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 Seventeen: Charles

12:43 PM July 22nd, 1899

The dime novels made the life of an outlaw sound a lot more exciting than it was in actuality. Charles Smith could attest to this.

For instance, if his time during the second half of the twenty-first of July and first half of the twenty-second were adapted in black and white (or color, although Charles was partial to black and white; it was the kind his father had read to him) it would be drastically different. Firstly, while the name Charles Smith was more than American enough, his… shall we say less than unflattering characteristics would need to go. The long womanly hair? Certainly. His hickory brown skin? Without a doubt. The wooden bow married with a set of arrows? Maybe… it would depend if a gun company was a sponsor.

Nevertheless, what would change in the novel would be the plan. In The Adventures of Charles Smith, he would rush into the Braithwaite fishing houses on Flat Iron Lake's coastline, shooting arrows (or guns) at every bastard that dared oppose him, be it ten, twenty, or a hundred, he'd kill them all! Then he'd shimmy to the nearest town, flirt with a few pretty girls, and ride off into the sunset.

In the real world, the last day had consisted of nothing but waiting. Slow, boring, agonizing waiting. Charles had made a humble camp—nothing beyond a blanket on the ground and his horse tied to a tree—on the zenith of the hill across east from the Braithwaite's barnhouse. He'd burned most of the time staring through his binoculars, cutting through the plantation fields and obscuring trees to the eight fishing houses where his target was stationed. Oh, supposingly stationed I should say. After all, it was only the word of a corrupt mayor that said Guido Martelli was here.

If rumor, french mayoral rumor, can be believed, Guido got a little hot under the collar seeing Bronte shot like a dog so close to home and apparently had a good relationship with the very few number of Braithwaite's left after Dutch's massacre, who were willing to offer him asylum out of Saint Denis until the whole mess had blown over. And thus, Guido Martelli had sealed his fate, for Charles Smith would surely come riding in like an angel of death and make cold of every man that stood against him; at least he would if it was a dime novel.

Charles instead spent the twenty-first with his face glued to those binoculars. It was like trying to make out ants crawling from horseback. He couldn't tell if he counted the same man multiple times, missed some altogether, or even garnered a legible count at all, with so many men probably holed up in the houses, guarding Guido as closely as his shadow. Even so, his inaccurate count yielded twenty men; that was a feat normal Charles could not swing. He had hoped Guido would come out at some point, get some fresh air, take a shit, do something, anything so he could know which house to single out—maybe he'd toss a fire bottle on it in the dead of night, kill the Italian without revealing himself at all. Alas, no such luck.

He only acquired about an hour of sleep that night, which was garden-variety for him—although his inability to brew a pot of coffee (no fire of course, that would just alert his presence as easily as firing a cannon) was an obnoxious hindrance on his already waning spirit. In the morning, he'd carefully stalked north past the boathouses, desperately hoping for a new angle—time was running out, Guido needed to be dead tonight. Arriving at another boathouse, one that was connected to the water through a tiny dock, Charles hoped he'd be able to find a better look into the enemy camp just southwards. Instead, he found something of equal value: Penelope Braithwaite, waiting like some princess in a faraway tower.

I'll spare you the finer details of their talk (Charles is a miraculously dull conversationalist, I assure you, you're missing nothing) and instead cut to the heart of it: the young Braithwaite was filled with an irrational urge to elope with that dopey Gray boy, Beau, and needed Charles' help to reunite with her estranged at the lemon yellow train station in Rhodes. The poor sap probably would have done it regardless, but luckily their interests aligned like puzzle pieces: word would get out quickly about her disappearance to Rhodes, and Briathwaite's would clear out of the boathouses like bees when you hit their hive with a rock (Charles had done that once and had seen hell for it; from the bees and his drunken father) in search of her.

So he'd acquiesced to her pleas and took her straightway to the train station, where she shared a tender moment with her boyish groom-to-be before departing on the train. Charles had imparted them with the wisdom to get the hell off at the next stop and take a stagecoach the remainder of their journey—Briathwaite's would be on them like ticks if they didn't. Then he served them with a short yet earnest goodbye and beat a retreat himself.

