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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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That's the Way it Is

Chapter Nine: Lovers of Fire and Moonshine, Part I Previous Chapters: VIII VII VI V IV III II I Summary: Without wasting much time, Dutch has already got another plan and, surprisingly, it involves you. Warnings: Mature Themes, Violence, Explosions, Angst, Language, Dead bodies Word Count: ~9,500

It has been about three days, and your dream plagues you from time to time. A piece of your past is more clear to you, you have found that your personality is revealing itself as well. You are more blunt, you are silent and observant, always watching the dynamics between gang members unfold before you.

You have been healing well, to the point where you can bend backward without feeling a twinge. No doubt there will be a scar there, but it doesn’t bother you, it isn’t like you expect anyone to see it, except for you.

And since you are feeling better, you have the desire to get back to work. With most of the members, you’ve proven yourself as a valuable outlaw, and most seem to think you are your old self again, even if you still struggle to remember everything.

But Arthur, you sense, knows differently. He watches you with those deep blue eyes that seem to carry entire oceans of secrets and sadness. At times, when the firelight flickers across his face, you catch him staring at you from across the camp, a thoughtful furrow knitting his brow. You wonder if he thinks about your identity, that maybe you aren’t your full self. You can’t help but think that he holds you at a certain standard, though he only restates over and over that you should take it easy, and stop asking questions. Let it all come to you, naturally.

But time isn’t on your side. Things are changing in the gang, and no amount of running is going to change that. The sooner you find out what happened in Blackwater, and the months leading up to it, the better.

You need to go back to work.

Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea have left to go fishing. You are passing the time, again, by doing chores and helping Abigail keep tabs on Jack. He is an energetic brouček, a little beetle, one that is constantly moving, buzzing around, asking questions, and trying to get his father to play swords with him.

You remember your brother, and the things you used to do with him when he grew to be underfoot. Even when your parents were alive, he was your responsibility.

Passing by Pearson’s wagon, you stop to grab three apples and hear Sadie grumbling to herself. She has a knife in her hand and is chopping vegetables.

Sadie has maintained a sour expression since you’ve known her, that isn’t new, but there is something about the way she handles the knife, how she keeps her head down and brow furrowed, that you know something is different. You have a feeling that it won’t be long before she kills something…or someone.

And you aren’t about to let it be you. You take your three apples and walk away calmly, looking for Jack.

Walking toward the water, you spot the boy, drawing shapes and lines in the sand.

You approach him carefully, not wanting to startle him in his intense focus. "What are you drawing, Jack?" you ask, kneeling beside him in the sand. Your voice is gentle, a soft murmur blending with the sound of the lapping waves.

Jack looks up at you, his face lighting up. "It’s a horse…!” he looks down at the drawing and frowns. “At least…I tried.”

You tilt your head and eye the drawing. It doesn’t look too bad. He is still only a boy and can only improve with time. “I can tell what it is, Jack! It reminds me of Odliv.”

Jack looks back up at you, his face beaming. “That is what I was thinking, too!”

You hold up the apples in your hands. “Can I teach you something?” And you motion to sit down on a nearby log. “Come sit by me.”

Jack sees the apples in your hands and compelled by curiosity, he sits next to you. You turn at the waist and you give him one. “Watch this,” you say and scooting back to give yourself some room, you toss one apple in your hand and then catch it. You repeat this action a couple of times before you take the second apple and juggle them together. You watch Jack’s eyes as they go round and round, following the apples as they leave your hands, go into the air, and come back again. “Okay, Jack, can you toss me the next apple?”

Jack eagerly holds up the remaining apple, his small hands gripping it tightly. He tosses it toward you with more force than necessary, but your quick reflexes save the moment. You catch it just as it seems destined to hit the ground, and deftly add it to the rotation of the two you’re already juggling. You manage to keep it going for a few more seconds, before you fumble it and the apples fall from your hands. “Oops,” you chuckle, and you bend over to pick them up. “Antek was always much better than I ever was…”

“Who’s that?” Jack asks.

You look back at him and smile softly. “He was my brother.”

Your voice fades as the memory of Antek tugs at your heart, a sharp reminder of the pain that still lingers. "He used to juggle," you continue, picking up an apple and feeling its weight in your hand, almost as if it holds a piece of your past. "And now I am going to teach it to you.”

Jack’s eyes light up and he takes one of the apples from your lap. “Can you really teach me to do that?”

You nod your head. “We can certainly try!” And so, you begin the lessons. “First thing is to practice your reflexes. You want to be able to catch objects really fast.” You set the other two apples on the ground and open your hands to him. “Toss me the apple.”

He looks down at it, his brows pinched in thought, and he tosses it to you. You catch it. “See? Now, I will pass it to you. You ready to catch it?”

Jack nods, his face a mixture of determination and delight. As he reaches out his small hands, you gently toss the apple back to him. He fumbles briefly but manages to secure it in his grasp, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.

"Good job," you encourage, your heartwarming at his enthusiasm. "You want to be able to catch it without hesitation before moving on to the next step.”

You see a small shift in his lips, turning downward. “How many steps are there?”

You chuckle. “What? Did you expect to juggle three apples today?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe.”

You don’t want to discourage him, but you also don’t want to give him false expectations. “It’s like your drawings, Jack,” you explain. “You don’t think Arthur got to be good at drawing without practicing, did you?”

He shrugs again. “I guess not.”

Your head begins to ache at the base of your skull, and you blink at that thought. How did you know that Arthur draws, anyway? You haven’t seen him do it. Or, maybe you have? The aching feeling in your head tells you that there is something to what you said. Maybe he draws in his journal…?

What if you’ve seen his journal before?

Oh, this changes things. If you can get to those memories, maybe you can find more answers.

You shake your head, you will have to think about it later. Right now, you are spending time with Jack. “See my point? But if you practice, you will be able to juggle way better than me.”

This seems to encourage him, for his sweet, little smile returns. “Really, Aunt Kit?”

The warmth in your heart spreads to a gentle glow as you nod and reply, “Really.”

***

After a good while of teaching Jack to juggle, feeding the horses, and mending some pants, you decide to take a break. You haven’t put on a pair of shoes since you took them off near Moonstone Pond that day, and the lake’s glistening water is quite tempting. Swatting at some mosquitoes, you walk between Arthur and Dutch’s tents and reach the lakeside. The sun is dipping low, casting a sheen over the surface that dances with every gentle ripple. You walk along the dock and sit down at the edge, letting your feet dangle into the cool water. It’s refreshing, a stark contrast to the sticky heat of the day. As you watch tiny fish dart around your toes, you hear a faint sound in the distance.

You lift your head and look to your right, down the lake and in the distance, you see a boat. You discover that the sound is singing, and the singing is possessed by three men on that boat.

You tune into the sound of their voices, tempted to stand and rise to your feet, but the coolness is such a relief. You don’t sense a threat, as the voices do sound familiar.

Then you see the silhouettes. The hats and build of the three men.

It’s Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea, and they are singing like school boys being let out for the summer.

To them we dance this 'round, 'round, 'round To them we dancе this 'round, 'round, 'round And he that is a bully boy Come pledgе me on this ground, ground, ground Ground, ground, ground, ground…!!

