A/N: Guess who's late again? Me. But hey, I finished my finals, and Tears of the Kingdom is out! :D

The Grays caught on to Dutch's scheme. There was a huge mess and… Sean didn't make it."

Brandon walked into the bar. It was late, but since it was also a weekday, there weren't a lot of people wanting moonshine tonight. It was fine. Quiet days were boring, but needed. Lem was cleaning up for the night. The chatting among the few customers was kept to a low murmur, the band was playing nice, gentle music, since it was so late and calm, the lights were lit, giving off a gentle glow.

"Lem," Brandon said, walking up to the bar. "How's things? I thought Maggie was running things tonight."

"Yeah, and then Cripps showed up to distract her, as usual," said Lem.

Brandon rolled his eyes. "So that's where he went."

"Rose off scouting again?"

Brandon turned away and leaned against the bar. "Something like that. I had her go to Rhodes to check up on things. Place was a disaster, last I heard. Marcel looks worried."

"Well, Aunt Maggie won't let a thing in town get to her. You know what she says."

The blonde nodded. "True. But I think we should be careful. I'm also worried about Rose. She hasn't talked about what happened to her… not that she can… I mean-"

"No, no! I get it!" said Lem. He finished cleaning a glass and put it away to pick up another one. "I guess she isn't one to dwell on what happened."

"The O'Driscolls didn't hurt her badly," said Brandon. "They were clearly after Arthur, but perhaps it's more complicated than that."

Lem raised a brow. He looked at Brandon for a moment and then down at the glass he was shining. He was almost embarrassed and afraid to ask what he was about to ask.

"Th… They didn't-"

Brandon immediately shook his head. "They didn't."

"How do you know?"

"She… answered me."

Lem was stunned silent.

"The best she could, of course," Brandon said. "I didn't force her to do that, but… she did. I had to force her to stop because it looked like she was about to cry. And I knew it wasn't about the O'Driscolls."

"Yeah…" said Lem. "She still can't stay in the room when the band starts playing."

"She was the same after the whole mess in Blackwater," said Brandon. He was looking to his left, which would be west. He stared at the wall, as if he could see Blackwater from where he was standing all the way out in Lemoyne.

Lem reached under the bar, grabbed a clean shot glass and slid a free drink across the counter. With that, Brandon graciously took it. Then Lem grabbed shot glass for himself, as well.

"Thank-you," said Brandon. They crashed their beverages together and drank it all in one go.

Suddenly, the front doors to the bar swung open. People nearby gasped as everyone looked over and even the band stopped playing momentarily. Rose had run in, out of breath, her hair a mess, and her hat so low, no one could see her eyes. But still, she trembled and fell onto her knees. Brandon knew her figure anywhere.

Or, at least he thought he did.

"Rose!"

Brandon was the first to run to her side. He crashed onto his knee before and held her arms, pulling her into his.

"Are you alright?!" he said. "What happen-"

Suddenly, the warmth he offered her, was repaid in pain! As much as Brandon tried to yell, it only came out as a soft, sudden gasp. The sharp pang was on his side, his whole body could barely move, only twitching, as his mouth hung open, trying to make a scream that wouldn't come out. Then, there was warmth. It was dripping down onto the floors.

Finally there was a voice. It was all Brandon needed to know.

"This is for Grace."

This woman was not Rose.

Brandon pushed the girl away with all his might and drew his gun. A gunshot was heard and she landed on the floor, the so-called orange hair she had fell off partially with the hat, revealing brown underneath, and a bloodied knife was in her hand. Lem saw it, and pulled out his gun as Brandon leaned forward, holding his side, his revolver dropping near him.

He felt warmth. It was wet. It was blood!

"Aunt Maggie!" Lem yelled to the back.

"This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency!" a voice yelled from outside. "Everyone stay where you are. Brandon Marrows, you are under arrest for the manufacture, and distribution of an illegal substance, murder, and tax evasion."

"My job's illegal, you son of a bitch…" Brandon hissed under his breath. "I don't pay taxes…"

Suddenly, Lem's arms were around him, hoisting him onto his feet. "Get out of here! To the rendezvous!"

"But-"

Brandon felt sluggish, his vision swam and suddenly, Maggie was in his view, pushing him into the trapdoor that was in the back of the bar.

