A lone caravan of wagons and riders filed in a slow precession as it battled screaming, torrential winds of the pass. Trees thrashed around wildly, coated with a thick accumulation of snow and ice; the faces of the riders chapped from the bitter cold. Lanterns cut through the darkness only a few feet ahead in a poor attempt to gain direction. Women were bundled up with blankets, holding each other tightly for warmth as they surrounded a fallen comrade who had been shot in the gut.
A man left the back of the wagon, Reverend Swanson, quickened his pace to the front where the drivers were huddled amongst themselves for warmth despite the piercing cold, "Abigail says he's dyin', Dutch," He announced over the howling wind, "We'll have to stop someplace."
The driver met the man's gaze, "Okay. Arthur's out looking," he responded with encouragement in his voice, "I sent him up ahead." Reverend Swanson nodded, returning to the back of the covered wagon while Dutch turned to check on the people in the back, "Any sign of Forrest and Sophia?" He called out back.
"Haven't seen a thing, Dutch!" A voice from one of the other wagons boomed back.
"Christ," he muttered, turning back to view up in front of him.
Dutch's longtime friend, Hosea Matthews, sitting beside him made a sound, as if he were clearing his throat, "If we don't stop soon, we'll all be dyin." He commented, bitter about the cold, "This weather—it's May. I'm just hoping the law got as lost as we did."
"There," He strained his eyes through the never ending gray cast of snow and night, catching a glimpse of a figure on a horse approaching, "Arthur! Any luck?"
The rider approached, snow coating the thick wool jacket he had on and atop of his hat while cold, hard eyes peered from underneath the brim analyzing Dutch, "I found a place where we can get some shelter," Arthur grated out, "Let Davey rest while he…" his voice faltered for a moment under the grim circumstances, "you know." Steering the horse he was riding around, he continued, "An old mining town, abandoned—it ain't far." Arthur peered over his shoulder, gesturing to the caravan, "Come on. Come on!" His voice boomed over top of the wind, pushing the horse back into the direction of his find—the caravan behind him trudged on behind him, more than eager to find shelter from this horrendous weather.
It was a painstaking ride before the group had made it into the abandoned mining town. Several buildings had been worn down from time and the elements, while there were still some buildings that were in better condition. The wagons stopped. Horses protested, shifting uncomfortably in the snow and wind, as people in the wagons filed out.
Hosea entered a building, lantern in one hand, his pistol in the other—searching for any signs of life. Lifting the lantern to eye level, the darkened room filled with light as it exposed the conditions for the older man to see. He holstered his pistol, turning back to the door, "Bring them in here," he called out, turning his attention to the clutter as Abigail filed in shortly before Arthur and Bill brought a stretcher in that contained Davey. Tilly and Abigail's son, Jack, came in behind them as did the rest of the group, Dutch bringing up the rear.
Arthur and Bill laid Davey across a table as Abigail and Tilly assessed their fallen comrade.
"Miss Gaskill," Susan Grimshaw, the group's matriarch, began to give directives to the girls, "get that fire lit quick. Miss Jones, bring in whatever blankets we have." Abigail bent closer to Davey, giving him a grave look, "Mr. Pearson, see what we've got in terms of food."
Straightening up, Abigail turned to the group, "Davey's dead." She bowed her head in grief.
"There was nothing more you could have done," Reverend Swanson consoled, turning to Davey's corpse, placing two coins on his eyes for passage onto the afterlife.
"What're we gonna do? We need supplies." Hosea questioned.
"Well, first of all, you're gonna stay here and you are gonna get yourself warm," Dutch responded, "Now, I sent John and Micah scouting out ahead. Arthur and I, we're gonna ride out, see if we can find one of 'em."
Arthur turned towards Dutch, unbelieving of what he had heard, "In this?" He gestured his hand to the howling mess outside.
Dutch glanced to the door, "Just for a short bit…I don't see what other choice we have." The man turned to his group, "Listen. Listen to me all of you, for a moment." He announced. All eyes were on him, as always. He was the group's leader after all, "Now, we've had…well, a bad couple of days." His eyes went to the back of the room, gesturing to his fallen group member, "I loved Davey…Jenny, Sean, Mac…" Dutch felt a lump rise in his throat, "Sophia and Forrest…they may be okay, we don't know."
