Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Two: Dutch

"Dutch?"

The plan failed. He had failed. Thought he was playing it so smart. So stupidly smart.

But he had been played. This whole time. They'd stolen the Braithwaite's horses for naught, burned the Gray's tobacco fields for naught, gave away Braithewaites' moonshine for naught. Those rednecks had dropped their damn pants, and he'd lowered himself with a smile, happily sucking, thinking he was being so clever–and here they were with naught to show for it but a dead friend. Oh, Arthur…

"Dutch?"

Arthur was gone. His son was gone.

"Dutch?!"

"What?!" he answered. "Goddammit, Abigail, what?!"

He finally found the strength to tear his eyes from his best friend's body, momentarily shocked by how weak she looked. She was deathly with worry.

"Jack?" She whimpered. "The Braithwaite bitch got my boy."

An uncontrollable wave of anger flashed within Dutch; could he ever catch a break? The natural order dictated solutions followed problems, yet nothing but problems ever seemed to follow him. First, there was that goddamn mess at Blackwater, then that awful business on the mountain, then… Arthur… and now this.

"Maybe you should have kept a better eye on him," Dutch answered, dragging each word out, wanting the venom in his words to hit her as hard as it could. Annoyance boiled in him hearing Mary-Beth gasp as his words.

"What?" he snarled, glaring at her. "I got the weight of the world on my shoulders, and now I gotta be accountable for her sole responsibility in camp?" He looked around for support and saw nothing but disapproving eyes. Fuck them.

" I… am going to bury my son now," he declared, turning his back to let everyone know that was it. But of course, she couldn't have that.

"Please, they'll kill him! They might be killing him right now!"

All the problems had to be piled on him, and he had to find all the solutions; had to pull them out of nowhere. It was them. They were holding him back. Arthur was dead, Hosea had lost his balls, John was a traitor, and everyone else was useless.

"No one is leaving until I bury my son!" he said, anger bubbling. He was ready to snap.

I should leave them, he thought, see what they'd do without me.

"Please Dutch," John said, pathetically. "He's just a boy; you can stay here, but let me take a few people. Just a few."

"No! No! N–no," Dutch said, ending in a whisper. He took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm–they needed him that way. Don't be Esau, be Jacob. "No. You're right. Abigail's right. Groveling does nothing."

He turned, addressing the gang:

"Kieran! Stay here and guard this place; we don't know how secure it is anymore. Swanson! Give Arthur here his last rites or whatever the hell it is you do. Ladies! Make sure it's the best goddamn funeral in America; if the cross is smaller than five feet, it's shit. The rest of you men: ride with me, we're getting our Jackie back!"

They walked with Dutch, emboldened by his words–he always did have a way with them–over to the horses, each man mounting up; well, perhaps not every man.

"No, Uncle, Mr. Pearson, I need you to hang back," Dutch told them as he climbed atop The Count, his snow-white stallion.

"I can help," Pearson insisted, a glint of admirable ferocity in his eyes.

"I need men, not tigers. And Uncle, you're too damn old," he said, before looking up at the gang's bravest soul. "And of course, we don't want to put you in harm's way Mr. Strauss, so please: I implore you to stay behind."

"Wouldn't fathom anything else, Mr. Van der Linde," Strauss shouted from the other side of camp, counting the camp funds again out of the rusty red box.

"C'mon Dutch, I still got some fight left," Uncle argued.

"Which is why I need you to stand guard here," he said. "I don't need any more people getting captured, and I sure don't need anyone dying, you hear?" They knew by his feral tone that that was the end of it.

The men rode off, Dutch riding vanguard, leading the way to Braithwaite manor. They steered clear of Rhodes–who wouldn't if it was really as bad as Sean said?–riding along a path through the deserted forest.

"I swear, if they touched one hair on his head…" John started, fuming with white-hot rage.

"Goddamn Braithwaite's. Goddamn bushwhacking, traitorous hicks," Sean said.

"They must have figured out what we was up to," Charles speculated.

"Do you think they was in contact with one another? Jack's disappearing at the same time as Arthur's death sounds calculated, doesn't it, Hosea?" Lenny asked.

"Hmm. Y–yeah. Probably," Hosea answered weakly.

