C4

The road out to Caliban's Seat stretched before Henry like a winding ribbon of dusk and dust, the light clinging to the horizon as he rode in quiet, the chill air biting at his face. The stranger's words kept looping in his mind, twisting around his thoughts, though he couldn't make heads or tails of what to expect once he got there. It could be nothing—or it could be everything. He'd learned by now that things tended to sit somewhere between the two out here.

As he rounded a bend, he spotted something odd up ahead. Two figures stood by the side of the road, one pacing in obvious frustration, while the other sat slumped beside the body of a horse that lay stiff as a plank in the dirt, its eyes glassy and empty. The pacing man was dressed in an oversized, well-worn suit, his jacket frayed at the cuffs and his hair plastered to his forehead. His companion, older, looked rough around the edges, his face weathered like a stone left too long in the sun, and his arms were crossed in tight frustration. The two were locked in a heated, though strangely polite, exchange that broke off as soon as they spotted Henry approaching.

"Ah! A fella at last!" the younger one called, waving a hand high over his head. "You, sir! Sir! Over here!"

Henry reined in his horse, trotting slowly toward them, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The younger man's face lit up as he came closer, though his older companion simply gave a gruff nod, his expression fixed in what could only be described as a mix of boredom and faint annoyance.

"Now, what seems to be the trouble here?" Henry asked, his voice cautious but polite.

The younger man let out a sigh, ruffling his disheveled hair before extending a hand. "Theodore Levin, sir. Writer, historian, and currently… well, in a bit of a bind, as you can see." He gestured to the dead horse in the dirt. "Our only horse up and dropped dead on us! Quite the setback, wouldn't you agree?"

Henry shook Theodore's hand, noting the soft palms of a man who clearly hadn't spent much time on a horse himself. "That so?" he replied, glancing over at the older man who hadn't yet spoken, though he eyed Henry with a hard, appraising look.

The older man gave a small nod, his lips set in a thin line as he adjusted his hat. "Jim Calloway. Not that it matters, but we're tryin' to get up to Annesburg. Got a bit of a… venture ahead of us." He looked at Theodore with a barely concealed sneer. "A fool's errand if you ask me, but he insists on keepin' us trottin' all over creation."

Theodore waved a hand, brushing off the remark with an easy smile. "Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Calloway can be a touch… pessimistic, let's say. But the world needs stories! Especially stories of legendary men such as himself." He gestured grandly toward Calloway, who rolled his eyes and spat into the dirt with clear disdain.

Henry raised an eyebrow, shifting in his saddle. "So, you're tellin' me you're some kinda writer, and you're… writin' 'bout him?" He jerked his chin toward Calloway, who scoffed.

"Writin'," Calloway snorted, crossing his arms tighter. "More like fillin' folks' heads with a bunch o' lies, if you ask me."

Theodore straightened, looking mildly offended. "Now, now, Mr. Calloway, there's no need to disparage the work. I'm simply documenting the life of one of the most feared and respected gunslingers in all the West! This man," he said, waving his arms with theatrical flair, "is the infamous Jim 'Boy' Calloway, the most celebrated outlaw in all of America!"

Henry glanced at Calloway, whose expression soured further at the introduction, his eyes rolling so far back he looked near about cross-eyed. Henry hid a smirk. He hadn't heard of this so-called legend, but he figured he'd play along, seeing where this might lead.

"Is that so?" Henry drawled, glancing back at Theodore, who nodded eagerly.

"Oh, it is!" Theodore leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "This man's name once struck terror into the hearts of lawmen from here to Saint Denis. Why, his exploits would fill a dozen books if I had the time to write 'em all down."

"Exploits," Calloway grumbled, crossing his arms. "All that was years ago, Levin. Ain't no one out here still scared of Jim Calloway."

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, sounds like you've got yourself quite the tale. And I suppose you're wantin' a hand, seein' as you're down a horse?"

Theodore nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up as though Henry had offered him a lifeline. "Exactly, sir! If you'd be so kind… perhaps you could lend us a ride, or maybe help us secure another horse in town?"

Calloway shot Theodore a glare. "You plannin' on sweet-talkin' the man all the way to Annesburg? Man's got his own business, no doubt. Ain't gonna drag him into yours."

Theodore ignored him, still looking hopefully at Henry. "I'd be more than willing to pay you for your trouble, of course. I'll tell ya what—you help us, and I'll make sure to mention a certain 'Henry' in my forthcoming biography, as the kind soul who aided us in our time of need."

Henry shrugged, holding back a smirk. "Wouldn't go lookin' to put me in any books, mister. I got enough folks lookin' to take a piece outta me as it is."

Theodore seemed undeterred, letting out an awkward laugh. "Ah, well, that's understandable. Dangerous times, and all that. We all got our reasons for runnin', don't we?"

At this, Calloway finally chimed in with a dry chuckle. "Runnin' is all he's good at, far as I can tell."

Theodore bristled at the jab, but Henry only watched the two with a slight amusement, weighing his options. These two seemed about as out of place as a pair of city folks could look on the open road, yet something about them—and the absurdity of their predicament—kept him curious.

"Well," Henry said slowly, leaning forward in his saddle, "if you two fine gentlemen can make it worth my while, reckon I could take you back into town. Ain't got room for the both of ya on my horse, but I'll take one of ya and send someone back for the other."

Theodore looked at Calloway, an unspoken plea in his eyes, but Calloway just spat again, scowling. "Aw, hell, you go on, Levin. I'll wait here. Not in the mood for playin' horse with strangers."

