Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

John: 19

Arthur: 27

Mac and Davey: 29

Dutch: 38

Uncle: immortal by the sheer power of lumbago


Uncle and Abigail Roberts

1893


"Nice and easy, boys," said Dutch. A casual smile lingered in his face. Rather like Arthur, bank jobs always put him in a good mood. "Just trust. Everyone know what they're doing? Davey and Mac, you handle the patrons and collect charitable donations. John, you keep time and watch the windows — remember, six minutes clean. Arthur, you come with me to the vaults."

Dutch stopped them all across the street from the bank. John looked up at the sign and fingered his prized revolver.

"Scared, kid?" asked Arthur with a smirk.

John flushed and spluttered, eventually spitting out a, "Never!"

"That's enough, boys," snapped Dutch. "Arthur, you're getting a bit old for me to slap you. And John, it's natural to be worried—"

"I ain't worried," said John. His eyes flickered over the Callandar brothers. Arthur knew what he was thinking. Davey, Mac, and himself were strong, built like bulls, with years of experience on him. It was one of the few ways Arthur felt he was able to pull one over on the kid, when everything else came so easily to him.

"You shouldn't be," drawled Arthur. "Knowing your luck, the bank manager will start bleeding fifties when you shoot him."

"If only," said Davey.

A few streets down, a commotion began. Shrieks and whistles echoed in the clear blue sky. Above it all, Arthur could make out Hosea's desperate voice calling for help.

Dutch grinned. "Oh, I do love Hosea's artistry. Masks on, boys."

Arthur and the rest pulled up their bandanas and unholstered their guns. The familiar work of a bank job put Arthur in a good mood, all the better that he got to see the kid shake in his duster.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery," called Dutch. He put a bullet into the ceiling as he crossed to the bank teller, Arthur hot on his heels. The patrons shrieked and fell to the ground. "If all goes well today, everyone will leave with their lives and we will leave with the money."

Davey and Mac started hassling the patrons and John pinned himself to the windows. Rich folk, in town for some famous historical fair, quivered in their lace and threw what they had at the bandits.

Dutch pressed the barrel of his gun to the bank manager's head. "Now, if you would be so kind as to show my boy to your vaults, gentleman," he said.

"One minute," shouted John.

Arthur grabbed the manager by the scruff of his collar as Dutch pawed through the desk drawers. Once in the back office, Arthur hurled the manager at the safe door. He crashed and fell to his knees with a groan.

"Open up," Arthur growled at man.

He twiddled at the dial, shaking so hard his glasses fell off his face. He screamed and picked them up, shielding his head with his hands. Arthur sighed and put a bullet in the wall next to his head.

"I—I'm so sorry," blubbered the manager.

"Too damn slow!" shouted Arthur.

"Two minutes!" came Marston's thin voice. "Shit! No more time! Dutch!"

A sinking cold fell in Arthur's stomach and he took his gun off the manager. Even Marston wasn't so stupid as to use their names when they put their masks on.

"What's wrong?" he yelled back.

Shrill police whistles answered him before Dutch did.

"We gotta go, son."

Arthur cursed and ran back to the open hall. They all stared, open-mouthed out the windows. John was milk white and trembling beside Dutch. The Callanders hugged the wall, clinging to their sacks of loot. Over two dozen cops stood outside the windows, guns aimed at them. Hosea and the girls were nowhere in sight.

"What went wrong with Hosea?" hissed Davey.

"He's never fucked up before," said Mac.

Dutch shook his head, a plan spinning behind his eyes. But Arthur already knew there were no other exits or windows, aside from the one the bluecoats waited for them outside.

"This is your last chance!" one of the cops shouted. "Come out with your hands up, or we'll come in!"

"Arthur, did you hurt the bank manager?" asked Dutch urgently.

"Scared him pretty bad but didn't even hit him yet," said Arthur.

Dutch nodded and pulled down his bandana. "I say we surrender," he said.

"Have you lost it?" snapped Mac.

"Careful, boy," said Dutch in that warning voice of his. "You wanna shoot and die a bank robber's death, that's fine by me. But I wanna live. Trust me, boy, I have a plan."

xXx

"Do you have a new plan?" asked Arthur wearily.

Dutch hung his head and Arthur wished he could take the jibe back.

The five of them, closely followed by Hosea, took to the gallows, hands cuffed before them. They had barely spent an hour in a prison cell before the bank patrons had ratted and said one of the boys had called him "Dutch" as in, the nefarious wanted outlaw, Dutch van der Linde and his gang.

Marston and his big fucking mouth.