Arthur's gaze went from the group to Dutch, feeling concern gnaw at his stomach.
Dutch glanced to Arthur in return, "But we lost some folks," he continued, folding his hands in front of him, "Now, if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead…I'd do it, gladly. But…we're gonna ride out and we're gonna find some food."
Arthur nodded at Dutch's decision. He was the leader after all.
"Everybody, we're safe now," He assured the group, "There ain't nobody following us through a storm like this one…and by the time they get here, well, we're gonna be—we're gonna be long gone. We've been through worse than this before." Dutch set his sights on valuable members of the gang, "Mr. Pearson. Miss Grimshaw. I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days." He scanned their faces, "Now, all of you…get yourselves warm. Stay strong." His words of encouragement reverberated within each group member, "Stay. With. Me. We ain't done yet!"
Dutch turned, grabbing a lantern off a table, motioning to Arthur, before walking out into the storm once again, "Come on, Arthur." Arthur patted Hosea's shoulder as he passed by, following behind Dutch.
"Alright," Arthur heard Miss Grimshaw announce to the rest of the group, "We've got some work to do."
Arthur met Dutch on the stoop of the building, holding the lantern up to get a better look amongst the swirling snow, "Well, we ain't run into them yet, so, they must have headed down the hill."
"Sure," Arthur replied, reaching out to tap Dutch, "Hey. I ain't had time to ask. What really went down back there on that boat?"
He turned, analyzing Arthur's expression, "We missed you, that's what happened," Dutch replied, "Come on."
The both of them trudged forward, meeting up with Charles, leading two horses.
"Hey," he greeted them, "Need horses?"
"Oh yeah, and Mr. Smith, get yourself indoors," Dutch spoke to him as he took his horse, The Count, "You need to rest that hand," he added after mounting.
"I'll live," Charles replied.
Arthur mounted a sorrel paint, much to his displeasure. It definitely wasn't Boadicea, that was for sure, but this'll do, for now. He patted the stallion's withers, calming the spooked beast for an easier ride in already uninhabitable weather.
"Get indoors, son!" Dutch ordered, "I, we, need you strong."
Charles nodded, "Okay."
"Alright," Dutch confirmed, "Let's head out."
The cold was absolutely miserable to be out in. Anyone to be out in this was either a dead man or a damned fool. Arthur guessed he and Dutch must've been damned fools seeing how they were both out in it searching for any of the group members.
"Ain't sure what we're gonna find out here, Dutch," Arthur called out from his horse, uncertain of what they were going to encounter, much less find.
"We have to try," Dutch hollered back, "Stay close and we'll do our best to stick to the trail."
A gust of wind cut through his jacket, chilling him to his core, "This god damned weather," Arthur ground out, keeping in stride with Dutch's horse.
"Been two days or more like this now," Dutch lamented, "Oh, it has to blow over soon." Riding up the trail a ways, they came to a covered part of the stream, "Bridge comin' up, take it easy," he warned, slowing down the Count to a brisk walk.
Arthur did the same, falling beside the older man, "Can't believe we lost Davey too," Arthur's solemn words earned a look from Dutch.
"He's the last one, Arthur. No more," he ground out, "We need to get those people warm and fed."
"Least we don't need to worry about Pinkertons tailing us in this," Arthur spoke.
"A couple more days, we'll be on the other side," Dutch reassured as they rode on, "You need to help me pick the others back up. You're the only one I can rely on to stay strong right now."
Silence fell between them except for the roar of the wind or the groans from the trees. Several questions weighed upon his mind, "Any word on Sophia and Forrest?" Arthur finally asked, unable to contain his concern for his friend. The look in Dutch's eyes in a brief glance towards him didn't settle his uneasy mind, or unclench the fist that had a hold on his stomach. If anything, it made him feel worse.
Dutch shook his head, "No, not a thing. I didn't see anyone bringing up the rear when we got into town. From what I understand, they were the last to get out of Blackwater," Dutch nodded his head at a thought; "They're tough people, Arthur. They've always caught up with us after a bad situation."
