Author's note: I preferred the high honor ending when writing this next part. Granted, all the endings have the same sort of sentiment either way, I feel, whether you choose to help John or return for the money. Is "high honor" the truest ending for Mr. Morgan? Who knows that better than you do, as his handler for a while, I suppose. In the end, he becomes the kind of man you've made him to be, whether his death is a hero's death or not. I had to go to Youtube probably a thousand times to watch this scene over and over, and over again (I've run through Kleenex at this juncture as well) just to get the dialogue right and get a sense of what sort of internal monologue might be going down based on what mocap could capture in their facial expressions. Performance Art is both an objective and subjective thing. This is just one interpretation of the subjective portion, but I think we all might need more tissues for the objective bit. At least, I do…

"Oh Dutch…he's a rat. You know it and I know it." Arthur wheezed from the stony ground, looking up at him mournfully, pleadingly almost as Dutch crushed his fingers beneath his boot. He had wanted to stomp those pale digits at first, grinding the bones and flesh into the dirt to prove his point, but he had subsided in his rage somewhat as he looked down at Arthur. Extinguishing completely the moment they made eye contact, there was an exhaustion in those bloodshot eyes, and something else that he didn't think he'd ever see again.

It was the same sentiment that she had in her eyes when Colm tore her apart, when Hosea had been shot like a dog in front of him simply because they wanted it to be so, and in Susan's when she blew a hole through Molly for betraying them…love. They all really had loved him and he had led them to their end one by one because of it. Ah, but if only he could've truly loved them too. Maybe then this emotional wound wouldn't feel like a hemorrhage in the here and now, and maybe, he could've been the kind of man he wanted to be because of them. The way she had wanted him to be after she died. The way she had commanded him to conduct himself thereafter. The reason she loved and had faith in him to begin with. She hadn't been the only one to love him fiercely despite his stupidity, arrogance, narcissism, and rage. For all of those lost souls had too.

They were no longer just pieces on the board and they hadn't been no matter how many times he tried to tell himself this was so. They had been his family. One he had chosen to make over the years.

I…I know…but…if I admit it now, out loud to you…I don't know how or even if I can live with the consequences of my inaction. "One by one, I will take them all from you." That's what Death himself told me a long time ago. And one by one…Jenny, Mac, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Sue…John, Abigail, Little Jackie…and now…now it's your turn. I am responsible for this happening to you, I know…but I–

"He's sick…he's dyin'...he's talking crazy." Micah interrupted his thoughts, battered almost as badly as Arthur, limping towards him clutching his shoulder with that pathetic pleading look in his eyes. Pandering or guilt maybe. No, this was that same dirty trick that he used on them until they stopped falling for it and died for his sake. That bullshit apology that came from a place of self preservation and not actually from sincerity. He could see that, but too little too late now he knew.

Because I made him that way the moment I turned my back on him. Strauss was a bad call, a greedy one. Swanson, in his own way, was another greedy call I made for selfish bullshit reasons. That pregnant girl too, splattering her brains all over the place for 'survival'? And you…you were the worst choice I made, Micah Bell…and for what…to watch the man I raised die beneath my feet. I used to stand for something and now…now I–

He could hear the Pinkerton's coming, shouting in the darkness below them somewhere, searching for them. I could still stand for something, couldn't I?

"I gave you all I had…I did." Arthur wheezed, his eyes hardly blinking as he tried one last time to reach out to Dutch, to bring him back to reality. He took his boot off of the hand that reached for the revolver, barely being able to hold back the tears he knew would come as his throat clenched tightly in anticipation of the pain he was about to experience. More grief, more sorrow, more anguish and resentment piled on top of an entire mountain of the same stuff. Years of grief coming back to haunt him.

"I…"

I know you did, Arthur.

"I…"

Say it goddamn you! Just fuckin' say it! He's…fuck he's–

"Come on! Dutch…let's go buddy. We made it. We won." Micah was getting desperate now, trying to draw attention back to him, looking up at Dutch almost as pleadingly as Arthur did. He turned back to look down at Arthur, dying in front of him. He couldn't say what he wanted to, it would mean admitting he had been wrong. That he was responsible. And he couldn't deal with that right now. He didn't want to.

No, we didn't make it. I didn't either, this is no victory, Micah. I let you take him from me and the others too. They were right, I let you get in my ear and now both of my sons…and both of my women who mothered them alongside me are dead. I didn't even bat a goddamn eye when you shot Sue like an animal, the woman who helped me shepherd this boy into manhood. All I gave a shit about was my reputation and my self preservation. I used to stand for something but…now I only stand for my own appetite for greed and violence just like the barbarians I've come to loathe. For nothing. Because I ignored every opportunity I had to cut you from me like gangrene, like the disease you are. They warned me but I didn't want to hear them. I wanted to be right.

"John made it. He's the only one." Arthur grumbled, his breath ragged and wheezy as though every breath might be his very last. "Rest of us…no."

