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 Twenty-Three: Dutch

5:09 AM, July 23rd, 1899

The sun's golden crown emerged from the endless sea of land, splashing the world with brilliant yellow light that became a fervent green upon striking the miles of untamed vegetation of the Scarlett Meadows and a shimmering crepuscule upon brushing the sky with its many hues and shades.

And before the rooster sounded his automatic, handy gong, the gang was ready to leave. The note was set, and the wagons were loaded.

Dutch clasped the moldering double doors for what would be the last time, holding it open for Mary-Beth and Kieran, the final two occupants of the house. Aside from the Pinkertons, who would come later, they were the last two occupants that dump would ever have; all the battle scars Shady Belle endured would prove too much for the old girl. Heavy rains would seep into the thousands of newly formed holes, magnifying the rate of corrosion by a significant margin, and on one fateful day in October, she'd fall as magnificently, and as disregarded as the Incas.

"T-thank you," Kieran said, his head aimed down at the floor.

"Yeah, sure." Dutch let the door shut behind him, and then began wincing from his wound; it was the left shoulder, and although the pain wasn't unbearable, it was insufferable, bubbling back up whenever it was most inconvenient. At least the damage wasn't too bad; when he'd been shot, he really thought he was going to die—-blood leaked out like a cracked egg. In truth, though, the bullet wound hadn't done anything remotely lasting; his arm was tender but he could still move it—the bullet had merely pierced that region of flesh directly beside the armpit. "You-you did good, kid. Defending from the Pinks." And he meant it too, the smile that played across his jovial, mustached face was real.

"Thank you, sir, I-I am most honored to be amongst you folk," he rambled, a shy smile plastered.

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Oh, Mary-Beth?"

She seemed to flinch at her name being called. But she greeted him with her usual pleasant demeanor. "Yes, Dutch?"

"Well, y'know I'm ridin' in one of the wagons to fend off any raiders if, God forbid, we run into any. It's a long way to Lagras, mind keeping an old friend company?"

That classic merry smile of hers seemed to waver, to quake as he said his piece. She didn't leave a breath between them as she instantly responded with "Oh, well I told Kieran I'd keep him company on Branwen, I'd feel terrible just goin' turncoat on him."

"Well, that's alright, Kieran doesn't mind, do you pal?"

Not a fine place to be—-between a rock and a hard place. The boy could either side with a girl he was clearly taking a fancy to and invoke the ire of the gang's leader (who wasn't well-regarded as being a forgiving or embracing man) or stand against his poorly courted woman, potentially currying favor with a man's who's endorsement he'd need to survive the coming month's with Bill Williamson and Sadie Adler.

He took a move from Charles' book and said nothing at all, letting his head bounce stupidly back and forth between the two.

"C'mon, Mary-Beth," Dutch said, claiming this opportunity before it slipped away, wrapping his right arm over her small but expertly crafted shoulders, leading her to the large prairie wagon. "We can talk about them stories you're always writing."

"Oh, there-there nothing," she murmured demurely. "Just silly romances."

"So? What, you don't take me for a romantic?"

"I-I guess not," she whispered, and Dutch would later say she did it with a smile, though those reports are unconfirmed.

"Well, perhaps this ride'll change your mind," he said, his voice so sweet you'd think he downed a jar of honey.

That honey faded away like a puff of smoke when they arrived at the wagon to see it was already half-full with a sour-faced woman. She wore a fancy white and blue dress she'd begged Dutch to buy her for weeks, wearing a navy ribbon over her heart. She had a mop of auburn hair and an army of cute freckles defining her face around the cheeks and nose. Her arms were crossed in a pouty 'x', and although the gang's patriarch called her name twice, she kept her gaze fixed ahead, paying him no mind.

"Molly," he repeated a third time, already knowing he was wasting his breath. "Mind moving for Ms. Gaskill?"

Another Charles disciple. Dutch sighed in defeat.

Gonna be a long ride.

