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.

Act Three

The Indians, the Schemers, and the Dissenters

Part Forty-Two: Charles

9:45 PM, August 20th, 1899

Charles pulled himself onto the coast just outside of Van Horn, near the stables. His lungs burned, but not nearly as much as his shoulder; he could feel the rough texture of the bullet inside his soft flesh. He shivered convulsively—the swim had been long and the water was one notch down from a snow slide. He coughed up a baby sculpin and watched it flap around helplessly before he gingerly scooped it up and lowered it back into the river. A gunshot rang out in the distance and alertness slathered him alongside the hairs sticking up on his arms.

Got to get out here, he thought intelligently, stumbling uphill into the dark forest where he'd left Taima II. The bullet wiggled around as he jogged, stripping more meat as it bounced. His vision was hazing, an unfortunate occurrence because the woods were a labyrinth. Prickly low-hanging branches cut him as he trekked, shouting and whistling for his steed. It never came.

Charles felt the darkness seeping into his eye-line and ran faster, trying to escape it, hoping if he pushed his adreneline higher and higher, he could counteract the exhaustion that was violating him now. He mushroomed out of the forest, finding train tracks and he tailed them, praying they'd lead him to salvation. Or to Taima…

His lean legs began to slow as the flinder in his shoulder screamed at him. Can't… gotta stay… awake… gotta… find… Taima… His eyes fluttered and his arms relegated to drooping limply at his sides instead of violently pumping. He heard a man call for him in a distorted, echoing voice and he knew the Pinks had him dead to rights. And he went crashing down hard on the iron railroad—he'd have knocked himself out if he hadn't fallen asleep on the way. Before his dreams went dark, he dreamt of Taima, the real one. And riding the beautiful freckled filly was his mother.

10:42 AM, August 25th, 1899

Charles had woken up in Annesburg. He almost had a heart attack at the ripe age of twenty-four; unfortunately for all those men he'd kill in the coming weeks, it was just his bandaged wound flaring from the alcohol they'd used to disinfect it. I'm in fuckin' Annesburg?! he thought, stricken with fear. The Pinks have got to be here, gotta be. After that stunt Dutch pulled, Cornwall would be protectin' this place, keep his investment from completely goin' down the drain. He glanced around, there were no bars so this wasn't a jail cell. A doctor's office perhaps? Is the sheriff right on the other end of that door with a noose and a smile—

Then he saw the bed in the corner of the room—if it could even be called that. It was flatter than a flapjack and bore two bright blue eyes that glowed under the blanket. The boy poked his chubby head out, studying Charles, mumbling jibberish. He couldn't have been older than five.

"F-Father and Mother are out," said a girl's voice from behind him. It was young and boasted a heavy accent. He turned to see her and groaned, realizing how hard this mattress was, then realizing it wasn't a mattress—it was their kitchen table, double-bagged with two tattered, yet cushy, tablecloths. "He-he's looking for work. Mother has gone to Emerald Ranch purchasing milk for little Emil."

Charles's eyes were still weary and adjusting to the lack of light—from his limited knowledge, he thought windows were a requirement to houses, but evidently not so—but still he recognized her instantly. "You… I-I don't know your name."

She smiled slightly, pushing her twin yellow braids behind her smooth face so she could see him better. "Me neither. T-that is, I don't know your name," she rambled. "I know mine. Of course."

He gave her the friendliest smile the pain would allow. "Well… what is it?"

"Gretchen," she blurted, fiddling with the cuff on her oversized blue shirt. "And, uh, you?"

"Charles—" The temptation to lie struck midsentence. Would she know who he was? If she did, would she go bursting out of that shabby, barely-together door and run to the Pinks? He considered a fake last name, but her eyes were so blue and innocent that he decided to roll the dice on the truth. I owe them that much. "—Smith. Thank you… I'm pretty sure I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."