Theodore gave a pleased nod, scrambling to gather his things before climbing up behind Henry. "Oh, you are a godsend, sir," he muttered with obvious relief, clinging to Henry's saddle as they set off toward Valentine.

As they rode, Theodore talked a mile a minute, spouting off stories and tales he claimed Calloway had been too humble to tell himself. Henry listened with half an ear, his gaze fixed on the fading light ahead, but bits and pieces sank in. He learned how Calloway had once shot six men in a single duel, about the standoff at the Rogue's Tavern, and other exploits that seemed too fantastical to be true.

"Calloway's a real legend, you know," Theodore said earnestly, his voice holding a kind of reverence. "He may not look it now, but that man's a piece of history. A relic of the old West, you might say."

Henry just nodded, noncommittal. "If you say so. All looks like dust an' bones to me."

They reached Valentine just as night fully settled over the town, and Theodore gave a deep sigh of relief as Henry slowed his horse near the hitching post outside the stables.

"I'll go fetch someone for Mr. Calloway, but thank you again, Henry," Theodore said, fishing a few crumpled bills from his coat pocket and pressing them into Henry's hand. "It ain't much, but maybe a little something for your troubles?"

Henry nodded, slipping the bills into his pocket. "Just keep your friend happy, wherever you're goin'. Man looks like he's had enough of ridin' for a lifetime."

Theodore chuckled, though there was a flicker of tension in his eyes. "Oh, Mr. Calloway's got a lot left in him. At least, I hope he does. One last hurrah, if you will."

Henry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, tipping his hat to the man before turning his horse back toward the edge of town. He didn't look back as he rode into the deepening night, Theodore's words still floating in his head. He wasn't sure he'd ever understand folks like that—a man clinging to a fading legend, a writer chasing shadows for glory. But he supposed there were worse ways to keep the ghosts away.

As Valentine faded into the distance behind him, Henry steeled himself. Caliban's Seat was waiting, and somehow, he knew that stranger would be, too.

By the time Henry made it to the top of Caliban's Seat, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the land below. The air was thinner up here, cooler, and it whistled through the sparse trees that clung to the rocky cliffs. He dismounted, his legs aching from the long ride, and surveyed the quiet expanse of the plateau. The place looked like it hadn't seen a soul in a long time, save for a small, weather-beaten camp off to one side, barely more than a lean-to made of ragged canvas with stones circled around a long-dead fire.

As he walked closer, he noticed a tin cup left half-buried in the dirt and an empty bottle tossed to the side, the label faded and peeling. A small bundle of valerian root lay on a stone, its leaves dry and brittle from the sun. He picked it up, crumbling a leaf between his fingers, and pocketed the rest. It might help settle his nerves later if he needed it.

With a tired sigh, Henry led his horse to a sheltered spot, then set about pitching his own tent just a few yards from the cliff's edge, where he'd have a clear view of the valley below. His hands moved with familiar ease, pulling the canvas taut, securing the pegs, but his mind was drifting to other places, other times. By the time he had his bedroll laid out and a small fire going, the world had settled into the deep, quiet blue of late afternoon, with the orange glow of the sunset spilling across the sky like a final breath of warmth before night took over.

Henry crouched by the fire, absently stirring the flames with a stick, his face flickering in the light. He pulled off his hat, letting the cool air touch his brow, then reached into his coat pocket. Out came a small, creased photograph, the edges soft and worn from handling. He stared at it for a long while, tracing each face with his gaze, feeling that familiar ache settle in his chest.

There they were—the Van der Linde gang, standing proud and fierce in front of a canvas backdrop, Dutch at the center, eyes burning with that strange, almost holy determination. Arthur was beside him, a faint smirk on his lips, looking like he was just barely tolerating the whole business. Hosea stood off to the side, his hat tilted low, his face softened with that ever-present look of fatherly pride, a glint of something wise and wary in his eyes. There was Abigail, clutching little Jack close, her eyes fierce, protective. And there was John, too, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, but his eyes betrayed a quiet loyalty he'd never say out loud.

Henry's eyes moved from face to face, lingering on each one like they were ghosts that might vanish if he looked away. He missed them—all of them, though maybe not Micah, who stood at the edge of the group, arms crossed, that smug grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Henry's stomach twisted as he thought of Micah. Something about that man never felt right, something too cold, too quick to turn cruel.

With a sigh, Henry put the photograph back in his pocket, leaning back against his saddle and staring into the fire, the quiet of the place settling over him like a heavy blanket. It'd been days since he'd heard from anyone. Had they moved on without him, scattered somewhere beyond reach? Or were they out there, huddled around some other campfire, wondering the same thing about him?

The stranger's words crept back into his mind, tugging at him with an unsettling familiarity. Midnight at Caliban's Seat. He glanced around the empty plateau, wondering what in the world he was meant to find up here, and why it had to be in the dead of night. It felt foolish, maybe even dangerous, but the man's words had lodged themselves in his brain, a strange magnetism drawing him here despite every instinct telling him to turn back.

He stoked the fire, watching as the flames licked higher, casting long shadows across the rocks. In his mind, he could see the others there beside him—Arthur, sitting cross-legged by the fire, cleaning his gun in silence; Hosea, telling some story of a long-ago con, his voice low and calm, weaving pictures out of words. He could almost hear Dutch too, that fiery sermon of his that always seemed to set the gang's spirits alight, promising them a future that shimmered just out of reach, like a mirage on the horizon.

