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Chapter 28

It wasn't the first time that Kieran Duffy had been shooting for days. Thankfully, with the lessons from Arthur Morgan, Kieran knew how to shoot bullets left and right. He was no Arthur Morgan, no Javier Escuella, no Dutch van der Linde, but Kieran would consider himself a good shot. Better than Sean, Lenny, and Mr. Morgan would often tease.

Quite frankly, he didn't expect this attack, having just finished breakfast and prepared to move back to the abandoned shed where he would practice his shooting. That was until sounds of gunshots went off and he spotted people running to the front, having just been attacked.

Ms. Grimshaw led the women, including Mary-Beth, to shelter, while the men held up the defense.

When he'd spotted the man, Uncle, on the ground, Kieran couldn't help but feel sorry for Mr. Morgan. By far, in his opinion, the man was the most compassionate of them all. Seconded by Hosea. His opinion was contributed by the fact that Arthur provided him with an out to the O'Driscolls. Seeing the man borderline broken, looking down at the corpse of someone he'd obviously cared about, shot.

When he learned that it was an O'Driscoll, Kieran Duffy was consumed by rage and anger.

So it was without hesitation that he shot at the O'Driscolls, his former "allies". Even his so-called "friends" treated him like trash, like the lowest of them all. The Van Der Linde gang was different. It was a family. A symbol of hope. His loyalty was primarily to Arthur Morgan. He owed the man his life. And worse, the man didn't believe himself to be a good man.

"Your friends seem to have arrived, amigo," Javier commented in amusement as Kieran dropped next to him, providing cover fire.

"They aren't my friends," Kieran said back, unable to deny that he felt safe with Mr. Escuella. He'd known that he couldn't just stay there and not offer any covering fire, but he knew that if he'd stood alone, he would be like a drunken woman on the streets of Saint Denis at night to the eyes of the targets.

More O'Driscolls arrived from the trees, raising hell on the camps. Eventually, he'd spotted Javier slowly pressing back, firing his revolver, nevertheless. He moved back with him, still shooting, also, hoping to get a few shots off at the former allies that he'd used to share.

The distant footsteps kept pressing on as more and more O'Driscolls came. The O'Driscolls may be leaderless, but they were still strong. A mighty army. The fact that they'd stood together even with the death of Colm actually terrified Kieran because he knew what would happen if he ended up back in their custody.

He stared at his revolver. Damn, he had three bullets left. Better use them wisely. He peeked out of cover and set his aim on the first few attackers coming in. Firing the three remaining shots, he caught two, killing the first with a shot between the neck and catching the other in the arm.

"Hey, what's wrong, ese?!" Javier demanded, ducking and tossing him a concerned stare.

"Gun's out of bullets," he informed him.

The Mexican peeked out of cover and started laying cover fire at the attackers who were still struggling to move into the camp. Almost instinctively, he dodged bullets left and right, retaliating with shots of his own, taking down a few as the number of bullets decreased.

In a bold moment of courage, he picked up the first few revolvers. Kieran wondered if the Mexican was suicidal given how the bullets kept coming awfully close! Javier fired back, running back to cover, and stopping temporarily. By now, Karen was up, using her Rolling Block Rifle to shoot away at the attackers slowly pushing further and further into the camp.

Kieran couldn't help but feel his nerves crawling up as Escuella came to his side.

"Give me your gun!"

He held it out absently, and he began to reload with his hands moving with practiced ease, reloading his gun with bullets quickly. By the time he finished, the O'Driscolls had already pushed them back, with them falling back, firing. Now that the gun was back in his hand, Javier and Kieran joined the small group of Micah, Bill, and Hosea.

Falling back to the tents, they pushed up the crates, tables, and whatever else that was available, using them as shields as they crouched. Micah Bell, even though Kieran didn't like the man, was one hell of a shot, taking them down with practiced ease. Bill Williamson's approach was much more restless but still good, catching a few people with his own shotgun.

And finally, he'd spotted Mr. Morgan. The man was gripping his repeater, with John Marston and Charles Smith behind him, working together to take out the invading attackers that were coming close to them. All of these men were eyes for sore eyes, but he felt like Arthur Morgan was a god. Not only had he realized that Kieran wasn't loyal to Colm all the way, but the man was one hell of a gunslinger, a ruthless one at that. Someone who Kieran had looked up to and awed to be like.

"They're snipers," Arthur stated with a forced calmness, the possible death of the old man taking a toll on him. "I took some of them out, but there are a handful of them left."

"If we get push back to the river," Dutch declared, after taking down three attackers with significant ease, "we'll have to be careful."

The leader of the Van Der Linde gang became contemplative.

The gunshots were getting closer and closer.

Forced to return shots, the O'Driscolls collapsed onto the ground one by one. More continued to pour in, aiming their various weapons. Notably, a few of the restless O'Driscolls knocked down crates and tables, shattering things like wild animals.

Goddamn...

Barbarians...

Dutch van der Linde gritted his teeth.

As gunfire erupted, bullets whizzed past as the O'Driscolls came pouring out from the woods, their yells filled with savage delight at catching the gang off guard. They had the advantage of surprise, and Dutch's crew scrambled to find cover behind rocks, overturned crates, and whatever they could use to shield themselves.

