In a run-down bar, in a crumbling town, drinking out of a chipped glass filled with watered down bourbon, Micah contemplated cutting and running right here, right now. It'd be easy enough. Steal a horse from some drunken sop in Van Horn and not quit riding until he reached another small town full of bigger suckers.

Micah wished they'd lost Arthur once and for all when they'd reached Guarma. They'd abandoned him to die in a sinking-fucking-ship, but that bastard still managed to stumble his way up the beach with only sunburns. How the hell did Arthur keep turning up only half dead?

Dutch wanted to continue the outlaw life, same as Micah, but Arthur seemed to be growing a goddamn conscience with every passing day. He was beginning to become a real pain in the ass.

Micah had made another attempt on the boat ride back from Guarma to persuade Dutch to return to Blackwater for the money they'd left behind. But Dutch was so goddamn adamant about not going. It was making Micah wonder if it was worth sticking around.

But no. Of course it was. That was too much damn money to just forget about and he'd exhausted his options trying to involve the other members of Dutch's gang. Foolishly, he'd tried working the old man once, but Hosea had snapped at him for undermining Dutch and hadn't trusted him since. As for the others, he'd been more cautious in enlisting any of them he'd thought capable to either convince Dutch or go for the money themselves, but the fools were all blind followers and refused.

Micah had done everything to play nice. He'd resort to playing not-so nice if he thought it'd work, but Dutch wasn't a man to cower from threats with his dying breath. He was pompous enough to laugh in the face of his killer, crazy bastard that he was.

So, here Micah sat, with no other option but to stick by Dutch until he found his way back to Blackwater and the money he was entitled to.

Micah finished off his watered down bourbon and raised his head to signal another, but the bartender was nowhere to be found. He scanned the rest of the bar and noticed none of the few patrons who'd been present when he'd walked in occupied the room anymore. What the hell. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he stood from his chair.

"Sit back down, Mr. Bell," a voice commanded and Micah froze, realizing too late he'd been ambushed.

When he turned around, there stood Agent Milton and a group of his cronies filling the rooms. Two took position to cover the front door while four stood between here and the gaming room. One agent covered each of the back doors and who knew how many were in waiting outside.

"What the hell do you want?" Micah snarled, his hands twitching towards his loyal guns.

"There's no need to be testy, Mr. Bell." Milton lifted his gloved hands. "Let's have a conversation."

Micah's glare was focused on Milton so he missed the movement of another agent rushing his left and punching him in the gut.

Shit.

"Disarm him. And then another one, Gerard," Milton ordered coldly. "I don't want him getting any ideas."

Two agents grabbed hold of either side of him, holding his arms while a third took his revolvers and placed them on the bar counter. He tried to kick out in resistance, but he was thwarted at that too. At Agent Gerard's next blow, Micah doubled over, the air leaving his lungs. He could absorb some hits under normal circumstances, but his fun little trip to Guarma had left him less than at his best.

Cocksuckers.

He gasped out, "I won't go down...that easy...you son of a bitch."

"Hold onto that thought, Mr. Bell." Milton raised his hands to stop the punishment. "Now, I don't believe you to be the only one who made it out of Saint Denis alive." Milton drew his arms behind his back. "You boys disappeared for awhile, but I knew it wouldn't be long before you came scrambling back."

Micah held silent. Not that he could do much talking. Wind was knocked out of him as he wheezed painfully.

"Lemoyne National claims you boys robbed them of $50,000, but funnily enough, their vaults didn't appear breached. Do you have that money, Mr. Bell?"

Micah stared at the floor, breathing heavily.

Milton sighed as if he were weary. "Again, Gerard. A few more this time."

Unflinching, the man threw two fists to his gut. Micah spit. Gerard aimed a glancing blow to his cheek next.

"Not the face," Milton said sharply. "We don't want anyone getting suspicious."

Suspicious over what, Micah couldn't fix a thought on. Three more punches nearly had him throwing up the guts they were beating on.