Annabelle, you hear that? He suppressed a relieved gasp, choking again on his own throat squeezing. John made it out. I know I promised you I'd look after them but, darling, we both know I'm a terrible father. A despicable husband. A liar. A conman. A thousand other things too. I'm coming back to you, darling. I know I failed you. I just hope you can forgive me like you always do, like I pray you will. You have to…Belle, because I don't know if I can forgive myself this time.

"But…" Arthur took a deep breath and added, in a fond and sweet way that tore Dutch to pieces in just a look that nearly made him break down, "I tried."

You did more than try, my son. Susan would be so proud of you, Hosea too, and even Annabelle. You became the man I wanted to be even though you were raised by a goddamn monster. You and John became better men than I could ever be. It's all I…ever wanted…or did I–I don't…I don't know.

"In the end…I did." He began to gasp for air now and Dutch knew it was over, this was his boy's death rattle now. It had been a long time since he heard one, that sharp gasping for air, the way a fish out of water might sound if it could. He hadn't been this close to death in a long time now, not since she had breathed her last in the same way in his arms all those years ago. Bleeding to death and still fighting to the very end to free your sorry ass, he thought, it should be me lying here on the ground now getting ready to join you. I know that. To join all of you.

"Come on…let's go. We can make it." Micah pleaded again, gesturing to the ridge behind him and taking a careful step towards him.

You…you took them from me Micah. Separating the weak bison from the herd like the predator you really are. And now you want to do it to me again. I was supposed to protect them but I was the weak and sickly one. I let you separate me from them, from the safety of my own family and friends. This was your plan from the start and I was too stupid, too delusional, and too arrogant to see it. But they did, they saw you for what you are Micah. They warned me too and I ignored them all like a fool. Now they're gone. Just dust in the wind now…because I stood for nothing thinking I was really something.

He backed up, slowly at first but his pace became quicker the more he felt horrified with himself hearing Arthur breathing his last. Eventually he turned and slowly walked up the ridge, letting the tears he had been holding back fall without noticing, even though he could hear Micah calling out for him again before antagonizing Arthur one last time.

He only stopped in his retreat up the slope when he heard the single gunshot echo through the canyon, feeling his heart sink a little as he dropped to his knees on a flat part of the ascent and put his head in his hands. But he had held it together long enough now and it was time to let this burden go, to let it lie there with Arthur Morgan. At least Micah had done Arthur a kindness perhaps, putting him out of his misery. Though, perhaps Arthur had found the energy to put Micah out of his. He didn't know and it didn't matter anymore.

"What have I done?"

"Do you really want an answer to that inquiry?" A familiar voice purred, the tell tale sound of his pocket watch snapping shut made him grit his teeth and cover his eyes.

"Fuck off." He pleaded, stifling a sob as his chest heaved and he felt his heart constrict in his chest.

"What will you do now, Dutch Van der Linde?" Death asked, twirling his mustache a moment, almost picking at it to curl the edge slightly like some cartoon villain.

"Die. Probably. You're here for me this time, aren't you?" I can hope but I doubt it, I've never been that lucky.

"Not yet. You will know when I am though, I can assure you of that. How do you feel?" The Strange Man pushed himself off the rock, looking down into the abyss below as the rain began to fall just a little heavier now.

"When all I know is grief, suffering, despair, and anguish? How else am I supposed to feel, sir?" He pulled his hand away to glance at the figure who stepped down a little further, he didn't even care about the fact he could feel tears streaming down his face but he didn't want to completely lose it. Even if this was just one of Death's many forms, inhuman and probably unfeeling too, Dutch still had his pride as a man not to make a scene. Though had he been alone he would've.

"Is that really all you can feel these days? Only grief?" The Strange Man asked, raising an eyebrow and eying him carefully.

"Of course that's all I can feel! Why do they haunt me anyway? Is it because you delight in tormenting me!" He snarled, pushing himself off the muddy ground as the rain fell heavier now and threatened to send him sliding down the steep path as he stepped back for a moment.

"They don't actually haunt you, I can assure you of that. No, she gave back to you what I took from you, they all did. Some part of you must realize that. You told her what I traded you for power back then, she was the first to…I returned it in pieces every time I came to collect them from you. That was the bargain she made with me about two years before she told you that you were going to be a father, when she left you for what you did to her. The others too, asked for a little piece to be returned to you when I came for them. In the hope you would be the man you 'proporte' to be. So…how does it feel, Mr. Van der Linde? To have your heart back after missing it for so long?"

"You…" He whispered angrily, sliding a bit again as he carefully tried to pick himself up out of the mud again, "and Arthur, what part of me did he trade his life for?"

"You'll 'figure it out Dutch, you always do'. Best get moving soon though, the Pinkerton's are coming for you." He replied with a wink.

—-

"Easy," He gently touched the gaping wound on the cremello stallion who had dropped to the ground in agony, it had already been a day or two now that the Count had been dying but hadn't given up until now, "I ain't her but I'm here."

