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 Thirty-Five: Charles
7:39 AM, August 5th, 1899
When Lenny stumbled over later to the hill overlooking the trail into camp, telling Charles he was ready to take his shift, he was sent back to bed. By this point, Charles had been standing and staring out into the forest, after a full day's worth of work, since eight o'clock, yet he'd never felt more awake. He had a lot on his mind.
He was so tired of being alone.
He thought this gang was what he wanted. A group of people that respected him, a few he could even call friends.
Now, he wasn't so sure. Pearson, Sean, Trewlany, and Arthur were already dead, Dutch's rationality was spiraling, and Sadie had grown cold as ice—she was always aloof, but nowadays, it seemed she was as uncaring as Grimshaw had been. And then there was the heat, so fervid it was probably burning a hole in every newspaper in the country.
Sometimes, he felt that yellow temptation, to do as he'd done with his father: hit the bricks. Then he'd turn around and see them all—many were barely a Bill-cock over a child (and one even was a child). Of course, innocence wasn't exactly abundant in Beaver Hollow, but they didn't serve to die (let the record reflect I am describing his line of reasoning, not my own), did they?
No, he decided. I can't leave, not till they're all safe, at least.
Dutch had been gone for the last several hours, where to no one knew. The sun had risen so he didn't have darkness on his side anymore. At camp, they were whispering about what had happened—had he been captured by Pinks? Killed by Murfrees? O'Driscolls? Bounty hunters? A bear?
Charles sighed. Things had really gone downhill without Hosea. They hadn't stopped looking, but there was no sight of him yet—which of course doesn't mean he was dead—nor had they heard rumor or read in the local papers about a wanted criminal being arrested or killed—which did not mean he was alive.
Hosea's plans weren't always perfect, he thought, but at least they didn't involve gettin' one a' our own kidnapped and tortured! What's next, we turn someone in, watch 'em hang, and take the bounty? He chuckled. Yeah, that's not bad, especially if it's Micah. His chuckle transitioned into a mild cough and he stopped. No. No. Not even Micah. No one is gettin' left behind. I wasn't there to help Tilly save Jack. That's never happening again.
The freshly newborn sun shot a hexing glare into his eye and when he blinked he saw a rider on the trail approaching Beaver Hollow. Dutch, he thought at first before that rider, deformed into a dark blur from the way the sun was angled, bifurcated into two. Charles took aim, breathing to keep his heart rate as low as possible—when your target was on horseback, you needed to be as steady as possible. He called out a warning. "Who are you?" He sighed when he received his answer from one of them.
Charles trod down the hill into camp just as Dutch and his acquaintance pulled in and hopped off their steeds.
"Good morning, everyone!" Dutch called, rousing the gang members who'd been sleeping—Kieran was especially grumpy to have been woken. "This feller right here…" He pointed to his companion. He drove a horse equally as white as The Count (an impressive feat considering that charger's pelt was snow) and must have been the sun's cicisbeo because it showered him with bright Baroque lighting so he looked like a hero in a painting, strong, lean, and noble. The only trouble was his dark, sienna skin and long, unbraided raven hair. "... This is Eagle Flies, son of a great Wapiti chief, and very good friend of mine!"
"Dutch!" Grimshaw snapped in her white underdress, exhaustion only present a fraction of her anger. "You can't bring strangers to camp! Y'know that! We got enough things to keep track of!"
Dutch just laughed. "Glad to see ya still got some fire to ya, Susan. Feared you'd gone full Charles on us."
Susan huffed and threw her arms in a cross. Charles didn't see. He was too focused on their visitor. Charles had seen others before, but something about Eagle Flies was different. He's Wapiti, was Mother Wapiti? Charles wondered, trying to figure it out. Most he'd seen wore their hair short, like a white man's, but Eagle Flies' black locks hung free and loose. Charles himself styled his hair in a single fat braid and suddenly he found that he hated it that way. It felt wrong, cramped, like he'd hogtied them that way.
Dutch cleared his throat and spoke to everyone—for the sake of my aching hand, I will address this method of speech as Normal; when Dutch usually opened his mouth, he aimed to reach the largest quantity of ears. "For those of you concerned ol' Dutch had gone heartless, that I stopped carin' 'bout the individual man…"—he made sure to shoot a special leer at Abigail, Charles, and Lenny—"... look no further! Eagle Flies has burned my virgin ears off with the sins the U.S. Army has been inflicting on his people, and we are goin' to help him!"
