it. Take Hosea and sssearch under e—every rock and stone for them. Find those who left us.” He swallows slowly, feeling the dryness on his tongue. “I think I’m…gonna sstay here a bit longer…”

Mac and Davey exchange another look, this time one of relief mixed with concern. Davey is happy for an excuse to leave, while Mac would just as readily find a reason to get away, maybe entertain that girl when there’s a lull.

Maybe they can circle back here later. Maybe they’ll come back and find him passed out and can take him back to camp. Hosea will be waiting for them, with new creases in his brow.

Still, the weight of Dutch’s command hangs in the air, heavy and unsettling. Mac clears his throat, “Right, Dutch.” He stands up reluctantly, pulling Davey by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

Davey follows his brother, his heart lighter with the decision made, yet heavy with the implications. As they step out into the cool evening, the light from the street lamps being their only source of light, making their shadows look like thin slivers on the cobble streets, they feel something ominous about the place.

Like they’re being watched.

They will ride around, for a short while, but they won’t be looking for Arthur, Lenny, Jenny, John, Uncle, and Abigail. They know it is pointless.

They know the pieces have been set.

And soon, the king will fall.

***

“I said, go on…!” the bouncer growls as he shoves Dutch out of the saloon. “Walk it off!”

Dutch staggers down the single step, almost tripping over himself.

As he catches his balance, the cool air hits him like a slap, momentarily clearing the fog in his head. He steadies himself against a nearby wooden beam, eyes squinting as he tries to make sense of the blurred shapes moving around him. The streets of Blackwater buzz with the evening crowd, shadows merging and splitting in waves.

He looks around, hoping to spot the men who came riding with him.

“Callanders!” he calls out. Some passersby stop to look at him, but merely out of annoyance before continuing on their way.

“Mac…!” He tries again. “Davey!”

But no one around announces their presence, or comes to his beck and call.

And he feels annoyed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t need ya…!” he shouts, his voice echoing with defiance. His arm cuts through the air in a wide, sweeping gesture, so forceful that he nearly loses his balance and swings himself away from the beam he was precariously leaning against. “I don’t—I don’t need any of ya!” His words are filled with a mix of anger and desperation, his face flushed with emotion as he tries to convince himself as much as anyone else.

He continues on his way, dragging his feet as he walks down the cobbled street. His stallion, the Count, still tied to the hitching post, watches him curiously. It isn’t like he can follow, and he nickers softly at his rider.

But Dutch does not hear him, too caught up in his own tumultuous thoughts and drunkenness. He staggers forward, his boots scuffing against the stones, each step echoing hollowly in the quiet night. The distant laughter and chatter from the saloon's patrons fade behind him, leaving only the occasional clatter of a wagon or the distant bark of a dog.

He turns a corner, unsure of where he is going, more aimless than ever, but driven by a stubborn will to keep moving. As he rounds the bend, he nearly collides with a couple stepping out of a dimly lit doorway. They give him a wide berth, their expressions a mixture of pity and disapproval. Dutch barely notices them, his mind swirling with the sting of abandonment and the bitterness of his own mirth. He’s losing his grip, and he needs something to change and fast.

As he reaches another street, the glint of a street lamp shines in his eyes. He groans, and raises a hand to shield his eyes.

And even with his vignetted vision, all blurry and hazy, he catches movement on the docks a few yards ahead of him. Two dock workers, tossing large burlap sacks to one another in a two-man assembly line.

“I wish these bags were filled with money and not sand…!” one says to the man next to him with a grunt.

The other man chuckles, taking the large sack and tossing it on a tug boat beside the dock. “Well, you’ve heard about that one ferry comin’ if a few days…” He pauses a moment, then speaks softer but still audible enough for Dutch to hear as he leans against the building behind him. “Haven’t ya?”

The first dock worker hums inquisitively, pausing in his work. “What do you mean? We get ferries comin’ in all the time…!”

“Sure, but this ain’t just any ferry boat. It’s got money on it. Loads of it.”

Dutch may be heavily inebriated, but that single word could wake him even if he were dead.

Money.