She waved her hand in a naaaah gesture. "Father was the one who found you, Mother dressed your injuries. I've mostly just stood around… watching you…" Realizing how that sounded, she talked fast, trying to bury it under an avalanche of words. "Besides, you saved Father when he needed you. Remember? You and your friend? From those bandits, oh, Schwiene…"

"Gretchen…" her brother, Emil, Charles figured, whispered. "Ich bin Hungrig…"

She hurried to the pantry, finding only a few oyster crackers and a jug of milk with a white line thinner than a hair. Charles scanned the room again; it was perhaps a bit bigger than Dutch's tent, albeit bulging with mold and disease. This is my fault… Dutch took out the mines, put all these people outta work. That boy's gonna starve…

Unable to take any more, he struggled to his bare feet. "Thank you," he grunted, "but I really need to get goin'." He realized suddenly he wasn't wearing a shirt. It didn't matter, he couldn't breathe in there, couldn't understand how those children could.

"No," Gretchen said, putting two crackers in her brother's hand (she was saving the last three for a rainy day). "Stay. Your wounds—"

"I'm fine," he croaked in agony, groping for the door handle. It gave him a splinter.

She rushed to the door, eyes wide with worry. "But, there are—"

"Thank you!" He yelled one final time, slamming the door in her face. When he turned around, he discovered what she was about to say.

There were Pinks everywhere, posted on every corner, every street. Their heads gyrated steadily, like owls—these were not ordinary watchmen; these men were being paid an above-average salary, and they sure weren't dismissive about it. They scanned across the train yard, searching for any signs of disturbance. And a bandaged Indian man emerging from a sixteen-year-old's cabin shirtless while her parents were away certainly qualified.

Good thing Charles dove underneath the German family's shack before they spotted him. His bare chest grew bumpy from the cold black dirt and the earthworms made horrible companions. Eventually, a stagecoach harboring supplies drove by and Charles seized the opportunity, hopping onto it as it rode away from Annesburg before anyone could notice.

As the town slipped away from sight, he saw Gretchen standing on her inch-long front porch, watching him…

I probably shouldn't say this, but I can't resist: her father would be dead in a few weeks and the blame would be Charles's.

After dropping down from the wagon just out of view from the mining town, Charles started his march north by northwest back to camp. This was the point where Charles decided he would sell his soul to the Devil for a goddamn horse. The journey was mostly long and mostly uphill—and don't think for a second the terrain was agreeable. Sneaky roots protruded from the arid soil so deviously that Charles tasted that dry earth multiple times on his walk. He'd left his boots back with the krauts as well, so one can probably picture the wicked misery his feet endured with every step. God is good because it was windy the day before; loose (razor-sharp) twigs dusted the ground, and the grass was tall enough to hide them from a casual eye.

By the time Charles arrived back at Beaver's Hollow, his feet were bleeding brown (from the leaves that stuck to his gushing foot). The camp was about the same, thank God. He'd been frightened that they may have left without him in those days he was absent. But no, Tilly's chuckwagon sat perpendicular to the large cave at the back. Food wasn't exactly aplenty, but a vibrant variety of different colored canned goods and misting orange stew by the campfire was the most beautiful sight he'd seen in months. His mouth watered. Strauss was still stationed opposite Tilly on the ledge overlooking the stream downhill as if the Austrian number-whore was daring gravity to do everyone a favor and send that cliff tumbling down—he was built like a pencil, the fall would kill him. Sadly, the ledge held fast. Filling in all that empty space between the cook, cave, and cunt was the array of tents that mirrored each other across from the central campfire that separated them. Strange, he thought, Karen's has been stripped down. Lenny's too…

It was Mary-Beth who saw him first. She screamed bloody murder in her high(er than normal)-pitched voice, clouting him with a hug as tight as Micah's muff. "He's here!" She cried. "Charles is here!"

They all flocked to him—most anyway, batty-fanging him with embraces and cheers.

"We thought you were dead!" Kieran said.