"God Almighty…" Abigail muttered, striking the tip of her hand against her brow. A groan from the crowd followed her.
Eagle Flies must've picked up on the audience's emotions and spoke hastily and pleadingly. "Please… they've taken our horses. We cannot hunt without them. My people will starve!"
"Dutch…" Lenny sighed, approaching their leader, not even meeting eye level with the horse. "This ain't our business—"
"Oh, but the mines was our business. You made me keenly aware a' that!" Dutch bit back. He spoke Normally, pointing at Eagle Flies. "I am ridin' with this man! Will anyone join me?"
"I will," Javier said without hesitation. In fact, there was almost desperation in his tone.
Dutch ignored him all the same, instead looking to another, uglier, man in their midst. "John? How 'bout you?" John pulled his trick from last night, scooping up his son and playing with him (his hair, I should clarify, though I wouldn't personally put the alternative past him, regardless of the lack of evidence) to distract from the call to action. "John?"
Abigail walked over and whispered something in his ear then and he set the boy down. "Sure, Dutch," he answered, walking over to his Turkoman and mounting up.
Perhaps the face Dutch made was a smile. "Good. Well if no one else will ride with us—"
"I'll go!" Charles announced, surprising himself and whistling for Taima II. He climbed atop the steed clumsily and seemed lower on horseback than the other three men, despite being the tallest.
"Great!" Dutch celebrated. "Then let's ride!"
The camp shrunk quickly as they pressed on, disappearing into the forest; the tree branches swayed so tightly together that the sun couldn't shine any heat on them. Charles cursed himself for leaving the blue overcoat he'd inherited from Arthur back at camp.
"Thank you for your help," Eagle Flies said softly. "Together we'll get justice for what Colonel Favours has done."
"Our pleasure, son," Dutch answered, but his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else.
"What goin' on here, anyhow?" John asked, beating Charles to the punch. (Heh, speed does trump strength.)
That topic must've interested Eagle Flies because he refused to dilute his speech with breathing as he monologued. "What's goin' on is Colonel Favours is a liar and a murderer, one who finds fun in tormenting us. His men have kidnapped our young, many women too. Shipped them off to reform schools. Our old are sick but they deliberately withhold medicine and supplies from us. He's corrupt too, I know it! Tryin' to push us off our land so Leviticus Cornwall can dig up oil they think lies below. That's what I was lookin' for when I met you in Heartlands."
"Oh, that's mostly a certainly, I'm sure," Dutch confirmed, turning to John. "You see anything in that office like that while we were snoopin'?"
"Weren't lookin'," John said simply.
Charles spurred Taima II until he was riding beside Eagle Flies. Even through the baggy yellow tattered shirt he wore, Charles could tell he was well-built, with the hardened, defined body of a man. His face though, that belonged to a boy. A boy's angry, impatient scowl, a boy's wide, ambitious eyes that glimmered with liveliness whenever someone told him what he wanted to hear and sank with black rage whenever someone didn't. "What is your chief, your father, doin' about all this?"
Eagle Flies just scoffed. He gawked at Charles, amazed he didn't already know. As if his father's japish philosophies were so offensive they should have radiated across the whole world like one of Uncle's farts. "Father has confused wisdom with weakness. He fought in the older wars with the army and now refuses to accept that things change."
"They don't," Charles whispered, patting his horse's head.
John shook his head and muttered. "Fuckin' terrifying thought."
Charles stared down, avoiding Eagle Flies but it was too late. The young bird felt his crusade challenged. He couldn't have that. "I will not follow my father's footsteps of failure."
Charles knew he ought to settle down; it wasn't his place and this conversation was not one he was fit for. But for the first time in his life, Charles Smith couldn't hold his tongue. "Too late."
"What?" Eagle Flies snapped, his glance of annoyance turning to a leer of contempt.
"You attacked the oil fields and you failed," Charles answered. "If you want to go to war with the U.S. Army I think you'll need a longer history of victories than that."
"And what's the alternative?!" His boyish hazel eyes roared with his bulky white steed. He shook his fist when he spoke. "Gettin' on our knees and lickin' till Favours' boots are shiny and clean rather than fighting for what we're owed?!"
"Well said," Dutch said, glowing with destructive pride. Charles wondered how much of Eagle Flies' sermon was his own words.
"Living is always better than dying," was Charles' retort.
Dutch snorted. "Not when one lives without his honor. Like a dog. A slave."
Eagle Flies' child eyes glittered in agreement. "Exactly! We've been thr—"
"Hey John," Dutch interrupted, "what did Abigail whisper to you back there?"
