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The night closed in around him like an unsaid prayer, heavy and unrelenting. Dutch stood at the hills edge, shoulders bowed under the weight of names he dared not speak. The dry forest of Roanoke Ridge loomed ahead, the air thick with the stench of pressure and failure. His hat rested in his trembling hands, fingers clenched tight, eyes fixed on the darkness between the trees, where silence pulsed like a hymn too sacred to be sung.
"We're gonna make it out of this," Dutch muttered, the air feeling far too hollow. "I swear of it."
A voice answered him, low, calm, carrying the weight of years. "You always swear, Dutch."
Dutch looked over his shoulder and half-frowned. Hosea stood there, arms crossed, eyes - brown as Earth after heavy rain - on his, just like he always did when Dutch needed sobering.
"Don't do that," Dutch said quietly. "Don't talk like I've already lost... like we've already lost."
Hosea didn't answer. Just gave him that look, the one that knew him better than any God ever could.
"Lenny's dead," Dutch breathed out, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "John's behind bars, Molly talked. And you..." He stopped.
"I'm here."
Dutch nodded, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips, his eyes trained on Hosea's lighter ones. "'Course you are. Always are, old girl." Hushed, words rough with stress, yet warm with something left unsaid.
A pause. Only the sound of wind and chirps. "Its a mess, Dutch." Hosea murmured. "Look at all of us." Dutch didn't answer that. He just stared down into the trees, thoughts and voices loud in his mind.
The whole bank robbery had been a disaster - a cruel deception from the start. Young Lenny, poor soul, struck down before his life had even started, John taken by the Pinkertons, bound for the gallows. They'd have never made it out of that bank if it weren't for Hosea, like a beacon of salvation amid the ruin, a guiding hand in the tempest. Oh, Hosea... may the heavens know what this world never could.
They rest of the gang wouldn't have have made it out of Shady Belle if it weren’t for Sadie, brave, relentless, and suddenly the backbone of what little was left. While the others were stranded on that godforsaken island, Guarma, fighting for their lives under a burning sun, Sadie held down the fort, patching wounds and keeping hope alive. Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, scarred, sunburnt, and barely holding together, eventually returned. But it was Sadie who kept them from losing everything.
And just when they thought things couldn't possibly sink any lower, Bill came trudging back into the new camp with Molly in tow. She was drunk, slurring her words, eyes glassy with defiance and liquor as she confessed to betraying the gang. Dutch was livid, might've shot her himself if Susan hadn't beaten him to it. How dare she? After everything he had done for her?
Dutch closed his eyes at the whisper of a hand on his shoulder, so light it might've been a memory. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, but his body eased, the familiar touch coaxing a quiet sigh from his lips.
"They need you, Dutch. Keep your head on straight."
Hosea's voice, low and steady, was meant for him alone, soft as prayer, sure as truth. And Dutch, for just a moment, leaned into the anchor he'd always found in him.
"Dutch." Another voice called out, familiar, though less welcome. It lacked the rough warmth of Hosea's, the kind that lingered like the hand on his shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes settling on Micah just as Hosea's touch slipped away, leaving him feeling strangely empty. "What're we doin', boss? Heats on us."
Dutch's jaw tightened. His hand rose to rub at the stubble there, slow and weary. "I know," he muttered. "Just let me think, for Christ sake." The words came low, not angry, just frayed at the edges, heavy with the weight of it all.
Micah raised a hand in mock surrender, his eyes never straying from Dutch's coffee-colored gaze as he took a slow step forward. "You alright out here? Can't be easy... with everything goin' on."
"I'm just fine," Dutch muttered, his voice low, distant. His eyes drifted back to the trees beyond the hill, fingers resting at his jaw as if bracing himself against thought.
Hosea said nothing, his sharp eyes fixed on the greasy-haired blonde. That glare, cold and unwavering, was one he never could hide when it came to Micah Bell.
"Course you are," Micah drawled, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He kept his eyes on Dutch, studying every line of his face, every flicker behind those tired eyes. "We'll get through this, Dutch. You're not the kinda man folks forget how to follow."
Dutch straightens ever so slightly at the words, chest lifting as if the weight on his shoulders lightens for just a moment. "We'll all be fine," he drawls, voice rich with conviction. "One more score, and we'll be gone with the wind, my boy." His gaze settles on Micah as he raises a hand, resting it on the man's shoulder in a show of reassurance.
