Chapter V: New Developments (Part I)

"Young Levi! Would you offer your strength to help me with these bales of hay?"

(Music: "Dry Dirt (Stripped), by The Bones of J.R. Jones)

I raised my head from my original work, which consisted of helping Mister Pearson (the camp cook) chop slivers of deer meat and drying them out over an open fire, then salting them heavily to turn them into dried jerky. Being a country bumpkin, practically everything in this camp had taught me something new- including this ingenious technique to convert perishables into long-lasting rations.

"Of course, Mister Van Der Linde!" I responded in a timely way. "Give me just one second to finish slicing up this venison."

Dutch chuckled heartily as I finished my first task, laying the raw slivers of meat over the nearby iron bar that sat above a modest campfire, before hurrying over to Dutch.

"Ya don't gotta refer to me so formally, Young Levi." He insisted. "Just call me Dutch! We're all one big family here, and that means we can forgo the restricting labels of society!"

"Right…" I muttered with a half-smile. I was still getting used to Dutch's personality as a self-described 'revolutionary'. While it certainly irked me at times, it was far more endearing to me than displeasing; The passion of this man alone was enough to spike the morale of the camp several times over- one simply could not complain about his capabilities as a leader and director. I had an itching feeling that if he was put in front of a random crowd of people, he'd be able to stir them into a wild frenzy in no time.

In regards to the camp itself, I had grown rather fond of the others in the two days I'd spent here. It was reasonable that, at first, they treated me with caution, though that initial suspicion and wariness had died down rather quickly as the second day came, and I had proven useful in carrying out the camp's daily tasks and responsibilities. I had acquired a few of the camp member's names from Dutch calling out to them for various reasons, though sticking a name to each face and memorizing it after a brief callout proved more difficult than expected.

Filling water barrels, preparing food, doing heavy lifting work, tending to the horses, starting fires for the night-lit torches, cleaning, repairing wagon wheels, chopping wood- there really was no shortage of work to be done. I was shocked when after just one day, Dutch decided to start entrusting me with counting the funds gathered in the communal box.

The second day. Why were they so trusting of me?! Well, perhaps it was my age… or maybe my open honesty and transparency… either way, it seemed surprising to me that he'd give me such responsibility so quickly, but I was not one to complain about such things as that.

"Now, help me lift this bale!"

"Yessir."

I cantered over to the other side of the hay bale, lacing my fingers underneath the prickly straw and lifting it up-

"Oh, lord, wait-!" Dutch stuttered, losing his grip suddenly.

"Shit!"

Plop!

The hay bale fell back to the ground pitifully, as I had failed to anticipate both the heaviness of the bale and Dutch's fingers slipping from underneath it. Dutch chuckled heartily, his expression that of a cheerful mustached fellow with a fine sense of fashion.

"Well, it happens! Alright, let's try again."

"Of course, sir- I mean… Dutch."

Dutch grinned as he heard the correction.

"That's the spirit, Young Levi! Alright, once again, and I'll count down this time, on three."

"Sounds good."

We placed our hands under the bale once more.

"One, two- three! Hup!"

In one motion, we lifted the bale together, releasing grunts of exertion.

"Well done, Young Levi! Now, we just gotta- woah, what the hell?!"

Just as we had raised up the bale again, a random horse had darted into view and brought its head down into the bale, causing both of us to lose grip over the bale once again; It dropped to the ground once more, as the horse began gnawing on the hay with glee.

"Damn it, Jack, you ill-bred stallion! Where the hell is Bill?!"

Just as he asked the question in outrage, I had noticed three of the camp's members -John Marston, Charles Smith, and Bill Williamson- hurriedly walking into camp, with John escorting a young girl covered in grime and wearing a tattered dress caked in blood. Dutch noticed the same soon enough, his eyes widening in surprise.

"John, Charles, Bill. I see you all have come back from your expedition! And who is this young lady here?"

I followed Dutch, curious as to what story they had for this… disturbing event. The three were rather solemn, as if having seen some terrible incident before coming back.

"We found her at the site of a massacre." Bill started in his scratchy voice. "From the look of it when we arrived, it looked like a raiding party of Indians had ambushed her wagon train and killed everyone. She was hiding in one of the wagons."

"My god, what a cruel tale!" Dutch remarked dolefully. "Bring her to a tent and get her some food and water-" He said, changing his demeanor from frustration to concern so naturally that I'd initially forgotten he had ever been angry in the first place. "I'll have Miss Grimshaw look over her for now, and we can decide on how to aid this young tragic lily later."

