"I'm-!"

"Leavin'."

Leopold's stomach flipped. He looked at Arthur, utterly bewildered, hardly able to believe what was happening to him. Unable to find his voice, he scowled at the sick man before slowly turning around and walking away. No one left in the camp spoke to him as he mounted his horse, and took off down the trail. Hell, no one even spared so much as a passing glance, either. He couldn't hear anyone speak after he'd gone out of sight. Glancing over his shoulder, he found nobody following his tracks. His heart sank and ached as he began to realize how little everyone had truly thought of him. Gritting his teeth, his hands tightening on the reins, he bit back tears as he reached the fork in the road, and turned left.

Autumn had just begun to settle in; the maples showed their first signs of turning, with little splotches of orange signaling the coming of a spectacular inferno. Some leaves fluttered in the crisp breeze, their hues closer to yellow than green. The wind pushed at aged trees, bending their gnarled limbs so that they creaked and moaned. Leopold shivered, chilled by the atmosphere, and his solitude therein. He moved along at a slow trot, staring idly ahead, his thoughts running far too rampant for any of them to be remotely coherent to him.

His horse suddenly whinnied in sheer fright, rearing and throwing him to the ground before taking off. He bounced once, narrowly avoiding hitting his head, then rolled a few feet. Groaning, his back and hips aching from the hard fall, he lifted himself up onto his elbows, and saw what must have spooked his horse: a man, hanging from a tree, right next to the trail. The unfortunate stranger swayed and spun slightly in the breeze, his pale blue face and empty eyes making for a disturbing sight.

Leopold winced, getting back to his feet. He couldn't tell which way his horse had gone, and decided that it didn't matter – he'd never catch up to it, anyway. He only knew that he wanted to get far away from the hanging man, lest he be next. Sighing in defeat, he pushed forward, now with a slight limp. Upon finding a sturdy stick in the grass, he picked it up to help him walk. A large black widow spider descended from it, angrily rearing its legs at him. He threw the stick down in a panic, and stumbled back, his heart racing.

"Verdammte Spinne!" He cursed at the arachnid, whose only crime was existing. The creature scuttled off into the grass, disappearing once again. Exercising more caution this time, Leopold retrieved the stick, examining it closely before standing it upright. He gave a sharp sigh, muttering to himself. "Ich hasse Spinnen…" Turning on his heel, he looked one last time at the hanging man, and carried on down the road. Along the way, he spotted his valise, mercifully dropped by his horse, and unscathed. He retrieved it, grateful to have at least something of his, but uncertain if it would matter. Stranded and hurt, he wondered if he would even make it to Annesburg, or if he would end up dead before long. Bears, lunatics, and Pinkertons could have been hiding anywhere, and he was little more than a sitting duck.

Leopold noted each chipmunk and squirrel he spotted playing, and any time a deer happened to trot across the road ahead of him. No signs of bears, mountain lions, wolves, or elks made themselves apparent to him. Birds chirped, warbled, and sang in the warm afternoon sun. Despite the tranquility of his surroundings, a storm brewed in his Heart. He found himself clenching his fists, and he stared ahead with a glower, and a tightened jaw. A seed of anger had begun to sprout inside of him; he cursed himself for ever getting on that boat, for allowing anyone to convince him to go to America. Then, he paused his thoughts, and nearly laughed aloud.

"Nein…!" He growled, shaking his head. "Es war meine Wahl! Nur meins! Das ist noch schlimmer!" This time, he laughed in spite of himself. He remembered what made him choose to leave Vienna: he'd nearly died over the winter of 1863-64, and his hopeless drunkard of a father hadn't lifted a finger off the bottle long enough to even try and help him recover. His older brother, Ludwig, had left the year before, and no one ever heard from him again. Leopold vowed that if he survived his bout of pneumonia, he would leave Austria, leave his father, and the broken home he'd grown to Hate, to start a new life somewhere else. Thinking back on it, he wondered – not for the first time, or the last – if he'd made the right choice. Leaving Vienna, he almost died before even seeing the boat. Arriving in New York, he'd wound up all alone on the first day. Before meeting Dutch, he scrounged, scammed, and stole from whomever he could, being little more than skin and bones by the time the young, charismatic outlaw found him.

"Dutch…" He muttered under his breath, gripping his valise tighter. Closing his eyes, he shuddered a pained sigh. A seventeen-year-old immigrant starting over was one thing, but a fifty-three-year-old outlaw, in poor health and on his own, hardly stood a chance. He wanted to confront Dutch, to demand answers for Arthur's decision, and why nobody stopped him. However, in his Heart, he understood the reasons, as much as he wished to ignore them, and pretend they didn't exist. Casting his gaze to his feet, he bit back tears, squeezing the handle of his valise until his nails dug hard into his palm.

