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 Fifty: Abigail
2:28 PM, October 29th, 1899
The girl was a wreck of black and blue and red. Two of her ribs were cracked and swollen patches were stamped across her body. Abigail was still finding flecks of dried mud clinging to her orange hair, which matched her chapped lips that split in four places. The bruises made it so Molly was leering at her doctor with one eye and gaping with the other.
"D-did he… beat the s-shit outta Dutch?" Molly croaked the night it happened.
"Who?" Abigail had asked. That response must've inadvertently answered the question because Molly growled and rolled over so she faced the tent's sienna wall. "Coward," Abigail believed she heard the poor woman mutter.
Molly was faring a little better than she'd been a few days ago. She'd screamed a lot because of the pain but refused to drink any whiskey to smooth it. Only champagne, whiskey is what Karen drinks. Dutch had personally ridden down with John to Emerald Ranch, selling a few horses and using that money to buy morphine for Molly, along with some other supplies. The state bonds were gone, and there would be no more steak and expensive cigars from here on out—as if there'd been any at all.
Nothing permanent had been inflicted, Abigail's self-taught instincts of medicine told her as she pushed the hair from Molly's face while she slept soundly. Tilly and Mary-Beth stopped by to check on Molly several times, including this morning, but she'd either been screaming in agony or dead asleep. But they'd been kind enough, Abigail figured, considering who Molly was. Tilly passed off breakfast, more crummy stew, and Abigail smiled and thanked her for it. They can talk all they want, she thought, but I ain't as bad a cook as they say. I woulda done better on this stew. Venison's too soft. Maybe stir in some raccoon? Or a squirrel?
Molly's stew grew cold and Abigail considered rousing her so she could be pumped with something edible for the first time since that night in the rain, when she felt it snap around her legs, tightening furiously.
"Momma!" he cheered, hugging her right below the waist.
"Hey, Jack," she said, stroking his golden-brown hair. Even now, she couldn't help but smile. Sunshine on a stormy day, her boy was. John entered shortly behind him, wearing his trademark aloof grimace. And like always, she couldn't tell if he was hot or cold or up or down or dying or alive. "How did the fishing go?"
"Great!" Jack answered in lieu of John, who stood in the corner, sullen. "I caught a big one! Well, Papa helped me with the bait and the reeling, but I tossed the line in!"
"Well good for you." Abigail grinned, kneeling to get a better look at her son's bright, happy eyes. She glanced to John again and didn't get it—to her Jack's joy was contagious, irresistible, but there was John, grumpy as he ever was. She'd thought he was lightening up in recent times, but it seemed that was just a flash in the pan. "Y'see what he done?" She pointed to the sleeping corpse of a woman, napping nearly as deeply as she had. "It's horrible."
"Yeah…" John said, glib per usual. "But… she, she really had no right. Saying those things. 'Bout Annabelle."
Abigail recoiled slightly. The hell did he say? "O-kay… but Dutch is our leader. He's supposed to take the high road, not pound the shit outta a woman half his size cuz she's drunk and stupid and says he's got a small pecker. Wouldn't you agree?" When John didn't respond she rose and stepped closer to him in the corner of the mahogany tarp, hands on her hips. "Wouldn't you agree?" she repeated with more bite.
He tipped his—no, Arthur's—hat up, and his hazel eyes shined with defiance. "Stop choking me…" he murmured, pushing past her so he stood in the center of the tent opposed to the tight corner.
"Chokin' yo—"
"Y'know…" he aimed a stubborn finger at her face, near the raised eyebrow, "y'know… I don't gotta agree with you on everything. I-I got thoughts a' my own."
She snorted, clarity striking. He's in that mood where he's determined to row. And there was usually only one reason for that. "I see you been talkin' to Dutch recently."
"I didn't have to," he barked insistently. "I-I got thoughts too, I'm tired of you treating me like I'm… Bill Williamson or something."
"Can we not do this in front of Jack?" She motioned to the boy, who had his head slumped, digging his fingers around his pockets aimlessly.
John saw reason in that and sighed, slowly making for the exit. He scooped up Jack's tiny hand on the way. "Fine, we'll—" He stopped instantly, yanking Jack with him as he spun around. "No, no. No, you don't get to use him as damn shield. I want to talk about this now, so we're gonna do it now."
She groaned and spun out her eyes. "God, you're a child…"
"No, I ain't," he maintained. "I ain't a child, and you ain't my mother!"
"I gotta be or you'd never grow up!" she shouted back.
"Stop… stop tryin' to make me paddle your canoe."
"Paddle my…" She laughed bitterly. "Dammit, John. Oh, dammit, it had to happen sooner or later, but… shit. We were doin' so good all this time. No fights, no nothing. We were makin' up, makin' love again, and now… shit. Back to this stupid crap."
He scoffed, running a finger along canvas. "Yeah, life's dandy when I agree with everything you say, ain't it?"
Jack's puffy cheeks were pale and he tugged John's left arm, hoping that would lead him away. Abigail saw it for a split second when she lifted her head from her hands to yell at John, but didn't stray from her course. "Oh stop this self-righteous nonsense, John. Don't be one of them intellectual bullshitters who needs the sky to be green cuz everyone else says it's blue. You 'agreed' with me cuz I was right. I was right about Annesburg, right about the natives and their horses, right about—"
"You tried to shoot me," he said, deciding he had no other attack strategies.
Abigail's nostrils flared. "Don't you—"
"Momma… you did?" Jack's face was so ghostly it was as though he'd been drowned in an ice hole.