5:18 AM, July 23rd, 1899

The armistice didn't even last five minutes. Dutch hadn't even driven them out of sight of Shady Belle before the interrogation began.

"Why didn't you defend me 'gainst Sadie?"

"Molly, my sweet," Dutch said in his most charming, placative manner, "there are so many other topics that warrant discussion. Couldn't we engage in one of them?"

"I—"

"For example," he interrupted, "when Jack was taking a walk this morning with John and Abigail, Cain came back! Thought the fifty or so gunfights woulda scared the mutt off the face of the earth, but no. I'm tellin' ya, our luck's flippin'."

"Yeah… flippin' as much as you."

"I know I'll regret asking, but what are you getting at?"

"First you took her side when she slapped me, then she tries to kill me—?"

"Don't be dramatic, Molly, that's why we have Hosea."

"Had."

The reins burned against Dutch's hands as he tightened his hold on them; the palms of his hands were marked with pink streaks. Stay calm, he told himself, don't be Esau, be Jacob.

"Mol-ly," Dutch began in a singsong voice mired with hate, "did it ever occur to you that insulting a widow about her chastity following her beloved husband's murder was a bad idea?"

Her emerald eyes narrowed with abhorrence."That ain't the point, and you know it."

"Oh? Enlighten me—oh, sorry I'll use a smaller word: tell me, then, what is the point?"

"I'm your woman, you're my man. You're supposed to take my side."

"Even when you're wrong?"

"That… ain't… the goddamn… point!" she cried, slapping her knees with each part. "I agree with all'a your dumbass plans—"

"They ain't—"

"—but you just hang me out to dry,"—she whispered the closing part of this sentence—"like I ain't even yours."

"That's not—"

"Karen slugged me—"

"Are you gonna let me finish talkin'?"

"—and you do nothing. What about if Tilly—"

"Guess not…"

"—shoots me? Or Micah rapes me?"

Dutch took a deep breath, seeing that wearing her down wasn't working. "Lagras has really nice waters, Molly, I think you'll really like it."

"Absolutely not. You might prefer me as gator chow, but I don't."

"You're impossible…" he groaned.

"Sadie wanted me to whore myself off, did ya know that? 'Course not, you never ask. Whore myself for a rescue mission she didn't even have the balls to finish."

"That's not what I heard."

Her jade eyes sparkled in the way glass sparkles when it's shattered. "You been talkin' to her before me?"

"I swear, Molly, if I have to hear—"

"How much more betrayal can I take?" she whined, whimpering and smacking her hands against her face.

In the fifteenth century, the two most prominent questions on every scholar's mind, from Poland to Australia, were the following: was Copernicus right about the heliocentric model, and how the hell could one mollify Molly O'Shea? Even after centuries of evolution, only one of these questions has been answered.

"I ain't a five-dollar whore," she said, grumpily.

"More like five hundred," he grumbled indulgently. Impulse control was never a strength of his.

Her pouty lips curled wider with fury, and her orange hair seemed to ignite into a furious blaze. Where before Molly's greatest aim was to annoy him, here her visions were malicious, vindictive. Wicked. Dutch's throat felt dry, but it wasn't from thirst. Those clammy inklings dissipated when she opened her mouth again.

"I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." She went back to slapping her legs, then to punching them, roughly, hoisting her fist to her ear and hurdling it back down. I swear, Dutch thought, she had better not show those bruises around and say they were mine.

"Molly," he said, smiling. Try smiling, boy, it'll be easier to think you like me if you smile. Only good advice his mother ever gave. "We are how we act. So if you could, please, just act a little—"

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…"

Then two gunshots went off in the distance. Dutch's hand dove unabatingly to his holster, quivering a mite with the pain (it was his bad arm), but relaxed when the thundering sound of Bill recheated:

"Two raiders! I got 'em!"

Dutch's adrenaline settled and he sat back as though he'd enjoyed a smoke. Must just be a scouting party or something.

