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 Thirteen: Sadie

12:35 PM, July 20th, 1899

"Abigail?" she beckoned to the wan figure, yet only silence greeted her. "Abigail?"

"Hey Sadie?" called Mary-Beth, twisting and bouncing on her tippy-toes, clutching her knees through her long dress. "Mind holding down the fort here for a minute? I gotta… you know."

"Yeah, sure," Sadie assuaged with a nod, and Mary-Beth rushed downstairs, past the hole-strewn wall and creaking stairs, heading out of the rotting manor to the far remote forest to dig a nice hole and conduct her annual duties.

Sadie looked back to her bed-tied friend; what a sad sight it was. She still wouldn't eat. Sadie glanced askance, making sure no one could hear her.

"Abigail?" she whispered. "It makes me sad. Seeing you like this." She paused, hoping for a reply from the closest thing in the world she had left to a friend now that Arthur was dead. Of course, she got none. "I ain't forgotten, y'know. All them kind words you said to me… God, I was such a wreck. Didn't do much more than mope 'round Horseshoe at the start. God, I was so broken, so weepy… And it was my mind too, though it weren't much more than an inkling. You were the one who helped me, Abigail, remember?" She halted once more, continuing a moment later. "You told me I was brave. I like to think that's why I couldn't go through with it, although maybe I was just a coward… I fucked you, Abigail, I fucked you. I didn't try hard enough to save Jack. I could've tried harder…"

She leaned closer until Abigail's closed, oblivious blue orbs were but a few inches from her agape mouth. "Abigail… can you hear me?" Miraculously, there was no response. Sadie cleared her throat, ready to put into words what she'd been considering for a while, ready to materialize it into something real, ready to bind herself for better or worse. "I'm gonna get him. I'm gonna get Jack. He's alive, I know it. I feel it. He's alive and I'm gonna find him and I'm gonna get him back for you."

And a miracle happened: Abigail's eyes fluttered open, only for a moment, only a clipping of a fingernail wide, but open nonetheless, open as a caterpillar's cocoon. "J-j-j-j-j—" she rumbled before her mouth and eyes fell shut again, abandoning Sadie for the unwavering simplicity of sleep.

"Okay!" Mary-Beth cried ardently, entering the room as though she'd never left. "I'm back! I miss anything? Sorry, did I miss anything?"

"Yeah," Sadie said, her eyes still wide, giddy, from what they'd just seen. "Missed somethin' pretty nifty."

"What?"

"I'll tell you later. Right now I got things on my itinerary," Sadie announced, standing up from the tiny chair by the bedside, her yellow locks swaying back and forth with the motion. She moved to the door—Dutch's room was her next destination. "Mary-Beth,"—she stopped at the doorway, turning around—"if that O'Driscoll comes sniffing around here, don't you be talking to him.

"S-sure," Mary-Beth said, looking away towards Abigail.

"I mean it," Sadie stressed.

"Yeah, me too," Mary-Beth spat out quickly. And unconvincingly.

Even so, Sadie left, deciding she'd rather leave a good point undefended than wind up sounding like that old beldam Miss Grimshaw.

12:42 PM, July 20th, 1899

"Sadie, I want you to take a really good look at me. Alright, take your time. What do you see?"

"I-I don't know."

"Take a guess," Molly insisted.

"I don't want to guess. Will you help me or not?"

"Take a guess."

Sadie gave an enormous sigh before half-heartily answering with "A young Irish lady?"

"Sure," Molly shrugged, "I'll take it. Now…"—she clapped her hands together and brought them down in a cutting motion, pointing to the index of her clasped fingers at Sadie—"more importantly, what don't you see when you look at me?"

"Molly…" Sadie groaned.

"Here, I'll give you a hint: do you see a five-dollar whore?"

"A simple 'no' would've done the trick, Mol," Sadie said bitterly, turning around, pondering over who to ask next—Karen, maybe?

"What made you think'a me?" Molly said, her tone laden with offense.

"Molly…" Sadie grumbled, turning around again to face the seemingly perpetually menstruating red-haired woman.

"No, what made you think'a me when you decided you were gonna seduce some biggety mafia man?" She had her hands on her hips now, her eyebrows arched at ten and three o'clock respectively.

"I don't know," Sadie started, rage building up from her angry little heart, "maybe the fact that you have nothing else goin' on."

"You think I'm cheap, don't you? Some cheap five-dollar whore."

"You're pathetic, Molly," Sadie bit, whirling around to leave for what she thought would be the last time before Molly reeled her in again.

"Why don't you do it? Ain't like you got a man to disappoint."

Sadie slapped her without question, reddening Molly's soft, sheltered cheek quickly. She looked at Sadie with such a gaze of shock—as though she couldn't fathom anyone would want to hurt her, that such a sweet thing as her could ever cross paths with pain or suffering of any kind—that she almost felt bad for the Irishwoman. Until those eyes bubbled up with hate and some naughty flights of fancy as she rushed out of the large bedroom reserved for her and Dutch, calling his name with as much music as a loon. "Duuuuuuuutch!"