Abigail fought herself and smiled. "No, no, honey—"
"Now you're lyin' to him," John sneered. "Outright lyin'."
"He's too young to understand," she hissed, "I don't want to confuse him."
His features slouched in rage. "No, you just don't want to be the bad guy. You'll leave that to me."
She stormed over to him, hands returned to hips, chest nearly touching his. "You want to talk about being bad? Cuz I can talk about you being bad… for a year. Somewhere else. Away from us."
John's frown deepened, and he took a step back from her. "You'll never let me live that down, will you? Not never." He marched away, bursting from the tent as he muttered, "Bitch…"
"Orphan boy!" she shrieked in return, emerging outside on his heels. She repeated it loudly to make sure he'd heard her, to make sure he knew he hadn't gotten the last word. Their eyes were on her, watching from all over camp—Tilly, Grimshaw, Swanson, even Uncle was excited from sleep. "The hell are you lookin' at?" she cried, and they turned away.
Something crept behind her and she saw it was Jack, keeping his head down as he inched out of the tent and over to Kieran by the cave's mouth. Her jaw unclenched but the stream of words flowing out was dry as a bone. She gritted her teeth and re-entered the tent, deciding not to call after the boy. Sadness sat in her stomach, heavy and hard. He was so happy to tell me about his fish, and now… She moaned weakly, trying not to think the evil thought that played across her brain, prodding sharply like fingernails: you're going to ruin his life.
Wind filtered in the tightly woven cotton house and a smile flitted over her lips, thinking it was Jack, before falling.
"How's our angel doing?" Dutch asked, a cheap, polite grin framed to his jawline. His suit was all-black, from his pants to coat, and the only color resided in the unbuttoned white collar leaves sticking from his dark vest, and the pink raspberry handkerchief in his breast pocket. He removed said handkerchief to wipe some dribble from Molly's chin, but Abigail blocked him and did it herself with the bottom of her hand, smearing the saliva over the Irishwoman's face.
"She's doin' fine, no thanks to you."
Dutch cleared his throat, letting his awkward smile flutter off. "Abigail, I'm… I really am sorry 'bout this. I've just been under a lot of stress, and…" He paused and gritted his teeth. "Molly. Fuckin' Molly, y'know. You know how she is."
"I do," Abigail answered. "Battered and beaten."
"C'mon," he sighed, "she'll be fine. It ain't no worse than what happened to Tilly—"
"—or Kieran?" she finished, letting that knife hang in his chest.
Dutch went rigid with anger and resolve. "Don't you dare! That was a smart thing I—" He sighed, shrinking with defeat and exhaustion. "I ain't gonna get anywhere with you, am I, Abigail? Why are you so dead-set on hating me—you didn't before. Is this about Jack?"
"Oh, please," Abigail scoffed.
"I didn't leave him, y'know. I really, really thought they'd killed him. I mean, c'mon, Sadie and Tilly only had one guy sayin' the opposite and he was—"
"I don't hate you, Dutch," Abigail interjected, "but I don't like what you've become. You're more violent, reckless, and worst of all, more priggish, and that is making you dangerous. That was stupid, what you did in Annesburg, not smart, and now we're losing more people than we—"
"Don't you put that on me," he snarled.
"And what you're doing with the Indians," she continued, "it ain't right, and you're ropin' John in on—and also, what the fuck were you thinkin', letting Bill stay? I swear, it's like you've stopped fuckin' thinking since Hosea left."
The color drained from Dutch's face until he matched his handkerchief. "He didn't leave," he whispered.
"He left, Dutch," Abigail contended, hair swinging in disjointed, wild strokes. "Open your eyes. If the Pinks took him he'd be worthless to them now since all he knew about what we were doin' was the boat, and if they killed him, it'd be in the papers. He left."
Dutch's expression turned cold and melancholic. Abigail noticed for the first time that while he'd been primly trimming his mustache and beard, his hair was overgrown and dangled nearly to his collarbones. He took a hand to shake out that dense, furry mess in a dog-like manner. Once he groaned with satisfaction at quashing an itch he'd borne, his hazel eyes met her pale blue ones. "Will you help me with something? I'm meetin' Rains Fall, Eagle Flies, Monroe, Charles—oh, Monroe is a captain sent down from Washington—"
"I know. John told me."
"Oh, that's sweet." And so was the venom in his voice. "We're meetin' with Colonel Favours for a sit-down. Trying to make peace before things get outta hand." He snorted dryly. "Yeah, like that ever works. Anyway, I want you to come with. Use some of that famous Roberts charm and sneak into Favours' tent and search for evidence linking him and Cornwall, a letter, a telegram, anything."
Abigail considered, slightly distracted as she wondered if him calling her 'Roberts' was meant to be an insult. That was the problem with Dutch: couldn't stop the honey oozing out when he spoke, like a bear with a full mouth. "And you're asking me instead of Mary-Beth cuz I'm the better thief, or…"
"No," he clarified, brushing her arm, "no, you don't need to lie down for anyone. I just need a wily pickpocket."
His hand was soft and warm on her bicep, matching his face. It made her suspicious. "Will this really help everyone?"
"Yes. Best case: we'll have insurance in case Favours goes back on any peace they make. Worst case: Favours tries something and we sent Monroe to Washington with the proof he needs to replace him. Either way, it serves us."