He had been shot through the chest as they had fled, but still tried to faithfully make sure that he would find Dutch Van der Linde, make it to Arthur Morgan in time, and carry him off into the sunrise despite his mortal wound. But like the demon he probably truly was, he carried on anyway until this afternoon a day or two later, finally collapsing in the middle of the trail unable to go any further. The animal snorted, pawing at the ground a bit with all of his fine tack on, the wound had dried some time ago but dark rusty coagulated blood wept from the bullet hole over the flaking crimson stains. While it hadn't disturbed any major organs, it was obvious that just like his mistress had years ago, the Count was bleeding to death but still holding on for what little time he could.

Another thing you get to take from me, he thought as he cradled the stallion's head in his lap and ran his hands over that soft Roman nose and into his forelock. Dutch could tell the horse wanted to keep going, to get upright again and patiently wait for him to remount. Knowing the beast would keep plodding on until he eventually bled out.

"I'm here, you fucking asshole, you quitting on me too now, huh?" He murmured softly even as the animal tried to thrash a bit weakly to try to roll himself back upright. "Shhh, we both know you aren't going to make it, you walking glue factory. But…"

He put a hand down on one of the revolvers and the stallion stopped writhing, picking his head up from the ground and blowing weakly before collapsing back in the dirt again. He cocked the hammer back as he drew it, both he and the animal locked eyes as he continued to softly whisper to the Count under his breath. Lines of poetry, the stuff that she liked to read and he was surprised he remembered a good portion of it all these years later. He set it down and slid the animal's head into his lap one last time.

"I am sorry. In the end, you were the most faithful to me, you know. I came to cherish and, well…love you in my own way, I guess," he paused, reaching down for the revolver again, "but I don't want you to suffer anymore on my account. The way they all did. Thank you for all your hard work. You've earned your rest."

The Count grunted, sliding his own head off of Dutch's lap and rolling, tucking his legs underneath him and slowly trying to stand up again. His legs buckled a bit, shaky, weak and covered in dirt, blood, and god knows what else. But he stood again, looking to his master to 'saddle up and ride' one last time. Into one last horizon together.

'Ride with me' The animal tried to convey, snorting a little even as his breathing came out ragged and raspy with each inhale and shuddered every exhale. Gurgling a bit now even as his feet threatened to slide out from under him again.

"You want to die standing for something, I can understand that. We're alike in that way, dear friend. But we cannot ride together anymore…" He whispered, straightening back up as the stallion swayed back and forth on his four feet, threatening to collapse again at any minute. He raised the gun to just behind the animal's right ear, tucking the long face against his own body and resting his chin against that sleek neck. The stallion blew softly, nibbling at his sleeve and fingers, spitting out the metal bit and tenderly licking at his master's exposed flesh. The animal sighed, closing his eyes and leaning a bit, causing Dutch to have to compensate for the weight of the heavy beast. He closed his own eyes too now, squeezing the face and head of the animal close to him as tightly as he could before he pulled the trigger and heard the gun go off.

The Count collapsed instantly and silently, dropping to the ground as Dutch nearly fell to the forest floor with him and slowly lowered the cremello's head to the earth to rest. He let the revolver slip from his fingers as he sank back down into the fresh mud with his knees. Clutching the animal's face as tightly as he could. His own ears rang and the shot disturbed the birds from the branches and brush, scattering them from their resting places and crying out.

"I am so sorry."

'Darling.' Her voice called out to him somewhere beyond the towering trees as the wind rustled the boughs above him and he moved again to retrieve his saddlebags.

"I'm here, Belle. I'm coming. I hear you calling me back to you, dear. I just had to say goodbye to our 'faithful steed', but I am coming home…soon." He replied quietly, untying them from the fine leather saddle and slinging them over his shoulder. He had no use for the tack now. No matter how much it had cost him over the years. It didn't matter.

He had let everything at camp burn after the Pinkerton's had raided them. The tent. The books. The wagons. Everything. But, at least he had gone back to bury Susan Grimshaw once the situation had calmed down. He had wanted to bury Arthur too but…Charles had seen to it. They hadn't said a word to each other either, even as Charles slung the limp body of the wasted man over his shoulder and eyed him coldly. He would've offered to help but, it seemed abundantly clear that the man did not want any assistance on the matter. He would have to visit the gravesite sometime though to tell Arthur all the things he wished he had the conviction to say to him that night. Privately.

Bill and Javier had looked for him at first, hell bent on following him to wherever life was going to take him next but he had chosen to abandon them. Separating them from Micah, telling them that he would 'find them soon', lying through his teeth about eventually meeting up with them again. He could've taken the chest in the cave too but, none of it mattered…not now anyway.

He would walk to Cochinay if he had to now. Alone.

