Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A roaring filled the air—a sound of hooves, wind, and distant thunder.

When the flames died down, the room was silent. The crib was empty.

Far from the rolling hills of England, somewhere in the wild heart of America, a strange light blinked into existence above the windswept plains. In the distance, coyotes howled, their haunting calls echoing under the starlit sky. The plains were vast, stretching endlessly under a bruised sky that was caught between dusk and dawn. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional whisper of wind through the grass.

A tall figure on horseback trotted along the edge of a desolate trail, his hat tilted low to shield his eyes from the last slivers of daylight. He wore a long duster, tattered and dusty from long days on the trail. His eyes, though weary, were sharp as they scanned the horizon, seeking trouble, fortune, or whatever might wander his way.

The man’s horse snorted, sidestepping nervously as the air grew thick, charged with an unnatural energy.

“Whoa there, girl,” murmured Arthur Morgan, patting the mare’s neck with a gloved hand. His voice was gravelly, seasoned by years on the run and far too many nights under the open sky. He followed his horse’s gaze to a strange, green glow emanating from the tall grass up ahead, like fireflies but too big, too bright.

“What in the hell is that…” Arthur muttered, dismounting to investigate. He approached cautiously, boots crunching on the dry earth. His hand hovered near the revolver at his hip—old habits died hard, after all.

As he drew closer, the green light faded, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air. And then he saw it, nestled in a hollowed patch of grass—a tiny, wriggling bundle, covered in the remnants of strange, glittering dust.

Arthur knelt down, his breath catching as he took in the sight. It was a baby, barely old enough to sit up, dressed in what looked like nothing Arthur had ever seen. The child’s emerald eyes glinted in the dark, staring up at Arthur with an odd mix of curiosity and familiarity, as though the baby somehow recognized him, somehow understood that Arthur Morgan—outlaw, gunslinger, man of questionable morality—was his only protector in this strange, ruthless land.

“What’re you doin’ out here, kid?” Arthur whispered, though he didn’t expect an answer. Gently, almost reluctantly, he reached down, lifting the child into his arms. The baby didn’t cry, didn’t make a sound, just looked at him with those impossibly green eyes, as if he could see right through every wall Arthur had built up over the years.

Arthur straightened, looking around as though expecting someone to jump out from the shadows, hollering that this was some kind of trap. But the plains were empty, a vast nothingness stretching out under the night sky.

“Well, this is just perfect,” Arthur muttered, adjusting the child awkwardly in his arms. “Never figured myself for babysittin’ duty.”

The baby gurgled, a soft, contented sound that cut through the tension hanging in the air. For a moment, Arthur felt his own defenses falter, the edges of his hard exterior softening in the presence of this strange, innocent life.

“Well… ain’t no way I’m leavin’ you out here to the wolves,” he grumbled, trying to convince himself as much as the child. “Guess we’ll figure this out together.”

Arthur mounted his horse, cradling the baby carefully against his chest, shielding him from the chilly breeze. As they set off down the trail, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that his life had just taken a turn, one he couldn’t explain, one he couldn’t control.

“Wherever you came from, kid,” he murmured, glancing down at the boy, “looks like you’re stuck with me now.”

The baby didn’t respond, of course, but his eyes sparkled in the moonlight, an eerie brightness that hinted at a hidden power, something ancient and strange.

Arthur didn’t know it yet, but this small life would change his path, forcing him to face a world of magic, fate, and choices more complex than any shootout or robbery. But for now, he rode on through the night, the child silent and watchful in his arms, as the Wild West stretched out before them like an open wound under the endless sky.

The camp lay under the pink haze of dawn, the sun just a sliver above the horizon, casting long shadows that mingled with the last clinging wisps of night. Birds were starting to call from the trees, their songs sharp against the quiet murmur of waking men and the distant clinking of pots and pans. In the middle of camp, a small fire crackled, its glow waning with the dawn, and around it sat three figures—a scene that had become as regular as the sunrise itself.

Arthur Morgan sat hunched over his coffee tin, blowing at the steam rising in lazy spirals. His face was hardened by years on the run, the deep lines around his mouth and eyes a testament to a life of rugged survival. Beside him sat Hosea Matthews, his face thoughtful as he poked at the fire with a stick, lips twisting into that familiar, calculating smile whenever he thought of an angle to play.

And then there was Henry.

Henry, they called him—a name that felt far too simple for a boy with a strange past and eyes that held a quiet, unsettling intensity. He’d come into their lives fifteen years back, a tiny, wriggling bundle Arthur had found under the stars. And somehow, over time, the boy had carved out a space for himself among them, had become a son to Arthur and Hosea both, if either of them would ever admit it. Now Henry was a young man, lean and wiry, with a quietness to him that made the other gang members keep their distance. Even Dutch himself respected that distance, though the leader’s eyes often lingered on the boy with a calculating gleam, as if he were an enigma he meant to unravel.

Henry was sitting across from Arthur, his shoulders hunched and his fingers toying absently with a knife he’d picked up somewhere. He looked like any other young outlaw, but there was something about him, something about the way he watched everything, that made you wonder if he was seeing things the rest of them couldn’t.

Hosea finally broke the silence, his voice soft, but clear enough for both of them to hear over the crackling fire.

“So, Blackwater,” he began, his tone almost casual, as if they were planning a Sunday picnic. “Dutch thinks it’s a once-in-a-lifetime haul. But we all know what a mess that town’s become.”

Arthur grunted, taking a swig of his coffee. “Dutch thinks a lot of things, Hosea. Doesn’t make ’em all good ideas.”

Henry glanced between them, his face impassive, though his eyes betrayed a hint of curiosity. “What exactly are we after there?” His voice was soft, carrying an accent that had softened over the years but still had a lingering cadence that didn’t quite fit with the rough talk of the West.

Hosea’s gaze sharpened, a glint of enthusiasm flickering in his eyes. “A haul, Henry. A goddamn fortune. There’s a payroll coming through, fat with money that could set us up nicely for the next year. Enough to move us further west, away from all the trouble.” He tilted his head, giving Henry a slight, knowing smile. “Dutch thinks it’s fate.”

Arthur shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Dutch always thinks it’s fate.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, considering. He knew enough about the gang by now to understand the way Dutch’s ‘fate’ tended to backfire, leaving the rest of them with bruises, broken bones, or worse. But there was a strange, unspoken loyalty among them, a tether that kept them all bound to Dutch’s dream, even when common sense told them to run.

“So, what’s the plan?” Henry asked, glancing at Arthur, whose face was set in a grim frown.

“We go in quiet,” Hosea replied, his tone far too optimistic for Arthur’s taste. “Dutch thinks we can get in, grab the cash, and slip out before anyone’s the wiser.”

Arthur gave a skeptical grunt. “Dutch also thought Colm would sit down and play nice. Look where that got us.”

Henry’s lips twitched, though he quickly stifled the smile. “And what’s my part in all this?”

Hosea leaned forward, eyes bright with the thrill of a well-laid plan. “You’re the distraction, Henry. You’ve got that way about you—people notice you, but they don’t quite know why.” His smile grew wider. “That’s the sort of thing we can use. Dutch thinks if you stir things up a bit, it’ll keep the eyes away from us long enough to grab the cash and get out.”

Henry felt a prickle of something he couldn’t quite name—a tug of anticipation, laced with an edge of doubt. He’d been with these men long enough to know their tactics, their strengths, and their limits. And he knew the precariousness of their situation better than most. This wasn’t England, where the rules were written in ancient scrolls and whispered secrets. This was the West, wild and unforgiving, and he’d learned its rules the hard way.

Arthur’s gaze settled on Henry, a mixture of pride and caution in his eyes. “You up for this, kid?”

Henry met Arthur’s stare, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When have I ever let you down?”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “You got that damn cocky streak in you, just like the rest of us.” He softened, glancing briefly at Hosea before muttering, “Just… be careful. Blackwater’s crawlin’ with Pinkertons, and I’d hate to see you get tangled up in that mess.”

Hosea looked between the two, his expression unreadable. “This is the life we’ve chosen, boys. The risks come with it. But together, we’ll make sure we all come out of this one in one piece.”

Henry nodded, glancing out toward the open plains that stretched beyond their camp. He felt a strange calm settle over him, as if the land itself were offering him some quiet reassurance. For as long as he could remember, the gang had been his family. He’d learned to ride and fight, to speak their rough language, to navigate their tangled loyalties. And yet, there was always a part of him—a flickering ember from another life—that felt out of place here. Like he was a shadow, a whisper, something not quite of this world.

As the sun rose higher, casting long streaks of orange and gold across the camp, Hosea clapped his hands, signaling the start of another day. The rest of the gang began to stir, pulling on their boots, strapping on their guns, readying themselves for whatever Dutch’s “fate” might throw their way.

Henry rose with them, his gaze steady, his heart quiet. There was a weight in his chest—a strange feeling that something was on the horizon, something he couldn’t quite name

The crisp morning air was sharp and biting as Arthur and Henry rode out from camp, the faint mist rolling off the river and hanging in the trees like ghostly wisps. They had left the chatter of the others behind, the faint sounds of camp life fading until there was only the steady rhythm of hooves on damp earth, the gentle creak of saddles, and the occasional rustle of deer or rabbit in the underbrush.

Arthur glanced sideways at Henry, who rode with that same strange quietness he always carried, his gaze fixed somewhere far ahead, unfazed by the wilderness. There was a mystery to the kid, something Arthur couldn’t ever quite place, even after all these years.

"Seems like a good day for it," Arthur muttered, pulling his hat low to shield his eyes from the early sun.

Henry gave a faint nod, his voice soft but steady. "Weather’s perfect. Shouldn’t have much trouble finding game."

Arthur chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You say it like you know the damn deer personally, kid.”

A small smirk tugged at Henry’s mouth, and Arthur caught a glint of mischief in those green eyes. The kid was sharp, all right. But he was more than that. Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that, sometimes, Henry was… well, different. Not in a way you could put into words, but in a way you could feel, like the prickle of a storm in the air before you even see the clouds.

They rode deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick and tall, their trunks damp and dark from the early morning fog. Arthur’s mind drifted, memories washing over him like the warm glow of the sun breaking through the trees. He’d watched Henry grow from a scrappy, wide-eyed kid with barely a word to his name, to the quiet but capable young man sitting across from him.

There were times Henry had made him laugh, times he’d made him worry, and times… well, times Henry had downright baffled him. Arthur still remembered that day by the river, a good seven years back, when they’d been out hunting and a sudden storm had blown in, thunder crashing across the plains and lightning splitting the sky. They’d taken cover under some trees, hunkering down to wait it out.

But Henry had stood up, calm as anything, his face turned up to the rain like he was looking for something beyond the storm. “What’re you doin’, kid?” Arthur had barked, thinking the boy had lost his mind. But Henry had just looked back at him, his eyes calm, almost… serene, like he was in on some secret only he could understand. And then he’d held his hand out, and for a split second—Arthur could’ve sworn on his mother’s grave—the lightning seemed to curl toward him, like it was reaching back.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head at the memory. “Still ain’t figured out how you pulled that one off.”

“What’s that?” Henry asked, glancing over with a raised brow.

Arthur waved a hand. “That stunt you pulled, that storm years ago. Don’t tell me you forgot. You held out your hand like you was callin’ the damn lightning yourself.”

Henry’s lips curved, but he said nothing, turning his gaze back to the woods. Silence settled over them again, broken only by the rustling of leaves as a breeze wound through the trees.

“Still don’t know what to make of you, kid,” Arthur admitted after a long moment, his tone thoughtful, almost confessional. “Seen you do things I ain’t never seen anyone do, not even Hosea. Hell, not even Dutch.”

Henry shrugged, looking out over the sprawling landscape, his voice low. “Guess some things just can’t be explained, Arthur. The world’s a strange place.”

“Strange don’t even begin to cover it,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. But he couldn’t deny it, there was something about Henry that felt… otherworldly. He’d seen the kid talk to wolves, calm them like they were hounds with nothing but a look. He’d seen him disappear in the woods only to reappear later, seemingly out of thin air, carrying a game animal as big as he was. And he’d seen him heal from scrapes and wounds faster than anyone he’d ever known, almost like he had something powerful thrumming just below the surface.

They rode in silence for a while longer, the woods deepening around them as they reached a clearing scattered with wildflowers. Arthur dismounted, the leather creaking as he landed, and Henry followed suit, drawing his rifle from its holster on his saddle.

Arthur scanned the tree line, his eyes keen and watchful, his voice dropping low. “Think I saw a couple of bucks out this way a few days back. Big ones, too. Keep low and quiet, and we might just get ourselves a decent haul.”

Henry nodded, his movements precise, almost too graceful. They split up, slipping into the shadows of the trees with practiced ease. Arthur crept through the underbrush, his footsteps muffled against the damp earth. He stopped, crouching low as he caught sight of a flash of tawny fur in the distance.

Raising his rifle, he focused on the buck’s silhouette through the iron sights, taking a slow breath as his finger brushed the trigger. Just as he was about to shoot, the buck looked up, its eyes meeting his through the distance. And then… it bolted.

Arthur cursed under his breath, lowering the rifle. But before he could move, he caught a faint sound, like a whisper. He turned, peering through the trees, only to spot Henry further down, his own rifle lowered, his gaze locked onto the fleeing buck. The kid was murmuring something, his voice low, melodic, almost like… like a lullaby.

As if on cue, the buck slowed, glancing back over its shoulder as though unsure of its own decision to flee. And then, impossibly, it stopped, standing still under Henry’s gaze, its breathing slowing.

Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. He’d seen Henry’s influence over animals before, but never quite like this. The kid approached the buck slowly, raising his rifle and, with a single shot, ended its life mercifully. The creature collapsed quietly, and Henry kneeled beside it, one hand on its hide as though offering some silent thanks.

Arthur made his way over, his expression a mixture of awe and something darker, something wary. “What the hell was that?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

Henry glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Just... showing respect. They don’t deserve to be scared, Arthur. They deserve peace, even at the end.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, glancing from Henry to the buck, and back again. “Strange way of lookin’ at it, kid. But… guess it makes sense.” He hesitated, then added, “Sure as hell never seen anyone else pull a trick like that, though.”

Henry just gave a small, knowing smile, bending down to start preparing the buck for transport. Arthur watched him in silence, feeling the familiar mixture of pride and unease settle in his chest. He’d come to care for the boy, more than he cared to admit, but there was always that sense that Henry was part of something bigger, something older than any of them could understand.

The two of them worked in silence, loading the buck onto their horses before making their way back through the woods toward camp. The morning sun had risen high, casting the trees in gold, and the world felt quieter somehow, as though it was holding its breath, waiting for something.

Arthur glanced sideways at Henry as they rode, and for the first time in years, he wondered what their lives might’ve looked like if things had been different, if Henry hadn’t come out of nowhere that night on the plains. But he knew better than anyone that life didn’t give you those kinds of choices. The world was wild, unpredictable, and the best you could do was hold onto the things that mattered, come hell or high water.

As they neared camp, Arthur’s voice broke the silence, rough but sincere. “Guess it’s you and me, kid. Whatever you are. Whatever comes our way.”

Henry looked over, and there was something in his gaze—a quiet gratitude, a bond that was as solid as the land they rode over. For a moment, he almost spoke, but instead, he nodded, his voice soft as he murmured, “Whatever comes.”

The midday sun climbed high, filtering through the canopy in patches of light as Arthur and Henry set up a makeshift camp on a soft patch of ground. They’d strung up the game, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air, earthy and rich, mingling with the scents of pine and the dry, dusty scent of fallen leaves. Arthur leaned back against a log, chewing on a piece of jerky while he watched Henry work with that same steady focus he seemed to bring to everything. The kid was crouched low, his knife flashing in the sun as he sharpened it against a small whetstone he kept in his pack.

Arthur chuckled, breaking the peaceful quiet with his rough, blunt humor. “Funny thing, Henry,” he drawled, tipping his hat back with a smirk. “Think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you sharpen that blade, let alone use it. You tryin’ to look mean or somethin’?”

Henry didn’t look up, but Arthur saw a faint grin tug at his lips as he continued honing the knife’s edge. “Never hurts to be prepared, Arthur. Besides, you know as well as I do… sometimes the sight of a good, sharp knife is enough to keep trouble at bay.”

Arthur chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, I reckon most folks wouldn’t get close enough to see it anyhow. You got that look about you, kid. Just somethin’ in those eyes that’d make a man think twice.”

Henry’s smile faded slightly, his gaze lowering as he wiped the blade clean. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Arthur shrugged, taking a long breath of the smoky, pine-filled air. “Might be, might not. Keeps you alive, don’t it?”

They let the silence settle in again, the kind of quiet that was peaceful out here in the wild, where the world was nothing but trees and sky, where time felt slower, like it was taking its sweet time to unravel. The crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of fat dripping onto the flames created a gentle rhythm, a harmony of survival and routine, the sounds of men who knew their place in the world, or at least pretended they did.