John moaned and rubbed the back of head where it was patchy and pink (still healing from that bulky gangster). "Nothing, Dutch. She didn't say nothing."
"Well, what was 'nothing?' You can put it in small words if that'd be easier for you."
"She…" John stopped for a moment and Charles would always wonder if what he said next was true or an ad-lib. "She said I should tag along and prevent things from gettin'... out of hand."
"My intentions entirely." Dutch laughed and looked to Charles. "Don't ya just love it when women find a way to agree with you while makin' it seem like it was their idea to start?"
Not wanting to stoke this conversation, Charles diverted it with a question he really was curious about. "We could just buy some more horses, Dutch. We got them state bonds don't we?"
"No," he said too quickly.
"You said we woulda just been usin' them bonds for steak and expensive whiskey anyways."
"Th-that was a joke!" He insisted. "And it ain't about the money. It's about the principle."
"Yeah," Eagle Flies concurred. "They take our horses, we buy more, they take more. But they take our horses, we take 'em back and put the fear of God in 'em, they won't dare again."
"What do you mean 'put the fear of God in 'em?'" John asked. "Dutch, this is a simple snatch and grab, ain't it?"
"'Course." He flashed a sugary signature Dutch smile. "What will be will be."
Charles rode closer to their newest confederate, so close their horses' broad shoulders were practically touching. "You can't win against the army," he whispered.
Perhaps Eagle Flies had picked up on Dutch's capricious temper by now and wanted to spare Charles, or perhaps he was mocking him, but he spoke lowly so no one else could hear. "So we just take it? No matter what they do, we just take it like good little boys?"
"No, but there's always a better way than catchin' a tartar. Especially if it means more war for your people."
Eagle Flies scoffed and glanced off at the sun, now risen to a full golden circle as they approached the Lannahechee River. But it was a weak scoff, the kind a child gave when he knew he was wrong. That means there's hope, Charles thought. And he grinned as they slowed and hitched their horses on tall oak trees before descending a slow gray dropoff where the river met the rocky coast. There sat a few canoes and a man next to them with a red shirt and red skin; some of it was from the sun and lack of shade, but most was from birth. He was another Wapiti, further proven by the green and white sash that decorated his chest. Some of those symbols looked familiar, Charles could've sworn. From Mother, perhaps? He racked his brain; something about the little images felt important, like they were things he could and should know, like they were carved in his blood somehow. Still, nothing rang a bell. This man wore his hair in a braid at least—it was the only feature about him that relaxed Charles.
"This—" Eagle Flies began before Dutch cut him off.
"Gentlemen… this is Paytah. Met him earlier today. He's been tracking the convoy of horses since they were nabbed a few days ago." He brought the younger man into a hug like they were already the best of friends. "Good to see you again, my son."
"Thank you, Mr. Van der Linde," Paytah chuckled, pulling away.
"Dutch," he corrected, "please, Mr. Van der Linde's too long. It'd take an hour to ask me how I was doing!"
Paytah chortled again and tried to yank his smile down to a neutral, business-like flatline. "Dutch."
"There you go."
"Huh, I guess Mr. Kilgore would be out of the question?" They both quizzically turned to John next, with Paytah trying not to stare at his scars (unsuccessfully). "Tryin' to lay low and the first thing you do is go and announce your presence to a whole tribe, you really pull out all the stops, don't ya, Dutch?"
"Shut up."
He offered his hand. "John Marston."
Paytah met it, goggling the fingers so his eyes wouldn't be led to the scarred face. "Pleasure."
The canoes finally caught John's eye. "Shit… oh, uh sorry. Yeah, likewise." He ran forward to fact-check they weren't a mirage, disappointed when his foot met the wood. "Shit!" He turned back to Dutch, livid. "You didn't say nothin' 'bout water bein' involved!"
Dutch roared with laughter, before explaining the situation to the perplexed Natives.
"You're serious?" Eagle Flies thundered with giggles. "You never learned to swim?"
John growled. "Can we just get this over with?"
Paytah, trying so hard to be polite to the help, glanced at some of the birds floating by on high, his face twisting and writhing, battling the urge to laugh, finally meeting John's eyes. "The boat's still moored in the channel. Be best to wait till nightfall."
7:39 PM, August 5th, 1899
When the young yellow sun grew old and broke its hip, falling down below Earth and the bright pallid crescent moon rolled into the sky, they were still at it.
"What can I say? Raising a child is a battle of give and take. It was teach the boy to read or swim."