"Oh God," came Abigail, cutting through the crowd and seizing the native's arm. "You're hurt. Let's get you fixed up—"

"I'm fine," he said breaking free from her grip. He sniffled, feeling the tears forming. "Lenny…?"

The silence answered for them. No…

He remembered riding with the kid on the way to Emerald Ranch. He was so smart and excited. So eager to learn, and patient too. And he was so goddamn young. Why? he wondered. Why is it the fuckin' good men keep dropping? Arthur, Hosea, Pearson, Sean, Trelawny, Lenny, goddamn Lenny! Charles recalled a time when he was a child; his father was in the bottle by that time and they lived too far from town to buy food—not that they had any left with every cent going to dear old dad's personal liquor collection. There had been one piece of bread remaining and it was teeming with dark green mold. Charles took a knife to it, carefully etching out the good pieces until there was nothing but repugnant vile rot. He wasn't sure why that image popped into his brain.

"Karen too," Tilly said with a certain amount of contempt. "Bill… he did somethin' he shouldn't have, and now she gone and left us."

"A-and where are the rest?" he asked in reference to their missing widow, leader, best gunslinger, bag of rocks, and the pair of the human equivalent of pebbles in your boots.

Strauss knew but checked his ash-gray notebook just to be sure. "Mrs. Adler has gone to Emerald Ranch—hunting O'Driscolls, I believe she said. Ms. O'Shea and Mr. Bell went on a supply run, insisted on it, if that can be believed, and Dutch, Mr. Marston, and Mr. Williamson are presently paying a visit to the natives up by Cotorra Springs at the reservation."

"What?!" Charles asked, frantically.

"Mrs. Adler has gone to Emerald Ranch—hunting O'Driscolls, I believe she sa—"

"Strauss, did your mother strangle you when you were a baby?" Uncle asked. "Is that why you're like this? Say so now and I won't have to feel bad when I call you a cocksucking ass-rat."

Charles shuffled to the black trunk near the "stables" containing all of Lenny's effects. He was a great deal taller than the boy, heavier too, but he'd lost a lot of weight over the past week and now his bony frame just fit the boy's clothing. He slipped on a white cotton shirt and an ebony fringe jacket.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Abigail asked with her fists on her hips as Charles tried to jam on Lenny's boots. No dice. He plopped them aside and limped barefoot to Lenny's red-maned Turkoman, Céline.

"I gotta get to 'em. I gotta keep Dutch from gettin' things outta hand."

"Jesus, Charles, you've been shot! You are not goin' anyplace!" Her hand was firm and unmalleable on his wrist.

"Please…" he said softly, glancing around before whispering low enough for only her to hear. "You know what he'll do…"

She gaped her pink lips, letting them wander to the crowd that watched them. Her eyes narrowed with resolve and she let him go.

The Turkoman was friendly, it didn't fight him at all as he mounted her, despite how clumsy his attempts were—pain is weakness, weakness is failure, failure is clumsy.

The gang waved him goodbye, confused, and he was gone.

11:56 AM, August 25th, 1899

It took some trial and error—Cotorra Springs wasn't a narrow stretch of land—but, finally, he found it.

Charles was surprised at how… temporary it looked. It had to be at least twenty years old, yet Blackwater wasn't half that, and was fifty times more permanent. There were no towering buildings or roads smothering the bright grass, no hideous black smog clouding everything higher than fifteen feet, not one trademark of the civilized world that was tightening its podgy fingers across America. The ground was an amalgam of stony gray, grass green, and creamed coffee brown. The modest taupe tepees blended naturally among the trees and rocky formations of the land.

Charles snickered. Now I know why Dutch's spending so much time here. It's exactly what he wants for us—excluding the persecution, discrimination, and poverty, of course, but hey, I'm surely just nitpicking, aren't I?