Suddenly, a twig snapped—a sharp, brittle sound that sent a shock through the stillness. Arthur’s hand went instinctively to his sidearm, but before he could even touch it, three men emerged from the trees, guns drawn and trained squarely on them. They were rough-looking sorts, drifters by the look of their tattered clothes and hollow eyes. Their faces were obscured by wide-brimmed hats pulled low, casting shadows that made their eyes glint like coals.

“Hands where I can see ’em!” the lead man barked, his voice coarse and laced with years of dust and cheap whiskey.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his expression calm, letting his hands slowly rise to shoulder level. “Well, hell… if it ain’t our lucky day,” he drawled, his voice cool and steady, a faint smirk on his lips as he eyed the men with contempt barely hidden behind his gaze.

Henry didn’t move, his face as impassive as stone, his green eyes fixed on the three men with that unsettling intensity that had rattled even Arthur at times. The lead man’s gaze flickered uncertainly, like he’d felt the weight of those eyes, but he didn’t falter. His gun remained steady, pointing squarely at Arthur’s chest.

“Don’t go gettin’ smart with me,” the man hissed, his voice thick with the kind of cruelty that came from years on the wrong side of civilization. “Just hand over whatever you got. Cash, weapons, that meat cookin’ over there… don’t care how hard you worked for it. Just pass it on over nice and slow.”

Arthur kept his hands raised, though he shot a look at Henry, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Y’know, I’m gettin’ mighty tired of folks comin’ out of the woods and interruptin’ my lunch,” he muttered, his voice low enough that only Henry could hear. “Wasn’t like this ten years ago, was it?”

Henry allowed himself a faint smile, but his eyes never left the men. “Reckon not. But guess times are changin’.”

The second man, skinnier and more jittery than the others, snorted. “Ain’t got time for your little chit-chat,” he spat, waving his gun toward Henry’s pack. “Dump it out, kid. Let’s see what kinda goods you got in there.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to Arthur, a silent question hanging between them. Arthur gave the slightest nod, and Henry reached for his pack, moving slow, careful, keeping his movements deliberate as he began pulling items from it, one by one. His knife, his canteen, a small bundle of dried herbs he’d gathered. Each item fell into the dirt with a soft thud.

One of the men, watching intently, leaned in closer, his gun lowering just a fraction. “That’s all?” he sneered. “You two out here with nothin’ but scraps?”

Arthur’s face twisted into a mocking grin. “Guess we ain’t as rich as you thought, huh? But we’re full of surprises, boys.”

And that’s when Arthur moved.

With a speed that defied his rugged build, his hand shot down to his revolver, and before the men could react, he fired a shot that sent the lead man staggering back, clutching his shoulder as a red stain bloomed through his shirt. The second man’s eyes widened, his mouth open in shock, but he barely had time to gasp before Henry lunged at him, his knife flashing in the sun as it met flesh with a sickening, wet sound.

The third man—a scrappy, younger fellow with wide, panicked eyes—stumbled back, his gun shaking as he aimed it at Arthur.

“You… you goddamn fools!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. “I’ll kill you both, I swear to God—”

But he didn’t get the chance. Henry’s knife was already spinning through the air, and with a clean, swift arc, it lodged itself deep in the man’s shoulder. He dropped his gun with a strangled scream, clutching at the knife handle as he collapsed to his knees.

Arthur grinned, spinning his revolver back into its holster with practiced ease. “Now, look what happens when you go pokin’ around where you don’t belong,” he said, sauntering over to the downed man and giving him a condescending once-over. “Gonna think twice before you interrupt a man’s lunch next time, ain’t ya?”

Henry approached the lead man, who was groaning in the dirt, clutching his bleeding shoulder with a look of pure hatred etched into his face. Henry crouched down, his green eyes as cold as ice. “You boys might wanna think about headin’ back the way you came. Ain’t safe to be sneakin’ up on strangers out here.”

The man spat in the dirt, his teeth bared in a snarl. “You ain’t nothin’ but a pair of damn killers,” he sneered, his voice thick with pain and venom.

Arthur chuckled, his gaze steady as he shrugged. “Maybe. But we’re the ones walkin’ away, so I reckon that makes us the smart ones.”

Without another word, Arthur and Henry turned, leaving the men where they lay, broken and bleeding, but alive enough to learn their lesson. They walked back to the campfire, Arthur grinning as he grabbed the roasting meat and tore off a piece, the savory, smoky flavor filling his mouth.

“See, Henry?” Arthur said between bites, his tone almost casual. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little sharp steel, when the time comes.”

Henry glanced down at his knife, the blade still gleaming with the slickness of blood. He wiped it clean on the grass, sheathing it with a quiet resolve. “Guess you’re right, Arthur,” he murmured, his voice low but sure. “Sometimes… you just gotta be prepared.”

They shared a quiet look, a moment of unspoken understanding passing between them as the world around them returned to its peaceful silence. And with the scent of cooking meat and fresh blood mingling in the air, they resumed their meal, the wilderness once again settling around them, vast and untamed, a place where men like them could live and die by the steel at their side and the sharpness of their wit.

The sun was low and slanting golden light across the camp as Arthur and Henry rode in, their horses clopping over the worn path that twisted through the trees. They had made a good haul—enough venison and fresh game to feed everyone for a few days if they rationed it right. As they neared the heart of the camp, where a few of the others sat around whittling, smoking, or just watching the world turn, Arthur gave a whistle, signaling their return.

Preston was the first to wander over, wiping his hands on his worn shirt, his face lighting up with the sight of the haul. “Well, hell, Arthur! You and the kid did all right, didn’t ya?”

Arthur chuckled, patting his horse. “Yeah, reckon we did, Preston. Got enough here to keep your pots busy for a while.”

Henry dismounted, handing over the reins and grabbing a large haunch of venison wrapped in cloth. “Think you can do somethin’ with this?”

Preston grinned, taking the meat with a nod. “Can I? This here’s gold in my hands, kid. I’ll get somethin’ real special goin’ for tonight. And maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you have a taste before the rest of these hogs get to it.”

Henry smiled, but it was a quiet, modest one as he nodded. “Much obliged, Preston. You’re the only one around here I’d trust with it anyway.”

Preston winked, shuffling off toward the cooking pots as Arthur and Henry began unloading the rest of the game. A few others wandered over to see what the hunters had brought in, whistling their approval and muttering half-hearted complaints about not getting invited along.

Mary-Beth strolled up, her eyes bright with a little more than just curiosity. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, flashing Henry a warm smile. “Look at you, out there bringin’ back food for us like a regular hero,” she teased lightly. “Bet you had half the deer in the woods runnin’ scared.”

Henry chuckled softly, adjusting his hat, looking down and missing the way her eyes lingered on him. “Didn’t take much, Mary-Beth. Arthur here did most of the work.”

“Oh, don’t be modest, Henry,” she pressed, stepping closer and nudging his arm. “You’re every bit as good as him, don’t let Arthur tell you otherwise.”

Arthur, overhearing this, let out a rough laugh. “Ha! Well, kid’s got his moments, I’ll give him that,” he said, giving Henry a playful shove on the shoulder. “But don’t be goin’ and gettin’ all big-headed now, y’hear? No need to break every heart in camp.”

Henry looked at him, confused. “Breakin’ hearts?” he asked, casting a bemused look around as if he’d missed some obvious joke.

Mary-Beth giggled, her cheeks turning a faint shade of pink as she looked down, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t listen to him, Henry. He just likes to stir things up.”

“Yeah, he likes to stir somethin’ all right,” Tilly muttered with a smirk as she walked by, carrying a bundle of firewood. She tossed Henry a wink, adding, “Don’t let Arthur fill your head, Henry. Some of us around here think you’re worth a little admiration.”

Henry smiled politely, still oblivious to the looks shared between Tilly and Mary-Beth, who exchanged amused glances as they walked off. He watched them go, a faint frown on his brow, clearly baffled.

Arthur clapped him on the back, chuckling. “You poor, blind fool. They’re all after you, y’know?”

Henry shrugged, the thought bouncing off him like water off a rock. “I reckon they’re just bein’ kind, Arthur. Ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “Lord help ya, kid. Maybe one day you’ll see what’s right under your nose.”

As the sun dipped lower, the camp sprang to life with the promise of an evening feast. Preston’s stew bubbled in the pot, the rich scent of herbs and meat wafting through the air, drawing folks in like moths to a flame. Someone brought out a guitar, another a harmonica, and within minutes, the haunting, soulful strains of music drifted over the trees, mingling with laughter and the smell of the feast.

The gang gathered around, huddling close as the stars began to peek out, one by one, in the fading twilight. Arthur and Hosea sat off to the side, sharing a flask of whiskey and trading stories. Dutch was in his element, of course, holding court like a king, spinning tales and rallying spirits with his charm and easy laughter. The others joined in, one by one, their faces lit by the firelight, each face softened, relaxed, free in this rare moment of peace.

Mary-Beth slid into the spot beside Henry, holding two mugs of cider. She handed one to him, her eyes twinkling as she clinked her mug against his. “Here’s to the hero of the hunt,” she said, her tone playful, but her gaze was sincere.

Henry took a sip, glancing at her, a faint smile on his lips. “Didn’t do much,” he said softly. “But… thank you, Mary-Beth.”

“Oh, hush,” she laughed, nudging his arm with her shoulder. “You’re too humble, Henry. And too quiet for your own good. A little boasting wouldn’t kill you.”

Henry chuckled, glancing around at the gang’s laughter and singing, a rare moment of contentment settling over him. He watched as Sean regaled the others with some wild story about a bar fight he’d gotten into up north, his words slurring slightly, arms flailing as he reenacted the tale with exaggerated gestures.

“You know, Henry,” Mary-Beth said softly, bringing his attention back to her, “you don’t always have to be so serious. We all care about you here. Maybe… maybe it’s time you let yourself enjoy it a little more.”

He looked at her, his green eyes thoughtful, a flicker of something like understanding crossing his face. “Maybe I just don’t know how,” he admitted quietly, almost as though he were speaking to himself.

She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm lightly, a warmth in her gaze that softened her features. “I think you do. You just need to let yourself try.”

Across the fire, Arthur caught the exchange, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he raised his flask in an unseen salute to the kid. There was a part of him that wanted to protect Henry from the world, but another part of him knew that Henry had carved his own path just fine. Whatever mysteries the kid held, he’d done all right by them all these years.

The night stretched on, the music growing wilder, voices rising in song and laughter, filling the woods with a rare, joyful abandon. Even Henry, who so often sat on the edges, found himself drawn in. He laughed at Sean’s outlandish tales, listened as Hosea shared a quiet story about his younger days, and shared a silent, knowing look with Arthur across the fire—a look that spoke of battles fought, hunts shared, and countless miles ridden together under moonlight and sun.

As the party wound down, Henry leaned back against a log, his gaze drifting to the starlit sky, a rare smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, he let himself feel it—the warmth, the closeness, the feeling of belonging. It was a fleeting thing, fragile as the smoke rising from the dying fire, but it was real, and tonight, that was enough.

The sun was barely up, casting a hazy light across camp, when Dutch’s voice rang out, clear and commanding, pulling everyone from their tents and sleep-ridden stupor.

“Up and at ’em, folks! Today’s the day we head to Blackwater!” Dutch’s voice had that confident, rolling thunder in it, the kind that inspired and sent a thrill through the group. Everyone knew this was more than just another job—Blackwater was big, dangerous, and complicated. But to Dutch, it was also their salvation.

Arthur trudged over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, while Henry, already up, stood leaning against a tree, arms crossed, watching as Dutch gathered everyone by the fire pit.

“All right, listen up,” Dutch began, casting a look around the camp, his gaze fierce and determined. “Today, we’re goin’ after a score that could set us up for good. Enough money to get us far from this mess and give us a real start.” His voice was steady, a low rumble that demanded attention. “Now, we go in, we go out, and we leave no trace. Blackwater don’t know what’s coming.”

Arthur folded his arms, a skeptical look crossing his face. “Dutch, you’re actin’ like this is gonna be a walk in the park. Blackwater’s swarmin’ with law, Pinkertons everywhere.”

Dutch turned to Arthur, his jaw set, but his eyes gleaming with that unwavering confidence. “And that’s why we do it quick, Arthur. In and out. You know the drill.” He glanced over the group, his gaze finally landing on Henry. “And Henry… you’re comin’ with me on the inside.”

Arthur’s expression darkened, his voice low and blunt. “Dutch, he ain’t goin’ in there with you. Kid’s smart, but he ain’t ready for somethin’ like Blackwater. Too risky.”

Dutch raised his chin, his eyes narrowing at Arthur’s challenge. “Arthur, Henry is part of this gang, same as the rest of us. He’s ready. I’ve seen the way he handles himself, just like you. He knows how to keep his head down, and he’s got that steady calm we need in a place like Blackwater.”

Arthur shot a look at Henry, a protective glint in his eyes. “Maybe, but he’s still green. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with lettin’ him stay back, keepin’ watch, doin’ somethin’ else that don’t get him killed.”

Dutch’s expression hardened, his voice lowering. “Arthur, you questionin’ my call here?”

“Maybe I am,” Arthur retorted, his voice equally quiet but carrying a dangerous edge. “Not everyone’s cut out for your brand of fate, Dutch.”

“Seems to me,” Micah drawled, sidling up with that smug, twisted grin, “the kid oughta pull his own weight for once. Ain’t like he’s doin’ nothin’ useful sittin’ back at camp. Hell, let him go in and see what he’s made of.” He gave Henry a sharp look, the kind that made Henry’s blood boil. Micah had always taken a sick pleasure in pushing Henry’s buttons, in trying to get under his skin, and today was no different.

Henry’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “And who asked you, Micah?” His voice was cold, low, each word like a coiled snake ready to strike. “Last I checked, Dutch makes the calls, not you.”

Micah laughed, a low, derisive sound. “Oh, I got under his skin, did I?” He turned to Dutch, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the kid havin’ a chance to prove himself. Just don’t think we should be coddlin’ him like he’s some delicate flower.”

Arthur stepped forward, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You keep your damn mouth shut, Micah. Henry’s done more for this gang than you ever will.”

Dutch raised a hand, his voice sharp, commanding. “Enough! I don’t need to remind you all that we’re a family here. And as a family, we take care of each other.” He looked to Henry, his expression softening slightly. “Henry, it’s your choice. You’re ready, or you’re not. But know this—today could be our ticket to freedom. Your chance to show the world you’re more than some quiet kid standin’ in the shadows.”

Henry looked at Dutch, then at Arthur, who met his gaze with a subtle nod, a quiet encouragement that spoke volumes. The entire gang’s eyes were on him, waiting for his decision. But it was Micah’s sneer that finally pushed him over the edge.

“I’m goin’,” Henry said, his voice steady, unyielding. “I’m tired of waitin’ around while everyone else takes the risks. If this is what needs to be done, I’ll do it.”

Arthur frowned, glancing between Henry and Dutch. “Then I’m goin’ in with the two of ya. If this goes south, someone’s gotta make sure we get out in one piece.”

Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “There we go. The three of us. We’re a team, Arthur, just like old times. Henry, you’re with me, and Arthur’s got our backs.”

Micah rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, but he backed off, giving Henry one last look, his eyes glinting with something dark and resentful. “Well, ain’t that sweet,” he sneered. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya when the kid freezes up.”

Henry felt his fingers itch for his knife, but he forced himself to stay still, keeping his gaze locked on Dutch and Arthur, ignoring Micah’s goading.

Dutch looked over the assembled group, his eyes fierce, brimming with the feverish belief that had always driven him, that fire that fueled his grand dreams and wild schemes. “We ride in an hour,” he announced, his voice ringing through the morning air. “We hit Blackwater, we take what’s ours, and we vanish before they know what’s happened. This is what we’ve been waitin’ for, folks. This is our future.”

The gang murmured their agreement, voices low and filled with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. They knew what was at stake, each one of them feeling the weight of Dutch’s words, the tension simmering beneath the surface.

As the group dispersed to prepare, Arthur placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, his face grave. “Listen, kid. You don’t gotta prove nothin’ to anyone, least of all to Dutch or that bastard Micah. Just keep your head low, stay close, and don’t take no unnecessary risks. Got it?”

Henry nodded, meeting Arthur’s gaze, his voice firm. “I know, Arthur. But I ain’t just a kid no more. It’s time I pulled my own weight.”

Arthur gave him a rare smile, one filled with pride but shaded with worry. “You’re a damn fool, Henry, but you got guts. Just don’t go tryin’ to be a hero. We ain’t got room for heroes in this world.”

With a final nod, Arthur walked off, leaving Henry to gather his thoughts, the weight of his choice settling over him like the dawn mist. He knew that once they crossed into Blackwater, everything would change. But he was ready. And as he stood there, the gang moving around him, preparing for what was to come, Henry felt a spark of something fierce, something resolute.

He was done waiting.