"Get the hell out of here!"

Brandon remembered being shoved forward. Cripps was with him. He said something, but Brandon didn't remember. Every step was like trying to climb up a steep hill. He was leaning against the walls. There was blood. People had followed and there was screaming. Cripps left his side. All he remembered was to keep running.

Soon it was dark. He felt the wind. Ah, he must have made it outside. The smell was strong. Brandon knew he was still in the swamp. Everything was hazy, but he was somehow still moving as much as his legs would get him.

There were the soft grumbles of the gators in the distance, the crickets chirping away and the sound of his boots trudging through wet grass and mud. The darkness didn't help anything. Could the Night Folk smell the blood of a man bleeding out? Brandon didn't know. His throat was dry and his head was spinning. It was cold at night. Or was he just cold? He kept going.

Just keep going… he could only think to himself. He kept walking. Just when he thought he couldn't take another step, he took one more.

Keep walking, keep walking, keep walking… Brandon repeated the thought over and over in his head, even as his eyes grew heavy and his vision turned black. He didn't know what was happening anymore. He just wanted this to stop. What happened? Why did everything go to hell? Why can't he just lay down and sleep?

Voices swam in Brandon's head. He couldn't escape them, even if he tried. The blonde let himself give into it. Maybe at the end of this blurry, vague, and unclear hell, would clear up if he just hung in there and endured.

"Why did you save me?"

"If you die, you'll be giving them what they want."

"So… of course I want my revenge!"

"And I will avenge my husband's death… so help me God."

"Brown! You're dead!"

"Damn you!"

"No! Damn you, Teddy Brown!"

"Then you have little to fear of death… you God awful swine!"

"You kill me, you'll be running for the rest of your life!"

Still, it was dark. Brandon knew he wasn't moving anymore. He was clear headed enough to know that.

"...ay… me…"

"…with me…"

"Stay with me…"

"Bran… don…"

The outlaw finally opened his eyes as a sharp burning pain filled his side. He gasped, his eyes shot open and his back arched, but several hands held him down. A desperate cry left his mouth, only to be covered by a gentle hand.

The blonde looked around, his body surprisingly sluggish for having just jolted awake. It was still dark, but he could make out shapes. Then he saw coffee brown eyes, and locks of orange hair. His desperation came back as his breath became unsteady.

"No! Get off me!" he yelled, voice still weak and slurring as he tried in vain to fight off his attacker.

Brandon flailed, but his wrists were held down. He yelled, and struggled. He wouldn't die without a fight that was for sure.

Finally, with his hands pinned down, and his muscles suffused from blood loss and weariness, he saw Rose again, hovering above him. Brandon gulped, eyes heavy with heat that were threatening to generate tears. Then, she pulled down her scarf, showed the scar, and then…

She moved her lips.

And Brandon heard her.

It was coming back to him. That woman in the bar was a fake. Rose held his shoulders, and suddenly, he was still, his breath hitched as he tried not to sob in front of her, or in front of Cripps, who was also there, needle in hand, trying to sew Brandon's side back together.

"H-Hurts…" Brandon said, his voice shaking and tired.

"Almost done," said Cripps.

Brandon didn't dare look at the bloody mess that was his side. There was more murmuring and talking. Rose took to his left and Cripps to his right. They grabbed his arms and then his back, starting to hoist him up.. His vision swam and his side burned. His eyes rolled back and shut, and he let the darkness take him.

"How far is it?" John asked. He rode on his horse, Old Boy, with Rose behind him, hands on his waist. Dutch, Arthur and Sam were following them on their horses.

John looked back at Rose for a moment, who just shook her head. So, it wasn't far, huh? After getting down from the roof it wasn't a long trip, but Rose had them go onto different roads with twists and turns before actually going on the right road. Sam was a little confused, but soon Dutch informed that perhaps Rose just wanted to be sure they weren't being followed.

Soon, they passed by the Saint Denis gallows, and the graveyard that was behind and beside it. It was pretty big, from what they could see, but there were also high walls, so it wasn't easy to see inside without just going in. Sam pulled down a gulp, and judging from the way that the others were looking like they were trying to pretend it didn't exist, they all hoped it wouldn't be them who were next to have a rope around their necks.