His ears perk up despite the fog in his brain, the slurred world sharpening a fraction as he strains to catch more of the conversation. The idea plants itself like a seed in the fertile ground of his desperation. A ferry loaded with money. It’s an opportunity—a desperate one, perhaps, but at this moment, Dutch grabs at it like a drowning man would a lifeline.

“Really?” the dock worker asks. “Unguarded?”

“Dunno. But they’re keepin’ it quiet. They got passengers on it, too. So maybe it’s normal not to have so many guns on it.”

Unguarded bags of money?

Dutch's mind races as possibilities unfold in his alcohol-clouded brain. Unguarded money—a heist could be just the thing to prove his worth, to pull the remnants of his gang together and restore their faith in him. He pushes off the wall, steadying himself as he moves closer to eavesdrop on the workers, keeping his staggering body to the shadows. He can’t afford to get too clumsy now.

“Well, it ain’t like there’s much that happens ‘round here, anyway. It’ll just be another day in Blackwater.”

“Exactly. Which means we'd better hurry and get this load on the boat. Big day tomorrow!”

Their conversation morphs into grunts and short sentences as they pass more sacks back and forth, their figures silhouetted against the flickering lamplight. Finding an opportunity, Dutch slips away, turning back towards the way he came. He needs a plan, a foolproof one that can be executed swiftly and silently.

The prospect of executing a heist without his trusted crew would typically send shivers down his spine, making him abandon any notion of attempting such a daring act. Yet, a fierce flame ignites within him, deep in his very soul. Once upon a time, it had been just him, alone in the universe, relying solely on his wits and instincts. Before John. Before Annabelle. Arthur. Hosea. It was he and he alone, only with a single idea.

To change the world.

His mother called him a fool, his instructors and classmates alike laughed at him. Now his found family has decided to abandon him, it would have been better if they stabbed him in the back.

He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need any of them.

After all, he is Dutch Van Der Linde.

***

The dock workers toss the final sandbag onto the tugboat, wiping their brows. Their attention is drawn to the soft footfalls on the dirt road just beyond the docks, and they lift their heads to see a figure approach.

“That was some good work there, gentlemen,” the middle-aged man praises as he adjusts the cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Our informant’s suggestion went a lot better than I expected.” Another set of steps behind him causes him to turn around and, recognizing the man approaching, the agent grins. “Where did he go, Ross?”

Ross uses his thumb to point behind him. “He found his horse. Took him a minute to get on, but it seems he’s heading back to his camp.” He pauses before speaking again. “You want me to follow?”

The agent shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary, they’ll return soon enough. And when they do…” he lets his voice trail off, leaving it up to his partner to fill in the blanks.

Ross nods his head, understanding completely. “What should we do next?”

“We should call in some reinforcements. Just because we are one step ahead should not mean we come into this unprepared.” He tugs on his glove, his passion for neatness an integral part of his being. “And you should wire the money into her bank account.”

Ross furrows his brow. “I thought you were going to wait until we apprehended him.”

The agent clicks his tongue. “I’ve changed my mind. Besides, after we’re done with him, he will be worth far more than what we’re paying her.” He meets Ross’s eyes, and a grin slowly appears on his face. “Believe me.”

Thank you so much for reading! We are now caught up on both AO3 and Tumblr, which means my posting rate is going to be slower here than it has been. We are getting closer to the end. Not exactly sure when that will be because it seems that there's more that I want to include before it all ends! We're getting there.

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur x eliza #dutch van der linde #annabelle #davey callander #mac callander #sean macguire #dutch is losing his grip #surprise twist

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vandermorgans · 14 days ago

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/65839360

JOHN MARSTON X MAC CALLANDER ANYONE!?!?!(!(!!(!(!($!