Even so, the illusion wasn't immaculate; two outbuildings stood smugly at the end of the site, one on ground level, the other on a short plateau overlooking the reservation. The first, Charles imagined, was a storage house for all the crops they harvested—which, judging by the non-arable mountain terrain they lived on, wasn't sizable. The second was larger and more menacing; it had large barn doors and a small window that made Charles think of a cyclops noshing its face with human flesh. He wondered if it was a private cottage for Cornwall—he could taunt the natives in person, drumming his fingers on his gilded dining table, waiting for them to pack and move so the oil they squatted on could be his. And like Charles observed: the reservation looked so very temporary.

The locals eyed him warily, as they did to any foreigner, even one who looked like they did—half anyway. Some were sick, coughing raspily, while others just lay weakly as if waiting to die. There was only one who greeted him brightly as he hitched his horse to an empty post.

"Charles!" Paytah said, clutching and shaking his shoulder in a jovial manner. "Great to see you again!" He turned to the horde watching him. "This is one of the men who helped us rescue our horses!" The moderation of the reception ended. One side of the reservation shot him broad smiles, thanking him for fighting back on Favours while the other mumbled something about him being a fool.

That's probably the general atmosphere, Charles figured, And Dutch is tryin' to tilt it his way…

"Paytah," Charles asked, "where is Dutch?"

Noting the seriousness in Charles's voice, he answered quickly. "With the chief." He pointed. "In there."

Charles hurried quickly to the tepee, partly due to his anxiousness, partly due to his fear that if he blinked, it would disappear with all the other tepees that surrounded it. It was the chief's, yet he couldn't spot a single difference between it and all the other ones.

It was packed inside, but not with baubles. Besides a dead campfire, owl-feathered dreamcatchers, and a few jars of herbs and paint colors Charles didn't recognize, there was nothing. Nothing except five—now six—heads in total.

He was tackled and pinned to the floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

"Charles!" Dutch cried, laughing merrily, not letting go of his bearhug. "You're alive!"

"Yes, yes," Charles wheezed, "I'm alive."

At last, Dutch let him go. That one hug alone probably added six months to his recovery time. "I knew it! I knew we weren't through yet!"

"Good to see ya," John said, nodding his way alongside Eagle Flies. Bill said nothing. "How the hell did ya survive?"

So he told them, starting from the swim to the ride over. He relayed the story quickly but left nothing out, not the missing shirt, the Pinks in Annesburg, or the German family (heh, but I promise, he'll wish he hadn't…).

Dutch chuckled. "Good thing it was you. Bill over here gets shot, he's dead before he hits the water. John here will survive the shot, but that goddamn lake… oh man… worse than the Devil, six feet of water is."

"Shut up," John muttered, playfully shoving Dutch.

Charles sniggered too, feeling a sense of homeliness before remembering why he came. "What are you doin' here?"

Dutch smacked his head. "Oh, God, where are my manners?" He pointed to the dark figure skulking back in the shadows, soaking every motion up like bread in soup. "This is Rains Fall, chief of the Wapiti."

The man leaned forward so the light leaking from the tepee's entrance shined on his wrinkled face. He extended his hand. "A pleasure." His voice was dry and tired, and Charles could gauge that it rarely shifted or raised—he was the kind of fellow to speak the same whether he had a beautiful woman or a beartrap tight on his manhood. His skin was darker than his son, as were his eyes. His raven hair was long and shiny, with maroon fabric wrapping around a thumb's worth of his locks and drooping down to his left shoulder. He wore a hat adorned with a single feather that was as tattered and battered as he was.

"This is Charles," Dutch introduced, "another member of my gang. One of my best, too. Trust him with my life. He's half-native himself. " Charles almost thanked him for the compliment, until the end and he realized Dutch was just sucking up to the chief via his race. Dutch turned to him." I just started talkin' to Rains Fall abou—"

"Actually," Rains Fall interjected, "we were just finishing up. I think it's time for you gentlemen to leave." He gestured them out, starting with Eagle Flies, gently directing him forward at the other guests, trying to herd them all outside. "After what you got my son into with those horses, I think we'd had our fill with your help."