Micah's smirk stretches wider at the gesture. "Oh, I know," he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make it feel deliberate. "It ain't me you gotta convince, Dutch. It's them." His voice lowers, snake-slick. "They're losin' their backbone... if they ever had one to begin with."
Dutch let out a soft scoff, hand slipping from Micah's shoulder. He planted both hands on his hips, gaze drifting back to the trees like they held answers he couldn't find in men.
"We oughta cut the weak ones loose," Micah murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips. "They can't handle what's coming."
"Ain't happenin'," Dutch spoke firmly, voice steady and cold. His eyes snapped back to Micah, face carved in stone, just like it was most days now.
Micah raised both hands in mock surrender, stepping back with a slow nod. "Have it your way, boss. You always know best." His tone was smooth, easy - too easy. The words sank into Dutch like morphine, numbing doubt and stoking pride. Dutch exhaled, long and low, almost without realizing it.
The sound of hooves thudding against the dirt, paired with a burst of familiar voices, snapped Dutch from his thoughts. Abigail’s voice rang out first, high, breathless, filled with unmistakable relief. Then came another voice, rougher, deeper. John. His jaw tensed.
From his perch on the hill, he cast a glance toward Micah, his expression hardened, a silent conversation between them. Without a word, Dutch turned on his heel and stormed, boots crunching through the dry dirt as he made his way back toward the heart of camp.
Both Micah and Hosea followed closely behind - one with the sharp, calculating gaze of a predator, cold and watchful; the other with eyes gentler, worn by time and heavy with unspoken truths.
And that’s when he saw them. Abigail, arms wrapped tight around a familiar figure clad in stark black and white stripes, mud-stained, torn in places, but unmistakably a prison uniform. John stood there, holding her like a man who’d crawled out of the grave. And maybe he had.
Dutch came to a stop, staring at the man like he were a ghost. “John,” he called out, voice low and cold, slicing through the camp's sudden hush. “Just what are you doin’ here?” His tone wasn’t welcoming. His face was stone. There was no joy in the return of a lost son, only questions, sharp-edged and waiting.
John gently pulled away from Abigail’s embrace, his expression shifting, hardening, as he took a few measured steps toward Dutch. His arms spread slightly in a mocking, bitter display of welcome. “Well,” he rasped, voice hoarse from weeks of confinement and God knows what else, more rasped than usual, “good to see you too, partner.”
Dutch didn’t flinch, but the cold in his eyes sharpened, turning glacial. His shoulders squared, chest rising with a slow, deliberate breath as he stepped forward, boots silent but heavy on the dirt beneath him. One hand hovered near his belt, the other curling loosely at his side, fingers twitching with restrained agitation.
His jaw tightened, muscle ticking beneath his beard. When he finally spoke, his voice came low and deliberate, each word heavy with warning. “I meant,” he said, gaze never leaving John’s, “I hadn’t sent for you yet.”
“I went,” Arthur’s voice cut in, steady as he stepped forward from behind John. His boots crunched softly against the earth, each step slow but certain. His eyes, once trusting, even admiring, now held something else entirely. A flicker of suspicion. A quiet challenge. The kind of look he rarely, if ever, directed at Dutch.
Dutch turned toward him, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible. Almost. But it was there. The hard lines of his face carved deeper, his jaw clenching so tight it looked like it might crack. His eyes narrowed into slits, dark and cold. “But I said that-”
“Yeah,” Arthur interrupted, calm on the surface, but there was an edge there, low and simmering, threaded with something dangerously close to defiance. “I know what you said. I felt different.”
A beat of silence.
Dutch’s glare sharpened, his fingers twitching at his sides as if itching to act, to seize control of the moment slipping from his grip. “Is that… so?” he muttered, voice low and frostbitten, barely more than a growl.
Arthur finally stepped forward, closing the last bit of space between them until he stood directly in front of Dutch. His shoulders squared, his chin lifted, not in open aggression, but with the quiet rebellion of a man who had made peace with the cost of speaking his mind, with the actions of saving a loved one.Their eyes locked, neither blinking, neither backing down. The tension between them crackled like a storm waiting to break, years of loyalty, brotherhood, and unspoken doubts all pressing heavy in the still air between them.
