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 Forty: Grimshaw

10:12 PM, August 20th, 1899

Mary-Beth was doing the laundry, drowning the light clothing in soapy water and dragging it across the wooden washboard. Cold splashed everywhere because every few seconds, her eyes shot up to the camp's entrance, checking for their return. Susan didn't bother; she knew she'd hear them coming long before she'd see them. She glanced at Mary-Beth's large soapy pot—the water was supposed to be heated, but she said nothing. It don't matter. None of it does.

She used to care about such frivolous things, the folding of shirts and the trimming of hair—like any of it mattered now, if it ever did. A clean shave and washed face hadn't made any difference to Arthur when those bastards tore half his face off. She wondered about that sometimes: when the life eloped out of him, was he thinking about her? Was it good or bad? Her heart hoped. Her brain knew. She groped her chest, feeling her left breast; the bullet had worn her nipple down to a stub and flattened most of the rest. She tried to chortle; at least it ain't saggin' no more. She sighed. She used to be young too, used to have pretty raven hair… She used to be in love too.

The sound of galloping broke her pacing and she followed Mary-Beth and Abigail with the rest of the herd behind her. The horses came in fast multicolored flashes as she scanned to make sure everyone was accounted for. They were. That was the problem—no extra man was in their ranks. No man with a shy temperament, sweet giggle, and bright, curious eyes.

Dutch dismounted from his white charger, his head lowered in defeat. No…

"I'm-I'm sorry…" he croaked, "we couldn't save him. He-he's dead."

A ripple cracked throughout camp, like on a pond. No one cried, no one moved. Dryness was wedged tighter on Susan's lips than the stick up her ass—she hoped if no one gave this news life, she'd be able to pretend she'd misheard him. She knew she hadn't.

Eventually, Mary-Beth took that moment of silence and cut out its tongue. "W-where's Charles?"

Susan did a double-take. No… couldn't be… She'd miscounted, forgetting Tilly had tagged along, and their aloof long-haired friend was nowhere to be found.

"Dead. Shot into the harbor."

Her stomach twinged in agony; her body must have noticed her lack of a nipple and seemed to be shifting her ribs in place so the bone could jut out of her chest, replacing it. Not again, she found herself repeating in her mind over and over. Not again, not again.

"What happened?" Susan asked although she was certain she hadn't spoken. Strauss must've taken up ventriloquy.

"Too many Pinks," Dutch answered, avoiding her eyes piously. "We gave it everything we had, but they just kept comin' and comin'. We had no chance."

She glanced at the others for confirmation; their nods were limp and confused. Arthur's hat hid John's eyes, and he was so still that even the most scientific man would've taken him as a specter.

"That's bullshit!" Uncle spat, aiming his pudgy finger at Dutch's sharp face. "We cleared a damn path! You coulda made it, 'cept you retreated like a yellow-bellied coward."

Everyone was staring at Dutch and he knew it. He spoke with soft words, but they casted a shadow of malice. "I know you're upset, Uncle, but you were halfway across Van Horn. You didn't see nothin', especially in the dark. You want to say it's my fault? Fine. We all failed, I'm the leader, so it's my fault. But don't ever call me a coward."

Susan was promptly shivering; the frosty, prickly air had materialized from nothing. Ain't it supposed to be summer? she wondered.

Uncle was the only one moving in the darkness. He neared so close to Dutch that the former's wide gut almost met the latter's gaunt one. He wore a red shirt and it looked like he was shirtless—the wintry atmosphere made his belly blush. It should have been funny. "Are these made a' glass?" he asked, pointing to his unblinking eyes. "I seen what I seen. And what I seen is a coward."

Dutch's hands seized the old man's suspenders, raising him so their eyes met as equals. He spoke between gritted fangs and the malice was no longer a shadow. "Listen to me, you old dirty dog, you're out a' line! And like everything, I'll take the fall: it's my fault. You're a dog, and I've been treatin' you too much like one a' us. Dogs get scraps, not food, they work, they don't sleep, and if they bark, they get beat."

"Or they bite." Uncle's features were still sharp as a knife.

"Oh, do they? Then bite, old man. Bite for us! BITE!"

"John," Abigail interrupted, taking her husband's hand. "You got a sniper…"—he dropped the long-barreled rifle and threw the hand behind his back—"... did you see something?"

"He doesn't need to say anything," Dutch blurted hastily.

"Yes, he does." Abigail squeezed his fingers sternly. "John…"

Everyone looked to him, Susan included. The mist that slid from her mouth obscured him as it rose up, so she held her breath, wondering why it was so cold all of a sudden. Uncle leaned his head backward, staring at John upside down. His hat fell off.

The man said nothing for a time. Then he exhaled a white puff of nippy air as if a cigar was between his teeth. He pulled his hand away from Abigail. His face was masked with shadows and withdrawn when he said it: "Nothin'. I didn't see nothin'."

The words lingered on like the aftershock of a drum, entering everyone's ears more than once.