"He came to me!" Dutch lied as the last of them were expelled from the tepee.

"I did!" Eagle Flies concurred, stopping abruptly.

They stood like that for a second, Rains Fall and Dutch, before the latter sighed and ushered everyone else out politely. The cold gale struck Charles as they exited. When the hell is the summer heat comin' back? he pondered.

Once out, Dutch turned back hastily, making sure Rains Fall wasn't trying to close the door in his face (or tepee flap in this case). No one closed the door in his face. But Rains Fall was there behind him, ready to walk the men back to their horses.

"I ain't what you think I am," Dutch said, "I am tryin—"

Rains Fall cut him off again. Not a good habit to get into. "I don't doubt you want to help us, but trust me: your aid will do more good than bad."

Dutch smiled painfully. "That's a bit paradoxical, don't ya think? I mean, if ya got three guns to your face—" He playfully shot up two finger guns at the chief, provoking a few titters from the sick children lying nearby. "—and someone lowers one of them for you—" He closed a finger gun into a fist. "—now you only got two in your face. In what world is that not better?"

"It only takes one gun to kill a man, Mr. Van der Linde," Rains Fall answered icily. "I'm sure you know that better than anyone."

The sound of violent galloping hit them suddenly and a brown horse powdered with white catapulted into the reservation. On its back was a U.S. army officer.

He was draped in a spruce handsome blue uniform, fitted with a white hat and gloves. His high sharp cheekbones and gaunt face combined with his bushy beard made his head look like a hairy skeleton. Then his blank expression curved into an angry frown and he didn't seem so dead. He dropped down, the golden buttons on his uniform shining in the sun. He was white, and he worked for the federal government.

Charles found his hand on his hip where a holster was supposed to be, before he remembered he forgot to remember to grab one. Paytah greeted him with a handshake, however, as Rains Fall indirectly introduced him. "Captain Monroe," he said, before shaking the man's hand, "a pleasure."

"Yes sir," he answered deferentially. "Who are these men?"

Dutch smiled warmly and offered his hand. "We are—"

"—Leaving," Rains Fall finished, directing Eagle Flies to show them out with his head. Smart, Charles thought. Whatever this man's here for, it's important. Having Dutch here to fan the flames won't help. "What's happened?"

"I, uh…" Monroe's dull green eyes glanced around at the natives watching him, "can we talk in private?"

"About what?" A native woman asked, coming up behind him. "Where's the vaccines? My son's burnin' up, now too."

More folks had come up, blockading the captain and chief from their private corner, all questioning and desperate. Monroe looked to Rains Fall for help. The old man just sighed and pointed his eyes toward the woman. Monro turned to her, bringing his hat to his chest like he was about to propose. "Ma'am, I'm sorry. The wagon's been diverted. There ain't no vaccines comin' in."

The crowd gasped miserably. As did Charles. "People are fuckin' dying," he shouted, "Why would—"

"It's Favours," Eagle Flies growled. "He's tryin' to bleed us out."

"We don't know that, son," Rains Fall said pragmatically, looking to Monroe. "Right now, we need to stay calm and assu—" Monroe gritted his teeth and shook his head quickly. "—oh. Well, even if it is Favours, we can't—"

"What? Take what's ours?" Eagle Flies was glaring at his father now, no more than a foot away.

"Start something we can't win." He then announced to all his people in response to their cries of frustration. "There is always a peaceful solution!"

"Absolutely!" Monroe butted in, reading the room. "I can put in an order with the state to have a new one shipped. It would just take a few weeks."

"A few weeks?" the native mother said. "I fear for my son's life and you want me to wait it out?"

"You won't have to!" cut in Dutch, walking forward so everyone could see him clearly. "We will get the wagon back for you people!" He turned to the captain. "Monroe, you know where this wagon is headed?"

"Yes sir!" he answered primly, obviously more excited by this prospect than of waiting for the state.