Poor man, Dutch thought. He was probably the closest to Arthur aside from Dutch. It's tough, outliving the folk you love. Dutch knew from experience.

"Does it matter? They're going down either way. I swear: nobody here better leave with any spare bullets!" John shouted.

"Hear fucking hear!" Sean said in agreement.

Dutch spotted the yellow train station of Rhodes through the treeline as they pass by on their route; they were almost there.

"What about the gold?" Bill asked.

"Who gives a damn about the gold? They got Jack." John answered.

"I–I hate to say it," Hosea stuttered. "But I don't think there is any gold."

"What?" The gang said in unison, faultlessly blended with an even amount of rage and shock. Dutch clutched his reigns so tightly his knuckles turned ashen white. He could feel that infamous Van der Linde temper building back inside him. Deep breaths. Jacob, not Esau.

" What?" He echoed.

"Or if there is, it's hidden somewhere no one knows about." Hosea finished.

"Goddammit! After all that? Another perfect scam," John remarked.

"We underestimated them," Lenny whispered.

"No! They underestimated us," Dutch said, focusing on Jack. "It doesn't matter how we got here, this is where we are, and we are going to fix it. So come on!"

They picked up the pace, breaking through the Braithwaite property line between their corridor of massive oak trees that reached out onto the road like a saber arch, drawing ever nearer to the house itself. It was as beautiful as ever; enormous in design, yet painstaking in detail. The symmetry was really what made it: the first two stories were outlined with at least twenty pillars that supported the incredulous weight of the place, each positioned with an even amount of distance between every one. Then, there were the five front doors on the first floor syncing perfectly in both staging and size (and hell, even shutter and window appearances) with the five doors leading to the balcony on the second floor. And of course, there was the trio of dormers poking out from the roof as if to say there's more, don't forget about us, there's more, there's more. Dutch couldn't wait to burn it all down.

They hitched their horses by the stupendous archway leading to the mansion, arming themselves properly. As always, Dutch was partial to his twin gold and silver Schofield revolvers.

"Never shoulda gotten involved," Lenny muttered.

"Heh, bit late for that now isn't it?" Bill asked sardonically.

"Quiet! We're going to fix this, right now," Dutch said intrepidly. "C'mon! Let's get this done. Dixie filth think they can ruin us? I don't think so…"

They huddled dramatically together as they marched forward, looking upwards, making sure that old hag hiding in her fortress knew how many men were coming for her. Bang! A warning shot. Dutch laughed hysterically; they thought that would deter them? Think again.

"Wave your guns around. Make sure they know we's bringing an armory with us."

They closed the gap even further, reaching the needless lamp-laden wing walls that rested a quarter of the way between the gate and house. Several Braithwaite's exited the home, cocking their guns, realizing the threat was real. Hell yeah, it was.

"What the hell do you want?" A soldier asked in a deep voice, a folly attempt to sound older than he was.

Poor boy, Dutch thought, not even gonna live to marry his sister.

"We've come for the boy. You must've known we would. Hand him over now, and maybe a few of you can still walk away from this."

The Braithwaite soldier laughed, but it didn't mask his fear. "Get lost," he said. "I mean it, fuck off or you'll all get it next."

"S–should we try to negotiate first, Dutch?"

"No, Hosea, they had their chance, they're all gonna get it now."

For Arthur, for Jack, for his Daddy. Dutch would avenge them all. "Rain fire on these inbred bastards!"

It was a symphony of gunfire, ranging from sawed-off shotguns with golden frames and blackened sights to worn carbine repeaters with barren scopes and stocks. Dutch made sure he shot the Braithwaite boy in the balls before the head and proceeded to seek refuge behind those glamorous windwalls alongside Hosea and John. He snuck his head over the wall's sloped apex, not hearing the pleasant musical sound of his inhales and exhales through the chorus of bangs and blams. He waited for his opening, timing the pauses in fire, taking count of the bullets, and made his move.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three pieces of white trash, dead.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted John hurling toward the right and he shadowed along, screaming for cover fire from his entourage. The pair barely made it behind one of the Braithwaites' tacky overcompensating pillars before they felt the breeze of bullets wave them by. They were breathing hard now, more from adrenaline than exhaustion. Dutch released a hearty laugh; they had those bastards in their palms now. He and John leaped forward, on the Braithwaite's front porch now, seeing a long row of heedless inborn whoresons turning to face them, like deers staring down the scope. Idiots hadn't seen them sneak up, or couldn't count to know that two were missing. There were six, maybe seven men on that porch, all of whom turned to their invaders with their guns drawn, and it was six, maybe seven men who dropped to the floor grasping the holes in their chests.