Dutch's words eased his mind for the time being, "Yeah. Guess you're right. Soph and Forrest know what they're doin'." He echoed, following the trail beside Dutch.
The older man leaned forward in his saddle, "Wait, is that someone coming towards us?" Dutch questioned. Both men slowed their horses to a halt, eyes straining against the darkness despite the light from the lantern illuminating the first five feet ahead of them.
Arthur's kneejerk reaction to an unknown person approaching them was extreme caution. They couldn't take a chance on running into Pinkertons or O'Driscoll's—they'd be foolish to be in this weather. His hand rested on his pistol, ready to take whatever action was necessary while his other hand lifted the lantern higher to see whoever's face.
"You there," Dutch called out, "Who's there?"
The glow of another lantern appeared from the gray background as the figure slowly approached, revealing to be the newest member of the gang, Micah Bell. Arthur's nose wrinkled upon sight of the greasy looking bastard. One can say that he didn't fancy Mr. Bell or his antics—too much of a wild card.
Unpredictable, at best.
"Gentlemen," Micah greeted, reddened eyes swiveling between Arthur and Dutch.
"Find anything?" Dutch asked.
Micah nodded, "I think so. Found a little homestead down thataway."
"Okay," Dutch replied with a nod, pleased to hear of Micah's findings, "Anyone home?"
Micah tilted his head, "Sure," came his reply, "Place is blazing with light and noise. Sounded like a party."
"Let's go see," Dutch urged.
Micah gestured to the direction from which he came from, "Follow me." Turning his horse, he cleared his throat, "How's Davey doin?"
"Ah, he didn't make it," Dutch announced, his voice solemn with the news.
"That's too bad. Davey was a real fighter," Micah lamented, "Both of them Callander boys is, or…," he then snorted, "was."
"Yeah," Arthur agreed to the statement.
"And Mac and Sean?" Arthur heard him ask.
"We don't know," Dutch called back.
"What about Sophia and Forrest?" Dutch hollered to Micah, "Have you heard or seen anything?"
"No. Nothing. Last time I saw either of them was when we were hightailin' it out of Blackwater," Micah's voice cut through the wind, "Why? They ain't made it?"
"I'm afraid not," Dutch replied.
"They're a tough bunch—resourceful." Micah added.
"Indeed so!" Dutch chuckled, knowing how the Masons were.
"What a business," Micah joked, moments after silence had fallen.
"I'm glad you're alright, Micah," Dutch commented over the wind once again.
"Always," Micah hollered back.
The three of them ascended a slope, their horses easing their way further up and along the trail with an occasional whinny or snort in protest. Despite the small words of reassurance from Micah, Arthur felt the knot in his stomach worsen. Something bad had happened. It was a feeling he couldn't shake since this whole ordeal went down in Blackwater. He had known the Masons going on twenty-one years now. Aside from Dutch and Hosea, Forrest and Sophia were the closest people to him that he considered to be friends. Hell, they were damn near family. They had been with Dutch since the beginnings of the gang; a couple of years before he was even in the picture. Forrest's daughter, Sophia, had practically been raised in the group—much like he had been, as well as Marston.
Speaking of which, "Ask him if he's seen John!" Arthur hollered out to Dutch.
"Hey, have you seen John, Micah?" Arthur heard him ask.
"Didn't see much of anything once the storm came in," Micah reported.
"He hasn't seen anything," Dutch's voice volleyed back to Arthur.
"He'll be fine," He shouted back, "Things always turn out right for that boy."
"I hope…," Dutch's voice held hope in these turns of events, "Mac and Sean…Soph and Forrest—they're still out there somewhere too," Dutch said, "Move up, Arthur. I'll cover the rear."
Arthur dug his heels into the paint, riding alongside Dutch and the Count for a moment as they slowed down enough for him to gain enough momentum to be between him and Micah. Once again, silence was all but drowned out by the howling of the wind, the clinking of metal from their saddles, and the occasional snort from a horse. Coming upon the crest of the hill, they descended the slippery slope—even for the horses, it felt like a task on its own.