"—don't you?"

Molly's unblinking shamrock eyes were screaming into his. She was a fickle creature; one second resentful with a resolved determination, the next desperately attention-seeking.

"Huh?"

"Y-you weren't even fuckin' listenin'?!"

Hmm, good idea. He gave it his damnedest, ignoring the balderdash she bitched about, willing it out of his head the second it entered until finally, she slumped back in resignation.

"What do I have to do to get you to hear me?" she whispered, nearly inciting pity out of Dutch, for she spoke with such downed dejection until he remembered who she was. She chuckled sardonically then, mood blowing with the wind. She leaned forward, slowly turning her head to face him, who looked ahead, feigning her absence.

"Maybe…" she chuckled again, that unsettling wickedness sewed back into her voice, "I should do what Abigail did, hmm? That sure got her man runnin' back to her, didn't it?"

Her hand drifted up in the corner of his sightline, quietly sneaking in, taking a shape Dutch didn't like one bit. Not one bit. He felt her sharp fingernail dig into his scalp above his ear, popping a few loose hairs as it did so.

"Bang." Molly shot his head off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Dutch demanded, slapping her palm away, grabbing her by the face, squeezing her cheeks tightly, shaking her head uncomfortably.

"I whas… jhus… jhokin'." Her jowls were blushing red from the pain, but her eyes kept that green coldness.

Deep breaths. Esau. Esau.

"You are a grown woman, Molly," he deciphered, tossing her back in her seat, then, unsatisfied by that punishment, jabbed her shoulder painfully. "You need to quit with this ridiculous schoolgirl routine."

She stroked her arm gently in a motherly fashion. Then, as though Dutch's seed had inseminated her with his brash tongue (even though they hadn't been successful in that arena for a few months) she spluttered out "You like when Mary-Beth does it."

That did it. The wagon came to a screeching halt, Branwen, Brown Jack, or whoever the hell was leading the cart squealed from the rudeness of the command, and make no mistake, it was a command.

"Do you wanna walk the rest of the way, Molly? Or better yet, you wanna take a walk to nowhere in particular? Wanna get lost? Think I'll rue it for one moment? Think anyone in the camp would object?"

She said nothing. Because, in her heart, she knew he was right. Molly would always hate how goddamn right he was.

The ride from then on was thankfully mute.

God, what was I thinkin', bringin' her in? Dutch thought as they cut through the riparian land, nearing the bridge that would connect them with the eastmost quadrant of Lemoyne, just north of Saint Denis, she's worse than my mother. He cursed them all: hard women. Molly, Grimshaw, Abigail, and even Annabelle. He cursed that normal girls had to be so damn easy; that's what made the hard ones so fun. He liked to whisper sweet things into their ears, experimenting, playing around with the words until he found the right combination that would melt their stony figures into putty, putty he could reshape, toy with, do whatever he wanted; sex was fine, but that was the best part, seeing how far he could bend their personalities, twist their desires.

The problem was he miscalculated with Molly—must've been drunk or too horny. She wasn't hard, no, no, she was soft. Soft as a pillow. She grew up with rich parents after all. And when he melted her—she was of no greater challenge than the rest—she became a puddle instead of putty. And try as he might to remold her, she slipped through his fingers, trapped in an indeterminable state, and she bitches and complains, hating him because she melted, the lazy, obnoxious cunt.

He considered following through on his threat, dumping her here and now—anyone with half a brain could find their way to Lakay, but Molly didn't quite measure up to that expectation. No, he decided reluctantly, too big a risk. She could squeal to the Pinks. He nodded his head, basking in the excitement of the happy day that approached. But when we get out of her, she's gone. Her daddy can look after her.