A brief image of Arthur's face flashed through his Mind, and Leopold became, admittedly, torn between his anger, and his guilt. Until Arthur confronted him, he'd never looked all that closely at the sick man's face before. He remembered what Thomas Downes had looked like the day he'd accepted a loan from him; it had been a bad day for the farmer, as his illness made him cough and wheeze without end. The dark circles around his sunken-in eyes appeared almost hollow in his ghastly pale face, and the raspy whisper of his voice was nearly impossible to understand. All the same, Leopold disregarded the man's desperate attempts to explain his family's situation, and went about business as usual. For so many years, he'd raised his defenses, built walls, and shut down his more sensitive side, all to perform his job efficiently. Now, alone, and forced to confront his Demons, those walls were beginning to crumble.

Pausing in his stride, he looked up from the trail, glancing around. There were no travelers to be seen. The wind had picked up a little, changing direction, and a faint whistling could be heard through the trees. It made him uneasy, as though he were being watched. Suppressing a shudder, he elected to ignore the feeling, and pressed forward, hastening his steps. As he walked, memories began to bubble to the surface. He thought back to the day the gang had to leave Blackwater – there had been close calls before, but never that close. He considered everything they'd been through together since then, and how many more of those close calls they'd endured. Their desperate escape into the mountains had left a lasting impact on everyone, and he couldn't be sure if that was the catalyst to all of their problems afterwards, or if it was something before that which he couldn't think of.

His hand instinctively moved to cover his thigh, remembering the bullet he'd taken in Valentine. Surviving that should have been all the warning he'd needed that it was time to hang up the moneylending business, and just help out with chores around the camp. He scoffed and rolled his eyes at himself, realizing for the first time how irreverent he'd been; he'd considered his work to be so important, that it meant he could forego all of the daily maintenance that went into holding up a small community. Thinking back on it made him want to punch himself. Arrogance can only get a person so far before it turns into self-sabotage – after that, the results can be hazardous. He considered where he was, then, and how he was faring. So far, he was merely grateful to still be alive. He let slip a small grin as fonder memories took hold.

Sean's coming-home party seemed like a lifetime ago. Granted, it had only been a few months prior, but Leopold remembered it as though it were yesterday. He chuckled quietly to himself, recalling the music and dancing, the drinking and conversation – he stopped grinning. He remembered how he'd chosen to keep himself isolated from the rest of the gang, and allowed the world to pass him by, despite his desire to partake in the merriment. Then, little Jack's party at Shady Belle came to mind. He'd never learned the details as to how Jack returned, but he was glad all the same. He'd been so happy and relieved that the boy had made it back to his parents unscathed, even though he struggled to show it with sincerity. For a moment, he wondered if his father would have done the same for him. In the end, he decided that, no, he'd never even consider it an option.

In the midst of his thoughts, he considered how everything began to go downhill, and at an alarming rate, no less. Blackwater was meant to be an easy score in their pursuit out West. One hundred fifty thousand dollars of bank money was the guarantee upon success, further aiding their cause. No one was meant to be harmed, but like others in the gang, he believed the job was a set-up. He remembered the day Micah brought the news to Dutch – Leopold had been standing nearby, reading a newspaper, and had overheard the conversation. Micah sounded sure of himself – too sure of himself. A ferry from Blackwater to Saint Denis, and then to a tropical paradise, somewhere on the Western coast of Mexico. Ever since then, Dutch couldn't get the idea out of his head. It was subtle at first, only appearing in private conversations with Hosea. At that moment, Leopold faltered in his stride. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he stifled a hard sob, seeing Hosea's face clear as day in his Mind's Eye. He remembered relaying the information about the Saint Denis bank he'd overheard on the Grand Korrigan. After that, he'd been left out of the discussion.

His knees went weak the moment he thought back to the poker tournament on the riverboat. He stumbled, then stopped, slamming his walking stick into the dirt to catch his fall. Sarah…! Another harsh sob threatened to escape him. His memory of their Time together made his Heart soar, and his Mind scramble. He imagined her face, then forced himself to purge it from his Mind. Another half-step forward, and he fell to his knees. The stick landed beside him with a dull thud, and rolled away into the brush. It had been just over two months since he met Sarah; he thought of her nearly every day since, his desire to see her again only growing stronger. Now, he couldn't bear the idea of facing her. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his eyes snapped shut, the hand over his mouth gripping tighter. Coupling the reality of the loss of his closest friend, with his exile from the gang, and his self-assured imaginings that Sarah would truly Hate him, he crumbled.

Suddenly, his fist shot out towards the nearest tree, knuckles digging into the aged bark. Clenching his jaw to stifle cries of pain and heartache, again and again, he punched the tree. His knuckles split open, smearing blood across the bark. One of them cracked, crunching and shifting in an unnatural direction. He pulled his hand close to his chest, examining the damage through pained tears and labored breaths. Then, his heart jumped into his throat – multiple sets of hoofbeats were closing in on his location. The voices of several men came closer, and Leopold glanced around the tree, spotting at least four riders heading his way. They all carried rifles, and one had a shotgun strapped to his back. Although he couldn't be sure, he had to assume they were Pinkertons, sweeping the area for signs of the gang.

He glanced around in a panic, searching for any kind of hiding spot he could make use of. Spotting a dense thicket at the bottom of the slope, just off the path, he moved towards it. In his haste, however, he slipped, and tumbled down the hill, bashing his knee on a burly, knotted root. He bit back a pained cry, practically throwing himself into the thicket, only to discover it was full of thorns. They ripped his clothes and tore at his flesh, seeming almost to want to keep him trapped there. Crouching down, he attempted to make himself small, and blend in with his surroundings. The men arrived at the top of the slope just as he'd gotten as comfortable as he could.