Sadie followed her across the hall, past a still sleeping Abigail Sadie could spot through the hole-riddled wall (thanks Bill), onto the second-story balcony where Hosea, Micah, and Dutch sat at a wee white table (although most of the paint was chipped, revealing the brown wood undertones). They'd been there for most of yesterday and today—deliberating. Molly rushed behind Dutch, crouching so she could use him as a divider between herself and Sadie, pointing a shaking finger at the blonde widow.

"Sh-she-she hit me!" Molly decried.

"She hit you?" Dutch asked, more confused than angry. Maybe that was a good sign?

"Mrs. Adler, can I buy you a beer?" Micah said gratefully.

"Shut up, Micah," Hosea said, before engaging in a series of coughs.

"I jest, of course," he defended, surrendering his hands high up, leaning back in his chair.

"What happened?" Dutch demanded, aiming his brown eyes at Sadie, which she was too bashful to meet, instead gandering at the new boots she'd bought at Rhodes.

"I slapped her," Sadie mumbled, grinding the heel of her boat against a green stain on the porch. "She said some cruel things 'bout my Jake."

"Molly, what did you say?" Dutch asked, much to the women's surprise.

"N-nothin'."

"Sadie?" he inquired.

"Said it was okay for me to fuck other men. He weren't 'round to be disappointed—"

"Jesus, Molly. What's wrong with you?"

"You're taking her side?" Molly gasped incredulously, jumping away from him like he had the plague. "She hit me!"

"Dear God, Molly, do you have to make such a show out of everything? It's like livin' with a theater company. It was a slap, and from what I've heard, a well-deserved one." He changed tactics. "Besides, you still look great."

She looked around the rest of the table for support, finding none.

"Don't look at me Molly," said Hosea. "You're more than smart enough to know that pissing on the memories of dead men doesn't make you any friends."

"I know from experience," came Micah in agreement.

Molly glared at Dutch with white-hot detestation. "You… are… unbelievable!" She groped her long maroon and gold dress at the sides and stormed off.

"Don't look so pleased, sweetie," she warned Sadie as she exited the balcony. "He's just saying that cuz he wants to fuck you!"

The boisterous pitter-patter of Molly's feet followed for a few moments before fading away, leaving no evidence she was ever on the balcony in the first place.

"Sorry 'bout that Mrs. Adler," Dutch warmly consoled her. "What did you need her help with anyway?"

"Oh nothin' much you could assist with, Just something I'm workin' on—"

"Ah! Your first mistake. Work and Miss O'Shea are like water and oil," he laughed, looking off the balcony toward the rest of the camp below.

"Well, I'm sorry I hit her, Dutch. I had no right losing my temper like that," she admitted.

"Forget it," he brushed off. "Sometimes I think a firm slap would befit such a dame."

"Dutch!" Hosea ridiculed as Micah giggled impishly.

"I'm joking, of course," he defended, before turning to Sadie, a sterner expression on his face. "Have you seen Lenny anywhere? Haven't seen the kid since last night."

"No, but Trelawny was muttering somethin' 'bout him before he left."

"Haven't seen Tilly in a while either," Dutch said, shooting Hosea a coy smirk. "Think they're…"

"I doubt it," Hosea denounced. "He was awful sweet on Jenny."

"Well, Hosea, love's a capricious thing. Ain't it, Mrs. Adler?"

"Sure," she said, befuddled as to what they were talking about now.

"Anyway," Dutch began, "you can get ba—actually, you know what?"—he became more focused, sitting up completely straight and paying full mind to Sadie—"Can you settle a debate between scholars?"

"Oh come on, Dutch," Micah bemoaned. "What makes her a bonafide source?"

"She's one of us. She's gonna be living with the backlash if we get this wrong."

"So is the dog—"

"Shut up, Micah," Dutch said, looking again to Sadie. "What do you think about us trying for the Lemoyne bank in town?"

"What do I think about it?" she asked, trying to gouge more details about Hosea and Micah with her hazel eyes. They said nothing. There was nothing else to add. "It's suicide. Maybe if we'd killed Bronte without witnesses, but they know it was us. The whole damn town is looking for the Dutch Van der Linde gang—notorious bank robbers. With that in mind, security at the bank'll be impregnable. They'll be guarding it extra closely—"

"But we could create a diversion," Dutch argued. "Or take out some city officials, divert attention from the bank."

"And what about the Pinkertons, Dutch?" Hosea chimed in. "We gonna create a diversion for everyone and everything gunnin' for us?"

"Well, what else can we do?" Dutch barked. "We need money, and this is the only surefire way to get it."

"Dutch… five days…" Micah started.