Their laughter reaches you and it is quickly hushed as their boat nears the dock. They don’t seem to notice you yet, but you decide that you might as well get up. You lift your feet out of the water and carefully rise to your feet.

Arthur rows the boat up near the dock and lets out a sigh.

“Alright…!” Dutch exclaims, his voice sounding more relaxed than it has in the last few days. “I think…I…well, I mean we are gonna be okay…!”

Arthur first steps out of the boat, his back turned towards you as you remain on the dock. Hosea, draping a canvas bag over his shoulder, steps out of the boat and sees you, nodding in silent greeting. You wave at him.

Dutch continues as he gets out of the boat at last. “I always know…Whenever I got you two by my side, things are gonna be just fine.”

Hosea and Arthur share a glance with each other before Hosea turns to head into camp. Dutch walks off as Arthur takes hold of the boat and pulls it more onto the shore.

You find yourself watching him, his movements deliberate and strong, the muscles in his arms flexing under the strain. He hasn't noticed you yet, too caught up in securing the boat. The sun as it continues its descent casts a golden hue over the scene, touching Arthur's body with light, making it seem almost ethereal against his rugged features.

Your heart clenches and you decide to leave, lest you find yourself standing there all day. The sound of your wet feet padding on the old wooden boards of the dock finally alerts him of your presence.

He turns around to see you. “Hey, Kit.”

You wave at him as nonchalantly as you can. “Hello, Arthur.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

You shrug. “Aside from this humidity, I am doing fine.”

He kicks at a rock and watches it plunk into the lake. “Your…side doin’ alright?”

You find yourself looking down at it, as if that is the way to assess it. You look back up at him and nod your head. “It’s healed well. I can bend backward and twist without hurting.”

He manages a smile. “That’s good.”

You gesture toward the camp with your hand. “You’ve been busy with Dutch and Hosea.”

He nods, his eyes looking out over the lake. “Shoah. Got some fish to eat.”

“That will be good. People seem to be getting tired of rabbit stew.”

Arthur chuckles. “There is also Rhodes, so we can get some supplies. Maybe some canned strawberries and such.”

“You’ve been to see it?”

Arthur nods and then looks at you, his eyes carrying a shyness that you’ve only seen a handful of times. “If…you’re willin’ to sit with me for some stew, I can…tell you about it…?”

Your heart gives an odd, unexpected flutter at his invitation, and you find the corners of your lips curving into a gentle smile. "I'd like that," you say, your voice softer than you intended, carrying the faintest trace of vulnerability.

Arthur's smile broadens, almost a look of relief painting his features. He gestures towards the camp and you continue to walk off the dock. You hop down and he looks down at your feet. “Still not wearin’ any boots?”

You chuckle, tucking some of your long hair behind your ear. “Wish I had done it sooner, it didn’t occur to me that the bottoms of my feet were rough for a reason.”

He nods, biting his lower lip.

You both walk together over to the large stew pot. You notice Mary Beth and Karen looking at you funny and you tilt your head at them. They share a giggle and turn around with their stew plates to go eat at the round table.

Arthur lets you serve yourself first and you scoop up a large helping before stepping aside and letting Arthur have his turn. Waiting for him, you let him lead you over to a more private spot, the log that you and Jack had been sitting on earlier.

You glance back toward camp. “Don’t you want to sit with everyone else?”

“Nah,” he says bluntly. “They will hear about Rhodes from Dutch and Hosea, anyway.” He steps over the log and sits down. “C’mon.”

You mirror his action, stepping over the log and then smoothing your skirt, you sit down beside him. Your eyes are drawn to the lake water and you ready your fork to begin eating the stew.

Arthur takes a forkful of the stew, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. You do the same, savoring the warmth that spreads through you with each swallow. There's a comfortable silence between you two, punctuated only by the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

After a couple of bites, you decide to initiate the conversation. “So, Arthur, tell me about Rhodes.”

Arthur explains how he, Dutch, and Hosea ended up there in the first place, spotting the sheriff and his deputy while transporting criminals. They came across a familiar face, Josiah Trelawny, and that name didn’t ring a bell. Arthur explains that you and Trelawny got along really well, and despite his proclivity to vanish, you always welcomed him when he would come waltzing back, and it wouldn’t be long before you and he would have a scheme lined up. You nod your head as you process this, as you’ve begun to understand what your role has been in the gang.

He also explains that the town Rhodes has two feuding families: the Braithewaites and the Grays, and according to Trelawny, it has been going on for decades. Dutch seems really interested in them, and wants to find out the reason for the feud, be it gold, or some other untold riches.

You feel somewhat excited by all of this, as it could mean more jobs for you and more potential to unlock key memories.

“Where is Trelawny now?” you ask, almost too excitedly.

Arthur studies you. “He’s with a caravan. Been stayin’ with them a while.”

A caravan. “You mean…nomadic people?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

This, too, excites you. While it may not be your people, to know there is a group that moves around like that...it’s strangely comforting. It reminds you of the circus, the thought of the open road and the familiar churn of travel stirs something deep within you.

Arthur watches you closely, no doubt seeing the distant look in your eyes, the way your gaze softens at thoughts of a life once roamed, a life enigmatic yet full and vibrant. "You always loved the road," he says softly, the corner of his mouth uplifting in a half-smile. "Said it were always like it were callin’ to you, whisperin' secrets only you could understand."

The notion tugs at your heart, a blend of nostalgia and connection. You look at him. “How did you know I needed to hear that?”

He leans away from you, and you can tell he is about to brush it off. He shrugs. “Just know, I guess.” His eyes tell a different story, one of profound connection and unspoken words hanging between you like the heavy Southern air.

“Maybe we should visit him,” you suggest, trying to anchor yourself to the present rather than drift into the past's inviting arms. “Trelawny, I mean. And maybe I can help Dutch find out more about these two families.”

You see him tense up as he uses his fork to stab some meat in the stew. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You furrow your brow. “I said I’m feeling better, Arthur. And I’ve been learning more about myself. I can do things. I can help.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t just be throwin’ yourself at things like you did with John. He weren’t thinkin’ about you.”

“And you are? Arthur, at least we can go see him. What harm would that do?”

You watch him carefully for any sign that he may give in. Arthur looks down, the lines around his mouth deepening with worry. After a long moment, he sighs and meets your gaze again. “Alright, Kit," he says, his voice low and even. "If it’ll ease your mind, we’ll go. But we gotta be careful, there’s a lot more comin’ from different sides. It ain’t like Valentine.”

You nod, already excited for the prospect of doing something other than chores. “Thank you, Arthur.” And you face forward to continue eating your meal, your left hand holding onto your plate instead of having it sit in your lap.

You can see Arthur from the corner of your eye and his eyes suddenly fall to your left hand. “Why are you still wearin’ that?”

You turn to look at him and after swallowing your food you ask, “Wearing what?”

He points his forefinger at your hand. “That.”

Setting your plate down on your lap you lift your hand in front of you. Oh. He means the ring. Your mother’s ring.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “I can’t bring myself to take it off.”

“You know people will start talkin’,” he says solemnly. “Strangers will think you’re…” He blinks, his words coming out soft and slow. “You’re…”

You offer to fill in the blanks. “Married? Engaged?” You shrug. “So?”