The three nodded their heads, but Dutch wasn't quite done. He turned a smoldering glare on Bill, who shrunk back as he received the withering gaze from his bandit boss.

"Wh-What did I do?" Bill mumbled a drawling response, only to see Dutch raise his finger and point it rather passionately at the horse still munching on the hay a few meters away.

"Take caaaare of your equestrian, Biiiilll!"

In that split-second moment, I had noted the very unusual yet magnificent way that Dutch dragged out particular syllables in his words. It was practically an art form with how he carried his dialect, like he'd been born to play a part in this chaotic universe.

"Ah, shit!" Bill cursed, running over to his horse and trying to pull him away from the bale. "What the hell are you doing, Jack?!"

Ignoring Bill's shenanigans, I stared at the German girl with near-bewilderment; She was unnaturally gorgeous. Even with grime and blood all over her, I was enamored with her natural beauty- her thin lips, her symmetrical face, her button nose, her ocean-blue eyes and long vanilla-blonde hair…

She also seemed to be around my age, but that was not my focus at the moment. The most intriguing detail was her stoicness; Even after having gone through a massacre, she maintained a formal composure, wearing an expression of solemn indifference on her face as she was led to a nearby tent.

"Alright, Young Levi, let's finish our task at hand."

I nodded, continuing in the labor; Though my mind stayed set on that German girl no matter how much I tried to push the thought aside.

"Neiggghhh!"

"Damn it, I'm sorry, Dutch!"

"GET THAT HOOOORSE AWAY FROM THE GODDAMN BALE, BILL!"

(Music: "Thirteen Silver Dollars", by Colter Wall)

Night fell upon the camp once again, the crescent moon bathing the landscape in moonlight and illuminating the tiny settlement as those within settled down from a hard day's work. Unlike a few days ago, the camp had split back into their little social groups once more, a stark contrast from the unified merrymaking seen prior.

I meandered around the camp idly, having done all the chores for the day; And still heavily unfamiliar with most everyone who lived here, save for Dutch and Arthur. The people of the camp were an interesting bunch, as I had found out more closely on my first night here; There was nary a day where many of the folks didn't drink copiously and merrily- Finding any reason to do so, whether it be celebrating a heist or mourning the spirits of animals hunted. Nor was there a lack of zeal to commit to illegal particulars; In fact, the camp members were so inclined towards crime that it had accelerated my adjustment to the change in scenery. And so, eager to learn more about my rough-and-rowdy compatriots, I elected to try and get to know a few of them more personally.

I spotted Mister Williamson from earlier -the man whose horse had gone awry- sitting at a table by himself and swilling a beer in bitter silence, a good distance away from the rest of the festivities. His isolation had my sympathy, for I understood plenty well the plight of loneliness and its loathsome side , slowly, I made my way towards the table and took a seat across from the burly drunk man. It wasn't long before he noticed my presence, however small, and belted out a rough greeting.

"Interestin' to see you here, boy." He mumbled drunkenly. Considerin' his behavior in previous days, this was what I considered to be a more friendly greeting from the coarse fellow. I was inspired by his warming up to me, and a wide grin soon broke across my face- It was here I felt most comfortable, and least restricted by the formalities demanded by proper society.

"Interestin' enough to get some good tales out of you, Mister Williamson?"

Despite his initial brashness, Bill seemed pleasantly surprised by my implied respect for him, and his mood lightened considerably. He rubbed the back of his head modestly as he chuckled, the scent of alcohol carrying over to my nostrils with a vicious vigor.

"Aww-haha, well… since yer so interested, I s'pose I can share a few stories of gunslingin' an' all that!"

And with that, Bill launched into a string of stories about his criminal endeavors, and at one point his words were so slurred that I felt the only way I would be able to properly understand him was by getting on the same level of non-sobriety that he was at. So, after excusing myself for a quick second, I hurried over to one of the many open crates of beer, snatched one out, and hurried back over towards Bill's table. On the way back over, I noticed Arthur glancing in my direction, and raising an eyebrow at the drink in my hand- Yet, he kept silent, sat in a circle of his own compatriots as one of them (I believe it was the Mexican with the fancy hat and mustache at the time) played the guitar rather melodically.

I came back to Bill, though just as I had gotten a seat back down to hear more of his tales, a male Negro I had come to know by the name of Lenny (a name I enjoyed more than some of the others) came waltzing up to the table, grinning wildly and raising a leather instrument case in his hands.