"Not this again."

"Five days, and I'll have the Blackwater money." He shook five fingers in front of his face as though it accentuated his point. "Five days!"

"Forget it, Micah!" Dutch snapped. "That money is gone. Gone!"

"Dutch." said Hosea, "I'll say it again: we don't need more money. We got more than enough from Karen's bank job. We'll get a boat from Van Horn up to Baltimore or New York or some such place; from there we'll either work up enough money to buy our way out, or sneak onto a deportation boat or something."

"Then what? Go to fucking China poor as a church mouse with twenty mouths to feed. Wherever we're going, we need to retire. That takes seed capital." Dutch remembered there was a fourth person present and turned to acknowledge her. "Uh, thanks, you can go."
Sadie left the balcony to the sound of their rowing, as they'd been doing since that botched night. They needed to make a decision soon. Time is running out. She sighed as she marched down the light-brown stairs. So… Karen, then?

11:49 AM, July 21st, 1899

"So who's the mark again?" she asked, placing down a six-four tile.

"Settimo Abbandando," Sadie answered, placing a doublet of four at the tail of the chain.

"... Sorry, a bug must've flown in my ear. Can you repeat that?"

"Settimo Abbandando. You'll know him when you see him," Sadie said, encouragingly. "Got buck teeth, a scar above his right eye, and he's one of Bronte's top men, so I'll be damned if he isn't flaunting some five-hundred dollar German suit."

"You sure he knows where Jack is?" Tilly asked, adjusting her completely authentic Saint Denis whore outfit—complete with a tight sleeveless blouse, sheer black fichus (she borrowed it from Mary-Beth), and purple skirt she tried to hold above her knees—and placing a four-two domino abut Sadie's double-four. They were waiting in the Saint Denis West Side Park, just south of the mansion district, seated under the octagon-shaped pavilion that stood centered inside the park's boundaries. Sadie shot another glance over her shoulder toward the theater house across the street, hoping the show'd finally ended. When she saw no herd of people emerging from the green and white oval-painted doors, she knew it hadn't. Karen wasn't available, on some debt collection Bill, of all people. So, they dusted over Tilly's bruises with some make up and crossed their fingers that Settimo liked black girls.

"Well, Guido's in hiding after what we did to Bronte, so one of the lieutenants is about the highest up on the food chain we can get. If this fool don't know, there ain't no one in Saint Denis who knows." Sadie turned back to face her opponent, not at all surprised to find the board completely rearranged. She shot her cheating friend a disappointed frown. "Really?"

Tilly shrugged, before smirking. "I heard you gave Molly a nice peck the other day."

"Yeah," Sadie said, guiltily, but unable to escape mirroring her simper. "I learned from watching Karen."

"Oh don't you be getting cocky now, Mrs. Adler, you've still got a hell of a lot to learn from her." Her smile vanished then, as something caught her eye in the distance. Sadie didn't even need to look back to know what it was.

Together, they rose up from their table under the pavilion and exited the quaint lush little park into the urbanized hell outside, fixed accordingly with thick filthy air, concrete grounds that burned like frying pans, and incessant noise of folk nattering. They got into position by the sidewalk where Settimo and his three bodyguards emerged from Théâtre Râleur and were en route to pass by.

As though Georges Méliès was there on location with his Prestwich 35mm Camera, Sadie and Tilly tumbled right into character, the former grabbing the ladder by the wrist, yanking her along like a mangy mutt on a leash.

"Goddamit, Molly!" Saide shouted as loud as she could, trying to attract as much attention as possible. "Heel, girl! Heel! Heel or I'll bash you goddamn teeth in!"

"No! Stop it! Help! Someone help me!"

"Hey, what's going on here?" came the figure in the five-hundred dollar suit.

"None of your damn business!" Sadie jabbed, keeping her eyes fastened on Tilly, not wasting a moment to glance at the four Italian men in front of her. "C'mon, you drunk, frumpy, whore! Ya want me to shave ya till you look like a fat baby boy?"

"No!" Tilly begged melodramatically.

"What. Is. Going. On. Here." asked Buck-Tooth again, but his curiosity had evoked strife in him. He was angry at Sadie for shrugging him off like he was common—she imagined he wasn't used to that. He snapped his fingers and his three Italian musketeers stepped close to her, forming a semi-bulwark around her; Sadie pretended this caught her attention, and pretended further still that she was aghast to see the man before her—Settimo Abbandando. No way!

"M-m-mister A-A-Abbandando…" she stammered, feigning astonishment. "Oh. I'm—of course, I would have never said that if I… you know."

"Of course," he said, his big teeth forming a smile akin to some expression a horse would make. "Now, what is going on here?"

"N-nothing, sir. Just a family matter—"

"This bitch wants me to marry her brother," Tilly whined, "but I don't want to. He lisps and I heard he's got a small peter."

