Work Text:
"Please, sir, explain to these fine people just what you have been up to."
Dutch swerved Micah in full display in front of the camp, right outside his tent, hand clamped on the man's - traitor's - neck. He smiled cruelly, bearing his teeth. The other hand held a cold gun up to Micah's temple. His finger twitched on the trigger, caressing it gently. He nudged it closer to the skin, threatening.
Micah held his hands up, squeamish and terrified. Pathetic, he garbled, "Hey, hey, Dutch - I - It ain't what you think it is. I can explain-"
Dutch shoved the man to the ground, where he fell with a thump onto the dew-soft grass. The sun glittered. Dutch aimed his gun at Micah's forehead, tutting when he trembled. "Don't play coy with me, boy. Get up and walk." He motioned the gun. "Now."
The man stumbled to his feet, arms still held up in obedience. He stammered on, "See, I was just playing a small prank, of sorts- that's right, I-"
Dutch laughed, mocking and sure, "Explain it, puh-lease Mister Bell, explain why I have seen you betraying this family!"
"Betray, I would never ever do; I love this gang as much as I would love my - my mother!" Micah attempted to appease, smiling nervously. The hiss of a snake sounded from across the camp. In the background, Jack - sweet, innocent Jack - pointed it out with a 'look!'. The fire raged higher.
Dutch's eyes went blank as if hypnotised. He lowered the gun and smiled, fixed, "Alright, son, I believe you."
Micah jolted, hands falling to his sides, "I- really? You mean that?"
Dutch's smile grew, and he stepped closer to Micah. He raised his hand. It fell onto the man's shoulder in a friendly pat. "Ofcourse... come, walk with me. I still need an explanation, friend."
Micah barked out a strange laugh, relieved and confused, "Sure, boss, I-I'll explain it to you. Trust me, you don't have to worry about a thing."
They walked to the other side of the camp, away from the general crowd. Away from Jack, specifically, who Abigail snuck away into their tent. A lonesome table sat. Micah stopped, turning to the table and moving to sit. Dutch stood behind him, silent. His eyes bore into the back of his head.
Micah made a start, still attempting to be pleasing, "See, Dutch, I was simply trynna-"
Slam.
Micah's head hit the table with a crack. His body went limp. He turned around hazily, dazed. Dutch stood above him, staring down at him with dead eyes. His rings glinted enticingly as he rubbed each knuckle. The facade fell. A frown darkened his face.
Micah's ears rang as he listened to Dutch, "You thought it'd be funny didn't ya?" The realisation set in. "I bet you had a real laugh once you got your paws on the gold!" Dutch's voice grew, re-gaining the attention of the audience who had never quite looked away in the first place. They stared, unsympathetic. Their gaze was almost as bad as Dutch's. Almost. Micah shivered, the same fear returning.
Dutch lurched forward and grabbed Micah's head, fist in greasy hair. Slam. "You - you thought I would let you betray my gang?! My family?!"
Slam. Blood and flesh splattered the wood. "Didn't think I'd be back so soon, huh? Didn't think I'd notice everything we had earned missing?!"
Slam. "We worked hard for that, Mister Bell! And here you take it from us, like we are nothing!"
Slam. "You think I'm stupid, huh? Is that it? You think I don't know Colm?! Think people don't talk?!"
Slam. The body fell to the ground. Pieces of brains and blood oozed on the ground and table. The corpse slumped. Dutch stood, heaving and shaking. He spat on it, "Rest in hell, cowpoke."
He strolled away, slipping into the darkness of his tent to ruminate. Molly didn't dare step inside. Miss Grimshaw clapped her hands, telling everyone to clean up. They followed, solemn but accepting. It had to be done. Hosea looked at Dutch's tent from another table, book limp in hand. Something in him calmed at the site of Dutch ridding the camp of the rat. He glanced at the scene, then lowered his head towards the book.
He smiled.