Archive of Our Own

Hosea, from across the quiet, lantern-lit camp, stared towards one Micah Bell.

It hadn't felt right, when Arthur, Micah, and Bill had stumbled back into camp dirty, bloodied, and missing one Sean MacGuire.

Sean was dead, and Hosea was sure he knew who was to blame.

You see, days ago, Micah had wandered out of camp for something-or-other, and come back, with a bit of a wide-eyed and distant look, like for once in his miserable life, he'd been scared. Though, as per usual, he told nobody since nobody liked talking to him, and Hosea didn't pry since he hadn't seen a reason to at the moment.

Then, when Sadie had returned from a short hunting trip out only a few hours later, she'd mentioned a bunch of Grays out some ways from town. No trouble, it seemed, but still odd.

And finally, when the three had returned and recounted the events and how empty and silent the town had been before the guns started firing and before they had to bury Sean, it'd clicked in his mind.

Micah was always the kind of person to sell them out to save his own skin.

When he'd realized, something he'd thought had long been put to rest by Arthur and Dutch and most of all Bessie had woken up and reared its ugly head.

The selfish desire for self-preservation above all else, stemming from a fully selfish man.

Then surging after that, violent, brutal hatred. He'd tried for years to be the bigger person, take only what he needed from the stupid and the rich, kill only when necessary, con and lie and keep tensions calm. To only raise his voice when someone only listened to yelling, and express anger only when someone deserved disappointment.

The man he'd been years ago, before all that, woke up, raised his ugly head, and was furious.

Though, it wasn't just a desire to keep himself alive alone, not this time. When the O'Driscolls suggested reconciliation, Micah was the one to agree and egg Dutch on with the whole idea. When it obviously and inevitably turned out to be a trap, Micah had been the one to assure Dutch that Arthur was "probably fine" and they'd reconvene at camp later.

(It wasn't. Arthur stumbled back nearly a full day later, half-dead and actively bleeding out. Dutch had almost broken out of the snake-venom stupor for a moment, then.)

To save his own skin, he'd sacrificed Sean, and tried to sacrifice Arthur, Hosea's own son. Not to mention a hundred other near-sacrifices, close calls for his own gain.

Hosea reached for an old worn knife at his belt, and memories of sunlight and mountains and a hundred hunting and fishing trips leapt into his mind. The three people he'd seen and changed for, and the fourth that made him vow in his own mind to never go back to treating killing like a game. The leader he'd follow to the end of the world and devote his life to, his love who'd shown him kindness and gentleness was real on this earth, and the two men he'd raised the best he could as his own sons.

He had to act now, but couldn't tell Dutch. He'd spent years around the man, and with how unstable he was, the combination of the fact that Hosea had killed Micah and the sudden knowledge Micah was a rat (or willing to be) could break him, make him irrational and impulsive and act dangerously for weeks. Not now. Not with everyone who wanted them all dead.

He would have waited, but Micah was wising up. Hosea had kept a close eye on him, waiting for the right time, filled with quiet, seething hatred. He was on edge. Now, with Micah's back turned at the edge of camp and a bottle of alcohol in hand, was the time to act.

No hesitation. No remorse. No mourning, no grief for this snake who'd nested in camp.

He didn't deserve it.

Hosea pulled the old hunting knife from his belt and silver metal glinted in the lanternlight.

---

That same night, Hosea had buried the snake. Not deep, his old bones didn't have enough life in them for that. Not too far, either, but far enough, and tucked in the woods, too far for a casual wander and too close to be worth exploring.

People didn't ask questions. He hadn't been gone long and most camp members had times they'd vanished without a trace for a few days. He'd turn up, or news of him would.

But, wild animals didn't like leaving fresh meat buried.

An eye, a bit of a skull, a chunk of scalp had been found days later.

Hosea returned to camp to hear screaming.

Nobody was moving.

"Was it YOU, our lovely, BELOVED Abigail? Or you, John? You know, I put time, and effort, and trust into you, and you go and murder ONE OF OUR OWN? I knew you two were snakes, knew it, the BOTH OF YOU!" Dutch screamed, gesturing, stepping closer and away from the scattered semicircle around him, pacing with fervor and energy.

He had a wild look in his eyes.

This was very, very bad.

Dutch was quiet, breathing heavily from the screaming tirade "interrogation" he'd been on. Evidently he'd been yelling for a while now based on the way his voice was cracking.

Nobody moved.

They'd all grown up as, and were here, because they'd learned how to sense danger directly from growing up around dangerous people. Hosea's own heart which had been weak for decades with his slowly rotting lungs was beating rapidly. He felt like a scared, small animal in the presence of a panther.

Dutch slowly turned to Arthur.

Fresh meat.

"No- no... it was you. It had to be you. You never liked Micah, did you?"

"Dutch, hold on-" Arthur started, but was interrupted before he could make a case.

