Leaves falling, red, yellow, brown, all look the same

And the love you had found lay outside in the rain

Washed clean by the water but nursing its pain

The witch's promise was coming

And you're looking elsewhere for your own selfish gain

Keep looking, keep looking for somewhere to be

Well, you're wasting your time, they're not stupid like he is

Meanwhile leaves are still falling, you're too blind to see.

Jethro Tull

Beaver Hollow was in a state of active dismantling when Rane and Arthur rode back into camp. What was more, it was markedly emptier than when they'd been there last, just before the train job. There were perhaps five horses tethered, and the only one to be seen about on a glance was Micah Bell, shouting out orders to the remaining folks, striding around with his hands linked in his belt.

"Where is everyone?" Rane murmured, glancing around.

"Lit out, I bet," Arthur replied, matching her tone. "Even rats leave a sinkin' ship."

"Hurry up, Miss Grimshaw!" Micah was crowing, staring around him imperiously. "Get this camp movin', now. Quick like. Get them bags packed up."

"Well, we're doin' our best!" Susan cried from the other side of camp. She was evident only by the back of her dress, as she was bent over in a tent, rifling through a pile of clothes left over by someone. Tilly, maybe. "Hold your goddamn horses, Mister Bell."

"Well, hurry up. We ain't got long."

"We just got plenty of time, Micah," said Arthur loudly, dismounting his horse and striding forward. "Just plenty."

"Black lung. You're back. Hooray." Micah's voice was level and sardonic. "What a surprise. And with your little squaw hot on your heals, at usual. Pretty and dumb, the both of ya. What a match."

"You're gonna charm the pants right off of us if you're not careful," said Rane dryly, sliding off Eli.

Micah linked his hands in his belt, standing in the middle of camp and watching them. "Can we help the happy couple with somethin' in particular or are you gonna pull your weight for once and get us moved?"

"Where is everyone?" asked Rane.

"Fled," said Micah, laughing. "Couldn't handle the heat."

"Who's fled?" said Arthur sharply.

"Shit, I dunno. Tilly, the Reverend, Mary Beth, Karen, bunch of others. Who gives a shit? Cowards, the lot of 'em, I say good riddance."

Arthur sighed, glancing at Rane. "The Reverend," he muttered. "Guess that puts that idea to bed."

Rane shrugged, shaking her head. It sucked, sure, but tying the knot could wait, especially now.

"That's the last thing we should be worrying about," she said. She turned to Micah. "Where's Dutch?"

Both Rane and Arthur saw the guarded expression that fell over Micah's features at this, like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Up yonder near the cave. Why?"

"Because I think we all need to have a little chat," said Arthur roughly, tying his steed to the hitching post.

"Dutch is busy, Black Lung, why don't you go wring your dick out someplace else, let the adults handle things for a -"

"If I was you, I'd shut the hell up," said Rane, leveling a finger at him. "You're already neck deep in shit as it is, my friend."

"The hell you on about, Eyebrows?"

Arthur was striding past Micah, his gait loping and slow. Rane followed him, brushing past Micah, one hand caressing the hilt of her sword, edgy and uneasy. She could feel Micah's eyes following both of them. Dutch was standing idly at the mouth of his tent, habilimented as ever, hands on his hips, watching the horizon with an expression of distracted satisfaction. Like a man who'd just enjoyed an especially good stack of pancakes or something, Rane thought. Half of his flock had flown the coop, his small empire was crumbling around his ears, yet here he stood, straight-backed, borderline sanguine. The gold on his vest glittered in the low light as the rain continued to patter gently and incessantly down around them.

He's as crazy as Nero and he's burning his Rome to the ground the same damn way, Rane thought, watching his profile. And unless we wanna go up in flames with him, we have to be so careful. So careful, now.

"I just saw Agent Milton, Dutch," said Arthur stridently. His gate was unsteady, but his voice wasn't. "Rane here killed him. Not that you care too much about that."