—-

"Hmmm." He tied off the tourniquet tight, he could feel the veins of his arm push back against the rubber band as he wrestled with the small case of morphine and needle now. He let go of the excess that had been in his mouth, feeling it snap against his arm as he diligently worked the clear substance into the needle. Drawing it up from out of the small vial, though it was more than he usually took in one dose today, hopefully enough to kill him this time. He had been actively trying for a while now, though he was too proud to turn his own guns on himself still. And, well…running out of ammunition for them as he tried to feed himself from whatever the woods could provide for him.

'Dutch…' It was Susan's voice today that haunted him, yesterday it had been Hosea, the day before it had been Molly, and the day before that it had been Arthur.

"No. Don't you start that bullshit with me today, Miss Grimshaw." He mumbled back in response, not even lifting his attention for a second in the sparse cabin that he and Annabelle had once hid out in. It had at some point been occupied again, cleaned up and ransacked and cleaned again. The dead body of the unfortunate hunter who had taken up residence was still lying by the back door, the antler handled knife still buried deeply in the man's throat too.

He got it filled to his satisfaction, pushing back down a bit to let the liquid spill through the needle to ensure there was no air in it. Though, he couldn't be sure why he needed to be so cautionary with it, after all, he was trying to die now wasn't he?

'What about the golden boy?' Arthur's gruff and gravelly voice came to him now and he stifled a chuckle.

"Just fine. Hanging out at Pronghorn Ranch last I heard. John has gainful employment, Jack is growing like a weed, and Abigail…well…looks the same as always. They uh…they're expecting another one, my son, but that was some time ago now. I wonder if they've named it after you or maybe in honor of her…" He pushed the needle into the skin and gritted his teeth, flexing his forearm a bit as he quickly slammed the suspended drug into what he hoped was a vein and waited. It did not take very long for him to feel stupid, sluggish, weak, and heavy.

'Darling…' Her voice called out to him now as he sank into the crude straw bed that was barely covered by a raggedy cloth in total bliss as his eyelids grew heavy. Ah, Annabelle. I'm coming. Soon.

—-

They had all convened at the big table in the middle of Horseshoe Overlook, chatting with one another or exchanging bits of stale bread or whatever else had been made for the occasion. The camp seemed celebratory almost, with all of them in attendance, except the ones still left out in the feral real world. Hosea, Susan, Molly, Jenny Kirk, Mac and Davey Callender, Arthur, Lenny, Sean, Kieran too, and…Heidi McCourt, Colm O'Driscoll, Hamish O'Driscoll, Brontë, Cornwall, and the Braithwaites and Greys for whatever reason. Friends and enemies at one table. It was odd to see them all chattering like friends with each other. Perhaps this was Hell after all…

"Beloved?" She glanced up from a conversation she was having with Susan, resting her hand on the woman's back and shaking the dark curls from her eyes. "Aren't you starving?"

"Pass the taters, wouldya?" Molly leaned past Annabelle's right to take a bowl from Kieran who blushed and handed it to her. "Much obliged."

"He ain't ready," Hosea offered from the head of the table, looking up from his plate and smirking at him, "he's still got work to do. Don't you Dutch!"

"This…this is the afterlife, isn't it, Belle?" He asked, taking a tentative step towards the table and she shook her head, pushing herself away from the other women to stand up and greet him.

"No. We just thought it might be nice to…" She averted her eyes a moment and looked over at the party seated behind her, watching her a moment with warm smiles before returning to their conversations. "To visit. To bring the family together for you. It's…it's rather–"

"Those assholes," he gestured at his old enemies seated amongst his family, "shouldn't be here. I don't want them here, Belle. Just…let me come back to all of you. The people who truly love me for what I am." He pleaded, taking her in his arms and burying his face into her neck, taking in that exotic perfume and her own freshly bathed scent, the way she had smelled in life once upon a time.

"You aren't ready, beloved. Not while…" She lowered her voice and pushed him away, giving him a small kiss before leaning into his ear, "not while our 'son' still needs you."

"He doesn't! He's…he's fine, Belle, living with that girl out at Pronghorn Ranch and our, well–YOUR grandson is a teeanger now if you can believe it. He made it, Belle! That's all I need! Knowing that John is out there alive and well, living his life the way we taught him to. Let me come home to you my darling! Please?" He pushed away, pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes with a grumble. He would plead with her if he had to. Pout if he needed to even.

"It's not over for you yet, sweetheart." Susan had turned now to look at him, resting on an elbow as she smoked a cigarette.

"Aye. Ya didn't love me in life, Dutch Van der Linde, but can ya at least do me the courtesy of takin' yer time before ya sit with the rest of us fools?" Molly raised an eyebrow and he whimpered a bit, clutching Belle to him tighter now like she could shield him from the memories of their deaths. Deaths at his hands. Death by his own design. He didn't want to take responsibility right now.

"Dutch," Annabelle pushed the curl that had fallen over his forehead away behind his ear, stepping back a bit and biting her lip, "you can't come home yet. I want you to–I do but…"

"But I have 'hundreds more corpses' to lay at his feet, don't I? That was the deal. Did he–was he the one who–" He stammered, it was rare but for once he didn't know how to communicate how he felt to her. She pressed her thumb against his bottom lip to shush him, rubbing the soft meaty edge over it for a moment before resting it on the small patch of facial hair beneath the lip.