They were met at the door by the rest of the gang, Javier leading the pack. He gave a firm kick square to the lovely white French doors and the glass panel shattered asunder as it unwillingly welcomed the trespassers.

"Javier, John, Hosea, with me. Everyone else watch out here for any more arrivals," Dutch commanded, entering the Braithwaites' tomb. "Spread out and find Jack! And that Braithwaite woman!"

Javier went left toward the gentlemen's room, neatly arranged with cigars so fancy Dutch couldn't pronounce them; Hosea went right past the dining hall, fixed with plenty of fancy china and brightly lit candles–naturally held in golden candlesticks (for a family that didn't have any gold, they sure loved teasing it); John and Dutch ran up to the second story, the former shooting someone Dutch couldn't see–because the latter hung back for a moment to rub his muddy shoes onto the brilliantly patterned rug by the stairs.

John shot two more Braithwaite men–unlike the one Dutch got who was very much a boy–before checking the first room on the right. Dutch went for one on the left; it was unlocked, and vacant. John and him performed a nifty zigzag, John blasting over to the door next to Dutch to search, and Dutch meandering over to the right to check that room. He heard John's gun go off, although he didn't bother turning around to see the result; there weren't nobody as fast with a gun as John. Except for Arthur…

Dutch's second quarters, however, were just as empty as the first. God, this is as unproductive as fucking Molly, he thought. They reached the end of the grand hallway, face-to-face with the last door. Dutch planted his leg in its center, expecting it to crash ajar, but it stayed firm, bearing his blow fully. Dutch smiled and exchanged a look with John. This was it.

Dutch called out for Hosea and Javier to give them a hand before politely knocking on the door. "Missus Braithwaite!" he said cheerily, dragging out every vowel. "This is Dutch."

The response was hoarse and bitter: "Get the fuck outta my home, you crooked mangy mutt! Do it now, or my sons'll tear you limb from limb!"

"Well I don't know, dear, I think it'll be hard for them to do that without any blood inside their bodies."

Her piercing bellow of rage branded a mighty smile on his face.

Hosea and Javier appeared then, and the foursome drew back, ready to charge at the door with a coordinated slam when they heard gunfire on the charcoal horizon. "Braithwaite reinforcements!" Charles called out from ground level.

Dutch's face contorted into a jagged frown of frustration–a frown that only grew at the sound of these hillbillies' matriarch's vile cackle. "Shut up! You think you're safe? Just wait!" he barked back at her, before turning to his followers. "Goddamn bastards must make more offspring than rabbits. Lucky us!"

They exited toward the balcony, hovering over the balustrades, shooting down the forthcoming swarm of Braithwaite's, who didn't hesitate for a second to return the favor.

Another shootout. Another damn shootout. How many people would he need to kill to catch a damn break. He supposed the less people there were in the world, the more luck he'd get. Simple math: four people get the same amount of luck, but make it three, and it's still divided evenly, but each man with a much larger piece of the pie. That was probably why they'd been so unlucky as of late; population boom diluted their share.

He felt a hand on his shoulder suddenly. It was John, beckoning him to follow, although Dutch's ears were ringing and he missed what the boy said. Still, he followed, keeping low, trailing along the balcony's railing to the adjacent side where he saw the object of John's intrigue: a back door leading into the Braithwaite witch's hut. John and he moved to it, leaning back in sync… and smashed into the room with a titanic crash!

Their entry threw Dutch off his balance and he stumbled onto the hardwood floor, staring up at two Braithwaite's (who again, were closer to boys than men), thankful for John's gracefulness and speed with a revolver. Bang! Bang! Now it was just them and Catherine. They made their forceful entry into the bathroom next, finding the crone in her nightdress; she'd kidnapped a little boy and then freshened up for bed, ready to sleep soundly. Bitch. He thrusted her against the wall, sticking his gun to her chin. "Where is the boy?!" he demanded.