"No, he don't!" Sadie defended, before turning demurely to their mark. "She promised. She can't back out now."

"She says she can," Buck-Teeth said, "and so do I. So buzz off."

"But—"

"Buzz. Off. Final warning."

Sadie let go of Tilly in triumphant defeat and, gleefully, scoffed in anger, storming off, playing as though she was passing the theater and taking a right, but in truth she simply engaged in a full U-shape, sending her only a short span away from the Tilly and the cohort, just out of sight.

The rest came like ringing a bell. Tilly gave a sob speech about how spooked she was, about how she needed a strong man to guide her back to her hotel room in case something awful happened to her—even though it was broad daylight and the police station was little more than a ruler away (maybe fifty paces southward). Of course, Settimo couldn't refuse such an offer and happily escorted her back to the Bastille Saloon.

Sadie shadowed them across the hectic city streets from a safe distance; everything was going exactly according to plan. Tilly gave their mark the once-over, the sweet-talking, probably about how she was so grateful for his help and wouldn't feel right not inviting him up to her room so she could thank him in a more lady-like fashion. Whatever she said, Buck-Teeth was convinced, and the two of them broke up the quintet, rushing into the flourishing saloon and up the stairs while the three bodyguards stood guard outside for any signs of trouble.

Sadie covertly merged to the left side of the road, making abundantly certain none of those mobsters could blow her cover with an untimely glance. When she had overshot the saloon, she crossed to the right of the trash-strewn street to the alleyway behind Bastille Saloon, one that stretched out into a courtyard that connected with all the other apartments and hotels adjacent to the saloon. There off to the right was a mountain of stairs that ascended to the balcony on the second story of the Bastille Saloon. She hobbled up the fifty stairs, taking a score of breaths afterward, and stalked to the door leading into the saloon from outside—through the foggy glass, she made out Tilly yanking Settimo into the room the girls had rented earlier that day. The door was left intentionally open.

Sadie made her move, cracking the patio door, sauntering over the polished and varnished floorboards that were draped with an orange rug, and entering through the brown door after Tilly, closing it behind her.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" Abbandando growled as he lay horizontally on the bed facing the door, waiting for Tilly to join him. But she didn't. She held fast by the entrance with Sadie, who had her hand on her inhabited holster, both brandishing broad smirks. He sighed deeply as it dawned on him. "Merda…" Sadie didn't need to be bilingual to know what he was he saying.

"Yeah," she said, drawing her double-action revolver, keeping it trained on his chest. "Now Settimo, contrary to what you're thinking, this doesn't need to be unpleasant for you,"—she handed Tilly her second pistol, a cattleman, and strutted around the bed to the pretty yellow-gold couch at the other end of the room (their hostage's eyes tracked her the whole way)—"as of this moment, we ain't here to kill you. We just want some information about a friend of ours." She concluded by plopping herself down on that dandelion-shaded couch that complimented her blonde hair and yellow-brown attire—holy shit, this is comfortable. She thought, not expecting to get so distracted by an item most Americans have. Now I get why it was a whole dollar for just one night.

"That little boy," Tilly jumped in, "Jack Marston, if you bastards even asked the Braithwaites his name before you gladly took him off their hands. Where is he?"

"I didn't have no part in that," Buck-Teeth said, raising his hands up innocently. "I don't like bringing kids into the fold. It's dirty business."

"We told ya we ain't here to kill ya," Sadie reminded, "so licking boots won't do ya any good. Just answer the question: where is he?"

"Un-unclear."

"What's unclear?"

"Well," he explained, "when Bronte died, Guido took the boy, so maybe Guido's apartment? But he also could've stashed him anywhere else in the city—we own a lot of buildings. Doesn't really matter, though."

"Why not?" Tilly inquired.

Settimo hesitated, aware that what he'd say next would be less than popular among his company. "I told you, I had nothing to do with this. Dirty business."

"What?!" Sadie demanded.

"He,"—he licked his lips (a method of stalling)—"he's being traded to the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Tonight at the JD McKnight wharf by the eastside docks. That's where all those city-men are holed up."

"He's alive!" Tilly celebrated before she processed the last part. "They're here?" She spoke in more of a whisper than anything else.

"We knew they would be," Sadie said, trying to stay as reserved as possible. We need to stay calm.

"But… I hoped,"—again, more of a whisper—"shit Sadie, what are we gonna do?" Tilly asked, her chest bobbing up and down with antsy breaths. "It'll be Blackwater all over again! And… shit! They're holed up in the docks. That's gonna fuck Lenny's pla—"

Sadie stomped her boots authoritatively, staring Tilly down with a stoic frown, motioning toward their hostage with her eyes. Tilly almost gave the game away, right in front of their damn opponent. Her cheeks flushed red as Sadie stood to approach the man sitting on his knees in their bed.