"Who's 'us,' Dutch? Why do you care so damn much about the natives? That train comin' up to Bacchus is gonna be here real soon, and we still don't have a new boat or exit strategy. Why are you spendin' so much time there and not—"
"The train is comin' in two days," he said abruptly. "I got word from Alden. The day after tomorrow—ETA about noon—it comes in. I've got a plan, Abigail, you just need to keep the faith a little longer." She exhaled deeply. How many fuckin' times have I heard that. "Fine, don't trust me, but please… help me."
She studied his eyes, searching for something cold, calculated, and malicious behind them, but all she saw confirmed the sincerity in his tone. Or he'd just gotten better at hiding it. Maybe that's why he's wearing his overcoat now, gives him a bigger shell to tuck his head into. "Fine," she muttered.
They exited together, heading to the edge of camp before she branched out from his path, over to the grassy bluff above the hill where a figure stood, whistling tobacco smoke.
"I'm leavin' with Dutch," she told John. "Jack's with Kieran. Make sure you keep an eye on him. Bad things happened last time Kieran was supposed to watch that boy."
"Sure," he murmured hazily, not facing her.
"I love you," she said, forcing herself to smile so it sounded sweeter—grins soften sharp words, it's true. She waited for him to return her favor, but he only burbled lowly, saying nothing. "I love you," she repeated, the simper gone. Again, he fell silent. Always fuckin' silent. "Well, fuck you, asshole!"
The hems of her skirt flapped as she left him, trudging off bitterly. "I love you," she thought she heard him utter, but he was too far and it was probably just a trick of the wind.
"Tilly, can you watch Molly?' Abigail asked as she stopped at the chuckwagon. "She should stay asleep, but if not, just talk to her—"
"Oh, God…" Tilly mumbled.
Abigail smiled laconically. "Yeah, I know. Just distract her, and try to get her to eat. If she's hurtin', give her some more morphine, but don't overdo it." He was reading at the spool table a few feet away, so she whispered: "We don't want another Swanson on our hands."
"Oh, I can help with Molly," a voice came from behind her. Abigail was surprised by what she saw. It was Sadie, but she was different. Her hair and clothes had been washed, no longer shining with filth and flesh, and her breath wreaked lightly of breakfast as opposed to strongly of eight types of liquor. But most jarring was the small smile that flitted over her, and it wasn't her Glasgow one.
"Y-you want to help with Molly?" Abigail asked, confused.
Sadie, as usual, was mantled in her yellow shirt and brown pants, and where this image commonly reminded Abigail of a hornet, stinging and dying at once, today it brought a memory of a stunning sunrise, the golden sun and ocean of earth coming together. It made her happy. "Yeah, I would. If you need me."
"O-okay," Abigail said, bemused. Grimshaw, now her? Heh, don't get used to it, Grimshaw bounced back at her own time.
She strode over to Dutch, who was holding The Count's oily leather reins. "Listen up, all you wonderful people!" he announced to camp, loud enough to ensure even sleeping beauty heard him (Uncle, not Molly). "Ms. Roberts and I are goin' out, we'll be back soon, listen to Grimshaw, do your chores, make me proud, etcetera etcetera, hasta luego, auf Wiedersehen."
"The fuck does that mean?" Abigail heard Uncle ask as she mounted behind Dutch and the muscular steed tore hell-for-leather out of camp.
"So how far is this Favours character?" she asked later, her raven locks bouncing in front of her face—a black veil of hair. She couldn't resist appreciating the irony. With the way Dutch is leadin' us, I might as well be going to a funeral.
"Just aways, above Moonstone Pond." They were on the main trail leading up to it, the Three Sisters on their right. The triplets seemed to be crawling ahead of them as they charged beyond the mountain range. "Abigail…" Dutch said after a time. "John's been… arguing with me."
"Join the club," she quipped, clutching his shoulders a little tighter as The Count trotted.
Dutch chuckled nervously, in that way he did when he was about to say something he knew you wouldn't like. "Yeah… Look, I feel real bad about asking you this, and I mean no offense, but… the words in him right now, that he's reciting to me, the words that make him think this and that… are they his—?"
"—or mine?" she finished with an annoyed drawl.
"Abigail," he started, "despite what he'll have you believe, he listens to you. You doubt, he doubts. We can't have doubt, especially not now." His distended strands of hair floated against her face as the wind picked up, alongside The Count, who kept galloping faster and faster. "The Pinks are organized and coordinated, and if we're goin' to combat that, we need to be organized and coordinated. We need to be united, not bickering and—"
"—beating the shit out of each other," she said sharply.
There was silence but for the wind's whistling like an owl. Whoooooooooooooo. Eventually, he swallowed dryly and spoke. "Abigail. I know we're havin' problems. The whole gang, sure, but you and me specifically. And it ain't healthy for no one—you saw poor John that night with Kieran—damn near split in half from our arguing. If we go to Favours and he shoots us down in a fabulous barrage of orange gunshots, then so be it, but infighting? C'mon, we've fought through Pinks, bounty hunters, outlaws, frozen hell, I don't want this gang to fall to infighting, do you?"
Whoooooooooooooo, the wind chirped. "No, Dutch." She said it robotically. Loaded questions exhausted her. "But what's the alternative? Support every bad call you make? Put complete faith in you, even when I don't know what the hell's goin' on? I'm sorry, I can't do that."
