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

Bill: 26

Dutch: 39

Hosea: 50

Bill Williamson

1894

"How are you feeling?" asked Dutch.

Hosea rolled his eyes at the critical, repetitive question. "Same as ever."

They hitched their horses at the posts before the general store. A new state, a new town waiting for them to pluck it clean. Well, old town. Ten years ago, it had been the frontier, a few shacks at the base of the northern Grizzlies. Now, it was settled. Full of shiny brick buildings with cobble streets running between them and a newfangled theatre that showed moving pictures. World was changing fast.

"Has the mountain air not helped at all?" persisted Dutch. "Your cough is all but gone."

Hosea nodded reluctantly. Raised on the mountains, he always felt wretched when they dropped too low in altitude or went too far south. Still, moving so frequently up and down cliff sides wasn't easy on any of them — the women packing up and tearing down, the men looking for jobs, his back. He dug his hands into his pockets and rolled his shoulders, searching for a position to ease the ache.

Dutch didn't miss a trick, as ever.

"What's wrong now?" he asked. But rather than exasperation, it was the concern in his voice that struck him deep.

Hosea sighed. "Age," he said at last. The cursed word hadn't been said between them since Hosea's back started aching ten years past. "I've turned fifty, my friend. I don't know how many more years I'm going to last like this."

Dutch turned his eyes to the road and chewed on his thoughts. "We almost have enough," he said bitterly.

Hosea pursed his lips tight. The two of them had been saying that for nearly as long as his back had pained him. The more members their little gang had acquired, the more ambitious and profitable jobs were. But then, things changed. Money was lost, former members robbed them, the land they wanted was sold, the crooked realtor they used was killed. Ten years of "almost" and a hundred setbacks.

"I just want to see our people safe before I go," said Hosea plainly. "That's all."

"And I'll see it done. I promise you, old friend."

"Old?" repeated Hosea with a wry smile.

Hosea brought them up onto the sidewalk and found himself a mark. Thinning hair, thick spectacles, open overcoat. Gleam of chain within.

"You do have some nerve, boy," continued Hosea as he stormed ahead, eyes turned back on Dutch's smirk. "Calling me old when you-" He walked straight into the man. His practiced hand slipped into the coat and unclasped the chain, swinging the watch into his palm.

"Oh, sorry," he threw over his shoulder, brushing past him.

Dutch and Hosea rounded the next corner and Hosea tossed him the watch. "Calling me old when I still can't teach you how to do that," he said smugly. "Real gold, engraved with initials P.W., perfect condition."

Dutch ran a thumb over it, jaw clenched in aggravation. "Very nice," he admitted. "But the initials lower the resale value for any fence worth having." He nodded with his hat to a pair across the street. "At least I can do that proper."

Despite the high sun, a stumbling drunk accosted a prostitute in an alley. Hosea considered himself lucky he had never been forced to attempt that ruse. While the prostitute may have genuinely sold themselves, it was clearly not a woman, but another man. He reached a slow slender hand to the back pocket of the drunkard.

"You caught me trying a basic pocket grab fifteen years ago," reminded Hosea.

The prostitute-thief snatched a billfold from the pocket, his hand disappearing into the satchel on his shoulder. Gotten what he was looking for, he shrieked and smacked the other man full in the face. The drunk stumbled against the wall, frowning.

"Whada I do, though?" he hollered after the thief, as he turned away in a huff, money grabbed, escape made.

"Sixteen years ago." Dutch sighed. "Take some off the top for me, would you?"

Hosea grimaced. Judging by the state of the thief's makeup and hair, he had been at it all night, and if he were as clever about picking his marks as he was now… "I'll see what he has," said Hosea.

Dutch hung back as Hosea tailed the thief.

"Oh, ma'am!" he called, plastering on his most charming smile.

The thief turned back, a flash echoing in his eyes. A flash Hosea knew all too well. It was the only true benefit to getting old. His blonde hair had given way to grey some years ago, wrinkles creasing his eyes and face. Combined with the smile he had perfected as a runaway teen, most thought him harmless. It was particularly advantageous to stealing from other thieves, who saw little more than an easy old mark.