The O'Driscolls would pay for this...

Arthur found himself buried in grief and loss as he continued to fire his repeater. Regretful as it was, he didn't feel any guilt about gunning down the O'Driscolls. At the end of it all, Arthur Morgan was still a man. He wasn't a God, someone who could always control negative emotions, keeping things within himself at bay. He had normal human feelings.

And right now, anger overcame anything. He didn't hesitate, didn't show any mercy. The deaths were swift, not brutal and ruthless, but still he didn't have any guilt of mind to hold back. Not now. No shot was off. He'd unloaded his repeater, catching every target with his repeater 'till time caught up, 'till he was forced to duck and load.

For the first time in months, Arthur Morgan felt nothing but rage. He knew revenge was a fool's game. That he could kill hundreds of them, and it wouldn't stop Uncle's hurt, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. He'd been attempting to be a good man, tried his best to keep to his personal code, but what did it lead to?

Uncle's?

The man almost didn't realize his repeater was empty until it clicked a few times and he threw it down, gripping his revolver and unloading the next rounds into the many O'Driscolls.

Right now, Arthur would go back, go a few weeks ago, kill Colm O'Driscoll over and over again. Convinced Dutch to go after the remaining O'Driscolls and slaughter them all!

His face was consumed by an angry red, and he allowed himself to see nothing else!

A nasty sneer was planted across his lips, and he found himself wanting them to see it. He wanted them to see the look in his eyes, the glint that surfaced on his face.

"Come get me! You goddamn bastards!" The words left his lips, and he slammed his revolver against the side of the head, knocking an approaching O'Driscoll out and blowing his brains out the next moment. He knew he wasn't alone, but he wasn't going to let them hurt anyone else!

He would rip that entire gang apart one by one!

Hunt them down to the last if he had to!

O'Driscolls basically recruit anyone going, especially from the immigrant community, but not a family just a gang doing what they're told! They don't even work on an even cut basis-Kieran mentioned a few things about how big and non-family their gang is. They do reduce as time goes by, so the ones hanging around Valentine disappear. But they still seem to just reproduce every time they attack a camp. It did occur to him that these were probably new numbers the O'Driscolls buried up, that the Pinkertons probably went after them, and once spotting they were leaderless, slaughtered them one by one. That not all of them were responsible...

But Arthur still couldn't care, not even as he pulled his hammer on the revolver, not as more and more numbers fell under his gunshots. Unlike the Dutch gang, they didn't care about the people. They barely knew each other and were considered cannon fodder. All thoughts faded from his mind at the time.

When the numbers began fleeing, halting gradually one by one, Arthur Morgan snapped out of his haze and looked down at his revolver, finding himself feeling nothing but emptiness now. He did kill them in self-defense, but he'd allowed his emotions to cloud his feelings, shouting like a barbarian as he'd gunned down every enemy. He'd forgotten himself.

The pain and conflict tore him apart. A few shots went off in the distance while he moved over to Ms. Grimshaw and Pearson. His uncle's face looked so cold and empty. His heart shattered at the sight of the unconscious man, something dying in him, another piece of his heart taken out.

He was a panderer and degenerate, but his heart was in the right place. He was a thief and mostly found leads. He kept spirits up in the camp with his campfire songs and tall tales. He was charming enough and old enough that he could get away with not contributing as much.

Uncle had missions, which meant he was providing financially. That's certainly more than Arthur could admit about some others: Kieran, Pearson, Swanson, Grimshaw, Abigail/Jack. Uncle also went out and got information via his trips into town and the saloon. So often he was finding crimes for others. And as others have stated, Uncle was the optimist and light-hearted person in camp. He told stories and kept everyone going and entertained. That was certainly important when times were tough.

Darkness fell over him. This time of turmoil made his breath catch in his throat. Everything faded. Arthur would have rather gotten TB than have Uncle die like this. The man didn't have many years left. Probably twenty, but those twenty would have been worth a life like Arthur Morgan's.

Arthur found the perfect location outside of camp, because as much as he wished, he didn't have the means to prevent death. It was up to him to save as many as he possibly could, to break those who would want to see through Dutch, and get lost.

Why was it so deep in him? Those deaths...

"Good job, A..rthur," Uncle managed, his voice slurring.

No, he wasn't dead...

He got lucky...

Hopefully.

"O'Driscoll's brains got blown out," John said. Arthur turned his attention to the gruesome sight, his brain hanging out, still bleeding all over the rope. Just like Kieran's. "Looks like they don't care about each other."

"Mary-Beth and Grimshaw got him treated in time," Dutch said, gripping his shoulder, "don't worry, son, he'll be alright."

Arthur breathed. How many times had he watched folks get hurt or killed when they were staring at him and caught off-guard?

"What's next?" Hosea asked, looking to Dutch for direction. Although it was a question, Arthur wondered if that was unintentionally directed at him. If it was some form of foreshadowing.

Dutch considered, "We'll have to move on soon."

As Dutch turned away, Hosea followed, Arthur stiffened, feeling eyes on him.

He turned and found Micah, Bill, and Javier staring at him...

He held their gaze before they turned away.