But now, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the distant call of a lone coyote somewhere down in the valley below.

As the sun sank lower, Henry found himself staring at the shadows lengthening around him, wondering what midnight would bring.

The night stretched on, the last light fading until the sky was a deep, endless blue, speckled with the cold gleam of stars. Henry leaned back against his saddle, gazing up at them, his mind drifting as he listened to the quiet that settled thick around him. The silence up here felt different—heavy, pressing, almost like a living thing. Every now and then, a soft breeze would drift over the edge of the cliff, rustling the sparse grass, but otherwise, there was nothing. Just the stars, the mountains in the distance, and the vast, yawning emptiness stretching around him.

He reached into his pack, his fingers closing around the neck of the whiskey bottle he'd bought in Valentine. With a grunt, he pulled it free, uncorked it, and took a long, slow drink, the burn warming him from the inside out. It was a good kind of warmth, chasing away the chill that clung to his bones, a familiar comfort that dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. He took another swig, and then another, letting the whiskey pool in his mouth before swallowing, feeling it settle deep in his gut.

As he drank, he felt his mind start to slow, the dark thoughts that had hounded him for days beginning to fade, slipping away like shadows retreating at dawn. The worries, the fear, the gnawing loneliness—they all seemed to drift into the night with each pull from the bottle. He took another drink, his eyes fixed on the stars above, their cold, indifferent light casting a strange beauty over the land.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this quiet, this still. The constant ache of worry, the dread of being hunted, the memory of Blackwater's bloody aftermath—it all dulled to a faint, distant hum. Up here, with the bottle in his hand and the stars stretching endlessly overhead, the world felt almost peaceful, as if he were the only soul left alive.

His gaze drifted back to the fire, the flames dancing and shifting, casting long shadows over the rocks. He thought of the gang, of those nights when he'd sat around the fire with Arthur and Hosea and the others, laughing, telling stories, the warmth of their company wrapping around him like a second skin. Those nights felt a lifetime away now, each memory tinged with a bittersweet ache that the whiskey couldn't quite wash away.

"Guess I'm on my own now," he muttered, his voice soft, swallowed up by the vastness of the night.

He took another drink, the firelight flickering across his face as he stared into the flames, his thoughts slipping further into the haze. The whiskey worked its way through him, soothing every ache, every fear, every doubt. Even the Pinkertons, with their cold, relentless hunt, faded into insignificance. He could almost laugh at the thought of them, chasing him through the wilderness, a pack of wolves nipping at his heels. But up here, on the edge of the world, they felt as far away as a bad dream.

Time drifted by, slow and shapeless. He had no sense of how long he'd been sitting there, the bottle now half-empty in his hand, his mind blissfully numb to everything around him. All that mattered was the fire, the stars, and the steady warmth of the whiskey.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called, its lonely howl cutting through the silence, but Henry barely registered it. The world had narrowed down to the crackling fire, the soft glow of the stars, and the warmth spreading through him. The darkness, the loneliness, the fear—they all melted away, leaving only a quiet calm, a stillness that settled deep in his bones.

And as he leaned back, his gaze drifting to the horizon, he felt a strange sense of peace, like he was right where he was meant to be.

Henry's eyelids grew heavy, his gaze drifting in and out of focus as the fire crackled low at his feet. The whiskey worked its way through him like a lullaby, each swig drawing him closer to the edge of sleep, his mind floating in a strange haze somewhere between dreams and the cold mountain night. Shadows danced before him, shapes twisting in the darkness, half-formed memories and the faint echo of voices from another time.

Just as he felt himself slipping fully under, a flash of green flickered across his vision, slicing through the quiet with a suddenness that sent his heart racing. He sat bolt upright, the whiskey bottle slipping from his fingers as he blinked, eyes wide and searching, his heart hammering like a drum. The flash had come and gone in an instant, but he'd seen it as clearly as he'd ever seen anything—a green light, sharp and unearthly, casting an eerie glow over the rocks around him.

Henry scrambled to his feet, instincts snapping back to life as he scanned the plateau.

Henry holstered his gun, breathing out slowly as the three riders came closer, their horses stepping with practiced care over the rocky ground. As they drew near, he could see their faces in the dim starlight—strong features, eyes dark and steady, framed by the rugged lines of men who had seen more of the land than most ever would. The leader sat tall in his saddle, wrapped in a worn, heavy cloak with feathers and beads tied to his braids, catching faint glints of silver and blue in the dark. His gaze moved over Henry with a quiet, assessing calm, as if taking the measure of him in one long, unblinking look.

The leader pulled his horse to a stop just a few paces away, his face unreadable. "You're far from town," he said, his voice steady and deep, carrying easily over the quiet. "Not many men come to this place at night. Or alone."

Henry shifted, wiping a hand over his face as he tried to gather his thoughts. The whiskey haze still lingered, leaving him more exposed than he liked, and he glanced at the three men warily, feeling the weight of their silence. "Just… thought I'd come up for the view," he replied, his voice rougher than he intended. "Didn't know I'd be runnin' into anyone."

The younger rider to the leader's right gave a faint, skeptical look, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "A view, at night?" He shook his head, as if this were the strangest excuse he'd ever heard. "Folks say a lot of things to explain why they're wanderin' up places they shouldn't be."