"When Micah was in jail in Strawberry, about to be hung, you bitched and whined about saving his life. He would'a done it for you. Was the grudge from that incident with the O'Driscolls too much? Was that what made you decide to get rid of him? He didn't know, you bastard, WE would'a done the same for YOU-"

Arthur took a small, fearful step back. He'd never seen Dutch this bad, this angry, this loud and bordering on violent, not even after the days directly after Blackwater with people constantly hunting them down, the worst fear many of them had ever experienced.

Arthur's leg wobbled a little bit as he shifted his weight backwards. It was still injured. It'd been nearly broken when he'd returned from being tortured by the O'Driscolls, and still was weak and gave him pain.

Even after Arthur hadn't returned for over a day, Dutch hadn't even said anything about him being missing to the rest of the gang.

Something very small but very vital in Hosea's heart shattered.

He'd believed from years of experience and living with and being his right-hand man, being Dutch's own steady rock and rational voice, that Dutch's little bouts of paranoia and impulsiveness and high emotions would always get better after a while and things could go back to normal. Sure, across the years it'd caused some problems, but all in all Dutch had been a good leader, evened out by his rational behavior and amazing judgement in good times that'd brought them moments of true prosperity and freedom.

That belief broke entirely upon the rocks.

It was a hard thing, having the trust you'd devoted a large portion of your entire life to break in a moment. Everything he knew about Dutch and the past few decades collapsed like a house of cards. Perhaps he could have figured out if some ideas that'd been wrapped up together were true- if the love and care he'd put into this odd little couple was worth it, if it'd all been for nothing, if he should have ever let himself be the bigger person. Instantly, without much effort from any party, he didn't know if those happy memories he'd held so closely could even be trusted. Before anyone could blink, he wasn't sure anymore if at heart, Dutch was a good person, 

He didn't have the time to pick up those pieces and reconcile, though.

Dutch was reaching for his hip.

Arthur didn't see. His eyes were wide and staring into the eyes of his father.

Hosea had always been quicker to the draw.

The gunshot was louder than anything he'd ever heard.

He almost didn't hear it through the ringing in his ears, almost didn't see it from the sun in his eyes.

Thud.

Now, the entirety of camp was silent from fear and shock.

Hosea stepped up.

He couldn't hesitate. Couldn't let them come to their conclusions before he made his case.

The gun in his hand was still smoking.

"I was the one who killed Micah," He began.

Dutch's body sat, still, red blood pouring into the red dirt.

"He was a traitor to us all. He ratted us out to the Grays, and now Sean is dead."

Bodies cooled in the air quickly, but it was still humid and hot from the southern sun. Maybe if he grabbed Dutch's hand quickly enough he could feel some of that warmth before it was gone forever.

"Dutch wasn't going to get better, and I think we all know it now. If I hadn't acted, Arthur would be the one dead now. He would've led us all to our deaths."

He didn't know how he was speaking so calmly, loudly, with such a measured tone. Was this how Dutch felt, addressing the gang after every tragedy that'd visited their metaphorical doors?

"But even still, he deserves a proper burial. He tried his best for us all for years, even if in a crisis he wasn't the right man to really lead us. He was too emotional, too much of a dreamer. He was a father, a guide, a teacher, and he was seduced by a liar when he was grieving all our losses after Blackwater. He didn't listen to my warnings about Micah. It wasn't going to get better."

Was he really addressing the gang at this point? Perhaps he was just trying to assure himself.

His voice nearly broke as he said, "We'll need to figure out where to bury him."

Murmurs started up. Quietly, the beginnings of movement and breaking free of the shock of seeing someone they almost thought to be immortal die in front of them.

Hosea continued to stand, now silent, and holstered his gun. The pool of blood had flowed further and was touching the corner of his boot.

A little part of him felt like his clothes would never be clean again.

Maybe he could've stopped this if he'd just told Dutch.

(That was a lie. He would've gotten worse, still. The snake's venom was still in him.)

He didn't have time to dwell on if he was right or wrong, what could've been different, what he could've changed. Blood was blood. Dutch was dead. Simple truths.

Though, despite himself, despite his insistence, he remembered Bessie again.

She knew she was- you know, up. And he'd only partially joked both before and after she'd passed away how he wouldn't see her again when they were both dead and gone.

He was sure of it now.

Cocytus, the last circle of hell, an icy wasteland, was reserved for traitors.

Maybe he'd meet Micah there. Or, maybe his soul was so rotten it had never existed in the first place.

He thought back to how it felt like the beginning of the end started with Colter, an icy wasteland in the mountains.

Memories, thoughts, grief, all washed over him in paralyzing waves.

The game was over. The playful conman had to have his turn to sleep. He'd keep working to do what he had all these months- getting people out before the government caught up and the game was really over, no matter how many bodies stopping it took.

He just had to bury Dutch first.