"The alternative is that you trust me." The big word was smothered in sourness. The Count was bulleting along the road now, and the speed caused her to lean back. She bore her fingernails roughly into his shoulders to keep from losing her grip. Dutch didn't flinch. "Why is that so much to ask, Abigail? Who led the charge on the Braithwaites to get Jack back? Who let you in this gang in the first place? Who welcomed John back with open arms because you asked nicely? Me." She felt her fingers slipping, but he didn't slow down. She realized if she were to let go, her legs couldn't hold her ahorse. She'd fall, and at this speed, her head would be a cantaloupe against the gravel, smashing into an orange puddle. She remembered Molly, her orange hair and orange crusty lips, and still Dutch wouldn't slow down. The wind sang. Whoooooooooooooo. Whoooooooooooooo. Whoooooooooooooo!
"We're here," Dutch said at last. The Count slowed to an amble and Abigail's grip relaxed as she sighed. Heart settling, she glanced over his head to see two Wapitis and their horses at a crossroads, one led uphill before breaking away south, the other to the right, through the dense forest.
"You're late," whispered a voice, but it rang loud, so close the tresses behind her ear whisked. She turned and saw Charles, mounting Lenny's Mustang. A cloud of sorrow floated over her at the sight until Dutch spoke.
"Good, after all that man's done, he can wait on us."
"This meeting will determine the future of my tribe, Mr. Van der Linde," one of the natives said, an older man with dark clothing, wrinkled features, and stern tired eyes, "and peace between us and your government—"
"Ain't my government—"
"—it is not a standoff, it is not an excuse to drop your pants and see how far you can piss. You claim to be a friend to our people, so please, do our people this favor: don't speak unless spoken to, and only act if things are about to get bloody. If all goes well, we won't even have a need for your services."
"Of course, sir," Dutch said earnestly, but Abigail noticed his head twitched.
Charles rode aside from Abigail and pointed to the men as they dismounted and hitched their horses against the trees. "This is the Wapiti chief, Rains Fall, and his son, Eagle Flies." Abigail greeted them demurely with a two-handed handshake, but they reciprocated with just one. The younger one, Eagle Flies, stood boyishly, never taking his face from his shoes. It reminded her of Jack when he would tug the bottom of her dress, wordlessly motioning to his wet pants. His hair hung over his shoulders in thick black waves, inversely to Charle's, which was more of a rope, knotted tightly, the soft curls turning hard when stitched that steadfastly. "C'mon… Monroe's stalled Favours long enough." He left Lenny's gelding by the same tree as The Count, joining them all as they walked into the forest.
"What are you doing?" Charles asked Dutch quietly, dragging him back by the arm so the natives wouldn't hear. "You were supposed to bring John. Or Javier."
"Abigail's pretty good with a gun," Dutch smirked.
"Not better than a hundred soldiers. Wh—oh. You brought her for a reason. You want her to steal something."
Dutch relayed the plan in short words as they strolled. When he was finished, Charles must've fully assimilated, because he was white as a sheet. "Dutch… Favours wants any cause to ruin these people. You can't gift-wrap it to him."
"Abigail will be careful, won't you?"
Her fists clenched with rage. She didn't enjoy being used. She'd looked him dead in the eyes and he said her help was wanted. Liar. She considered telling him to fuck off, considered turning and leaving then and there, but she knew Dutch's stubbornness too well. If it wasn't her, he'd do it himself, or if what John told her was on the money, he'd whisper in Eagle Flies' ear and have him do it. So instead she pinched herself and smiled encouragingly at Charles. "I'll be sly as a snake. No one will suspect nothin', I promise."
Charles grunted but kept on with them through the woods until it ended abruptly, overtaken by a flat glade.
On that glade, was the army's campsite. Must've been an entire company—tall vivid green grass sucked on the legs of dozens of beige tents. When Abigail was younger, one of her first customers had been a hay farmer. He was married so they snuck into his barn to commit the sin (but hey, she did make a buck and a half) and she saw the craft first-hand. Stacks and stacks of buff blocks of hay sat, but if they could see this glade now, they would shrink away, embarrassed. The field had to be two football fields lined abreast and there was barely enough room for a gaunt pony to ride between all the tightly packed army shelters.
At the forefront of every tent was a soldier with a gun and at the forefront of the field, was a dark-green canopy, without walls or sun, resting in cool shade. A table stood under that canopy, and at the head of that table, was Colonel Favours.
"Here they are," a man said, as they entered, taking their own seats on the opposite end of the white-cloth table. There were only three chairs, so Abigail and Dutch stayed afoot. Abigail paid the man a glance; judging by his white hat, sunken eyes, and youthful brown beard, she figured him as Captain Monroe, which was confirmed when Dutch introduced himself and her to the table and Monroe returned them in kind. Favours didn't bother. They knew who he was. He was a shorter man, she could tell, even sitting down. White mutton chops, narrow hazel eyes, a double chin, and razor-sharp frown lines decorated his face. His hands were clean as a whistle and looked soft as hay (Abigail would know, she'd rolled around in plenty of it in her day), and they fiddled with one of the glass cups set at the table, creating little whirlpools with the water inside.
"Colonel Favours," Rains Fall greeted, "Captain Monroe. We come in peace."
"Hello again," Favours said, looking up from the glass. "Who are these three?" He motioned to Abigail, Charles, and Dutch.
"Acquaintances, uh, of my people." Rains Fall answered.
Favours sized them up dispassionately, and why shouldn't he? He had a whole army to his right, three loose cannons made scant difference to him. "Interesting lookin' fellows."
"Yeah, they won't cause no trouble," the chief insisted.
"Well, I should hope not. Listen Mr…" He let the end hang, hoping the man himself would finish for him.
"Chief," Rains Fall said.
"Yes, Mr… uh… I can't say that silly name."
He sighed. "In English they call me Rains Fall."