Near the end of the area of the cemetery, Rose tapped John's shoulder twice, which meant stop. So, he did. She got off Old Boy without a word, obviously, looked both ways, and started crossing the street towards an alleyway. The others got the idea and followed her there, as well, leaving the horses hitched where they were.

It was kind of like any other back alley. Narrow, cramped, kind of smelly, and the ground, while made of stone tiles, were dirty, with a few lanterns hanging near doors. There were barrels and crates to squeeze past, but then, there was a small table where a lantern sat, not attached to any walls.

There were two chairs, with one empty, and the other occupied by a man with a dark complexion, sitting close to a red, wooden door. He wore a light coat, a dark cowboy hat with a red band and some kind of white card stuck in it. Underneath was a white collared shirt and a black vest. He had short dark hair, but his beard was long enough to hang down slightly, but had no mustache. He looked older, probably in his forties or early fifties. The creases on his face and upper cheeks was kind of a giveaway. He sat there, quietly, holding a newspaper in his hands. That was, until he heard Rose's footsteps. He looked up, and then immediately saw past her, seeing the big man who stopped him from confronting Tilly a while back. He reached behind the table grabbing a shotgun.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he suddenly asked, sternly.

Rose raced forward and held out her hands. She gestured to her strange entourage and then pointed at herself.

"They're with you?" said the man.

Rose nodded, and then meekly pointed at the door.

"Is that so?" The man kept looking at Arthur who was, slowly but subtly guiding Sam behind him, while staying by Dutch's side. Still, he was gazing at their would-be opponent with a fire behind his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket and stood up slowly, before walking to the red door and opening it with the key. "Go on ahead," he responded, flatly. He sat back down, letting everyone. Arthur and that man didn't break eye contact until he was fully away from view.

"Uh, you guys know each other?" John asked, as soon as Rose closed the door. The living room was packed with barrels, pelts, food, other goods, and tanning supplies.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Shut up. I'll explain later."

Rose started up the stairs and the others followed. However, once they were in the hallway and approached the door at the end of the hall, she had everyone stop. The redhead grabbed John's hand, and pulled him to the door first before pushing it open. She did so, very slowly.

John was the first to see a small bedroom. It didn't have much. There was a window in the back, but the curtains were shut, despite it being the middle of the day, there was just a dresser that had a lantern on it and there was another on the nightstand. There were more pelts just laying on the ground or hanging on the walls.

Meanwhile, on the bed, John looked over and saw a pale and exhausted Brandon laying on it. His eyes were closed, blonde locks of hair spread out on the pillow like the rays of the golden sun. Still, his breath was labored as sweat came down from his brow and a wash cloth was resting on his forehead.

John stopped where he was. He wasn't sure what to say next, except what came out his mouth.

"What happened?"

Rose's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Finally, the others came in and Sam's eyes saw Brandon there and he ran over with his satchel. Rose gasped and rushed over immediately, only to be stopped by John.

"It's okay…" said John. "He's a doctor… sort of."

Rose nodded, having remembered that. Slowly, she walked towards the bed, with Sam removing the washcloth on Brandon's head to feel his temperature. Meanwhile, the silent woman pulled the blanket down, revealing Brandon's shirtless torso and the bandages wrapped around his waist. There Sam could see a light patch of blood soaking through it, a little. His jaw dropped a bit, but otherwise, he tried to stay calm.

"He's feverish," said Sam. "What is that?"

Rose formed a fist and pretended to jab her own side. Sam knew it immediately. A stab wound. He looked at John, who was also looking at him.

"You two know something?" Dutch said, hands on his hips..

John and Sam had explained what they saw at the Moonshine Shack. Well, it was at least the summarized version. However the two younger outlaws immediately knew that it had to do with the dead woman with the blood-soaked knife.

"The damn imposter had a knife on her," said John. He turned to Rose. "She stabbed him, didn't she?"

Rose solemnly closed her eyes and nodded frantically.

"He's got a fever," said Sam. Luckily, there was a bucket of water at the side of the bed. "You did good with a cool compress, Rose." He dipped the rag and rung it out, before placing it back on Brandon's forehead. "If he was wandering around for hours with an open wound I would've been surprised if it didn't get infected. Still, his fever isn't that bad. Give me some time and I'll get him better in no time."