When Arthur finally spoke, his voice came low and even. Calm. But there was no mistaking the undertone, the weight of betrayal, the sharp edge of disillusionment. “Yes.” The word hit harder than a shout might’ve. A final nail in some invisible coffin neither of them dared name just yet.
Dutch didn’t move, but the flicker in his eyes was unmistakable, something shifting, something unraveling.
Micah lingered just behind Dutch, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a sly smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His narrowed eyes flicked between John and Arthur, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey, a silent taunt aimed at them both. He didn’t speak, but the satisfaction in his posture said enough; he was enjoying every second of this fracture.
Dutch, however, wasn’t smiling.
Hosea wasn’t spared either. He stood off to the side, arms loosely crossed, a deep frown etched into his weathered face. His brows were drawn tight, not just in disappointment, but in something quieter, a kind of weary, aching hurt that settled behind his eyes like an old wound reopened. Disappointment not aimed at Arthur, nor John.
Dutch took a step forward, arms outstretched in a grand, sweeping gesture, the kind he reserved for sermons and accusations alike. But this time, there was no fire, only disappointment. Heavy, thick, and suffocating. His gaze locked on Arthur, searching for something in the man’s face, remorse, doubt, anything to tell him he hadn’t truly lost him.
“And when springin’ John brings the law down on all of us…” Dutch’s voice cracked through the tension like a whip, slow and deliberate, “what then, Arthur?” His arms dropped slowly to his sides, fingers curling into fists. He stared at the man he once called son, eyes dark with betrayal. The hurt beneath the surface was barely concealed, raw and twisting, as if Arthur’s defiance had carved into something deep.
Did Arthur not believe in him anymore? Was there truly no faith left? Had loyalty come to mean so little to the man he once trusted like a son, that he’d go behind his back without a second thought?
“Well,” Arthur growled, his voice low, edged with a coldness he didn’t bother to mask, “then I guess we’ll have another fight on our hands.” The words hung heavy in the air, heavier than a threat, more like a grim acknowledgment. His red-rimmed gaze stayed locked on Dutch, narrowed with something between disbelief and bitter clarity, as if he couldn’t quite believe the man standing before him was the same one he’d once followed without question.
Dutch let out a quiet, bitter scoff, the sound barely more than a breath through his nose. His eyes dropped to the ground, as if searching for the right words in the dirt beneath his boots. He shook his head slowly, brows drawn tight in something between anger and heartbreak. “Loyalty, Arthur, it ain’t…” The words faltered on his tongue, the sentence left unfinished, crumbling under the weight of all that had gone unsaid.
His eyes lifted again, meeting Arthur’s pale, unflinching stare. “I had a goddamn plan!” he snapped, the last word cracking from his throat, loud, raw, and furious, like something inside him had finally broken.
All Abigail, John, and Arthur stare at Dutch like they hardly recognize him. Like he was the problem. How dare they?
A low, gravelly sigh escaped Dutch’s lips, his eyes locking onto John’s as he remained stood between Arthur and Abigail. His voice came quiet, heavy with emotion, yet unflinching. “John...” he said, slow and deliberate. “John. You are my brother. You are my son. I was coming for you.” His gaze burned, sharp and intense, a flicker of something unspoken igniting behind his dark eyes.
John shook his head, jaw clenched, his entire frame taut like a drawn bow. A bitter exhale left him as he muttered, “They... they was talkin’ of hangin’ me, Dutch.” His arm shot out instinctively, barring Abigail with a protective gesture just as she looked ready to charge forward and lay into Dutch herself, fury written all over her face.
Micah practically hissed, his eyes sharp slits of disdain as he glared at the three across from him, still rooted loyally by Dutch’s side like a shadow that refused to leave. At least someone still held loyalty.
“They was talking,” Dutch growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word seething with betrayal. His gaze swept over them like a blade. “They. Was. Talking.”
The words came slow, deliberate - carved from fury, soaked in disbelief. "And they may come and hang us all." He retreated, step by measured step, eyes never leaving them. A wall was building, one of mistrust and resentment, brick by bitter brick.
Micah followed, head shaking with contempt, a sneer curling his lip, not just disappointed, but disgusted.
Dutch stormed back toward his tent, boots thudding against the earth with every furious step, Micah trailing close behind like a loyal dog with teeth bared. “Where’s the goddamn loyalty…” Dutch muttered under his breath, voice tight with venom. A harsh exhale flared from his nostrils as he shoved open the tent flaps, the canvas whipping aside with the force of his anger.