"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "I'm sure you're not feeling to kindly about men, but I wanted to make sure you were alright."

The thief smiled. How could anyone think this a woman? Under the long hair and makeup, the bone structure was all wrong, the size of the hands. The lopsided breasts. "It's… It's just another ratty customer," he said. The crusty voice. "Are you new in town, mister?" he purred.

Hosea couldn't hold back the cringe as he stuttered. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I'm a married man, I—"

The thief laughed. "That's alright," he said. "Let me show you around town. A woman like me learns a lot about it when walking around."

"That's mighty fine of you, ma'am," said Hosea.

He inclined his head and, as they walked, he put a hand on the small of his back. Every few steps, Hosea would take his pressure off so it wouldn't be so unusual when he removed his hand for a few seconds. The thief edged closer, making the job far easier.

"And that there is Mr Calloway, the butcher. A strong man like you, I bet you're a hunter. The men tell me he pays fine prices for rabbits. Rabbit season never ends here, he says.."

Hosea slipped his hand into the satin satchel and resisted the urge to compliment the young thief on his night of work. Great many billfolds, with icy metal clips holding them together. In a town like this, they were likely steel, but no matter. A few plain rings. Few more watches, one so scuffed it was barely worth taking. He caught a pair of rings and three billfolds on his way out. He glanced his hand on the thief's back again before passing the goods behind his back and into his far coat pocket. He chanced it again when they turned down another secluded street, fishing out a few more treasures.

Yep. He still had it.

Hosea smiled when he felt the thief disturb his left pocket. It was empty.

As he thought, the thief brought their tour to an abrupt end. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've gotta get back to my friends," he said stiffly.

Hosea tipped his hat. "And I mine."

Humming to himself, Hosea retraced his steps to the alley he left Dutch in. At every corner he turned, he counted out another billfold. One hundred twelve dollars in total, four steel clips, one engraved with silver, a silver pocket watch, two gold wedding rings, and a silver. Two hundred dollars, then. For a few minutes work.

Not bad for an old man.

Dutch lingered in a doorway before a red brick shop and alley, as out of place as ever in his pristine blacks. He leaned against the walls, trading words with the drunken man who had been robbed. The drunkard looked like he belonged in the alley far more than Dutch. A flannel shirt, only one sleeve pushed up, work pants and a scraggly brown beard muddied from falling down. He sat at Dutch's feet on the steps.

"Ah, my friend the lawman returns to us," said Dutch with a broad smile. "Kindly give Mr Williamson back his money."

Already apprehensive about what story Dutch had been spinning in his absence, Hosea fished out a scratched steel billfold containing nine dollars and handed it over. The drunkard smiled up at him with glazed eyes.

"Thanks, mister," he said.

"Mr Williamson was in the military," said Dutch.

He and Hosea traded a pointed look and, not for the first time, Hosea wished they could communicate by telepathy. He knew they needed more guns, especially since every hornet's nest they kicked up seemed to contain another bloodbath. That Mexican was clever enough, sharp and loyal and skilled. But… they were hardly this desperate. Were they?

"Is that so?" asked Hosea in a cold voice. "Then, what led Mr Williamson to leave his service?"

"Murder," said Dutch cheerfully.

"'S only attempted," muttered Williamson.

"Dutch."

"Hosea?" Dutch raised his eyebrow in the way that told Hosea he had already made up his mind.

"Let's be reasonable about this," he said. "We need—"

"I do regrets what I did," wailed Williamson. The deep sorrow of a man drowning in drink clung to his words. "But, there's a time and a place for the killings. What we was doing to those Indians wasn't human. I told the captain — I told him but… It weren't right." He groaned, grinding his palms into his eyes. "Captain had a wife and kids and it weren't right to take away their daddy. So I couldn't do it. I left. Rather than shoot more redskin kids."

"See," said Dutch, beaming. "Limits, a sense of morality, a solid background in military training—"

"We don't need another Swanson," snapped Hosea. "One weeping drunk is all this gang can handle."

Williamson sniffed. "I can give up the bottle, mister. Mr Dutch said he could give me something more."

Hosea sucked his teeth. Dutch's dark eyes glittered at him.

"See, Hosea? And loyalty."