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 Twenty-Seven: Bill

7:46 PM, July 29th, 1899

Bill snickered, watching Kieran tremble as he tried wiping the blood off his grey jacket; it wouldn't come out, and the jacket was light grey too. Then Bill swore as he looked down at his own blue and green checkered shirt, stained to a purple and brown hodgepodge. They were on horseback now, riding back to camp with another sin added to their treasury and forty more dollars for the Austrian's red box.

"Say what you will 'bout Johnny boy," he said, "but he's got it right. Wearing all black and all."

"S-sure."

"But hey, least we showed that guy who's boss, right?"

"Uh-huh," Kieran agreed blindly, not relenting on his attempts to rub the blemish out of his clothing, spitting on it and rubbing it with the palm of his hand.

"Don't worry, though, next time an asshole makes a move I'll let you have the kill."

"No!" the boy said quickly, before rephrasing himself to avoid offending his partner. His burly, big-as-a-house partner who could snap his bones like a twig. "I… I feel like there's better ways to be makin' money."

"Like what?"

"Well, I'll be damned if I know, but-but… I mean Bill, don't it feel wrong? That feller didn't have a week, no one coulda paid it back that quickly."

"Clearly not, since we got every cent back, plus interest." Kieran's shoulders sunk and Bill added imperiously, "Don't be soft and don't doubt. There's a reason they say between a rock and a hard place and not between a rock and a soft place."

"W—huh? The heck does that mean?"

"Well, y'know, cuz, the saying is between a rock and a hard place, and I—"

"Bill, maybe leave the speeches for Dutch."

"B—well… the point is—"

"I know. I get what you're drivin' at."

"—hard world. Can't be soft in a hard world."

"I got it."

"That's what I was tryin' to explain."

"I know."

They galloped slower as the terrain got rougher; they strayed from the road leading south to Saint Denis, breaking onto the muck-strewn ground, heading west to where Lakay was resting for them. The sun had pretty much completely drowned and the moon had ascended high into the sky, yet it was still light enough that lanterns weren't required.

"Besides," Bill continued, "we're richer now for it."

Kieran grumbled. "Yeah, only five hundred more dead fathers and we've made it."

"Hey! I didn't ask the bastard to reach for his gun—"

"You threatened to rape his wife if he didn't pay us."

"That was a blank threat! You think I'd touch her? Her tits were damn near draggin' on the floor! And don't you go gettin' used to that smartass attitude. Arthur was allowed that privilege because, unlike you, he was the toughest guy in the room. If you go wisecrackin' me again, I'll smash your teeth out with a hammer… O'Driscoll."

"I'M NOT…" Kieran began before his shockingly thunderous voice crumbled away to a low sigh. "Sure, Bill."

They rode under the trees, vanishing into the forest that led to Lakay. With the trees blocking out the full moon's light, Bill thought he'd need that lantern after all, until something rather wonderful happened.

Flyspecks of lemon-lime light poured in every direction, glittering the forest in a jeweled illuminance that complimented the bright green scimitar-shaped blades of grass and chocolate-brown scaled bark of the tree trunks. Fireflies. Bill's eyes glimmered for the first time in years, he felt a youthful adoration of Mother Nature.

The world is so beautiful.

The horses' trots steadied into rhythmic rocks, like a large swaying swing; Bill almost fell asleep then and there. The air was gorgeous tonight, stunning, even… romantic. He glanced back to Kieran.

"This has been fun, let's do this again soon."

He didn't hear his new friend's response; he was too concentrated on the marvelous display of tiny golden fireworks as they closed the remaining distance to camp.

The noise was evident, that was what stood out first; Dutch wanted them to remain incognito and discreet (he'd added the second work after seeing in Bill's eyes he didn't know the first), yet there seemed to be a party raging tonight—there was cheering, clanging bottles, dozens of lanterns and candles advertising the place to the whole damn world, and… a guitar?

Bill perked up, spurring Brown Jack faster, past the outhouse, and the shed/tiny apartment house to the center of camp in front of the main cabin and boathouse.

There's only one guy I know who can play the guitar like that…

And sure enough, as Bill was breathing, there was Javier, seated by the campfire just like he'd never left, surrounded by a dancing Tilly, Grimshaw (ew), Mary-Beth, Swanson, and Uncle, moving around in a sloppy, slightly inebriated circle.

"Bill Williamson!" came a warm, familiar voice.

"Lenny Summers."

"Don't look so surprised, there ain't a force on earth that can take me down!"

"'Cept for a Lemyone Raider, thank God you didn't run into one."