As the gang scattered to ready themselves for Blackwater, Hosea made his way over to Henry, his expression half stern, half worried. Susan Grimshaw followed closely behind, her face set with that no-nonsense look she reserved for the younger members of the gang, the one that meant business. Arthur lingered nearby, arms folded, watching as they surrounded Henry like a trio of worried parents.

Hosea placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “Now, listen to me, Henry. Dutch might think this is all gonna go smooth, but you know better than that. Keep your damn wits about you, and don’t get caught up in any heroics. You stay close, keep your head down, and if things look like they’re about to go to hell, you find Arthur and you follow him out, you hear?”

Henry nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I hear ya, Hosea. I’ll be careful.”

Susan huffed, crossing her arms tightly. “And don’t you let Dutch talk you into some reckless nonsense. Man’s got a head full of dreams and a pocket full of promises he can’t keep. You do what’s smart, not what’s grand. You’re a bright kid, Henry. Don’t be stupid out there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Henry replied, nodding earnestly, though he couldn’t help feeling a bit embarrassed by the fuss they were all making.

Arthur stepped up, giving Henry a hard look. “Remember, kid—stick to the plan. Don’t go wanderin’ off, don’t get any ideas, and don’t let Micah rile you up. Bastard’d love nothin’ more than to see you get in over your head.”

Right on cue, Micah’s grating laugh cut through the morning air. “Jesus Christ, you three mother hens, cluckin’ around the boy like he’s some kinda delicate flower. Ain’t this precious.” He sneered, sidling over with that ever-present smirk, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “What’s wrong, Henry? Need a diaper change, too?”

Henry’s jaw tightened, his hand moving instinctively to rest on the handle of his revolver. “Micah,” he said quietly, his voice low and controlled, “you best keep your damn mouth shut.”

Micah laughed harder, his tone mocking, laced with poison. “Oh, did I hurt your little feelings, Henry? You know, maybe Dutch is wrong puttin’ you on this job. Maybe you’re just too much of a little snot-nosed brat to handle the big stuff.”

Hosea raised his hand, trying to step in. “Micah, that’s enough—”

But Micah ignored him, taking a step closer to Henry, his face twisted into a smug, taunting grin. “Or maybe we should send you back to camp, huh? Leave the real work to the men.”

The insult hit like a match to kindling. Henry’s eyes flashed, and before anyone could react, he drew his gun, pointing it straight at Micah’s chest. The tension snapped like a taut wire, the entire camp freezing as Henry’s voice came out in a low, venomous growl.

“You got a big mouth, Micah,” Henry hissed, his hand steady, his gaze locked on Micah’s smirking face. “One of these days, it’s gonna get you killed.”

Micah’s grin only widened, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “Oh, look at you. Tough guy, huh? Got somethin’ to prove, don’t ya? Go on, then. Pull the damn trigger. Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

Arthur felt his heart sink as he watched Henry’s hand tighten on the trigger, his face contorted in pure, unfiltered rage. But something else was happening, something that sent a chill down Arthur’s spine. Around them, small objects began to rattle—the tin cups on the nearby table, a few stray horseshoes in the dirt, even the metal on the wagons. The camp itself seemed to shudder, a faint tremor running through the ground as Henry’s anger swelled, raw and intense.

Arthur stepped in, quick as lightning, grabbing Henry’s arm and pulling him back, his voice low and firm. “That’s enough, Henry. Put it down.”

Henry’s breath was ragged, his eyes still fixed on Micah, but he didn’t lower the gun. Arthur tightened his grip, leaning in closer. “Henry,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. “Look at me. This son of a bitch ain’t worth it. Don’t let him take you down with him.”

For a moment, it seemed like Henry didn’t hear him, the fury in his eyes burning so bright it was almost blinding. But Arthur held firm, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. “You’re better than him, Henry. Don’t give him what he wants.”

Finally, slowly, Henry’s grip on the revolver loosened. He lowered it, his face pale but resolute, his jaw set as he pulled himself back from the edge. The rattling stopped, the air clearing as if a storm had just passed. Arthur released Henry’s arm, giving him a brief nod of approval.

Micah chuckled, that same smug smirk on his face as he looked between them, clearly enjoying every second of the chaos he’d sown. “Well, ain’t that just adorable,” he sneered. “Arthur, holdin’ the kid’s hand like he’s some helpless babe. You’d think he was still suckin’ on his mama’s teat.”

Arthur’s eyes hardened, and he took a step toward Micah, his voice like gravel. “You keep pushin’ your luck, Micah, and I swear, I’ll put you in the dirt myself. You got nothin’ but venom in that mouth of yours, and one of these days, someone’s gonna shut it for good.”

Micah’s grin faltered just a fraction, but he covered it with a mocking shrug, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Arthur. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when the kid proves he’s nothin’ but dead weight.”

With that, he sauntered off, whistling tunelessly, leaving the rest of the camp in a tense silence.

Hosea shook his head, muttering under his breath. “That man’s a rattlesnake if I ever saw one. Henry, don’t you pay him any mind. He’s just lookin’ to stir up trouble.”

Henry exhaled, his hands still shaking slightly as he holstered his gun. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. “But I’m sick of his damn mouth.”

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, his tone softening. “Look, kid… I get it. Believe me, I do. But there’s always gonna be men like Micah—folks who’ll try to tear you down just to feel big. You can’t let ’em get to you, or they’ll drag you down faster than you can blink.”

Henry nodded, his gaze steady, though a spark of anger still lingered in his eyes. “I won’t let him drag me down, Arthur. I just… I hate that he’s part of this gang. Feels like a rot in the middle of somethin’ good.”

Arthur looked over his shoulder, watching as Micah walked off with that swaggering, arrogant gait. “Ain’t nothin’ we can do about that now, kid. But we keep our heads straight, stay focused on the job, and we don’t let that snake pull us under.”

Dutch, who had been watching the whole exchange from a distance, walked over, his face unreadable. “Well, seems we’re all set,” he said, his voice calm, though his gaze lingered on Henry with a faint hint of concern. “I don’t need to remind any of you—especially you, Henry—that this is a job of precision and patience. Keep your heads, don’t let emotions take over. We do this smart, we do it clean, and we walk away with our future in our hands.”

Henry met Dutch’s gaze, his jaw set, his expression resolved. “Understood, Dutch.”

Dutch nodded approvingly, clapping him on the back. “Good man. Now, let’s move out, folks. Blackwater’s waiting, and so’s our ticket to freedom.”

As the gang mounted up, Arthur fell into step beside Henry, giving him a final, reassuring nod. “Remember, stick close. We get in, we get out. And if that bastard Micah gives you any more trouble… well, you let me handle him. No need to carry that burden alone.”

Henry managed a small smile, glancing at Arthur with a flicker of gratitude. “Thanks, Arthur. I’ll keep my cool.”

Together, they rode out of camp, the gang moving as one toward Blackwater, the promise of freedom and danger in equal measure hanging over them like a shadow. And as they approached the town, Henry felt the anger simmering beneath the surface, a fire he’d learned to control… for now. But he knew, deep down, that one day, his reckoning was coming.

Chapter Text

The morning mist clung to Blackwater like a shroud, hanging thick and low over the quiet streets, muffling the distant sounds of townsfolk stirring to life. Dutch gathered the gang just out of sight near the docks, a fire in his eyes as he laid out his grand plan, his voice low but filled with an unbreakable confidence that bordered on recklessness.

“All right,” Dutch began, a sly smile on his face as he addressed the group. “This is our moment, folks. Hosea, Arthur—you two have your own leads to follow, sniffin’ out any loose ends. The rest of you,” he continued, casting his gaze around, “are comin’ with me. We’re hitting that boat, taking the payroll, and getting out of here before anyone knows we’re there.”

Arthur, standing with his arms crossed, let out a harsh sigh, his expression dark and doubtful. “Dutch, you’re bringin’ the whole damn gang onto a crowded dock to rob the town’s pride and joy? You think that’s smart?”

Dutch’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Arthur, you don’t get it, do you? We go in fast, we go in clean. We’ve done jobs like this before. You’re just gettin’ cold feet.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Ain’t about cold feet, Dutch. It’s about you takin’ Henry in there, draggin’ him into this mess when he don’t need to be. You want this job done right? Let the kid stay back with us, keep him out of the damn line of fire.”

Dutch waved a dismissive hand, his gaze unwavering. “Arthur, Henry’s ready for this. He’s part of this family, part of this damn dream. He’s ready to step up.”

Arthur’s eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he took a step closer to Dutch, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “Listen to me, Dutch. I don’t give a damn about your ‘dream’ right now. I’m tellin’ you, you’re makin’ a mistake if you put him in there. He’s just a kid—”

Dutch’s face twisted with defiance, his tone cutting as he interrupted. “Arthur, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Henry’s more than capable. Hell, he’s proved it time and time again. He ain’t a kid anymore. He can handle himself.”

Arthur clenched his teeth, fury building beneath his calm, gritty exterior. “Handle himself?” he hissed, his voice sharp, unyielding. “You think draggin’ him onto that boat with the Pinkertons watchin’ every inch of that town is ‘handle himself’? You’re lookin’ to get him killed, Dutch. You’re blinded by your own damn pride!”

Dutch’s eyes darkened, his tone dangerously calm. “You forget yourself, Arthur. I know what’s best for this family, and I know what Henry’s capable of. This is our future, our chance to break free. And I need Henry by my side.”

Arthur’s face contorted with barely contained rage. He took another step closer, his voice as sharp and cold as a drawn blade. “You’re gamblin’ with his life, Dutch. You’ve dragged us all into hell, time and again, for this so-called freedom you keep preachin’. But you put him in danger, and I swear, it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.”

A tense silence fell over them, the weight of Arthur’s words hanging thick in the air, as cold and deadly as a loaded gun. Hosea, sensing the rising tension, stepped between them, his voice calm but firm.

“Dutch, Arthur’s right,” he said, his gaze shifting from one to the other. “Henry’s young, and he don’t need to be in the thick of it, not like this. We can pull this off without riskin’ him.”

Dutch turned his gaze on Hosea, his expression softening for a moment before the fire in his eyes returned. “Hosea, you’re always the cautious one, but this is our moment. I see somethin’ in Henry. He’s ready to be part of somethin’ bigger, and I’m gonna give him that chance.”

Arthur let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he stared at Dutch with pure disdain. “Bigger? You don’t care about what’s best for him. You just care about what’s best for you, for your goddamn ‘legacy.’ This ain’t about him—it’s about you wantin’ to prove somethin’ to yourself. You think draggin’ him along’s gonna get us that future you keep yappin’ about?”

Micah, who’d been lurking nearby, watching the whole confrontation with an amused smirk, chimed in with a mocking laugh. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Arthur! Stop playin’ the father figure. Boy’s got more guts than you’ll ever give him credit for. You’re just mad Dutch don’t follow your every whim.”

Arthur’s face twisted with fury as he rounded on Micah, his voice a low growl. “Shut your damn mouth, Micah, or I swear to God, I’ll shut it for ya.”

Micah spread his hands, feigning innocence as he grinned, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, look at this. Arthur, all high and mighty, tryin’ to play protector. Maybe you just don’t got what it takes to see Dutch’s vision.”

“Vision?” Arthur spat, turning back to Dutch, his voice a raw, angry whisper. “Dutch, you keep talkin’ ‘bout this dream, this damn freedom you keep chasin’. But you’re gonna end up with nothin’ but corpses in your wake if you keep this up. You don’t drag Henry into it. Not this time.”

Dutch’s face was set, a cold determination gleaming in his eyes. He looked at Arthur for a long, tense moment before finally speaking, his voice low but unyielding. “I’m the one leadin’ this family, Arthur. Not you. You got a choice—stand with us, or stand aside. But I’m takin’ Henry. And that’s final.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his voice like ice. “Fine, Dutch. But if anythin’ happens to him… anythin’ at all… you’re gonna have me to answer to.”

Dutch held his gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them before he turned away, calling the gang to mount up. Arthur stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of barely controlled rage, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

Hosea placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his voice quiet but filled with understanding. “We’ll keep an eye on him, Arthur. You know as well as I do… Dutch won’t listen to reason. Not anymore.”

Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze following Dutch and Henry as they moved toward the horses. “He’s lost his damn mind, Hosea. And I’m startin’ to think… there ain’t no comin’ back.”

They mounted up, the gang falling into formation as they rode toward Blackwater, the tension thick and suffocating. Arthur kept his gaze locked on Henry’s back, a fierce protectiveness burning within him, a silent promise that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t let Dutch’s blind ambition swallow the kid whole.

Arthur stood with Hosea, watching as Dutch, Henry, and the rest of the gang rode off toward the docks, the line of horses kicking up clouds of dust in the early morning light. The boat they were aiming for loomed in the distance, a hulking shape in the water, bristling with Pinkertons and lawmen. Arthur’s jaw tightened as he watched Henry ride beside Dutch, looking focused but tense, his green eyes fixed on the path ahead like he was steadying himself for what lay ahead.

Arthur spat into the dirt, a harsh snarl escaping his lips. “Damn it, Hosea. Kid ain’t ready for this. He’s barely got a taste of what we do, and now Dutch is throwin’ him right into the fire, right onto a boat with half the damn law in Blackwater waitin’ for ’em.”

Hosea nodded grimly, watching the departing riders with narrowed eyes. “I know, Arthur. Believe me, I know. Dutch’s ambition’s gotten too big for his own damn good, and he’s draggin’ Henry along just to prove some point.”

Arthur scowled, his face flushed with anger, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “The kid hasn’t killed a man, Hosea! Not a one. Hell, he barely knows what it feels like to be in the middle of a real fight, let alone a heist gone bad. And Dutch? He’s too goddamn blind to see it.”

Hosea put a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Dutch sees what he wants to see. He’s wrapped Henry up in this ‘family’ talk, made him feel like he’s got somethin’ to prove. And that’s all Dutch needs—someone loyal enough to follow him off a cliff.”

Arthur shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Loyal enough to die for his damned fantasies, more like. Kid’s too young for this. He don’t deserve to have Dutch’s lunacy pinned on him. Hell, half the gang don’t even know what they’re gettin’ themselves into.” He looked back, eyes blazing. “Dutch has got this plan, but he don’t care who gets chewed up in the process.”

Hosea sighed deeply, his voice weary. “Dutch was always a dreamer, Arthur. But now? He’s got somethin’ else burnin’ him up inside, and he can’t see the harm he’s causin’. He’s got that look in his eye—the one that means he’s too far gone to listen.”

Arthur’s fists tightened again, fury simmering just below the surface. “That damn fool. Henry looks up to him, thinks he’s somethin’ special. And now, he’s draggin’ him out there, tryin’ to turn him into some… some killer. What kind of future is that?”

Hosea’s gaze softened as he watched Arthur, his voice low and almost fatherly. “You care about the boy, Arthur. That much is clear. But if you’re gonna keep him from fallin’ into Dutch’s hands, you need to be ready for when he sees the truth himself. Because that day’ll come, sure as the sun rises. And when it does, he’s gonna need someone he can trust.”

Arthur clenched his teeth, his voice dropping to a cold, determined whisper. “I ain’t lettin’ him go down like that, Hosea. I don’t care what Dutch thinks or says—Henry’s got more in him than Dutch’s damn dreams. He ain’t some pawn for Dutch to throw away on a whim.”

Hosea nodded, glancing back at the dwindling figures in the distance, his expression dark. “Then we watch. We stay close, keep our wits about us, and be there to catch him when the truth knocks him down.”

Arthur looked out toward the docks, his face grim as he muttered under his breath. “You know, Hosea, if Dutch gets that boy hurt—or worse… I won’t be able to let it go. Ain’t no forgivin’ that.”

Hosea’s gaze was knowing, understanding the weight of Arthur’s words. “I know. And if that time comes… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we reach it.”

They stood there in silence, watching as the gang neared the water’s edge, the dull thud of horse hooves fading as the distance grew. The low hum of voices, the rustle of the town waking up, and the gentle lapping of water against the boat all blended into a tense stillness.

Arthur’s voice broke the silence, a mix of anger and regret. “If anything happens to him, Hosea, I’ll hold Dutch responsible. Ain’t no dream worth that kind of sacrifice. Not for Henry.” He took a breath, looking down at his calloused hands, fingers twitching with the urge to do something, to stop what was already in motion.

Hosea placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder once more, his voice steady, resolute. “We’ll be there, Arthur. And if Dutch’s dreams come crashin’ down… we’ll be the ones left standin’.”

Arthur nodded, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, his gaze locked on the distant boat as it loomed over Blackwater, ready to swallow up anyone who dared to step on board.

The mid-morning sun hung high over Blackwater, casting harsh beams of light that made every shadow along the docks seem darker, sharper. The ferry sat moored at the pier, its hull gleaming in the daylight, thick ropes creaking as the boat bobbed lazily on the water. Townsfolk bustled along the pier, oblivious to the outlaws moving through the morning crowd, heads low, faces shaded by hats.