"We have lived in this house for a hundred and twenty years. We never had no problems, 'cept for Yankees," she said, proudly tilting her head upright.

"Where is my son!" yelled John.

"You killed my sons!"

"And I will surely kill the rest of them, unless you start talking," Dutch threatened, cocking his pistol.

"I know your type," she said with disgust, her emerald eyes burning into his, sizing him up. "Common scum. Filth!"

Dutch puffed out hot, wild breath. This was going nowhere.

"Alright, we get her outta here," he said, grabbing by her gray locks and yanking her towards the door. John opened it, and they strolled towards the stairs, passing Hosea and Javier.

"Did you get 'em all?"

"Every last goddamn one," Javier answered.

Her shrieks didn't put a smile on his face this time. "Good. Now burn this dump to the ground!"

This time her whines of anguish only added to his burning Van der Linde temper as he trampled down the stairs, and he slapped her hard across the face, shutting her up. "You boys sure Jack ain't in here?" he asked, pathetically sanguine.

"We searched everywhere, Dutch," Hosea responded.

The comforting scent of smoke began to fill his nostrils; it was better than opium in his opinion. He took baby steps to the front entrance of the house, letting his prisoner see her family's multigenerational home descend into flames. He imagined Lucifer smoking in the gentleman's room or wearing their golden candlesticks on his dick like a second foreskin and felt a lot better about this whole botched operation.

Finally, he tossed his captive down the front steps, her body squirming as the brick steps stabbed her rib cage.

"Why did you take the boy, Mrs. Braithwaite?" Charles asked the groaning gorgon.

"You stole my liquor. My horses!" said she, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"You don't take little boys! That's a rule!"

"Ain't no rules in war, you stupid nigger!" she wailed.

"Where is he!?" John screamed, putting his thick hunting knife to her cheek.

She leaned up, exhaling deeply, looking at the men around her with the deepest contempt, locking onto Dutch for the longest. "My sons gave him to Angelo Bronte. So Saint Denis would be my guess. Or on the next boat to Italy!" she bragged, concluding with a feeble laugh. All the same, it couldn't be tolerated.

Bang! Dutch put one right through the front of her forehead; an instant death. The men, worn and defeated, huddled around the corpse for a moment longer, feeling the gluttonous flames devouring every inch of that manor behind them. An ember landed on Dutch's cheek and sizzled out before anyone said anything.

"What now Dutch?" Lenny inquired.

"Now…?"

They couldn't get Jack back. They couldn't get their hands on any precious Braithwaite gold. They couldn't even bury Arthur; Abigail had seen to that.

"Now…?" Dutch repeated, clarity striking. "Now we go mirror this bonfire over at Caliga Hall!"

"Here fucking here!" Sean chanted.

"Dutch?"

"Let's show them Grays we ain't the forgetting sort," Bill added.

"Dutch!" Hosea said, loud enough to cut through the angry clamors and crackling of fire. "We did what we came here to do, let's leave it there. We don't need to bring any more heat on ourselves."

Dutch shook his head. Like he said: ball-less.

"Do what you're gonna do, old man. Me? I couldn't sleep at night leaving Arthur unavenged," he said, mounting his horse. Most of the men, besides Hosea and Lenny, immediately followed.

"Please. It won't make it any better." Hosea pleaded to ignorant ears. Dutch had already made up his mind.

"Can't possibly make it any worse."

He whistled, urging the gang to keep with him as he rode off in long, hasty strides. Hell was coming with him to Caliga Hall.

Some things I want to clarify:

I will be writing this as much as possible as my goal is to have it done well before the year's out (from now, that is).

Expect updates thrice a week, although we'll soon see if that is too hefty a goal.

Feel free to let know of any mistakes I made in writing this, be them grammatical or based on the lore and geography of the game's universe.

With that in mind, let me now if you think I'm writing any characters inaccurately-the intent is to tell the story by giving more attention to those side characters, so keeping them as accurate to who they were is essential, although of course I did make many changes to fit the story; my outline is pretty set in stone, but maybe if you make a good enough point to shatter my world, I'll change it.

Thank you!