They laughed, and Lenny offered his hand to help Bill down—he accepted, choosing to assume the gesture was one of kindness and not an implication that he was a brittle woman who needed to be kept safe. Dutch handed him a beer and beckoned him over to the fell tree he'd eaten dinner at earlier. Lenny sat on the right end, with Dutch, Bill, and Micah lining the rest of it meeting Grimshaw at the stump. The rest of the camp soon followed, standing over Lenny as they pushed and badgered him to speak about it. In mock reluctance, the boy began his story with the Korrigan, narrating his exploits at that Canada of a prison (cold wind, shitty food, no women, seems an apt comparison) all the way to him posting a letter to the Jameson's at Annesburg this morning inquiring about a potential meeting in a few days.

"We can use this," Dutch said, eagerly. "Pretend to be some wealthy fat cats, meet with those doltish twins, gain their trust, and gouge their pockets!"

Bill took a large swig from his bottle before moving the cold base to his hot skull. We didn't make a single damn cent from the Saint Denis take… He started squeezing the glass tighter, receiving the urge to smash it against someone's head. He looked to his left—Dutch and Lenny. That wouldn't do. To his right. Micah and Grimshaw.

Worse to beat a cripple or an old woman?

His temper thankfully cooled as Lenny started up a lighter conversation about Tilly's new position.

"Never saw you as a commis," he teased.

Bill groaned, expecting another Karl Marx speech from Dutch. Poor bastard never understood the English language all that well.

"Shut up, ya convict."

Uncle shook his head fearfully, adding "I just thank God, it ain't Abigail. I ain't a cat. One near-death experience I can endure, but two…?"

"Where are they anyway?" Charles asked. "I haven't seen Abigail out of bed in weeks. And I haven't seen John since—"

Dutch cut him off there, probably keen to leave that memory in the distant past. "They're just celebratin' their reunification… with an excessive amount of reunifying."

Grimshaw snorted at this, laughing so hard she couldn't keep the whiskey in her mouth and it spilled out in misty sparks. Charles looked at Bill with a confused, scrunched-up mouth. Bill shot back with a shrug; Charles hadn't missed anything that would explain the horror he was witnessing and Bill didn't have the tongue to articulate it, and if he did, he wouldn't have the stomach. Jack walked over then, holding a large, portrait-sized book in his dainty hands.

"Uncle Dutch?" The boy asked with wide, innocent eyes. "What does… con-gree-gate mean?"

"God, Dutch," Swanson chimed in, empty-handed for the seventh day in a row. Bill hated it; he was always more fun wasted. "Why don't I just feed the kid the bible?"

"It's Evelyn Miller," Dutch stressed, "the kind a' author any learned boy's gotta read. The fact that he refuses to water anything down is a virtue, not a—"

Molly was sick from eating some undercooked pork two nights back (it was prepared by Micah, but he'd been talked at quite rigorously by Dutch, so let that simmer), but still conjured the strength to insert herself, screaming "Evelyn Miller fuckin' sucks, Dutch!"

Bill was sitting next to the man and saw the vein bulge fat on his forehead. He could spot the dark fantasies forming in his leader's eyes and Bill couldn't blame him. His own father's whores and women (although in most cases the two were rarely mutually exclusive) were just the same; nagging and mooching—they hated them, they both did.

Probably the reason I'm so picky with my women, Bill thought. Can't chance pickin' some whiny whelp.

"But what does it mean, Uncle Dutch?" Jack asked again.

"I-it means tttah gath-ah folk… up in a… a crowd, err, uh, or massss," Mary-Beth stammered, her throat a little too moist from drink. "L-like, uh… the church is meetin' to… c-congregate?"

"Oh, thank you." He said it politely, but it was clear he couldn't decipher the majority of what she spat. The wild inconsistency in the volume didn't help either.

Uncle elbowed Kieran in the ribs before imparting some fatherly advice. "If I was you, I'd fuck that drunken mess before she realized what's what."

"Oh, you're gross," the debt collector groaned.

"I'm pragmatic. Look, kid, this is how you rise outta your caste—"

Tilly's fist slapped him in the nose before he finished, and instead, he concluded by screaming "fuck!"

"Why don't you go inside and finish readin'," Grimshaw suggested to Jack, trying to get the boy as far away from this mess as possible. The boy smiled complacently and went on his way.

"It was good to see ya again, kid!" Lenny called out. "At least till ya slaughtered me in dominoes!"

"Sorry!" The boy shouted back as he closed the door leading into the main house behind him as he entered.