Dutch strode at the front, his every step filled with purpose, a sly grin stretching across his face as he glanced back at the gang. His eyes flickered with excitement, catching Henry’s in particular, giving him a nod that felt like both a command and a test. Henry adjusted his hat, his fingers tight around the handle of his revolver as he tried to steady his breath. This was bigger than anything they’d done, and he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, a quiet dread that he tried to ignore.

“Remember, folks,” Dutch said under his breath as they walked, his voice calm but fierce. “We’re walkin’ in there, takin’ what’s ours, and walkin’ out. Ain’t no trouble unless it finds us.”

Micah, with a smirk that Henry wanted to slap clean off his face, sidled up next to him, his voice dripping with mock concern. “You hear that, kid? Dutch says we’re doin’ this the easy way, so try not to piss yourself on the way in, huh?”

Henry’s jaw tightened, but he kept his focus on the ferry ahead. “Maybe try keepin’ your mouth shut, Micah,” he muttered.

Micah’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with something mean and twisted. “Sure, sure. Just don’t go runnin’ off once the guns come out.”

Dutch threw a sharp look back at them, his voice a low growl. “That’s enough, both of you. This is our time, gentlemen. Act like it.”

They reached the gangplank, and Dutch motioned them to hold back, surveying the scene with a gleam in his eye. Passengers milled about, some boarding, others waving off loved ones. A few guards stood by the loading crates, their attention half on their posts, half on the dockworkers unloading cargo. The smell of fish and saltwater mingled with the sweat of dockhands and the scent of warm wood baking in the sun.

“Alright,” Dutch murmured, nodding to Javier, who sidled off quietly, his movements smooth and calculated as he circled around the guards. “Javier’s got the guard covered. We stick to the plan—keep it quiet, keep it clean, and we’ll be out before they even know what hit ’em.”

Henry swallowed hard, casting a glance at the gleaming ferry, its windows reflecting the sky like dark, empty eyes. His heart thudded heavy and slow, each beat echoing in his ears. He’d been in a few close calls, sure—but this was different. The stakes were higher, the risks sharper. This wasn’t some backwoods hold-up; this was Blackwater.

Dutch seemed to sense his hesitation and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a quick nod. “Stay close, Henry. You’re ready for this.” Dutch’s words were quiet but unshakable, like he could will Henry’s nerves away with sheer confidence alone.

“Yeah,” Henry muttered, glancing away from Dutch’s intense gaze. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Dutch smirked, turning back to the gang. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, remember: we’re ghosts. Quick in, quick out. No mess.”

With a final glance at his crew, Dutch led them up the gangplank. Henry followed close, his eyes darting over every face, every guard, every shadow. He could feel the weight of the ferry’s steel and wood beneath his feet as they crossed onto the deck, the faint, creaking groan of the ship mixing with the murmurs of the other passengers. The scent of oil and fresh paint filled the air, each step carrying them deeper into the unknown.

As they reached the main cabin doors, Dutch’s grin widened, a thrill in his eyes that Henry could feel from feet away. “Alright, gentlemen,” he whispered. “Let’s take what’s ours.”

The robbery began smoothly, or so it seemed.

Dutch, with his usual swagger, led the gang into the ferry’s main cabin. Their footsteps echoed on the polished floor as they stormed in, guns drawn, sweeping through the room as Dutch barked orders. Passengers screamed, ducking behind seats, some with hands thrown up, others too terrified to move. Dutch’s voice rang through the air, full of bravado as he addressed the crowd, his revolver flashing under the harsh electric lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Dutch announced with a dark grin. “Today, you’re making a contribution to the cause! Cooperate, and nobody gets hurt.”

Javier, John, and Henry moved quickly, rounding up the passengers and forcing them to sit along the wall, some of them clutching each other, too afraid to breathe. Henry felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him, the gun in his hand feeling heavier than ever. He glanced over at John, who gave him a quick nod, though his own expression was tense, his eyes darting to every corner of the room.

“Alright, kid,” John muttered under his breath, “Stick with me and Javier. We’re headin’ for the strongbox.”

Henry nodded, swallowing hard, trying to keep his breathing steady as they moved toward the rear of the ferry where the bank’s money was stored. They could hear Dutch continuing his speech, stalling the passengers, keeping them frozen in place as he prowled the aisle like a wolf among sheep.

Javier broke the lock on the storage room, and they piled in, their eyes widening at the sight of the bank’s stash. Thick bundles of cash and gold bars were stacked neatly, gleaming under the dim light. John and Javier started loading up, moving quickly, their hands steady despite the tension thickening in the air. Henry tried to match their pace, shoving wads of bills into his sack, his heart pounding as he worked, every nerve in his body screaming to get out before something went wrong.

But then, a shout came from the far end of the ferry.

“Pinkertons!” someone yelled, and the next moment, gunfire exploded throughout the cabin.

The world tilted as chaos broke loose. Henry dropped his sack, ducking behind a crate as bullets tore through the walls and shattered glass rained down around them. Javier cursed under his breath, pulling out his pistol and returning fire, the blasts deafening in the close quarters.

“Dammit!” John snarled, clutching his revolver as he fired back at the advancing Pinkertons. “They’re comin’ in from all sides!”

The noise was a wall of sound—gunshots, screams, Dutch shouting orders, the desperate cries of the passengers all blending into a frantic, unholy symphony. Henry took aim, his hands trembling as he fired at the approaching Pinkertons, each shot sending a shock through his body. The Pinkertons were relentless, pouring in through doors and windows, their numbers growing, filling the ferry like a flood.

John let out a cry of pain as a bullet tore through his arm, and he stumbled back, clutching the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep shooting, though his grip faltered.

“John!” Henry shouted, ducking as bullets whizzed past him, splintering the crates around them.

“Just a scratch,” John grunted, though his face was pale, sweat beading on his brow. He tried to lift his arm to aim, but his hand shook, the wound weakening him more than he let on. “Damn Pinkertons… they don’t let up.”

Javier, reloading his gun, nodded toward the other side of the room. “Henry, get us some cover! We need to move—now!”

Henry nodded, grabbing a crate and dragging it in front of them, using it as a makeshift barrier as they retreated toward the exit. But as he moved, he saw Charles through the haze of smoke and gunfire, his face twisted in pain, one hand clutching his gun while the other was red and raw, burned from an exploding lantern.

Charles gritted his teeth, shaking out his injured hand, still managing to keep firing despite the pain. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle,” he muttered, though Henry could see the strain in his eyes, the way he winced every time he had to move his fingers.

Then, amidst the chaos, Henry spotted Davey Callander, stumbling forward, his face twisted in agony. Blood poured from a wound in his gut, his hands pressing desperately against the injury as he staggered back, his movements sluggish, his face pale as death.

“D-Dutch…” Davey gasped, his voice barely a whisper as he collapsed, his legs giving out beneath him.

Dutch’s face twisted with fury as he saw the wounded gang member. “Davey, damn it!” he shouted, but the onslaught left no time for rescue, no moment for compassion. The Pinkertons pressed forward, their numbers unending, forcing the gang back, closer and closer to the edge of the ferry.

Henry glanced around, searching for Mac, but his heart sank as he saw him, lying near the entrance, riddled with bullets, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. Agent Milton loomed over him, a cruel smile on his face as he looked down at the broken man.

“You put up quite the fight, Callander,” Milton sneered, his voice low and mocking. “But this is the end of the line.”

Henry felt a surge of rage and helplessness as he watched, but Dutch grabbed him, pulling him back. “No time, Henry! We gotta get out, now!”

As they fought their way to the gangplank, Henry looked back, seeing Pinkertons swarming the boat, their guns blazing. John stumbled beside him, his arm hanging limp, his face pale, his breathing labored. Javier kept close, firing wildly, his face set in grim determination.

Dutch’s face was a mask of anger and despair as they finally reached the dock, abandoning the money, the mission, everything they’d risked so much for. The bodies of the fallen lay scattered across the ferry, blood pooling on the deck, the once-gleaming boat now a scene of carnage.

“Run!” Dutch yelled, his voice raw, broken.

Gunfire filled the air, thick and endless, every blast tearing through the din of panic and rage. The gang fought their way through the ferry’s main deck, ducking and diving as bullets split the air like deadly whispers. The Pinkertons had turned the place into a war zone, pouring in from every entrance, their revolvers blazing, their shouts lost in the thunder of gunfire and the screams of terrified passengers.

Henry crouched low behind a crate, his back pressed against the rough wood, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He could feel the thud of bullets slamming into the other side, the wood splintering with each hit. John was beside him, gripping his bleeding arm, his face pale and strained as he glanced over at Henry.

“Hell, kid,” John muttered, his voice ragged with pain. “I thought Dutch said this was gonna be smooth…”

Henry gave him a tight, humorless smile, his eyes flicking over the edge of the crate to where the Pinkertons were advancing, each step closer tightening the noose. “Dutch says a lot of things.”

John grunted, shifting to get a better look at his bleeding arm. “Damn, kid, this ain’t lookin’ good… Ain’t much time before they close in on us.”

Then, out of nowhere, Micah sprinted by, his face twisted in a wild grin as he ducked low and made a break for the gangplank, abandoning the rest of the group in his retreat. He shot them a twisted grin, calling out over his shoulder.

“Well, don’t let me keep ya!” he sneered, his voice mocking as he disappeared down the dock. “Good luck fendin’ off the swarm, boys!”

Henry’s jaw tightened as he watched Micah run off, his anger flashing into something sharper, something colder. “Coward,” he muttered under his breath, his grip on his gun tightening.

John spat into the dirt, his face twisted with disgust. “Bastard’s always thinkin’ about himself. To hell with him, we don’t need his help.”

As the Pinkertons pressed forward, their shouts filling the air, Henry took a deep breath, steadying his aim, his hands going eerily calm as he peered over the crate. His mind quieted, everything narrowing to the barrel of his gun and the target ahead.

He fired once, then twice, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy. The first Pinkerton went down, a clean shot to the chest, his body crumpling instantly. Henry shifted his aim, firing again, taking down the next in line with a shot straight between the eyes. The third fell with a single bullet to the heart, and the fourth stumbled back, clutching his throat as he hit the deck.

John looked over, wide-eyed, as Henry continued, his shots precise, each one landing with brutal efficiency. “Damn, kid!” he muttered, ducking as more bullets whizzed past. “You’re makin’ this look easy!”

Henry’s face was set, focused, his eyes sharp as he dispatched another two Pinkertons, each shot ringing out clear and controlled. He moved with a deadly calm, his hands steady as he took aim again, downing two more with swift, merciless shots. “Ain’t got time to miss,” he replied, his voice low, steady, even as his heart pounded in his chest. “We need to move.”

He dropped the last Pinkerton in his line of sight with a single, unerring shot to the temple, the man’s body hitting the deck with a heavy thud. Henry took a deep breath, glancing over at John, his gaze intense. “C’mon, John. We stay here, we’re dead.”

John nodded, grimacing as he forced himself up, clutching his wounded arm. “You got a damn point, kid. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

They broke from cover, sprinting down the gangplank as bullets zipped past, tearing splinters from the wood around them. Henry kept his gaze forward, his body tense, ready, adrenaline pulsing through him as he led John through the chaos, weaving around barrels and crates, his gun ready, firing at any movement from the corners of his eyes.

Behind them, the ferry was a mess of smoke and blood, the Pinkertons falling back, shouting orders as they tried to regroup. Henry didn’t look back. He kept moving, pulling John forward, his voice rough with urgency. “C’mon, John. We’re almost there.”

John stumbled, his face pale as he gritted his teeth against the pain. “Kid, I don’t know how you do it, but… damn glad you’re here.”

Henry gave a quick nod, glancing around the edge of the pier to check for any more Pinkertons. “Ain’t over yet, John. Let’s keep moving. Dutch and the rest—if they’re smart, they’ll already be gone.”

The thunder of gunfire roared through the streets of Blackwater as Henry and John dashed through narrow alleys, ducking behind corners and slipping through shadows as they tried to outpace the chaos. Their boots pounded on the wooden boards, the echoes swallowed by the sharp cracks of rifles and the shouts of the Pinkertons chasing them down.

But then, as they rounded a corner, Henry caught sight of it—a hulking figure of steel glinting in the sunlight, its barrel trained on them like a metal serpent ready to strike.

“Gatling gun!” Henry yelled, his voice cutting through the noise as he lunged forward, slamming into John and shoving him down just as the gatling gun opened up, spewing bullets in a deadly, relentless hail. The rounds tore through the air, shredding everything in their path, splinters of wood and clouds of dust flying as the gun mowed down everything between them and the Pinkertons.

Henry and John hit the dirt hard, each scrambling to opposite sides of the street, barely avoiding the lethal spray. Henry pressed himself flat against the corner of a crumbling brick wall, his heart hammering as the gatling gun whirred, the bullets eating into the street and filling the air with the smell of gunpowder and scorched metal.

“Damn it, Henry!” John shouted from across the street, his face twisted with anger and fear. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Henry clenched his teeth, glancing over at John, his mind racing. He knew they didn’t have long before the Pinkertons closed in, and with the gatling gun blocking their path, they were sitting ducks. The only option was to make a break for it, but not both of them—not with that much fire raining down on them.

“John,” Henry shouted over the roar of the gun, his voice tense, urgent. “You gotta run. I’ll keep that bastard busy!”

John’s eyes widened, shaking his head vehemently. “The hell I am! I ain’t leavin’ you behind, kid!”

Henry’s face was set, his eyes fierce as he shouted back, “You’re hurt, John. You won’t make it out if you stay here! Get out while you can!”

John gritted his teeth, his eyes blazing with anger. “I said I ain’t leavin’! Don’t be a damn fool, Henry!”

But Henry’s mind was already made up. He knew John was too stubborn to turn back, but he also knew that if someone didn’t distract that gatling gun, neither of them were walking away from this. He took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of his decision settle in his chest.

“John, listen to me,” Henry said, his voice softer now, but unyielding. “You got a life waitin’ for you—family. Somethin’ worth holdin’ onto. I got nothin’ if I don’t help you get outta here. So go on, and look after yourself for once, alright?”

John’s face twisted with frustration, his mouth opening to argue, but he saw the steely resolve in Henry’s eyes, the calm acceptance. With a frustrated shout, he slammed his fist against the wall, cursing under his breath. “Damn it, Henry… fine. But you better make it out, you hear me?”

Henry nodded, a hint of a smile breaking through the tension. “Go on, John. I’ll draw their fire.”

Without another word, Henry pushed himself up, darting into the open, his gun raised as he fired off a couple of shots toward the gatling gun’s nest. The Pinkerton manning it turned, the barrel whirring as he swung it to follow Henry, the sound of bullets splitting the air like a deadly storm.

“Over here!” Henry yelled, drawing the fire away from John, who took the chance and ran, weaving through the alley as the bullets hammered the ground where he’d just been.

Henry sprinted through the narrow streets, his heart pounding as he dodged and weaved, the gatling gun roaring behind him, tearing through barrels, crates, walls, anything in its path. He could feel the rounds slicing the air around him, the deadly heat of each shot close enough to graze.

But he didn’t stop.

He darted behind a cart, the wood shattering into splinters as the gunfire tore it to pieces. He rolled, pulling himself up and sprinting forward again, every instinct telling him to keep moving, to not let that gatling gun lock onto him for even a second.

The world was a blur of smoke and noise, of fire and shadows, but he knew he had to keep them occupied, to give John a chance to make it out. His muscles burned, his lungs straining as he zig-zagged through the streets, every footstep a desperate bid to stay alive.

And as he ran, he caught a glimpse of John, just for a second, slipping out of sight down a narrow alley, his figure retreating toward freedom. Henry’s heart lifted, a fierce satisfaction settling over him even as the gatling gun’s rounds chewed up the ground around him, relentless and unforgiving.

He cut through the narrow alleyways, his feet barely touching the ground as he pushed himself to run faster, his lungs burning, his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to move, to keep going. Bullets still flew past him, whistling through the air, slamming into walls and shattering windows in a frenzy of chaos. He ducked and weaved, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign of a horse, any means of escape from the hell Blackwater had become.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered to himself, his voice low and frantic as he dodged into another alley, barely avoiding a stray shot that splintered the brick inches from his head.

Finally, he spotted a horse tethered near a general store, pawing at the ground nervously as gunfire rang out nearby. The animal’s eyes were wild with fear, nostrils flaring as it tried to bolt against the ropes holding it. Henry sprinted over, his hands moving fast, untying the reins with fingers that shook from the adrenaline still surging through his veins.

“Easy, girl,” he whispered, stroking the horse’s neck, his voice soothing despite the terror thrumming beneath his calm. “I need ya to get me outta here. Just this once, alright?”

With a final glance back toward the docks, Henry swung himself up onto the horse’s back, his grip firm on the reins as he urged the animal forward, its hooves pounding against the ground as they tore through the town’s outskirts. The gunfire was fading now, the shouts and chaos becoming distant as he galloped away, leaving the ferry, the bodies, and the blood-soaked pier behind him.