#rdr2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption two #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #mac callander #JOHN X MAC #davey callander

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verdemoun · 11 months ago

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a mac and davey sidepoint i have been thinking about the callanders meeting kieran duffy

when mac and davey got out of prison they stayed with bessie and hosea which seemed fine until they walked in with their post-prison hand-me-down clothes and cold stares and mac immediately asked 'who is that'

at no point had they thought to mention kieran duffy and completely forgot he was not part of the gang when the callanders were alive

hosea immediately had flashbacks to one of the times they ran into the o'driscolls when the callanders were alive and mac running out of bullets and instead charging at fleeing o'driscolls with his hunting knife while head to toe sadie ala horsemen apocalypse covered in blood and started to sweat

not to mention the waves of panic coming off kieran was palpable and the fact he hadn't already sprinted to his room and shut the door was a prime example of the fight-flight-freeze response kicking in

hosea plastering on a conman smile and quickly explaining oh this is kieran duffy we picked him up in colter unfortunately he didn't get to ride with us too long before the o'driscolls picked him up plsdon'tlookintothat he's a gentle soul, doesn't say too much modern era is quite overwhelming for him

lightbulb moment quickly interrupts himself kieran took care of the horses!! kieran you'd remember the two tennessee walker studs we had around camp they were mac and davey's mounts

kieran snaps his head around faster than the korean ghost comic meanwhile mac actually laughs a little because he can't believe they kept mace and thistle who were as unruly to handle as their owners

kieran cannot help himself he is a mile-a-minute infodumping about what good horses they were and how he figured out just where they liked to be scratched to avoid getting bit and their favorite treats and absolutely losing his mind when he finally, finally finds out their names because the gang didn't know

the solid chestnut was mac's horse mace and he's genuinely happy to talk about his horse because he is a bit of a secret horse girl himself. it isn't long before he's sitting on the couch talking to this slightly strange man: asking questions about branwen when kieran talks about his own horse and how mace was doing and laughing about kieran retelling mace's antics about mace trying to walk himself into camp and pinning his ears back whenever someone tried to catch him

davey already sees kieran as a threat because mac isn't allowed to have friends that is His brother but kieran is blissfully unaware of the glare he's getting because he's talking about horses he's invincible

#rdr2 timewarp au #mac callander #kieran duffy

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nthinteractions · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2, Bill and Uncle, Callender boys

U: Real shame about them Callander boys, I reckon.

B: Sure.

U: You know, I once saw Mac beat up fifteen sailors.

B: That ain't nothing. Everybody knows them navy boys can't fight. That's why they float.

U: Oh, that so?

B: Sure, that ain't nothing. I once beat up twenty.

U: Okay...

B: But, uh, I'm gonna miss Mac. He was a good man. Kind of feller you... like to rob alongside, you know?

U: Yeah.

B: Heartless son of a bitch, but he had a heart. If that makes any sense?

U: I know what you mean... R.I.P, Mac.

#rdr2 community #rdr2 #red dead redemption community #rdr2 uncle #rdr2 bill #bill williamson #mac callander #davey callander

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cinnamonsprinkle-stuff · 8 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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r3d-m3dic · 1 month ago

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hello 3 callander brother fans, I've written something

It's not very long, but i will write more with them trust

Davey didn't die up on the way to the mountains. Ross and Milton lied about killing Mac.

Arthur, Bill, and Davey go save him from being hung in Saint Denis.

i could explain the bill x mac ship but that'd take a bit and I'm tired lmaoo

anyways here's the fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65003593

#bill williamson #mac callander #davey callander #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption #red dead redemption two #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 link #oneshot

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zarkishere · 5 months ago

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On the fifth day of Christmas, Zark gave to me...