"What have we here?" One of them spoke – Leopold recognized his voice in an instant, and his heart raced. Agent Milton stood only twenty feet away, and he could only wait there in the thorns, like a wounded animal, hoping the danger would pass. "These are definitely Van der Linde gang ledgers…" His stomach dropped as he realized his folly – in his rush to escape, he'd left his valise by the tree. "Which means their 'accountant,' and resident loan shark, Leopold Strauss, must have come through here recently." Milton paused, then addressed his men. "Fan out and search the area! I have a good feeling Mr. Strauss is alone. If you find him, hold your fire. I want him brought back to me alive!"

"Look, Mr. Milton!" Another familiar voice, that of Agent Ross, responded. "There's blood on this tree. Looks awfully fresh, too."

"Well, then," Milton gave a dark chuckle, sending a shiver down Leopold's spine. "Let's hope Mr. Strauss didn't fall and hit his head." His saddle squeaked as he mounted his horse once more. "He's one of the longest-standing members of Dutch's gang, not to mention one of the most intelligent. I want his memory perfectly intact."

"Understood," Ross retorted stiffly. Milton took off, then, leaving the others alone to search for the missing outlaw. "Start looking, gentlemen. He can't have gone far." Through the tangle of thorns, Leopold could barely make out Ross' figure carefully descending the slope. He cupped both hands over his mouth, almost pinching his nose to stifle his breathing as the agent crept closer. His heart thudded in his head, and his stomach threatened to perform acrobatics, yet he remained still as stone. Ross passed by the thicket, coming within five feet of the frightened Austrian. His knees grew weak and shaky, and his ankles protested against the uncomfortable squat. Beads of sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, and the thorns caught in his skin almost seemed to tug at him on their own.

"I know you're out there, loan shark." Ross jeered. "Mark my words, I will find you; if not now, then when you least expect it." Through the tangled mess of vines, twigs, and leaves, Leopold watched him move further into the woods. He waited, his knees beginning to lock up on him. He wondered if, should he remain undetected, he'd be able to stand back up. Just as he was thinking about trying to slip away, he heard Ross approaching again. Adding to his dismay, he caught the sound of the other men returning to their horses atop the slope. "Find anything?" Ross called out to them.

"No, sir," came the reply. "Maybe an animal got him?"

"Let's hope not," another one said. "Mr. Milton seemed pretty sure that this feller would break quickly under pressure."

"And I agree with him," Ross grunted. "I did see some large pawprints heading off to the Southeast, but no more blood." He sauntered past the thicket once more, beginning to ascend the slope. "If anything, he probably just continued on down the road. Mount up, and split up! Search every nook and cranny along the main roads, then regroup in Annesburg! Leave no stone unturned!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Ross!"

Spurs jingled and saddles squeaked as the agents made their exit. Leopold, quickly becoming desperate for reprieve, remained motionless until he could no longer hear their horses. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he yanked himself free of the thorns. They shredded his clothes further, opening even more wounds than before; a particularly large one gouged into his forearm, cutting deep, spilling more blood. He fell on his face in the dirt, different kinds of pains searing his body all over. He nearly screamed, but stifled it through gritted teeth and sealed lips, afraid of attracting any unwanted attention. Checking his glasses, he found a small crack in one lens, but he could still see out of them.

"N-noch nicht…" He gasped as he wobbled to his feet, an untold number of pops and cracks alleviating the tension in his aching frame. "Annesburg…ich muss es vor ihnen schaffen!" Limping worse than before, he made his way over to the slope, and climbed up, hand over foot, digging his fingers into the earth. He had to practically drag himself the last few feet, and flopped over onto his back upon reaching the top, his breathing hard and erratic. His heart raced, hammering in his head, and his vision blurred. As he laid there, waiting for his pulse to calm, he closed his eyes.

He thought of catching a stagecoach, should he be able to beat Ross and his men to Annesburg. A train was more likely to be surveyed by the Pinkertons, or other law enforcement that knew of the gang's activities. A stagecoach would take longer to reach its destination, but at least it would be private, and better able to conceal him. Then, his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He realized the money Arthur had thrown at him was in his valise, which was now in the possession of Agent Milton. Heaving a deep, frustrated sigh, he picked himself back up.

"Ich werde es schaffen." Despite the pain surging through him like a second heartbeat, he refused to give in just yet; stranded in the hills without food, water, or money was not how he intended to die. Maybe it was his willpower, or maybe it was the power of pure spite, but he committed to his march to Annesburg. "Irgendwie."

Translations:

Verdammte Spinne: Damn spider
Ich hasse Spinnen: I hate spiders
Es war meine Wahl: It was my choice
Nur meins: Only mine
Das ist noch schlimmer: That is even worse
Noch nicht: Not yet
Ich muss es vor ihnen schaffen: I have to make it before them
Ich werde es schaffen: I'll make it
Irgendwie: Somehow