Sam asked to be left alone with the patient and Rose. So, Arthur, Dutch and John left to go sit in the living room. They had to move a few things to sit on the couch comfortably and it was kind of a tight squeeze for three tall, fully grown men, but it worked. Rose gestured to the beers nearby before going back upstairs, meaning they could help themselves to them.

Meanwhile, back upstairs, Sam had pulled out his own knife and cut the dressing around Brandon's waist to examine the wound. Even with all the poking and prodding, all Brandon did was groan quietly to himself, but other than that, he didn't wake up. Sam grabbed some medicine mashed from various herbs into a liquid and applied some of it to a cloth.

"You did well with the stitches," Sam spoke softly to Rose. "I was worried I would have to redo them, but they seem fine and the bleeding is slowing down significantly." He doubted Brandon would wake up, but just to be safe, he held the wrist closest to the stab wound down with one hand and then just dabbed the wound carefully." The wound itself seemed very red, but hopefully with the mixture and tons of rest, he'd recover. Brandon was still young, so Sam had good faith he'd be fine.

Brandon gasped at the feeling, his eyes snapping open, free hand reaching at the assailant, but Rose immediately ran over and hugged him before he could harm Sam or himself. Brandon's eyes darted around the room, his breath rapid as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. With a swallow, he finally registered the arms around him, the orange hair, and while at first he tried to rip himself away from her, as well, it slowly started coming back to him.

"...Rose?"

Rose nodded softly. She leaned him back against the pillows and he laid back down with a groan.

"Shit… my head…" Brandon grunted. "Why is Hawkeson here? Wh-Why… Where…"

"You have a fever, Brandon," said Sam. "Just relax… I was just applying medicine to the wound."

The washcloth on Brandon's head had slid down and covered his eyes. "Or poisoning me…" His fingers gripped the mattress as he tried to will his elbows to make him sit up, but Rose huffed and all it took was a firm hand on his chest to make him lay back down.

"Why would I do that?"

Brandon shrugged, his body still shaking just from trying to move. Rose looked at Sam and shrugged.

"I know," said Sam, "he's just delirious."

"You're delirious…" Brandon muttered, softly. All he had done was try to sit up, but he was already out of breath. Still, he didn't move when Sam cleaned him up, the muscles around the wound only twitching.

Rose eventually reached for Brandon, who flinched, a yelp leaving his mouth for a moment, before she pulled the washcloth for his eyes to see her again. He stayed still, like a deer ready to bolt at the presence of a human. Rose grabbed a hold of him gently, helping him to sit. He leaned his entire weight against her. Sam started wrapping bandages around his waist covering up the wound.

Then Sam saw it. With Brandon's hands freed from under the blankets and having to look around at his back to make sure the bandages were looping around properly, Sam saw various scars that covered his back, the back of his arms, and his gloveless hands had them too. They were from burns. Sam knew just from looking at them. They were old, but Sam tried not to question it. So that was why he always wore long sleeves and covered his hands, despite the humidity of Lemoyne. Though, Sam was one to talk. He had a scar of his own on his hand and arm that he covered, as well.

Rose laid Brandon back down. It seemed that the mundane and the stillness had lulled Brandon back to sleep. The rest would do him some good. He was pretty wound up over what happened, honestly. Sam pulled the blanket back over the blonde's sleeping form.

"Let's get him something light to eat," said Sam. "Something easy for him. You got anything for soup around here?"

Rose nodded.

"Good. You stay with him. I'll be downstairs."

John ran his hands through his hair. He hadn't seen Brandon in such a sorry state before. Sam was already in the kitchen using what was avail to put together some soup. Meanwhile, Dutch was just reading through the newspaper while Arthur just looked around the living area, spacing out or something. He gave up from boredom and got up to help Sam.

Everything had happened so fast from the day Brandon had shown up for Rose that Dutch had almost forgotten what he told him.

"So, how do you know him, John?"

"What?" John lifted his head and looked at him.

"Brandon said you're the reason he hasn't ratted us out to the Pinkertons," said Dutch.

