"You gotta make this look real. You can't let the other fighter have it too early. You don't realize your own strength so you gotta hold back."

"I know what to do," Charles grumbled to Reeves, a bearded man in his late twenties. He was Charles' new mediator, the one who was currently organizing who he fought in the back alleys each week. Although, after today, his job would be in jeopardy, so Charles didn't know why he was so insistent to get this over with.

Reeves had stepped in after Irish had left for Mexico months ago, with his previously jailed associate in tow so they could finally pursue the business ventures he was always going on about. It was almost unbelievable to Charles, but Reeves had proved to be a poor substitute for Irish. Reeves was the better organizer for finding Charles his opponents, but he had no backbone when it came to standing his ground.

Recently, Guido Martelli had started taking an interest in the men who fought in the back alley brawls. For weeks, Charles had known Martelli's sway in the rings only as a rumor from other fighters, and matches he hadn't been involved in. Charles had avoided any pressure from Martelli, but today an ultimatum had come down. A messenger had delivered a letter, a threat that Charles was to throw the match today or face Martelli himself.

Since Guido Martelli had slid easily into the role once occupied by Angelo Bronte, Charles wasn't about to take any chances pushing against him. Martelli wanted him to start throwing his fights, and while it went against everything Charles stood for, the payout was supposed to be good.

Charles could suffer a blow to his reputation, to his pride, because he didn't intend to stick around and become ensnared in Martelli's puppeteering. He refused to ever again cater to another dangerous and influential man's whims.

Reeves looked around the alley, down at the crowd milling around behind him, awaiting the next fight. He ducked his head and said in an undertone, "Folks, they love a surprise, but they hate a massacre, and you are a killer. But that ain't gonna cut it today. We both know what you gotta do."

Charles didn't bother responding this time. Today, he'd forfeit a fight he knew he could win because his life depended on it. Tomorrow, he intended to be setting up and starting over in a new city, one where Martelli couldn't reach him. What happened during this fight wouldn't matter in the long run.

Reeves shook his head at his silence and left Charles on his own. He closed his eyes to block the crowd noises from his mind and to think on this fight, to remind himself it meant nothing. He'd throw it, just to get Martelli's focus off of him, and then straight after he was getting on a steamboat and leaving Saint Denis for good.

"He don't know the half of it," a man said behind him, a graveled voice Charles thought he'd never hear again.

Charles opened his eyes and spun around, his jaw dropping at the sight of John Marston in the flesh. "John! You're...you're..."

John grinned under a dark beard he'd grown in the years since they'd last seen each other. "I'm alive, and so are you. And so is he." He pointed at the back of a gray-haired man ambling towards the crowd.

Charles recognized him too, even from the back. "That's Uncle?" He turned back to John, his shock not yet abated. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to find you, in fact."

"Me?" Charles responded, even more surprised.

"Uncle heard you was down here. He thought maybe you was in some sort of trouble."

Charles had a hard time believing how Uncle had found out his newest problems with Martelli, but at the same time he couldn't help feeling touched at the concern. That it had been enough to bring the two of them down here to check on him.

He ended up admitting, "Kind of. Just...I don't know." Charles leaned in and told him, "I'm throwing this fight for a few dollars."

John raised a skeptical brow. "Throwing fights? You like that?"

Charles scowled. "Of course not."

John looked around. "So...?"

"So..." Charles had a burst of inspiration, rising from a gloom he hadn't realized had been enveloping him. That John and Uncle came here for him filled him with an elation he hadn't felt in a long time. One way or another, this was going to be his last fight in Saint Denis. Why not give the people the show they came here for? "Let me place a bet. Come on."

Charles led John through the crowd towards the bookie standing on the other side. While he walked, he shook his head, still unable to believe John and Uncle were here. "Man, I thought you were dead."

"Sure," John accepted easily. "It's usually how it goes. Abigail's still alive too. Only, she left me."

Charles stopped a moment and spared John a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. He was unable to express to John just how well he understood him in that moment.

Charles continued on and caught the attention of the bookie. He dug out all the cash he had in his pocket to bet on himself to win. With John here, he had regained his confidence to keep to his principles.

The bookie raised an eyebrow, as he was more aware than anyone how rigged these matches were. "How much?"