"Yes, yes… I'm-I'm sure they do." The colonel cleared his throat. "Alright, well, shall we get down to it?" He checked his watch, a golden Ingersoll. Abigail scoffed softly. Dutch is gonna love this joker. He has that same stubborn smell. Bastard made up his mind before we got here. "Listen… we're all Americans here…and we… we want an outcome," Favours continued weakly. "But quite frankly… quite frankly I-I'm confused. Your men… little more than criminals in my opinion… Keep breaking peace treaties… we've made. Causing disturbances in everybody's lives." Eagle Flies blenched a mite, but Charles and Rains Fall were still as statues. They were expecting this: another attempt to rile them up. Abigail expected the colonel to be smirking, to be savoring the insults he could freely spit at them, but he was playing with his water, dunking a creased finger in the glass, as disinterested as if he was reading the news. Does he even see them? Abigail wondered. Are they even people to him? "But… I pride myself on being a gentleman. Really, I do. But there are limits." Dutch scoffed, and Abigail stomped on his foot, shutting him up. But the damage was done. "Something you find amusing, sir?" Favours asked Dutch, pointing at him with a wet finger.
He glanced at Rains Fall, glanced right at him, and opened his mouth. "Yes, colonel, there is. I find it most humorous how—"
"Oh!" Abigail cried, bringing her heel hard on Dutch's foot again. She pawed her head. "This heat, I tell you, even in the shade!"
"Uh, would you like some water, ma'am?" Monroe questioned politely, pouring her a glass from the translucent pitcher. Poor fool's too naive to know what actin' looks like.
"Please." She smiled pleasantly, meandering to retrieve it, snaking the long way around Favours. She saw his feet under the table—he was as short as she thought. She noticed something else too: his signet ring. Norwich University, it read in small font, encircling the emblem of an eagle. In that eagle's talons was the college credo: I will try. She forced back a giggle. That's probably what this idiot tells himself every morning. She was right of course, and it ran in the family. "Henry's trying," his mother would say, "he's really, really, trying." She accepted the glass from Monroe and finished her spiral back to her original position beside Dutch.
"Good?" Favours asked her. She nearly responded with Not sure, this heat is really slaying me, but realized in time he wasn't asking about her. He didn't care.
"Yes, it's very refreshing, thank you."
"Refreshing," he snorted, "it's shit. I remember when I was unemployed, a few years before college, the water in my house was always chilled. It felt like your guts were freezing with every sip, it was lovely. And I was unemployed. Now, I can't get ice out here. I'm the damn colonel and I can't get damn ice." He rolled his eyes. "Funny world."
"Gettin' back to business…" Charles redirected, "I believe we've come up with a deal that will suffice you, colonel. Rains Fall has been very generous in agreeing—"
"There's no deal, son," he said simply. "The land you occupy belongs to the United States Government. To me. Why is that so confusing?"
Charles rubbed his temples, seeing this was going nowhere, and drew first blood. "We know about the contract you have with Cornwall. The land they occupy doesn't belong to you, it belongs to him. At least that's what you want." He leaned closer. "We know about the oil."
Favours rose, slamming the table so roughly his cup tipped over and darkened the white cloth in diminishing pulses across to Rains Fall. "How dare you?" he bellowed. Soldiers flocked behind him, guns at the ready. "I will not sit here and listen to your calumny. Monroe, arrest them or you're next!"
"And you know what?" Charles continued. "Great. We have no objections."
Abigail pursed her lips and slowly shook her head in confusion, copying Dutch and Favours who were doing the same. "W-what?" Favours said it, but they were all thinking it.
"You heard him," Rains Fall muttered. "We will pack up, abandon our land, and move a few miles eastward over Donner Falls. Cornwall will have our permission to excavate the spot for oil, working his men overtime eight days a week, and when it is done, we'll return to our homes and begin life again."
"Cornwall gets his oil—" Charles started.
"—you get that fat bonus he promised you—" Eagle Flies added.
"—and we all get peace." Rains Fall finished. "And all we have to do is uproot our lives for who knows how long to do it. A mercy compared to what my father's father paid."
Favours was confused for a moment. Checked with the soldiers around him to confirm age hadn't dismantled his hearing. It hadn't (yet anyway). Then he chuckled. "Well, that's… that's a cute offer, really, but of course, you seem to be skipping over something very important. I'll give you a hint: involves massacring my innocent men and then invading my fort and blowing it to hell to steal a ruffian we rightfully captured. You think there's peace to that? Once this meeting's over, I've got half a mind to present my case to my superiors. They rule in my favor"—the white of his grin shined—"the gloves come off."
"And what if you're workin' on faulty information?" Charles asked.
"What's faulty?"
Charles bit his lip. Abigail sensed he was nervous and suddenly felt the water bouncing in her glass as she shook. "What if those… incidents… weren't part of a coordinated effort of the Wapitis? What if it was just one sympathizer who coerced a few misled Indian kids? No sense in destroying the peace here if only one man is really responsible for what happened."
Favours simpered and slowly took a sip of water. "Okay, I'll bite. Who is this 'rogue Wapiti sympathizer' responsible for all the destruction in the past weeks?"
Charles bit back the phlegm and exhaled deeply. "You got him." He offered his hand. "Name's Charles Smith."
The cup went thud against the grass and the water spilled out. That captured everyone's attention for a moment. Abigail, in shock at Charles, feeling all the eyes on her, let instinct take over, and swooned. "Oh! This heat!" She stumbled against the white linen tablecloth.
"Benji," Favours called to one of the soldiers, "get her out of here so the men can have a civilized conversation."