"The devil's in the details," she spoke softly, waiting for him to catch her drift—he didn't. "Give me the details! I want to know how Jack is being delivered, when, the route, now!"

"Uh, a carriage. I think the delivery is… eight?"

"You think?"

"No, no. It's eight."

"If you're wrong, you're dead," Sadie threatened, prodding his forehead with her gun.

"I'm not. Eight."

"And how is he being delivered? The route, the number of guards?"

"I-I don't know. It's not my operation. I told you, I don't do that. It's—"

"Dirty business. We know."

And in one swift motion, she knocked him out with the butt of her gun. The girls cleared out quickly, exiting the way Saide had come in through the stairwell and out the alleyway. Their wagon was exactly where they left it at Eckhart Stables, spearheaded by Sadie's recent Turkoman, Bob, and Tilly's Nokota, Old Belle.

They rode by the general store, buying some much-needed supplies for the gang—unfortunately, the butcher's shop was closed for whatever reason (apparently the butcher got shot in the face recently) and they couldn't find any highly desired meats for Pearson's stew (seriously, most of the gang would've taken snake meat at this point). The ride back to camp was brisk and quiet. Sadie could read Tilly's apprehension like a book, and though she tried to say something encouraging, something to lift her spirits, something to talk about, nothing came to mind—she couldn't even bring herself to ask why Tilly was spending so much time with Bill. Never was too good with words, Sadie thought. Jake, though, oh God was he ever. We used to say my complete lack of charms was evened out by his abundance of 'em. Sadie's grip on the wagon's reins tightened as the harrowing thoughts returned to her: the heart-throbbing pain of what she'd lost, the needling guilt of surviving, but stronger than the others by a landslide, the searing red-hot anger toward those who'd done it to her. I'm gonna find that Colm O'Driscoll, she swore. Imma find him and his fat bastard friend. Imma find 'em and make 'em pay.

The camp was in shambles when they returned—so not much had changed. Except the recent adornment of the smartly dressed debonair black man who sat at the poker table

with the indecisive duo that was Hosea and Dutch, alongside a Grimshaw who stared at the boy with a plaudit glow in her eyes. If Sadie didn't know any better, she'd think the old coot was actually proud of him. Lenny's return had been a delightful change of pace from the tragedy that seemed so regular to them now—Sadie had half-expected he'd run off. Yet here he was, blessing them with something that the camp's greatest minds had been unable to create in two days: a fucking plan.

"There she is!" Dutch greeted brightly. "How'd you two make out?"

"Alright, I guess," Sadie answered aloofly. "Though we couldn't get any meat."

"No problem," Hosea said, "We'll send Charles into Rhodes to get some from the butcher there. He's heading out anyway to complete the next phase in Lenny's plan." He beamed at the boy, who sunk beneath his shoulder, embarrassed.

"We got a problem with that actually," Tilly said, bouncing with nervous energy. "The Pinks are here, right by the docks."

"Yeah. I know," Lenny said matter-of-factly. "The mayor's my best friend now. I know what he knows. It's risky, certainly, but it shouldn't interfere with our plans if we play things carefully. Guido's been moving money onto the Grand Korrigan after the mayor told him we're planning to hit the bank—he wants his money out and away from our grubby hands. That's also where the agents will be focusing their attention. Then, when we take Guido out, the lieutenants will go for that money in the bank—mob's run by money, so whoever controls it, controls the mob. This'll start a whole gang war, and the Pinkertons will be caught right in the middle, right in the middle far far away from us." He finished to see they were all staring at him, and his demeanor turned shy, looking down. "Of course, there is still a lot of luck involved, and we have to be extra sure not to start a pandemonium while we're on that boat. But if we can keep things relatively quiet, I think—"

"I knew there was a good reason why we took you in," Dutch laughed, patting him hard on the back in a jovial, fatherly manner.

"Hey," Sadie couldn't resist asking, "is Pearson back yet?"

The sullen faces answered for her.

"Nor John," Dutch said with a heavy sigh.

"If he ever comes back," said Grimshaw.

"He'll come back. He did before," the gang's namesake insisted.

Pearson's missing now too? God, it's like a game of musical chairs 'round here, Sadie thought with a groan.

"I'm sure Mr. Pearson's fine," Grimshaw said reassuringly, more to herself than anyone else. "Probably just got caught up reminiscing on an old sailor's balderdash and fell asleep outside. All his stuff's still here, so it ain't like he ran. Not that he would. He loves it here."

Sadie spotted Charles just then, leading his horse, Taima, out of camp, nearing just past the gazebo on the left. She rushed over to intercept them as Charles mounted the gray Appaloosa. "Charles! You off to Rhodes?"

"Yeah."

"Alright if I tag along?"

"Always, Mrs. Adler," he replied, smiling at her, though his long straight hair covered some of it. Like all of Charles' mannerisms, it was subtle but genuine. "But… it does come with some unseemly baggage."