"Eh, that's fine, Lenny," Bill said encouragingly. "Kid beats me too."

"Difference is Lenny let him win," Uncle cackled, squeakily, holding his maroon nose upright from Tilly's punch.

"Mr. Williamson," Strauss said, sober as Swanson (Bill was starting to wonder if he could even get drunk), "did you collect the debt?"

"Oh, yeah." Bill reached into his pocket and handed the green to Strauss, who tucked it into his little red box. "Only five hundred more to go!" He earned a few laughs for this joke, and couldn't stop the pride from swelling in his chest.

"Javier," came Dutch, staring at the Mexican. He looked dead, or at the very least, dying. Pale, tired, gaunt, but it was more than that. Fear clung to his countenance like a black halo to Judas. "You're quiet tonight."

Javier kept his brown eyes on the swampy dirt, downing the last of his beer in one gulp that consumed over eight seconds of silence as the gang waited for him to speak. Finally, standing, he obliged them. "Can I speak to you in private?"

Dutch chuckled, before catching the steel in Javier's usually warm gaze. He cleared his throat. "'Bout what?"

"Can we just talk?"

"Well," Dutch laughed again, nervously, "what for. If this was about leavin' your maracas, I'm sorry, there weren't enough room and we were in a hurr—"

"Dutch!" Javier cried, shocking everyone, causing them to bleach back as though he'd shot a spit in their direction. "It's 'bout Micah."

Bill's eyes—followed shortly by twenty others—fell on Micah, who leaned back, an awkward young boy who got caught masturbating at mass.

"If there's somethin' you wanna say, say it," Dutch said, feigning serenity. "Uncle Sam may hate us, but as long as we stand on his property, we still got free speech. C'mon, no one's stoppin' you."

"Okay… he's gotta go."

"What?"

"This goddamn fiasco was his fault!"

"Well… ya can't pile all the blame on one person…"

"He shot an innocent hostage! Like you always told us not to! He ain't one of us!"

"She was pullin' a piece…" Micah mumbled, not looking up.

"No, she weren't you lying sack a'—"

"Javier!" Dutch interceded. "She was. I saw it."

The silence that followed was congesting and seemed to last forever.

"N-no. She weren't," Javier finally said.

Dutch planted his hand on Javier's shoulder, moving the other in front of his face. "Javier," he coaxed, his voice as sweet as honey, "I saw it. Unfortunate as it was, but that job just couldn't'a worked. Too much bad luck. Shit happens, my friend, but we ain't out of the game yet. We're gonna make so much money on this next job that—"

"Dutch. I had my eyes on the hostages the whole time. She didn't reach for a gun."

Javier peeled Dutch's arm off his person.

Bill's head swiveled from side to side. No one seemed drunk anymore. The temperature felt like it had plummeted by fifty degrees. Bill exhales softly, half-expecting to see his breath. Candles burned out suddenly, and everything was grimmer and darker.

At last, Dutch spoke. "Are you callin' me a liar?"

"He's gotta go out, Dutch," Javier said with narrow, black eyes. "I'm afraid… I must insist on it."

"Insist…?" The venom was so apparent in his voice. All semblance of politeness was lost. But Javier didn't seize, he held fast, eyes unblinking and unflinching and unyielding, a leafless tree in the face of a hurricane.

"Yeah… insist."

Bill was frozen, the chilly night had hardened his blood to the bone. His heart was racing and he was shocked to find himself scared and that seldom happened. The sounds of crickets chirping or water running disappeared and there was nothing in this world save the deafening quiet. It echoed in the gloomy night, building in intensity until it was unbearable. Bill couldn't feel his ear but if he could he would've sworn a red tear was dribbling out.

Then his voice rang out—not the muted, timorous one that would've belonged to anyone at Lakay, but an obstreperous, imperious one, one that was hoarse and dry, craving blood to quench its ceaseless thirst.

"Mr. Van der Linde!" it said.

Over a dozen heads pivoted to the source: the forest leading into the new camp. But with all the orange candles dying, they could barely see their inner circle, let alone decipher the dark forest.

"As required, I must request your surrender before we kill each other like rabid dogs."

The form of a man… no, worse, a gentleman snicked through the shadows, his features ironing out as he approached. It was Milton.

"Though I think we both know you want it that way."

Dozens of formless contours followed him, piercing through the black woods until they were too plain to see as agents. Then, a shape Bill at first swore was an elephant slowly slid through the dark as well, decked with enough ammunition to take on an army. The Maxim gun did something funny to Bill; he was reminded of one of Jack's comics: a man was scared of a tough guy in a bar and ran off so fast he left his skin behind, carrying with him only his bones. It was exactly what he wished he could do now.