"I got you, miss," Benji said, lifting her by the wrist to her feet. He was a young man, whiskers on his chin, and wide, awkward eyes that told her he was still a virgin. He led her out from under the canopy, and she remembered to whine dramatically at the sun. But while she performed, her mind was reeling. Charles is fuckin' turning himself in?! Goddammit, they're gonna kill him for that, if not publically, than privately. How many more will we lose, how—
Her train of thought was interrupted by a flag waving besides a beige army tent. It was maroon and tattooed in gold was the collage of letters forming the unmistakable shape of a second-rate military school: Norwich University. Who's invading your fort now, asshole, she thought with a smile, leaning to the tent while she wailed in false pain, dragging Benji with her.
He gave up eventually, letting her collapse on the colonel's bed, moping and writhing from heatstroke. "Is there anything I can do, miss?"
"Oh, nothing. Nothing really. I don't think—well… maybe some water?"
"Of course, ma'am," he promised, turning to depart.
"Oh," she bemoaned, interrupting him, "and tobacco gum? It works miracles, trust me."
"I-I-I," he stammered clumsily. "I'll-I'll try. Maybe one of the boys has got some."
"Oh, you're a darling!" She giggled as he left her alone right where she needed to be. If all was going well, and Charles, the brave moron, was fine with sacrificing himself, she wouldn't need this, but as much as it wounded her admitting: Dutch was right. Having insurance was smart. Maybe they could use this to leverage Charles' freedom?
She started with the brown chest in the corner—but it was fixed with a thick iron lock. Next, she gravitated toward the short oakwood desk by his bed; all the drawers were empty save for a few sheets of buff paper and a silver fountain pen branded with Favours' initials (or hispanic female, it was fifty-fifty). Abigail pinched the pen by the barrel and examined it closely before smiling. That nib should do the trick, she thought, approaching the strongbox again, noticing HF was also etched on the top (on second thought, perhaps it stood for he's fucked). He's about to be. She ground the tip of the pen into the lock, shifting it back and forth as quickly as possible, glancing over her shoulder habitually, worried Benji would catch her with her pants down. But he didn't, because the lock snapped off and she rummaged through the chest's contents.
Heh, now, if Jack was here, he'd have found that letter in no time—it was only the third from the top. Abigail however was inflicted with a horrible condition known as illiteracy (or as I call it, whorish dolt's burden). She ran her fingers across the stack of unfiled letters, desperately scanning for the funny symbols normal society calls characters, marks, or signs that assembled the word Cornwall.
And oh, I must lament again for the absence of the four-year-old boy, because if he'd been present, the letter would have been found on the first round of searching. Instead, Abigail was frantic, and thinking it would be far at the bottom, weeded through the top half carelessly, only noticing the letters forming Corn and Wall, during the subsequent phase of treasure-hunting.
You see, if Jack had found that letter, he would've done it twenty seconds before Abigail and would've had enough time to stuff the message in his pocket, close the box, and move back to the stiff, hard crate where he'd been left to sit and wait for water. Abigail, however, didn't move fast enough, and when Benji entered with a silver cup of water and a cup of tobacco gum that set him back a few silvers, he saw her clicking the iron bolt back into place, papers curled in a fist.
"Don't move," Benji said calmly, cleaning out his cluttered hands and replacing them with the gun at his belt. He stalked nearer, gun cocked and ready. He seized her arm and dragged her out of the tent, leading her to Favours.
"Stop," she pleaded.
"Sir!" he called to the colonel, attracting his attention.
"Stop," she whisper-hissed desperately. She was done for. Dutch would die certainly, as would Charles, then the natives—they stuck their necks out for her, and she'd promised not to get caught. Hot tears began bubbling at her eyelids, as she thought about Jack. He'll never see me again. Oh, oh god, does it run in the family; is he gonna go to sleep and never get up? Oh god… Her heart drummed inside of her, and in her panic, she cried out, "You're gonna blow my cover."
Benji froze dead in his tracks at that. He glared at her with eyes spinning in befuddlement. "Huh?"
"My cover," she snarled softly, yanking her wrist free. "I'm workin' for Leviticus Cornwall."
"Y-you are?" he asked in bewilderment.
"What is goin' on there, Benji?" Favours hollered from the tent, a meter or two away.
"J-just a second, sir," he returned, biting his lip nervously as Abigail flashed him the letter, angling it just so that from the opposite angle, the soldier's head blocked sight of what she held from Favours and the other army men shadowing him.
"See?" She tapped the paper dramatically, almost plugging a hole in it. "Cornwall. He wants every bit of trace evidence between himself and Favours destroyed." She rolled her eyes to Favours. "I'm sure it won't be too hard for you to guess why."
"Benji?" Favours shouted. "When I ask you a damn question, you answer it, private! What the hell are you doin'?"
Benji's five o'clock shadow flipped between the colonel and the woman. Abigail gave him a cool shrug. "Your call. Turn me in and get a pat on the back, or—" she danced her fingers along the golden buttons at his chest suggestively "—keep your trap shut and I'll put in a good word for you with the big man. Take home a nice, fat bonus, hell, maybe even get you a job when this idiot inevitably gets the whole company discharged."
"BENJI?"
"Letting me take this won't hurt nobody, friend. And it doesn't hurt to know people in high places. So, what's it going to be?" Abigail smirked at the boy, and—seeing the green glitter in his muddled gray eyes—knew she had nibbled on his tongue before turning to his superior officer. "Nothin', sir. Absolutely noth—"
His blood splattered over Abigail before she even heard the gunshot. He struggled against her shoulders as he went down, whimpering with those innocent awkward gray eyes. When the body hit the floor, Abigail saw him holding the smoking gun—with that dab of pink, he stood out in the green and corn-yellow environs.