"What ba—"

"Oooh, Kieran, lookee here: two Nancyboys, oooh this is a treat. One is rare enough, but two? Oooh boy, two is a sight to see!"

Sadie muttered a string of profanities.

2:37 PM, July 21st, 1899

Kieran and Uncle rode in a prairie wagon which farted orange clouds of dust behind it as they neared Rhodes, the large white and green outline of the parlour house sneaking into view.

"So I'm adrift on a few soggy planks'a wood, right? Completely butt-naked out in the open waters, and I'm thinking I'm done for," the old man chuckled, regaled by his own tale. He was the only one.

"If only…" Sadie grumbled.

"If ya got something to say, Sadie, just say it," challenged Uncle. "Passive aggression is for the British. Speaking of which, did I tell y'all 'bout that British whore?"

"Yes," Sadie, Charles, and Kieran spat out in unison.

"Fine!" Uncle pouted. "We can follow Charles' lead and speak only using 'sure' and 'uh-huh' and 'I don't cut my hair cuz I got no hair down south.'"

"Sounds perfect," responded Charles.

"Why the hell are you two here anyway?" asked Sadie with actual curiosity.

"W-well," Kieran started, skittish around Sadie—she'd made her thoughts on him plenty clear. "Whatever boat we're taking, we figure there won't be enough deck space for twenty horses, s-so we're gonna sell 'em. Hosea said there's a contact just up north'a here they pawned the Braithwaite's horses off to—"

"Me and Arthur sold 'em some cattle too—"

"—so we're gonna sign a contract or something and have him ready to meet us in Van Horn, so we can unload 'em while giving 'em a better home—hopefully."

"And you wanted in cuz you just love them horses so much, don't ya?" Sadie snickered shooting daggers at the stubbled man.

"W-well, yeah."

"Uncle," she ordered, "keep a tight leash on this one."—she turned back to the O'Driscoll—"I ain't forgotten what you are."

Kieran looked down timidly, keeping his body in a narrow huddle as Uncle yanked the cart offroad to the right, away from the pod. "This has been fun," he said, "but we should get going now. Goodbye, or as Charles would say: 'hmm.'"

And so Sadie and Charles drove into Rhodes by themselves, soaking up the dusty air that nipped at their eyes, the odor of rotting meat that burned at their nostrils, and the dud dud dud of the carpenter's going to work that feezed their ears. The boys really put this place through the wringer last time they was here. There wasn't a single building that wasn't jabbed with a dozen holes, and it seemed every man, woman, and child living here was taking up Jesus' occupation in retaliation, hammering nails and sewing boards against the walls in a rhythmic dud dud dud.

"Sadie," asked Charles as they passed the general store, nearing the yellow train station where Sadie intended to hitch Bob, "I know what the O'Driscolls did to you was horrible. Unforgivable. But you're rational, Sadie, you're not naive or petty; you know that Kieran had nothing to do with any of that."

"So he just gets a clean slate? Clean as a goddamn whistle? Kieran ratted on Six-Point Cabin the second he got the chance—"

"Can you blame him?" Charles questioned, shuddering.

"For good reasons or not," Sadie conceded, "it proves he's got no balls—no guts, I mean. Ya think Kieran's the type of guy to stand up to those bastards? My point is… even if he was there that night, ya think he woulda stopped 'em from killing my Jake?"

Charles had no rebuttal to this.

"I think not," she continued, "and in my book, that makes him just as rotten as Colm. Ya hang around a crowd like that, you know what's what. He may not be a killer, but that don't mean he ain't watched good people die needlessly."

"He-he did save Tilly," Charles argued weakly, knowing Tilly's version of the events was most certainly romanticized.

"Not the way Grimshaw said it."

They arrived at the hitches outside the station now, and Sadie hopped down and tied Bob to a post. Charles stayed equestrian, looking down at Sadie, and said sanguinely "Everyone deserves a second chance."

"No they don't," Sadie said, without a drip of malice in her voice—she wasn't arguing, just stating the facts. "You comin' down?"

"Nah. Got somewhere else to be. Good luck." He spun Taima around to depart, before whipping back again to ask a favor: "Could you buy the meats Hosea wanted for me? Things could get hot when I'm done, and I don't want to come back here."

"Sure," Sadie promised, waving him off.

And so she bought some provisions at the butcher's shop—some pork chops, venison shoulder, and lumpy sausages. Next, she did the customary once-over at the post office, finding a single letter addressed to Tacitus Kilgore. Afterward, she trekked to the gunsmith's shop, the windows and door bore several thick plies, no doubt as a temporary replacement for the damage Sean, Micah, and Bill did last time they were here. She bought a nice Carcano rifle that set her back quite a bit, but whatever, Dutch would understand. The gunsmith seemed a mite peculiar, but she didn't press her luck, instead exiting and riding Bob out of town as hastily as possible; Sadie knew she had plenty of time before eight, but why take any chances?