Nudging the paint further upon fairly even ground, he caught up to Micah, "Are you sure about this?" he questioned the man beside him.
"Mr. Morgan, I never thought I would be so pleased to see your face," came the man's reply, "Been kind of…lonely out here. Where's everyone else?"
"Old mining camp, back up the hill," Arthur spoke.
"Huddled around a fire waiting for daddy to put food on the table," Micah sneered out, "Like I said before, we've got too many mouths to feed."
"Well, we got a few less now, so you should be happy," Arthur countered with a disgruntled look towards the man.
Micah cornered his eye to him, "That ain't fair, Arthur. I earn my share." Upon reaching the crest of another hill, he slowed his horse down, "Okay, let's keep it down now, gentlemen. It's just up ahead."
Dutch and himself slowed their horses, able to see farther ahead for the time being as the silhouette of a homestead loomed down in a valley. If Arthur squinted hard enough, he thought he could make out the serpentine shape of a fence, winding around a barn a fair piece from the homestead and a shack almost beside the homestead. Would've been a fine home for anybody—even to him at one point in time, it would've been an ideal place for a family of his own. Those days, however, were no longer in the books for him. Like anyone on this god forsaken planet would ever want a man like him anyhow.
A gust of wind tugged at his hat, threatening to pull it off the top of his head. He took a hand, pressing it down firmly whilst muttering a curse under his breath, "Goddamn wind."
"Okay…" Dutch's voice cut the man from his thoughts, earning an inquisitive look on what his next move was going to be, "let's head down there." Taking the lead, Dutch headed down the slope as Micah and himself followed suit. The trail winded around, through a grove of trees before it opened up into a clearing where the three of them hitched their horses a short ways from the house. Music could be heard playing accompanied by stomping and laughter from inside, "Let me handle this, we don't wanna spook these fine people."
Dutch led the way, trudging through the snow with the lantern shining the way as Arthur and Micah followed close behind.
"Someone's having fun in there," Micah commented with a smug grin on his face.
Dutch glanced to the both of them, "You two, get yourself out of sight," he ordered, "One lonely man is a lot less intimidating than three nasty looking degenerates. Arthur, in that cattle shed on the left. Micah, get down behind that wagon in front."
Both men took positions in their respective areas as Dutch approached the front door of the homestead. Arthur's gut knotted up something fierce. It had been all day, feeling like it wasn't about to let up anytime soon. From in the cattle shed, he peered over the rail, watching his long time friend approach a potentially dangerous situation.
"Hello?" Dutch called out to the people inside the home. Abruptly, the music stopped. The laughter and stomping stopped, "Excuse me? Hello?"
A man finally came to the door, stepping out.
"Oh, well, hello friend," Dutch greeted the stranger cheerfully.
"What you want?" The stranger questioned, Arthur noted the hint of caution in the man's voice.
"I am very sorry to disturb you. Uh, my friend and I, well, we got into some…trouble up the way. Lost in the storm," he explained as another male stepped out behind the man Dutch was speaking with, "Ah, gentlemen."
"We can't help you," The stranger answered back, a warning in his voice.
Arthur caught sight of another man exiting from the side door. He pressed his lips in a thin line, glancing back to Dutch. If things went south, the odds were still pretty good.
"Arthur," Micah spoke quietly, "Arthur, we got a problem," something had spooked the man. He met the man's bewildered gaze, following his arm that had lifted up a cover, "There's a corpse right here." Arthur felt his stomach drop, "Arthur, there's a body in the wagon." Micah repeated.
"Yeah, I hear you," Arthur responded, keeping his voice low as he drew his pistol, "Keep your eyes on Dutch."
"I think you should go now, buddy," The man spoke, stepping closer to Dutch, "Holy shit, it's Dutch Van der Linde!"
"Shit," Arthur ground out, aiming his gun at the hidden man, firing. Micah followed suit, firing at the man that Dutch was speaking with. Dutch dove for cover behind the outhouse as all hell cut loose.