"It doesn't matter now, darling."

"You have work to do, Dutch. You're old but not so old you can't put in a hard day's effort." Hosea chuckled, sitting next to Bessie and Heidi, helping himself to more of the side dishes.

"I…" It was as it had been the night that Arthur had left, he knew what he wanted to say but didn't have the courage or conviction to say so, even in the dream world he was in. There was so much he wanted to say but was too nervous to say it.

"Awww why the long face, 'Daddy'?" Colm snickered between Brontë and Catherine Braithwaite.

"Fuck you, Colm! I'm glad I got to watch you swing!" Dutch hissed as his dead wife clung tightly to him again and made a disappointed humming noise, patting him a little to calm him down.

"We're all friends here. Be civilized, beloved. You wanted to be free and this…this is paradise, Dutch. No fighting. No worryin' about whether we're above ground or not."

"He raped you and killed you in front of me and you're–you're fucking BREAKING BREAD with THEM? I HAVE LOST MY GODDAMN MIND!" He snarled, pushing her away from him and gesturing at the row of old rivals. She sighed in response, pushing his arm down and linking her fingers in hers.

"You'll understand soon enough, I promise. Good. Bad. Somewhere in between…we all gotta die, darling. And we all meet back here. We find each other, like we always do." She kissed him one last time, stepping in so she was close to him again. "You still have a choice. We do not, we either 'lived free or died like dogs'. Here, none of that above ground bullshit matters."

"Is that so?" He responded indignantly, pulling her mouth to his again for a while. He swore he could feel her soft lips against his, the warmth of her skin, and the intoxicating scent of her perfume even though he knew he would wake up from his induced stupor and find himself right back in that bullshit reality.

"It is," she finally pulled away, cupping his face in her hands and looking up at him, "and I will be with you. We all will. I know you, so don't fuck it up by overthinking it either."

—-

It had been a painful and slow ascent through the snow without a horse, the wind whipping his hair and the frost clinging to his long beard as he practically kicked the door open but all that awaited him was silence and dust. Maybe even an echo or two of old memories from when he came here with Hosea all those years ago.

Surely Sadie had to have gotten back to John by now, a carefully laid out plan after Micah's new gang had dispatched an entire family, except Cleet who suddenly grew a pair of balls last minute and dared to say "enough" over a child. Oh he had been in Tall Trees and near Strawberry long enough to know that Cleet was hiding out there, after all, he had been shadowing Micah for some time now. Waiting for an opportunity, knowing that Mrs. Adler had also been patiently waiting for a chance to get even with Micah Bell.

They want me to do this last act of vengeance and I am very good at planning revenge at least, he told himself as he slammed the door shut and looked around at the spartan cabin and fidgeted with his gloves. He should've gotten another horse but, well after the Count died, he wasn't sure he could lose another. He peeled them off and slammed them on the table, shivering a bit in his heavy coat as he looked for the heating element in the room.

He had planned it very, very, very carefully. He had written to Sadie that Cleet would be hiding in Strawberry, knowing she was still close to Charles, Uncle, and consequently John. Writing anonymous letters regarding Micah's movements and activities along the way. Well, though he was sure that Mrs. Adler knew exactly who was feeding her the information she wanted. Oh, but he had run into that dirty rat too, in the flesh.

"Meet me at Mount Hagen. We'll go for the Blackwater money and split it two ways." He had said, of course he would've made it easier for John by putting Mr. Bell down outright, but he wanted to see just how much that young man had grown since they last saw each other.

"He might put a hole in you, asshole." He muttered to himself as he finally found a wood stove and went to look for a couple logs, his teeth chattering from the cold as his breath came out in ghostly white streams.

"Ah well," He raised his eyebrows, having become accustomed to talking to himself rather than engaging in his internal monologues now whether he was in company or not, "you would deserve it, Dutch."

"Fire first or do we set the bait…" He looked curiously over at the disturbed floor where he knew the chest was buried, rubbing his freezing hands together to try to warm them again, breathing into them a little too.

"DUTCH!" Micah called out from the yard, he could hear the thunderous beats of hooves making their way down the slope. He couldn't tell exactly how many but it was enough to snap him awake and continue looking for firewood.

"You didn't take long," he shivered again and found a small pile of kindling, enough to get something started until he could convince Micah to send one of his boys to fetch more wood, "guess bastards with appetites never change, do they?"

"DUTCH! IT'S MICAH!" The man called out again as he began piling bits of scrap paper, broken pieces of wood and a small sawdust and wax firestarter out of his pocket and stuffed it into the stove.

"I HEARD YOU GODDAMN IT! I'M STARTING A FIRE BEFORE I FREEZE TO DEATH AND I NEED DRY WOOD SO BRING SOME WITH YOU!" He called back over his shoulder, fumbling in his pockets for matches now.