That's where he was right now, dashing on Taima as fast as he'd ever gone before, on his way to the boathouses before the Braithwaite's discovered Penelope wasn't on the train and hurried back to defend their Italian baggage.

"More speed, girl, gimme more!" he demanded from the half-spotted Appaloosa as they burned the breeze all the way back to Braithwaite Manor, halting by the boathouse where he met Penelope.

"Stay," he emphasized to Taima, as though she could understand him. From there, he crouched and slowly trudged against the culms and blades of the tall grass leading to the eight boathouses—one of which Guido had to be in.

He ducked behind a small colosseum-esque pig pen at the north tip of the settlement and glanced over the duo of fat pink beasts to see it in its entirety, without the stifling distance. The eight fishing houses were more huts, really—cramped, shabby, tightly packed together. Unlike the mansions of Saint Denis Guido was probably more comfortable with, which were painstakingly crafted, boasting different styles, colors, and shapes—each was built like a snowflake; similar in function, yet meticulously distinct in appearance—these houses were more or less identical. Like eight quarters—a few unique chips or scratches, but at their core, a facsimile from the last. Each sported two greasy windows, front steps so low their existence was almost redundant, and the same system of patchwork metal roofs that was customary for the uncivilized parts of Lemoyne. The place was mostly abandoned now, save for a few Braithwaite's gallivanting around, from the burgundy fishing house resting by the small dock to two men playing horseshoes just opposite where Charles was hiding; about six in total outside, but there were at least ten horses hitched in around the houses—there were more men inside the other cabins. The largest hut was ensconced at about the center of the eight and had two guards on the front porch—guards who seemed of Sicilian descent.

That's where Guido's at, thought Charles, loading his bow with an improved arrow of his own design and construction. The sound was a quiet exhale as it went flying at one of the Italian goons. It pierced his eye and he plopped down to one of the front porch's saggy chairs, dying without releasing so much as a grunt or a fart; his friend didn't even notice he was dead until a second before the next arrow visited his left ear before popping out his right one. Eight more exhales pealed out—four belonging to Charles, four to the arrows—and the rest of the men plunged their faces into the hard, orange dirt. The path was clear. Except one of the horses, a brown Tennessee Walker started neighing and whining uncontrollably, and Charles could hear the men inside the cabins beginning to perk up.

Gotta move, gotta move. He rushed to the central lodge, slinging his bow over his shoulders, and unsheathed his throwing knives—it would be better for close quarters, and he still wanted to keep things as quiet as possible; if the remaining fellers in the other fishing houses went outside, he was done for. He fumbled his full hands tightly against the door's handle and steadily crept it ajar. It may have been the most extensive home compared to its seven brothers, but it was still quite timid. There was only one room with two beds packed at opposite corners, a grimy white sink with towers of dirty plates, a slim beige coffee table at its center, a moldy green carpet underneath said table and three black chairs surrounding said table on said carpet. In said chairs sat Guido and two more Sicillians, studded in all-black coats, shirts, and pants—like they were prepped for a funeral. I guess they are, Charles thought, flinging a knife at the first guard's chest before advancing to the other, who had a fat belly Charles tossed two more knives into, and then he doubled back and put one more in the first guy, this time in his cheek.

Guido was alone.

"P-please…" he stammered, backing up until he was against the sink and his head tipped the obelisk of dishes over, most exploding into a million shards on the floor by the gross green rug. "D-don't… I'll pay you anything. Anything!"

"I want you to know…" Charles answered, marching over the grime-speckled remains of plates, removing his broader hunting knife for this, "This isn't personal."

And he buried the blade in Guido's torso, precisely striking his heart; the death was quick, a few seconds. Charles gripped his neck, double-checking for a pulse—there was none, the job was surely done. Now he needed to get the hell out of there.