The leader's gaze never left Henry, his expression as unmoved as stone. "This is not a place of wandering," he said, his voice calm but edged with a subtle warning. "You do not stumble upon Caliban's Seat. It's a place men come to when they carry something that cannot be left behind."

Henry shifted his stance, feeling the man's words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. The weight of his own doubts, his own fears—he'd been trying to drown them all night, yet somehow they clung to him like smoke. He met the leader's gaze, trying to hold steady, but the calm certainty in the man's eyes felt like it was peeling back layers of him, seeing things he wasn't ready to share.

"Maybe I'm lookin' for somethin' out here," Henry admitted after a beat, his voice low. "Just don't rightly know what it is yet."

The leader gave a small nod, as if he understood more than Henry had meant to say. "There are many kinds of searching. Some men look for answers, others look for peace." He paused, his gaze dark and unreadable. "And some… come here to escape."

Henry couldn't deny the truth in those words. He had been running, even if he'd told himself otherwise—running from the blood left behind in Blackwater, from the cold eyes of the Pinkertons that hunted him, from the ghosts of friends and family he couldn't shake. He cleared his throat, casting a glance at the ground, feeling more exposed than he'd felt in years.

"Maybe it's all three," he murmured, looking back up at the Wapiti man. "Maybe a man's just lookin' for somewhere he can breathe easy. Ain't much of that left these days."

The leader's face softened just a fraction, a faint glimmer of understanding in his gaze. "This land does not offer peace freely," he said, his voice taking on a distant tone, as if he were speaking from some place beyond the here and now. "You come here to make peace with yourself, not to find it waiting for you."

Henry frowned, the man's words circling through his mind, winding their way through the whiskey-fogged thoughts that had kept him company on this lonesome journey. He'd spent months telling himself there was a future waiting, a place beyond the fighting, the running, the nights spent looking over his shoulder. But now, with the leader's eyes fixed on him, he felt a sudden, chilling uncertainty—like he'd been chasing something he couldn't quite reach, something that would stay just out of his grasp.

The younger rider spoke up again, his tone softer, more curious now. "You got folks you're runnin' from, or folks you're lookin' for?"

Henry blinked, surprised by the question. He felt his heart twist as faces flashed in his mind—Arthur's steady gaze, Dutch's fire, Hosea's quiet wisdom. "Both, I suppose," he admitted, a hollow laugh escaping him. "Some folks I'd do anythin' to get back to, and some… well, some I'd give anythin' to leave behind."

The third rider, an older man with lines of age and hardship etched across his face, leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "The land does not judge a man for the choices he makes," he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority. "But it remembers. It remembers what is left behind, and it will not let you forget."

The words hit Henry harder than he'd expected, the weight of them sinking deep, settling alongside the regrets he'd been carrying since Blackwater. He thought of all the things he'd done, the lines he'd crossed, the blood he'd left in the dirt—and the way it all seemed to follow him, no matter how far he went. Up here, under the watch of these men, it felt as if the land itself were staring back at him, bearing witness to every choice he'd tried to forget.

The leader watched him for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. "If you seek answers, the land may grant you some. But know that it also demands something in return."

Henry met his gaze, feeling a chill settle over him, a sense of dread and expectation that seemed to hang in the air between them. "And what's that?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The leader's eyes darkened, his face solemn. "Truth," he said simply. "To yourself, and to those you left behind."

The words struck Henry like a hammer, each one heavy, undeniable. He realized, with a clarity that sobered him more than any whiskey could, that he'd spent too long lying to himself, pretending he was someone else, someone who could leave behind the things that had once mattered most to him. But up here, with the land stretching vast and endless around him, he couldn't hide anymore.

After a moment, he nodded, his voice thick. "Reckon I understand."

The leader's gaze lingered on him, a faint sadness in his eyes. "Then your path is yours to walk. Just remember—you are never alone on this land. It holds the memories of many men before you, and it will carry yours, too."

The three riders shared a final look, as if reaching some silent agreement, then gave Henry a solemn nod. Without another word, they turned their horses and rode off, their figures fading into the darkness, their presence melting back into the night as if they'd never been there at all.

As their hoofbeats died away, Henry stood alone once more, the silence thick around him. He felt the weight of the encounter settle over him, the Wapiti leader's words echoing in his mind. He hadn't found the answers he'd been hoping for, but somehow, he felt closer to understanding what he'd come up here to face.

The truth.

Henry stood there alone in the thick, crushing silence, his mind circling in a slow, desperate spiral. He looked out over the valley below, the stars bright and indifferent overhead, the silence feeling heavy enough to break him. The Wapiti leader's words had hit deeper than he'd let on, stirring up old wounds and buried doubts he'd spent so long running from. The truth, he thought with a bitter edge. Hell, if he was supposed to find the truth up here, he didn't even know where to start.

All his life, choices had been made for him. He'd always been one to follow orders, to do what was asked—no matter how dark or dangerous it got. Dutch had told him to jump, he jumped. Arthur had told him to fight, and he fought. Even in the gang's worst moments, when things started feelin' twisted and wrong, he'd gone along with it, trusting in Dutch's fire, in Arthur's steady sense, in Hosea's calm wisdom. It was just easier that way, to let someone else shoulder the weight, to let someone else point him in the direction he needed to go.

But now, here he was. Alone on this desolate peak, no voices guiding him, no path laid out in front of him, just the empty night and the cold air pressing in, daring him to make a choice of his own. He took a shaky breath, his hand going back to the whiskey bottle for comfort, but it was already empty. He tossed it aside, the glass clinking against the rocks as he ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble under his palm.

