'The power...the kingship we seek is in us and if we deny it, then we make others our Lord.'

Dutch, sitting on the porch, paused a moment in his readings and reveled in those words. If we deny it.

Whenever he read that line, a thrill of excitement shot through him. It was as if Mr. Miller were writing the text of Dutch's heart, in a more compelling manner than Dutch could ever express himself.

He flipped to another page he'd dog-eared when he wanted inspiration.

'Men are fixated on greed, on desire, and on the acquisition of experiences or pleasures but the ability to acquire. People are fixated on wealth. Man is reduced to the desire for desire. Wanting is all that matters. Not loving, not being, not having, but wanting. We are killers for desire.'

Killers for desire. Yes.

"Dutch." Micah suddenly intruded on his contemplation, his shadow casting darkness over Miller's insights. Micah gestured wildly at a wagon being prepared for departure. "Morgan's just told me we ain't doin' the bank job today."

Dutch turned another page, suffocating his annoyance at an interruption. "Yes, Mr. Bell."

Micah didn't say anything for a moment as he stared. "Then when we doing it?"

"We're not," Dutch answered placidly. "Arthur and Hosea are working their own angle. They believe they can get most of the money without the robbery."

"How much?" hissed Micah immediately.

"Fifty thousand."

"That ain't half what we can get robbing the damn place."

"I know it," Dutch said in growing irritation. His meditative state was broken so he set his book down and gave Micah his full attention. "And I'd make the arguments for it if Hosea didn't so graciously remind me of the last time we ruined his set-up. Now, he wants to do it his way first."

Hosea had been insistent on it, in fact, laying out his reasons before Dutch could understand what he'd been speaking of in the first place. In the end, Dutch was reasonable and could see the benefit of a basic scam. Besides, Hosea had assured him, if his scheme didn't work, or if the take was not as much as promised, they'd go all in on the bank robbery tomorrow as originally planned.

"How they doin' it?" asked Micah persistently.

"I have no idea."

Dutch hadn't bothered hearing the details. He hadn't been feeling good about the bank job even with Bronte dead. Hosea and Arthur said the cops weren't nothing, but he still had the bump to prove they'd put up a hell of a fight. If those two thought they could hatch a better plan, by all means, they could try all they wanted.

"And you trust Morgan to handle this?" Micah snarled. "He ain't a thinker."

"That's why Hosea's doing the thinking and Arthur's executing. As per usual."

"If you say so, boss, but that don't explain what it looks like to me."

Dutch crossed his arms and reclined in his chair. "And what's that, Mr. Bell?"

"Morgan and the old man were all for your plan until that woman got here. I heard it was all her idea."

Dutch tensed, feeling his eye twitch. "Was it now?"

"I got a better idea." Micah slid in the empty chair next to him and leaned in close. He motioned disdainfully with his hand. "We let Morgan make his little plans with the womenfolk. And we'll make our own."

"What kinda plans?" he asked curiously.

Micah lifted his shoulders. "You're the boss, boss. I'm just a gun. What you say goes. But as far as the bank's concerned, we don't got to do one or the other, in my opinion."

Dutch rubbed his chin. "You want to hit the bank after they get their money out?"

"No reason not to. Least we'll know the vaults will be open."

"Do I need to remind you twice in the same conversation, Micah? Last time we ran two major jobs at once, we ended up with nothing."

"Then maybe this is our chance to recover the Blackwater money instead." Micah was speaking animatedly now. "While they're in Saint Denis, let's you and me head for—"

"Enough about the Blackwater money," cut in Dutch sharply.

Every time Micah said the name Blackwater, Dutch's hackles rose. It was always the damn money with him and he'd told him numerous times it wasn't an option.

Micah's face contorted, but it cleared again as he asked, "What about the bank then?"

Dutch shook his head. "We'd need to work together to run a job that big. Without the coordination in the original plan of all involved, it's too tricky."

Micah stared piercingly, as if he were attempting to change Dutch's mind. After a couple of moments, the blonde man looked away and remarked out of nowhere, "Word is, old Trelawny took off with Miss Irish."

Dutch glared. "Who said that?"

"Don't know for sure." Micah shrugged. "Just the gossip around the fire."

He thought he'd been clear that those two leaving were separate cases entirely. Neither one had anything to do with the other.

Micah observed, "Abigail's been lookin' mighty twitchy since the kid's come back."

"So?"

"I mean, I heard Marston's left once before..."

Dutch interrupted fiercely, "That boy knows not to do so again. He's learnedthe gang comes first."

"Sorry, boss." Micah raised his hands. "I still believe in you even if the rest of this pathetic lot is losing faith."

Losing faith? Hosea's reassurance came to mind, We still got those who's most important. Arthur, John, Javier, Bill, Charles...

Dutch said sharply, "Ain't no one losing faith."

"Whatever you say, Dutch." Micah stood and started moving away. "You know best."