He sank into his chair heavily, the wood creaking beneath him as he rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, fingers dragging through the bristle like he could scrape the frustration off his skin. His brows were knit deep, jaw clenched so tight it looked liable to crack.
Micah stood over him, arms spread slightly as his hands rested on his belt, eyes sharp and glinting. “They’re gettin’ outta hand, Dutch,” he said, voice low and oily. “Goes to show just how much they really believe in you, don’t it?”
He was right. Micah was right. Of course he was.
How dare Arthur? After everything Dutch had done for him - all the years spent raising him like a son - and now he goes behind his back without a second thought?
And look at Micah. Barely been here a year, and yet he stood by Dutch without question. Fiercely. Faithfully. More loyal than John and Arthur combined.
He was right.
Of course he is.
Dutch locked eyes with Micah, his expression carved from stone, the fury still simmering hot beneath the surface. His hand moved to his jaw, fingers digging into the tight muscle there as if trying to hold himself together. “I know, son,” he muttered, voice low and strained. “I... I need to think.”
Micah raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a slow, knowing nod following as he began to back away, step by careful step. “Fine by me, boss,” he drawled, voice slick with satisfaction. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be waitin’.” The words slithered through the tent like smoke before he slipped out through the flaps, leaving Dutch alone with the weight of betrayal and the whisper of doubt.
Yet, a softer voice slipped through the heavy silence like a breeze through canvas, gentle, but impossible to ignore. Dutch didn’t open his eyes. He simply pressed his fingers to his brow, rubbing slow, agitated circles into his forehead, his brows drawn tight in thought and turmoil.
“You did want him back… didn’t you?” Hosea, voice quiet, worn at the edges, like a candle burning low in a dark tunnel. Concern flickered beneath the calm, a voice full of care, of history, of knowing far too much.
Dutch’s eyes snapped open, finding Hosea’s with a sharpness that cut. They narrowed. “Of course I did, Hosea,” he bit out, his voice suddenly cold, clipped, almost insulted. “He’s my son.” A beat, jaw tightening. “He’s our son.” The words cracked like ice beneath strain, defensive, raw, and far too loud for something so deeply personal.
A heavy sigh slipped from Hosea’s lips as he stepped out from the shadowed corner of the tent, the faint lantern light casting tired lines across his face. He shook his head slowly, like he was carrying the weight of the entire gang on his shoulders. “I know,” he whispered, voice brittle with age and heartache. He eased himself into the chair opposite Dutch at the small, battered table, the wood creaking under him like it, too, was worn thin.
Dutch’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and glinting beneath a storm of frustration. “I had a plan, Hosea,” he ground out through clenched teeth, voice low but trembling with fury. “I had a plan.” His jaw tensed, hand curling into a fist on the table. “Now the law’ll come for us all. I wasn’t gonna let him swing. I wasn’t.”
Hosea held his gaze, but the softness had drained from his eyes. His reply came cold, clipped, and cutting. “And what if you left it too late, Dutch? What then?” The words hit hard, harder than Dutch expected. Harsher than Hosea usually allowed himself to be.
Dutch’s face hardened even further, if such a thing was still possible. His shoulders squared, and he leaned in slightly, the lantern light catching the sharp angles of his face. “He wouldn’t have,” he growled, voice low and strained, pulsing with fury. “I don’t need any more doubters, Hosea. I’m sick to death of all of you doubtin’ me.” The words tore from him, jagged and raw, worn from too many battles fought on too many fronts.
Then, just as quickly, he leaned back in his chair, the fight seeming to drain from his limbs all at once. A long, exhausted sigh escaped him. “I need to rest.”
Hosea rose slowly from his chair, eyes narrowing to slits as he looked down at the man he’d once called brother, once trusted like blood, like something much more complicated than blood. “You get your rest, Dutch,” he said, voice low and bitter, every word laced with quiet fury. “While you still can.” He paused, letting the silence hang like a noose before spitting the final words. “Look at us. A goddamn mess.”
Then he turned and strode toward the flaps of the tent. The canvas whipped open with the gust of a cold wind, flapping violently as he disappeared outside, leaving Dutch alone with the shadows he no longer recognized.
-----
Nightmares. Every night.