"Alright. Take a break."

Micah heaved, sick and only staying on two feet because of the iron grips of the agents on each side of him.

"Let's start over, Mr. Bell." Milton rubbed his chin. "How about an easy one? Where have you boys been all this time?"

He didn't see any point in hiding that. "Some...shit island...in the Caribbean."

"And you came back here?"

If Micah had eaten anything, he'd be vomiting uncontrollably. Instead, his stomach sloshed and he gagged in response. Spittle seeped down his chin.

"I'll make this real simple for you, Mr. Bell. We. Want. Dutch."

Micah wanted to laugh. Dutch was just down the street as far as he knew, talking his way into finding a real bed to sleep in tonight.

How easy it would be to rat him out. If Milton wanted any other member of the gang, he'd give up their location without a second thought. They didn't mean shit to him.

But Micah needed Dutch. If he wanted the Blackwater money, Dutch was the only one who knew its location and it was too much to give up on.

So, he claimed, "We went our separate ways."

"Hmm. Now, I don't think that's true, Mr. Bell."

Every time this bastard said his name, it made him grind his teeth.

"This is what's going to happen, Mr. Bell. Dutch will be headed for Lakay." Micah frowned, momentarily distracted at the claim and Milton continued, "That's where the rest of his band of lowlifes are. When Dutch arrives in Lakay, you're going to let us know."

"Why should I help you?"

"Mr. Bell, perhaps I haven't made myself clear." Milton's eyes narrowed to slits. "We can do this the easy way or I can make life difficult for you."

As if it wasn't already. "How?"

"Don't think we don't know about all the trouble you've been up to since San Antonio. You left quite the trail even before you became one of Dutch's Boys. Back when you and Amos were still robbing your way across the states."

Micah flinched at the name, recoiling as if he'd received another blow to the face.

"But that's a lot of history and paperwork to get into this late at night. So, for now, we can have you apprehended for that bloodbath you and one of your new associates caused in Strawberry. You'll be charged for the murder of Norman and Madeleine Potts. You left their son orphaned, if you didn't know."

Micah knew and he woulda killed him too, but he hadn't seen the bastard thief's kid in the house.

"I don't know who the hell that is," Micah lied. "And you don't got the proof to show I did any of it."

Milton shrugged his suited shoulders. "No, but you've killed plenty of others you'll never face justice for. With the murder charges of the Potts couple, you can be tried and hanged by the end of the week if you won't cooperate with me tonight. Is that what you want for yourself, Mr. Bell?"

He started running through ideas, to think of an out, but he had nothing so he stalled. "Didn't that red-headed whore give you all you needed?"

Milton raised a brow. "Miss O'Shea? We pulled her in a few times, but love," Milton's face pinched in distaste, "as she so claimed, made her stubborn about flipping."

That Irishwoman losing her mind didn't give in to these shitheads? Well, unfortunately for the gang, Micah didn't have no great 'love' for anyone and he was a survivor.

Neither did Micah trust Milton any farther than he could throw him. But he needed to get out of here and there was only one option he could see.

He gritted his teeth. "What do you want me to do, boss?"

A slow, ferocious smile overtook Milton's mouth. "That's better, Mr. Bell." He gestured for his men to let go. "Your first instruction is simple. When Van der Linde makes his appearance in Lakay, light two lanterns on each edge of the porch facing west."

Micah seethed at the order, but kept his mouth shut and went to collect his guns. The agents moved around him, springing into action and exiting the saloon with unspoken orders.

Milton pointed at his aggressor. "Gerard, take Bunter, Orly, and Johns and check out Shady Belle again. See if our friends are stupid enough to go back."

As Micah left the building, Milton sent him with a parting, "I expect results, Mr. Bell, or our efforts will go into hunting you."

On his ride out of Van Horn, Micah nearly threw up and he wasn't even moving fast. The constant bouncing of the horse's trotting roiled his bruised stomach so much, he had to slow the horse's gait repeatedly.