art + chapter :3

chapter also below

_____ Some jobs go well, others not so much. TW// SLURS. _____ The next morning everyone woke up really early—the sun barely peaked down upon them from behind the mountains and clouds, the birds just starting to sing, the sky still very much a dark blue...yet Ruben was wide awake and heating up some cans by the time everyone had gotten up. He had trouble sleeping—always had, but with strangers that odd fear within him only got stronger. Technically, these people weren’t strangers, but they weren’t close enough for his fears to settle down either. He got up so early he felt like he hadn’t slept at all...but he needed something to do, so while the others slept he had gone out to get more sticks and dead leafs to start up the fire again. That wasn’t easy, given it had rained...most everything was dripping wet, which was unfortunate, but with patience and determination it ended up working. Arthur was the only one to give his thank yous—well, Javier tried, but was promptly ignored. They ate, cleaned their faces with a rag Javier had brought and gotten wet, and hit the road yet again. Thankfully, they had slept only a bit away from town, so by the time they got there the town was buzzing with people. Left and right, people worked and singed, calling others to come over and check out their goods, others argued and...it was just so nice, Ruben looked around with excitement and had to be stopped by the others from running to check stuff out more than once. Of course, daytime isn’t exactly a good time to rob, so Arthur ended up deciding that they should just make time by looking around. Maybe they’d find some other house to rob. Or just something exciting to look at… Mac and Davey left together, to no ones surprise, and Arthur left on his own...leaving Ruben and Javier (once again) set up to be alone in front of some shop where the others had split up.

To Ruben, it felt like some sort of bad joke by life itself, being stuck with this guy.

Javier cleared his throat. “ Entonces...quieres ir a ver algo? “ (So...you wanna check something out?) he asked, looking at Ruben expectantly. Ruben whined and groaned, having a bit of a temper tantrum…to which Javier chuckled at. “ It’s not funny “ Ruben huffed. “ It kind of is, though. “ Javier responded, a slight smile on his lips. “ How? I don’t want to be around you. “ Ruben responded, crossing his arms. Javier stopped smiling, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “ Pero porqué? En serio no entiendo qué te he hecho. “ (But why? I really don’t understand what I’ve done to you.)

“ Déjalo, si? Solo déjalo. “ (Leave it alone, alright? Just leave it.) Ruben grumbled, kicking the dirt. “ Pero—ay, dios...actuas como un niño mimado, sabes? “ (But—oh lord...you act like a spoiled brat, you know?) “ Tú eres el problema aquí, yo no! “ (You’re the problem here, not me!) Ruben said, pointing at Javier.

He slapped his hand away, growing more and more frustrated. “ No te he hecho nada, Rubén! Me miras como si te hubiera escupido la cara! “ (I haven’t dont anything to you, Ruben! You look at me as if i had spat on your face!) “ Fue culpa de TÚ gente que—” (It was YOUR peoples fault that--) his voice got cut off as another man approached. “ Can you two greasers cut it out!? Get the hell away from my shop! “ He yelled, practically squaring up to fight them. Javier tightened his fist and quickly looked at him, his face spitting venom, making the man cower without even a few words spoken. “ Listen—your arguing is—uhm...scaring my costumers, alright? Just...go argue somewhere else! “ He said, stuttering and stumbling over his words. Ruben never understood why people got so scared...that face didn’t have that effect on him. Strange. Ruben felt guilty for starting that argument... The two did end up leaving, walking around town with no more words spoken between them. Houses so big and tall, shops, horses, everything seemed so fancy. So clean and pristine. He felt like they didn’t fit in—well, Javier was better dressed than him, so he could get a pass...somewhat….people were still so very rude to them. They went through multiple places; plenty shops, a bar and even a park that was at the center of town. It was gorgeous; plenty trees, places to sit at, a huge water-fountain… “ You wanna toss a coin? “ Javier asked, taking a coin out of his pocket and placing it on the palm of his hand. “ Hm..? oh, sure. Gracias. “ (thanks) He took the coin, their hands briefly touching. Ruben placed it between his hands, closed his eyes and blew air into it before tossing the coin into the water. Javier watched him the whole time, eyes gentle in that special way that made Ruben want to smack it off. “ What did you ask for? “ Javier asked, leaning in ever so slightly, like a secret between them. “ I can’t tell you! If I do, it won’t come true. “ Ruben huffed, leaning away and crossing his arms with a slight pout. Javier chuckled and shook his head, shrugging as he started to walk off again. Ruben watched him for a couple of seconds before going after him. After a while of looking around Javier bought a new necklace—it was very nice, Ruben couldn’t lie—a silver cross with some...rocks..? in it. Javier was the religious type, Ruben had come to learn. He’d watched the man pray before meals a few times, or heard him mumbling other words of devotion at the far corners of camp. It was cute—well, no, not cute. More so...entertaining? No, no, that sounds weird too. It’s...well, it didn’t….well—

Mac smacked him, taking him out of his little mind travel. “ Caralho mano! “ (god-damn, dude!) Ruben yelped, smacking the others hand away, which earned him another smack from Mac. A little harder this time. “ Don’t fockin raise yer hands at me, lad, i’ll snap yer neck like a twig. “ He said, voice low and threatening...did he mean it, though? No idea. Mac could never turn off his ‘scary’ factor. Davey and Arthur were there now, too. Must’ve spaced out...time felt like it flew by.