"We'll pay you, of course," said Paytah, but Dutch waved him off.

"You're free to try, son, but I'll die before I take what's yours."

"No." Rains Fall's voice didn't rise, but all the cheering and jeering stopped at once. "You will do no such thing. They stole our vaccines because of what you did with the horses. Sunk a damn boat." His nose almost touched Dutch's. His gaze was so deep Charles wondered if he saw down to the man's soul. "The cycle doesn't end. If we retaliate with this, they'll come back down on us even harder than before. No. We will wait."

"But…" Monroe approached, speaking softer so only Rains Fall and the ones immediately engirdling him could hear. "Favours can also rob the next shipment. It's not a guarantee."

"We need that medicine!" the woman screamed, followed by a whole chorus of them.

"Please chief," asked Paytah, though it was lost in the sea of cries.

Rains Fall's wrinkled countenance wavered in uncertainty as his people argued left and right until someone shouted so loud it silenced everyone else. It was Dutch.

"Rains Fall is right. I am not a good man. I am certainly not a perfect one. But these eyes see what's right and wrong, and I'm not talkin' morality-wise. I'm talkin' 'bout basic manners. So… even though what I want is to go runnin' after that wagon, I will abide by what your wise chief orders of me."

There were very few members of that mob that didn't gawk at Dutch with admiration. Charles was one of them; he saw straight through this act and it was so disgustingly brilliant he couldn't but smile in distaste. He never misses a trick, does he? Draws a clear line between him and those vaccines and Rains Fall. We haven't even fuckin' left and he acts like he's got 'em already. So now Rains Fall either has to publically endorse our gang, publicly get in bed with us, or tell that mother that her child will most likely die. It was a choice, but it was Hobson's choice.

Pleading, begging eyes burned into the chief until he spoke. "Okay—" Dutch was already walking away triumphantly. "—but keep it as quiet as possible."

"I'll make sure of it," Monore promised, trailing behind Dutch.

"Me too," Charles said.

Charles's horse was stationed away from the others', so he had to run to fetch her and meet up with the rest before they pulled away. They rode in a strange diamond shape, with Charles at the rear and Bill and John on either side, with both Dutch and Monroe leading, even though only one knew the direction.

"How are you feelin', Charles?" Dutch asked as they departed from the reservation, crossing the rickety bridge that bled into it. "Ridin' can't be good for you, you should fall back, rest."

"We shouldn't be gettin' involved," Charles said, ignoring him.

"We're savin' lives. How can that be bad?"

"Ya think the chief was right 'bout that, Dutch?" John inquired. "Did they withhold that wagon cuz a' what we did on that boat?"

"That was you?" Monroe glanced back with surprise glimmering his jade irises.

"They don't know we had anything to do with that," Bill insisted, hovering higher to the pack leaders than John.

Charles scoffed."But they know the natives did, ya moron. Who else would rob a shipment of the native's horses."

"We helped them then, and we're helpin' them now," Dutch persisted. "Ya keep worrying about everything, Charles. It ain't healthy."

"I ain't worryin'. I'm thinkin' about the future. Every action has a consequence."

"Well, then you should be thinking about the future of those wounds. They don't look good and the action of stickin' to us like glue could lead to the consequence of you gettin' an infection and droppin' dead—"

"Again," John added.

"—again, and we wouldn't want that. So how about you just go? We don't need five men for this."

"What's your angle here, Dutch? There's always a play."

Dutch leered back at him, offense marring his visage. "Why do you hold this notion that I'm some wicked criminal mastermind? Maybe I feel a little thing called sympathy for these people. Maybe, I remembered you telling me about your mom when you had a few too many…" Charles's stomach sank. He almost drove the foal off the road. "Maybe, I remembered hearing how those men broke into your house and stole here right in front of you, beatin' your father like a dog…" The memories rose like an awful stench. His breathing accelerated and when he tried to calm it with deep slow breaths he felt lightheaded and hyperventilated to make up for it. "Maybe I'm doin' it for you. Did you ever consider that?"