Micah was pissed Milton had reminded him about his brother. He'd managed to keep Amos out of his mind most of the time these days because of how it ended. They'd run together and had a grand ole time of it while it lasted.

But then Amos had got 'in the family way' and wanted nothing to do with the life anymore. Nowadays, he was living it up in California with his big house and rich whore. Bastard wouldn't even let him visit, to meet his nieces, like he thought Micah would do something unsavory towards them. They was family and he weren't some hick.

Micah had been planning on dropping by after the Blackwater heist, to lay low and get away from the dead weight here, but Amos had denied him even that. Threatened his life like they weren't blood anymore.

It was all Elizabeth, his sister-in-law. That bitch never had liked him. He wished she'd died during their first baby's birth, as had been the doctor's fear at the time.

Micah made his way down a winding muddy path, thinking Milton was mistaken in his directions. Those idiots wouldn't trap themselves in so pathetic a location.

He passed a pair of skulls stuck on wooden posts until he reached a group of shabby buildings one rainstorm away from being washed away. As he dismounted and had a look around, he noticed more gators infested this area than Shady Belle.

His lips drew back in disgust. He'd lived in slums from time to time, but this...

Micah spotted Abigail first, outside straining laundry. When she lifted her head, he caught her attention fully before her eyes strayed behind him and her expression fell.

"Micah," she acknowledged without any emotion.

"Miss Roberts," Micah said snarkily, halting his approach. "What an enthusiastic welcome for a hero's return."

She came around her wash bin, eyes darting down the road as she demanded, "Is anyone else with you?"

Maybe it stung, slightly, that she didn't reserve a shred of concern for him. But he was no soft lump like Morgan.

He said evasively, "Who knows who will survive the night."

She opened her mouth, likely wanting to interrogate him as she finally met his eyes with a glare.

However, he cut in, "Where are my things? I trust you fools managed to keep my shit safe when you moved."

Abigail's posture stiffened and she snapped, "Check with Susan. I ain't your housekeeper."

"You ain't much of nothing these days, are you?"

She spun on her heel and went off to the other buildings. He watched her leave openly, as she'd never realized her stomping always made her hips sway back and forth provocatively.

Micah wasn't usually persuaded in the argument over a company full of women members. They had their purpose and he preferred jobs without their involvement. However, he didn't mind women in the camp, but none of them here were...accommodating.

If he had his own gang and needed to keep a woman on, he'd pick Abigail. Strong, sullied, she had to know at least a dozen ways to pleasure a man.

That kid of hers though? Useless. But if Abigail submitted to him, Micah wouldn't be opposed to being a daddy. Boy was young enough to forget his own in a couple years.

But they was all distraction in the end. More to the point, they was dead weight. Five or six strong men was the ideal number for a tight, smooth-running gang. If he had any sway with Dutch, he'd have started cutting out the current members a long time ago.

Although, maybe Micah was getting his wish without trying. As tight knit as this crew thought it was, it was already cracking. Molly, Swanson and the old man were already out of the way as far as he could tell. If Uncle would get himself lost next, all the leeches would be gone. Then it was only the women and the kid to be rid of.

If they were more compliant, John and Arthur would be top of his list as strongest guns. But John was no broken dog, heeling at any command. That could become a real problem. Even Arthur, the obedient son, was biting back these days when he had his doubts.

Which reminded Micah that something had happened after they got Javier back on the island. Something was different between Dutch and Arthur. Micah hadn't missed the distance Arthur kept and the brief, disbelieving glances he sent Dutch's way. Like he'd found out Dutch had killed his mother or something. Whatever it was, Micah would make it work in his favor. He always did.

Micah entered the building and received about the same reception as he'd had from Miss Roberts. Nearly all the women present straightened with interest before disappointment flooded their expressions when no one turned up behind him. Uncle snored from a hammock and Pearson nodded to him, but not happily.

