Fun fact, this chapter is set 99 years before my best friend's birthday. What a coinky-dink.

So, 5 more chapters after this. This is pretty much the mid-way point for the series. I mean, all things have got to end and I don't want this thing to end up jumping the shark… though, let's face it, I'd love to write lil' sit-com things, like Charlotte using Rune's knife and losing it and comes up with whacky shenanigans to try and find it…

Anyhoo, strange tangent over. Enjo!

Strawberry, WE

22nd September, 1905

A wet, muddy town. Similar to Valentine, but with a near-constant drizzle, Strawberry was averse to moonshine. One of the only dry states left in the South, Strawberry was a rickety wooden town and prided itself on civilization, decorum and good ol' fashioned, up-standing American morals. Whereas other towns boasted a saloon and cathouse, Strawberry only housed a hotel in the depths of the pinewood.

Walking down the only road away from the general store was Aiden, Jay and Alice, with the former pulling the leather satchel over his shoulder, his left hand resting on the rough leather – guarding it.

"Not like you, McKneil… usually more people are dead."

"Look who's talking…" Aiden replied.

Alice mockingly gasped. "Was that a joke, McKneil? I didn't know you could joke!"

"Shut up…"

"Hand on my heart, honest! I always assumed you'd end up biting your own tongue off!" Aiden rolled his eyes and walked on ahead, leaving Alice behind with Jay, who stared determinedly away from her. "C'mon, Jay, I thought you were a lil' less dour than sour-face."

Jay furrowed his brother. "I ain't dour."

"Aw…" Alice cooed, "do you even know what dour means?" She pinched his cheek, and Jay flapped her hand away. "It's okay, lil' bandito…"

The trio came closer to the wagon, where Sam began to straighten up and step towards them, but, a moment later, two men walked between them. They slowed to a halt and faced the three outsiders, one of them holding a rifle, the other a revolver. Both of them had a rusted Sheriff's star on their chest.

"Y'all havin' a good day?" The rifleman said.

"Just fine." Aiden nodded.

"We seen you before?"

"Me?" Aiden asked. "No, sir."

"Well, I know her for certain…" The old Sheriff with the rifle pointed at Alice.

"What, in ya dreams?" Alice asked, unimpressed.

"In my office…" The Sheriff frowned, scratching his chin. "What's your name, miss?"

"This is, uh…" Aiden glanced to Alice, "my friend's wife." He gestured to Jay.

"My wife?" Jay's eyes grew wide.

"Well, I ain't gonna call her your whore!" Aiden replied sharply before turning back to the lawmen. "She's called Genevieve Simmons."

"Genevieve Simmons?" The old Sheriff frowned.

"Nah." Alice spat onto the ground. "My name is Alice MacKenzie."

The Sheriff nodded slowly, pointing a finger at her. "You're the one most'a these folks 'round here call turncoat."

"What? Who?"

"Mama Watson and her boys."

"Oh, that's nice," Alice nudged Jay in the arm, "I ain't never had a nickname before…" She looked back to the Sheriff. "They're still alive and kickin', then?"

The Sheriff spat out tobacco. "You shot the Sheriff and his deputy three years back."

Alice held up a finger in thought. "I… no, it was just the deputy."

"Y'know, there's a price on your head, girl?" The Sheriff approached with his deputy. "Four and a half thousand dollars."

Jay whistled.

"You should ask for more," Alice said.

"It's enough."

The corner of Alice's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Worth your life?"

"Woman…" Aiden hissed.

"Dead or alive, girl!" The Sheriff cocked the lever of his rifle.

Alice chortled and strolled forwards, holding her hands up. "Alright…"

"Alice!" Aiden hissed.

"Please, take me in!" Alice said loudly. "P-please, sir, 'fore I piss m'self right here and now!"

The Sheriff frowned, turning his head to look at his deputy and as soon as he did, Alice drew one of her silver Schofield revolvers. Then the other. She fired one. Then the other. A lawman fell. Then the other.