"Shit, some bastard got 'em with arrows!" tumulted a cry mixed with the clippity-clop of horseshoes. He darted to the left window and saw with his own hazel eyes what he feared: the Braithwaite's were returning, easily fifteen in all, plus the additional six that had emerged from the other fishing houses.

"I see him in the window! He's still here!"

Charles had just enough time to duck before the stream of gunfire blew right through the window, barely missing him; these bastards aren't like the idiots Colm recruits, they can fucking shoot! He looked about, not liking his surroundings. There was only one door out, which had approximately twenty guns aimed at it now, and the only windows he could dive through were facing the same direction. They were hurrying towards the porch now, and Charles stitched the door to the wall with his still-red hunting knife; hopefully, that would buy him a few moments. A primitive, caveman plan cooked up in his head and he ran forward, keeping his head low for the bullets that flew above him. He grabbed the light-brown coffee table and turned it sideways, brandishing it by the legs, facing the top towards the wall. He gave a sharp, firm whistle for Taima to haul ass over here before he flung himself at the wall with full force, using the table as a battering ram. The wooden planks cracked, but didn't fold in, not yet.

Dum! The Braithwaite's smashed against the door; Charles had thought the knife would slow their progress, but one slam had already bent it into an unseemly hook shape. The second would surely pop it right off, allowing a dozen murderous men entry to him. He gripped his maul with sweaty hands before desperately tossing himself against the wall one more time…

Happy day. He crashed through the house, breaking his slight fall on two pieces of shrubbery that he flattened with his hefty weight. He wasted no time, jumping to his feet and sprinting away. Bang! Bang! Bullets charged at him, and he could have sworn he felt seven or eight whiz by his neck and arms, although that could've been the strong gale coming in from the north. Taima met him in the yellow fields just outside that damn settlement, and he lept on her, not even sticking his boots in the stirrups. He heard the clippity-clop again behind him—they were still giving chase, on horseback now, they were relentless. Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop.

Charles patted himself down and his heart sank. His guns had slipped off with his bow when he'd busted through the wall. Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop. They were on him now, aiming their gun, adjusting for the bounces their horses gave them. He was in range, and he felt them cock their pistols, ready to fire…

Clippity-clop!

He turned around and saw no one was there. He'd lost them.

Ah, thank God! he thought, dropping his head on Taima's fuzzy mane. This had better be fuckin' worth it, Lenny.

It was times like these that he wondered why he stayed with Dutch's crew at all; they'd been friendly, sure, and treated him well. They were all outsiders somewhere, so they could make an outsider feel right at home. But things had changed since Micah joined; a bovine man might call him a curse, but Charles knew better. Everything had changed: Dutch's plans had gotten desperate and lazy… and more destructive.

The humidity wrapped around him like a thick blanket as Taima crossed back onto the familiar sludgy fields of Shady Belle. God, how he hated the swamp. Can't wait to get the hell outta here.

As the huddle of bricks that made up Shady Belle came into view, he could swear he saw Swanson in the distance, a badly drafted grave close by.

7:39 PM July 22nd, 1899

Charles placed a golden daisy at Pearson's grave; if all went well, it would be his last opportunity to do so. Night was encroaching; the sky was a majestic purple and only the cap of the red sun was exposed on the horizon. It was just about time. He wore his best clothes, which were still little more than tatters—a navy blue jacket, a white cotton shirt, black denim pants, and a scruffy bowler hat he'd borrowed from Trelawny. Far from robust, but they would suffice.

"How do I look?" asked Sean, inching to the grave next to Charles.

"Good." That was a lie. Sean looked horribly boorish, wearing a bright green suit and cherry-red tie that scoffed at the prospect of subtlety—and in terms of style… let's just say he wasn't Lady Duff-Gordon. The suit was wrenchingly unkempt: wrinkled and patched in several spots and bedecked with obsidian mold from his trunk.