He sneered, "I've seen week old corpses livelier than any of you."

"We're sorry, Mr. Bell," Mary-Beth said politely as she stood. "We hoped you'd all be back safe and sound."

She paused and when he didn't respond, she prompted eagerly, "Do you happen to know anything about the others?"

Micah could put them at ease, if he wanted. To let them know that their other friends and loved ones were making their way here as they spoke. But he didn't want to.

He slowly eyed Mary-Beth from top to bottom, not saying a word, but taking her in. Lovely, sweet Mary-Beth.

She crossed her arms, clearly uncomfortable and his lip curled. "What a sight for sore eyes."

She grimaced and turned away, returning to her spot at the table with Tilly and Susan.

"Grimshaw," Micah said brusquely. "My things, woman."

Irritated, she turned to rummage in a trunk against the wall. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Are manners a thing of the past?"

"Well, of course not, Miss Grimshaw." Micah leered at the lot of them. "But ain't none of you seen me without manners."

"Oh, shut up, Micah."

He watched with displeasure as Sadie emerged from the back of the room. He'd hoped she'd moved on. "Mrs. Adler."

She stopped in front of him and scrunched up her nose. "Take a bath, Micah, and come back when you've scrubbed that fish stink from yourself."

She was mouthier than usual so he glared at her. "Who died and made you boss?"

Sadie smirked and he loathed her for her cockiness. "You and everyone else on that sunken boat to Cuba. But now you're back from the dead apparently so get out of here and rejoin us when you're ready to shut up and act a little more respectful."

He seethed, wanting to get into it with her, but Grimshaw pushed a sack of his personals into his arms.

"The rest of it's in one of the wagons," she snapped.

"It better be," he snarled in return and left the cabin.

A few hours later, when he'd cleaned up, found his hat and clothing, he returned to the cabin. He wouldn't have bothered with their company, but it'd started raining and he'd wanted some better shelter than either of the other shoddy buildings.

Arthur was the next to arrive, looking even more like shit than he had on the boat ride back to the mainland. There appeared to be something wrong with the bastard, but Micah couldn't put his finger on it and no one else seemed to notice.

Abigail had opened wide the door, exclaiming with excitement, "Hey, everybody, look who's here!"

"How ya'll doin'?" Arthur strolled around the room, taking time to greet everyone, even Uncle who was fast asleep in his hammock still.

When his eyes landed on Micah, they narrowed in suspicion, but Abigail distracted Arthur with talk before anything could come of it.

"They got John."

"Yeah," conceded Sadie, "he got arrested."

Arthur took a seat on one of the benches beneath the window. "He ain't hung yet?"

Sadie shrugged. "Not yet."

Abigail planted herself next to Arthur with an eagerness for him that had Micah envious. "Charles and Lenny are out working on a plan to break him free."

"A tentative plan," Sadie warned. "with no guarantee it'll get him back."

Abigail waved her off like she could wave away all doubts. She insisted, "It'll work."

Arthur accepted a bowl of stew from Pearson—a courtesy Micah noticed hadn't been extended for him, by the way—and asked, "Any word on Hosea?"

Micah rolled his eyes. 'Course Morgan would straight ask about the old man right away. He practically worshipped the bastard.

Abigail admitted, "Nothing."

"If he was caught by the law, we woulda heard about it," Tilly added firmly.

Micah noticed no one entertained the idea that the old man had finally kicked the bucket. Maybe if they were lucky, he'd collapsed in an alley in Saint Denis.

"Glad you stuck around waitin' for the rest of us, but I woulda thought you'd all be halfway to New York or something by now," Arthur joked.

Sadie tilted her head. "Why?"

Arthur sent her an incredulous look. "All that damn money and ya'll are slumming it like you ain't got a penny to your names."

That's right! You damn fool, Micah, he cursed himself. It'd completely slipped his mind that Morgan's lady friend had donated her life savings or some shit. He coulda robbed them blind and stupid before Morgan even got here. Before Pinkertons would get here. Where the hell were they hiding it?