"Bill, look!" Lenny called to Williamson, showing off the brownleather hardcase proudly, laying it on the same table that Bill was drinking at (much to Bill's irritation) and popping it open. The case revealed a rather small and quaint violin with the accompanying bow laid over it. Lenny whistled low, handling the musical set with a peppy excitement. It suddenly shocked me (as I was an onlooker) to then see Lenny lay the bow over the violin and bust a melody as if it were the most natural thing to him.

As he did, the conversation between Bill and I quickly vanished with little care- We had both been lost in the moment, appreciating Lenny's musical display (albeit on different levels of sobriety- I was still getting used to the nauseating taste of beer). The minutes passed by, and other wandering camp members (whose names I still failed to get) started sitting in on the performance, entranced all the same.

After a few minutes, I quietly pardoned myself from the heartwarming moment and wandered a bit more around the camp- I would not be a liar to state that I had no aim or direction that night; While no subversive agenda nor underlying goal tainted my enjoyment of the small pleasures I felt in those hours, I was also filled with a sense of… aimlessness.

"Oh, boy. Another naive young'in has come flocking to the camp."

I heard the scathing remark from one of the camp's other loners, sitting shadily and arrogantly on a wooden chair as he used a hunting knife to pick his fingernails clean- A man with long blonde locks, a white rustler's hat, wearing a black trenchcoat along with a menacing half-grin half-snarl on his face to match.

He was, without a doubt, the only one in the entire camp whom I would have conspired to burn alive in a shallow grave. A repugnant slug of a human being, I had been observant enough around the camps each day to notice his unrelenting antagonistic behavior towards each and every person he'd come across. My conclusion of him was quick and simple- He was a parasite on the camp, and the sooner he was gone, the better it would bode for the welfare of the rest of the gang.

At least, that's what many of the camp members were thinking, from their body language and tense words around his presence.

Still, now was not the time for me to make unnecessary enemies, so I chose to ignore him and move away, though not before he left me with the unpleasant sound of an ominous chuckle that grated on my ears. I looked back at him, feeling almost pitiful for him; Whatever circumstances had caused him to become this loathsome of others was truly the scourge of this earth. Micah seemed to notice my peering and angrily warded me off.

In little time, and without reason, I had found myself mysteriously drawn to the presence of Arthur, who was equally surprised by my approaching him. He snapped out of his somewhat-drunken stupor as he noticed me, and seemed to grumble something incoherent before settling back into the atmosphere, leaving me to sit by his side and soak in the merrymaking.

(Music: "Midnight on the Water", by Tyler Childers)

Gazing around at the amicable gathering of people, I felt an unwilling smile crawl up the sides of my face. I was young and impressionable, and very new to… all of this. I knew little of the world, seeing as how I was confined to such a small area for so much of my young life. My parents died an early and abrupt death, leaving me to merciless conditions, and feelings of vast hopelessness. And yet, despite all of that-

I carried on. I did all of the fuckin' work, for two whole years. Starving some days, Wrathful others. Finding shelter and safety from the innumerable threats and hazards of the American West.

But… during all that time, not once did I get the chance to properly enjoy and soak in the fullness of the world around me. Yet here I was, doing just that with outlaws who were so relatable and interesting that I had become deeply attached to them all within an alarmingly short amount of time.

The world… was strange. And… I accepted that. I accepted all of this, because it was the only thing I had. It was the only thing that kept me grounded to this reality- Something that helped me suppress the urge to place the barrel of my revolver inside my mouth and pull the trigger.

I needed that. I needed this.

The one community that encouraged me to find purpose.

And I would do absolutely anything to protect it. The last vestige, the last hope for me to carry on some kind of legacy for myself… for my family. Something. Anything. Whether it was gained through charitable acts of love and compassion, or through brutality and unrelenting demonstration of the worst that humanity had to offer…

ANYTHING WAS BETTER THAN WASTING AWAY INTO NOTHINGNESS.

Anything... anything that gave me... purpose...-

"You..."

I had nary a time to consolidate my feelings before a towering, bulky Indian-type fellow came into view, wearing a white-dotted blue smock with brown pants and black boots. His hair was long and parted at the sides, barely touching his shoulders. A mystical bead necklace hung from his throat, of which I was unable to make sense of. He was towering in stature, and his aura was intimidating to match. I was mightily fearful of what he was going to say to me.

"Y-Yes?" I asked nervously.

"You know how to skin a deer?"

"Eh... not particularly."

"Time to learn."

I groaned inwardly; departing from festivities to do chores was never enjoyable. But I would do whatever was needed to earn my keep here.