6:30 AM, July 23rd, 1899

Lakay was not a comely sight; it embodied all the worst aspects of the deep west—the prickly brambles, arid dirt and air, and utter absence of noise, which was usually reposeful, but now gave off the unmistakeable aura of eerieness. There were only two main houses, a larger boathouse to the left and an l-shaped hovel at the end where the dropoff cut down to the large basil-green lake that was loaded to the gunwales with algae. Both were one-story and it would be generous to say one-fifth as spacious as Shady Belle's manor. Beyond that, there were three smaller houses as well as an outhouse off on the right, though 'sepulcher' would probably be a more fitting term.

The place was run-down, their weakest recourse yet, save the mountains. At least Shady Belle, while rotten to the core, had roots of strength, an echo of vigor. Lakay was never composed of intricately and beautifully crafted homes that deteriorated, no, it was built as one step above a trash heap—fixed with oxidized metal roofs, shabby multi-colored unvarnished wood, torn by the years of mistreatment and poor construction.

Still, it was all they had.

Dutch parked his wagon with the others, ordering Molly to unload it while he walked ahead to address the rest of the gang with all the suavity in his power:

"Ladies! Gentlemen! I am so very proud of you!" he thundered. "We have come so far, endured so much, and will no doubt face more hardships as we continue our journey. But I say to you what I said yesterday and the day before: Buck up!"

Bill was confused. Jack was sleeping. John stared at his boy, haphazardly listening.

"Buck up and remind yourselves: we are free! To govern ourselves, control our own decisions, forge our own destinies."

Mary-Beth clung to Kieran, biting her lip, untouched. Leopold's nose was jammed in his ledger.

"Freedom's price has been high, and we have paid dearly, too dearly I think many times, but did Odyseus halt when Posideon's storms swallowed his ship? Did our Founding Fathers surrender when the British landed, hell's fire ablaze in their eyes? We can't quit now, we've overcome too much."

Grimshaw was supporting a plastered Karen, who incoherently slurred some ditty. Micah gapped with wide, alert eyes.

We can't leave a job undone… We are the Dutch Van der Linde Gang!"

Molly shot out her tongue. Swanson glanced up and down from his bible.

"We are going to hunker down here for a few days, lick our wounds, then find our next job, make some money, and be gone, once and for all!"

Sadie applied gun oil to her weapon blindly. Tilly watched as always, in childish awe.

"As long as I live, I will never stop fightin' for you, and even then, when there's more lead in my body than blood, I'll still be holdin' on and holdin' to my gun. For family."

Uncle's eyelids were weighing heavy on him. Abigail goggled him with frightful awakeness; like she was looking right through him towards something in the background. The dog's tongue mirrored Molly's.

"For family." He took a long pause, letting his sermon set into those who it still affected after hearing so many identical ones. "Now… business. Ms. Jackson, get stew prepped for tonight, I'm sure our appetites are legendary, mine certainly is! Everyone else, get settled in! This is home now, for the time being. Oh, and Ms. Adler, please see me in…" He paused, checking the available quarters, deciding on the empty shack to the left. "… this place… in… y'know what, how 'bout right now?"

As Dutch stomped onto the porch of the boathouse, he braced for the noxious creak of the ancient floorboard, horrified when it sounded like a little boy's screams of agony. He looked down into the massive, gaping holes in the wood, and saw nothing beneath the wooden platform, nothing at all.

Pearson's journal had mentioned something about the supernatural afoot here, but Swanson had neglected to say anything, and Dutch sure as hell wasn't going to veto that call.

"You alright, Dutch?" Sadie asked, swinging her newly polished repeater onto her back.

"Y-yeah, c'mon."

Don't stress. It was nothing.

After entering and slamming the doors closed behind them, leaving them in the dark together, with only a hair of light pouring in from the door to make things out.

"Want me to light a lantern, boss?" Sadie offered.

"No, just…" he trailed off, removing his gun in dark silence and firing two handfuls of holes around the shack's beaten frame, allowing enough sunlight for them to proceed in a normal fashion. "There. It's… it's good to see you, Sadie, properly, I mean. I feel like we haven't had us a real talk since you slapped Molly."

