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Dutch grunts as Micah swarms him- not entirely angry but just displeased. He sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead.
"You managed a lead yet, Mr. Bell? Or did I let you back in for nothin'?"
Micah only snorts, coming up behind his leader to drape himself over his back. He didn't touch, never did. "Christ.. 'Course I got a damn lead, always do. We'll get'chu that last score, Dutch."
The latter nods with a quiet drawl of approval, turning his head from where Micah leered over his shoulder.
He stared down at the snow-ridden boards, rottened with age. He saw Arthur, then. It felt like he always did now.
Hosea haunted him at first, then Annabel's voice came back in lonely nights, when he missed them both- missed the wisdom and stability they brought.
Then Arthur.
"He's a rat, Dutch."
Bloodied, weakened. Each word layered with harsh coughs as he tried to vomit them out, to reason with his father.
"You know it,"
He could still feel the revolver under his boot, still holding his own- mostly empty by that point. He'd used most of his bullets on his sons, trying to shoot them down as they rode from him.
"I know it."
He did, didn't he?
Always did.
"You hearin' me, Dutch?" Micah chuckled, hands now on Dutch's shoulders as if showing him off, holding him for an audience. “The money back in Blackwater, we gettin' it soon?”
"...F'course, son. I'll see to it.”