"All of this," Charles confirmed as he handed over all his cash.

"Funny thing," the bespectacled bookie commented as he marked in his ledger Charles' wager, "I pegged you for the favorite, but the betting's been strange this afternoon, like a certain number of people don't see you winning today. The odds just got real good." He turned to John. "What about you, sir? A little wager on the Wolf here?"

"Sure," John said easily, pulling out a couple of dollars himself. "I'm a fan of the Wolf. Give me a bet on him."

Charles took his place near the makeshift ring. The crowd was already buzzing and cheering. Some of it was even for him. His opponent was across the circle from him, sneering smugly, as if he had already been told the outcome of this match.

A man with mutton chops and a ratty top hat strode towards the middle of the circle, flourishing his hands and announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, gather around! Have I got a treat for you! An epic battle between the descendant of ancient warriors, and a not-so noble savage."

Charles watched him, reminded in that moment of Dutch and his theatrics. At least this one had an actual crowd to entertain.

"On my left, the ferocious battler from the Valleys...Simon of Wales!"

Cheers sprang up around him, joined with enthusiastic whistling. Although he was a newcomer, 'Simon of Wales' already had his own following.

"And on my right, an Indian Hercules, the savage, the untamable, the unbeaten, and—dare I say—the unbeatable...Lone Wolf!"

Charles did his part of this ritual, beating on his chest and raising his fists to play up the crowd. It felt just as unnatural as the first time he'd done it, when Irish had pushed him to please the spectators. He felt even more foolish today, with John and Uncle standing near as witnesses. But he kept in mind that this was his last fight and afterwards he wouldn't need to act against his nature ever again.

"You know how this works. No weapons, no forfeiting, no crying like a beaten child. Everything else goes. You win by knockout! You win by retirement! Or you win by death! Let's have a good fight, boys. Let's keep it clean...but not so clean."

The announcer pointed a revolver to the sky and fired, indicating the start to the match. Usually, these fights started slowly, where they circled one another a few times until one of them made the first move. But Charles' opponent today had a different strategy. As soon as the announcer stepped out of their space, Simon launched himself at Charles, landing a punching on him, square in the jaw.

Charles stepped back, taking a quick measure of his rival. As much as the announcer claimed this Simon was from Wales, he was dark-haired, tanned, and cursed at him in clear Italian. He was muscled, but not as large as Charles himself, nor most of the men Charles had ever fought. He didn't know why Martelli wanted this bastard to win, but it wasn't happening today.

They started to get into it, throwing fists, grabbing at each other, and trying to gain the upperhand. It caught Charles off guard the first time he heard John cheer him on from the crowd. It wasn't as if he hadn't had fans, so to speak, but he'd never expected to hear anyone he knew to be here.

"Lone Wolf! Hit him!" John's cheers energized him, even humored him a little. Especially when he heard, "Pretend he's Micah!"

Charles managed a sharp glance of his knuckles off of Simon's brow. It started to bleed, the blood flowing downward and covering one of his eyes. Simon tried to swipe the blood away, but Charles didn't give him the time to do so. He began to turn the match in his favor. There was no going back now.

Yet, Reeves from the sideline warned, "Don't be stupid, Lone Wolf."

Charles ignored him as he kept up his assault.

John yelled, "Hit him again, Charles!"

Simon swung wide, giving Charles his chance, as he ducked to evade it. Down low, he punched Simon's gut without mercy.

Simon doubled over and Charles circled him in the small amount of space the crowd had provided them. Charles went in, punched him over the head in relentless strikes until Simon fell to his knees. Charles kicked him until he was all the way down. Then he stepped back and waited to see if Simon still had some fight left in him.

Simon lifted one fist as if he meant to continue, but then he collapsed in the dirt, unmistakably unconscious.

The crowd went up in an uproar, some swarming the fighters, others breaking into loud chatter. Charles pushed through the crowd to the crates where he had left his shirt and other belongings.

John came up behind him. "Come on, Lone Wolf. We better get you the hell out of here."

Charles threw on his shirt and they started down the alley. As he was buttoning it up, the bookie called out, "Hey! Lone Wolf!" He caught up to them and grinned. "Wow, you made my month, but also made some fellers mighty unhappy."