"Again, I'm sor—"

"Sadie, I'll be very cross if you go apologizing now." He laughed like what he said was funny. "I wish we could talk more," he said, hiding in the shadows so Sadie couldn't see him drinking her up. She was a very beautiful woman; Dutch was just now realizing. She was still wearing that yellow shirt which complimented her golden curls and rich, chocolate-brown eyes. Her face was fair and incited interest, and it was perpetually fixed like Arthur's—grumbling, bad-tempered, and… hard. So hard and stern. She, he realized was a hard and stern woman… and she had such shapely curves, he could tell even through her clothing, he could tell it back when she was wearing the nightdress the night they found her. Her arms and legs were exposed then, and her point breasts were protruding from the thin white fabric—

No! Jesus, she's a widow. A widow. Goddammit, you can't want it that much! God… just stay calm… you can sneak out to a whorehouse later tonight.

"Uh, me too, Dutch," Sadie said awkwardly, confused as to why he stopped talking for so long.

"Sorry, lost my train of thought," he admitted. "Anyway"—he lowered his voice—"what I'm gonna tell you, I want you to keep between us."

"Oh, of course."

"Good. It's about Hosea," he said, still whispering. "I lied before. If he was in Saint Denis, he woulda come back by now—even with all that booze cloudin' his brain, I have to think he woulda been worried enough. And I refuse to accept that he's dead or arrested, so I've been thinkin' he's at some other saloon in some other town. Start with Valentine or Van Horn. Until we find you a permanent horse, you can have Bill's—the brown Ardennes."

"So… you reckon he's drinkin' again?"

"He has to be. Only thing that makes sense. He-he never doubted me before. Arthur's death musta hit him harder than I thought. I shoulda been there for him, shoulda seen it."

"Don't blame yourself, Dutch," she said, reaching out to pat him on the arm, then deciding against it.

Wait, why did she decide against it? Is she… shy? Does she want… it? Me? Shut up! Widow. Widow. Widow.

"You're a good man," she continued. "You're lookin' after twenty-something people. The decisions they make ain't on you."

"Yeah. Yeah." he agreed, feeling euphoric relief as the guilt was temporarily lifted. He knew it would return with the cavalry before the sun left. "Thanks, Sadie."

"So… you want me to leave now?"

"No. Take a load off. It's been a long journey, I know. Head out when you're ready."

She stiffened her back. "I'm ready now."

He smiled. "Thank you, Sadie. Really. I know you'll find him."

She returned his smile—wait, does that mean—widow! Widow!—and twirled around, heading for the heavy sickly-looking beige barn doors. As they creaked open (the little boy screaming was thankfully gone on this run) a familiar figure limped into her and pushed her aside.

"Watch it, sweetie," Micah growled, and as she passed him, disgruntled, he shouted out to her. "And if Molly was right about your potential career in whoring, lemme just say I'll be a very generous customer. Hope that makes your decision easier!" He cackled, turning back to Dutch. His leg was still wrapped up; he was hobbling with a sturdy makeshift cane he erected from a loose branch he found lying around. "How are you, Dutch, anything I can help with?"

"Hey," Dutch said coldly, feeling dead when his eyes fell on this disheveled man.

"Cuz, screw what Mary-Beth says—she ain't a doctor—I wanna get back on my feet. Contribute. Not be some tick feeding but not contributing. I ain't a tick, y'know."

"Are you not?"

"Nah. So, my leg is fine, so I can definitely help with anything. Anything in specific you want done? I can help with whatever you wanted Sadie for—two heads is better than one and all that. Or with unloading the wagons? Or, y'know, whatever. I want to help, just wanted you to know that."

"And now I do," Dutch said, with a fake smile. He'd worn many such smiles in his lifetime, but he jockeyed violently with this one. "But, you just take it easy. We want that leg to heal as quickly and efficiently as possible."