"That ain't what I want," Dutch called back, shoving Javier out of the way as he kept his eyes locked on Milton. "Ain't never been what I wanted."

"Coulda fooled me. Blackwater, Valentine, Rhodes, Saint Denis." He listed them one per finger.

Dutch returned the favor. "Jenny, Mac, Davey, Sean, Josiah. We all kill, Milton. Least I do it to protect my people. You do it to please a man with more sins that all a' us combined. When a dog's only known the street, instead of the penthouses you gentlemen enjoy, that would make it a street dog, wouldn't it? And yeah, I guess street dogs is pretty rabid."

"Heh. That's cute. I practiced my little diddy on the way over, but you had an even better one all queued up. How long have you been deludin' yourself?"

"Just give the order," Agent Ross begged, appearing by Milton's side.

"Wait!" Grimshaw filibustered, motioning for everyone to fall back to the main house for some cover, which they did, slowly, discreetly. It ain't more than a few feet away. Bill thought. Maybe we can reach it? "L-let's talk about this. There's a boy here…"

"LIGHT 'EM UP!"

Bill closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of four thousand rounds pouring out a minute to peal across the flat lake of Lagras and strike him in volleys so tightly bound together he'd be torn in half as cleanly as if he'd been put to death by sawing.

Instead, he heard a single shot from a six-gun and a body thudding on the ground. The Maxim gunner was dead. The horde of suits gyrated, shooting at something behind them.

Bill laughed as he drew his gun, creating a coverfire so the others could make it back inside. Bastards fell for the same trick twice.

Dutch, Lenny, Charles, and Javier had their guns out a curse later, walking backward with the big boy until they all were back in the boathouse. They kept low, aiming their heads low so the glass from the windows didn't slash their eyes when they inevitably shattered from the Maxim's gunner.

"Kill 'em! Kill 'em all!" Milton screamed, louder than even the massive turret he stood next to.

Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang!

Bullets tore threw the meager shack, eating most of the door, the shutters, the whole damn place. The kitchen table, covered with a half-plucked chicken Mary-Beth started before the guests had arrived, lost a leg and folded over, spraying feathers across the floors; cabinets fed with Mary-Beth's extensive book collection exploded in a cloud of yellow-white papers; the strung up brown hammocks collapsed in a prolonged downward float.

Bill glanced to his left, spotting Kieran, who tried to chance a peek out the window—a mistake. A flurry of lead scrapped across his long black hair as Bill yanked him down, nearly taking it off along with his head.

"Get down, ya fuckin' idiot!" he barked.

"Yeah, yeah." He shook like a wet cat.

Bill wasn't adept at math, but he figured there couldn't possibly have been four hundred bullets spent yet. "Don't lose your dinner cuz we're gonna be here a while. They'll run out eventually." I hope.

"Or…" Grimshaw butted in, making Bill jump (The fuck did she come from?), "you could follow me…"

"Piss off, ya old bag, I'm workin' here," Bill said until she pinched his ear and pulled him closer.

"Come with me, you little shit, unless you want all a' us to die!" There she is, there's Grimshaw, he thought. "Please…?" And there she goes.

Reluctantly, he shadowed her as she made a worm of herself, crawling low on the moldy wooden floors, creeping as quickly but as carefully towards the back door. She kept her shotgun nuzzled in her arms while Bill had his revolver in his holster. They transitioned to their knees once they got outside, crouching along the dock separating them from two hundred feet of alligator-infested lake waters. It curved along in a j-shape, leading them back to land.

"Where are we goin'?" Bill whispered hoarsely, heart pounding.

"There's a trapdoor leading to the other house. We can try to flank 'em."

Grimshaw jumped off the dock onto the muddy tip of land barely poking out from the water and trailed it with Bill on her tail to underneath the boathouse. Amidst all the columns holding the shack up in case the water level rose unexpectedly, was a large rectangular hole.

Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang!

That was the only noise they were treated to as they climbed inside the boathouse where, luckily, the brown double doors were closed, obscuring their presence to the dozens of Pinkertons waiting outside. Then, their ears were assaulted with another sound, one far more vexing:

"There shall be no escape! There shall be no mercy!" bellowed Milton. "You were offered peace and freedom and you spat in their faces! You shall atone for your sins and pay for your crimes! This country has had enough of the likes of you!"