"Heh. 'Course I do." He was flashing his typical impish smile, but it was wavering, not at all at its utmost vigor. "Good the fat geezer finally bit the dust, eh?" He gave the tip of the cross a playful pat like he was slapping one of his pals on the back. "Couldn't'a made it another day eating his horseshit in a pot."

"Yeah." Charles planted a tender hand on Sean's shoulder. He seemed to need it.

"I should'a fuckin' been here, man." His vivid green eyes sweated blue beads.

"Maybe. But you were doin' something important. Now we have a boat outta this mess."

"Yeah. I guess."

Charles chose a subject he knew the Irishman would be eager to talk about: "I heard you knocked Micah's lights out?"

"Yeah, that slippery bastard didn't know what hit him!" Sean burst out, frantic with delight. "Served him right. Y'know what he did to Karen this morning?"

Dutch emerged from Shady Belle then, derailing their focus. He was dressed in his normal attire—it looked fancy enough. "Gentlemen! It's time!" He strolled to The Count and mounted up, followed by Micah, wearing a white overcoat, red dress shirt, Arthur's hat (that he didn't deserve), and a blue mark above his cheek, courtesy of Sean. Then came Lenny and Javier, also armored with the most bourgeois items they could find—Lenny had wanted Trelawny's suit again, but, of course, he'd said Mister Summers would need to kill him to get him out of his suit again, effectively ending that discussion.

The entire camp was crowded around him now, and when he spoke, it was to everyone present. "Anyone not coming, help Grimshaw pack this place up. The moment we return with the money, we are outta here! We'll sleep in shifts and ride straight through nightfall. We should arrive at Van Horn by first light, and from there…" He clapped his hands dramatically. "We're gone! To paradise!"

To New Orleans, Charles thought but didn't dare say.

"I should warn you…" Trelawny started, before slowly walking down from the front porch, knowing their attention was on him and he could take his time. "The weight of the boat was nearing its apex, so kindly prepare yourselves to leave behind everything save what you can stuff in your pockets."

"Who says all of us have to board?" Grimshaw said, glaring daggers at Kieran. "I say we cut the deadweight loose."

"So, the old and decrepit?" Karen stepped in, leering back at her, standing between her and the former O'Driscoll.

"Woah, okay, let's just take a step back," Uncle argued. "We don't need to get rid of anyone old or decrepit… and if hypothetically we did, it should be Strauss. Can't understand half of what he says anyway."

"Because you're only awake half the time, Mister Uncle," quipped the Austrian from the gazebo, counting the camp funds once more from the scarlet box.

"Uh-oh," Dutch chuckled sardonically, before cupping his mouth and aiming it upwards toward Shady Belle's balcony. "If we're cuttin' deadweight, you're finished, Molly, my dear!"

"Dutch!" Charles objected, only to be answered with hysterical laughs.

"I'm joking, of course. Besides, she's passed out drunk in my bedroom anyway."

"I'm right here," came Molly's voice from right behind Dutch. "Ya fuckin' prick."

"Oops." He giggled like a child to its own pranks; it was a sad sight. Then Tilly approached him, her yellow dress brushing the muddy dirt, deadly concern etched into her face.

"Dutch," said she, "what are we gonna do 'bout Hosea?"

That certainly silenced his tittering to a miracle elixir-like effect. "Hosea will be back." He said it instantly, yet no signs of joy or optimism mired his face; he said it coldly, like referring to a bad case of influenza.

"Well, should we try to look—"

"He'll be back. He's gotten a little distracted, but I know he'll be back."

Charles couldn't resist jumping in. "You can pull this off without me. I could go scouting for—"

"He'll be back!" Dutch yelled.

The camp froze, no one knew what to say, if they should say anything at all. Charles watched Dutch's eyes scan around, big and alert, like a cat's, before they shut and he exhaled deeply.

"I don't expect any of you to understand this," he said softly, "but Hosea's is as my brother. Hell, we practically beat the same damn heart. I know he'll be back. I do." His face was warm then, filled with a sanguine youthfulness. "Now… who's ready to rob a boat?"