Arthur's gaze hardens slightly, and he looks away, out towards the dimming horizon. "It ain't about what they think, Kitka. It's about keepin' you safe. If folks start askin' questions—"

"How does that put me in danger?" You interject, feeling a little frustrated with his questions. “If anything, this might protect me. Strangers who would dare yell slurs at me or hurt me might think twice if they suspect that I have a husband or fiancé.”

Arthur's eyes flick back to yours, the blue of them almost steely under the fading light. "Maybe," he concedes, his voice gruff with worry. He sets down his plate and takes off his hat, holding it in his hands. "Or maybe it gives 'em more reason to come lookin'. You know how these towns work, Kit. Secrets don't stay buried for long."

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling bold to speak freely. “Exactly, Arthur.” And as you look at him, you see something in his eyes. Guilt, or perhaps fear. “There are things that I am still trying to figure out, and I know that you have secrets just as much as everyone else.”

Your words hang between you like the humid air, suspended and poignant. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his hands fiddling with the rim of his hat—a gesture you've come to recognize as his way of grappling with unease.

And after a pregnant pause, he looks away from you.

You’re done here.

Taking your now empty plate, you rise from the log and step away. “I’ll speak to Dutch in the morning, you’re more than welcome to come with me to see Trelawny.”

And with that, you leave him to his stew.

***

You’ve risen up quite early this morning, too excited to sleep. Taking some food and a canteen with you, you walk over to Odliv and cinch her saddle. You look out and see the sun beginning to rise and the soft rustling as others begin to wake.

You had hoped that Arthur would join you, and knowing that he’s an early riser, you now come to realize that he won’t accompany you to see Trelawny.

You let out a long exhale and Odliv reaches with her neck to nip at your shirt. You laugh and pat her neck. “I’m fine, Odliv, really.”

You decide to drag out your departure just a little longer, reaching into your saddlebag and pulling out a brush. You make generous sweeps down the mare’s coat, watching dust and short hair shed fly into the air.

You find peace in it, a soothing sensation that fills your mind, and as slow and gentle as the strokes of the brush, a melody is found deep in your throat, and you begin to hum it softly.

You’re swept away in the music, your hand still guiding the brush along Odliv’s dock, her coat nearly glistening in the morning light.

The tune, a fragment of a song your mother used to sing in the evenings under the canvas tent, rises and falls with each stroke, weaving old memories into the new light of the day. Just as you're about to loop the melody again, you hear footsteps approaching. Not wanting to appear startled, you continue your grooming, and don’t turn around.

“Never heard that tune before.”

Your heart betrays your intended calm, and you look over your shoulder to see Arthur standing behind you. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No. You’ve never sung in camp.”

This surprises you. It seems that your life has always been surrounded by music, so why wouldn’t you express it with your voice? “Why?”

He comes up beside you, standing by Odliv’s head and stroking her muzzle. “You said that after your brother died, you wouldn’t ever sing again.”

Arthur's words weigh heavily on your spirit, dredging up grief that you've been trying to accept. You pause in your grooming, the brush momentarily frozen in mid-air, as if suspended by the poignant reminder of promises made in sorrow.

"You remember that?" Your voice is barely a whisper, tinged with a soft sadness. “My brother died a long time ago.”

He nods his head. “There’s a lot of things I can’t forget.”

You feel the song still in your throat. If you vowed to never sing again, you aren’t sure you feel that way anymore. But at the same time, you so desperately want to be the way you were. What are you going to do?

You resume your grooming, the brush now gliding slower as you ponder. The sun casts a soft glow around you, as if trying to ease the weight of your thoughts. "Maybe it's time I healed from the pain," you murmur, more to yourself than to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't reply right away, his eyes lingering on the horizon before they return to you, filled with a mix of understanding and something else—perhaps hope. "Maybe," he agrees quietly, his voice rich with the same warm tone that often carries stories around campfires.

"You think it's possible?" You ask, turning to face him fully now, searching his eyes. “Even if I can’t remember it all?”

He shrugs. “It ain’t for me to say, Kit,” he admits. “But I hope that it will be worth it.”

“It will,” you say confidently and finally let your arm fall to your side with the brush in hand. “Are you coming with me to see Trelawny?”

He pauses for a moment, as if weighing the question, then nods. "Yeah, I reckon I will," he replies, his voice rough like gravel yet soothing in a way that only familiarity can bring.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and begins to walk toward Montana, when his name is called in the distance.

“Arthur…!” It’s Hosea and he comes over with quick steps.

Arthur, taking Montana’s reins, leads him as he walks a few paces toward the older outlaw. “What is it?”

“Dutch wants you and Kit to meet him in Rhodes. Bill is with him.”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “Kit, too?”

You are surprised that Dutch is already in town. You didn’t hear or see him leave this morning. When did they head out?

Hosea’s brow furrows, unamused by Arthur’s question. “Yes, Kit, too. Dutch said they could use her knowledge on dynamite.”

Dynamite. You are remembering your chosen weaponry, but you’ve only recently handled incendiary buckshot and handmade explosives. Not dynamite. That’s wires and switches and such. “Are you sure that’s what he said?” you ask.

Hosea lets out a chuckle. “Is everyone losing their faith in me?” He gestures to Odliv. “Just go on. Take your guns with you.” And before you can respond, Hosea turns to leave.

You feel a little miffed, you want to see Trelawny, not interact with Dutch and his plans. But, on the other hand, he is giving you a job. This could mean danger, and more chances to remember.

You meet Arthur’s gaze, he seems to be waiting for you to say something.

You raise a hand and place it on the saddle. “I guess we are going to see Dutch?”

He nods. “I guess we are.”

***

The first thing you’ve noticed about Rhodes is the red dirt. It coats everything, from the sides of wagons to the hem of women’s dresses. You imagine your feet will be caked in the red soil by the time the day is over.

You follow Arthur as he leads the way. Once you pass by the train station, you quickly spot the general store on your left and the bank on your right. You can already see opportunities here, even before speaking to anyone.

Arthur stops just outside of the sheriff’s office and dismounts Montana. “Wait here,” he tells you, and you don’t find it necessary to insist you go inside. Your eyes follow him as he goes up the old, white steps, and lets himself in. Just as the door opens, you catch Dutch’s voice, loud and boisterous as ever, before the door closes.

You feel Odliv shift the weight on her back hoof and toss her head. You don’t like to wait, either, but it gives you a moment to look at the town some more.

There is a strange air about the place, and it isn’t the humidity. It could be from the rooting tension between the two families, like the old Romeo and Juliet story. You just hope that the ending will be different.

Your thoughts are interrupted as a man in a dusty suit and a wide-brimmed hat approaches you. He tips his hat, revealing a thin smile. “Miss, you’re new here, ain’t you?” he asks, his voice laced with a curious tilt.

You nod, returning his greeting with a cautious smile.

He gestures down to your feet. “Ain’t seen a woman go around without any shoes.”

You arch a brow and decide to use your quit wit against him. “Never seen a man in a dusty suit approach a lady without introducing himself.”

The man chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes you uneasy. “Fair point, miss.” He tips his hat. “Just call me one of the few remaining patriots of the South.” And just as you hear the door to the sheriff’s office open, his eyes flicker and he backs away. “You have a good day now, ma’am.”

You hear the footfalls go quickly down the steps and come right beside you. “Who the hell was that?”