He could hear Micah dictating orders and spurs jingling as men dismounted into the snow.

"More than fifteen…" He muttered under his breath as he finally found the matches and struck one, carefully holding it to the wax and sawdust as the flame spread out. He waved it out, tossing it in and shutting the hatch. "What if he doesn't come though…no, no–I raised him too. He's got that killer in him. He'll show. He has to."

The door opened, letting in small flakes of snow as Micah strode into the cabin and whistled.

"Nice place. This where you been hiding out all this time?" He looked around a while before looking back at Dutch who had crouched in front of the stove, holding his hands out to try to warm them.

"No. I've taken up with the natives in the last six months or so." He grumbled back, making sure that he had the other man in his line of sight without raising his suspicions too much.

"Ah, still preaching about a better world then?" Micah tried to be sneaky about pulling his revolver but Dutch had already pulled his and had it locked back, he chuckled and slowly stood up.

"If you try it you'll never get that Blackwater money," He slowly lowered the revolver, decocking it loudly and putting it back, "I came in peace, Micah."

"You're still quick for an old dog," He sneered, letting go of the handle of his revolver and letting it fall back into the holster, "you left me Dutch. I thought we were friends. You made me the enforcer when Blacklung got too weak. But…I guess I mattered to you about as much as he did."

"Arthur's been dead a long time now, get over it Micah. I did." He lied, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to the small table and chairs nearby. "Have a seat."

"Where's the Blackwater money, Dutch?" He growled as they sort of circled one another now, trying to remain composed but ready at the same time. Dutch chuckled, pulling a stool close to him with his boot and sitting on it, gesturing to the table again.

"Have a seat Micah."

"Heh, I don't take orders from you Dutch Van der Linde. I ain't your fuckin' boy. Where's the goddamn Blackwater money!" He charged the table but Dutch didn't even move, smirking in amusement as the man realized this was not the same pliable idiot he had been years ago.

"In time. In time. Then you can do whatever the hell you want, but for now, you'll show a man who came to parlay with you a little fucking respect. Especially with the amount of money stashed away." He played with his beard a moment and gestured to the table again, "Now sit the fuck down."

"You've gone crazy, haven't you?" He laughed, looking away for a moment as Dutch's smirk faded and was replaced by a rather stern and cold look now.

"So they say. Do I look crazy to you…Mr. Bell?" He leaned forward a bit, retrieving his black gloves from the table and slipping them over his hands, making sure to keep Micah in his sight as he did so. "Sit. Down. I'm not going to ask you again."

"Alright." Micah grabbed the other stool, picking it up a bit and slamming in on the floor so that he was only a few feet away before sitting on it. "We gonna reminisce about old times? Dutchy."

"Have your merry band of assholes get dry wood and a bottle of bourbon first and we can, I 'spose." He responded quietly, leaning back a little and exhaling loudly through his nose.

"Sure." He stood up from his stool and slowly backed towards the door, still wary about turning his back on the madman for even a moment.

"I won't bite you Micah, I don't make it a habit of 'biting the hand that feeds me' the way you do."

—-

He could hear the shouting and shooting come from down the mountain, he tried to hide his delight, sipping on the bourbon glass as Micah began to frantically pace back and forth. He looked over at Dutch for a moment, debating whether or not he had something to do with this.

"You set the law on me?" He whispered, hopping in place a little as he got more and more agitated as the sounds got closer and closer.

"I did not. I've been with you the last day or so, so how the hell am I supposed to rat you out to the Pinkerton's? And did you forget the part about me being a wanted man too? Who the hell did you piss off this time, Micah?" He snorted, draining the glass and setting it down before he leaned forward to retrieve the bottle and pour himself another.

"Boss!" A man threw the door open, clutching a rifle as more men rushed down the slope towards the noise below. "I don't know who he is but, goddamn he's slaughtering us!"

"You're telling me you're getting your ass kicked by a single human being! Fuckin' morons!" Micah snarled, kicking a piece of furniture as he chewed his mustache angrily and began to pace again.

"Well…there were two others with him but, I think–I suspect they're–" The man began to stammer, gulping a bit as he locked eyes for a moment with Dutch who didn't seem remotely bothered by the news of a lone man coming for them.

"WELL! SPIT IT OUT! WHO THE HELL IS COMING!"

Dutch couldn't contain it anymore and had begun to quietly laugh, giggling as he returned his attention to his glass and causing Micah to slowly turn to look at him.

"Who the hell is coming up the hill? You…you know, don't you!" He wagged a finger, practically tearing his way across the room now and Dutch set the glass down, trying to stifle his giggling as he pressed the remnants of the booze caught in his beard to his sleeve.

"Well…" He exhaled, slowly lowering his arm from his mouth, "I reckon probably John and Mrs. Adler, considering I may have let it slip that you would be here."