Ruben pouted, puffing out his cheeks. Mac snorted, rolling his eyes. “ Quit that, doll. “ He said, flicking Ruben’s nose. “ C’mon, let’s go. “ “ Is it time? “ Ruben asked, following behind Mac. He looked up at the sky as the group made their way to the outskirts of town; it was becoming dark, but the clouds had completely left by now. No more rain, it seems. Eventually they all made it out, small talk here and there, but no conversations of real matter...things only got more serious when they sneaked behind the house… It was a quite large home with a stone fence around it, seemingly divided into 2 to 3 levels, standing on a foundation of pink bricks and a blueish roof. There was balcony on the back, and from where Ruben stood he could see a bench or two. The walls of the home consisted of light pink wood with white corner boards. Many windows were strewn around the walls of the house and on top of the building rested a slim chimney, but as there was no smoke it could be guessed no one was inside at the moment… "Alright, here’s the plan," Arthur drawled, taking charge since he was Dutch’s son. "Me, Ruben, and Javier'll hop the wall—'cause we’re the quiet ones. Y’all two go on down and wait for us to unlock it. Once we do, just grab whatever you can. Got it?" “ Can’t Javier go with the other two? “ Ruben asked. “ Wha—what did I do?? “ Javier asked, looking at him confused. “ I thought we were getting along. “ “ Well, no, I still dislike you. “ The other answered with a shrug. “ Pero—” (But—) Javier’s voice was cut off by Arthur’s. “ Just shut up. This is how we’ll be doing things. “ They nodded, and the plan started. The three went up to the fence, scaling it and cautiously walking on it toward the balcony….but once there, they realized it was locked. Since Mac and Davey were waiting on their spot, they had no way to say what was up, so they just had to figure out another way in... “ Who locks balconies?? “ Asked Javier quietly. Arthur sighed, looking around. Eventually, his eyes landed on a window that happened to be open. He poked Ruben’s shoulder. “ Think you could get that? “ He asked. Ruben nodded and took a few steps back, before sprinting forward and jumping for it—BARELY catching the ledge. This job wasn’t going well so far, but Ruben trusted it could be fixed, so he pulled himself up and made his way into the abode; it was even fancier inside, big central stairs, a chandelier...which made him instinctively grimace. He made his way to the balconies door, unlocking it from the inside and flashing Arthur a smile as the other two walked in. “ I’ll go unlock the door for the other two, go gather stuff already. “ He said, and the two Mexicans nodded. The three parted ways as they did their thing. Ruben went to the bathroom first, finding a good bunch of jewels; pretty necklaces, pins and some rings. He placed a silver one around his index finger, admiring it for a few seconds...deciding he’d keep that one for himself. Then, he went to the bed-room, going through the drawers and closets, finding a few stacks of money...everything seemed to be going well—Until Arthur came sprinting into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Although, it was clear he made the effort to make little to no noise.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 oc #mac callander #rdr2 headcanons #ruben connor rdr2 #javier escuella #ocxcanon #sean macguire #davey callander #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanart #artists on tumblr

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gremlin-boah · 3 months ago

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Mac and..Macguire-(Sorry but IMAGINE the utter chaotic combo of the callander boys + a Sean Macguire [moment of silence for Arthur's sanity])

What a combination.

Pure chaos.

#red dead redemption two #rdr2 #arthur morgan #sean macguire #mac callander #They have to nerfed mac because they know damn well he'll just team up with sean #And they be doing some malicious stuff

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red-dead-cryptids · 1 year 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 · 5 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 · 4 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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