"Laugh it up," John snarled as they approached the canoes.
"That's alright, really. Nothin' to be ashamed of. I know many at the reservation who can't swim either. They often wet the bed too and can't talk to strangers without their mothers present." Eagle Flies joked as he and Dutch took the first canoe, John and Paytah the second. Charles' head panned back and forth before he settled on the closest one to him.
He sat by Dutch as Eagle Flies took the oars and began rowing.
"Don't worry," he heard Paytah say as John rowed, "I'm a very experienced swimmer. If the water gets deeper than three feet, I'll move heaven and earth to get you the hell outta dodge."
"If we wanna talk 'bout what I can do," John said, "I've killed a man by stuffing his face with hard-boiled eggs till he couldn't breath." He glared up at Paytah then aside to Dutch. "He annoyed me."
"Well thank God this man weren't standin' in a pond, or God forbid, a tall puddle. That would've been—"
"Does your father know about this?" Charles asked Eagle Flies.
Dutch sighed. "Determined to destroy the conversation, ain't you?"
"What does it matter?" Eagle Flies answered with a groan as he rowed. "He wouldn't have had the courage to stop us if he had known."
"Courage can sometimes mean doin' the easiest thing."
"No. Cowardice is not courage."
Charles shifted uncomfortably and changed tactics. "Well, what about your tribe? Do you want to get them mixed up in this?"
"Bit late for that, don't ya think?" Dutch remarked, giving a crooked head tilt over his shoulder. His eyes shone white in the dark.
"They agree with me anyway," Eagle Flies said with a smirk. "Over a dozen would be willing to attack tonight if I gave the word."
Charles cursed under his breath. He noticed then that Dutch was loading his dual pistols with twelve copper cartilages that sparkled in the moonlight. "Dutch, we're keepin' this quiet, remember? No point in adding unnecessary attention to ourselves."
Dutch scoffed. "I know that. But what do you want me to do? Go in completely empty-handed? What if we're caught by surprise? What then?"
Charles thought those queries were rhetorical, but when he caught those glowing white eyes staring unflinchingly in the night, he knew Dutch wanted him to say it. "Sure."
"Sure what?"
"Sure Dutch," Charles said through gritted teeth. "Makes sense."
"Good. What happened to you anyway? Never thought I'd miss one-word-a-day Charles, but hey, he beats talk-you-till-your-ears-bleed Charles."
Charles didn't answer.
The boat came up as they glided deep into the channel. They could smell it long before they saw the twin yellow lights coming from the rear and bridge of the ship—like everything nowadays, it was steam-powered, and farted noxious-smelling black smoke. The size of the ship was disheartening for Charles—damn thing was barely large enough to house six horses. When Eagle Flies said their horses were stolen, Charles reflected, I'd hoped he meant a sizable number of horses. Woulda at least justified all this nonsense.
He added one more time that they could just buy new horses, call this off, it could come out of his end. The steamship rumbled and screeched a boisterous horn just as he opened his mouth and no one heard him. Or they just ignored him.
The hull of the small cargo ship was just high enough to disguise them as they floated closer, but just low enough to reach as Dutch said "Pull up alongside… quietly." Keeping to the darkness outside the grasp of the twin yellow lanterns on opposite sides of the boat, they hoisted themselves aboard without making a sound. Lurking in the shadows, they saw two men standing at the edge of the deck looking eastward before one of them turned and disappeared behind one of the cabins in the center of the boat.
Paytah stayed with the canoes, keeping them from drifting off with the trembling black waves, while John and Charles advanced. Charles knocked the man overseeing the east out with the butt of his gun while John crouched to the left, following the other one down the line and putting him in a sleeper hold. The ship horn blared again like a hundred bears bellowing and Charles drilled his thumbs in his ears. Christ! Is a goddamn monkey workin' that horn?!
He and John stalked down the deck until they arrived at the stables and looked inside. Charles scoffed, he wasn't used to being right and didn't know how else to react. Six horses. All this shit for six horses? Dammit we coulda rustled six horses for less effort. There was a guard petting one of the red-spotted Turkomans and that alongside his black, patchy beard reminded Charles of Kieran. Because of this, he bashed his skull in with as much grace and featheriness as possible. The horn screamed once more, shooting a shake through Charles and he lost his balance for a moment. This was the loudest one yet, and when it was over, Charles finally understood. No one was manning the horn; it was the ship itself. It was warning them to run away before it was…
Too late. Charles heard the gunshots echoing along the ebony sea and by the the time he and John climbed onto the second deck and entered the bridge, Dutch and Eagle Flies were standing over three men who were draining out into the boat, staining the boards burgundy.