The plan itself was basic enough: they knew Jack was getting sent to the docks—the southeast—and although they didn't know the exact route, it shouldn't matter. Sadie would get onto a lofty building nearby where she had a keen view around her; she'd need to get help from Javier, Karen, or Tilly—anyone fast really. She'd take out the drivers of the carriage and any Pinks sprinkled about the area. From there her accomplices would dash forward under Sadie's cover fire, commandeer the stagecoach, and cut dirt like greased lightning out of there. Simple, yet effective; Charles would approve.

She trotted back to camp now, eyes facing the yellow sun that was halfway gone. The clickety-clump of her horse's shoes became relaxing, like music or the crackling of fire—oh how I miss those fires back in Ambarino, the cold nights made them ever more pleasant. She recollects on her husband, the warmth from his body when they cuddled by the fire forcing the frostbite in their toes and the aching in their backs to melt away. Clickety-clump. He was a good man, my Jakie… we-we were always sweet on each other… She felt cold tears fester at her eyelashes, begging to drop, begging to freeze her, hurt her, laugh at her. Clickety-clump. Things'll get easier, Sadie, she thought, praying it was true. Clickety-clump. One day, you'll wake up, and it won't hurt. Clickety-clump. You'll be able to smile. That's what Hosea said. You'll smile—

Boom! Sadie heard it well off afar, but it still jolted her and her steed—was that a goddamn explosion! She couldn't gauge where its source exactly, but she was pretty sure it was by… Shady Belle? No…

She tore hell for leather, racing as fast as she could, ignoring Bob's pained cries until they reached that familiar decrepit mansion. It was in shambles, new shambles. Windows were shattered asunder, bullet holes were painted across the few remaining streaks of white in the already faded and blackened exterior, stripping it of all color, and gutters were shot loose and dangling over the sagging house like a straw hat that was losing threads. Corpses decorated the grounds, must have been a dozen at least—shit. Did Bronte's men find this place? she wondered. Worst of all, a goddamn crater sat in the center of the front yard, staining the surrounding land dark with ash; flinders of wood, metal, cloth, and flesh (some of the animal kind, some of the other) were bedecked around the manmade sinkhole in the ground—the sight was horrendous. That must have been the explosion. Some crazy son of a bitch musta set off every piece of dynamite we had. She looked closer at the cadavers on the ground below her and noticed every last one of them bore a brightly colored shirt. A green brightly colored shirt. Goddamn O'Driscolls.

Bang! A shot whizzed right over her head.

"It's Sadie, dumbass!" she yelled.

"Oh, sorry," Tilly apologized, screaming it from the balcony.

Sadie pranced nearer till she was by the front steps of Shady Belle, and dismounted from Bob, hearing a rustle of voices and feet, and turned the house's right corner to see…

Dutch, mad as hell, riding astride The Count, followed briskly by Micah on Pig's Blood (Sadie couldn't grasp why the sick bastard chose to name it that), Bill on Brown Jack, Lenny—reluctantly—on Maggie, and Javier on Boaz.

"What the hell happened?" Sadie demanded, waving her arms until Dutch finally looked down to acknowledge her.

"Goddamn O'Driscoll's. That's what. Lily-livered cowards hit us from the front, blew the place to hell, and shot Hosea!"

"What?!" Sadie bellowed, cold fury arresting all reason.

"He's alive," Dutch stressed, and Sadie sighed immensely in relief, "just gave his arm a nasty lacing." He turned to Javier in commemoration. "Javier pulled a good trick and got 'em off our back. We were able to kill most of 'em, but there are still some weasely hightails, and we are going to hunt them down like the fice they are!"

Sadie couldn't help the smirk that rose to her face.

"Mount up, Mrs. Adler, we could use the help," Dutch offered. "Who knows how many of them there are."

Her answer was involuntary: "I'm in." She whistled for Bob and he ambled over to her. She stuck one foot in her stirrup and placed one hand on Bob's golden-brown back, pulling herself up, until the inopportune chime of reality slapped her in the face.

"Sadie!" Tilly called, brandishing a silver pocket watch she'd pilfered from Buck-Teeth after they'd knocked him out. "It's seven fifteen! You can't be riding off now, we need to get ready to head into town!"

Sadie's smirk vanished like a fleeting shadow. Little Jack… Abigail.

"S-sorry Dutch," she lamented. "I got to stay behind."

She met his eyes, expecting them to be full of disappointment, but instead, they were filled with glee. "Colm O'Driscoll led them here," he said, and this news shook Sadie so much that she lost balance and tripped off her stirrup onto her knees in the arid dirt.

"What?"

"Saw him myself," Dutch boasted. "He actually came to do his own dirty work for once. We can get him, Sadie. Right here. Right now."