"Of course, he didn't see nothin'." Susan knew Dutch well enough to know relief was plastered on his smiling countenance. "Cuz there weren't nothin' to see." He let Uncle drop to the ground. "I can't believe y'all could even believe I was capable of… of cowardice. After all I done for you." His eyes narrowed and Susan knew where this was going. He had a tendency of getting so caught up in his own performance he'd start genuinely believing it. Maybe that was the point. "Who led the charge to free Jack?" He leaned right next to Javier. "Was it you?" He tried Tilly after that. "Who saved Ms. Adler from the O'Driscolls? I recall it weren't you." He began preaching to everyone next. "I saved all a' y'all from your own personal hells at one time or another. The rope, the famine, the gangs, the unruly drunks, all of them!" He arced in a circle, leering at them with an accusatory finger. Then he picked up his tired feet and stormed to his tent. "There ain't no goddamn faith!"

When he vanished behind the pale flap, the whispering started.

What happened there? Are you coverin' for him? D-do you think he really ran?

The chaos and confusion continued until Susan clapped her palms boisterously, arresting the gang's attention. "I think…" she began, "with Charles and Lenny's bodies probably lost to us… I think we should all gather in prayer in lieu of a proper funeral."

And so they did, the shared anxieties melting into a shared mourning. Susan wasn't sure if it was better or worse. Swanson spoke some verses from his book, and they collapsed hands with one another, swaying in a sad slow fashion. Susan saw Dutch stick his head out from his sanctuary at one point, but he never left.

When it was done, after the spiral of hands disbanded and Susan assured everyone to get some sleep and they'd figure things out in the morning, that bleached tent was the first place she marched off to.

In contrast to the black and blue world that awaited outside, Dutch's tarp softly flared with pleasant yellow candlelight. He held his ashen-pink handkerchief to his face and when she entered he darted to his feet. The handkerchief's fabric was darkened with tears. "Jesus, Susan! I know there ain't a door to knock on, but… shit…" His eyes were warm and friendly in the golden light.

"Everything's fallin' apart," she said.

"I got it under control."

"In what way?" She put her hands on her hips, planting her foot down so he'd know she wasn't leaving without a fight. "In what possible fuckin' way?"

"I've got a plan," he said, and she snorted. "It's been… complicated, but it's still there. The train job is still as promising as ever; just gotta find a new escape route. That's all. Easy."

"Easy? If I had a dime for every time I heard that—"

"I really can't—"

"—we wouldn't need to be robbin' no more."

"—hear this right now." He plopped down on his thick, cushy bedroll, kicking his boots off. "I need to sleep…"

"No," she said, grabbing his feet and shoving them off the mattress. He shifted to a sitting position and glared up at her.

"Just leave me—"

"Not until I get to the bottom of this."

He groaned sluggishly. "Don't be like this, Susan. Don't be like all of them. What do you want me to say? That I was wrong? Well… has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of saying that. Do you know what it's like? Of course not. You couldn't fathom what I have on my shoulders. I'm goddamn Atlas—you know who that is? Of course no—"

"I know who that is."

"What happened to you?" he said disappointingly. "Seventeen. That is how many people I gotta look out for. Children, drunks, traitors, and I gotta look after 'em all." He armed himself with a finger gun. "And when things go bad, who do they nail to the cross?" He aimed the gun at his chin and pulled the trigger. "Me. You used to help me, remember? Used to be fuckin' useful."

"And they hated me."

"Yeah, they hated you. And they kept busy. They did their chores and stayed sharp. Now they love you, and nothin' gets done! This place is a goddamn pit, Susan! Christ, you've become more idle than fuckin' Uncle!"

"Is it true?" she asked, drilling her eyes into his.

"Is what true?"

"You know…"

"Evidently, Susan, I don't."

"Was the path to the retail store clear?"
He leaned closer, his features hard and certain. "No. It wasn't."

She took a step back, drinking in the sight of him, trying to believe this was the same man she ran away with before she nodded her head. Her mind was made up. "If folks want to die at your side, I ain't gonna stop 'em. But I sure as hell ain't gonna lure 'em there with a carrot. Tomorrow I'm givin' everyone who wants to leave my blessing. I would like you to do the same."

He lunged to his feet, baring his glimmering yellow teeth. "NO!" he roared. "No, you won't!"

"They're my children, Dutch. I may have forgotten that for a while, but I remember now, and I won't let them die."

"H-have you been talkin' to Abigail?"

She rolled her eyes and as she turned around to leave, he grasped her wrist with the strength of a bear, carving red silhouettes on it.

"DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON ME, YOU UGLY TRAMP!"

"Let go…" She tore at his hand with her jagged fingernails, but he held fast.

"They hate you, they still hate you. Do you know how many times Tilly begged me, begged me to kick you to the curb? You can tell them whatever you want, they won't listen." She drew blood under his knuckles. His other hand went to her face, his thumb digging into her eye. "You treacherous bitch. You think anyone else woulda taken you in? God, you were so ugly. When we fucked, I had to close my eyes because you made my stomach turn!" His thumb went white with pressure. His hot, smothering breath wrapped around her. "You're so old, you know that? Heh, if I killed you here, I could just say you collapsed of old age, no one would question it. YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE MY FAM—"

His words transitioned into a grunt as he clutched his bruised loins, sitting back down. Susan stood over him, wheezing, from fear and pain. But it was a different pain, the kind of the heart over the head.