Charles felt that terrifying earth-shattering realization coiling around his neck, whispering in his ear that he may be in the wrong—an equal torture to gelding as any married man would confirm. It's hard when someone forces you to see the world in a way you don't want to; the rose-tinted glasses can't be slapped back on when they're stripped off. He fell silent for the rest of their conversation.

"So," Dutch shifted over to Monroe, "tell us more about this Colonel Favours. Does he know you're helpin' the natives?"

Captain Monroe grunted softly. "Yes… and no. He knows I'm here to produce a report about the situation. I was sent down from the North after all the news of unrest in the region—"

"So you ain't one a' his people?" Bill asked, perplexed.

"No!"

"But you both work for the government."

Dutch sighed. "Bill, you know this. Federal and state government are two different things entirely."

"Oh, yeah…" His words were low—he was trying to faze out of the exchange.

"But," Monroe continued, "I think my presence might be makin' things worse."

Dutch perked up. "How so?"

"I worry he's taking some of these actions to protect himself now. If he can incite more retaliation, maybe he can prove a stronger defense. But… like with the stealin' the horses, I guess I don't really know if he's personally sanctioning any of this anymore. This is part of the problem; there's a culture now in his regiment… the rot has traveled down the trunk."

"If this Favour's is so bad," John said, "why can't you just tell all them folk up in Washington and save us the bother?"

Monroe chuckled. "Unfortunately the government doesn't quite work that way…"

"Plus there's Cornwall to consider," Dutch added. "He's backing Favours to get the oil under their land."

"Really?" Monroe's tone was sad but unimpressed. "I guess I figured. Damn. Hoped this issue didn't reach that far."

"Don't think about what's far," Dutch encouraged, pointing a finger at him, "think about what's right in front of us. And what's right in front of us now is a wagon filled with medicine to help the sick and wounded. And right now, we are going to take it, for them."

"Alright," the captain agreed, "here should do. Cut up this way." He pointed offroad to a broad hill overlooking the surrounding region. "There's a nice vantage point up top here. But remember: we need to do this discreetly."

Dutch chuckled. "Of course. Que sera sera."

'The fuck does that mean?" Bill whispered to John as they slowed their steeds.

"Don't talk to me, you piece a' shit," was the answer he got.

Charles opened his mouth to ask what happened, what Bill did, but as his boots touched the ground, Monroe spoke boisterously. "Get down!" The men complied, waving their horses away. "There it is." The others produced binoculars and followed the captain's finger to the wagon in the distance. Charles saw nothing but a blurry spec. Eventually, it grew until it was a blurry dot the size of a penny. And then that penny passed them by.

"Okay," Monroe said, standing up. "I need to skidaddle. They can't know I'm a part of this. Meet me back at the reservation for distribution. And don't start nothing."

"I've never started a thing in my life," Dutch said with a hand to his heart. "Only ever ended things. But I assure you, I'll end this cleanly."

'Good, good." Monroe mounted his brown and white horse—Charles chortled, thinking about how telling it was of his relationship with the natives—and he was gone.

"I like him," Dutch commented, resting his head on his fist as he watched the man vanish.

"Yeah… he talks long and big and then he hits the breeze, I'm sure you'll get along famously," John jabbed.

Dutch mimicked a knife being plunged into his chest. "You cut me deep, my son. And to prove—" He grunted from the strain of standing after lying down. "—you wrong, I'm gonna handle this one myself." No… "You just take it eas—"

"Oh, I got this one, Dutch," Charles said like it was one word.

Dutch ignored him, strolling to The Count. "No, you're still wounded, let me—"

"No," Charles insisted, blocking his path. "I want this I do." He paused, thinking. "For Lenny," he lied.

Dutch's eyes softened. He nodded slowly. "Okay."