Dutch turned at the sound of his voice, hands still lingering on his hips, meeting Arthur's eyes with his own. He didn't look particularly surprised to hear this, despite the fact that Milton had been hounding him for months. Despite the fact that Milton had gunned down Hosea Matthews, his best friend for better than two decades. Rane felt another little tremor of uneasiness pass through her.

"Alright," said Dutch, nodding. "That's fine, Arthur. I guess that's pretty good."

"Pretty good for somebody, sure," said Arthur, low and cold. "Seems ol' Micah here was pretty close with Milton."

"What the hell you talkin' about, cowpoke?" said Micah quickly, glaring at Arthur.

Arthur jerked his head. "You talked."

"That's a goddamned lie." Micah glanced at Dutch, who was watching this exchange in silence, his brow furrowed, the set of his shoulders a little tighter. He looked alarmed, and confused, like a lost, demented old man on a street corner. Whatever was wrong with him, it was worse now than it had been even that morning. "Don't you listen to none of that bullshit, Dutch, they don't know what the hell they're talkin' about -"

"Dutch, I heard it from Milton's own mouth, we both did," said Arthur, watching Dutch closely. "Molly never said boo to nobody, that's why they turned her loose. It was never her, it was always god damned Micah -!"

"Dutch, don't you listen to him. Think of the future, buddy."

"He told Milton everything," said Rane, her voice coarse. "Everything, Dutch. Since Guarma."

"Yep. Since Guarma." Arthur was shaking his head, watching Dutch. "It all makes sense now."

"That's horseshit, Morgan."

"It isn't horseshit," said Rane. "Was he here, Dutch? After Arthur and I left the boat, did he stay with you? Because I didn't see him at Lagras. Matter of fact, I didn't see him until we got to Beaver Hollow."

She could tell right away that she'd struck a nerve with this one. Dutch turned his gaze from hers to Micah's, the latter of whom was shaking his head, waving a hand and laughing, as if this were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Now, that don't mean jack shit and you know it. We had a plan, Dutch, I was just doin' my part! And I was back quick, wasn't I -?"

"How long have you been in Milton's pocket?" Arthur asked Micah, meeting his eyes, his gaze cold and bloodshot. "I wondered on the way back here, because he mighta lied, knowin' we were about to blow his goddamned head off. Weeks? Months? How many pies do you got your fingers stuck in, boy?"

"You're crazy as a shithouse mouse, Black Lung, talkin' like that. I guess pluggin' up all your little hussy's holes must be goin' to your head -"

Arthur pulled his revolver and aimed it at Micah, a sneer blooming beneath his hat. Micah drew too, and so did Rane, her sword unsheathed at her side in a flash, her eyes cold beneath her brows. Behind them, Javier and Bill had pulled their guns too, aiming at Arthur.

"Best not point that thing at me, girl," said Micah, glaring at Rane. "It won't end well for ya."

"Well, you've got six chances to show me chambered in that thing," said Rane scornfully, twirling her sword around her wrist once. "Go on, swing for the fence."

Dutch was standing in silence at the mouth of his tent, looking between Micah and Arthur. His face was oddly flaccid, his eyes still dim and a little confused. Rane was reminded strongly of the evening he had admitted he'd been hit in the head. This bastard hadn't taken a tap to the skull, he'd been bashed stupid, that was what she thought. He had the look of an invalid about him, almost. The idea of him cast as the referee this way while the whole lot of them were in the thick of a Mexican standoff was a grim one, indeed.

"Dutch, I told ya we shouldn't have let this mouthy little bitch in with us."

"Are you gonna keep coming after me or talk about what you told Milton?"

"Dutch," said Arthur sharply, gun still aimed at Micah. "Think. Think!"

"You're one to talk about thinkin', runnin' around acting a fool over some girl the way you been!" Micah crowed. "You're as sick in the head as you are everywhere else, Black Lung!"

"For the record, if we get out of this alive I'm gonna shove this blade right up your ass," Rane muttered, glaring at Micah. He laughed.

"You're gonna be too busy eatin' dirt with ol' swingin' dick over there to stick anything anyplace, honey -!"

"DUTCH!"