"Watch out! One up top in the window!" Dutch hollered out from his position, quickly ducking as the shooter fired, hitting a pile of wood nearby. Arthur aimed his pistol, firing it at the man. A pained yell escaped from the man as he fell from the window, slid down the roof of the porch, and collided with the ground in a heap—dead.
"God damn, bastards! You're dead now!" A man running out of the house said, firing his gun in all directions. Micah made quick work of him, catching sight of someone taking off.
"We've got a runner! You see him, Arthur?"
Another man ran from the side door, running up the trail in an attempt to get away. Leaving the cover of the cattle shack, Arthur had followed suit, pistol raised. Halting, he aimed, firing at the fleeing man. The rumbling echo of the last shot subsided, turning the homestead deathly quiet.
"Arthur, I said I'd handle this!" Dutch yelled out, angry that the plan didn't go as planned.
"Didn't seem to be going too well," he countered, coming back from behind the house.
"Goddamn, O'Driscoll's boys here?" Dutch swore, "Why?" He stepped out from behind the outhouse, shaking his head in disbelief.
Micah raised his arms, "I don't know maybe same reason as us!"
Dutch motioned his hand to the horses, "Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house," Dutch approached the steps of the porch, "Arthur, let's go search the cabin."
Upon entering the cabin, a wave of warmth greeted him like a cloak. The smell of cigarettes and liquor filled the air, as well as tinges of cooked food, "Smells like a party in here," he commented.
"Turn the place upside down, grab as many supplies as you can," Dutch said, rummaging through cabinets, "We need the essentials; food, medicine, and whisky."
Coming to a desk, Arthur picked up a cigar that had been left behind and a box of oatcakes, which reminded him that he was hungry. His stomach cramped and rumbled, earning an irritated groan, "I'm starving."
Dutch looked up from a cabinet to him, "You should eat something now. Get your strength up for the ride back."
Reaching back into his satchel, he took out an oatcake, biting into it as he walked over to the fireplace; eyes resting on the photographs that sat neatly in a row. He picked up one photograph in particular, humming in pity, "Looks like the poor bastard was married too, at some point."
"If we can't eat it or drink it, put it down," He heard Dutch say from behind. Setting the picture back down, Arthur then moved to some cabinets, searching through them. He found a few cans of beans and random vegetables, a jar or two of corn and a half a loaf of bread—it wasn't much in the house, considering that the inhabitants had eaten everything but those few items, "O'Driscolls, I don't believe it."
"It's a strange one alright," Arthur replied, "Maybe they're hiding up here too. There's a big price on Colm O'Driscoll's head…nearly as big as the one on yours."
Dutch let out a scoff, "Wanting Colm dead is about the only thing me and Uncle Sam agree on."
Arthur chuckled as he migrated over to a nook, searching through a cabinet on the wall, "Place is dry, and warm, we could maybe move the women and Jack down here." He placed a bottle of medicine in his satchel, peering over to Dutch as he spoke.
"Maybe," Dutch responded, "We'll have to see how they are when we get back. I don't really want us to split up."
Moving toward counter space, he stepped over a pool dark liquid, "Big old pool of blood on the floor here."
Dutch glanced to him, nodding, "I saw."
"Probably the poor bastard who lived here," He surmised, filling his satchel with canned biscuits, more cans of beans and fruit, "Micah found a dead body in the wagon outside."
"I'm going to start packing the horses—you keep looking," He waved his hand, gesturing to Dutch that he got the place covered. Here and there, Arthur would eat a bite or two of oatcakes or a slice of salted beef to settle his rumbling stomach, even snuck a swallow of bourbon that had been left unattended on the table as he passed by.
It helped, for now. Something had to give sooner or later to help put the group in a good place.
"Grab anything you think we can use, the meet me out here," Dutch added from outside.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, "I'm comin'." With one more look over, he felt like it had been thoroughly searched. Turning on his heel, Arthur all but readied himself to enter the blustery cold once again. Stepping out, Dutch was standing by the Count, loading the saddlebags with his findings.
"Micah, Arthur, keep looking for stuff," He let out a grunt, closing the flap to his saddlebag, "Arthur, go see if there's anything in that barn. Micah, go search the cabin, see what we missed."