"So it goes," Charles told him with a shrug. He felt good about not curtailing to Martelli, even if his defiance might cost him. The bookie handed his winnings over and Charles accepted them, his traveling money tripled in only a few minutes' time.

"Here's your winnings, partner," the bookie said to John, doling out more cash.

John and Charles moved towards the end of the alley again, Uncle now trailing behind, after belatedly breaking from the crowd.

John asked, "So, you keen on staying 'round here? Or heading off with me and Uncle?"

The notion somewhat surprised him. Charles had assumed they'd part ways once they knew he was alive and well. Did John want him to come with? He did have his own plans of leaving Saint Denis ready.

He said hesitantly, "John, I haven't seen you two in years."

John glanced back. "I know, but right now, my sense is you just need to lie low."

"Where?"

"We got a little place up past Blackwater, in the high country."

Charles mulled it over a moment. He hadn't intended on going out west again and he already had his tickets for the steamboat paid for. But he also hadn't expected to run into friends today either. He did want to catch up with them, especially John. The trip he planned to make by himself could be postponed.

"Okay," Charles decided. "But I've got to grab my baggage. I booked a steamer heading up river. That's why I was pretending to throw the fight."

John looked like he was about to question him about that, but Uncle interrupted, "Okay, boys. I'll meet you at the bridge outside of Saint Denis."

They stopped and turned to Uncle, who was already starting to back away. John confronted him, "What are you doing?"

He raised his hands. "Just have a few errands to run."

John glared at him. "You're useless."

"I...am a deep thinker," Uncle said defensively.

He started to turn around, but Charles called out to him, "Wait, Uncle. Make one of your errands getting my horse from Eckhart Stables. She's a gray Nokota."

"Sure, sure, Charles."

"Tell Eckhart Smith sent you, and he'll release her to you."

Uncle waved like he understood, but Charles watched him doubtfully, wondering if he was going to have to return to Saint Denis on his own to recover Falmouth.

John scowled in Uncle's direction, exasperated. "Be quick!"

Uncle went down the opposite street and Charles wondered at his odd behavior, but he shook his head and led John in the direction of the docks.

As they walked, John filled him in on what he'd been up to since Charles had last seen him, which had been at the battle of Cornwall's factory. John and Abigail had went west for awhile, but weren't successful in settling down anywhere. John had worked on a farm until recently, thinking they were turning a corner until John jumped into action again and Abigail left him for it.

John reached a point in his retelling where he swallowed hard and said, "You know that Arthur..."

Charles waited a moment for John to tell him of a reunion with Arthur similar in fashion as to what he and Pearson had experienced, but realized John's tone implied otherwise.

Charles glanced at him, and saw the grief in his expression. John didn't know that Arthur had survived Beaver Hollow. Charles hesitated to bring it up because he unfortunately didn't know if Arthur was still alive today. He hadn't received a letter from either Arthur or Charlotte for months, but he hadn't reached out either. Regretfully, he'd spent the last year focused on training and preparing himself for these weekly fights he'd thrown himself in.

Charles didn't know where to begin in explaining about Arthur. The last thing he wanted to do was provide John with false hope. It would have to be something he told John of when he knew for certain again of Arthur's wellness.

"Word got to me up north, about everything that happened in Beaver Hollow," Charles eventually replied. "I buried Miss Grimshaw."

"I had to run," John insisted with vehemence, even though Charles hadn't laid any blame for what had happened there. "If any of us had been found, we'd have..."

"Of course. I understand." Charles paused for a moment and considered what to say. "Arthur is...where he would have wanted to be. A pretty hillside, facing the evening sun."

John didn't pick up on how Charles was careful in his phrasing. He continued, "He gave me his satchel, with some of his things in it. Remember that old journal he always drew in? I got it. I'm a bit of a draftsman myself nowadays."

"Arthur seems to inspire us all," Charles murmured. "He's a good man, as much as any of us could be."

"Getting sick like that has to rattle a feller."

"Rattle him..." Charles thought of the changes Arthur had made, and how he'd settled down. "...or give him some kind of understanding of what his life was really all about."

"Yeah, that makes sense."

Charles told him with regret, "I heard all of you were dead, or I might have come looking."

"And me the same about you."