"What now, Henry?" he muttered to himself, his voice sounding hollow, lost. "Where the hell do you go now?"

The stars above seemed to offer no answer, their cold light distant and remote, watching him without a hint of care. The land stretched out beneath him, vast and unforgiving, and he felt small against it, a speck of dust in the grand, indifferent wilderness. The weight of that realization pressed down on him, a strange, unfamiliar sensation clawing at his chest.

He thought about going back to Valentine, maybe even finding another bottle to drown his thoughts. He'd make it back to camp eventually, take the familiar road, listen to Dutch's speeches, Arthur's warnings, maybe even Micah's damn smug grin—he'd sink back into the only life he'd ever known. But the thought didn't bring any comfort. It just felt hollow, like putting on an old coat that didn't fit anymore.

The truth. The Wapiti leader's words echoed again, slipping under his skin, rooting themselves deeper with each passing minute. He realized, with a bitter kind of clarity, that the truth wasn't about some mystical answer waiting for him up here. No, it was something uglier, closer, something that had been with him all along, crouching in the shadows of every choice he hadn't made, every voice he'd followed instead of his own.

What did he want?

The question unsettled him, the simplicity of it making him feel like he was staring down a cliff he'd never climbed. The answer didn't come easy, and maybe it never would, but for the first time, he felt that small, stubborn spark—the urge to know, to find something that was his alone, something beyond the gang, beyond Dutch's promises and Arthur's quiet understanding.

He looked out over the valley, the landscape stretching endlessly, each twist and turn of the land a mystery waiting to be uncovered. He knew the weight of his past would follow him, the faces he'd known, the choices he'd left behind, but maybe… maybe there was something else out there, too. A road he hadn't taken, a voice that was his own.

Henry's hand reached for the whiskey bottle, his fingers closing around its smooth, cold neck. He looked at it a moment, feeling the weight of it in his grip—the last dregs of comfort in the only thing that hadn't changed since he'd ridden up this mountain. Without a second thought, he tipped it back, the bitter liquid burning as he drank, the heat filling his chest and numbing the ache that gnawed there. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze drifting up to the dark mountains in the distance. Mount Hagen loomed in the shadows, the clouds that had clung to it earlier now peeling back, revealing its jagged peak, stark and sharp against the faint glow of moonlight. For a second, it looked almost welcoming, like it was waiting for him—a faint sign from the indifferent sky, as if it, too, were telling him to move on. He wasn't sure what lay up there or beyond it, but maybe that didn't matter anymore.

The gang hadn't come. By now, if they were going to, someone would've ridden up, calling his name, dragging him back to whatever half-baked plan Dutch was scheming up in the dark. He'd figured someone would show—Arthur, maybe, or Hosea with that calm voice of his, always knowing the right words. But now the truth sat heavy in his chest. They'd gone on without him, and he was up here with nothing but the bottle and his own thoughts.

Maybe it was time he accepted it. He was on his own now, and maybe that was the way it was meant to be. He looked back toward the mountain, his mind drifting to what lay beyond the ridge. He could ride on, take to the road, drift from town to town like so many men before him. He'd always wanted to make something of himself, to leave a mark, a name, something that would stay long after he was gone. Not in the shadow of Dutch's dreams or Arthur's loyalty, but in his own right.

There was a strange kind of freedom in that thought, and it settled over him like a cold, unfamiliar comfort. The world stretched wide and open before him, each twist of land holding the promise of something new, some place he could call his own. The names of towns rolled through his mind—Annesburg, Armadillo, Tumbleweed… places he'd only heard about in passing, places that seemed as distant and mysterious as the stars above.

Maybe he'd travel to each one, make a name wherever he went. There was something almost appealing in the thought of living by his own code, his own choices, each day a blank slate.

The fire had nearly died, casting faint, warm shadows over the rocks. Henry lowered himself down onto his bedroll, his body finally giving into the weight of exhaustion that had followed him since he'd left the camp. The whiskey had dulled the edges of his worry, leaving only a strange calm, an acceptance that things would be different now. He'd figure it out as he went, step by step, mile by mile, until he found something that felt like his.

As he lay there, he looked up at the sky, his eyes tracing the stars scattered across the vast, indifferent night. For the first time, he didn't feel quite so restless, so full of gnawing questions he couldn't answer. He let his gaze drift back to the silhouette of the mountain, the peaks dark against the distant light, and felt the steady pull of sleep begin to settle over him.

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet seep into his bones, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he didn't fight it.

The dawn light crept over the snowy mountains, casting a faint golden glow across the camp as the Van der Linde gang worked in steady silence, breaking down their temporary home piece by piece. The tents came down first, bedrolls rolled tight and stowed away, crates and supplies loaded onto the wagons as Dutch oversaw the operation with a focused intensity. The decision had been made the night before: they were leaving the snow behind, moving east to Horseshoe Overlook, somewhere Dutch promised would be warmer, safer, a place to rest and regroup.

Arthur helped load crates onto the main supply wagon, moving with his usual silent efficiency, though he could feel the weight of fatigue in every muscle. They'd been running for days, always one step ahead of the law, and the idea of a quiet spot to lay low for a while felt like a far-off dream. Hosea came up beside him, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

"Arthur," Hosea said with a soft smile, "let's get the rest of these supplies on. Dutch wants you and me up front, on the lead wagon. He's got some ideas about the route, and apparently, I'm not to be trusted alone with his plans." He chuckled, a faint glint of mischief in his eye.