But even as he rode, his heart ached, his mind replaying the faces of Mac, Davey, Jenny… their bodies lying cold and silent, left behind on that cursed boat. It was a wound that would never heal, a scar etched deep into his soul.

He rode harder, pushing the horse into a full gallop, the wind tearing at him, drying the tears that had welled up, mingling with the dust and blood on his face.

As Henry tore out of Blackwater, he threw a glance over his shoulder and felt his blood run cold. An army of Pinkertons was swarming the town like ants, their shouts echoing down the narrow streets, rifles raised as they barked out orders. He watched as they split off, mounting horses and spreading out like a deadly net cast across the plains. A few of them were already barreling down the trail behind him, their revolvers gleaming in the sun, their voices hard and unforgiving.

“Damn it,” Henry muttered under his breath, leaning low over the horse’s neck, urging the animal faster. “Let’s go, girl—ain’t time to be takin’ in the scenery.”

The horse surged forward, her hooves hammering the earth as they cut across the open land, the dry grass blurring past them. Henry gritted his teeth, his focus narrowing to the path ahead, his mind racing as he mapped out every twist and turn that might keep him ahead of the men hunting him. He’d have to make it to the river, then follow it north. If he could reach Aurora Basin, he might just have a chance to lose them in the dense trees and rugged terrain beyond.

The sun was high, casting long shadows over the rugged landscape as Henry pushed on, every muscle in his body tense, his eyes darting over the horizon, watching for any sign of movement. He knew he didn’t have much time—the Pinkertons would be relentless, tracking him like bloodhounds. But he was faster, and he had the wild terrain on his side. He’d make it if he didn’t falter, if he didn’t let the pain and fear slowing his pulse get the best of him.

As he neared the Upper Montana River, the sound of rushing water grew louder, the river winding like a silver ribbon through the valley, its current strong and steady. He urged the horse down the embankment, splashing into the shallows, the cold water spraying up and soaking his boots as they cut across to the far bank. The Pinkertons’ shouts still echoed faintly from behind, but he didn’t stop to listen; he just kept going, pushing the horse up the incline and back onto the winding path along the river.

“C’mon, just a bit further,” Henry muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The trees thickened as he moved north, their branches casting jagged shadows over the trail. He rode along the river, the water beside him dark and rippling under the midday sun, the path stretching ahead like a lifeline.

Behind him, he could hear the faint thunder of hooves, the Pinkertons closing in, their shouts growing louder as they followed the trail he’d cut across the water. Henry gritted his teeth, urging his horse forward, his jaw clenched tight against the burning ache in his chest, the panic clawing at the edges of his mind.

As they neared Aurora Basin, the land began to rise, the trail winding through rocky outcrops and clusters of trees that provided a fleeting cover. Henry’s breathing steadied as he took in the sight—this was familiar ground, a place he’d passed through a hundred times. He knew every twist and bend, every rock and tree. If he could just make it into the basin, he might be able to lose them, might be able to catch his breath, if only for a moment.

He glanced back once more, spotting the glint of sunlight on rifles as the Pinkertons crested the hill behind him, their faces grim, their eyes locked on him like wolves scenting blood. A spark of rage flared in his chest as he faced forward, spurring his horse into the basin, his voice a fierce whisper against the roar of the river.

“Not today, you sons of bitches.”

Henry pushed his horse harder, the animal’s muscles straining beneath him as they tore through the thickening woods. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, shadows deepening as they moved further from the open plains and into the dense, rugged wilderness. He could still hear the Pinkertons’ shouts behind him, faint but persistent, their voices riding the breeze like some hellish chant. They were relentless, and he knew they wouldn’t stop until they had him or his body.

The path twisted and turned, and Henry navigated it with practiced ease, his mind racing as he plotted his next move. Strawberry was his best chance; if he could make it there by nightfall, he could slip into town, find a barn or abandoned cabin to hunker down in, and lose the Pinkertons for good. But he had to shake them first—no easy feat with their numbers and determination.

Up ahead, the trail split, one path winding toward the river and another weaving through a thick copse of trees. He took the forest trail without hesitation, veering sharply to the left, his horse’s hooves thundering against the packed earth as they plunged deeper into the cover of the trees. Branches clawed at his face, scraping across his arms as he ducked low, his heart pounding with each step.

“Just a little more, girl,” he muttered to his horse, patting her neck as they barreled through the underbrush. “Get us through this, and I’ll see to it you’re fed and rested for a damn month.”

The Pinkertons followed, though the noise of their pursuit grew fainter, their voices swallowed by the thick layers of pine and oak. Henry pushed on, veering off the main trail, guiding his horse down a steep embankment where he could pick his way through a creek bed that wound down toward the valley. The rushing water might cover their scent, throw the bloodhounds off his trail. He urged his horse through the shallow water, the chill biting through his boots as they splashed through, moving as quickly and quietly as the current would allow.

When he reached the other side, he stopped for a moment, listening, straining his ears for any sign of the Pinkertons. Nothing but the gentle ripple of water and the quiet rustling of leaves. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with the slightest relief.

Then, a distant shout rang out—a Pinkerton, too close for comfort.

Henry clenched his jaw, swinging his gaze toward Strawberry, still miles away through the maze of trees and hills. He’d have to keep moving, but carefully. Slipping through the rough terrain was his only hope, leading them off his trail for good.

He nudged his horse forward, keeping to the trees, letting the shadows wrap around them like a second skin. The woods grew denser as he moved on, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in thin, slanted beams, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of leaves beneath his horse’s hooves. He weaved through the forest, his movements slow and deliberate, every muscle taut, every sense alert.

“Easy now,” he whispered to his horse, guiding her gently as they passed through a dense thicket. “Just a little further.”

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the forest floor, bathing everything in a hazy, amber light. Strawberry wasn’t far now—he could smell the faint traces of smoke from a distant chimney, hear the distant murmur of the little town’s quiet bustle.

He had made it.

He slowed his horse to a trot as he approached the outskirts of Strawberry, his gaze sweeping the small town nestled between the mountains. A few folks wandered the dirt streets, heads down, wrapped in their own business, paying no mind to a lone rider coming in from the woods. He rode past the general store, its windows glowing softly with lamplight, and the faint chatter from the saloon drifted through the open doors.

Henry kept his head low, pulling his hat down to cover his face as he made his way toward the edge of town, where he spotted an old barn, half-hidden in the shadows of a tall oak tree. It looked abandoned, its wood worn and splintered, the roof sagging in places, but it would do.

He dismounted, patting his horse’s neck, murmuring a quiet thanks as he led her into the barn, settling her into a corner where she could rest and graze on some leftover hay. He crouched down beside her, rubbing his hands together, the weariness finally catching up to him as he let out a shaky breath.

“Safe for now,” he muttered to himself, though his voice held little conviction.

He slumped against the barn wall, his back pressing into the rough wood, his gaze fixed on the narrow gap between the boards, watching the shadows lengthen as night settled over Strawberry. For now, he was out of the Pinkertons’ reach, but he knew it wouldn’t last.

The silence in the barn was thick, pressing in from all sides, filling the space like a heavy fog as Henry leaned back against the rough wooden wall. The shadows deepened, the last light of the day bleeding through the gaps in the boards, casting thin, slanted stripes across the dirt floor. His horse stood beside him, her sides heaving as she breathed, her coat damp with sweat, and Henry reached out, patting her flank with a shaky hand.

But now, with the adrenaline fading, the weight of the day settled on him like an iron chain, dragging him down, twisting around his chest. His breaths came shallow, every inhale scraping against his throat like sandpaper. His hands, steady during the fight, now trembled as he flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in his bones. The horror of the ferry flashed through his mind, the bodies, the blood, the merciless hail of bullets that had rained down on them.

“Damn it…” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat, barely more than a strangled breath.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the ferry deck. Mac, lying there in a pool of blood, his face slack, his life stolen away by the Pinkertons’ bullets. Davey, his hand clutching his gut, his face twisted in agony, the hope drained from his eyes. And Jenny… her pale, lifeless face among the bodies, her smile gone forever.

“Hell,” Henry muttered, clenching his jaw, his fists tight, nails digging into his palms as he tried to hold it all back. But the grief and fury swelled in his chest, too big to contain, pressing against his ribs, clawing its way up his throat. He swallowed hard, fighting against it, but it was no use. The weight was too heavy, the memories too vivid.

“Why the hell’d we go in there like that?” he hissed to himself, his voice rough, bitter. “Dutch… all his talk, all his damn promises, and what do we get for it? Nothin’ but bodies and empty pockets.”

He slammed a fist into the wall, the impact rattling through his arm, but it did nothing to ease the storm raging inside him. He let out a harsh, ragged breath, his vision blurring as tears pricked at his eyes, a fierce anger mingling with the ache in his chest. He wiped at his face, but the tears came anyway, hot and angry, burning trails down his cheeks as he sat there in the dim, silent barn.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Dutch had promised them a way out, a chance to live free, to escape the chains of the past. But all Henry could see now were broken bodies and shattered dreams, left behind on a blood-soaked ferry deck.

He looked down at his hands, stained with dirt and blood, hands that had been steady, ruthless even, as he’d fought his way through the Pinkertons. He remembered the way his bullets had found their mark, each shot clean and final, each man falling like a puppet with its strings cut. And a part of him—a part he barely recognized—had felt a dark satisfaction in it, a cold sense of purpose. But now, in the quiet, that same purpose felt hollow, empty, leaving him with nothing but the raw ache of loss.

“What the hell am I even doin’ here?” he muttered, his voice breaking, barely more than a whisper. “All this… for what? For Dutch’s damn dreams? For a future that ain’t ever gonna come?”

He slumped back against the wall, his head tilted up, staring blankly at the rafters above as his thoughts churned, dark and relentless. He’d believed in Dutch, followed him without question, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they’d make it out of this life with something to show for it. But now… he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

He let out a shuddering breath, the anger ebbing, replaced by a cold, hollow feeling that settled deep in his chest. He felt alone, more alone than he’d ever felt in his life, surrounded by shadows, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a stone.

The barn was quiet, the sounds of the town distant, muffled, as if the world itself had shrunk down to this small, dark space. His horse snorted softly, nudging his shoulder as if sensing his pain, and he reached out, resting his hand against her neck, taking comfort in her warmth, in the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“Sorry, girl,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Didn’t mean for you to go through all that. I’ll get us somewhere safe… somehow.”

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle over him, the anger and grief still there, but dimmer now, softened by exhaustion. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, didn’t know if he’d even make it through the night. But for now, he’d sit here, alone with his thoughts, letting the weight of it all sink in, the bitter reality of what his life had become.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d find a way forward come dawn.

The air in the clearing was thick and tense, the darkness settling in like a cloak as Dutch stood before the gang, his eyes gleaming with a strange fire, though his shoulders sagged with the weight of the day. Around him, the gang was gathered in a rough circle, faces etched with exhaustion, pain, and doubt. They had barely escaped Blackwater with their lives, and not all of them had made it out. The toll of their so-called victory hung heavy in the air, and Arthur felt it like a lead weight in his chest.

Arthur stormed up to Dutch, his face twisted with fury, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “What the hell happened out there, Dutch?” he demanded, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. “That wasn’t no damn job—no plan. That was a damn slaughter!”

Dutch bristled, his face hardening as he looked at Arthur, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. “Watch your tone, Arthur. I did what needed to be done. We had no choice—”

“No choice?” Arthur spat, his voice rising, bitter and raw. “You took us all into hell, Dutch! We lost people—Mac, Davey, Jenny… and for what? Where’s the money, Dutch? Where’s all this freedom you keep goin’ on about?”

Dutch’s jaw tightened, his gaze slipping away, but Arthur wasn’t done. He took a step closer, his voice filled with a fury that trembled at the edges. “And where the hell’s Henry? You dragged him into this mess, threw him right into the line of fire, and now he’s goddamn gone.”

At the mention of Henry, Dutch’s face twisted with a flicker of something unreadable, his shoulders tensing. “Henry… he’s fine, Arthur. That boy’s got more grit than you give him credit for. He knew what he was gettin’ into.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “He’s a kid, Dutch. Ain’t no need to throw him into a damn massacre, watchin’ our people get picked off like flies. He trusted you, we all did… and you damn well used him like he was nothin’ but a pawn.”

Hosea stepped forward, his face weary, a deep sadness in his eyes. “Dutch, Arthur’s right. This wasn’t what we planned. We went in for money and came out with bodies. Henry’s missing, half our gang’s dead… and there ain’t no money to show for it.”

Dutch’s face twisted in anger and frustration, his voice growing defensive. “Hosea, Arthur… you don’t see what I see. This was a step, a hard step, but one that had to be taken. We’re fightin’ for our lives here. This is more than one job—this is about our future.”

Arthur shook his head, his expression hard, unyielding. “The future, Dutch? The future’s lookin’ mighty short right about now. Henry might be out there bleedin’ somewhere, or worse, ‘cause of your damn ‘vision.’”

Dutch’s eyes flashed, a fierce determination burning in them. “Henry’s tougher than you think, Arthur. He’s part of this gang, part of this family. He knew what he signed up for.”

Arthur’s face twisted with anger, barely held in check, his voice laced with bitterness. “No, Dutch. He trusted you. Trusted that you’d get him through this without leadin’ him to his damn death.” He took a deep breath, his hands shaking, his voice turning cold, unforgiving. “And if you keep on like this, none of us are gonna make it out of here alive.”

Dutch looked away, his gaze flickering over the exhausted, bitter faces around him, his jaw set, his face a mask of anger and something else—something almost like regret.

Dutch looked out over the gang, his face set and grim as he saw the haunted expressions staring back at him. They were broken, bloodied, and without the glimmer of hope they’d held when they’d first set their sights on Blackwater. The casualties were heavy, and the cold realization that their score had left them with empty hands weighed down on everyone, making the shadows longer, the night colder.

But Dutch stood tall, his voice rising as he tried to rally them, to breathe fire back into their weary bones. “I know today was hard. We lost good folks, and I don’t take that lightly. But if we don’t keep moving, we’re finished. The Pinkertons are crawlin’ all over Blackwater, and they’ll be on us come dawn. We’ve got to head north, get into the mountains. Lay low until the heat dies down.”

Karen scoffed, her voice bitter as she wrapped her arms around herself. “North? Up to freeze our asses off after all this? And for what? Dutch, there ain’t nothin’ left for us after this… massacre.”

Others nodded, murmurs of agreement running through the gang. Their faces were tight, etched with anger and doubt, eyes flickering to Dutch with something close to accusation. Dutch’s eyes swept over them, his jaw tightening, but he forced a reassuring smile, his voice resolute.

“We’re gonna be all right. We’re fighters, every one of you,” he insisted, but the words hung heavy in the air, barely filling the silence that followed. He looked around, meeting each of their eyes, pushing the conviction he didn’t quite feel. “Stick with me, folks. One more hard push, and we’ll be out of this mess.”

“Out of this mess?” Arthur’s voice was cold, bitter. He stepped forward, his face a mask of barely contained fury. “You got us into this mess, Dutch. Took us in there blind, chasin’ a fantasy while half our folks got torn to pieces. What’re we chasin’ now, huh? Another dream? ‘Cause I’m seein’ nothin’ but empty promises and graves.”

Dutch bristled, but before he could respond, John stepped forward, his face tight with pain, his injured arm bound in a makeshift sling. “What about Henry?” he asked, his voice cutting through the cold night air. “Kid was still back there when I got out. I barely made it out myself, and the last I saw of him… he was drawin’ the Pinkertons off. He saved my damn life.”

There was a beat of silence as the gang took in John’s words, a mix of shock and sadness darkening their faces. Abigail’s face paled, her gaze dropping to the ground as she whispered, “He’s just a boy… never shoulda been dragged into that mess.”

“Henry’s tough,” Dutch cut in, his voice sharp. “He’ll find his way back to us. He’s smart, he’s a survivor.”

Hosea shook his head, his voice laced with sorrow and frustration. “Dutch, that kid had no business bein’ in that kind of crossfire. He ain’t made for this kind of bloodshed, and you know it.” He paused, his gaze hardening as he looked at Dutch. “And for what? This wasn’t his fight to begin with. This was your dream, Dutch, and he got caught in the middle of it.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed as he looked over at Micah, who sat off to the side, arms crossed, looking indifferent to the sorrow swirling around him. “This is on you too, Micah,” Arthur growled, his voice filled with a bitter venom. “You’re the one who pushed Dutch into this damn mess, tellin’ him it’d be a cakewalk. Now we’ve got bodies left behind, good folks who’ll never see the light of day again. All ‘cause of your mouth.”

Micah’s smirk was a twisted thing, cold and dismissive. “Aw, quit your bellyachin’, Arthur. You’d think you were the only one who lost folks today. We knew what we were signin’ up for—this is the outlaw life. You go in knowin’ it might be your last ride.”

Arthur’s fist clenched, and he took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “You keep talkin’, Micah, and you’ll see what a last ride really looks like. We’re down good men, and you got no damn remorse for it.”