Charles rushed to his horse before any minds were changed, groaning as the firm leather roughly defiled his groin as he plopped down. He wanted something cushy between his legs, a pillow, a blanket, but he had to do this first. God, I'm so tired…

"What did ya name it?"

Charles snapped back to reality. "Huh?"

Dutch smiled warmly. "Well, ya can't keep your horse's name the same as a dead man gave it. So, what did ya name it?"

"I… I haven't thought about it yet," he replied honestly. He didn't add that now that the question was subjected to his mind, only one name popped up. But he tried to bury those thoughts. To converge an animal's identity with another's was denying it its own, he knew. Still, that name played repeatedly, like Dutch's phonograph playing the same vexing opera music because Molly wouldn't have anything else.

He hurried down the hill before he lost the wagon to the fog of trees. The thing itself wasn't an august sight at all—for a government-issued transport vehicle, it was… common. Just a standard wooden buckboard wagon painted navy. There wasn't even a locked cage protecting the cargo like with a prison convoy. It was as simple as riding up—he stuck to the grass, not the roads because the grass soaked up the sounds of gallops while the roads advertised them—and carefully removing his feet from the stirrups and leaning on one side. Then, when his horse and target rode as smoothly as they could and his legs stopped screaming, he made the leap.

Charles was relieved for the first time that day that he wasn't wearing boots. His feet broke the fall as silent as the grave. And the two guards driving the rig didn't stir even slightly. The lockbox wasn't open of course, but the lock was cheap; any decent knife would pop it effortlessly. Charles felt his coat, ready to end the job. Then he fingered throughout through his pants. Shit, he realized, I don't have a knife. Panic sunk its teeth in him before he discovered the simple solution. The lockbox wasn't chained down.

Unlike the jump to the wagon, the fall to the muddy roads hurt; he bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming and now blood streaked down his chin. Heh, this is probably the closest I'll get to actual Wapiti body paint. When the wagon finally disappeared behind the canopy of full, leafy trees, he finally mustered the strength to stand.

"There he is! Well done!" Dutch called, riding up on him, holding Lenny's—his horse's reins.

"Not bad for a dead man," John said dryly, smiling as best he could.

Dutch dismounted and dragged the horse over to its new owner. "I believe this is yours."

"Thanks," Charles said, clinging to the leather bonds sternly.

"And I'll take that." Dutch reached for the box.

"No." Charles yanked it away. "I-I'd like to deliver it."

Dutch smirked, filled with jollyness. But something was off about the way he looked at Charles. He felt like he was being added to some unholy list in Dutch's head. "I can deliver a package," he said, swiping the chest out of the native's claws before he could stop it, "I'm not that stupid, I promise." He kept smirking, but it didn't seem genial anymore. "And make sure you name that beast something. A name lets her know she's yours. Lets her know her place." Dutch hung deliberately on that last part, staring into Charles's hazel eyes until they blinked nervously. "Meet us back at the reservation. There's more to be done."

And then he mounted up alongside John and Bill and they left Charles standing there alone. He was frozen with uncertainty until his foal neighed loudly and he blenched a foot back. He studied the creature closer this time: pale brown skin aside from the red mane and bands of black that stretched from its knees to hooves. It was gaunt and lean, built for speed over strength (heh, John would've been its good pal, considering that's his credo).

It bore absolutely no resemblance to his first two horses, which were stout spotted Appaloosas with similar coloring, yet there was that name, spinning round and round like Molly's record.

Oh God, how Charles missed Taima.

Hope you liked the start of Act III. Sorry if bringing Charles back felt like plot armor-if it makes you feel better, I think he's the only character who gets this treatment. In my defense, reusing the German family to save him like how they did Arthur in the game made sense to me. And trust me, bringing him back was not a mercy.

Speaking of, if you remember Charles's other chapters you can probably see his major character flaw: he is really really lonely. That'll come into play later.

Next chapter we'll learn some answers about the Van Horn operation. And more Molly/Micah stuff...