Arthur smirked, lifting another crate onto the wagon with a grunt. "Dutch got a plan for every twist and turn in the road, I reckon," he replied, glancing over at the horses already hitched up and waiting. "Hope he's right about this Horseshoe Overlook. Be nice to breathe without freezin' our insides."

As the camp emptied, the rest of the gang started piling onto wagons and saddling up, getting ready to move. Dutch climbed up on his own horse, his eyes scanning the camp with that familiar intensity, a mix of pride and worry that he wore like a second skin.

"Alright, folks!" Dutch called out, his voice carrying over the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels. "Let's move out! We're headin' east—Horseshoe Overlook. Fresh start, new prospects, and warmer weather. Let's leave our troubles here and find ourselves some peace, at least for a little while."

Arthur climbed up beside Hosea on the lead wagon, settling onto the bench as the old man picked up the reins. The wagon jolted forward, creaking as it rolled over the rough ground, and Arthur cast a final look back at the now-empty camp, the snow-covered ground marred only by footprints and wheel ruts that would soon be lost to the wind.

"Think this place'll stick in anyone's memory?" Arthur asked, his voice low as they rolled along, leaving the camp behind.

Hosea chuckled, giving him a sideways glance. "You know how it is, Arthur. We've been through more camps than I can count. And if we're lucky, we'll pass through a few more. Though… can't say I'll miss the snow." He shivered slightly, pulling his coat tighter. "I don't think these old bones were made for weather like this."

The gang's caravan moved steadily through the sparse trees, the sound of hooves and wagon wheels breaking the morning quiet. Javier and Sean rode ahead, laughing and tossing jibes back and forth, while Charles and Bill brought up the rear, their voices low as they discussed the trail. Micah, never one to stay quiet for long, was talking Dutch's ear off from horseback, though Dutch looked to be listening with that vague, thoughtful expression he wore when he wanted someone to think he was paying attention.

After a long moment, Arthur cleared his throat, glancing over at Charles, who rode with his usual quiet focus. "Charles," he began, his voice rough, "I been meanin' to ask… about Blackwater. About Henry. I've been gettin' pieces, but… no one's told me what really happened to him."

Charles turned, his face darkening at the mention of Henry, but he gave Arthur a small nod. "You should know, Arthur," he said quietly, as though he'd been carrying the story for too long. "Kid deserves someone knowin' the truth."

Arthur shifted, bracing himself for what he'd hear. "Go on, then."

Charles took a slow breath, his gaze distant, like he was back there on the ferry, reliving each frantic moment. "It all started out clean. Dutch led us in with that confidence of his, swaggering down the aisle, waving his gun, shouting orders at the passengers. They were scared, doin' what they were told. Seemed like it was goin' smooth."

Arthur snorted, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "That's Dutch for you. Likes makin' things look easy."

"Yeah," Charles replied, his expression tightening. "He had us all moving fast—John, Javier, and Henry were rounding up passengers, getting them in line, makin' sure everyone stayed quiet. Henry looked nervous, kept glancing to John like he wasn't sure what to do, but he held his ground. Stayed right by John's side."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. He could picture it too well—the kid trying to keep his nerve, steady himself. "And Dutch? What was he doin'?"

Charles's mouth tightened. "Too busy showing off to notice. He kept talking to the crowd, putting on a show. By the time John and Javier got to the strongbox, Dutch was busy keeping everyone's attention, making a spectacle." He paused, his expression darkening. "But then… everything changed. The Pinkertons showed up, like they'd been tipped off. They came from every door, guns blazing."

Arthur's fists clenched, his jaw tight as he listened. "And Dutch? He didn't think to pull back?"

Charles shook his head, frustration flashing in his eyes. "No. Dutch wanted that money. He told us to keep going, keep grabbin' what we could. But the Pinkertons just kept coming. Javier and John were pinned down, and Henry… Henry stayed there with 'em, kept firing while Dutch shouted orders from across the cabin."

Arthur's face twisted in anger. "So Henry took the heat… while Dutch went after his damn score."

Charles nodded, his voice somber. "That's exactly it. Kid stood his ground, covering John, makin' sure they could move. But when we finally tried to get out, the Pinkertons had us surrounded. They'd brought a gatling gun down onto the dock." Charles swallowed, his voice lowering. "That's when Henry did it."

Arthur felt a chill creep down his spine. "Did what, Charles?"

Charles looked at him, his gaze full of respect and regret. "Kid threw himself out there, made himself the target. Told John to go, even though that damn gun was tearing the place apart. He ran out into the open, started firing, drawing their attention. He gave John the time he needed to get clear."

Arthur stared at him, his heart pounding as he imagined the scene.

"Yeah," Charles replied, his voice thick. "Barely. But when I looked back for Henry… he was gone. All I saw was the gatling gun tearing through everything in its path. The last thing I saw was Henry running, trying to keep the Pinkertons off us. But I haven't seen him since, Arthur. He didn't come back to camp."

Arthur looked away, the weight of it pressing down on him like a stone. "So he saved us, saved John, and we left him there."

Charles nodded, his face grim. "Dutch wouldn't stop. Said we couldn't afford to lose more people, that Henry knew the risks. He wouldn't go back. Just left him behind."

Arthur felt a surge of anger, guilt, and regret twist inside him, a bitter taste rising in his throat. "Damn it, Charles. Kid deserved better than that. We owed him more than that."