"They shot at us," Dutch said without hesitation, "we had no choice."
"Dammit!" Charles barked, pointing at a specially dressed fellow with a large orange beard. "That was the captain! Who the hell is gonna turn this rig 'round, now?"
The booming ship horn cut Dutch off from answering, and when it simmered and died away, the sound of gunshots replaced it.
"Shit!" John declared and got into cover by the railing beside Charles. Their cover was blown and the remaining four guards were not pleased about their fallen comrades.
"Charles!" Dutch called, talking hastily so the roar of the boat horn and ringing of ricocheting gunfire couldn't interrupt him. "Get this—" It didn't work. Eventually, when it had passed, he tried again. "Get this ship movin'! I think I can steer her back to land, but ya need to raise the anchor 'fore other ships come!"
He hopped down on the deck, blasting the last few guards with his double-action revolver—screw it, silence wasn't golden anymore—and racing over to the massive mechanical rig near the bow that was attached to the taut, lowered anchor. It had more nooks and crannies than Uncle's tubby belly and more switches than Grimshaw (back when flogging was her method of punishment ((or fun, take your pick))).
"What's the holdup?" Dutch chanted from behind the ship's wheel.
"Ya think I have the first idea how the hell this dohickey works?!" Charles barked, surprised to find bite there as well.
Dutch mumbled something before handing something to Eagle Flies, who leaned out a window and tossed a burgundy block at Charles.
Dynamite, he thought, feeling the three sticks in his hand like fat erect cigarettes. He brought dynamite. He knew…
"Dammit, Charles!" John yelled. "Blow it and let's get lost!"
The halfbreed complied, sticking the wedge to the anchor and lighting the fuse. It was white-scarlett and was nimble as a snake. He barely made it out of the way when it exploded.
The first thing he felt besides his face smooshed against the dank floor planks was the jolt. The boat was moving. He hobbled to his feet, using the edge of the ship as a crutch. He looked to the stern of the ship; Paytah hopped onboard just as the canoes capsized under the forceful dark wakes the cargoship was kicking up. He gawped at Charles with his arms wide. What the hell, he said without speaking. Charles mirrored his stance, spreading his arms in a cartoonish shrug. The fuck do I know.
Then they hit something that splashed Charles and Paytah across the sodden but still scratchy wooden deck. Paytah bellowed something in a language Charles didn't understand, which for some reason compelled him to blush shyly. Eagle Flies returned with phrases equally foreign, before John cut him off with a violent, panicked crack in his voice.
"Incoming! Brace yourselves!"
Charles clung to the ship's slippery railing. Thank God the impact smashed him backward; if he'd been sent forward, he'd of fallen into the shiny black water and been crushed underneath the boat, if not been shredded by the propellers. Instead, he simply flew back against the porthole, knocking himself out cold against the jagged metal walls.
When he awoke a few moments later, he couldn't breathe, couldn't see either. The water was too thick and overwhelmingly dark. He burst free with a loud gasp, seeing Paytah crawl sloppily to the stables and he followed.
"You okay?" Charles asked Paytah.
"Yeah, but the ship's done for. Shit, the horses are spooked. We got to get 'em out of here!" He popped one of the locks and a Kentucky Saddler snapped the door off and nearly trampled Paytah trying to get out.
"Oh, you'll make a great seaman yet, Dutch!" John yelled sarcastically, entering the stables with Eagle Flies and their brilliant mastermind. "Pearson would be proud!"
"Shut up," Dutch groaned. "Let's just get these horses." He hopped on a small Morgan, who wasn't strong enough to throw him. "Water's shallow enough, we'll ride back to the mainland."
Eagle Flies attempted the same maneuver on the red-spotted Turkoman but was instantly repelled onto his ass as it burst away. "Shit!"
"Don't let 'em get away!" Dutch ordered.
Charles, alongside the others, stumbled over the sunken edge of the ship and swam, jockeying against the strong and omnidirectional current until he mounted the whining Turkoman.
John took the Saddler, Paytah took the other brown Morgan, and Eagle Flies climbed the tall Appaloosa. Dutch lassoed the last American Standardbred and together they trotted back to the coast. Then he heard it. That impossibly loud boat horn that was a faultless mix between a drunk belching and a virgin being raped. Charles gyrated his head in a sweaty fear and saw the ship's horn was already drowned, along with the rest of the vessel. Must be losin' my mind. His head fell slightly and he saw the name imprinted on the hull in bold white words, standing in stark contrast to the midnight river: Sisyphus.