Dutch had always been haunted by them, but since Guarma, they came like a curse; unrelenting, merciless. Sleep no longer offered rest, only a descent into chaos. He’d toss and twitch beneath his blankets, fists clenching at ghosts, a low grunt escaping his throat as if fending off something only he could see.
The memories played on a loop, like reels at the pictures, disjointed and grainy, yet unbearably sharp. Voices, warped and distant, echoed through his skull: cries, accusations, whispers that clawed into roars. Faces bled together in the haze, some blurred beyond recognition, others so clear they felt etched into his vision, even behind closed eyes.
Always ended the same. A sudden lurch, his body jerking awake like it had been thrown, lungs burning as though he’d been drowning. Eyes flying open, wide and wild, already full of fear before consciousness had even returned. For a moment, he didn’t know if he was still dreaming. Or if the real nightmare was the waking world itself.
He stepped out of the tent into the harsh stillness of Beaver Hollow, the camp as empty and lifeless as it always seemed to be. There was something cold about this place, something that clung to the bones and made the air feel too still, too quiet. It wasn’t just the chill of morning; it was something deeper. Wrong. The kind of wrong that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, made his gut twist without reason.
The sky was still smeared with the last traces of night, pale light bleeding slowly through the trees. Most were still asleep, or gone, off wandering into the woods or into town, anywhere but here. Anywhere to escape this godforsaken hole they’d tried to make a home.
He settled into a weather-worn chair beside a crooked little table, two coffee cups cradled in his hands. The tin was hot enough to sting, but he ignored the burn as he set them down with deliberate care. Steam curled from their rims into the cold morning air, disappearing like everything else around here seemed to.
“Mornin’,” Hosea greeted - if it could even be called that. His voice came low and heavy, soaked in exhaustion and something quieter, sadder. He eased into the chair across from Dutch, eyes fixed steadily on him. “Miserable place, ain’t it?” he drawled, his gaze drifting to the dried blood near the cave’s mouth, dark stains still etched into the earth like a wound that refused to heal, stained from the poor souls that the Murfee Brood slayed.
Dutch took a slow sip of his coffee, the bitter heat catching in his throat. He leaned back in his chair, spine stiff, eyes scanning the hollow before settling once more. The cup clinked softly as he set it down, swallowing the burn like it might rid him of the bitterness clinging to everything lately. “Ain’t permanent,” he muttered, voice flat but insistent. “Like I said; we’ll be outta here soon. Someplace new. Warm sun on our backs. Virgin land, untouched. Free.”
Hosea’s eyes returned to him, sharp beneath the weariness. “With everyone?” he asked quietly, though it wasn’t really a question. His voice was laced with suspicion, almost disappointment. “Or just the ones you still see fit to follow you?”
The words hung in the air like smoke, curling between them, heavy with accusation, too soft to shout, but far too loud to ignore.
Dutch let out a long, weary sigh, his hand dragging across the side of his head as though trying to rub the ache right out of his skull. His face was set in stone, eyes squeezed shut, the weight of it all pressing down hard. “Don’t start, Hosea. Not now,” he muttered, voice low, frayed, worn thin from too many sleepless nights and too many ghosts whispering in his ear. The fight in him sounded tired. Not gone, just weary.
When his eyes finally opened, they fell on the untouched cup sitting in front of Hosea. He gestured toward it, a hollow attempt at normalcy. “Your coffee’s gettin’ cold.”
Hosea didn’t look away. “Everything’s gettin’ cold.” The words settled like frost between them, quiet, bleak, and too true.
Dutch’s jaw tensed, a flicker of something softer breaking through the cracks in his hardened expression. Slowly, he reached across the table, his hand resting on top of Hosea’s. The gesture was familiar, but the warmth that used to live in it was gone. It felt more like memory than comfort. “Have faith in me, Hosea,” Dutch said, his voice low, barely more than a breath. There was gentleness in it - thin and trembling - but the conviction still burned beneath. “We will make it outta this mess.”
The promise hung in the cold air like a prayer, half hope, half desperation, spoken by a man still trying to believe his own words. Hosea's eyes remain on Dutch's, mouth closed, no words.
A faint sound pulled Dutch from the mire of his thoughts, snapping the stillness as his hand slipped from Hosea’s. He turned his head, eyes narrowing against the pale light of morning, catching a flicker of movement across the clearing.