John shrugged. "I ran with him for a bit while I was… gone for a while."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"You're only saying that because you don't trust him," John pouted. "He trusted me enough that he let you run around Lemoyne and look at what happened."

Dutch furrowed his brows. He knew John was probably irritated and worried about Jack, but still…

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"We caused all that trouble, and now the Pinkertons went and found not only us, but them, as well. If Brandon dies, we'll lose Jack. It's not like Rose can just tell us, herself, about whoever this Angelo Bronte bastard is."

"He's not gonna die," Sam said, as he took something down from a cabinet above him.

"Well, he could've," said John. "He was lucky to have Rose."

"We're trying to survive, John," said Dutch. "Of course there's going to be casualties."

"Like Davey? Mac and Sean? And now Jack? Now we're harming people who aren't even involved with us."

"For the last time!" Dutch barked. "Our plan is to get Jack and go! Did you forget we moved the camp out here to find your son?! I take care of my own!"

"Well, we need to take responsibility for our actions," said John. "We're not the only ones who can get hurt out there!"

"Don't forget who you are, son!" The gang leader stood, and pointed at him accusatively. "Who we are! We live free! We fight for that! Anything we do, people can get hurt. I didn't count on the man upstairs to get stabbed for what we did!"

"Well, what about-"

"Enough!" said Dutch. "We're out here, trying to get your boy back and there's a man in poor health trying to rest upstairs. Do you think raising our voices is going to do anyone any good?"

John just sighed in frustration. He kept his gaze on Dutch for a moment before heading up the stairs to check on Brandon.

"Can you believe him?" the gang leader said, as he raised the newspaper to read it back up. "All of this, and he's still doubting me. Does he think he's the only one struggling?"

"He's really worked up, Dutch," said Arthur. He continued watching how Sam cooked, wondering if he could use his technique to improve Pearson's cooking.

"Brandon will be fine. He's a stubborn son of a bitch, but a survivor, like us. I'll give him that."

Brandon woke up again after a few hours. The fever went down a good bit, but he was still very weak from blood loss. Rose moved the pillows and helped maneuver him so he could sit up properly. She handed him the spoon and the two watched it shake uncontrollably in Brandon's hand before Rose just took it back and decided to feed it to him herself.

For a man who was still feverish and recovering from a stab wound, Rose felt much better to see that he had eaten most of it. Then, Sam entered the room with Dutch..

"Are you lucid, Brandon?" said Sam.

Brandon slowly looked up at the young man. The blonde was still tired, leaning his weight on the pillows under his head.

"Just about…" he muttered. His eyes drifted to Dutch. "What are you doing here?"

Dutch cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about what happened to you, sir, but I need information." He tried to ignore the irritable, but fatigued sigh that came from the weakened Brandon's mouth. "We need to find a man by the name of Angelo Bronte."

Brandon almost choked as he swallowed some of the broth in his mouth. He coughed a bit before clearing his throat. "...What? You treat me like trash, and expect a favor? And don't play coy. I know the Pinkertons showed up to my place because of you."

Dutch rolled his eyes. "I know we've had our issues, but we're all just trying to survive. We need money to get out here."

"So that's it?" said Brandon. He sat up a little and raised his voice. "You need money… so… you'll do whatever it takes, the rest of us be damned?!" He hissed, gripping his side. Rose laid him back down against the pillows. She kept her hand on Brandon's chest as he heaved then locked eyes with Dutch, who was gritting his teeth already. He saw fire in the girl's eyes again. She was ready to defend him if need be.

Then, Sam stepped forward.

"Brandon, people kidnapped John's kid," said Sam. "I know you fellers have your differences, but there's a kid that needs our help. His mother misses him, dearly."

The blonde sighed. From under the blankets, one could see his hand moving as he rubbed the bandages on his side. "Little Jack?"

Sam nodded. "The woman who had Jack taken said she had her sons give him to Angelo Bronte. That's why we need to see him."

"Who the hell even is he?" said Dutch.

"Bronte practically runs this town," said Brandon, "mayor and the law be damned. Anything that happens in this city, he knows about. Probably faster than me, at least in this city. He's got men ready to fight and die for him and friends in high and low places."

Dutch chuckled. "Kind of like you."