Colm was here… she could avenge Jake. Tonight…

"Sadie!" Tilly cried. "We have to go!"

Sadie's head was on a swivel, jerking back between Dutch up high and Tilly on ground level. Her hands must have been frozen, because they were shaking violently as she stammered her words, unable to speak. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it! When I said I wanted Colm, I didn't mean today! "D-Dutch… I can't. Jack is… he's alive—"

"Sadie…"

"No! He really is. I'm not—"

"We know," came the vexing snarl of Micah. "Tilly told us all about it. It's nonsense, Sadie."

"N-no…"

"Y-y-y-yes," Micah mocked. "The boy's dead."

"Shut up, Micah!" Tilly yelled. "You weren't there!"

"No, but I know hostages well enough to know that when you have a gun to someone's head, they'll tell you anything they think you want to hear."

"Micah's right," Dutch said, looking like some kind of fairy tale hero with his white horse and handsomely trimmed beard. "We've got something real here Sadie. That beats whatever lie some underhanded gangster cooked up."

"B-but… Jack… Abigail…"

"Did you see him with your own eyes, Sadie?" Dutch asked. "I did. Back at Bronte's manor before everything went to hell. I saw them drag him away screaming. A little boy screaming for his mommy, and they couldn't have cared any less—might as well have been a fly buzzing. He's dead, Sadie. It pains me to say it, but I know it in my bones."

"Sadie!" Tilly begged, grabbing her by the arm. "We can't do this without you! I can work a shotgun just fine, but I ain't no sharpshooter. No one left is, 'cept Hosea, but he's in a goddamn cast—we need you! Jack needs you!"

"I-I-I…"

Settimo was… probably lying. If Jack wasn't dead, then it was a trap, at least. Certainly. Heh, why do I even care? Not my son. Never even liked the kid too much… but Abigail… oh God forgive me…

"Sadie," Dutch pacified. "You gotta do what you gotta do,"—Jake—"If you gotta stay behind… we can make do…"—stole him—"without you—"

"No!" She screamed, loud enough to silence even the grasshoppers and crickets that had begun to chant their traditional hymn. She felt Abigail's bleached blue eyes fluttering on her, watching with desperate optimism. All was silent then, as Sadie gave her final answer: "I'll… ride with you."

Before Tilly or Hosea or her conscience could stop her, she climbed atop Bob, feeling icicles springing out in her gut, stabbing her insides, making every breath onerous and miserable.

"Sadie!" Tilly pleaded one last time.

"Let's ride!" shouted Dutch. And they were gone into the chill night.

And the whole way, Sadie knew Abigail's bleached blue eyes had ceased their fluttering, and were now welded tightly shut, never to be opened ever again.

Hope you all enjoyed. As you can see, I'm taking Sadie on a very negative path for this fanfic. I figured it was TB Arthur who helped her channel her more violent nature in the game, but without him...

Wanted to add some times and dates for all the chapters too. I hope that makes the nonlinear element easier to grasp.

Is Jack even alive? Who knows. See you next time.

Also, I know the nonlinear part of this might be confusing if you weren't paying close attention to the dates, so I'll list it simply here:

Day One:

Arthur dies.
Dutch attacks Braithwaite Manor and Caliga Hall.

Day Two:

Pinkertons meet with the gang.
Bill and friends secure Shady Belle.

Day Three:

John investigates leads for Jack in Saint Denis.

Day Four:

John meets with the street urchins and visits Bronte.
Micah and John get into a firefight with police and take off.
Abigail tries to shoot John before having a mental breakdown. At this time, John leaves.

Day Five:

Abigail sleeps while everyone licks their wounds.
Dutch, Hosea, and Micah start deliberations on what to do.
Lenny gets Trelawny drunk and steals his suit.

Day Six:

Lenny goes around Saint Denis, scouting for info on Bronte's mob so he can devise a plan.
Sean and Trelawny ride to Van Horn looking for a boat.
Uncle makes Karen feel guilty and she goes with Bill to collect on a debt so she can feel useful-they bond.
Sadie vows to save Jack, attempting to enlist Molly. She finds out Buck-Teeth has a schedule of going to the theatre at a certain time every day.
Kieran helps Grimshaw save Tilly.
Lenny makes a deal with the mayor.
Sean and Trelawny make a deal with Oliver Smith.

Day Seven:

Pearson goes missing.
Lenny returns, revealing his plan, which Dutch and Hosea love (mainly because they know their own weren't very good)
Sadie and Tilly interrogate Buck-Teeth.
Uncle and Kieran take off to cut a deal with the horse fence.
Charles leaves to fulfill the next part of Lenny's plan in Rhodes.
Sadie comes back to find the O'Driscoll's have attacked Shady Belle in her absence, luckily with no casualties.

There's a bit more, but that's a good general summary. Hope that clears it up if anyone's confused.