(Descending Echoes)

After the events of Beaver Hollow, the weeks that felt like days ago had passed, and yet even still sleep, let alone rest, became that of a fairy tale for the famous Dutch Van Der Linde. The once eloquent gang leader, was left to his own devices now. There was no sound but the crackling of a fire before him, and The Count making his presence known every now and then nearby. The deep dark bags under Dutch's tired eyes that stared into the bright flames, were not the same ones from a few weeks ago, maybe even months ago. Instead, they were replaced with a mix of confusion and anger but above all loss, he did not get out much anymore, too risky. The Pinkerton's were still relentlessly searching for the other members of the gang, but wanting the head of their fearless leader more so. He was holed up in a small cave in the north, a day's ride away from the ever-growing town of Valentine. Dutch had gotten most of his supplies by stealthily stealing from locals without being seen or hunting himself when and where he could manage. If one thing was noticeable to the dark-headed man, it was the feeling of solitary living, something he had not done in what felt like decades. With the weeks adding on since that troublesome night of the ambush, lack of sleep was beyond taking its toll on the old gang leader, each passing day, the nights became… different.

Dutch awoke from his usual few minutes of dreamless sleep to the sound of thunder, seemed to be all the resting he could manage these days. He got up and walked to the opening of the caves mouth, staring at the dark thunderheads with streaks of lightning shining in the darkness of their approach. The wind had picked up, blowing the ever-familiar scent of rain into the air as the storm was traveling closer among the dusk evening sky.

"Well Count, looks like we're in for a storm."

The Count gave a soft snort in reply, as his owner had walked past his makeshift hitching post by the wall of the cave. Dutch had gone into making his usual small dinners, of whatever he could scrounge up along with the ever-essential cup of watered-down coffee. By the time he finished cooking his can of stolen baked beans over the fire, the rain was pouring outside of the cave in the blackness of night. The wind whistled through the cave every now and again and moved the flames of the campfire around with it. The thunder rumbled with cracks of lighting matching its sound, but Dutch remained unshaken, in his comfort of the caves shelter, keeping his eyes rested on the fire with occasional glances outside. His memory seemed to always roam though, always roaming, to that day. 'How did it all go so wrong? Why was there so much betrayal in a time where belief was what was truly needed? Why couldn't they see that? Why couldn't Ar-.'

Dutch's eyebrows furrowed staring daggers into the burning flames, his questioning thoughts overtaking his mind just like every other night. All his emotions bubbling within him all over again with each time he mentally conversed within himself. But in the end, it seemed the result ended in a weak excuse along the lines of, 'it was their own faults, they doubted and betrayed me.' The ex-gang leader's final assessment always remained the same, a bandage over a gunshot to appease his own sanity, or perhaps what was left of it.

The rain came down heavily with a roaring sound making its way throughout the cave, and amidst the roars was something else. A light tease of a sound intermingling within the confines of the rock walls, it was both near and far, before him and around him all at once. It was easily dismissive at first as just wind, no known source of where it came from, but when it started to sound like words, Dutch took notice.

His eyes scanned the walls of the cave, the shadows, the entrance, everywhere, but still no location of the ever-increasing murmur of words.

"Dutch…"

His eyes snapped to the ground, his breath quickening as his heart began to race as his name was faintly called. It was just him and The Count, he knew it to be true, then why-

"Dutch…"

Thunder continued to rumble outside of the cave, the words were becoming clearer and louder with each moment and with it so too did the panic grow within Dutch as well.

"Dutch…"

He knew what name was being called, it was the same one that was spoken every night since Beaver Hollow. His face tightened in his concentration not to show panic, not to give into their calls, not to listen.

"We'll all be in far worse trouble unless you get your head straight Dutch!"

"Why did you do it?"

Dutch closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the voices, all the voices he knew all too well. They became more frequent, surrounding him as others came from different directions in a cacophony louder than the pelting raindrops outside.

"I loved you! You g*****! B******!"

"What happened to you?"

The dark-haired man stood up with a cold sweat on his brow, he circled around himself, searching for something… anything. As his eyes continuously examined around him in his panicked state, he shakily muttered a quiet pleading, "s-stop."

"I have always been loyal Dutch!"

"How could you trust him more than us!"

Dutch was becoming frantic as he took quick breaths in his constant and quick turn arounds, "stop it!"

"I just don't want any more folks to die, Dutch."

"Why couldn't you just listen?!"

"No, I-I…" Dutch's trembling hands eventually made their way to resting on the rear of his holstered revolvers. His head ached at the impact of ceaseless noise flooding his mind and memories. His back faced the mouth of the cave, with a constant motion of left to right as if an enemy was going to attack him at any second.

"Why Dutch?"

"Dutch!"

"Why Dutch!?

"You're a fool!"

"WHY!"

"I SAID STOP IT!" Dutch's revolvers slid out with practiced speed, a quickfire single shot from both revolvers sounded and made contact with the cave wall. He had still had the barrels pointed out before him, continuing to move left to right. But just as the voices began, they had suddenly halted their attacks, leaving only the pattering and thundering of the storm outside to remain.

All seemed calm for a moment until a cold presence made itself known at his back. Even in the stillness, he could have sworn he heard the sound of boots hitting the cave floor in their approach to him, closer and closer. He dared not turn around, every fiber in his being was telling him not to, but his racing heart and shaking hands told him to shoot first and ask questions later.

"I gave you all I had."

The instant those words were uttered, a part of him broke all over again, those few words hitting him like a cannonball to the gut. The hairs on his neck were on end with the bitter cold that hit his back like ice itself, his eyes darted around in thought, lost in both past and present. His heart all but bursting out of his chest with every second that lingered on, he knew he had to face whatever was going to be standing behind him.

Dutch whipped around and fired his gun once more in an instant, but nothing was there. He turned all around him even, but still nothing was there. The ex-gang leader lowered his gun, his expression changing to one of regret and loss. He holstered his guns, and looked once more, The Count looked anxious by the wall, the storm still raged outside, and his gear and supplies were still rested behind him. Dutch walked over to The Count and stroked his head, settling the white Arabian's startled fears and cries of worry. The dark headed man walked back to his campfire with a somber quiet, and saddened look in his eye, the confused anger was washed away for a moment and replaced with shame, his face riddled with guilt over all that was and could have been.

Dutch plopped down before the fire once more, he rested his head into one hand propped to his forehead, staring into the fire with an appearance of defeat.

"I did."

Dutch's eyes lowered to the rock ground; a saddened grimace fell upon his exhausted face as his eyes tightened shut in an almost pained expression upon those two words. The never-ending nights plagued his mind, all but to the point of breaking it beyond what he could bear anymore. Even with Dutch's rage that would always return along with his sorrow over the unforgettable events he often recalled. A part of him internally wanted to cry out, "I'm sorry… I am so sorry." But it would never come to pass, his pride and his mind in its ceaseless ever-deep thoughts would make sure of that. The words would never be spoken, there would never be forgiveness, there would never be redemption. Just the husk of a man that once was, but now full of pity and resentment and echoes of his past to haunt his descent to the very end.

(THE END)