You look down and see the scowl on Arthur’s face, his tone protective and alert. “No one that I couldn’t handle,” you answer confidently.

He looks away from you, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the man in the dusty suit, but he's already disappeared into the throng of townsfolk. "You shoah?" Arthur's voice carries a hint of concern that belies his rugged exterior.

You nod, and confidently reassure him. "I can handle it, Arthur. Probably just some local trying to get into our business.”

Arthur grumbles under his breath and turns. You see Dutch, Bill, and two other men come out of the sheriff’s office, their movements purposeful and direct.

Dutch spots you and gestures in your direction. “Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to Katrina MacDonald.”

You blink, but figure they are all using aliases in this town. And just like instinct, you smile and nod your head in greeting.

The older of the two, with a strawberry-blond mustache, looks clearly inebriated as he stumbles. “A Scottish maid, if I ever did see one…” he drawls. “Sheriff Gray at your service…”

“Pleasure,” you state.

The younger, practically flashes his badge in your direction, tipping his hat. “Deputy Archibald MacGregor, ma’am.”

You smile, at least he isn’t drunk.

Dutch goes to mount The Count with a grunt and gestures to a nearby wagon that is parked. “We are going to ride along with the deputy! Got some shine to dispose of.”

Shine? He means moonshine.

Your heart flutters for a moment, one of your treasured ingredients for incendiary buckshot. The feeling it gives you when it bursts out of the barrel of a shotgun is an adrenaline rush like no other. That was clearly awakened when you raided the O’Driscoll hideout almost a month ago.

And Dutch tells Arthur to ride with the deputy, the rest will follow. Readying yourself on Odliv, you steer her around as Archibald drives the wagon on. As you regard the men that you ride beside, you notice something peculiar. All of them are wearing badges. Since when did Dutch, Bill, and Arthur become deputized?

You want to ask, but hate to interrupt Archibald’s yakking on, as it catches your attention. “…And your friend is behaving himself?”

Trelawny. He’s talking about Trelawny.

Arthur nods as he sits beside his fellow deputy, oblivious that you are listening in. “Oh…yes, I-I think he’s learned his lesson.”

“Congratulations on becoming a temporarily deputized citizen of Scarlett Meadows County…” He begins to talk about hierarchy, reminding you all that he’s in charge here, and that is when you start to lose interest.

You look around as you pass through town and take a road that leads through humidity and tall trees that have witch’s hair dangling from the branches.

“…I did tell you about the Braithewaites?”

Sacra! You should be paying attention. You steer Odliv closer, approaching Archibald's side as he continues to drive.

“Old cotton family who had a fortune at one point, now they are dealin’ in moonshine. As soon as we destroy one, another pops up. Not to mention that Catherine Braithewaite has an expensive horse breeding operation that she needs to maintain…”

Arthur asks a question you are about to ask, “I thought there was gold that these families were fightin’ over?” You would have had a little more tact, but it gets the point across.

“That’s the rumor, but it happened so long ago, I don’t know for sure if it’s true.”

Arthur chuckles. “Must be tough bein’ rich, huh?” You can hear the edge in his voice, and you can’t help but feel the same.

Then suddenly, Archibald’s voice rises, and he pulls back on the reins. “Woah…! Do you see that?”

You look up ahead, and just off the road is a fallen wagon and debris scattered.

“Let’s have a look,” Archibald says as he begins to descend from the wagon. “Keep your eyes open.”

Arthur, too, gets down, and your own curiosity causes you to swing your leg over and dismount.

You feel the soil beneath your feet, somewhat clay-like and damp, and you stroll over to the wagon while Arthur and Archibald take a look around the wreckage.

You see a suitcase and a trunk, already opened and pilfered through. This could be an accident, or intended. Your heart sinks a little as you see that the straps that would hitch the horses have been cut away.

“This was a robbery,” you say softly.

Arthur caught part of what you said and he turns to look at you. “What?”

“Hey!” Archibald calls to you both. “Come look at this.”

You and Arthur walk over to Archibald, who has a card in his hand as he’s crouched over a dead body.

Your breath hitches and Archibald looks at you. “You probably should have stayed on your horse, ma’am.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He looks at you nervously, as though he’s unsure how to respond. But Arthur nods at him. “Who is it?”

“Looks to be important. Suit and tie…and a clean bullet to the forehead. Looks like the work of the Lemoyne Raiders.”

You blink. “Who?”

“They’re what’s left of the war. Men who still think we are still fighting the north. They hate the government, or anyone in authority. They call themselves patriots.”

Patriots. You think back on that odd man who came to greet you.

“I think…” you begin to say, but keep your mouth shut.

Archibald tucks the card in his vest pocket. “We should carry on, I will send someone out here to clean this up.”

Without a proper burial? You bristle at this. Cleaning up isn’t properly putting someone to rest.

But you see everyone, including Arthur, get ready to leave.

Looking at the face of the dead man one more time, you return to Odliv, mount up, and continue on your way.

***

“How’re we gonna handle this…?” Dutch asks with a low rumble. Archibald started rambling again and as you all are crouched in between two trees that stand as pillars, you can tell Dutch’s patience is wearing thin.

You have your shotgun, rifle, and sawed-off, and you’ve never felt so heavy before. You caught the deputy by surprise, carrying all that ammunition and still walking barefoot, and you’re surprised he hasn’t said anything.

Archibald changes the course of his sentence, replying to Dutch’s question. “Well, the way I see it—”

“Actually, let the lady here decide. She’s familiar with stills and has a knack for finesse when silence is preferred…” Dutch turns to look at you and you feel those dark eyes of his burn into you with an intensity that almost makes you falter. But you hold his gaze, your own expression unreadable. “Katrina, see if you can interrupt their operation before we get our hands dirty.”

“Her?” Arthur asks, and you can tell where he is going with this.

Dutch pushes, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, her.” He readjusts his crouching position to shift the weight to his other leg. “I was going to have you go with her, but since you have doubts, maybe Bill can join her?”

Bill seems excited at that. “Oh yeah…” And he reveals sticks of dynamite, pulling them out of his coat pocket. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this.”

“Just like with that train back near Colter?” Arthur asks with a smirk.

Bill’s eyes narrow at Arthur. “Can’t you just let it go?!”

“Gentlemen…!” Dutch chides, his voice sounding more frustrated by the second. “Miss MacDonald, go by yourself. Think you can handle that?”

Not wanting to come off as inadequate, you move over to Bill and quickly take the dynamite from his hand. "In moments like these, Bill, cunning is required," you start, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart. You glance back towards Arthur for just a fraction of a second, seeking a sliver of reassurance or perhaps affirmation. But instead, you get an emotionless glance. “Just the stills, right?” you ask, clarifying your objective.

“I guess. You let us handle the men. Let’s remember to leave them alive,” Archibald says quietly.

Turning around, you continue on your way.

The goal is simple, destroy their stills. You aren’t sure why Dutch said you have expertise with these sorts of things, the still you used for your tinctures was small, not something used for moonshine. But he’s giving you a chance, and you’re going to take it.

You see a man, his back turned, as he is getting something out of a wagon. To get past him without being spotted, you get into the murky bog. Your skirt grows heavy as it absorbs water, but you remain crouched and move slowly.