All of them turned toward this new voice. John Marston was limping up the hill, clutching his shoulder, blood-stained from chin to knee. Rane gasped, at first not sure that she was really seeing him. Arthur's gun sagged in his hand a little, his mouth dropping open.

"John?"

Rane sheathed her sword at once, striding towards him.

"Oh my God - John -" She caught him as he began to falter, grasping him by the arm. "Hey, stand up, nice and slow -"

John clutched her shoulder as she slung an arm around him, breathing heavily. He was filthy, he stank of dirt and sweat, and his right chest was a mess of blood, some of it dried, some still shining damply. His face was cheesy pale, his dark hair clinging to his cheeks.

"Christ, we thought you were - here, let me see it -"

John shook his head, still moving toward Dutch, not looking at Rane or Arthur or anyone else. His eyes were hard and betrayed beneath the rim of his hat, his mouth pulled down. When he spoke, his voice was strident, even through clenched teeth, rife with anger and shock.

"YOU LEFT ME!" He shook Rane off, clutching his shoulder, staring at Dutch. "YOU LEFT ME TO DIE!"

Dutch lifted his hands palms-out, his eyes wide. "My boy . . . I didn't have a choice . . . John, I didn't -"

"YOU -!" John was glaring at him, the expression on his face almost childlike in its hurt. His breath was coming hard and fast through his nose. "YOU -"

" - I didn't have a choice -!"

" - LEFT ME! YOU LEFT ME, DUTCH -!"

"John, I . . ." Dutch looked at him, the expression of odd, almost senile bewilderment back on his face now, as if he couldn't understand his own actions. Rane was not softened by it. The fury in her chest was tempered only by the fact that Arthur had a gun pointed at his head. She rounded on him, making toward him again, her eyes flashing, suddenly furious.

"YOU SAID HE WAS DEAD!" she screamed at Dutch, her face reddening. She drew her sword again with a clang, aiming its tip at his heart. It was the first time she had ever pointed a weapon at him. "YOU LOOKED ME IN THE EYE AND SAID HE WAS DEAD, DUTCH!"

"I didn't . . ." Dutch's eyes went from Rane to John to Arthur, shaking his head. "I didn't - I didn't have no goddamn choice -!"

"Did you even look for him?" Rane jerked her sword at Dutch. "Did you even look? Or did you lie about that, too, you two-timing son of a -?"

"All of you," said Arthur stridently, speaking over her, "you pick your side now, because this is over."

He glanced sidelong at Dutch, shaking his head, his eyes cold and flintlike.

"All them years, Dutch. For this snake?"

"Oh, be quiet, cowpoke," Micah spat. He and Arthur still had their guns leveled at one another. Dutch stood to one side, Rane and John to the other. Cleet, Bill, Javier and Susan were surrounding this altercation, still and watchful, weapons at the ready. "Be quiet. You live in the clouds -!"

"No, YOU be quiet, Mister Bell!" said Susan loudly, striding forward to Arthur's side. She held a shotgun in her hands, its business end aimed at Micah, likely the same one that had put a hole through Molly O'Shea's chest. "And put down your gun!"

Looking back on it later, Rane blamed what happened next on Joe, and on the Pinkertons that were preparing to raid their camp. Susan might have fired at Micah and laid him low, or Dutch might have backed down, which may have still been entirely possible, the way he was looking, uncertain and a little infirm. Or it might have come to blows, and things might have turned out differently. But that wasn't how it happened. Joe, one of Micah's transient associates, came skidding up, staring around him, both guns held lax at his sides, and all of them turned, distracted.

"Pinkertons!" he gasped, wild-eyed. "They're comin' up fast!"

Micah, who was an opportunist but never a fool, took his chance as soon as it presented itself. He fanned the hammer of his gun with his spare hand, and the report sounded loudly, echoing. Susan cried out, shocked, crumpling, the shotgun falling from her hands at Arthur's side. Arthur remained where he was, but Rane could see how difficult it was for him not to crumple by her side; he kept his gun trained on Micah, but he didn't fire, not yet, not with Javier and Bill training their weapons on him. This time it was Dutch who was the fastest. In a hideously fast motion, he drew both his pistols, taking a step forward. In that moment he was not uncertain or rueful, but angry, larger than life, once more the formidable, compelling leader he had always been before things started to slide askew, if only for a brief moment in time.