He moved his gun then and shot Favours twice, square in the chest. The short man fell from his chair and died in the grass, a pitcher of lukewarm water spilling out beside him at the same rate as his guts.
Dutch grabbed one of the soldiers, forcing him into a one-handed half-nelson, keeping his revolver lined up with his head. "Don't do nothin' stupid!"
The threat was intended for the dozens of soldiers appearing under or behind the canopy, and Dutch expected every last one of them to comply. Luckily they did, the poor fool he had as a hostage must've been popular.
Charles had his gun drawn now and was backing up alongside Eagle Flies and Rains Fall, the latter of which kept swearing in a foreign language (or native one) under his breath. Abigail did the same, forming the flank of the diamond shape in which the five of them were huddled as they continued inching backward. Monroe hadn't moved at all, just stood there, staring at the colonel's corpse.
"Shit, they got Favours," more soldiers echoed as they funneled from camp to where they heard the gunshot, seeing Dutch's handiwork.
"Kill 'em!" one with a goatee beard screamed.
"No," cried another. "They got Zeke."
"Yes, we do," Dutch agreed as they made their way towards the forest where their horses were hitched. "And as long as we get outta here the way we came, ol' Zeke's gonna be just fine, won't you partner?"
"Y-yes, sir," Zeke stuttered, shaking.
"Perfect." The brim of Dutch's hat tilted upwards. "Monroe? Monroe, come on!"
"W-were you in on this?" Goatee interrogated Monroe, but the captain only stood silently and casually strolled to Dutch, keeping his head down. He never said a word.
The sextet, sorry, septet crept into the shade of the woods, three score gun barrels glowering at them. No words were exchanged during this stalemate, only the sound of leaves cracking under hefty boots and Abigail furiously scrubbing the blood off her face could be heard.
"I am going to mount my horse now," Dutch announced. "I am going to ride a mile down the road and toss Zeke for y'all to collect. You will not follow me. If you do, you will be collecting a corpse, not a man."
Goatee, who led the pack, winced, but didn't object—nor did the others. Dutch followed through, climbing atop The Count with the defenseless army man, who raised his hands practically erect in the air. There wasn't enough room for Abigail with Dutch's new passenger, so she joined Charles on the black yearling, while Monroe whistled for his dark Andalusian alongside Eagle Flies. They trotted out slowly, and Abigail expected to hear the horrible symphony of a hundred guns going off, but to her relief, nothing happened. They drove down the road for a mile like Dutch said and hucked Zeke onto a patch of daisies.
They kept on, increasing speed, getting the hell out of dodge as fast as possible. They ventured to nowhere in particular, mindlessly marching south until they reached the Heartland Overflow. There their boots touched land again, sinking into the muddy, marshy soil.
"I told you to only act if things get bloody," Rains Fall muttered grimly to Dutch, his hat hiding his eyes.
"And it did." Dutch waved a hand—a marred one, Zeke's fingernails were sharp—toward Abigail. "He was about to kill her. I had no choice."
"Do you know what you've done?" Captain Monroe said at last. "We almost had peace!"
Dutch snorted. "No, we didn't." He looked to the glum, crestfallen Indian with a bad hair day. "Charles, that self-sacrificing bullshit was real noble, but you saw. Favours weren't goin' to bite. Not never. Peace was only a dream, and in a way, it's good we can finally be honest and open about that."
"We're doomed," Eagle Flies whispered. "I saw Fort Wallace. There's so many of them."
"Fear not, I think I might just have a way out of this mess." Dutch motioned to Abigail and she passed the letter. Dutch grinned when he analyzed it for himself. He… he banked all of this on that letter, Abigail realized. What if it weren't even there? What if I grabbed the wrong one? "Yes… yes, this is it. This is it!" He relayed the letter verbatim, discussing the communication between Cornwall and Favours and detailing Cornwall's 'significant contributions' to Favours' efforts to 'relocate the natives to a region more convenient to the state and beneficial to them'.
"Now that we got this," Dutch promised, "Monroe, you can put enough pressure on your pals back at Washington to do us a favor. They help us or else we publish the fact that they left operations of a delicate intercultural matter in the hands of a corrupt bigot."
"Even if that works, you've pissed off every man in Favours' command," the captain protested. "They'll come for the Wapitis, sanctioned or not, at one time or another."
"That's why you won't request a new colonel."
"W—but then what?"
Dutch smiled coyly. "Oh, I don't know… maybe… a train?"
He explained it to them then, his plot to coerce the federal government of the United States into deploying a train to lead the Wapitis across the border to Canada.
Rains Fall soaked in every detail apathetically, as though he hadn't heard. After a long silence, he spoke: "You want us to leave our homes? Leave the country of our ancestors? Our country?"
"I'm sorry," Dutch groveled. "Really I am. But let's face facts: this ain't been your country for a long time now. This is the best thing for y'all, really it is. Canada is huge, plenty a' room to start a new village, one free from the long arm of the government. I mean, it's all you can do, really, what's the alternative? Stay? You heard Monroe, those army boys are gonna be comin' down on you with everything they got."