Arthur was awake now, sitting up slowly in the golden hush of dawn, the breath of cool air brushing past him. His gaze was already fixed on Dutch and Hosea, shadowed with quiet tension. A subtle furrow creased his brow, as if trying to make sense of something left unspoken.
They watched as Arthur approached, slow and heavy-footed, the morning chill clinging to his coat. He brought his sleeve to his mouth, coughing into the worn fabric, before stepping up to the table. He lingered there, eyes cast downward, until they finally lifted to meet Dutch’s; tired blue meeting coffee-dark.
“Colm’s waitin’ to be hanged. Again,” Arthur muttered, voice rough, eyes narrowing faintly as he spoke. “Sadie says so, anyway.” He rubbed absently at the stubble on his jaw, the other hand bracing firm against the edge of the table.
Dutch let out a low scoff, the kind that lingered somewhere between amusement and disdain. He lifted his tin cup, taking a slow sip before speaking, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the fire.
“Well,” he drawled, voice smooth as smoke, “we’ll see to it out dear old friends hangin’ takes proper this time… once and for all.” His tone sharpened just slightly at the end, like the strike of a match. He nodded to himself, slow and deliberate, as if setting the weight of the moment into stone, casting a glance over at Hosea. “That’ll be one snake cut from the grass. One problem buried, good and deep.”
“We're flooded with problems, Dutch,” Arthur muttered, voice gravelled and low, the edge in it sharpened by weariness. His eyes, shadowed beneath furrowed brows, fixed hard on Dutch, searching, accusing, desperate for clarity.
Dutch let out a breath, more a sigh than a scoff, arms spreading slightly as if to offer something intangible. His hand gestured subtly toward Hosea, fingers loose and open. “He…” Dutch began, his voice soft and slow, heavy with meaning. “He holds back the flood. Always has.” The words rolled out like scripture, half-reverent, half-resigned. A faint smile tugged at his lips, not warmth, but memory. His gaze didn’t leave Hosea’s, those eyes a shade gentler than his own, weathered by the years.
Arthur shook his head, jaw tightening as his frown deepened. “Christ, Dutch,” he muttered, barely restraining the frustration building beneath his skin. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Hosea,” Dutch murmured, the name lingering on his tongue like something sacred. “He… he’s no angel, but God knows he’s the closest thing I’ve got.” The words came slow, deliberate, drawn from someplace deeper. His gaze stayed locked on Hosea’s seat. His brows creased into a thoughtful frown, but the faintest trace of a smile lingered on his lips, wistful.
Arthur’s shoulders stiffened. He shook his head again, slower this time, eyes fixed on Dutch with a look that cut deeper than frustration, something older. Something sad.
“Dutch,” he said quietly, voice rough with the weight of it. “You… y’know he ain't there, right?” His tone was careful, like he didn’t want to shatter something already cracking, softer than it had been recently. Just a bit.
Dutch didn’t respond for a long, heavy moment. He simply sat there, swallowed by silence, his gaze fixed on the ghost that lingered deep within, etched into his soul, carved into his heart, haunting his mind, whispering through his ears, trembling in his hands. That presence remained. After everything, against every loss, he remains.
A slow, reluctant nod followed, his brows knitting together as a tightness crept through his jaw. His chest rose and fell with a ragged rhythm, heart hammering like a trapped bird beneath his ribs. His soul seemed to coil inward, clenched by a pain too raw, too vast for words, an ache that twisted and gnawed at every fiber of his being.
Then, with a voice rough and brittle as old leather, Dutch finally broke the stillness: "Maybe… but some ghosts don’t ever leave, no matter how hard you try to forget."
Silence settled over the camp once more, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the slow, unsteady breath that escaped Arthur’s lips. The morning air hung thick with memory.
Dutch’s eyes never strayed from that one spot, that chair. The one Hosea should’ve been sitting in, flesh and blood. Still. Steady. Watching over them all with that quiet, knowing look he always wore. But it sat empty, untouched, and yet it felt fuller than anything else around them.
Now, all that remained was the hollow ache of his absence… and the man who kept staring like he was still there.
Maybe they wouldn’t even be here, not like this, if Hosea had still been standing beside him. Maybe things might’ve worked out, could’ve worked out. Guiding them through the dark, even when Dutch thought he knew the way. He is their Shepherd, after all.