The blonde shrugged. "Sure, but I'm not a horse's ass about it." He shifted a bit, moving so his back was more reclined on the pillows. Still, he practically kept the blanket up to his neck.

The gang leader gulped. Sam was doing the right thing, showing some humility. The least he could do was swallow his pride and show it, as well. Just a little…

"Please, Brandon…" said Dutch. "John needs his boy back. Whatever is between us… That is a young boy."

Brandon sighed. "Be careful with that heart, Van der Linde. Not everyone would obey the 'not harming the child' rule. We're outlaws, before anything. I've learned that lesson… quite a lot. I'm sure you have, as well."

Sam nodded. Dutch only looked to the floor for a minute, shifting his weight slightly to lean on one of his legs. Of course he knew. He'll never forget the pain Arthur was in and probably still carried.

"Alright," Brandon finally said, after a pause of silence. "I can get you an appointment with Bronte, but… he's not going to be happy."

"Why's that?" said Sam.

"Well, you destroyed his moonshine business the Braithwaites were running."

"So… we'll have to watch our tongues?"

Brandon nodded. "Or get them cut out."

Sam sighed. "Wonderful." And he shrugged, his arms falling limply against his sides.

"I can get you in, but getting the kid back will be up to you." Brandon turned to Rose. "Get me a pen I gotta…" He paused when he saw Rose glaring at him. "Fine. I'll tell you what to write." Rose smiled and patted Brandon on the head like a little kid. The blonde could only roll his eyes as Rose searched the nightstand for an empty sheet of paper. The injured man looked at Sam and Dutch. "And you'll have to do something for me in return."

Dutch was about to say something, but Sam stepped up to the plate. "What is it?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll let you know when I do. And when I do, you'd better be ready."

Sam nodded. "Of course." He turned to Dutch. "Leave it to me. Just get that kid back." His heart skipped a beat when the older man smiled and patted his back.

Sam and Dutch went back downstairs and met up with Arthur and John. It looked like John had fallen asleep on the couch. It was dark, and John hadn't gotten much sleep since Jack went missing, so no one decided to wake him.

"You did good up there, Sam," said Dutch. "Getting him to tell us about Bronte."

"Really?" Sam smiled. "All I did was be nice."

"Well, I wish I was earlier, or he wouldn't be so standoffish."

Sam crossed his arms. "He just had someone who looks like Rose stab him and his people are scattered. What if Rose had actually done it?" He shook at the thought. "I could only imagine what that kind of betrayal would have felt like."

Dutch patted his shoulder. "Don't you ever worry about that son. We ain't gonna leave you. That goes for you, too, Arthur, and everyone else."

"Of course," said Arthur. He glanced at his sleeping brother. He had leaned back, and his hat was covering his eyes. "I just hope we're not too late."

With John asleep, the others decided to spend the night at the little hideout as well. With John on the couch, Sam just adjusted him so that his legs were on the couch and took off his boots to put them on the side. The rest got their bedrolls from their horses and slept on the floor. There was no way they could return to Abigail empty handed, and now that they knew where Brandon's hiding place was, they couldn't risk going back and forth and being followed.

"Thought you might be interested to see what I found on this son of a bitch."

Sam was the first to wake up in the morning. There was a thud on the ground, and yelling. Rubbing his eyes, Sam scrambled to get up. He pressed himself against the door and looked out from the small hole on it. It was that older guy, Cripps, and Brandon was out there wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt. There was another man in Cripps' grasp with their hands behind their back. They had a red bandana around their neck, so it made Sam wonder what exactly was happening.

Cripps handed some kind of paper to Brandon, who skimmed over it. His back was to the door, so he couldn't see his expression.

"Who gave this to you?" Brandon said, sternly. "I didn't tell anyone to get this."

"Well… I… Mr. Marrows…"

"Do not speak my name, you bastard!" Immediately, his revolver was out and pointed at his own organization member's head. "Where did you get this?"

Brandon's victim looked up at him, his eyes pleading and his mouth quivering. "I-I just found this, I swear I-"

Brandon held his teeth tight and spoke without moving them. "Where. Did. You. Get. This?"

"Fr… From one of them… P… Pinkertons!" the man confessed.

Brandon turned away towards the door and Sam hid from the shader.