Dutch’s voice cut through the tension, his tone harsh, filled with a barely restrained anger. “Enough, both of you. Micah did what he thought was best, same as any of us would.” He looked around, his gaze landing on each of them, hardening as he pushed forward. “Now, I need all of you to focus. We’re headin’ north, into Ambarino. Up into the mountains, where they won’t think to follow us. We’ll lay low, regroup… and when the time’s right, we’ll come back stronger.”

But his words seemed to ring hollow, barely touching the crushed spirits surrounding him. Karen muttered under her breath, a curse laced with bitterness as she wrapped her coat tighter around herself. Javier looked down at his bandaged arm, the blood seeping through the cloth, his face tense with pain and anger. Charles sat off to the side, his burnt hand wrapped in rough cloth, his jaw clenched as he stared into the darkness, his face hard and unreadable.

One by one, they started moving, gathering their few belongings, shouldering their packs with a weary reluctance, each of them moving like shadows, weighed down by grief, doubt, and the relentless cold. As they saddled up, Dutch watched them, his face an unreadable mask, but there was a crack in his gaze, a flicker of something he was trying hard to hide.

Hosea walked over to Arthur, his voice low, sorrowful. “Arthur… this ain’t the gang I knew. And Dutch… he’s driftin’ further from us with every decision he makes.”

Arthur shook his head, his voice rough, bitter. “I know, Hosea. This ain’t what we signed up for. But it’s too late now, ain’t it? We’re bound to his dream, one way or another.”

As they mounted up and turned north, the gang rode in silence, each face haunted, each heart heavy.

Chapter Text

Henry pushed open the door to the Strawberry saloon, the low murmur of voices and clinking of glasses greeting him like a wave of something half-familiar, half-unsettling. The smell of smoke, cheap whiskey, and fried meat hung thick in the air, and his stomach rumbled as he took it all in, feeling a sudden hunger gnawing at him.

As he made his way to the bar, he caught snippets of conversation that made his shoulders tense, his steps slowing.

“… Blackwater was a goddamn slaughter. Whole damn place swarming with Pinkertons, chasin’ down every damn outlaw in the region…”

“Yeah, I heard they’re draggin’ bodies out by the dozens. Rumor has it a whole gang went under—most of ’em dead or scattered.”

Henry felt a cold weight settle in his chest as he took a seat at the bar, his eyes fixed on a faded spot on the wood, his hands itching to clench into fists. He forced himself to breathe, pushing the memories back. Right now, he needed food, maybe something strong enough to steady his fraying nerves.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a skeptical eye, walked over, giving Henry a once-over that spoke of a man who knew trouble when he saw it. “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you got for food. And…” Henry hesitated, then nodded toward the row of whiskey bottles. “A shot of that.”

The bartender raised a brow, shrugging as he reached for a bottle, pouring a splash of amber liquid into a glass and sliding it across the bar. Henry eyed it warily, but he didn’t let himself back down, grabbing the glass and tipping it back.

The whiskey hit him like a kick to the chest, burning its way down his throat and hitting his stomach with a fiery jolt. He choked, coughing as he tried to keep his composure, his eyes watering as the taste hit him—like smoke and fire, bitter and biting, every bit as harsh as he’d expected. The bartender let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“First time, huh?” he muttered, sliding a plate of stew across the bar. “Takes some gettin’ used to, kid. Guessin’ it ain’t your usual fare.”

Henry coughed, nodding as he took a few shaky breaths, feeling the burn settle into something warm and steady. “No, sir. Not exactly.” He glanced down at the stew—thick and greasy, with a few chunks of meat and vegetables floating in a murky broth. It wasn’t much, but it was hot, and right now, that was all he cared about.

He dug in, the food filling the hollow ache in his stomach, grounding him, the whiskey’s warmth spreading through his veins and waking him up from the haze that had clung to him since Blackwater. Around him, the conversations carried on, voices low and tense, and he couldn’t help but listen as he ate.

“… reckon they’ll follow ‘em all the way up into the mountains if they have to. Pinkertons don’t stop till they got what they’re after.”

“Damn shame, if you ask me. Ain’t nobody deserves that kinda huntin’. Heard one of ‘em was just a kid…”

The words hit Henry like a punch, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to keep his eyes on his plate, forcing down the anger rising in his chest. He’d been just a kid once, too, drawn into something bigger than himself, something that now felt like a chain wrapped around his neck.

He reached for the whiskey glass, downing the last of it in a quick, fierce gulp, the burn searing away some of the bitterness that lingered. The warmth flooded back, settling into his bones, making him feel awake, alert, like he could actually breathe for the first time since he’d stepped foot in Blackwater.

The bartender watched him with a hint of amusement. “You lookin’ for work, or just passin’ through?”

Henry looked up, his expression guarded. “Just passin’ through, I reckon.”

The bartender nodded, giving him a knowing look. “Well, keep your head low. This town ain’t lookin’ for trouble—got enough of that with all the damn Pinkertons swarmin’ around.”

Henry nodded, finishing the last of his stew, the warmth of the food and whiskey settling into something steady, something that, for now, felt like strength.

Henry stared at his empty glass for a moment, feeling the whiskey’s warmth settle deep in his bones. He motioned for another, the bartender raising a brow but obliging, pouring a second shot and sliding it over with a quiet nod. Henry downed it, the burn less intense this time, a strange calm rolling over him, dulling the jagged edges of the past few days. He pushed the glass away, nodding his thanks, and made his way outside. The morning sun crept over Strawberry, casting a pale, golden glow over the quiet town. Henry stepped out of the saloon, his eyes squinting against the fresh light. The whiskey had settled into a dull throb in his head, but the cool air was sobering, sharpening his senses. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and damp earth as he made his way down the street, the few early risers nodding to him as he passed.

The town was beginning to stir—shopkeepers sweeping their stoops, a couple of townsfolk chatting by the general store, steam rising from the few chimneys already lit. Henry felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. It was peaceful here, a place untouched by the chaos and bloodshed he’d left in Blackwater.

He walked over to where his horse was tied by the hitching post, the animal resting with her head down, nostrils flaring as she lifted her head to greet him. He patted her neck, speaking to her in a low, soft voice. “Morning, girl. Hope you’re ready for a ride. We’ve got a long way ahead.”

As he adjusted the saddle, a low rumble of hooves broke the quiet of the morning. He turned, spotting a line of riders at the far end of the street, their dark silhouettes cutting against the early light. A carriage followed behind them, the wooden wheels creaking over the dirt road, flanked by ten riders on horseback, each one armed, rifles strapped to their saddles and faces set with grim intent.

Henry’s heart dropped, his body tensing as he recognized the unmistakable uniforms and unyielding faces of the Pinkertons. They were closing in, their presence heavy, suffocating, filling the morning air with a foreboding tension. They rode in slow, scanning the streets, their eyes sharp, taking in every inch of the town as if they owned it.

Henry lowered his head, instinctively pulling his hat down as he turned back to his horse, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. But his pulse quickened, his mind racing as he calculated his next move. He couldn’t linger; if the Pinkertons spotted him here, he was as good as caught.

One of the Pinkerton agents—a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek—caught sight of him. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, suspicion flickering in his eyes, and Henry felt a chill settle in his bones. He forced himself to stay calm, keeping his movements slow, deliberate, as he finished securing the saddle.

The agent looked away, motioning for the others to continue. Henry exhaled, relief mixing with the tension coiled in his chest. He couldn’t waste any more time.

With one swift movement, he swung up into the saddle, his grip on the reins firm as he steered his horse toward the northern edge of town. He kept his pace steady, his gaze focused on the road ahead, though he could feel the weight of the Pinkertons behind him like a shadow. The morning light stretched across the town as he rode, casting long shadows that seemed to chase him, whispering of the relentless pursuit that awaited him.

As he reached the outskirts of Strawberry, he took one last look back, the town bathed in soft light, still waking from its peaceful slumber. He couldn’t stay, couldn’t risk dragging these people into the violent storm that followed him. He had to find the gang, get the answers that had haunted him since Blackwater, and find a way to stay one step ahead of the Pinkertons’ iron grip.

“Alright, girl,” he murmured to his horse, his voice low, steady. “Let’s get movin’. Got a lot of miles to cover.” He nudged her into a brisk trot, turning his back on Strawberry and the distant echoes of a life that felt like a world away.

Henry rode north through the winding trails, the sun climbing higher, its light glinting off the crags and tree-lined slopes of the mountains. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the rough earth, the sound blending with the call of birds and the gentle rustle of the morning breeze through the pines. He aimed for the shadow of Mount Shann, its rugged peak standing tall in the distance, a place where he could vanish for a few days, let the heat cool down before making his way up to Valentine.

The Pinkertons’ relentless pursuit still hung in his mind, like a bruise he couldn’t shake. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see riders storming through the trees. But all he saw was the stretch of wild land behind him, untouched, with nothing but the rolling expanse of the mountains and the distant glimmer of Owanjila.

As he rode along, he caught sight of the lake’s glistening surface and felt a sudden pull to stop. He could almost hear the water lapping at the shore, a quiet, welcoming sound that promised a rare sense of peace. Fishing always had a way of grounding him, giving him something solid and unhurried to focus on when the world felt like it was spinning too fast.

He dismounted, giving his horse a gentle pat on the neck. “Rest up here, girl. We’ll be movin’ again soon enough.”

His horse snorted softly, lowering her head to graze on the grass at the water’s edge, and Henry slung his fishing pole from the saddle, moving to the edge of the lake. The morning sun was bright on the water, casting a silver sheen across its surface, and the air smelled fresh, clear, with a hint of pine and wet earth.

Henry knelt by the shore, fingers deftly tying a hook and bait, the motions automatic, muscle memory from long days spent by streams and rivers back home. He cast his line, watching as the bait hit the water with a soft plunk, the ripples spreading out in lazy circles. He leaned back, the tension in his body easing as he let himself settle into the quiet, the steady rhythm of the lake soothing the frayed edges of his nerves.

The minutes stretched on, each one calm, unbroken. The breeze whispered through the pines, carrying the scent of wildflowers, the chirp of crickets, and the gentle rush of the distant river that fed into Owanjila. Henry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the peace of it all settle over him. It was rare, this kind of quiet, and he could almost forget about Blackwater, about Dutch’s reckless scheme, about the faces they’d left behind.

Then, he felt the pull on the line, a strong, steady tug. His eyes snapped open, and he grinned, his hands gripping the rod as he worked to reel in the catch. The fish put up a good fight, thrashing and diving, but Henry kept his grip firm, his movements controlled as he pulled it closer. After a few minutes of struggle, he managed to haul it in, lifting the trout from the water, its scales flashing in the sunlight.

He chuckled to himself, admiring the fish for a moment before setting it down beside him. “Not bad,” he muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “Been a while since I caught somethin’ worth keepin’.”

The small victory filled him with a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in days, a momentary reprieve from the weight that had settled over him. He took a few more casts, catching another trout and setting it alongside the first. The fish were enough for a decent meal, and he knew he’d need his strength if he was planning to hunker down in the hills for a couple of days.

As he packed up his line and headed back to his horse, he felt the steady resolve settle back in his chest. Mount Shann was only a short ride away, a place where he could catch his breath, hide out, and gather his wits before moving on. He’d lay low, avoid the towns, then make his way to Valentine, where he’d check for any signs of the gang. If they were smart, they’d be scattered by now, each one lying low, biding their time. But with Dutch at the reins, he couldn’t count on caution or patience.

Mounting his horse again, Henry took one last look at the lake, its surface calm, the memory of the morning’s peace lingering in his mind like a whisper. With a nudge, he urged his horse forward, the lake fading behind him as he rode, the cool mountain air brushing his face, each breath clearing his mind as he made his way toward the shelter of the mountain.

By nightfall, Henry reached the top of Mount Shann, the world stretching out below him in a sweep of darkened valleys and starlit peaks. The mountain air was thin and sharp, each breath filling him with a strange, wild freedom he hadn’t felt in a long time. He dismounted slowly, patting his horse’s neck, feeling the tiredness in his own bones as he stretched, his muscles aching from the long ride.

"Good girl," he murmured to his horse, loosening the saddle straps, his voice soft in the quiet. “This’ll be home for a bit, least till we figure out what’s next.”

With steady hands, he set up a small tent, working in the dim light, the stars just beginning to peek out above him. He unpacked his provisions, laying down his bedroll inside, then turned to gather a few stones and bits of wood to make a fire. The flickering light soon warmed the camp, casting a soft, orange glow against the darkness, dancing over the rough walls of the mountain.

He cleaned and prepared the fish, skewering it carefully before setting it over the fire. The smell of cooking meat wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of pine and cold stone, a simple comfort in a day that had been anything but. His horse grazed nearby, her reins tied loosely to a tree branch, and he tossed her a handful of oats he’d packed away, watching as she munched, her tail swishing contentedly.

Sitting by the fire, he turned the fish slowly, his gaze drifting over the vast night sky above him. The stars shone bright, filling the heavens with their silent beauty, each one a tiny spark against the velvet black. He took a deep breath, letting the calm of the mountain settle into him, quieting the thoughts that had chased him all day. But as he ate, the peace was bittersweet, his mind inevitably turning to the gang, to the people he’d left behind.

He thought about Arthur, the way he’d always been there, steady as a rock, unyielding even in the worst of storms. Arthur had looked after him when Dutch had been too busy with his dreams, always the one with a quiet word, a steadying hand. Henry couldn’t help but wonder if Arthur had made it out of Blackwater, if he was somewhere in the hills now, cursing Dutch’s name as he tried to piece together what was left of their family.

Then there was Mary-Beth, her laugh soft and warm, a bit of kindness in a world that offered them precious little of it. She had a way of making things feel lighter, less weighed down by the trouble that seemed to follow them. He missed her stories, the way she’d talk about a life beyond all of this, about quiet places and simpler times. He wondered if she’d gotten away safely, or if she was holed up somewhere, alone and scared, like he was.

The fire crackled, and Henry set his empty plate aside, leaning back against his bedroll, his gaze fixed on the sky. The stars blinked down at him, silent and eternal, indifferent to the worries that knotted his chest. It felt strange, lying here alone, the vast wilderness around him a cold reminder of just how far he was from the gang, from the only family he’d ever known.

“Ain’t supposed to be like this,” he whispered to himself, his voice barely a murmur against the night. “We were s’posed to be free, not scattered to the wind like dust.”

He pulled his hat down over his eyes, trying to block out the memories, the ache of loss that clung to him like a shadow. But even as he lay there, the faces of his friends lingered in his mind, each one a reminder of the life they’d built together, a life that felt like it was slipping further away with each passing day.

Tomorrow, he’d ride to Valentine, maybe pick up a trail, a whisper of where the others might be. He knew it was dangerous, knew the Pinkertons were likely watching every town from here to Annesburg, but he had to try. He couldn’t keep running alone, couldn’t let the fire of the gang’s dream die out entirely. Not yet.

For now, though, he lay still, listening to the quiet rustle of the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, and the soft crackle of the dying fire. The stars above held their silent vigil, and he let their cold, steady light soothe him, a reminder that even in the darkest nights, there was something constant, something to hold onto.

With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes, his breath evening out as sleep finally pulled him under, his dreams filled with faces he’d left behind and a longing for a home that felt farther away than ever.

The blizzard howled through the peaks as Dutch’s gang pushed on through the treacherous mountain pass, a line of wagons lumbering through the knee-high snow, each wheel creaking, struggling against the weight of ice and frost. The cold bit deep, the wind cutting through even the thickest coats, its bite harsh, relentless. Snow whipped at their faces, stinging their eyes, each step forward an act of sheer willpower.

Dutch rode at the front, his hat pulled low, the fire in his eyes seemingly undimmed by the brutal weather. Behind him, bundled up in blankets, huddled in furs, was what was left of his family—the remnants of the gang they’d fought so hard to keep together. Hosea, with his eyes dark and weary, clung to the reins, guiding the horses forward with hands numb from the cold. The others followed, faces hard, half-hidden beneath scarves and pulled-down hats, each one drawn and silent.

Ahead, the outline of an abandoned mining town took shape, barely visible through the swirling snow. The place was ghostly, its buildings huddled together, roofs caked in white, their empty windows like hollow eyes staring into the storm. Dutch raised a gloved hand, calling a halt as they finally reached the edge of the town. The wagons came to a heavy, creaking stop, horses snorting, stamping in the snow as they settled, and the gang dismounted, each one stumbling stiffly, muscles aching from the cold.

Dutch’s voice rose above the wind, strong, steady, a beacon in the storm. “Alright, folks, we’ve made it. This here is Colter—ain’t much, but it’s shelter. Warm yourselves, rest up. We’ll get through this storm, and then… then we’ll find our way back to solid ground.”

The gang gathered close, each face etched with exhaustion and doubt, the harsh lines of their journey evident in their every movement. Dutch looked at each of them in turn, his voice full of conviction, the kind of fierce hope only he could summon.