With the mention of Trelawny, Dutch remembered the boys speaking of a decent take from the poker game. He hadn't yet taken the time to move the recent contributions to the nest egg he had hidden away from the camp. Since most of the others were busy this afternoon, it was the perfect opportunity to do so.

As Dutch entered the house, he caught sight of Charlotte making her way downstairs, garbed in what he recognized as part of the collection reserved for when the women played dress-up for a job.

"Mrs. Balfour."

Charlotte paused at the bottom of the stairs. At his approach, he didn't miss her shoulders tensing squarely and her brief glance at the door.

"Mr. Van der Linde," she acknowledged cautiously.

Dutch wasn't accustomed to this sort of wary reaction. Did his mere presence frighten her? He wasn't a thug.

Dutch said pleasantly, "We're all friends here. Dutch, please."

"Alright."

He affected a casual manner, resting his hands in the pockets of his vest. "How goes the planning?"

"Well."

Charlotte gave nothing more and it irked him she wasn't responsive to his charm, but he kept up his friendly tone. He continued, "You and Arthur known each other long?"

"Not really."

He laughed a little, trying to put her at ease. "I'm seeking to understand the problem between us. It seems we've got off on the wrong foot."

"It seems we have," she conceded.

With his smoothest, warmest voice, he inquired, "And why is that, if I may ask, my dear?"

She pursed her lips and for the first time met his eyes directly. "I'm not unfamiliar with manipulative men, sir."

He nodded sympathetically. "Your husband?"

Her mouth thinned further. "My father."

"My apologies," Dutch answered, placing a hand over his heart. "Yet, I do not see the connection regarding our discussion."

"There are certain qualities from him which I've observed in you."

"Oh?" Dutch forcefully raised his eyebrows in an effort not to furrow them. "Now, miss, that is entirely unfair. Why, we hardly know one another at all."

She stared at him longer, her eyes studying his expression in an eerie manner. "And yet, you don't much care for me, do you?

"I have no idea what you mean, Mrs. Balfour—Charlotte, if I may?—we're all friends here."

"I get the distinct impression you don't sincerely feel that way."

Dutch's jaw clenched, not liking how direct she was. Or how correct.

He blurted out, "What did you say to Miss O'Shea?"

Charlotte blinked, clearly bewildered. "Hardly anything, to be honest."

"You said something to her," he accused. "And now, she's gone."

"She vented her woes and I asked about her family."

"We are her family. The only family she's got."

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's simply not true," Charlotte said and added, "She was unhappy here. I listened to her grievances."

"Grievances," he scoffed. "And what sort of grievances would those be?"

"I suspect you know as it seems you were the root to most of them." said Charlotte plainly. "She wanted nothing more than your affection, but you couldn't spare her even the decency of a conversation."

She was scolding him like he was nothing more than a jilted lover. He pointed a finger, his pitch dropping. "Be careful with your words, miss. I don't appreciate the tone you're taking."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "I'm no threat to you, Mr. Van der Linde."

"I'm relieved to hear it, miss, because you seem to be alone out here. And we wouldn't anything...untoward to happen to you. Why, it'd break poor Arthur's heart."

Charlotte stared at him, her mouth parted open. "I'm sorry, Mr. Van der Linde."

He smiled, satisfied. "That's what—"

But she didn't leave it at that. "You didn't let me finish. I'm no threat to you..." Her eyes locked on him, green, blazing and bold. "...unless you want me to be."

Dutch rose to his full height. "Now, why would I want that?"

"I don't know why anyone would decide to make an enemy of a person he'd just met."

"You don't know what you're sayin', miss."

"If I were you, I wouldn't be worried over what I said to Miss O'Shea." Her gaze remained fixed on him, as if she could read every thought. "But what she's said to me."

His blood boiled. She dared make a veiled threat to him? She was nothing, she meant nothing to this gang. If she thought she could—

"Excuse me, sir. I don't want to keep everyone waiting." She moved past him before he yet gained his bearings at her impertinence.

Behind him, someone hooted loudly with amusement. "You have such a grand way with women, don't ya, Dutch?"

Dutch turned to find Uncle slapping his knee and laughing. He snapped, "Shut the hell up, old man."

"Oo-hoo." Uncle didn't lose his grin as he bowed mockingly. "Sorry, Your Majesty."

Dutch ignored him and strode upstairs, to his original destination before Mrs Balfour had distracted him. Your Majesty, he scoffed. He hadn't forgotten the occasion behind Uncle's jab.

An American king, the old man had once alleged as his ambition. On that night, Uncle had teased him over the campfire and Dutch had a brief—very brief—second he'd wanted to strangle Uncle. Over that jest. Dutch had wanted to place his hands over the old man's throat and watch the life fade from his eyes, to make him regret he'd dare suggest something so absurd.

But he hadn't.