Whatever Dutch's grand plan was for escaping police custody had gone up in smoke, and they faced a line of nooses at the dusk gallows. Not a single one of them cried or fought, but the mournful silence was even worse. Dutch had frazzled hopelessly as ideas came and went: guards who failed to be bribed, the sturdy cell doors, and even the heavily armed escort provided no opportunity. The assembled crowd tuttered and jeered, an odd combination of local working girls and farmers as well as curious richer dogoods.

The clergyman clutched a bible to his chest at the end of the row. "Fair ladies and gentlemen," he said in a vibrating heavy voice, "it is justice what separates man from beast, yet sometimes, justice too must be bestial…"

"Colm has walked to the noose before," hissed Dutch, his eyes flickering over the crowd.

"What, you think the reverend will save us all?" said Arthur from the corner of his mouth.

Dutch clenched his jaw, his brow furrowing. But Arthur had a feeling he had no more plans. Arthur was ready and resigned to die. If there was no way out and this was the end, he figured they had had a good run. He had a good life. Just more of a shame the others had to go down with him too.

"Dutch van der Linde!" called the clergyman. "Your sins and crimes are without count. You have been a wanted man — murder, arson, robbery, theft — for over two decades and it is not enough to damn yourself, but to lead children astray. Your sentence, as it has always been, is to be hung by the neck until dead."

The nearest policeman knotted the rope around Dutch's neck. Arthur struggled against his own handcuffs.

"May God have mercy—What the devil?"

Several of the prostitutes broke out into a scrap, pulling hair and shrieking bloody murder at each other. From somewhere beyond the crowd, a gun went off. Arthur heard the bullet whizz by and he ducked. The clergyman and cop beside Dutch collapsed, bloody and silent.

The Callander boys broke into action, slamming the rest of the police off the gallows stage. More bullets bit into the wood behind them, but Arthur couldn't tell who was shooting what. The crowd screamed and scattered. Arthur crouched low, picking through the guards pockets for a key. Heart racing, he unlocked himself and pulled the rope off Dutch.

"What the hell was that?" he called over the commotion.

"God having mercy on our souls," gasped Dutch. "Come on!"

They wrangled the others out of their restraints and ran off the stage. There wasn't enough of a crowd to lose themselves in and, despite the shrieking whistles, policemen could be coming from any direction. They stood, scrambling for an idea for precious few moments.

"Come on!" called a hoarse voice. "Over here!"

In a darkened alley, a paunchy older man with a thick grey beard beckoned from an open door. Gratefully, Arthur and the others followed him inside. The smell of whiskey and perfume greeted them. A brothel, all but empty, a cheap one by the looks of the girls who stared smugly at them.

The old man whooped and led them to a chipped wooden table, wrangling chairs from across the room to fit them all. "Helluva day," he said. "Anyone want a drink?" He tossed a beat up revolver on the table.

"Thank you, friend," said Dutch, still panting. "That would be mighty kind of you."

The old man went behind the bar and filled a set of glasses, each with a generous amount of liquor. When he came to sit down, he drank straight from the remainder of the bottle. Arthur drained his in one swallow.

"Greedy bastard, ain't you?" The old man chuckled and refilled his glass.

"Well, under normal circumstances, I would introduce us," said Dutch. "Not to sound presumptuous, but I feel you already know who we are."

The old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Everything about him was filthy, from the dirt crusted in his hair to the greyish ratty farmer's clothes he wore. "Not a clue," he said cheerfully. "I don't much listen to pastors. Puts me to sleep, it does."

"I'm John—" Marston stopped abruptly when Dutch raised his hand.

"Excuse me, then," said Dutch, fixing the man with a hard look, "but why then did you risk your neck to save us?"

"You were those bank robbers, eh?" said the old man. "Damn good time for a robbing, too. I'm afraid I might've messed that one up for you. Got into a bit of a disturbance with the girls out on Flag's Street, right by the bank. Mucked up your distraction right fast." He pointed his glass at Hosea with a toothless smile. "Good plan, I hears it. One of the girls told me."

"You risked your life to save a bunch of criminals you helped get captured?" asked Arthur, astounded. "The law would've given you the bounties on all our heads."

"I've no need of money," said the old man. He spoke to his bottle in a mumble. "Just wanna be part of the action again, that's all."

"Well, that was an excellent distraction," said Hosea in a shaky voice. "Could not have been better timed."

Dutch nodded his agreement. "I suppose we can stay here until dark, then slip off?"

The old man waved a hand. "Of course, of course," he said. "We need to wait for Abi, anyways."

Dutch raised an eyebrow. "Who's Abi?"

"My girl," he said. He laughed. "More my niece, really. She's had a rough ol' time here and, shoot, if I'm getting the chance to leave this mudhole, then she's coming with me."

"You're… coming with us?" asked John.

"Just call me 'Uncle', Johnny boy."