"Especially now." There was an edge to Rains Fall's voice. "So, my people can either survive in another land, even if we have to give up everything that rightfully belongs to us, or die cruel deaths at the hands of the army. You gave me a choice like that before, Mr. Van der Linde, remember? Back at the reservation? You like Hobson's choice, I take it? Giving a man two doors, one without a knob or handle—one bolted shut, in fact, and saying 'pick whichever you want'." He leaned his head upright and his cold eyes chilled Abigail to the bone. "Favours liked that too. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are just like him." With that, he turned to leave, Eagle Flies at his heels.
"Where are you goin'?" Dutch inquired as they tucked their boots in the stirrups of their horses.
"To the reservation," Rains Fall answered. "I need to mull some things over." They spurred their horses, listened to them neigh, and then they were gone, vanishing into the murky fog.
Dutch shifted his focus onto the captain. "Monroe?" He stood by the edge of the lake, gaping at the emerald waters as they rippled, settled, and split again. "Monroe?" Dutch repeated.
He found the strength to peel his eyes away, and the second the shine from the pool no longer reflected in his eyes, they dulled and grayed, making him seem ten years older. "Yeah?"
Dutch extended two fingers, clamped on Favours' letter. "Washington, remember?"
"Oh, oh. Yeah." Monroe took the creased paper reluctantly. "I'll-I'll take the first train tomorrow."
"Excellent." Dutch flashed him the polite smile that meant it was time to go. Monroe's weary eyes fell on Dutch's and he opened his mouth. But he said nothing. Then he gyrated and mounted his steed. Then it was just Charles, Abigail, and Dutch alone.
"Just say it, Charles," Dutch sighed. "I know you got somethin' to say, so just get it over with."
A mosquito landed on Charles and he squashed it against his neck—without breaking eye contact. "This was what you wanted. From the start."
"No—"
"The vaccines, the tar and feathers, this meeting. All you wanted was to create turmoil between the natives and army. We provoked an entire settlement of good, innocent people, and riled up the army against them so they'll probably never be able to return to their own homes. For… a… fuckin'... train." His tone was so laden with rage that tiny white bubbles coalesced on his bottom lip.
"This was not the plan from the start," Dutch insisted with a finger dancing around as he lectured. "Lenny died and things changed. Besides, we're still doing them a service. Because of us they get to escape, find new land, freedom, and opportunities. Hell, we can even pitch in some seed money with the profits from the train job. There will be plenty to go around. And you can't complain too much; other way around, you'd have a noose 'round your neck by now."
"Dutch," Charles spewed flecks of mud from the ground as he stomped to their leader, "was Abigail really in danger? Or was Favours dying part of the plan too?" It was framed as a question, but Abigail could tell Charles already knew.
Dutch took a step back, chuckling. He glanced back and forth between Charles and her. "Abigail, you married the wrong man. Look at you two… a couple a' doubting twins. Hey Charles, if you ain't named Lenny's horse yet, I got a suggestion: Abigail."
Abigail heard the wet smacking of his black boots on the mud, and then the satisfying clicks of horseshoes, and Dutch had ridden off, forgetting apparently that he was her ride back.
"I'm done," she said quietly. "Dutch said two days, two days the train's comin' in. Me and John are takin' our cut, and we're leavin'."
She felt Charles' warm breath flaring down on her shoulders as he eased closer to her until they were shoulder to shoulder. "John know?"
"Not yet."
"He won't like it."
"I'll make him like it." She gritted her teeth as a worm crept into her shoes. "If I gotta drag him out by his ear, I will, if I gotta tie his hands and drag him the whole way, I will. One way or another, we are leavin'."
"What about the others?"
Abigail shrugged. "Well, we ain't disappearin' in the dead of night. Anyone who wants to come can come. But they won't. Idiots are too dependent on him." She threw up her hands in defeat, clicking her heels together, killing a few worms. "Don't matter. My heart ain't big enough for all them—I got a son to worry about, that's the only thing that matters." She spun until he was directly ahead of her, downcast and sullen as ever. "Come with us. You don't owe no one nothing. Hell, you're a new member and presumed dead, the Pinks might not even be lookin' for you."
"I wanted to be their hero," was the only retort he gave. "Eagle Flies, Flower of the Prairie, Kiona, and the rest. I wanted to help, to make peace. And now, because of Dutch… I can't. Abigail… don't take this the wrong way, but I've been among your sort my whole life. I want to be with people who look like me, who look up to me. I need to make sure Dutch's flowery promises will come true in the end for them. Y'know, land, freedom, money. And they might not be experienced with Canada's climate, I could help with—" His voice gave out and he closed his eyes. Heh, it was because the roots of sobs were starting to lay eggs in his mouth, but I like to think it was the strain from uttering so many words in a row. "I… I can't be alone anymore." When his hazel eyes opened, Abigail saw something truly remarkable.
She saw herself, and then in her eyes saw him reflected again, then her, then him, on and on and on. Mirrors within mirrors. And at the end of the line she saw herself, lying supine for days at a time, snoring and mumbling for her precious Jack to be returned. "We won't be alone," she said. "We are goin' to protect what's ours. At any cost."
So much for peace... on all sides, really.
John and Abigail are back at it, Dutch couldn't cajole Abigail, the Wapitis are now responsible for the death of a U.S. colonel, Charles failed to save them like he failed to save his mom, Molly's gonna be pretty cross with Micah now, pleasant tidings all around.
Hope you enjoyed all the bait and switching, I think it's fun to set up something real dramatic, like Charles taking the fall for all the chaos Dutch caused with the army and Wapitis, only to have that immediately go under moments later.
Anyway, Halloween falls on the date of the train heist... wonder if that portends anything...