"Jesus Christ!" Aiden went for Alice, but bullets cracked across the town and people screamed and howled as lawmen filed out of the Sheriff's office, armed with rifles. Aiden grabbed Jay by the collar and pulled him back to the left, behind a small building. He looked across to see Sam behind the post office on the other side of the road, and in the middle of the road, both revolvers drawn and leaning out of the way bullets, was Alice. "You've lost your mind, woman!" Aiden shouted.

"Just sport, moody-bones!"

"Sam!" Aiden took the satchel from his shoulder and hurled it across the road. It landed behind Sam, slapping into the wet sludge. "Get Alice! Get back to camp!"

"I can fight-"

"Take the goddamn money! And get her outta here- leave this to folk who can handle it!"

Sam ran towards Alice and began to tug on her sleeve, trying to pull Alice back. Aiden groaned and glanced to Jay.

"You and me, hermano." Jay clicked back the blue-steel hammers of his revolvers and moved out into the centre of the street. One of the men bolted towards him, but Jay knelt down in the mud, aiming high with one of his revolvers. A gunshot later, the man's head was caught in the air as his legs flung out forwards from beneath him. A trail of smoke twisted out from the barrel of Jay's revolver as he turned to fire at the rest. Aiden came to his side, wielding his blackened-steel Cattleman and his scuffed-silver Packenbush.

Sam and Alice clambered onto their horses and began to gallop out of town, deep into the rainy forest. Aiden glanced to Jay. "Keep shootin' at 'em!" Aiden holstered his revolvers and wrapped a hand around the antler-hilt of knife, drawing it to cut at the lashings of the horses at the wagon. Aiden pulled on the reins of the horses, leading them over to Jay and shushing them. "Ready, Jay?"

Jay glanced over his shoulder to the horse before turning back to see a half-dozen of the citizens grabbing their guns. Jay twirled his revolvers and continued firing until both cylinders had nothing but shell casings. He twirled the revolvers back into his holsters, admiring his own handiwork at corpse-making before mounting the horse and galloping off with Aiden.


In the desert kissed by the setting sun, with winds whistling through the dirt and the sand, a silent creature slithers forth, its head gently raised above the ground as it sorts its way through the shrubs and sparse specks of grass.

A skinny, slight snake, painted with a blue and silver stripe, slows as it sees a dessert cotton-tail. Skinny and sniffing at some desert wildflowers. The snake's forked tongue slithers out of its mouth across the stones as it quietly inches its way forwards, rearing its head upon the rabbit's back.

The rabbit pauses, looking up into the sun out of interest. Looking for food, maybe? It matters not to the snake, who coils into itself before springing forwards and sinking its fangs deep into the soft grey fur, bleeding clear venom into the rabbit's veins.

The rabbit kicks out and tries to run, but falls onto its side, growling softly as the snake hisses out some air, watching the rabbit gently tire, its heart beating rapidly until it finally retires.

Time to feast.


The wagon rumbled along the wet dirt in the Bayou Nwa of Lemoyne. Slapping the reins against the horses was the giantess, Ambrosia. The scars on her cheeks were still raw from her own whips. The malaka

Next to Ambrosia was Elias Harper, swaying from side to side as he gulped down a swig of shine. "Y'know…" Elias cleared his throat and wiped his mouth dry. "In a sense… we're all equal in America." Ambrosia let out a small scoff. "Listen: the Irish, the spics, negroes, Indians- the Greeks…" Elias slapped Ambrosia on the shoulder. "All of 'em are treated like… like peasants! And the 'Mericans are like Lords in their castles. So, in a way… we're all equal – cos the 'Mericans are all jumped-up bastards."

Ambrosia nodded slowly. "You're the worst drunk I know."

Elias snorted, "Who else do you drink with?"

Ambrosia glanced to Elias. It was true, she didn't drink in saloons. Every now and then folk would visit the shack and have a drink, though most of them didn't talk to her. If she was younger, maybe she'd ask them why they looked at her like that. But she had dealt with the looks and the jokes and the names for four years (more or less).

The was a loud rattle and a crack and Ambrosia fell off the wagon, landing face-down in the mud.

"Ah, malaka…" Ambrosia growled, pushing her face out of the mud and slamming a fist into the mud angrily.