Once you're close enough, you steady your breath and reach for the smallest stone at your side. With a practiced flick, you send it skittering across the mud, drawing the man’s attention from his task. As he turns his head, you seize the opportunity to slip past him and make your way towards the still, if he needs to be knocked out and tied, you will leave that to the men.

And just as you’re about to cross the water onto land again, you hear a thud behind you. Turning quickly, you see Arthur and he has just taken care of that moonshiner and is hogtieing him.

One down.

You continue on your way, your feet barely making any sound, rendering you undetectable. You hear a small hissing sound, and you recognize it immediately. Following the sound, you peek around a moss-covered tree and see another man as he looks over a large still.

It is a big one. No doubt, it produces a lot of moonshine. Explosive moonshine.

You remember the dynamite you snatched from Bill and your heart races with the thrill of seeing flames and sparks fly. But first, you need to be rid of this man. Seeing a barrel, you spot an empty beer bottle. Perfect.

You carefully make your way up to the man, and he still hasn’t noticed you. Once the bottle is in range, you pick it up, stand, and swing down onto the man’s head.

He crumples to the ground, unconscious, without a sound aside from the soft thud of his body meeting the earth. You quickly check his pulse, ensuring he's still alive; Archibald’s orders were clear, no unnecessary deaths. Satisfied, you move towards the still.

The large copper contraption emits a sour stench that makes you scrunch your nose. If this is moonshine, they may as well be using the bog water and rotted lemons as their base. No matter, you have a job to do.

You take the man by the shoulders, and drag him until there is a good distance between him and the still. This is about to get loud and ugly. You walk back to the still, readying the dynamite and you place it in the crook of the still where the pipe meets the barrel. A strategic position, ensuring maximum damage. You light the fuse, its spit sizzling softly, then you retreat back to the safety of the trees.

Your heart thumps in your chest—heavier than when you danced atop tightropes with the circus or when you swung high above audiences, who never knew the weight of your performances. Memories flash through your mind, quick and sharp as the dynamite’s fuse.

The explosion isn’t just sound and fury; it's catharsis. The boom rolls over the landscape like thunder across the open plains, and the once sturdy still erupts into a concoction of metal, fire, and smoke.

Any normal person would high tail it and run, but you stop to turn around and see it, your eyes scanning over the entire scene.

That’s when you hear gunshots.

“Hey! That belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders…!”

Oh no. If you were wondering if you had already met them, you don’t doubt that anymore.

You need to help take them out, especially considering bullets are flying. You see a large crate and running to it, you slide behind it just as bullets fly after you. You remove your rifle, and ready yourself for the fight.

You hear quick footfalls behind you and the sound of their body making contact with a wall. “You alright, Kit?”

It’s Arthur. You peek from over the crate and seeing a raider blow his cover, you aim and fire. The bullet rips from the barrel and makes its mark, and the man falls to the ground.

“Just fine!” you reply. You see a crate of dynamite near a group of them and switching to your shotgun, you check that it is loaded with your favorite bullets. Aiming carefully, you pull the trigger, and a burst of flames erupts from the barrel. Once it reaches the dynamite it explodes, just in time for more raiders to ride in on a wagon. But, of course, their little plan to increase their forces is quickly diminished.

“Think I still need protecting?” you ask, your words with a little edge to them.

Arthur advances and takes out two more raiders. “I didn’t say all that to make you feel weak, Kit!” he says, his voice carrying out amongst the gunshots and battle cries from the raiders.

“Then what was it?!” You aren’t sure why you’re bringing this up now, but with the intensity of the moment, you might as well. It seems this is the only way you two can ever have the chance to talk.

Arthur reloads his rifle, glancing over the top of the knocked-over wagon with sharp eyes as he covers another angle. “It was because I care, Kitka,” he shouts back, ducking as a bullet whips past his head. “And part of that means I don’t want to see you get hurt!”

You grit your teeth as you use the last of your incendiary buckshot. You switch back to your rifle and advance forward. You reach some old shanties and you see the debris of dead bodies. You take cover, just as another raider bursts out a door and takes a shot at your head. The bullet whizzes right past you, and suddenly, there is another pain in your temple.

A memory.

But you remember the last time this happened, if John hadn’t been there, you’d be killed.

You grit your teeth and try to fight the memory that wants to force its way in. “No! Not now!”

Your heart races in your chest, making you want to give into it, to seize it. It could be important, but you just can’t let it happen.

And as you try to fight it, the headache gets stronger.

It’s one of the worst you have felt in a good while.

You try to aim at a raider as he makes his way to Arthur but the weight of your sawed-off feels like a ton of bricks. Your hand falls and you try to call out to him, but no words come.

And just as you see him spot the raider and shoot him, the world around you fades to black.

***

The world feels dizzy as you complete a fourth backflip. Your eyes are painted, your lips red like a pomegranate, Your body is dressed in red, gold, and black.

Men gasp in awe as you spin in a circle, your dress billowing out in waves.

Another distraction, another ruse, you’ve done this hundreds of thousands of times, and after a few more twirls, flips, and leaps, you know that the job is over.

With one simple dip in the shadows, you disappear.

You walk out of the saloon, laughing to yourself. And navigating your way to your horse, you mount and ride off.

The darkness is only in the shadows, but for the light of the moon, you can see everything. You are on your way to the rendezvous point, where Arthur and John will meet you with the money they had taken.

But as you continue to ride, you feel something is off. It is too quiet, as though it were a silence before the storm. Your horse senses it too, his ears twitching nervously, nostrils flaring as if he could smell the danger lurking in the serene night.

You urge your mount to quicken, the rhythmic gallop syncing with your heightened pulse. The moon casts long shadows that dance ominously about you and you look back.

Just as a bullet flies past you.

“Come back here, Romani!” a grim voice calls after you. “Your bounty is mine…!”

Had you thought to look and see the bulletin near the saloon, you would have seen your wanted poster. Though the amount is only fifty dollars, it is enough for ambitious bounty hunters to get their feet wet.

“I’m more valuable alive!” you call back, still hoping to outride the hunter.

Another shot is heard, and you realize that he doesn’t care how he brings back your body.

And in your realization, you near the meeting place, but also, the edge of the cliff.

Your horse slides on his hooves, neighing loudly, but the rock is too slick after the rain, and he rolls on his side, you falling off and rolling over the edge.

Your hand instantly reaches for a young tree that is growing in a large crack, and if you weighed more than you do, it would surely break.

“Ah…!” you cry, and you hold onto the tree for dear life. You try to pull yourself up, but as you do, the tree shifts in the crack and you know now that the best thing to do is to remain still.

You hear the boots of the bounty hunter as he slowly walks over to the edge. He looks down at you, and the glow of a cigar is the only way you can see the conceited grin on his face.

“Well, well, well…” he chuckles. “Looks like you are at my mercy.”

You still feel a bite on your tongue and decide not to give him the satisfaction. “I’d rather let go and let you be short fifty dollars.”

But this doesn’t seem to change his mind, as he crouches down and points his gun at your head. “No difference to me, sweetheart.” Then you hear the sharp click. “A dead Romani is a good Romani.”

You feel your heart drop. This is the first time you have ever stared into the barrel of a gun. You cling to the tree and try to come to terms with your impending death.

Then a shot rings out.

You stare into the eyes of the bounty hunter, as he falls forward and over, passing you and falling to the ground below the cliff.