"You idiot. You really think John won't kill you after he's done with me? We could've been pals again, Dutchy." He hissed, thinking now about how he could possibly take John on in combat and come out victorious. It was no well kept secret that he was far-sighted, though as the years had gone by he had been out of practice too. Oh he was still quick enough and could outdraw John without question though he had been too slow to get the drop on Dutch, who hadn't seemed to slow down despite his age.

"I doubt it, but if that's the way it has to be then…that's the way it has to be. I did teach the boy how to shoot after all. Though he killed long before I pulled him off the gallows." He retrieved the glass again and drained it, setting it back down with a relaxed sigh and tapping his fingers along the rim in thought.

"Killer or not, I'm going to put your precious boy down and then you with him," he withdrew his revolver and held it up at Dutch who closed his eyes rather than rolling them outright in annoyance, "where's the Blackwater Money?"

"There." He pointed to a chest on the other side of the room, "well…some of it anyway. Twenty grand or so."

"And the rest? We took over a hundred and fifty dollars that day, Dutch. And you're sure as shit not 'living it up in Tahiti', are you?"

"Cute, Micah. Real cute. Keep me alive and I'll tell you where the rest of it is." He grabbed the bottle again and poured yet another drink, slower than he had before this time and carefully recorked it.

"Mr. Bell…what should we do?" The man who had been forgotten about entirely in the doorway looked out at the ridgeline and then back to his boss.

"Go put a hole in that son of a bitch!" He gestured and the man nodded, scurrying away in the deep snow towards the ridge overlooking the cabin. He turned back to Dutch now, smirking as he pulled out the second revolver and went to step outside himself.

"Got anything else to say about my 'plan' for your boy, you fucking lunatic? I'll think about keeping you around but you will tell me where the rest of my money is!"

"Only that your plan, 'sounds like a good one.' Twenty thousand is nothing to turn your nose up at, that's true…but you're greedy, Micah and you always have been. You'll keep me around." He mumbled in response as Micah knelt by the door and he heard him scurry for cover, he proceeded to continue muttering under his breath regardless of whether Micah heard him rambling or not. "But, you won't get John. He may be blind in one goddamn eye but she accounted for something like that happening someday. 'Woman's intuition' she called it. Made him practice for hours alternating between his left eye and right eye alone."

The room felt colder for a moment as all the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, out of the corner of his eye he could see the slender right hand on his shoulder but he didn't turn around. He didn't need to and Micah didn't seem to. It wasn't just her either, he could see all of them lingering about just out of the corner of his vision. All of them staring intently at Micah Bell who continued to nervously shifted on his heels, still crouched in the corner as John called out from the ridge and made his way towards them.

"Are you real or imaginary today, darling? Brought the whole family with you too." He asked, reaching for the glass again and spilling it slightly as he moved it to his mouth. But she didn't say anything in response.

"Micah!" He could hear John calling out for the rat as an actual one slithered out of the partially open door, rattling it a bit as the small creature made it's escape. "Micah if you're here, come out."

"Hello Scarface." He pushed his way out of the cabin and into the snow, slipping between the crack he had made and audibly closing it behind him, leaving him and Annabelle alone.

"I let him get revenge for you once," Dutch took a sip off his glass and swirled it idly, "now I'll let him get it for Arthur. And me. For all of you."

The rapid gunfire erupted and he knew that it had begun, polishing off the rest of the glass now and setting it back down, taking his time as he retreated from it to stand up and brush down the thick black coat. John and Micah were talking shit to each other for a while, shooting at each other. John's shots were well timed and placed but he hadn't heard a groan yet indicating that either man had done in the other just yet.

"Come on out, Micah." It was Sadie's voice.

"Fuck. I should–" He hesitated, debating whether or not to move to the outside himself and intervene. He could feel her hand along his arm, softly caressing him through the heavy jacket and he nodded. "You're right. I'll hold off for now. Mrs. Adler is tough, a little crazy but tough as coffin nails."

The waiting felt like forever to him as he heard Sadie and Micah talk to one another, though he didn't bother trying to hear exactly what they were saying outside. He moved quickly, standing in front of the door now and preparing himself for the confrontation just like he had planned.

"I don't know if he'll…understand, if he'll realize my intentions for being here. But," he reached down for both revolvers in anticipation, "you're with me, darling. And they're with me too, that's all the encouragement I need."

"Just like old times, hm? All manner of folk paying social calls." Micah made a kissing noise to John and Dutch kicked the door open, still lingering in the shadows for a second as he slowly made his way out of the cabin and into the light.

"Hello, son." A nervous cadence to his voice, unsure of how this confrontation might go, as he carefully held both revolvers up. One at John and one at Micah. "Mrs. Adler. Been quite a while."

Micah took the opportunity to get a hold of Sadie, the two of them thrashing along the ground for a moment as both he and John looked on. She was wheezing and he knew by the sound of it, she had gotten banged up pretty good, though somehow it hadn't been enough to kill her. Amazing the things that grief and rage can make the human body do, he thought as Belle appeared just a little off to his right now watching the struggle as intently as he was.