"Get him out of here," Sam heard from Brandon. "Let the others deal with him."

"W-Wait! Wh-What?! Wait, no!"

Sam took another peek and saw two other people working for Brandon drag the stranger away, putting a bag over his head to muffle the victim's screams. The blonde turned back to the door, holding his side, and Sam ran to go lay down and feign that he was still asleep.

The groups set out to Bronte's house in the evening. As much as Brandon didn't want to admit it, he couldn't ride a horse with his side still messed up. He tried to look at Rose, but his face was red with embarrassment as she helped him sit down in a carriage. They had two drivers arranged to give them a ride.

"Why can't we just ride there?" Arthur grumbled as he got into the second carriage with John, Dutch and Sam. The driver closed the door for them, once they were all settled.

Dutch could only scoff. "Something tells me Brandon's right about this Bronte feller being a horse's ass."

"Well, considering what Brandon said about him, he's in charge of this city," said Sam. "I wonder if he already knows who we are or if we're in Saint Denis already."

"Probably."

"Let's just get this over with," John said, as he looked out the window. "The sooner the better."

"We're getting him back, John," Dutch promised. "One way or another."

"If we go in and start shooting the place, the boy's gonna get shot," said Arthur. "That's for sure."

"No one's gonna get shot. So relax. We'll charm him. You okay, John?"

John nodded. "I guess..."

Sam wasn't sure if Brandon should be walking around in his state, let alone riding in a carriage, sitting, but it looked like it wasn't his call. The carriages took them down the street. Once again, they went past the cemetery and the gallows. The streets were less busy in the morning, but there was still traffic. The closer they got to their destination, the bigger and fancier the houses they passed got.

Finally, they arrived at a mansion that was across the street from a was two stories high, made of brick that was slightly tinted green. Four columns were supporting the porch that was surrounded by pretty flowers and there was a second floor balcony. There was light blue patio furniture on the right side that had a white frame and the pathing was made of stone bricks. Tall topiaries were next to the white metal gate, and the property was surrounded by a tall stone wall.

Brandon was already out of the carriage by the time everyone else was. He was dressed up nicely with a white coat and blue tie, matching pants, as well, and a pair of white boots. He had a white fedora on his head. Still he was walking with a slight limp from his injury and Rose's eyes were glued to him in case he needed help.

Dutch noticed the guards behind the gate.

"Excuse me sir," said Dutch. "We have an appointment to see Mr. Bronte."

The guard neared the metal doors. "Who are you?"

"Let me handle this," said Brandon. He motioned for Dutch to step aside. Once he did, he faced the guard and the others at the porch who were staring and cleared his throat. "Buon giorno, signori! Io sono Brandon Marrows." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his red bandana. "Questi sono gli… idioti che sono qui per il ragazzo. Confido che sappiate tutti cosa fare."

The guard near the front door nodded. "Falli entrare."

"Grazie."

Sam's jaw dropped as the guards approached the gate. His eyes darted to Brandon. "You speak Italian?"

"Enough to get by," said Brandon. He turned back towards the carriage holding his side.

"And where are you going?" said Dutch.

Rose opened the carriage door for Brandon. "I told you," the blonde said. "I can get you in. But getting the kid is up to you." He locked eyes with Sam. "Hawkeson. We'll be in touch."

Sam nodded. "Right."

Brandon sat down and once Rose was in, she closed the door. "Buona fortuna." And the carriages rode away. At least the horses had followed them to the mansion, so they still had transportation.

The gates opened, but when they did, all of the guards had their hands on their holsters or were holding their rifles. Dutch slowly put his hands up, as did his boys.

"Uh… Dutch?" Sam said, nervously.

"Relax…" said Dutch. "I got this."

Everyone moved in through the gate. They would lock eyes with the guards who were glaring daggers at them. Something told the boys that they already knew what happened.

"Don't worry, boys," Dutch said, with a smile, "we come in peace. We just need to straighten a couple of things out with your boss."

They stepped onto the porch and then into the mansion before them, their feet hitting the even, polished wooden floors and eyes falling on the wall patterns and the gentle lights stuck to the walls. The boys were escorted left from the foyer and into a room where a man sat on one of a pair of couches that were separated by a coffee table with a basket of white roses on top. There was a warm roaring fire to the far wall.