Your breath is choppy, your arms feeling weaker and weaker. You don’t know who just killed that bounty hunter, it could be another one for all you know.

You hear spurs jingle and the footfalls of boots on the rock, an almost satisfying click-clack.

The figure leans over and after a pause, they speak. “Since when did the Kitka Petrova fall from great heights?”

The low timbre and little joke amongst the threat of peril reveal all that you need to know.

“Just help me up, Arthur…”

Arthur’s hand reaches down, strong and steady, grappling yours with a firmness that belies his gruff exterior. With a heave that speaks of his unyielding strength, he pulls you up and over the edge, back onto the rocky ground. Your legs wobble slightly as you regain your footing, but he doesn’t let you go.

You look up into his eyes, and a sense of gratitude overwhelms you. Without even thinking, you reach behind his neck and pull him into a kiss. You feel a hint of resistance, perhaps by surprise, until you feel the press of his lips melt softly into yours.

The world around you fades into a blur, the crisp air and the stark rock face all but disappearing as Arthur's arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His kiss deepens, and for a moment, you forget the dangers that led you here, the cascading troubles of a life on the run.

You’re twenty years old, and your first kiss is with Arthur Morgan.

The moment is fleeting, as you feel him pull away gently and you open your eyes to see a look of discomfort crossing his face. You are taken aback, feeling confused and embarrassed as he looks away and clears his throat.

“Erm…” His voice is hoarse and uncertain. “Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding your gaze. What was a moment of whimsy and romance, now feels awkward and fleeting, leaving you wondering what had just happened.

“Arthur…?”

He scratches the back of his head. “There’s…there’s somethin’ you should know…”

“What, Arthur?”

“Well, I’ve got—”

“Morgan!”

You and Arthur turn around and see John riding up to you both. “Why didn’t you wait for me, huh? I could’ve gotten shot at or somethin’!”

Acting as though nothing has happened, Arthur waves John off. “Quit your whinin’, Marston!” Then he turns to look at you and smirks. “This is why we shouldn’t take him on jobs.”

“I can hear you, you know!” John barks.

Arthur tucks his chin, clearing his throat again. “We should get back to camp. Bessie will start worryin’.”

You decide that it is best to let it go. If he isn’t going to encourage it, or talk about it, you may as well account your kiss to moon sickness. “When does she ever not worry?”

Arthur chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

***

You feel a gentle pat on your cheek, sounds around you becoming more clear.

“Kit…!” Arthur calls out to you. “Kit…?”

You open your eyes and your head throbs heavily. You smell smoke and feel the heat of fire.

“C’mon, sit up.”

With a hand supporting you, he helps you to a sitting position. You bring a hand to your head and apply pressure to massage the ache.

Arthur’s hand doesn’t leave you as he searches your eyes. “What happened?”

And you counter with a question of your own. “How long was I out?”

“A couple minutes. I took care of the rest of the raiders.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” he asks again.

You open your eyes again and look at him, your gaze falling to his lips. You feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind and body craving the feeling you felt when your memory flooded through you.

It was like a chain reaction. An explosion, and that reverie has ignited a spark.

And you are still delirious, coming out of a high.

You reach for him, take him by the collar, and pull him to you.

“Kit—?” His question is instantly silenced, as your lips collide together.

You expect him to resist, to gently push you away like the time before, only you are prepared for it, you expect it.

But instead, his hands support your head, his body presses into you as your back is against the wood siding of the shanty. You hear his deep inhale, exhaling a guttural moan that would send shivers down the spine of any less emboldened soul. A passion reborn, stoked by the fires of near-death and raw survival. His fingers weave through your dark locks, a contrast to the dusty grime on his hands. He pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes searching for something, his marine irises cascading hope.

He parts his lips to speak, but you don’t want to talk, your hands taking his face and pulling him back, feeling no resistance from him at all as his lips surrender to your insistent mouth.

“Morgan…!”

He pulls away from you quickly, and you instantly feel that familiar confusion and dread as he rises to his feet and walks around the shanty. He spots someone and calls back to them. “Here, Bill!”

“Well, hell! I thought you was dead! Is Kit alive?”

Arthur continues to catch his breath. “Yeah! She’s…she’s alive.”

“Good! Bring that moonshiner back to the wagon. Dutch is havin’ me take the shine back to camp!”

“Where’s Archibald?”

“He’s takin’ the moonshiners to jail!”

You still sit up against the siding and watch Arthur pause before turning to look back at you. You see something in his eyes, perhaps a desire to continue, or maybe something else.

He walks back to you and offers his hand. “Let me help you up.”

You don’t hesitate to take it, and when he motions to let you go once you are on your feet, you hold it tightly as he starts to walk away.

He looks at you, down at your hand, then back to you.

“I was twenty,” you start. “On that ledge, remember?”

You can swear you see the light in his eyes go dim. “Yeah, I remember.”

You swallow and continue to look deep into his eyes, your grip not loosening. “You were going to say something to me, do you remember what it was?”

His eyes shift as he searches your face. You feel the suspense in the air acting like the locomotion of a train to your heart, pumping faster and faster, soon to run out of track.

He speaks softly. “No, I don’t.” He then licks his lips. “Is that why you kissed me?”

You admit, you are feeling something else for the rugged outlaw, but there is so much distance between you, secrets and lost memories, you don’t feel it is right to jump into something while he hasn’t told you it all.

You swallow thickly. “I kissed you because…I remembered, and I…” You feel your face grow hot and you blink softly. “I wanted to feel it again, the way it felt back then.”

He takes a deep breath, the tips of his ears turning pink. “You…feelin’ alright now?”

You nod. “Yes.”

After another moment, he pulls his hand gently out of yours. “That’s good. We should meet up with Dutch.”

And this, like your memory, feels the same. “Right.”

You pick up your sawed off from the ground and follow behind Arthur as he walks back to the tied-up moonshiner that you had knocked out. He picks him up with ease and has him draped over his shoulder and you both continue to walk until you cross the boards used as a bridge and join Bill, Archibald, and Dutch.

Dutch sees you both and grins. “There you are! Good work, you two.” And he turns to the deputy. “And that is how it is done.”

Archibald nods his thanks, his face misted with sweat though he hardly lifted a finger. “Thank you, gentlemen…” And he looks at you. “And ma’am. It won’t be long before we are rid of all moonshiners and their ilk!”

Dutch opens his arms and claps Archibald on the shoulder. “Indeed, we will, sir! Indeed we will!” And in a majestic way, he sweeps his arms over to the wagon as Bill sits at the reins. “We will take care of this refuse for you and we will see you back in town real soon.”

Archibald nods, and after cutting the ropes on their feet, and with his gun firmly in hand, he begins to escort the moonshiners back to the paddy wagon. “Get goin’, you no-good-piece-of-white-trash…!”

And once the naive deputy is out of earshot, Dutch turns to you. “I had my doubts, Kit, but you really do seem to be like your old self. You handled yourself well out there.”

You nod your thanks, the headache slowly ebbing away. “Thank you, Dutch.”

He gestures to Odliv, a content expression still etched on his face. “Why don’t you go back to camp and tell Hosea the good news? I’m sure he will think of something we can do with that shine, and no doubt he will want to include you in it.”