Dutch was crying now, bouncing with misery, and although she knew it was wrong, she moved closer to him. She needed to hear him say what she knew he'd say, what he always said when he went too far. "I'm sorry…" he croaked it again and again, between bursts of sobs.

She slapped him, although in truth, she was more relieved than angry. I couldn't bear it if he'd really meant those things.

"I don't know what to do…" he bemoaned, "they need me to have all the answers, and I'm clueless…" Reluctantly, she found her fist unclenching and raising above Dutch's scalp, before slanting onto his black fleecy hair, stroking it affectionately. He snatched it greedily, lowering it onto his clammy forehead, savoring the warmth of her flesh. Then he brought it to his mouth and left a long sweet kiss on it. "They're scared, Susan. If you tell them to leave, they will."

"Dutch—"

"The agents will find them, Susan. It won't matter that we're done, they won't stop until we're all dead. Splitting up just makes it easier for them to pick us off."

She yanked her hand away from him, striding back. "Stop, Dutch, stop with your schmoozing and your speeches. I've heard it all before, built up an immunity to it. You ain't gonna talk me outta this."

"I know," he said weakly. "You're right. But… not tomorrow. In a week."

"No—"

"One week! Seven days!" He rose and cornered her against the tent's flimsy walls. "Give me till then to change your mind. If you haven't, then… fine. You tell them to leave… and… I'll do it too. Please… for everything we had together…"

"I'm-I'm not gonna let you beat me on this—"

"This-this ain't about me beatin' you, it's not about winning or schmoozing. This is you, giving me one week to keep our family together."

She sized him up, wondering. She reflected on their past, on the gang's past. She saw him there in front of her, more vulnerable than he'd ever been. He was desperate for her, her answer that was, and some silly immature part of her liked that. He's been tryin' for us for so long. Maybe… maybe he's owed… one more chance?

"One week," she confirmed lowly.

His hairy cheeks swelled into a bright full smile, and with that grin and the yellow aura the candle shined around him, he looked like an angel. "Thank you, thank you!" He squeezed her in a tight hug, boring his chin into her shoulder. And when he broke their embrace, he began a new one.

His kiss was wet and light as a feather.

He held her like he used to hold her: thumbs meeting around her lower back. Their hearts touched and she couldn't help hers from fluttering. She felt her left breast bulge, perking up like they used to. She felt more alive and more like a woman than she'd felt in a long time.

He leaned her head against hers until she couldn't see anything, could only hear his deep, lecherous breathing. "You are so beautiful… you were right, you know, Molly was a mistake. I can't dump her now, she wouldn't last a day. But when we're in the clear, she's gone." He raised his right hand to the back of her head, pulling her in for another kiss. "Then, maybe we…"

She moaned into it, the comprehension of just how long it had been since she'd been kissed coming back to her along with annoying teenage shakiness. When it broke, they sighed against each other's mouths, savoring the mixing flavors. "Don't touch her anymore," Susan said gruffly.

"Never…" he answered, his tantalizing lips drawing nearer and nearer…

11:11 PM, August 20th, 1899

"What the hell is this?" Susan decried, kicking Mary-Beth awake.

She was groggy and took her time noticing the bony finger aiming at the half-finished laundry pile. It didn't please Grimshaw. "I, uh, I hadn't finished the laundry yet, so, uh, y'know…"
"So… rather than hanging up what measly work you did manage to accomplish, in a remarkable amount of time, mind you, you just left them on a thin blanket where dirt and bugs can easily leak through and undo all this terrible work?"

"Uh, I—"

"Well, maybe that's for the best! Cuz this is the most embarrassing excuse for washing clothing I've ever seen!"

"Uh, " Uncle groaned in the dark. "Can't this wait, I want to sleep."

"Oh, that's a recent development," Susan barked sarcastically. "And no. I've been lettin' this cheap freckled parasite leech off of camp for too long." She turned to Mary-beth, kicking her again in the ribs, harder this time—she wanted it to hurt. "You're gonna get up, you're gonna fuckin' wash these clothes in hot water this time—how damn dense can you be that you thought cold water would do? I don't care if we're up till dawn, you're gonna do it now!"

When the faint orange sun came up in the morning and Mary-Beth was still ringing white garments and draping them on the clothesline, Susan wondered for a moment if she was doing right. Then she slapped the girl in the face and accepted that she had no choice in the matter.

After all, dear sweet reader, can one truly ever cure a crush?

Old Grimshaw's back... yay...

Hope you enjoyed this take on the Grimshaw/Dutch dynamic. She never really had a reason for staying with the gang in the early days besides unrequited love for Dutch (unlike the others, I don't recall her ever being an outcast or rebel), so that's been my head-cannon and now how I'm choosing to handle it here. Interesting food for thought: was her killing Molly in the game really just Texas justice for "betraying" the gang or was it jealous revenge over stealing her lover?

Tune in next time for the conclusion of Act II.