"Sure," he replied with nod, falling into the overused trail by the now dead O'Driscoll's from the cabin to the barn. A horse within the barn whinnied and stamped, like something had spooked it—it could've been him, or someone else was in the barn. Opening the barn door, Arthur drew his pistol as a precautionary step, taking a few steps inside.
In the stable, a black paint stamped and shook its head, frightened. Arthur pitied the animal in the case of events—horses were a jittery creature to begin with. A sound from above caught him off guard, shortly being sent to the ground under the weight of the person that had jumped onto him; his gun flying out of his hand, his hat lying elsewhere. All that mattered was getting this person off of him, and sending him into the afterlife.
"You bastards shot my cousin!" The man, an O'Driscoll, shouted as he regained his footing after Arthur planted a well-placed kick into the man's side.
"Well, he started it," Arthur returned, standing up to face him.
The O'Driscoll's face contorted with anger, "I'm gonna break your neck!" He swung, missing Arthur by a mile, to which, he retaliated with a few swings that knocked the boy unbalanced.
"What's going on?" Dutch asked, leaning against the framing of the barn, watching the two men throw punches at each other.
Arthur quickly gained the upper hand, "The guy just jumped me," he grunted out, grabbing the man by the collar. His fist connected twice before throwing him to the ground.
"Oh, did he now?" Dutch chuckled.
The man lie on the floor, cowering for his life.
"Sneaky little bastard, should I kill him?" The man's eyes bugged out of his skull at the sound of Arthur's question.
"No," Dutch began, "Not yet. Find out what they're doing here and where Colm is."
"Oh this son of a bitch'll talk," Arthur grabbed the man by the collar without hesitation, sending a blow to the side of the man's face. After two more blows, he held the guy still, "Where's Colm O'Driscoll?"
"W-with the others," the man choked out, "At an old mining camp southwest of here, near the lake."
"What are you bastards doing?" Arthur's voice rumbled, "Why are you up here?"
"We're fixing to rob some train, gonna blow the track," he answered with a whimper. What a pathetic sound, "I don't know more than that, I swear!"
From behind, Dutch began chuckling at the news he'd just heard from the O'Driscoll boy, "Well, I would say it looks like you have this, Arthur. Do what you want with him, I don't care." There was a pregnant pause, "But bring that horse when you're done."
Arthur knew in his gut, if he'd spare the O'Driscoll he'd go running to Colm. Quite possibly tell him where he ran into them at, and commence a wider search—putting everyone in the gang in jeopardy. He couldn't take that chance.
The O'Driscoll had to die.
His hands wrapped around the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. There wasn't much of a struggle from him. He went pretty quick.
Straightening up, Arthur dusted off his hands. His gaze went to the floor in search of his pistol and hat, finding them a few feet away. Putting his hat back on, he bent over to pick up his pistol, holstering it before turning to the paint in the stall. He push a loud sigh through his nose.
The horse stamped and snorted, throwing its head back with a screech. Arthur held his hands up shushing the frightened creature, "Easy, boy." He approached the stall taking measured steps, pausing when it reared up halfway, "Woah, now. Easy, boy," Ever so slowly, he opened the gate, entering the stall when it began showing signs of calming down, "There ya go, boy. Nice an' easy," He placed a gentle hand on the stallion's neck, giving it a rub and a couple of pats; he took the reins, leading the horse out of the barn.
"Is that bastard still in there?" Dutch hollered from the porch.
"He's dealt with," he grunted out.
"Good," His voice held pride in it, "That looks like a decent horse, you should keep him. You need to hitch him. He's already skittish."
Arthur glanced to the horse, offering it another pat on the shoulder, "Good boy," he murmured to it, tying it to the hitching post nearby. Inside, there was sounds of stuff getting knocked over followed by a woman screaming.
"Get away from me!"
"Micah, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Dutch yelled, entering the home. Arthur followed suit, the woman inside still screaming. From across the table, there was a woman holding a knife while Micah stood on the other side grinning like a fool.
"Look what I found in the cellar!" he laughed out, "Wild thing aren't you?"
"Leave her alone!" Dutch ordered, while the two went around the table, trying to find an opening for either to grapple or to escape.