Your eyes fall on Arthur, who hasn’t looked at you since carrying that moonshiner over.

Not getting a response from you, Dutch speaks again, his voice more pushy. “Well, go on, then! Bill ain’t gonna tell it like you will!”

You decide to go, your bare feet making small swishing sounds as you walk through the mud and grass.

You hear Dutch say something to Arthur, but you’re too far now. You hope he isn’t talking about you, telling Arthur that you are nothing but a big distraction, but you will never know.

You reach Odliv, who has been waiting patiently for you.

Climbing onto Odliv's back, you feel the steady rhythm of her hooves against the earth as if they might pound the confusion from your mind. The ride back to camp is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a distant bird. You find comfort in the monotony, feeling it as more of a need than a pleasure. There needs to be silence in between the chaos and the volume of explosions.

There needs to be a balance.

There needs to be a truth and a lie.

There needs to be forgetting and remembering.

You just wish you knew what to do with this feeling in your heart.

Thank you so much for reading!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

Text

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

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How much harm have they done to this man for him to think that with that face, that body, that heart, he is someone ugly, stupid and difficult to love?

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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A little something I worked on with some other awesome creators. Also we KNOW his name is Marion, this is based on a newspaper.

@gremlin-boah @canismordere @astar-and-astorm

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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This is the ideal outlaw body. You may not like it, but this is what peak boah looks like.

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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Am I Born to Die? || Sean MacGuire x f!OC

Fic Summary: A former fiddler in a traveling band reminisces on her short time in the Van Der Linde gang in the year 1889 through memories and letters. During a time when seeking a fresh start from a path of crime led to finding kinship, love and a hell of a lot more trouble.

Chapter Warnings: Violence, death, RDR2 spoilers

Pairings: Sean x f!OC some implications of Arthur x f!OC

Characters: (in this chapter) Arthur Morgan, Sean MacGuire, John Marston, Lenny Summers, Micah Bell

Wordcount: 2,699

[AO3] Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

A/N : If you've been reading so far, thank you so much! This is my first attempt writing these characters, so thoughts, feedback, constructive crit is always welcome! Would love to know what you think so far!

If the Blackwater ferry heist had gone as smooth as Dutch had hoped, who knows the kind of life I would be living now.

Perhaps the gang would have disbanded after getting a cut of the very large sum we were expecting or all headed to Tahiti like Dutch would later suggest, to live a life of freedom from the law. But it couldn’t have gone any worse if we had tried.

I had been with the Van Der Linde gang for nearly two months at this point. Long enough that I had earned their trust and they had earned mine, for the most part. You could say I was even starting to think as crazy as they did. Whether or not being away from civilization with no one else to talk to had anything to do with it, I couldn’t say for sure. I had been out with a few of them robbing stagecoache a couple times and I was beginning to experience the adrenaline rush they talked about. It truly was addicting.

All I knew was that Dutch made robbing this ferry sound like it would be a walk in the park, and twice as fun. Most of us seemed to agree afterwards, that Arthur and Hosea’s absence due to finding another lead on a job was a major reason things went sideways. I didn’t realize that the two of them often served as the backbone of these bigger jobs, as Dutch’s most trusted men and the ones the rest of the gang looked to for guidance. Though most seemed confident enough we could pull it off without them.

I don’t remember much in the days we neared Blackwater, except most of us being cold, bored and itching for some action. I didn’t try to murder Sean again, or anyone else for that matter. I did craft some gloves made from mountain goat skin for Arthur. I had worked on them until my fingers bled, trying to get the right size and style. Thinking about practicality and wanting to make sure they were both warm and durable enough for him to pull a trigger if he had to. Mary-Beth teased me about it a little bit which I just rolled my eyes at, but I will admit I was nervous to give them to him.

I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Looking back, it reminded me of the way I felt around a particular ranch hand I once knew. On the ranch in Georgia where my father and I ended up living and working for years, before the fire. Arguably, I did most of the work, since Pa needed a cane or a horse to walk. I was his legs on the farm. Chet was a ranch hand who I basically grew up around. I was too young to know what romance was, but oh, how I admired him. It was probably nothing more than a schoolgirl crush on a man about ten years my senior, but it was the closest I had ever been to falling in love. Arthur reminded me of him. Both rough around the edges, but kind when they thought no one was looking. Both so dedicated to their work the people around them depended on them a great deal. I saw evidence of this with the Blackwater disaster, or massacre, as the papers would later call it.

That morning we were packing up camp for the last time until we could find a new hideout. That was when Dutch had heard about Colter, a little abandoned town further up the mountain than we had already ventured to avoid being caught by these Pinkertons. They had been patrolling the area for folks like us. Arthur was talking with Dutch and Hosea about plans to meet up there once they had parted ways for their own job. I watched him saddling up, nervously touching the soft hide of those gloves before I decided to approach him.

“Arthur?”

He turned towards me, tilting his hat. “Miss Donahue,” he greeted. “You be safe out there. I know you aint use to these kinda jobs, but I’ve seen you with a gun. I know you can handle yourself. And I know Dutch’ll look out for you. Just stay close by. Keep your head on a swivel. You’ll do just fine.”

I gave a nod. “Thanks, Arthur. I will.” I paused a moment before I held out the gloves. “I…I made these for you. For getting me my fiddle.” I watched his face as he took them and started to ramble nervously. “They’re goat skin. From the couple mountain goats we got when you took me out shooting a few weeks back. I didn’t know your size…if they’re too big I can adjust them.”

Arthur looked at the gloves and pulled one on his hand. “Millie, these are some fine gloves. They fit just perfectly. Christ…you didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

I shrugged. “Well..I didn’t have nothing better to do.” I let out a nervous laugh and his blue eyes smiled.

“Thank you, Millie.” He gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. I felt the warmth of his hand long after he’d let go to mount his horse. MacGuire showed up and had to ruin the moment, as he often did.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer, English.” Sean chuckled as he approached us. My face flushed with both anger and humiliation. “It’s called human decency, Sean. Somethin’ you could use a lesson in.” Arthur said and smiled down at me from his horse apologetically. “I’ll see you folks in Colter. Don’t get yourselves killed now.”

Sean and I watched him set off on his horse. I was about to join the rest of the gang in tearing down the last of camp when the Sean spoke. “Ay. Irish.” I cringed at how he addressed me. “I have a name.” I said sternly, but he ignored this.

“Have you got enough goat skin to make another pair of gloves? I heard it’s gonna be cold up in this Colter, and Dutch doesn’t want us goin’ into town.” he asked me.

I let out huff of annoyance. “You shoulda’ thought of that sooner. It’ll take me days to make another pair.” I kept on walking, and he followed.

“Come on . I’ll freeze up there. Look, I’ll pay you. How does five dollars sound?” Sean asked.

I looked at him over my shoulder. “Twenty.”

“ Twenty !?” He squawked. “Are ya out of your damn mind? You gave Morgan a pair for nothin’”

“You asked me at the last minute.” I pointed out. “And you aint even supplying the leather. I can have ‘em to you in a couple days for twenty.”

Sean hesitated and let out a defeated sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, girl. But alright. I don’t got the money now, but I will. After this ferry heist we’ll have more money than we can count. And I’ll give ya your lousy twenty bucks. They’d better be the best damn gloves you’ve ever made.”