"We ain't got the money," Sadie told him bluntly.

"What you mean?"

"The reverend's missing," added Mary-Beth.

Uncle scratched his belly and yawned. "We ain't seen head nor tail of him since the day you boys disappeared."

Morgan was too clueless to get their unspoken implication, but Micah heard it loud and clear. Swanson was missing with the money. Micah never was one to trust a man who put his faith in the hands of someone no one could see.

Before anyone could dumb it down for him, Miss Grimshaw and Charlotte swept in the open front door, the younger of the two speaking.

"Susan and I had to walk some distance, Mr. Pearson, but I think we managed to find the right type of sage you..."

The two women stopped in confusion at all who'd gathered in the room until their eyes landed on Arthur.

"Mr. Morgan!" Grimshaw strode forward and threw her arms around him as if he were her lost son. He patted her back, but his gaze was locked on Charlotte in the doorway.

"It's good to see you again, Arthur," she said warmly.

"What the hell is she still doin' here?" Arthur asked in harsh tones and it froze the expression on everyone in the room.

Micah almost laughed. He wasn't sure who he was addressing, but damn. Talk about cutting a woman down.

Arthur set aside his unfinished meal and stood, startling the company with his sudden movement. He marched over to Charlotte, grabbing her wrist. Clearly startled, she only had time to set aside her basket of sage before he was yanking her out the front door. It swung shut, yet they all heard Charlotte's protests.

"Give them their privacy," Grimshaw warned sharply at the women rising from their seats. She was met with scowls all around, but they listened to her.

However, Micah wasn't missing this. Was he finally going to see the version of Arthur Morgan that all his friends denied? Surely slapping the shit out of a disobedient woman would shatter the illusion of him being better than everyone else.

Out of the hawkish gaze of Miss Grimshaw, Micah slipped out the side door and moved along the cabin's wall until he reached the edge. He peered around the corner before he moved to a nearby tree with a thick trunk.

The couple hadn't gotten far as Charlotte had started to drag her feet and the muddy ground was helping her more than Arthur. It was raining again, or maybe it ain't stopped raining and Lakay was in a perpetual state of showers. Either way, it was only sporadic droplets for now.

"Arthur, stop this."

Micah had to hand it to her. Charlotte managed to pull herself from Arthur's grasp and stop him in his tracks. He swung to face her so he was toe to toe with her.

"You ain't stayin' here another minute."

Her brows rose. "Oh really? On whose authority?"

"Mine," Arthur growled.

"I've been here all these weeks you've been gone. I can make that decision myself."

"Clearly," Arthur said testily, "you can't, because you ain't made yourself scarce yet."

She crossed her arms. "You don't know me well enough if you think huffing and puffing at me will convince me of anything."

"I ain't huffin' and..." he tried to clear his throat, but Arthur's speech broke into a cluster of coughing.

Even though he wasn't near, Micah stepped back. He knew Arthur had caught some tropical illness in Guarma. He wouldn't have any part of that shit.

Charlotte, either bravely or stupidly, drew nearer, resting an arm around his shoulders and speaking gently, nearly too quiet for Micah to catch her words. "What's wrong?"

He brushed her aside, standing upright again. "Nothin'."

Charlotte straightened too, watchful and concerned. "Can we start this meeting again?"

"Why?"

Her mouth twisted. "That was a bit rude in there, to say the least."

Arthur wiped a hand down his face, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Shit." He opened his eyes and looked down at her, all weariness and worry. "You ain't s'posed to be here, Charlotte."

"Yes, well, that isn't the case and I am here."

"Thought you woulda been long gone by now."

The unspoken question of why hung over them, but Charlotte only said, "We can discuss this more once you've had some rest. Your travels haven't been kind to you."

"You can say that again," Arthur remarked hoarsely.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around one of his and turned him facing the cabin again. "Come. I promise to heed your advice unconditionally once you've finished eating and resting up."