"I wasn't doing nothing," Micah replied, knocking over glasses from the table, "She's one of them O'Driscolls."
Dutch moved a hair, gesturing to the trembling woman in front of them, "No she ain't, Micah. Look at her! Miss, miss, are you…" Micah flipped the table from between them, knocking over a lantern that caught the floor on fire. The woman screamed in terror, "Oh, you fool, Micah!"
Micah went for the woman, until she came at him with a knife. He backed off, hands raised.
Arthur shook his head at the man, pushing him to the side.
"Miss, now it is gonna be okay," Dutch reassured her, "We mean you no harm," He raised his hands slowly, reaching for her shoulder and the hand holding the knife, "Miss! Miss…come on, it'll be okay," He observed the growing fire, "We need to get out of here, and quick," Dutch led the woman out, pulling a jacket around her as they exited the burning house, "Come on now. You alright miss?"
"They-they came three days ago," she choked out, "and my husband, they…they," sobs wracked her once more.
"Okay, miss. You are safe now…and you can't stay here," Dutch assured her, as the four of them turned, watching as the woman's home engulf in flames. The woman was dealt a bad hand; her husband was killed, she lost her home, she had nowhere to go.
"Come with us," She looked at Dutch, who had gestured to the man beside them, "Arthur."
Arthur stepped in behind them, taking a hold of Dutch's lantern and placed a hand on her shoulder, "Miss, it's okay, alright?" He walked her to the Count, "We're bad men, but we ain't them, so, it's okay." He handed Dutch the lantern, helping the woman onto the horse, "We'll keep you safe until you figure out what you want to do."
Mounting the horse from the barn, Arthur dug his heels in, urging him forward while leading the other horse loaded down with supplies.
"What's your name miss?" Dutch asked her. Silence. "Miss?"
"Adler," she croaked out.
"Adler?" He echoed.
"Sadie Adler…" she corrected, "Mrs…I…he…" she took a sharp breath, "He was my husband."
The ride back was tense.
Not a word was spoken again until they approached the familiar outline of their camp. A figure stood, watching.
"Hey, somebody's coming!" His voice yelled out, cocking the shotgun he held in his hands, "Looks like it's Dutch! Hey everybody, Dutch is back!"
Entering the camp, Hosea emerged from one of the buildings, "How'd you get on?"
"Micah found a homestead, but, he weren't the first," Dutch replied, handing his lantern to Lenny, "Colm O'Driscoll and his scum, they beat us to it," The group let out a sigh of dismay, "We found some of them there, but there is more about apparently," He grunted, dismounting from his horse while Hosea helped Sadie down, "scouting a train—thank you." He added as Charles took the Count, leading him to the hitching post.
"That's the last thing that we need, Dutch," Hosea prompted.
"Well, it is what it is," Dutch countered, "but we found supplies, some blankets, a little bit of food," He placed a hand on Sadie's shoulder, "and this poor soul, Mrs. Adler. Miss Tilly, Miss Karen would you warm her up? Give her a drink of something."
Tilly and Karen nodded as they began to usher Sadie into the building.
"And Mrs. Adler, it's gonna be okay, you're safe now," Dutch spoke after her, watching as they closed the door behind them, "They turned her into a widow. Animals." He let out a sigh, "I need some rest. I haven't slept in three days."
"You're over here," Mrs. Grimshaw spoke, gesturing to a building across from where Sadie went, "Miss O'Shea will show you the way. Mr. Morgan, we put you in a room over here," She gestured for him to follow her.
"Thank you Miss. Grimshaw," Arthur tipped his hat to her.
"Mr. Bell, you're with the fellers over there," Mrs. Grimshaw gestured to another building.
Micah looked over to it, glowering, "What? How come Arthur gets a room and I get a bunk bed to Bill Williamson and a bunch of darkies?"
"Get yourself to bed," Hosea told Micah as the group went to their respective areas.
Arthur found his way to the room that Mrs. Grimshaw set up for him, taking his hat off. Setting it to the side, he ran a hand through his hair, recollecting the events of the last three days. His body ached, his mind was swimming with exhaustion, his gut remained in knots. Though, as tired as he may have been, he was restless. There were people missing—important people missing. Two people had died and even to him, that was too many. The group was low on supplies and food.