Charles looked at him, his voice quiet but firm. "You're right, Arthur. Henry deserved more than what he got. But if he's still out there, we can make it right. We can find him, show him that he didn't do all that for nothing."

Arthur nodded slowly, a fierce determination settling over him. "If he's out there, I'll find him. And I'll make damn sure he knows he's got a place with us. A real place, not just Dutch's empty promises."

As they crossed a shallow stream, the water barely ankle-deep, the wagon jolted sharply, then lurched to the side as a loud crack echoed through the morning air.

"Whoa, whoa!" Hosea shouted, pulling back on the reins as the wagon rocked precariously.

Arthur braced himself, but it was too late. The front left wheel splintered, wobbling for a heartbeat before giving out completely, the wood snapping and sending the wagon tilting dangerously to one side.

"Damn it," Arthur muttered, jumping down as Hosea followed, his face set in frustration as he surveyed the damage. "That's a hell of a way to start the morning."

Charles, who'd been riding nearby, pulled up on his horse, casting a quick, assessing glance at the broken wheel. "You two alright?" he asked, already climbing down from his horse.

"We're fine, we're fine," Hosea replied, waving a hand. "But it looks like we're in need of a little roadside repair."

Charles nodded, kneeling by the broken wheel to inspect it closely. "Wood's worn down, just too brittle from the cold. Could patch it up for now, but I'd keep a close eye on it."

Arthur shook his head, half-amused. "Story of our lives, ain't it? Patchin' things up, keepin' 'em runnin' 'til they can't run no more." He went around to the back of the wagon, searching through the supplies for the tools they'd need to get the wheel back on. "Help me out here, Charles?"

Charles joined him, taking the tools with a practiced efficiency. "Yeah. Seen a lot of wagons in worse shape than this, though," he said with a faint grin, as he positioned the wheel. Arthur held it steady as Charles hammered the pin back into place, the two men working in quiet concentration.

As they worked, Hosea looked around, his gaze drifting up to the high cliffs nearby. He paused, eyes narrowing as he noticed a group of figures watching them from above, barely visible against the rocky ledge. Native men, standing still and silent, their faces turned toward the gang as they worked below.

"Arthur," Hosea said quietly, nudging him and nodding toward the ridge. "We got company."

Arthur looked up, his hand stilling on the wheel as he followed Hosea's gaze. He saw them—three, maybe four figures standing there, motionless, like statues carved into the stone. They made no move to come closer, just watched, their faces shadowed but unmistakably curious, their stances calm and deliberate.

"They're just watchin'," Arthur said, voice low, though he felt the tension of it ripple through him. "Ain't seen that look since… well, since I can remember."

Charles stood slowly, his own gaze meeting those on the ridge, and nodded respectfully. "They're not here for trouble," he said, his voice steady. "Just keep working, and they'll move on. This is their land, after all. We're just passing through."

Hosea gave a slight nod, his expression thoughtful. "A reminder, I suppose," he murmured. "That we're never as alone as we think we are out here."

Arthur looked at Hosea, then back at the figures on the ridge, a quiet understanding settling over him. He'd seen this sort of thing before, the quiet observation, the sense that they were intruding on something older, something with roots that stretched deeper than they'd ever know. He nodded, letting out a slow breath as he returned to the task at hand.

Henry woke with a start, his breath catching as he sat up, a faint scream still echoing in his mind. He blinked a few times, wiping the cold sweat from his face, trying to shake the lingering unease. The dawn light was just starting to creep over the horizon, casting a soft, pale glow over the camp. He took a steadying breath, his hand instinctively reaching out to pat his horse, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of the animal.

As he regained his bearings, he noticed the Wapiti men still sitting quietly near the remains of his fire, watching the waking world with an intensity that unsettled him. They didn't seem surprised he'd woken, nor did they offer any words of comfort or question. Instead, they simply inclined their heads, a silent acknowledgment of the long night he'd endured. One of the men, the elder, gestured toward the creek below, his face unreadable.

Curious, Henry followed the man's gaze down to the creek below, where he caught sight of something odd. A wagon, far in the distance, was pulled up on the bank. It sat at a slight angle, its rear wheel removed, leaning against the frame like it had taken a rough blow. He squinted, making out two figures working on the wheel, moving around it slowly, cautiously, like men trying to fix a job gone bad.

He narrowed his eyes, something familiar tugging at the back of his mind, but he couldn't make out the faces from here. The shapes and movements were too far off, blurred by the haze rising from the water in the early light. Still, there was something about the scene that made his pulse quicken, a strange sense that he knew these men, even though he couldn't see them clearly.

After a moment, he took a breath, patted his horse's neck, and began his careful descent toward the creek, his curiosity getting the better of him. The Wapiti men watched him go, their quiet presence reassuring but still mysterious, as though they'd been waiting for him to notice the wagon all along.

As Henry approached, he could hear faint voices carrying through the morning air, low and familiar, though he couldn't place them yet. The figures by the wagon were focused on their work, one man crouched low by the axle, fitting the wheel back into place, while the other stood back, hands on his hips, watching the process with the patient stance of a man used to this kind of trouble.

The man crouched by the wheel shifted, his voice drifting over the creek, grumbling just loud enough for Henry to catch a word or two.

"Damn axle… splinters worse every time. You'd think we'd learn to avoid these damn rocks."

The other man chuckled, his voice warm with humor. "You'd think we'd stop followin' Dutch into every mess he can dream up, but here we are."