“I know things look bleak,” Dutch continued, his voice resonant, carrying over the wind’s roar. “I know we’ve lost people, we’ve had to leave behind the ones we love… but we’re still standin’. And as long as we have each other, we’ll get through this, just like we always have. We’re survivors. We’re family.”

Arthur watched Dutch, his face half-hidden beneath his hat, his eyes narrowed, unreadable. Hosea stood by his side, his gaze somber, knowing all too well the fragility of Dutch’s promises. But in that moment, with the wind howling around them and the snow burying the tracks behind, even the skeptics seemed willing to believe in Dutch’s vision, if only because it was the one thing they had left.

The gang slowly dispersed, seeking shelter in the abandoned shacks, lighting small fires, wrapping themselves in whatever blankets they could find. Dutch stood with Arthur and Hosea, his gaze shifting, searching the edge of the storm.

“Arthur,” Dutch said, turning to him with a sense of urgency in his eyes. “John or Micah went out scouting earlier, tryin’ to get a lay of the land. Let’s see if we can find ‘em—ain’t no good leavin’ folks out in this weather longer than they need to be.”

Arthur nodded, adjusting his hat, the chill settling into his bones. “Micah, huh? Let’s just hope he didn’t get himself into trouble.”

Dutch chuckled, a hollow, humorless sound. “Micah’s trouble incarnate, Arthur. But he knows how to find his way around a fight.”

Hosea gave Dutch a warning look, his voice low. “Just be careful, Dutch. We can’t afford to lose anyone else right now.”

Dutch nodded, clapping a hand on Hosea’s shoulder before turning and leading Arthur through the swirling snow, each step heavy, the cold biting at their faces as they made their way into the blizzard.

After what felt like an eternity of trudging through the storm, they spotted a figure up ahead, bundled in furs, half-shrouded by the falling snow. As they drew closer, the figure straightened, turning to face them, a grin visible even through the scarf covering his face.

“Micah,” Dutch called out, his voice rising above the wind. “You find anything out there worth our while?”

Micah pulled down his scarf, his grin wide and full of that manic energy Arthur knew all too well. “Dutch, I think I hit the damn jackpot. Found a homestead a little ways down—looks like they’re havin’ a real grand ol’ time in there. Plenty of folks, plenty of supplies, and—judgin’ by the smell of roast meat—plenty to eat.”

Dutch’s eyes lit up, his grin matching Micah’s. “A party, you say? Well, ain’t that a damn miracle. Let’s pay ‘em a little visit, see if they’re feelin’ hospitable.”

Arthur frowned, his expression skeptical as he looked between Dutch and Micah. “So, what—you’re thinkin’ we just stroll in and help ourselves? Last thing we need’s another firefight, Dutch.”

Micah scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on, Arthur. You’re always so damn cautious. Ain’t nobody gonna miss a bit of food and a warm fire. Besides, they got more than they need, I guarantee it.”

Dutch placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his voice smooth, persuasive. “Arthur, we’re hungry, we’re cold, and we’re damn near out of options. We’ll be careful. Just a quick look, in and out, no harm done.”

Arthur sighed, his jaw tightening, but he knew Dutch’s mind was already made up. “Fine,” he muttered, adjusting his hat. “But if this goes south, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

The three of them moved out, following Micah’s lead as he guided them down a winding trail through the snow, his steps sure, quick, despite the icy ground. The snow grew heavier, swirling around them in thick, blinding waves, but soon enough, the warm glow of lights cut through the storm, revealing the outline of a homestead nestled at the edge of a small clearing.

They crept closer, stopping just at the edge of the trees, peering through the falling snow at the warm light spilling from the windows. Laughter and music drifted out, the sound muffled but unmistakable, a stark contrast to the desolation of the storm.

Micah’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Told ya it was a party. Now, let’s see what we can… borrow.”

Dutch nodded, his face set with purpose as he moved forward, motioning for Arthur and Micah to follow. Arthur hung back for a moment, watching Dutch with a mixture of loyalty and trepidation, the weight of the gang’s survival resting on their every move.

With a final sigh, he pulled his scarf up over his face and moved in alongside Dutch, the promise of warmth and a momentary respite urging him forward, even as his instincts warned him of the thin ice they were walking on.

The moment Dutch knocked on the door, it swung open with a violent shove, and two gun barrels glinted in the dim light. Before any of them could react, bullets erupted from the doorway, and Arthur barely managed to duck behind the stack of wood.

“Goddamn O’Driscolls!” he snarled, his heart pounding as gunfire tore through the frigid night air. He exchanged a quick, tense look with Dutch, who was crouched beside him, his face grim and determined. The plan had just gone to hell, and there was no going back.

“Arthur! Micah!” Dutch barked, his eyes blazing. “Take ‘em down. We end this now.”

Arthur moved quickly, his revolver out, firing into the darkness toward the muzzle flashes in the doorway. The O’Driscolls hollered back, their voices rough and mean, as they spilled out of the house, weapons raised, returning fire with wild, unrestrained fury. Arthur gritted his teeth, reloading in the cover of the stacked wood, his fingers numb but steady as he braced himself for another round.

Micah’s manic laugh rang out as he fired at a shadow moving across the front porch, the bullets sparking off the wood, sending splinters flying. “Come on, ya sons of bitches!” he taunted, his voice laced with that gleeful malice Arthur had come to expect.

The gunfight intensified, each shot loud and deafening, each side pushing, neither willing to retreat. Dutch, ever the tactician, motioned Arthur toward the side of the house, his voice urgent. “Flank ‘em, Arthur! See if you can get inside—find out what we’re dealin’ with!”

Arthur nodded, weaving through the snow, his boots crunching as he slipped around to a side window. Shattered glass crunched underfoot as he peered through, his gaze landing on the shadowed interior. He saw two O’Driscolls reloading by the fire, shouting orders to each other, but it was the sight in the corner that stopped him cold—a woman, bound and gagged, her eyes wide and terrified as she huddled near the fireplace, surrounded by broken furniture and blood-streaked floors.

“Damn it…” he muttered, steeling himself. He slipped through the broken window, landing in a crouch, his gun at the ready. The cold air mingled with the smoke from the fireplace, and the woman’s frightened gaze shot toward him, her eyes pleading.

“Stay down,” Arthur whispered to her, raising his gun as one of the O’Driscolls noticed him, his face twisting in surprise. Arthur fired first, the shot hitting true, and the man dropped, his gun clattering to the floor.

The second O’Driscoll turned, raising his rifle, but Arthur was faster, charging forward with a swing that knocked the gun from his hands. They grappled, fists flying, but Arthur overpowered him, slamming him into the floorboards with a fierce grunt.

Arthur stepped cautiously through the wrecked house, his boots crunching over broken glass and bullet-riddled wood as the gunfire outside finally faded. The O’Driscolls lay sprawled across the floor, the last of them slumped near the fireplace, a twisted expression of defiance frozen on his face.

As he reached the back room, he noticed a figure huddled in the shadows, half-hidden behind a tattered chair. The woman was a sight to behold—wild-eyed, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her body coiled as if ready to pounce. She clutched a broken bottle, her knuckles white, and her glare cut through the dim light with a ferocity that took Arthur off guard.

“Easy now…” he started, raising his hands, his voice calm, steady. But the woman lunged, swinging the jagged glass toward him with a snarl.

“Stay away from me!” she screamed, her voice raw, every syllable dripping with fury and heartbreak. “You killed him—you monsters killed him!”

Arthur sidestepped, grabbing her wrist before she could strike, but her strength surprised him. She struggled against him, fighting like a cornered animal, her eyes blazing with equal parts terror and rage. Dutch and Micah, hearing the commotion, stepped into the doorway, but Arthur held up a hand, signaling them to stay back.

“Ma’am,” Arthur said, his tone rough but gentle, “we’re not here to hurt ya. We took down those bastards outside—the O’Driscolls. They’re the ones who did this to you.”

But she didn’t seem to hear him, her fury too blinding. She wrenched her hand free and swung again, her makeshift weapon slicing through the air. Arthur dodged, hands raised, trying to deescalate, even as she spat curses at them, her voice shaking with grief.

“Sadie,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “My husband—Jake—they killed him, burned the place to the ground! And now you—you think I’m just gonna sit here and let you take whatever’s left?”

Arthur’s gaze softened, catching a glimpse of the burnt remnants in the fireplace, the scorched photos, the twisted metal frames—what was left of the life she’d had. He stepped back, hands still up, his voice dropping low, almost a murmur.

“We’re not here to take anything from ya. My name’s Arthur. And I swear, we didn’t have nothin’ to do with this. We’re on the run ourselves, tryin’ to make it through this storm… just happened upon this place.”

Sadie’s hand wavered, her grip loosening as the words settled over her, breaking through the fog of rage. Her gaze flicked between them, the fire in her eyes dimming slightly as her breath hitched, the fury ebbing into exhaustion.

Dutch stepped forward, his voice low and calm. “Look, miss… Sadie, was it? We understand loss. We’re just lookin’ for shelter from this storm, that’s all. You got my word.”

Sadie’s eyes narrowed, but her stance softened, the bottle falling from her fingers as she backed against the wall, clutching herself like she might fall apart at any moment. She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the shattered remnants of her life, her face twisting with anguish. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow, haunted look.

Arthur, lowering his hands, took a cautious step forward. “You’re safe now. Whatever they did, they won’t hurt you again.”

Sadie’s expression hardened, and she glared at Arthur with a fierce resolve. “Safe? There ain’t no safe anymore. They took everything. Jake… they took my Jake, and now… there’s nothin’ left.”

Arthur paused, unsure of what to say. He’d seen plenty of widows, plenty of folks broken by violence, but there was something different about Sadie—a resilience buried beneath the pain, a fierceness that hadn’t been extinguished, even in the face of this loss.

Dutch cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Sadie… I’m sorry for your loss. You’re welcome to stay with us, at least until this storm passes.”

Sadie looked at him, then at Arthur, her lips pressing into a thin line as she straightened, the raw grief in her eyes hardening into something sharper. “I don’t need your help,” she spat, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “But… I reckon I can stomach your company. Just don’t expect me to trust you.”

Arthur nodded, understanding better than she could know. He gestured toward the door. “Take whatever you need from here, then we’ll go. It ain’t much, but we can offer you shelter, food… a chance to start over.”

Sadie didn’t respond, just brushed past them, her steps fierce as she walked toward what was left of her home.

The morning dawned heavy with frost as the gang moved around camp, breath puffing in front of them like smoke in the crisp air. Arthur, already nursing a tin of coffee by the fire, looked up as Dutch strode over with purpose in his step.

"Arthur," Dutch's voice carried a mixture of command and concern. "John’s gone missin’ up in the mountains again. He went out last night, and he ain't back. Reckon he might've run into some trouble."

Arthur's jaw clenched slightly as he watched Dutch, a familiar worry growing in his eyes. “What’d you want me to do, Dutch?”

Dutch glanced over to where Javier was saddling up his horse. “I need you and Javier to go find him. Don’t know what he’s gotten himself into, but last anyone saw him, he was headin’ into the mountains.”

Arthur gave a small nod, his face set in a grim determination as he exchanged a quick look with Javier, both men steeling themselves for what they knew would be a rough ride into the icy wilderness.

“Alright,” Arthur muttered, straightening up, his gloved hands tightening on the reins as he mounted his horse. He adjusted his hat against the cold. “Let’s go bring the bastard back.”

The two men set out from camp, following the trail John had left. The higher they climbed, the more the air bit into their faces, the harsh chill of the mountains gnawing at their bones. Snow had fallen thickly overnight, blanketing the trail, forcing them to push their way through drifts that came up to their horses’ knees.

“He better have a damn good reason for this,” Arthur grumbled, peering ahead into the white wasteland. Javier simply nodded, keeping his head down against the biting wind. They followed the faint traces of John’s path, stopping occasionally to search for tracks or any sign of movement, but the trail grew fainter as they climbed higher into the mountains.

“Arthur!” Javier called out, his voice carrying through the quiet as he pointed to something in the distance.

Arthur squinted, eyes narrowing as he spotted a dark shape lying in the snow. They spurred their horses forward, approaching cautiously, and as they drew near, Arthur’s heart twisted—there, half-buried in the snow, was John, lying face-down with ragged breaths escaping him. His coat was shredded, his clothes bloodied and torn, the snow around him painted with dark stains.

Arthur slid off his horse, cursing under his breath as he knelt beside John and turned him over. John’s face was pale, his eyes half-lidded, a faint, crooked grin tugging at his lips even in his weakened state.

“John, you damn fool,” Arthur spat, his voice rough but laced with worry. “What the hell were you thinkin’, goin’ off like that?”

John coughed, wincing as he tried to sit up. “Wolves,” he rasped, shivering violently. “Thought I could take ’em.”

Arthur shook his head, glancing over at Javier. “He thought he could take wolves. You hear that?”

Javier, looking unimpressed, merely muttered, “Yeah, I heard it. Idiot.”

They each took one of John’s arms, hoisting him up between them. As they began their slow trek back down the mountain, Arthur’s frustration finally boiled over.

“After what Henry did for ya,” Arthur growled, voice hard and angry. “That kid—our kid—risked everything back in Blackwater to get you out safe. You got the whole gang worryin’, and this is what you go and do? Ridin’ out into the damn cold, thinkin’ you’re invincible?”

John managed a weak chuckle, though his eyes held a glint of shame. “Yeah, maybe… maybe wasn’t my best plan.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, though his grip on John was firm, holding him up as they trudged down the slope, boots crunching in the snow. “You’re damn right it wasn’t,” he muttered, his voice edged with the irritation of a man who’d gone through this more times than he could count. “Next time you got some itch to go dyin’ alone in the mountains, remember that there’s folks who’ll come after you.”

They continued in silence, the wind whipping around them, fierce and unforgiving. When they finally returned to camp, Dutch was there, his face set with a stern frown that softened just a touch when he saw John.

“Hell of a sight you are, John,” Dutch murmured, clasping his shoulder firmly as they helped him down. “You look half-dead.”

John smirked weakly, his eyes flicking to Arthur. “Had help gettin’ there.”

Arthur scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before goin’ chasin’ your own death, huh?”

John just nodded, leaning heavily against Arthur. And as Arthur helped him to the warmth of the fire, the tension in the camp eased, the familiar bonds of loyalty pulling them all closer once more.

“John Marston,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice through the cold mountain air. “What the hell were you thinkin’, runnin’ off into a snowstorm after what happened in Blackwater? D’you ever think, John? Or you just go and—"

“Abigail,” John groaned, shifting awkwardly as he eased down by the fire, “I’m fine. Just got a little turned around, is all.”

“Turned around,” she repeated, voice dripping with disbelief. Her hands went to her hips, her tone rising. “You went off half-cocked, tryin’ to prove somethin’ to God knows who, thinkin’ you’re invincible. Look at you! You’re bleedin’ all over the place. What if Arthur and Javier hadn’t found you? What then, John?”

John’s head dipped, his usual cocky grin faltering as he avoided her gaze. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “reckon I wasn’t exactly plannin’ on gettin’ lost out there.”

“You’re a damn fool, John Marston,” she said, softer now but no less frustrated, the worry in her voice unmistakable. “Reckless. And if you ever go runnin’ off again, don’t think I’ll be here to bandage you up after.”

Arthur, arms crossed and face set in a scowl, watched the scene unfold before finally muttering, “Hell, maybe he needs a good smack across the head, Abigail. Lord knows that thick skull of his could use it.”

John gave Arthur a wry look, though he made no effort to defend himself. The camp watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and exasperation, and the usual hum of activity slowly resumed.

But the respite was short-lived, as Dutch called a few of the men over, his voice low and serious. “Listen up,” he started, his gaze flickering around the group as they gathered. “We got a little business to tend to. Word’s come down that Colm O’Driscoll and his boys are holed up nearby. Now, this here is a chance to put an end to them. That bastard’s been gunnin’ for us long enough, and I won’t have our gang looking over our shoulders. Not anymore.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he took in Dutch’s words. He knew Dutch's code well enough—the man was always talking about keeping honor, not killing unless it was necessary. But this... this felt different. It wasn’t about survival, and it wasn’t about justice. It was about revenge, clear and simple.

Javier nodded, his hand resting on his pistol. “’Bout time we dealt with the O’Driscolls, Dutch. They’ve been breathin’ down our necks too long.”

“Exactly, Javier,” Dutch agreed, eyes gleaming. “It’s high time they learned their place. We’re headin’ out. Arthur, you’re with me, along with Javier, Micah, Bill, and Lenny.”

Arthur gave a small nod, but something about Dutch’s tone left him uneasy. “Dutch,” he said slowly, “you sure about this? Chasin’ down O’Driscolls for the sake of it don’t seem like our way.”

Dutch’s smile was tight, his gaze steely. “I ain’t chasin’ nothin’, Arthur. This is about protectin’ the family. And if we happen to come across a few opportunities along the way, well… that’s just fate handin’ us what’s ours.”