He had to be the pillar of the group. He had to stay strong…for them. At least, that's what Dutch had told him.
Lying down on the bed, Arthur battled with his thoughts until he finally succumbed to sleep.
Lenny Summers stood vigilant in the bitter cold. He had been on guard for most of the night, first to alert everybody in camp if potential danger was to arrive. The young man stood near a small fire that had been lit in front of a building warming his hands and feet. The wind hadn't changed much since Dutch, Arthur, and Micah had returned.
A horse's whinny from the distance sent his heart into his throat.
His first thought was Pinkertons, but due to the wind distortion, he wasn't so sure. He took a few cautious steps closer; straining his eyes in the dark and the snow to ensure what he heard was indeed a horse.
Then he heard a snort, followed by the sounds of water sloshing indicating to Lenny that someone was indeed crossing the stream, "Hey! Someone's coming!" Lenny shouted loud enough to rouse everyone from their sleep. His eyes remained focused towards the sound, seeing the faint outline of a burly figure on top of a horse, "You there, stop!"
The figure didn't speak.
"I-I won't hesitate to shoot!" Lenny shouted, loading a bullet in the chamber of his lever action. He shouldered it, aiming, "I said stop!"
By now, doors had opened; Hosea, Dutch, Arthur, and the others had quickly gotten up from their beds, guns at the ready. In the light of the lantern, the horse drew closer so that any distinction on it could be recognized, earning a small gasp ushering from Lenny's lips, "It's Forrest's horse!" He called out, earning a series of what's or goddamn's, "Guys! It's Forrest! He made it!"
His smile faded. The figure on top of the horse swayed dangerously to the left, falling into the snow with a muted thud, causing him and a few other men to rush forward to check on their comrade. Lenny grabbed the reigns to the horse that had spooked by the sudden movement; also noticing a sled behind the horse containing something wrapped up in a bloodied white sheet.
"Shine us a light, Lenny, why don't ya?" Dutch barked out as he and Arthur Morgan pulled the thick buffalo hide down to see the person's face. Brushing the snow away, a hush fell in the group, earning concerned looks from the men, "Sophia?"
"If Sophia's ridin' Othello," Hosea murmured, his worried gaze fell to the sled behind the dapple stallion, "Then…" A sound left him that sounded like a short exhale of realization. There wasn't any need for words from him.
Forrest was dead.
Dutch bowed his head, jaw clenching in reverence of his dead friend, "Lenny, take Othello and hitch him with the rest of the horses and get him fed," His eyes fell on Arthur, who had Sophia in his arms, looking to him for direction, "Arthur, take Sophia in and get her warm now. Have Mrs. Grimshaw and the girls take care of her. She's not well."
"Will do," Arthur grunted out, wrapping the buffalo hide tighter around the unconscious girl, then rose to his feet, "What're we gon' do about Forrest?"
Dutch's gaze held on the sled, "As soon as this weather breaks, we'll give him and Davey a proper burial—they deserve it," He gestured to the building nearby where Mrs. Grimshaw was now standing, watching the men converse, "Now go on, get her warm and dry, Arthur."
The burly man nodded, saying nothing more as he slowly trudged back toward Mrs. Grimshaw, who was ready to take in whoever the unfortunate soul was.
"You think of that poor soul bringin' her father's corpse this far," Dutch's voice rumbled in his chest, "Three days. Three. Damn. Days."
Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder, "She must've felt that this was a better option than to leave him."
Dutch nodded, "You're right, Hosea. Those…goddamned animals would've dragged his body around before letting the buzzards eat him," Dutch spoke intensely, "No more. God as my witness, we won't lose any more good people."
A/N: This wraps up the first chapter!
What's everybody's thoughts and even expectations? I'd love to hear them! I'll do my best to try and post a chapter once every week, by the end of the week-however, it could be longer due to what goes on in my life outside of writing. I look forward to hearing input from everyone! I hope everyone also has a happy holidays! Much love from me to y'all!