C3

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.