"NOW!" he bellowed, aiming both his guns, one at Micah and one at Arthur. Susan continued to groan in the dirt, blood pouring from her stomach, clutching at herself and writhing. "WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME, AND WHO IS BETRAYING ME?"

"Dutch -" Susan was scrabbling at the dirt, her fingers already weakening. Rane looked at her, brow furrowed.

"Let me help her," she said softly, looking at Dutch, her sword still aimed at him. "Please, let me -"

"SHUT - UP, GIRL!" Dutch roared, his eyes meeting hers, flintlike. "YOU MOVE A MUSCLE AND I'M GONNA PUT ONE THROUGH YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND BOTH JUST ON PRINCIPLE, NOW YOU HEAR ME?"

Rane's eyes cut to Susan. It was going on too late anyways; Susan's motions were slowing, her eyes beginning to glaze. Micah had hit her good, she had thirty seconds, maybe less, and then it would be too late. She wouldn't be quick enough. A wave of nausea washed over her, the same way it had when Molly had died. Standing over someone who'd been kind to her, unable to help -

"Bill. Javier." Arthur was still aiming his guns at Dutch, the set of his body still and watchful. "Think. Think for yourselves."

"He's lyin'," said Micah. His voice rose to a taunting pitch, and he grinned beneath his mustache as he spoke. "He's LYIN'!"

"Rane's gonna come over there and skewer the whole lot of ya if you ain't careful," said John, his voice rough. He had moved behind Arthur now, still clutching his shoulder. Rane was stepping back towards them, her sword still held at the ready. "You really wanna fuck with her?"

"Hush," said Rane, low. "There's too many."

"Get Micah, at least."

"No. Stop." Rane stepped back again, hitting Arthur's shoulder as she did and stumbling a little. She lifted her voice. "Dutch, let us go. We just wanna go. There doesn't have to be any trouble, just let us three -"

"THIS IS AGENT ROSS WITH THE PINKERTON DETECTIVE AGENCY!" a strident voice rang out at the edge of camp. "PUT YOUR GUNS DOWN!"

The first shot rang out, loud as hell, ricocheting off the rock wall behind them. Arthur, moving with almost preternatural speed, lunged forward and threw up the wooden table that sat before Dutch's tent, flinging empty beer bottles to the four points of the compass, putting it on its side, diving behind it and yanking Rane and John down with him.

"Shit," said John roughly, moving against the back of the table and pulling his pistol, still grasping his shot shoulder. "How many you see, Arthur?"

"Enough," said Arthur, low. "Ten, maybe twelve, more comin'."

"Rane? Can you thin 'em out?"

"Not so it would make a difference, we need to fall back," said Rane, breathing fast. The Pinkertons were pouring over the hills now, their numbers growing rapidly, firing with impunity.

"You can't stun them or somethin' like you did at that camp?"

"Not when they're spread out like this." Rane looked at him. "We need to fall back. The caves, is there a way out the back?"

"There's a way, yeah," said Arthur hoarsely.

"Then we should go that way."

"What about Dutch?" said John.

"FUCK Dutch!" said Rane, her voice rising coarsely. "He wanted to leave you to hang, John, FUCK him! Are you kidding me?"

"We can't just leave him," said Arthur sharply.

"SURE WE CAN!" Rane roared, loud even over the gunfire. Both John and Arthur recoiled a little. "WHAT ARE YOU GUYS, STOOL PIGEONS? GO ON! GO!"

Arthur and John gleaned at one another, then turned toward the caves.

"You're comin'," said Arthur, not quite making it into a question.

"I said we were sticking together and I meant it." Rane pulled her wand, waving it behind her and murmuring. The bullets flying toward them began to richochet off the invisible shield she'd cast with sounds like breaking glass, striking the dirt and the rock walls and spraying sparks. "Run. Go. Fuck Dutch and fuck Micah."

Arthur nodded, pulling the hammer back on his gun and glancing at John. "Okay."