Henry froze mid-step, a shock of recognition running through him. He'd know that drawl anywhere—gruff and impatient, but with a deep loyalty running through it. Arthur. And that calm, easy tone—that had to be Hosea, steady as ever, watching over Arthur with that familiar patience.

Heart pounding, Henry took a step closer, trying to get a better look. As he did, he saw Arthur stand, brushing the dirt from his hands as he looked out over the creek, his gaze drifting up toward the slope where Henry stood. For a moment, they locked eyes, and Henry saw a flicker of recognition pass over Arthur's face, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to surprise.

"Henry?" Arthur's voice called out, tentative but hopeful, carrying across the creek like a lifeline.

Henry felt a grin spread across his face, relief washing over him. He lifted a hand in a wave, calling back, "Arthur! That really you?"

Arthur's face split into a grin, and he let out a laugh that echoed off the trees, the kind of laugh Henry hadn't heard from him in what felt like a lifetime. "Well, I'll be damned! Hosea, look who's crawlin' out of the wilds!"

Hosea looked up, his eyes widening as he took in Henry's familiar figure on the opposite bank. A broad smile crossed his face, and he tipped his hat, his voice full of warmth. "Henry, you old coyote! Thought the wilderness had swallowed you whole."

Henry chuckled, feeling a weight lift off his chest as he made his way down to them, finally close enough to see the familiar lines on their faces, the dust and wear on their clothes, the same steady strength in their eyes. He crossed the creek, his boots splashing through the shallow water, and stopped a few steps from them, taking in the sight of his old friends.

Arthur, grinning wide, barely waited a heartbeat before striding forward, his arms open. "Come here, you damn wild thing!" Arthur pulled him into a strong, rough hug, clapping Henry's back with a force that would've winded him if he weren't just as eager to hold on.

Henry hugged him back, a mix of relief and gratitude swelling in his chest. He could feel the strength of Arthur's grip, his loyalty and pride, things that needed no words between them.

"Hell, I thought we'd lost you for good, Henry," Arthur said, his voice rough, but his grin never fading.

Hosea stepped up next, his expression softer but no less joyful. "Look at you," he murmured, pulling Henry into a tight embrace. "Couldn't be prouder to see you in one piece, kid. Didn't think I'd see the day, truth be told."

Henry chuckled, blinking back the emotion that threatened to spill over. "Didn't think I'd make it back either, but… reckon I must've had somethin' to come back to after all."

Charles stepped forward, his eyes shining with that quiet pride and relief Henry had come to know so well. He placed a steady hand on Henry's shoulder, his usual calm gaze filled with warmth. "Good to see you, Henry," he said simply, giving his shoulder a firm pat. "You kept yourself alive out there. Knew you could."

Before Henry could respond, Bill barreled forward with a laugh, smacking Henry on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. "Damn it, Henry! Thought you'd gone off and become some damn mountain man!" Bill let out a booming laugh, his grin wide. "Can't believe you found your way back. Must be luckier than we figured."

Henry laughed, rubbing the spot where Bill had thumped him, feeling the warmth and energy of the group's joy surrounding him, lifting him up. "Guess I am lucky. Lucky you all ain't gone runnin' off yet without me."

Arthur laughed, his voice rough and full of humor as he shook his head. "Son. Hell, Dutch ain't done enough preachin' about it to get us even a mile close." He paused, his gaze softening, a rare look of pride and affection in his eyes. "Just glad you're here. Couldn't have a family without you."

The word family settled over them like a warm blanket, a silent understanding that bound them, despite the chaos and hardship they'd all been through. Henry looked around at each of their faces—Arthur, Hosea, Charles, Bill—and felt the weight of loneliness and uncertainty lift from him, replaced by something steady, something sure.

"You all got a funny way of making a man feel missed," Henry said, his voice catching slightly. "Good thing I can take a beatin'." He grinned, glancing around. "What happened to the rest? Dutch, Javier, the others?"

"Ridin' ahead," Hosea answered, his voice taking on that reassuring tone that Henry had missed so much. "We got a place set up just a ways east. Horseshoe Overlook—fine spot, for now at least. Dutch said we'd make camp, but I reckon he's already schemin' up something."

Arthur nodded, his expression thoughtful, though the familiar edge of skepticism lingered in his eyes. "Reckon you'd be right. Dutch's got his sights set on something bigger than any of us know yet, but… that'll keep. For now, we're just glad you're here, Henry."

Charles stepped up beside Henry, crossing his arms as he looked him over. "Looks like you could use a good meal. Maybe a night's rest somewhere that ain't under the stars."

Henry chuckled, nodding. "You ain't wrong, Charles. Been a while since I had more than a cold creek and some half-burnt meat."

Bill laughed, his booming voice filling the air. "Well, don't you worry, Henry. We'll make sure you're good an' fed. Ain't much, but the stew's got enough grit in it to keep you alive." He clapped Henry on the back again, his grin wide. "Dutch'll be glad to see you too. Hell, it's like you're a damn ghost comin' back to us."

Hosea placed a gentle hand on Henry's shoulder, his gaze warm. "Let's get you back to camp. Good to know you're here, son. Never doubted you'd make it, but it sure is somethin' to see you here with my own eyes."

With that, they all turned, each man mounting up or readying their gear, the wagon finally back in order. As Henry climbed into the saddle, he felt a swell of gratitude, a fierce pride in the bond they shared—a bond that had brought him back when he'd thought he'd lost his way entirely.