I held back a satisfied smirk. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually charge him that much. He had a point, after all. If this heist went as well as Dutch seemed so sure it would, twenty dollars would be nothing.

—-----

I figured being so new to camp, Dutch would have me hang back with some of the women. When he’d asked me and Lenny to bring the getaway horses along the riverbank I was eager to prove myself. Maybe he’d asked me because he knew I use to work with horses on a ranch with my Pa. Or maybe I was meant to be a human shield. I still wonder about that sometimes. Our job was simple: keep the horses together, and take out anyone who tried to follow us. Having never been involved in a gunfight before, I was a little uneasy. “Just keep your head down.” Lenny had warned me. “And shoot before they shoot you. If you get too nervous, just hide behind a rock or something.” Which did little to reassure me.

We watched the ferry carefully. Time seemed to go by painfully slow as all we could do was wait. Then, all of a sudden, there was an eruption of chaos as we found ourselves in the middle of a bloodbath. Bullets were flying everywhere when our boat hit the shoreline. The gang started to jump out one by one and mount the horses. There were Pinkertons chasing them off the boat, and a band of bounty hunters were approaching on the shore as soon as they’d been tipped off.

Everyone was shouting as we rode off into what felt like a battlefield. Davey Callandar was on the back of Charles’s horse, wounded and screaming. Jenny Kirk was on Javier’s horse in rough shape, having taken a few bullets on the ferry. “Where’s Mac?” I heard someone yell over the sound of gunfire. Micah Bell answered. “He’s done for. Had to leave him behind.”

Horses whinied and galloped along the hard packed dirt trail as we dodged bullets and fired them right back. John Marston was riding behind me. I turned my head in time to watch blood spray from his arm as he was hit. “Fuck!” The man clutched his arm and dropped his gun. I shouted at him to get in front of me while I shot at the bounty hunters that were right on our tails. I shot one off his horse. Three more showed up. “This way! Up the hill!” I hollered at John and we made a sharp turn up the rock ledge to lose them, separating us from the the rest of the gang. From the corner of my eye, someone who was clearly on our side and shooting with me appeared.

“Is Marston hit?” I heard Sean’s voice and was surprised he had come to our aid.

“I’m fine.” John answered. “Just keep them off our ass. If you can manage that.”

The hunters were relentlessly chasing. I later figured out that they had likely wounded John to take him as hostage. Just as the noise died down and my heart began to calm, I heard another shot and galloped the horse I was riding faster. I turned and steadied my rifle as I heard Sean’s horse make a loud distressed sound. I saw the animal rear and buck Sean off as the bounty hunters were gaining on us once again. I pulled my reins back, slowing down. I knew the risk of going back for him, but I had been raised better than that. I turned my horse to go back when a bounty hunter got to him first and leaned over his horse to scoop the young dazed Irishman up from the ground. I heard him laughing. “Got one, boys! It’s payday!”

I aimed my gun and fired as the man headed in the opposite direction with Sean, only to hear the click of an empty barrel. “Shit..” I watched their horses tear out of sight, Sean’s copper-haired head bobbing limply on the back of the horse. I hurried my horse up the hill again to find John who had gotten a decent head start and was making a tourniquet for his arm from his ripped shirt sleeve.

“John! They..they got him! They took Sean!” I stammered, trying to catch my breath.

“They did? Shit.. He still alive?” John looked up at me.

I nodded quickly. “I think so. What do we do?”

“Little Irish prick. It’s his own fault for gettin’ caught.” John winced holding his arm. He uncapped a flask with his teeth and poured whiskey over the wound before taking a long drink. “Head to camp. Before I lose this damn arm, that’s what we do.”

“But they’ll kill him!” I shouted in disbelief.

“Not necessarily. They’re bounty hunters. They’ll probably turn him in. Then they’ll kill him.” I could tell John was much more desensitized and unbothered by this than I was. “Maybe we can bust him out before they do. But right now we got bigger problems. Christ, girl. We gotta toughen you up some.” I frowned, taking offense to his statement, but I followed him, hoping he was right.

—----

Colter carried the stench of blood in the crisp air from the moment we arrived.

Jenny bled to death before the gang even made it to our new camp. Javier and Lenny found ground thawed enough to bury her in a shallow grave nearby. I hadn’t known the girl long. She hadn’t been with us much longer than I had, but many were saddened by her loss. Losing the Callandar brothers was a hard hit, as well. We presumed Mac was dead. Micah said he’d been hit more than a few times and there wasn’t much left of him. Davey lived for a few agonizing days before he succumbed due to either blood loss or infection. He joined his brother in whatever afterlife awaits outlaws, and we buried him next to Jenny.

I thought about Sean. Some presumed he was already dead. I couldn’t help but carry the weight of guilt in knowing that if they hanged the young man it was my fault. Dutch had given me a chance, and I had blown it, letting one of his men get captured. But Dutch seemed to be going through his own personal hell over the deaths and knowing that the entire township wanted his head because he had killed an innocent girl on that ferry.

The emotional state of the camp was as miserable as the weather. We were all anxious to get out of the cold and away from Blackwater before we all faced the gallows. We were low on money, food and morale. I started making those gloves Sean asked for to keep my mind busy, not knowing if he’d ever get to wear them.

When Arthur and Hosea returned, they were as rattled as we all were to hear how badly things had ended on the ferry. We all had to face the reality that we had to start over, or die there on that mountain. If the law didn’t kill us, the mountain surely would. “I’m sure glad you made me these gloves, Miss Donahue.” Arthur told me one morning while I was huddled by one of the wood stove, stitching Sean’s gloves in the house we were lodging in. He pulled up a stool. “My fingers might have fallen off by now if you hadn’t.” I smiled politely, but my mind was elsewhere, and he could see it. “Don’t you worry, Miss.” He added. “This gang has seen hard times before, and we’ll surely get through this. We’ll be outta this frozen hell soon enough.” He looked down at the gloves. “You’re making another pair?”

I let out a sigh. “They were for Sean. But..someone else could have them, I guess.”

His expression turned serious and he reached out putting a gentle hand on my arm. “I heard what happened back there. You did good, Millie.”

I scoffed and stopped stitching. “ Good ? I let our man get captured. I should have reloaded my gun sooner.”

Arthur gave a shrug. “Happens to all of us. Besides, you saved John’s sorry hide. He’s too proud to thank you for it, but I know he’s grateful in his own way.” Arthur pointed out. He sat back and nodded to the gloves. “You keep at it. We’ll get Sean back, you’ll see. We never leave a man behind, if we can help it.” He started to rise but not before teasing me with a coy half-smile. “I thought you hated the boy.”

I frowned, my cheeks warming from his insinuation that I felt anything besides dislike for Sean. “I don’t hate him. Don’t have any particular use for him, but I don’t hate any one of you.”

Arthur chuckled. “That’s the spirit. You’ll probably feel the same way about most of us, with time.” As he walked away it occurred to me that perhaps I was missing the lad more than I was worried about him. At least he was in a warm dry jail cell, being fed, probably. It was Sean’s cocky remarks and obnoxious singing that kept most of us in high spirits, whether we cared to admit it or not. And we sure could have used that in our time on that mountain.

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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if you're cold he's cold. bring him inside

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westerndreamin · 4 months ago

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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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