He and John shot each other a look briefly, with Marston trying to work out how and why or even what Dutch was doing here. You can put a little faith in your old man, son, can't you? But they both turned back as Micah managed to get a gun on Sadie. He put the revolver in his right hand back into the holster. I need to at least act the part of a confused idiot, we're all too close together with too little cover that even if he is unable to see well at close range, he could still kill us all.

"Now, John…now…what were you saying?" Micah panted a little, it was obvious that the years had taken a toll on him a little. Probably has other people do the work for him, probably got that attitude from hanging out with me.

"What're you doin' here, Dutch?"

"Same as you, I suppose." Revenge.

"Dutch and I are teaming up once more…we got money…we got dreams…join us John, join us." He laughed, he had noticed that Dutch had put the revolver that had been on him away. Good, he thought, Dutch was still just as self centered as he had been years ago.

He won't. He ain't greedy like you.

"You shot at me, son…" Dutch growled a bit, hoping John would catch the subtext of what he actually meant. He knew Micah wouldn't, but if Martson was as sharp as he used to be, he hoped he would catch on. Trying to answer the silent question John had asked him with only a look when Micah and Sadie had tousled in the snow a second ago.

Because of what happened at Beaver Hollow.

"You started it." It was your fault.

"You betrayed me." He spat angrily back, though this was more for Micah's benefit now, to give him hope that maybe he was willing to work with him again. After all, the man needed him alive if he ever wanted all of that Blackwater money. I know it's my fault, John.

"I could say the same as you." There was no subtext to this he realized, this was John telling him exactly how he felt. The unexpected guilt trip made him furious, he snapped a little bit, forgetting their little coded routine.

"I was trying to do my best…you…you just cared for yourself." He was projecting how he felt onto John now. As if I don't think about what I did all the time. Like I don't KNOW WHAT I AM!

"I think differently." John replied softly. That's right, they weren't here to assign blame or kick over spent coals, they were here to kill Micah. He needed to calm down. It was the reverence in his response that settled him down, like a soft rain in the desert, gently placing a hand on that anger and asking it to step aside. He's still as sharp as always.

"Join us…Join us, John…" Micah pleaded and Dutch had to suppress a smirk. Idiot.

John turned his attention off Dutch and pointed his weapon at Micah.

"Let her go, she ain't well!" Remember the code.

"I don't wanna kill you, John."

"Arthur saved my life…more than once." Because I remember the code, Dutch. I remember what you taught me. Do you remember?

"Arthur's been dead a long time…this is a new century." Micah sneered in response.

"Dutch…" John turned again to plead, hoping that he had caught the subtext of his words though it didn't seem like they had registered to the older man just yet. "Dutch…we all did our best for you…ain't our fault things turned out the way they did."

Nothing. He would try again.

"Dutch…killing me won't solve nothin'!" Remember what you used to stand for, goddamn it!

"Put down your gun, Marston!" Micah snarled, keenly aware that John was trying to placate the old boss now. That there was more going on than just an ex outlaw pleading with his friend about sparing his life. Dutch was unhinged and Micah could easily use this to his advantage like he had before. He was a survivor after all and that had to be more important to Dutch than some orphaned bastard he raised with a dead woman. After all, he had let him kill Arthur in the end, he'd probably throw his hands up again and walk away if it was assured that John Marston would die on this mountain top. He'd get the Blackwater money and put a hole in Mr. Van der Linde the second he had an opportunity.

"Say somethin', Dutch, say somethin'!" Are you with me or against me? What's it going to be?

He briefly looked over at Micah but, that wasn't what caught his attention for a second before looking back. She had moved out of his periphery now and stood off to the side in plain view, folding her hands in front of her and tapping her foot impatiently as she regarded Micah like an insect. She briefly looked over at Dutch, her eyes partially obscured by her dark brown curls and looked back at Sadie and Micah again, tilting her head forward slightly as if to say 'What are you waiting for, darling? Answer John.'

"I ain't got too much to say no more…" He answered quietly, he turned his head as he drew the right revolver and snapped it up, firing directly into Micah's side. The man stumbled back, letting go of Sadie to clutch his wound.

"You shot me." He almost sounded surprised but he could tell by the expression on Dutch's face as he stood there with his guns back in their holsters that this shouldn't have been a shock to him. He laughed as he realized this had been Dutch's plan the entire time. Revenge for Arthur, for Lenny, for Hosea, for Susan, Sean, Kieran…and himself. "You shot me pretty good."

He had both of his guns now, he could kill them both right here and right now. But it was over before he even got a shot off. John unloaded on him and he stumbled back again, turning to walk away a few paces before shrugging and falling face first into the snow.

"Thank you…" John gestured a little to the corpse as Dutch slowly began to move again, looking down at him intently with a pained look as he brushed past, "I…I…"

You became a finer man than I'll ever be.