The man sitting there was wearing some kind of red robe with a gold edging, but he still had his formal pants on and his shoes. He had a white buttoned shirt underneath and a blue band with white lily patterns on it around his head. The Italian looked to be in his late forties, with thick but refined eyebrows, brown eyes, and short hair. He looked up at the quartet of men who entered the room, and slowly closed the book he was reading.

"Chi sono questi buffoni?" he said.

"Sono venuti per il ragazzo che abbiamo preso," said a guard.

"Con soldi?"

"Why do you take his son?" said Dutch.

The man sat up and set his book aside. "Excuse me?" he said.

"I said… why did you take his son?" Dutch said, more sternly. He gestured to John who was right next to him. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he continued. "We ain't got no problems with you, sir… nor you with us… but if you wanna start one…" He started backing away to get some distance, "there is gonna be a lot of folks dead in this room before it's done."

John and Arthur did the same. Sam, not used to being in a standoff, was shoved behind Arthur. Still, Sam was locking eyes with the same guard the older man had eyes on.

Still, the man on the couch wasn't very convinced.

"So, you walk into my city… stinking of shit and looking like this… and you come into my house, before you have a bath and you tell me how to act?" he said sternly. "You ask me to show compassion? Have I not shown you almost infinite compassion already by simply allowing you to breathe in my presence?"

Dutch looked around the room. Then, he slowly raised his hands again and nodded. "Indeed you have. Now… we are simple country folk. All we have is each other…" He took a step forward and then walked to sit on the couch across from the "aggressor" in the room, "and you have gone, and you have took his son over some dispute with some inbred ex-slavers. It ain't got nothing to do with anyone of us."

"You had nothing to do with destroying the liquor business?!" the man shouted.

"We was innocent bystanders… and that which we weren't innocent of, well we… we were most surely ignorant of."

The man scoffed. "You, you, you twist words… you lie shamelessly… you think you are better than everyone else…" He shook his head. And then… He smiled. "Ti adoro." He laughed. "Dai da bere a questi uomini!" He stood up and the men lowered their weapons. "Angelo Bronte," he said, shaking Dutch's hand.

"Dutch van der Linde," the gang leader said, laughing along. He gestured to the three men who were just staring in shock at the sudden change in tone. "Arthur Morgan, John Marston, and Samuel Hawkeson."

"The pleasure is mine…" said Bronte as he shook each of their hands, "all mine, please…" He gestured to the couch and everyone took a seat. There was only enough room for three people, so Sam decided to stay standing. One of the servants entered the room with some shot glasses filled with what was hopefully just alcohol and not poison, but considering that Bronte took a glass, as well, it was probably fine. The laughter eventually died down and Dutch, after finishing his drink, spoke up again.

"So, can my friend have his son?"

"Of course, of course," Bronte said, with a smile. "But… should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…"

There was always a but, wasn't there? Dutch knew it wouldn't be easy, even after this unexpected break in the ice.

"No…"

"No, no, no, so about this?" said Bronte. "You perform a simple job for me… and you get your son back."

"What is it?" Arthur said, placing his empty glass on the table.

"A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery."

"That is a fine place for it, the best," said Dutch.

Bronte laughed. "I love this guy, I love you. See they've taken, not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living. Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So maybe you two head off…" He was pointing at Arthur and John.

"Not… me?" said Sam.

"Now why would you?" said Bronte. "We have so much to talk about."

Sam's blood ran cold. "But-"

"Come on, Sam," Dutch said, as Arthur and John stood up. "Let's not disappoint our host, shall we?"

Sam made eye contact with Arthur. He had that same look in his eye. He was worried. So was Sam, but it wasn't like he could just take off with him. Not in this house with so many of Bronte's men around.

"I guess not…" Sam said. He sat down, with the couch now having more room as the others walked out. The only comfort Sam had was Dutch sitting next to him. As soon as Sam heard the front doors close, Sam knew at that point it was just him and Dutch versus the man who practically ran Saint Denis, as Bronte would proclaim.

"So, Mr. Hawkeson," said Bronte. "Or, the 'O'Driscoll Slayer,' as they've been calling it?"