"Heh. To say the truth, I was hopin' you'd say that," Micah laughed again, and Dutch joined him, nearing until they were one laugh away from one another.

"Why did you shoot that hostage?" he asked cheerily, catching Micah off guard. In an ambush.

"Uh, she was reachin' for a gun. Weren't nothing could be done."

Dutch cackled at this. Micah, seeing no other option, joined in. "That's funny…"

"Heh. Yeah."

"… because I saw you shoot her. She didn't have a gun. Matter of fact, her dress was so tight, she wouldn't'a had room for anything she couldn't fit in her bosom." Dutch's smile fell without warning, leaving a visage that terrified Micah.

"No… I'm tellin' ya, she had a piece!"

"Are you doubtin' me?"

Micah sunk into the shadowy corner of the boathouse, lost on what to do, how to act to get out of this. Dutch followed him until he was drenched with shadows and completely unreadable.

"I ain't d-doubtin' you, Dutch, I just think you're makin' a basic mixup, simple as can be."

"Right. Sean and Trewlany are dead because of you, and the other three probably are as well."

"But—"

"And that's not all," Dutch said sadly, angrily, gleefully, the blonde man didn't know. "John can keep his cool under pressure. I shoulda seen it sooner. You were the one who botched that Saint Denis job, not Marston."

"I—"

"Y'know, Arthur wanted to leave you in Strawberry. I said no. I insisted he save you, and what happened? You shot half that town to an Arthur grave. Trouble loves you Micah Bell. And more often than not, it seems to have you. And we, the gang, can't afford troubl—"

"No!" Micah shouted, knowing where this was going. "Don't kick me out! Please!" He got to his knees, holding his hands up, grabbing Dutch by the arm. "I'll be a good boy. I am a good boy!"

And Dutch just kept on laughing. Laughing and leaving Micah all alone in the dark. "Kick you out. Micah, dear boy, I've got cause and a half to kill you, right here and now… but I won't."

Micah perked up, a single ray of light shining into his left eye, that twinkled with joy. "You won't?"

"I've backed you too many times. When folks wanted you gone, I defended you. If I admit I was wrong now, it calls it question every decision I've made since you joined our ranks. Doubt, Micah, is a most resilient parasite."

Micah rose to his feet, to meet his friend on equal footing. And Dutch kicked his wounded leg so bad it almost negated all the treatment the women had done on it in one second, sending Micah back to his knees.

Right where he belongs.

"So, yes, Micah, you're right," Dutch said over Micah's agonizing wails. "The whore did pull a gun. Out of her pussy, I guess. There's nowhere else it could have been stashed. All the witnesses are probably dead, so it doesn't matter. But you're finished, you hear me? Micah Bell's gunslinging days are dead. Your hurt leg has exulted too much damage on your mind and you simply don't feel you can be trusted in the field anymore. You will instead assist Ms. Jackson in the cooking and maintainment of the camp. And you will not breathe a word of what we've talked about."

Dutch extended his hand, motioning for Micah to surrender his arms. The stupid rat-faced bastard just stared at him, like a blind kitten. It was pathetic.

"I'll say it one more time: give me your guns, meat trimmer." Dutch's voice boomed across the empty room, twice, thrice, before Micah, with gentle sobs, handed Dutch his two pistols.

Dutch yanked the young man to his feet, scraping his jacket for dust, rubbing his tears off his face like they were two close friends. Then he stripped Micah of his cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band.

"You don't deserve this," Dutch snarled with certainty, as he tossed Micah out of the boathouse.

Finally, Micah is reprimanded.

For Dutch I wanted to balance the line between evil creep and strained hero, so let me know if you think I succeeded.

For the one Molly fan out there, this is definitely the fanfic for you; I've got some really good Molly chapters in the works that I know are gonna be a lot of fun to write. As you can probably tell from this chapter, I'm making her this totally unpredictable, contradictory, nature that worked with elements of dark humor-something akin to Patrick Bateman without the psychopathic tendencies.