When they finally hit sand, it was Dutch who spoke first. "Ah, it seems Uncle Sam likes you fellers even less than he likes us!"
"So it goes…" Eagle Flies answered, dropping down and mounting his own horse alongside Paytah, lassoing the rest to pony beside them when they rode out. "My father doesn't want to fight again." For a moment those naive boyish eyes darkened with maturity and Charles tried to take advantage, but it was too late.
"Your father," Dutch said, "doesn't need to know everything."
"Yeah," Eagle Flies muttered, unsure. Charles tried again but oh, speaking was too new for him, he wasn't quick enough on the trigger. The boy cleared his throat and spoke once more. "Will one of you help us escort these horses back to my reservation?"
Dutch pointed dramatically to his volunteer. "Oh, John can—oh… no, John would need to check in with his wife first. I'll go." John didn't even have time to leer (not that it would have been too effective in the dead of night) because Dutch whirled around to Eagle Flies and Paytah, mounting The Count next to them, all smiles. "I like you, son. And after the horses, are we gonna sit around and wait for the army to come and wreak its revenge?"
"Oh, I certainly hope not."
"Of course we ain't! Now let's go check out that fort a' theirs! Wallace, right?"
"Right."
"Dutch!" John cried, looking at him incredulously. "You're just gonna take off? We sorta need you back at homebase right now."
"Oh, now you do? Thought you didn't like my leadership—"
"Dammit, Dutch! We don't got time for this whiny schoolboy routine! You just kicked up a whole heap a' trouble! We need to be movin' forward, not backward!"
"We—!" Dutch cut himself off and leaned close to John, whispering. "We are. I had a plan. I still have a plan. You just need to trust me." John sighed and worry marred Dutch face. "John… you trust me, don't ya?"
John exhaled heavily. "Always." But it was a stock answer. And everyone knew it.
Saying nothing, Dutch whipped The Count roughly with his reins and pulled away, Paytah close behind him.
Charles took Eagle Flies' arm, holding him back for a moment. "This is a mistake…"
"Fine!" His eyes were shrunken in a furious stare, yet they still stood large and innocent. "Then my mistakes they'll be! I'd rather make a million mistakes doing something than become like my father."
"Please…" Charles begged, "I-I… my mother was Wapiti… the army took her away, like your men and women to the reform schools, except… I don't think she arrived anywhere…"
"Then how can you resist this?" Eagle Flies said, ripping his hands free from Charles, as though his touch repulsed him. "You want them to get away with what they did to your mother?"
"That—that ain't the point…"
"Then what is?!"
"M-my daddy," Charles stammered, "he went after them… he never came back." It wasn't true, but then again, the strongest arguments usually weren't. Some fools think mixing a lie with the truth was like watering down a beer, but it was more like dropping a shot in one. "Can't you see? We lose everything we care about goin' after revenge."
Charles was actually doing pretty well until he uttered that last word. Eagle Flies' own father practically trademarked every argument with that word.
Our people are not of the ways of revenge, my son.
We cannot sink to their level, we cannot endorse violence and vengeance.
I am too old and too tired to hear these child ramblings of revenge, tonight, boy. Go to sleep.
Needless to say, that last word sealed the conversation. "It won't be revenge…" Eagle Flies said—it was the same sermon he gave himself every time he argued with his father—, "but justice."
And then he was off, trailing Dutch and Paytah, leaving Charles and John alone.
"What just happened?" the scarred man whispered.
"What have we just started?"
John turned to him, a wild look in his eyes, like a fox whose leg was caught in a trap and there was only one way out… "You busy tomorrow, Charles?"
"No. Why?"
He exhaled deeply, licked his lips, and whistled. Horse came trotting over and he mounted the steed. "I'm gonna tear every town, city, spit of civilization apart from here westward, as far westward as I can get 'fore the sun goes down. I want you to go north. We need to find Hosea. Now. Before it's all broken beyond repair."
John began to gallop back to camp when Charles' suddenly thundering voice stopped him. "John… I think it might already be broken beyond repair."
They rode the rest of the way back in silence. Charles had said enough for both of them. For years.
Sorry this update took so long. I was sick last week. Hope to get back to normal this week.
Anyway, next time we'll introduce one of my favorite duos in this fanfic. Get excited for that, it'll be good!
Act II is nearly done... if I keep pace it should be finished by the end of next week... with an explosive finale.