Charles could almost hear Arthur snicker and mutter yeah, cuz that went so well last time…

"Here fucking here!" Sean chanted in agreement, already mounting Enis and trailing Dutch and his retinue as they steadily trotted out of camp. Charles sighed and hopped on Taima, racing to catch up with the rest of the giddy, greedy group.

The quagmire they plowed through was as disgusting as ever; there were fifty mosquitos to a man. (Heh, like King Solomon's wives—that was a common joke Charles' Indian mother used to say, she never understood the Bible; Charles didn't get it much himself, but that was mostly because his father had slurred most of it out.) "Remember," Dutch reminded them as his horse kicked a clump of mud so high it hit Charles in the face—he would not miss this place, wherever the hell they wound up. "Hostages only, no killing. If we create a panic and lose control of the situation, we're done for."

"What's this place called again?" Javier asked.

"The Grand Korrigan. A steamboat casino Bronte owns—owned, that is."

Lenny took over in explaining next. "From what the mayor says, the ship's hold is supposed to have supplies, extra tables, spare chairs, booze, equipment for special shows, what-have-you. But, in reality, it's as empty as Bill's head. It's a goddamn shed, a closet. A place where Bronte used to store excess cash when he couldn't deposit it all in the bank. Now that we've put out the word about hitting the bank, Guido stopped making deposits, and all that money's been going to the Korrigan. A small fortune, ripe for the taking while everyone's distracted."

Ba-bang! Ba-bang! Ba-bang!

"Speaking of distraction…" Dutch eluded.

They broke through the swamp, entering the marshy plains that stood as no man's land between the icky region and the chockablock megalopolis of Saint Denis. With the grating native sounds of the swamp—the bugs and the wet pops of the mud—fading away as they moved closer to their destination, the hushed gunfire and screams stretched out into Charles' ears. Saint Denis was blazing with light as always—damn place was like a lighthouse during a caliginous night (yes, it was night now, sun seemed to vanish in an instant)—but there was one more light up on display, shining like the north star, brighter than all the rest: it was Bronte's mansion, lit up like a candle. The fire's bloody head reached as high as the black smog pouring out of the nearby factories; its fingers danced and twitched—it was like the hand of God.

The murmurs of crying agony and thunderous bangs ceased to be that; they grew to that of normal clamors—like a friend speaking right in front of you. Charles had known fear quite well throughout his life—with the way he lived it was impossible not to—but tonight was the first time in years he felt burning, suffocating dread. The natural impulse to pull off, run away, almost claimed him for a second. Boaz neighed (although it sounded more like a guttural hiss) and yanked to the side; Javier had to fight him to stay on course.

"Stay loose," Dutch said, calmly, trying to ward off the dark fantasies that persisted. "This is it, gentlemen. The last time we'll ever do this. A few weeks a' lying low, finding a boat, a few weeks on the sea, and we're free." He repeated the last word two more times like it was part of a holy gospel. Our Free who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. "Masks on! The Pinkertons are holed up a hop, skip, and a jump from where we're heading. They should be focused in the center by the bank and mansion district where all the action seems to be, but we can't blow this whole thing because some lucky son-of-a-whore with a lantern gets a good look as we pass by."

Charles complied, using his bandana to wipe the mud that clung to his face, before hanging it on his nose and ears. He looked to his left to see Sean had done the same, a tacky spinach-green bandana hung on his countenance.

They took a sharp right, moving onto the bridge that connected the marsh to the trainyard—the one past where John had parked a train—further up was the harbor, and at the north of the harbor was where the Korrigan was supposed to be docked. The clamors were more like shouts now, loud and very, very close. The sound of gunfire had overwhelmed the screams.

"Dammit, masks on!" Dutch ordered to Micah, the only one who had neglected this command, as they crossed the trestle, officially touching the body of Saint Denis—a blaring scream picked up just as they did, as though the town itself was warning them to steer clear.