The gleam in Uncle's eye had pissed him off more than he'd wanted shown. Uncle mocked him openly. Knowing that Dutch couldn't touch him without raising doubt in the others. Dutch had laughed as if it hadn't fazed him, but fury burned his soul.

However, he'd cooled down and knew there was no need to get rid of Uncle. He was an old fool no one took seriously enough for his words to mean anything. With the other fellows around the camp as an audience, Arthur included, watching like it was entertainment only, Dutch been able to come out of his vision of red, to pull back and outwardly laugh off the jest.

King? No. Dutch wasn't a king. He was a revolutionary. He helped those to see the realities of what this life had served to the people of America, to save those unfortunate souls unlucky enough to be born to poverty. He'd gained the loyalty and respect of a monarch, but he wasn't one.

Dutch reached the contributions box and opened it up. For a moment, he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. For the first time in a long time, the box was damn near empty except for a couple of bucks and some miscellaneous baubles. There should be more. He rummaged the box, swiping aside the earrings and pocket watches as if the action would reveal the thick clips of money he expected.

Instead, Dutch came across an item at the bottom of the box that stopped him cold. An innocuous enough looking piece of jewelry on its own. Unless one knew exactly who it came from.

It was a necklace of gold chains with a singular large ruby as its centerpiece. Dutch recognized it immediately, which was exactly the point of its presence. It was a goddamn message.

From Miss O'Shea.

When he'd first made love to Molly, he'd given it to her just before, as a promise to her for a life of luxury, freedom and love.

"Is it real, Dutch?" Molly had asked, her eyes gleaming excitedly.

"As real as how I feel about you." Dutch had touched the ruby with one finger as it lie resting on her freckled neck. "Every time you wear it, I'll remember this night, this moment. We are as one."

Miss O'Shea didn't leave with this necklace when she'd taken everything else he'd given her because she no longer believed the promises he'd made to her that night. In response, she'd finally become the thief he'd trained.

Dutch gripped the necklace tightly, fury waking and making him tremble. She'd left him, which was an offense in itself. But she'd taken his money too?

What was happening to the loyalty around here? To the faith? Even though Miss O'Shea had left, he'd been willing to forget, to let bygones be bygones.

But this. This was an insult unworthy of forgiveness and demanding of retribution. He hoped she'd fled far, because if he ever ran across her again, Dutch was wringing her ruby-less neck.

Dutch went to the window, to the balcony and had a look around his camp, narrowing his eyes on each individual he saw. His eyes streamed across the grounds, to the makers of the new plan.

Lenny and John were readying the wagon. Hosea was attempting to sober up the reverend. Arthur stood near, messing with his white collar. He was now dressed as a clergyman, looking more like the muscle guarding the gates to heaven rather than a guide into it.

Abigail stood near Charlotte, catching Dutch watching them. Abigail was staying behind on this scam, which for a moment eased his mind on any worries of possible betrayal. But John had left his woman and child once before. Whose to say he wouldn't do it again?

Dutch looked again to Arthur, who was talking seriously with Hosea and Lenny now. Arthur had reminded him recently of his longevity in the gang and it'd laid Dutch's doubts to rest over where his loyalties lie. Arthur would keep John accountable.

But what Dutch observed next spoke of an additional concern. Arthur's gaze drifted in another direction. That direction being Mrs. Charlotte Balfour, who'd made implications Dutch had no way of fully unraveling at this time. What could Molly have said to her?

Charlotte claimed to only want to help. But who was she really? It seemed to Dutch she was trying to get him out of the way. Why else was she sticking around? She claimed to be an innocent, but she'd sunk her teeth into his family and already had a hold on at least one of them.

Dutch had too easily stepped aside when Hosea told him of this new plan, but that's all Hosea had been doing lately. Doubting his plans.

Hosea blamed him for every little thing gone wrong. Then he'd pushed hard against dealing with Bronte when there'd been no other goddamn choice!

Dutch looked down at movement. The wagon was rolling out, Arthur, Charlotte and Swanson as passengers and Lenny as the driver. Hosea and John mounted on their steeds and rode at its side.

All of them, any of them would be talking about him. Undermining him. They thought they could push him in the corner and make him look the fool. He was the leader, goddammit! Dutch wouldn't stand for his ideas, his plans being mocked and cast aside.

Dutch strode out of the house, making his way over to the campfire where Micah sat alone sharpening a knife.

Dutch barked out, "Micah!"

The blonde man looked up from his knife. "Yeah, boss?"

"Gather the rest of the men and saddle up," Dutch ordered, glaring at the path of the wagon's departure, where it couldn't be seen anymore.

Micah stood at the ready, sheathing his knife at his belt. "What are we doing, boss?"

No challenging word, no disgruntled mumbles under the breath, no sarcastic retort. Just obedience and attention. This was how the members of the gang were supposed to respond when he called on one of them.

"Like you said, son," Dutch's mouth twitched upward. "we've got a bank to rob."