Micah smirked from the edge of the circle, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of excitement. “’Bout time we took the fight to those bastards. Show ’em they ain’t runnin’ things around here.”

Arthur’s face hardened, but he kept his mouth shut. It didn’t feel right, but he knew better than to question Dutch outright. Not now. The gang had taken enough of a beating in Blackwater, and the last thing they needed was more division.

They mounted up, the horses pawing at the ground as they set off into the frosty morning light. The silence was thick as they rode, each man lost in his thoughts as they neared the O’Driscolls’ camp. Snow blanketed the ground, the trees creaking under its weight, the quiet only broken by the occasional snort of a horse or the crunch of hooves in the snow.

As they neared the camp, Dutch raised a hand, signaling for them to slow down. The distant voices of O’Driscolls could be heard, muffled by the snow but unmistakable. The camp lay just ahead, its fires flickering weakly against the cold.

Dutch’s voice was low as he laid out the plan. “We go in quiet, take out who we can without drawin’ attention. If Colm’s there, he’s mine. This one’s personal.”

Arthur shot Dutch a glance, the unease gnawing at him again. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it as they moved forward, spreading out around the camp, slipping between trees and rocks, drawing their guns.

Arthur’s first shot rang out, piercing the cold silence, and all hell broke loose. The O’Driscolls scattered, some diving for cover, others reaching for their own weapons as the Van der Linde gang descended upon them. Arthur kept his head low, firing off shots with deadly accuracy, each bullet sending another O’Driscoll sprawling into the snow.

“Colm!” Dutch’s voice roared over the chaos, his gun trained on a shadow slipping through the trees. But as Colm turned, a mocking grin on his face, he raised a hand in a mocking salute before darting off, disappearing into the forest.

“Damn it, Dutch,” Arthur muttered, taking down another O’Driscoll, his eyes tracking Colm as he vanished. But Dutch didn’t pursue, standing still as gunfire erupted around him, a smirk on his lips.

“Let him go,” Dutch called to Arthur over the gunfire. “What fun would it be to steal his score if he wasn’t around to know we’d taken it?”

Arthur’s mouth twisted into a frown, frustration gnawing at him. This wasn’t about safety or even revenge—Dutch was playing games, taunting Colm for the thrill of it.

The fight continued, the snow stained with red as bodies fell, and soon enough, the O’Driscolls were either dead or scattered, fleeing into the trees. As Arthur reloaded, he spotted a figure crouched behind a rock, clutching a gun with shaking hands.

Arthur approached slowly, gun trained on the figure. “You. Stand up.”

The young man rose, hands raised, his face pale and smeared with dirt. He was barely more than a kid, eyes wide with terror. Arthur recognized him as Kieran Duffy, a name whispered among the O’Driscolls, mostly as a joke. Arthur’s gaze hardened, his grip on his gun steady.

But before he could say a word, Dutch appeared behind him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the young man. “An O’Driscoll?” he murmured, a smile creeping onto his face. “Well, ain’t this our lucky day.”

Arthur frowned, turning to Dutch. “What’re you plannin’ to do with him, Dutch? He’s one of them, and he’s seen us.”

Dutch’s gaze was calm, calculating. “We’ll take him back with us,” he said smoothly, his voice steady. “See what he knows. He might be useful.”

Arthur’s scowl deepened, his voice low. “Useful? He’s an O’Driscoll, Dutch. Ain’t no trustin’ him.”

Dutch shrugged, eyes glinting with a strange sort of curiosity as he watched Kieran. “Trust… that’s a rare thing in these times, Arthur. Let’s see if the boy knows anything worth keepin’ him alive.”

Kieran swallowed hard, glancing between the two of them, his face ashen. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dutch silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Save it, kid. You can start talkin’ once we’re back at camp.”

Arthur didn’t like it, but he followed Dutch’s lead, keeping Kieran in line as they made their way back. The other men cast wary glances at their prisoner, though Micah just sneered, clearly unimpressed.

Back at camp, Dutch questioned Kieran, and it didn’t take long for him to crack, spilling details about the O’Driscolls’ plans. He stammered out words about a big score, a train carrying Leviticus Cornwall’s money, a target so rich it could set up the gang for months.

Dutch’s eyes gleamed as he listened, his mind already turning over the possibilities. “A train owned by Leviticus Cornwall,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “Now that… that’s a real score.”

Arthur’s voice was hard as he cut in, “And you believe him?”

Dutch looked up, his smile fading just slightly. “I trust what I see, Arthur. And right now, I see an opportunity.”

Despite Arthur’s reservations, Dutch moved forward with the plan, gathering the gang and making preparations for the heist. They rode out, Kieran in tow, under the cover of night. As they neared the tracks, Dutch’s excitement was palpable, his gaze fixed on the horizon as they waited for the train to appear.

When it finally came barreling down the track, Dutch raised a hand, signaling to the gang. They charged forward, guns blazing as they closed in on the train, each man knowing his role by heart. Arthur leapt onto the carriages, his footsteps echoing against the clanking steel as he took down guards, his focus sharp as he worked his way to the front.

Inside, Dutch and a few others were already piling bags of cash and crates of goods into their saddlebags, the thrill of victory glinting in Dutch’s eyes. But as they unloaded, Arthur caught sight of a group of men watching from the nearby hills, dressed in the dark uniforms of Pinkertons.

“Dutch!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. “We got company!”

Dutch turned, his face darkening as he saw the Pinkertons advancing. “Everyone, move! We’re done here!” he bellowed, spurring his horse forward as the gang scattered, fleeing into the night with Pinkertons hot on their heels.

Back at camp, the gang barely had time to catch their breath before the realization set in. This wasn’t just a train robbery—it was a declaration of war. Leviticus Cornwall wasn’t the type to let a robbery slide, and Arthur knew it. Dutch knew it too, but there was no going back now.

As the days passed, Cornwall’s men kept closing in, Pinkertons tracking them at every turn. The sense of safety they’d once felt in the wilderness began to crumble, the walls closing in as the world grew smaller and more dangerous.

Dutch’s face grew harder, his once-steadfast confidence showing cracks as he realized they could only run for so long. “Times are changin’,” he murmured to Arthur one night by the fire, his gaze distant, hollow. “This country’s got no room left for folks like us.”

Arthur looked out over the camp, watching his friends move about in silence, each of them feeling the weight of Cornwall’s wrath. “Yeah, well… if that’s the case, Dutch, then maybe it’s time we stopped tryin’ to fight it and started findin’ a way out.”

But Dutch only shook his head, the fire casting dark shadows across his face. “We’ll find a way, Arthur. We always do. The dream’s still alive… we just gotta reach it.”

And as Arthur watched Dutch’s face, he felt a chill settle over him, a deep-seated dread that told him the dream was slipping further away, that the walls were closing in on all of them.

The dust swirled in thin clouds around Henry’s boots as he strode down the main street of Valentine, hunger gnawing at his stomach and his thoughts swirling heavy like storm clouds. He hadn’t been alone for this long in… well, he couldn’t even remember. The quiet that stretched around him felt like a weight, something eerie and unsettling that left him feeling raw and exposed.

He hadn’t seen a soul from the gang since they’d split to avoid the Pinkertons hot on their trail after the Cornwall robbery. They were scattered all over the territory, each on their own, trying to lay low and wait for the heat to cool. But days had passed, and with each one, the silence grew louder. He started to wonder if maybe… maybe they weren’t coming back for him. It was a bitter thought, one he tried to push aside, but it lingered, hanging over him like a shadow as he approached the little tavern near the edge of town.

The tavern was warm and filled with the rich smell of stew and old wood. The floor creaked beneath Henry’s boots as he stepped inside, glancing around at the patrons, who all seemed more interested in their drinks than the young man who’d just walked in. He made his way to a small, empty table near the back, his shoulders hunched as he tried to shake the unease settling deep in his gut.

When the barmaid came over, Henry gave her a polite nod. “A bowl of whatever you got on the stove,” he muttered, his voice quiet, “and a bottle of whiskey too, if you got it.”

She gave him a curious look, noting the dust and weariness clinging to him like a second skin, but said nothing as she bustled off to the back. Henry leaned forward, resting his arms on the rough wooden table, his eyes trailing over the bottles lining the bar and the quiet figures around him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown used to the gang’s noise, their constant chatter and laughter, the arguments and the stories told late around the fire. Now, the silence was like a blanket he couldn’t shake, and it was eating away at him, bit by bit.

When his stew arrived, Henry dug in, savoring the warmth of it, even if it was a little too salty and thin. The whiskey bottle clinked against the table as the barmaid set it down, and he poured himself a shot, watching the amber liquid swirl in the glass before throwing it back with a grimace. The burn was sharp, a comfort in the solitude. He poured another, and then another, the warmth spreading through him as he ate, the whiskey dulling the edges of his thoughts, making it easier to ignore the questions gnawing at him.

The warmth of the tavern had begun to seep into Henry’s bones, melting away some of the cold he'd carried since Blackwater, but it did little to lift the weight of his thoughts. He’d barely finished his stew when a voice—smooth, silky, and carrying a strange, almost amused drawl—drifted from beside him.

“Strange, ain’t it?” the voice murmured, gentle yet darkly knowing. “How folks chase after wealth like it’s the key to freedom, only to find it’s a shackle all its own.”

Startled, Henry looked up to see a man standing across from him. He was sharply dressed in a suit as black as midnight, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face, though his eyes glinted with a strange, unsettling light. The man slid into the seat across from Henry, folding his hands neatly on the table, and Henry noted the unnerving calm about him, as though the noise of the tavern and the world outside didn’t touch him at all.

“Not lookin’ for company,” Henry said slowly, feeling a chill prickle his spine, though he couldn’t quite say why.

“Oh, I’m sure,” the man replied, his voice rich and steady, curling around each word like smoke. “But maybe company’s lookin’ for you. Funny how these things tend to find us.” He smiled, his eyes narrowing, a glint of something deep and unknowable lurking there. “Fate’s a strange creature, wouldn’t you say?”

Henry’s gaze narrowed, feeling the subtle weight of the man’s words. “Depends what you mean by that. You just here to talk in circles?”

The man chuckled softly, a deep, rich sound that seemed to echo beyond the small tavern walls. “Not at all. I’d just hate to see you go barkin’ up the wrong tree. So many men got a mind for freedom but don’t realize they’re already on the leash, chasin’ fortunes that belong to somebody else.”

He paused, letting his words settle, his dark gaze fixed on Henry. “Some mighty powerful folks, Henry, don’t take kindly to their treasures being lifted by ghostly hands. Think on it: a boat, a storm, a heap of silver in the night. And now?” He tipped his head, his gaze gleaming with a strange, knowing look. “Now that same treasure’ll be a noose around a certain someone’s neck if they’re not careful.”

Henry stilled, a flash of dread passing through him as the stranger’s words took on an uncanny clarity. How did he know about the gang’s boat job? Henry hadn’t spoken a word of it, and he was certain no one in Valentine would have heard of it—not yet, at least.

Henry cleared his throat, leaning back with a guarded expression. “You talk a lot, but I’m guessin’ you don’t say much worth hearin’. Maybe it’s best you leave me to my drink, friend.”

The stranger’s smile remained, his eyes never wavering as he leaned forward, close enough that Henry could smell the faint scent of earth and cedar, though there was something colder underneath, a hint of something almost metallic. “Drink won’t fill the hole you’re runnin’ from, Henry,” he said softly, voice like a lullaby twisted into a warning. “Besides, the drink’s just a fog over what’s in front of you.”

Henry scoffed, trying to shake the man’s words from his mind. But the stranger’s gaze had him pinned, each word sinking in like iron sinking into water.

“If you want answers, if you’re tired of lookin’ over your shoulder, maybe try lookin’ at the horizon instead,” the man murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dark tone. “Not far from here. Caliban's Seat. Midnight. Might find some clarity there.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and curiosity wrestling in his mind. “Why the hell would I go out there at night? Ain’t nothin’ but cold and dark that time of day.”

The man’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with that unsettling familiarity. “Oh, it’s a dark road, Henry, no denyin’ that. But you never know who might be waitin’ at the end of it. Sometimes it takes a little darkness to see what’s real and what’s just a trick of the light.”

Henry’s grip tightened on his glass, and he felt the old instinct to tell the man off, to tell him he didn’t need riddles and cryptic messages. But something held him back, a strange prickle in his gut that told him the man’s words weren’t meant to mislead—they were leading him somewhere. Somewhere important.

“Midnight at Caliban's Seat,” Henry repeated, testing the words on his tongue. “And what am I meant to find?”

The man laughed softly, almost wistfully. “Sometimes it ain’t what you’re meant to find. Sometimes it’s what’s meant to find you.”

Without another word, the man rose, his gloved hands adjusting his hat as he tipped it ever so slightly to Henry. “Safe travels, Henry. You’ll need ‘em.”

And with that, he turned, his footsteps fading as he strode out of the tavern. The moment he crossed the threshold, it was as if he had never been there at all; the patrons continued their drinks, their card games, their conversation as though nothing had happened.

Henry sat there, staring at the door, the man’s words echoing in his mind. The unease settled deeper, coiling like smoke through his veins. What was the stranger after? How had he known his name, known about the train robbery, about… all of it? The questions nagged at him, relentless.

He finished his whiskey in one gulp, barely tasting it as he set the glass down and rose from the table. Whatever waited for him at Caliban's Seat, Henry wasn’t sure he wanted to face it. But that strange man’s warning had left its mark, a dark whisper stirring in his mind.

Henry pushed through the creaking doors of the tavern, pulling his coat tighter around him as he stepped out into the cold evening air. The sun was dipping low over Valentine, casting a bruised glow over the rooftops and leaving long shadows in the dirt-streaked streets. The strange man’s words swirled in his head, unsettling and vivid, lingering like a half-remembered dream that refused to fade.

He’d hardly registered the chill as he made his way down the street toward the general store, the man’s message whispering at the edges of his mind. Midnight at Caliban's Seat. Didn’t make a lick of sense, but somehow, it felt like it was calling him. He shook his head, trying to shrug off the thought as he pushed open the store door, bells jangling in the stillness.

Inside, he filled his basket slowly, gathering what little he needed: a box of bullets, a hunk of bread, and a tin of beans. His fingers hovered over a can of coffee for a moment, but he let it be. His appetite was gone. What he really needed was rest, but he had a feeling that would be as hard to come by as answers.

“Anything else for ya, son?” the shopkeeper asked, casting a glance at him over the rim of his spectacles.

“Nah, this’ll do,” Henry replied, tossing a couple of coins on the counter and gathering his things. He nodded a quick thanks, then stepped back out into the cool, fading light of Valentine’s evening.

As he made his way down the street, he noticed the tavern’s faint hum of conversation drifting into the morning air. For a moment, he almost considered going back in for another drink. But something held him back, a strange feeling that he’d had his fill for the morning.

Back in the tavern, the barmaid lingered by the bar, a worn rag in hand as she cleaned a glass, her eyes watching the door that Henry had left through. She let out a weary sigh, glancing toward the bartender.

“That boy,” she muttered, her voice tinged with a mixture of pity and exasperation, “I knew I shoulda thought twice ‘bout handin’ him that whiskey. Drank the whole bottle, and I swear he was sittin’ there talkin’ to nobody. Just mutterin’ to himself, goin’ on ‘bout some fool thing or another.”

The bartender raised a skeptical eyebrow, scratching at his beard as he looked toward the empty table Henry had left. “Saw it myself. Like he was in a trance, or haunted or somethin’. Lord knows what he’s been through, but I’ve seen that look before. Man lost in his own mind, talkin’ to shadows.”

The barmaid set the glass down, her gaze still on the door as she shook her head. “Poor lad. Whatever’s hauntin’ him, he oughta leave it behind. Ain’t nothin’ good down that road.”

The bartender shrugged, turning back to the bottles behind him. “Ain’t our worry. Man’s gotta face his own ghosts. Still… gave me a chill, it did. Don’t like seein’ folks lookin’ lost like that.” He gave a small, dry chuckle, his voice dipping to a whisper. “Place like this got enough haunts of its own.”

The barmaid crossed herself, muttering a quick prayer under her breath. She couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over her. The strange way the boy had looked, as if his eyes saw something beyond the walls of the tavern, as if he were walking somewhere they couldn’t follow.

As she turned away, she caught sight of something odd. There, in the shadowed corner where the boy had sat, the dust motes seemed to hang heavier, a faint, dark smudge marring the table’s wood. She frowned, wiping at it with her cloth, but the stain wouldn’t lift. She squinted at it, the dim candlelight casting a strange shadow over it, like the shape of a figure with eyes that gleamed even in the dark.

She shivered, pulling her hand back, and the feeling passed. Just a trick of the light, she told herself, trying to shake the cold that had settled in her bones.

Out on the road, Henry made his way through Valentine, the town falling behind him as he started his slow, winding journey toward Caliban's Seat.