"Having trouble there?" Elias called from the seat on the wagon. He glanced to the back wheel of the wagon, which had fallen off. "I think there's a problem with the wheel."

"You think?" Ambrosia stood up, wiping the mud down on her pants – failing to do anything else but rub it in deeper. She walked towards the wheel and slowed to a halt. The fog produced two shadows on horseback.

Cantering forwards until they came into sight: One was a lean man, black-bearded and clad in a suit and derby hat. Beside him was another figure, dressed in a suit jacket with rounded cuffs and more buttons – a woman's coat. A brunette with a pretty face. Then again, they were all pretty compared to Ambrosia.

"Mr. Elias Harper?" The woman's voice shouted. "Mr. Elias Harper, that you up there?"

Elias climbed up to stand on his wagon. "Who's askin'?"

"Agent Jones, Pinkerton Detective!" She called back to him.

"Pinkertons?" Elias picked up a tattered satchel (with a strap that was made more of rope than leather) and cavalierly tugged it across his chest. "What can I do for you?"
"You can tell us 'bout the Rune Brody gang."

"That remains to be seen," Elias shrugged, hopping down off the wagon and walking across the mud to the two detectives. "I ain't much in the business of discriminating against my fellow man. Least of all in favour of appeasing the bourgeoisie."

"We ain't French?" The man beside Jones frowned.

"This ain't nothing to do with rich and poor, Mr. Harper," Jones dismounted her horse, "this is 'bout good and evil, plain and simple."

"You think they aren't the same?" Elias turned his head to the side.

"We've not a problem with you, Mr. Harper; continue slinging your shine – we know that money ain't funding Martelli's boys in Saint Denis, so we're more than happy to leave you to it. But you know as well as I do that those men you're working with are killers. So…" Jones held out her hands. "You want to tell me what you know about them?"

Elias glanced over to Ambrosia and raised his eyebrows before pulling a cigarette out of his carton and patting down his light brown leather jacket for matches. "You got any- wait…" He found them in the pockets of his jeans.

"What, do you want money?" The agent beside Jones asked. Ambrosia's round, green eyes flickered to Elias, waiting to see his reaction. He removed his lit cigarette and blew on the embers.

"I ain't doing this for the money," Elias said simply, "and I ain't doin' it for power neither. Thing is…" Elias dipped a hand into the satchel, "I just ain't about to lie down and die for the bourgeoisie."

Elias produced a stick of dynamite with a long thin fuse, which he lit with his cigarette. He looked to Jones and smiled, holding the dynamite up beside his face.

"Have you lost your mind, man?" Winters shouted.

"Quite a while ago, I recall."

"You're willing to kill us all here?"

Elias shrugged, puffing on his cigarette as he watched Jones' eyes watch the spark edge closer to the crooked stick of dynamite. Jones took several steps back and mounted her horse, galloping back with Winters.

Elias plucked the fuse from the stick of dynamite, tossing it onto the ground and placing the stick back into his bag. He looked over to Ambrosia and walked over to her, stretching his arms. "Well, when you're ready, Rosie…"

So, hope you all enjoyed! One thing I wanna state, just straight off – that snake is not relating to the Pinkertons, Ambrosia OR Elias. While I did base it off someone in the story, I also like writing these little nature shots just because it's reflective of the theme of the series – the Old West is ending, these creatures lost a lot of their homes – much like our loveable gang of misfits and rogues.

Okay, so I can't remember who started this (I think it was my guy, motordog) but I wanna keep this going, so I wanna put forth a song for a character who was in this story. I really really miss writing Matty Donnelly. A song that reminds me of him is actually from Red Dead Redemption 2 – the camp song, O Mollie. I'd suggest looking up CamillasChoice's cover, which she calls Rye Whiskey.

So, leave a review – I am always accepting characters. Pinkertons are always fun to write and, thanks primarily to Lawrence Cartwright, I think most of you are seeing Pinkertons as something other than the villains. 'Cos in the end, there's good and bad on every side. BUT, if you really want to send in a character, send in one for Guido Martelli's syndicate – I'm planning to revolve an entire instalment/phase around them.

R.