Charles took a breath as they passed by the docks; The Pinkertons are here somewhere, in JD McKnight's export house, or that of J Cooperlee's Bottling Company, or the Pacific Union, or Wheeler Rawson and Co. Waitin' to strike like snakes. He dug the fingernails of his thumb into the meaty part of his index finger; when he was younger he did it to wince away the anxiety. It didn't help now, nor then. At least Dutch was right about where the trouble was, he thought, the place ain't so bad, all the shooting must be near the bank. Even that concession did little to ease his apprehension as they rode past the lonely streets.

"D-Dutch," Sean whispered, although to make himself heard above all the gunfire, it was more of a shout, "I-I know bitchin' is more a' Molly's job, but I gotta say it. D-did you consider the possibility that the fuckin' casino boat, just, y'know, sailed the fuck away when all hell broke loose?"

Everyone looked at Dutch, who looked at Lenny. No, he hadn't fuckin' thought that far.

"N-no," Lenny stammered. "The mayor's got people on the Korrigan. He said he'd make sure it didn't leave."

"The very same mayor who's got no problem lettin' his town get shot to hell as long as a couple of gangsters eat it too?" Charles couldn't help pointing out.

They kept on, toes and fingers shaking with anticipation as they cut across the freight yard. Some men were still working—probably trying to distract from what was going on a few blocks down by loading crates on boats that weren't going anywhere tonight (there wasn't a sailor in Saint Denis who was leaving his house tonight)—most just stood around, pacing back and forth. They were probably separated from their family during the workday. Poor guys gotta wait till this is over to know if their wives and children are even alive right now. Charles dug his thumbs even deeper now. We did this.

"Told you! I told you!" cried Lenny as it crept into view like a doe in a scope.

The Grand Korrigan. As stationary as it was beautiful; the painter alone deserved all the money it was pregnant with. The hull and smokestacks were brushed black, while the main twin decks played very well off it with gorgeous eggshell white. The soles of the first floor were diligently colored cardinal red, while the second was stroked with mint green. Then, to finish, to add a cherry to the tippy-top, the vessel's name was marked in massive gilded font, like it wanted to compete with the Statue of Liberty.

"See, gentlemen?" Dutch cheered, pointing to the boat as though it proved an argument he never made. "We can do this!"

They slowed and carefully paced their horses near the back of the train station across the street. Charles grimaced; he'd hoped there would be an alleyway or side yard where they could leave their horses discreetly—nah, we're just gonna hitch them out in the open, great idea.

"We should have brought someone else, Dutch," he bemoaned. "What if our horses get robbed while we're out?"

"And what if Lenny's head falls off?" their leader queried.

Lenny perked up at this. "What head did what?"

"Or what if Sean left his whiskey back at camp?"

"Shit! I didn't!" The Irishman anxiously patted himself down for a bottle.

"Or what if Javier has been a woman all along?" He groped the man's chest, feeling for feminine curves. He exhaled dramatically upon finding nothing—close call.

"False alarm," Sean announced, holding up a green flask. "Got it right here."

Dutch smiled encouragingly, before shifting his gaze to Charles. "Stop worrying, it's a fruitless endeavor. We've got direction, and most of us have faith. That's all we need." His visage grew stern; the time for jokes was over. "Revolvers and pistols only. Let's move!"

They followed him, walking in quick, intentional strides; this was it. They stepped onto the long pier where the boat was posted; there were three guards, trussed in blue policeman uniforms, on the docks, and one more on deck.

Dutch uplifted them with one more round of encouragement. "Remember your roles here, gentleman. Stay loose. And don't worry! We've done harder jobs than this."

We've blown them harder too…

The policemen noticed as they came into the murky orange light the nearby lamppost gave off, jerking their guns to the intruders, cocking them with a satisfying snap.

"The hell are you?" The lead one—the one with the fuzzy mustache—asked.

Charles sighed and gave a rehearsed surrender, aiming his arms in the air.

Away we go…

Away we go...