In a sense, the Pinkertons had fully succeeded in disbanding the gang for good. They were the ones informing the newspapers of each of the gang members' demise. News of each other's deaths had kept them from seeking the others out.

"Dutch?" Charles asked.

"Who knows?" John shrugged. He seemed not as concerned over Dutch's disappearance as Arthur. "Dead, maybe. I'm not sure. I heard all kind of things, but one thing I know, he ain't around here. I ain't heard nothing real in years, since...well, that time."

"Nor me. Micah?"

"I hope that bastard is dead. You know he was the one speaking to those agents?"

"What?" Charles glanced sharply in John's direction.

John said with disgust, "Putting them on us the whole time...or at least since before I got off Sisika."

Unbelievable. Charles didn't think he had rage over those days anymore, but resentment burned low in his stomach. All this time Charles had assumed it was all bad luck and Dutch's paranoia, manipulation, and rash decisions that had led to the gang's downfall.

Everything that happened...all those deaths, especially Molly and Miss Grimshaw, it had been Micah's fault? He'd thought little of Micah back then except as a shit stirrer. Charles understood better Arthur's anger and why it had been a weighty decision for him when he'd turned his back on revenge in order to live peacefully with Charlotte instead.

Charles informed John, "They picked up Strauss. The agents. Made a real mess of him. I heard he died in custody. Never said a word."

"I guess, some folk is strong in ways you can't see."

They had reached the dock by now, but Charles sensed something off immediately. It was too quiet. Seagulls squawked nearby, but there were no dockworkers walking around, and it wasn't late enough for them to have gone home. The men he did see standing near were smoking, and in suits that didn't fit for a stroll down by the river.

Charles stopped walking as they passed the two men. He said to John, "Hold on."

"What?"

Charles easily recognized them for what they were and why they were here. "Careful."

"Why?"

"Those are Guido Martelli's men." He didn't know how Martelli had sent them so quickly in response to his winning the match instead of throwing it. Or maybe, Martelli had planned to ambush him no matter what the outcome of his fight.

"Who?"

"He...uh..." How to explain without going into all of the current state of politics in Saint Denis? "He used to work for Angelo Bronte."

"I've only been here an hour," John muttered with annoyance.

"Hey."

There were four men now, all lining up to cut off an easy exit for them. It was one of them who addressed he and John. With the river at their back, they were cornered and outnumbered. Charles grunted, irritated. This was gonna be bad.

"Come over here," another one said to them. It was a threat, not an invite.

"Well," John said, rolling his shoulders as he eased into their new set of circumstances. "You go left, I go right. On three?" He waited a beat and then hollered, "Three!"

John leapt behind the crates to the right and Charles rushed to the crates on the left. It was just in time as gunfire broke overhead, bullets smashing the wooden planks where they had just been standing. Charles wasn't unprepared for a fight, as he always carried his gun belt and a knife, but it did irk him that his last day in Saint Denis had resorted to this. It never could be easy.

Jokingly, John yelled over the gunfire, "You couldn't have thrown that fight?"

"It's never just one fight," Charles shouted back.

John raised an eyebrow to indicate their situation. "Evidently."

Taking care of Martelli's men proved easy, even if Charles was a little rusty with a gun in his hand. It all came back to him like he'd never left. It was nearly like old times, when it was the gang against everyone else. There were only four men so it didn't take long before Charles and John were the only two left standing on the dock.

"Come on," John called, leaving cover and heading for a wagon parked by the road. Charles grabbed his suitcase from the place he'd hidden it between another group of crates. He glanced at the steamer docked nearby, ready for boarding, and then turned his back to follow John.

When he reached the wagon, he threw his suitcase in the back. He jumped up in front next to John saying, "I'll drive."

John complied easily, a pistol in hand as he scanned the streets behind them.

"Where was Uncle gonna meet us?" Charles asked, getting the horses going with a flick of the reins.

"Over the bridge going out of town. West."

After a few minutes, where Charles hadn't noticed anymore of Martelli's men, he asked John, "You see any law?"

"Not yet."

"Keep your eye out. Saint Denis ain't short on police."

"I remember that only too well."

"We can't get caught." Charles explained grimly, "Martelli has the police chief in his pocket. They take us in, we won't get out of the interview room."

Unexpectedly, John said, "I don't wanna get in a shootout over this. That's not the man I try to be anymore."