"No." Arthur tried to pull away from her, but without much effort, it seemed.

"My presence here another day won't make a difference," she argued.

Micah snorted. Unless Pinkertons came bearing down on them all.

"Now, come on," Charlotte continued. "It's too rainy to stand outside fighting."

Arthur stared at her and Micah saw the weakness growing over his features. A small smile twitched his mouth. "You call this fightin'?"

"And what would you call it?

"I think..." Arthur shook his head and sighed. "...you could give Hosea a run for his money with your skills of persuasion."

She chuckled, urging him forward. "I shall take that as nothing less than the compliment it is."

Micah watched with disgust as Charlotte corralled him back into the cabin as if there had never been an issue in the first place. That was the problem with having women at camp. They could worm their ways into the hearts and minds of the most stubborn and coldblooded of men. Micah knew it well enough in his own life, but she'd been the one to pay the price in the end.

Micah had expected Dutch to turn up some time in the night because the man couldn't survive without an audience, and he wasn't disappointed.

Dutch made it back after dinner. His arrival was met with more cheerful greetings and the relief was palpable in their tones.

While they welcomed their holy leader, Micah slipped out the back door and recovered the lanterns he'd stashed in the afternoon. He lit one, set it on the porch and then the other, staring into the dark, futilely trying to spot those cocksuckers who forced his hand.

"What are you doing, creep?" someone asked behind him.

Startled, Micah spun around, one hand on a revolver. He thought for a moment no one was there, but then he spotted Karen sitting against the building, staring at him.

He studied her back, instantly wondering how the hell he was gonna get rid of her without alerting the others. If she squealed before Milton got his ass over here, he might not be a dead man, but he'd have to come up with something quick.

"You 'fraid of the dark, Misserbell?" she slurred. "Two lanterns?"

Drunk. He should have known he'd nothing to worry about. He dared to chuckle out loud. "Miss Jones, you never fail to amuse me."

"Shuddup, you piece of shit."

Micah crouched beside her. "There's only one lantern there, Miss Jones. There only ever was one lantern."

Karen squinted her eyes in the direction of the railing. He grabbed hold of her chin none too gently and made her meet his eyes. He repeated, "There only ever was one."

Her eyes were glazed over so he wasn't sure if she'd even remember any of this anyway.

"Karen, Karen. If all you wanna do is sit around getting drunk and wet, well," he grinned. "I'll find a room for the two of us and you can do just that."

"Don't you touch me, bastard." Karen tried to swat at him, but he stood while she was in the middle of the motion and she tumbled forward.

"A little sobriety would do you some good, miss." Micah watched her with disgust. "Just a suggestion."

When he returned inside, Abigail was saying, "We haven't heard nothing about Hosea, Dutch."

The group hadn't noticed him sneak away at all. They were enraptured by their great leader. Listening to Dutch make a usual spiel about things being tough, but he was gonna get them out of it, Micah couldn't believe all of these fools still believed his bullshit. He had their minds so clouded over with his 'faith' and 'belief' in them. Honestly, it was masterful.

Micah had thought Morgan might be cracking back in Guarma, but he'd still returned here, clinging to Dutch like a boy to his momma's skirts. John had spoken out in Saint Denis, challenged Dutch, but he'd likely come back too, as he always did. One little conversation was usually all it took and all was forgiven.

Bill's abrupt appearance in the middle of the friendly chatter was when the first shoe dropped.

"Well, here you all is!" Bill burst in, blustering on and on about how hard it was to find them. He was a mighty distraction and it would be easy to blame Bill after he'd admitted to asking around all over the county.

The second shoe dropped while Dutch was calming his precious family down from that jolting interruption.

Through the rain, a voice outside pierced the comfort and peace Dutch had just won back: "This is Agent Milton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. On behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States Government, and the commonwealth of West Elizabeth, we are here to arrest you."