Charles glanced at John to see that he was serious. He and John really had some catching up to do. "No. I don't want that either."

John seemed to have grown since Charles had last seen him. He was no longer angry at everyone and everything, ready to hop into a fight no matter what the reason. Although, he hadn't hesitated in helping Charles with Martelli's men.

"So...boxing? What made you get into that? The money?"

Charles wasn't ready to explain what had propelled him into fighting strangers every week. He tried not to think of her at all these days, if he could help it. He nodded silently in response to John's question.

"Hope you won't miss it too much. You're probably not gonna be able to come back here. At least, not easily."

Charles glanced behind him, at the cobbled streets, the street lamps that lit the night, the restaurants, and the many storefronts of varied wares. There were many conveniences he'd gotten used to here, but he had been planning to leave tonight either way. "No, I don't have a reason to go back."

"If I ever wanna go back," John said, "remind me that I hate Saint Denis."

Charles smiled a little and told him, "Guido Martelli will happily remind you of that."

John leaned back in the seat and, having determined they were no longer in danger, put away his pistol. "Give me some simple folk and wide open spaces. Speaking of simple..."

Charles spotted Uncle at the same time as him, at the side of the road, and thankfully on a horse he recognized. Somehow, Uncle had managed to follow directions and retrieve Falmouth. It seemed Uncle could prove himself to not be completely useless when it suited him.

After they crossed the bridge out of Saint Denis, Charles switched places with Uncle from their acquired wagon in order to ride Falmouth. They had no trouble as they left Saint Denis, whether that was because Martelli didn't have the reach to pursue them or the desire to do so.

They decided to ride through the night, reaching Blackwater in the early hours of the morning. Charles didn't know what to expect when John had said he and Uncle had a place to stay. Dawn broke over the countryside as they rode under an archway, on a long dirt path to a fenced off area outside of town.

"This is Beecher's Hope," John told Charles, pride filling his voice.

"Ain't much to look at," Uncle commented.

"Not yet," John corrected.

Charles had a look around. "You bought this land?"

Uncle guffawed loudly. "Not yet he hasn't."

John shot him a glare and explained to Charles, "I paid for it on loan. The bank'll get their money. Eventually. I aim to farm it."

"Eventually." Uncle couldn't seem to resist annoying John with the technicalities.

"Shut it, old man."

No matter the circumstance of the transaction, Charles found himself admiring the steps John had taken. He really had gone straight, getting loans from a bank, buying land, and pulling friends out of unfortunate situations. He'd certainly done more for himself in the last five years than Charles had.

"I'm impressed," he said honestly.

They reached the lone building on the property, a miserable old shack that hardly looked like it could stand on its own. It was decrepit enough that Charles wouldn't risk sleeping in it.

Uncle seemed to have no such qualms. As soon as John stopped the wagon, he dismounted with a bottle of whiskey that seemed to have materialized from nowhere, and went straight inside the shack.

John stood in front of the little house, casting his gaze across the land. "I bought it for Abigail, to show her I'm listening, to show her I've changed."

Charles almost couldn't believe it. He remembered John had come around to accepting his family, but he hadn't expected to find John grown so dedicated.

Charles dismounted and pulled his saddle off of Falmouth so she could graze. As he set it down, John asked, "If you're up for it, would you help me build this place up?"

Charles looked around at what John proposed. It was a lot of land, and from what he could see here, there wasn't much development going on at all yet. It would be a lot of manual labor to churn this earth into farming land. To John, he answered, "Of course."

Throughout the day, Charles walked with John around the property. He helped with moving some large rocks and a fallen tree rotting in the middle of one of the fields. John left around noon to get a nap in while Charles walked along the fence, basking in the peace of being away from the city.

He felt like he could breath again, his mind clear for the first time in a long time. He could see now, after being away from the brawls that had occupied all of his mind, that he had been lost. If John hadn't come when he did, Charles didn't know if he would be standing right now.

When evening rolled around, Charles set up his bedroll, but decided to hold off on his tent for the night. He laid on the ground, hands folded behind his head and stared at the night sky. He'd missed this. The open land, the vast night sky unobstructed, the sounds of the wilderness just out of reach and nothing else. He closed his eyes, full of certainty that he was where he was meant to be.