Bill pressed his shoulder against the door, nodding to Grimshaw and she cocked her gun and he cocked his. "This idiot is really startin' to irritate me!"

He kicked the doors open and began blasting, concentrating his efforts on the machine gunner in the center and branching out from there. After the fifth shot (bastard was as persistent as Blackbeard) the gunner finally fell; with him gone, Dutch, Javier, Lenny, and the rest began to perk up from their rabbit holes and began a cover fire from the house. Using this, Bill charged forward bravely, if not a bit stupidly, and took mount at the Maxim gun.

And wherever he swirled, hell came with him. Hell and four thousand rounds a minute.

It was a turkey shoot, if that turkey had no wings and no legs. Pinks went belly-up like fish in a poison lake—in fifteen seconds Bill had killed twice as many. He couldn't spot Milton, but he could already hear that annoying bastard's voice: just because you're kicking our asses don't mean you're winning. In the end, Uncle Sam always gets his pound a' flesh.

Well, here's his flesh! Right here!

Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang!

Come and get it! Come and get it!

But they couldn't. They were too busy running away.

"This ain't over!" Milton screamed from somewhere in the dark woods where he'd vanished. Bill wished he knew where or he could try to get a lucky shot off on him. "We'll hunt you right off the edge of the map, everywhere, anywhere. Until the end of time!"

That was the last of Milton he'd hear tonight.

Bill's hands were sweaty on the trigger, it reminded him of his time back in the infantry, a musket rifle and a bayonet in his hand. Then, in the bushes, something was rustling, and a shadow emerged moving towards Bill. Night folk? Bill pondered, hands growing itchy. No.

"Bill!" John cried. "Jesus! I leave for less than two hours and this happens!"

Abigail followed shortly after. "Where's Jack?" she asked Bill.

"He's fine. Main hut with Dutch." Abigail and John went racing, the former swearing under her breath they were never leaving that boy alone ever again. Bill waylaid John for a moment to offer a lame thank you for taking out the Maxim gunner. John gave a customary smile and advanced further on, rushing into the house to check on his boy.

At the same time he went crashing in, Dutch came storming out, swarmed by a mob of followers.

"What we gonna do next, Dutch?" asked Tilly.

"How did they find us?" came Strauss.

"Whad da fuck jus happened?" Mary-Beth yelled, terrified but still inebriated.

'Shut up!" Dutch answered. "Just shut up and gimme a moment to think!" He went on for a minute or so, muttering and blabbering quietly, drool dripping out of his mouth. The only word Bill made out was rat. "I got it! Got it, we'll-we'll go north! H-Hosea mentioned some land up there, s-spacious enough and should be easy enough to take. Holdin' will be a little trickier… b-but we could manage. It would just be a little while. That's all. Nothin' more."

"Where?" Grimshaw asked, looking… scared. Of Dutch.

"Place called Beaver's Hole—no! Beaver's Hollow. Yeah, that's it."

"Beaver's Hollow?" Uncle shouted incredulously. "That's Murfree Country! Are you simple or stupid or both—"

"Shut up! That is the plan and we're stickin' to it cuz that's what I got and that's what we're rolling with, so shut up unless you got a better plan or better yet just shut up cuz I don't wanna fuckin' hear your bitchin'! Have some damn faith, Ar-Ar…" He clammed up for a moment and seemed ready to pop into a whirlwind of tears and sobs. Then he spoke again. "Bill?!

"Yeah, boss?" the bald man himself answered primly.

"Go find Sadie, we ain't got time to wait 'round for her. She's at the saloon in Valentine… or Rhodes… or some such place, I don't know, just find her!"

"S-sure thing."

"Good, good." He returned to the muttering and Bill focused closer this time, making out a full sentence. These bastards won't let up. Just won't fuckin' let up! "Kieran! Toss this cheating, overcompensating gun into the goddamn lake!"

"Uh, yeah, will do—"

"Wait! Shut up! New plan: find a cave, and store it there. Might need to strip it down and sell it later if we strapped for cash."

"We're strapped for cash now," Strauss reminded him.

"Later! When the heat on it dies. Why are you still here, Kieran? Find a damn cave or somethin'!" The boy went on and Dutch relayed his last command before he would pass out from stress: "Grimshaw! Pack this place up… again. And make it snap-snappppp…"

And, not wasting a second's moment, Bill went on, meeting the horses tied by the trees, where, miraculously, Brown Jack sat patiently after all that ruckus, ready to ride on into the night.

Hope you enjoyed! Next time, we'll be introduced to Sadie's greatest rival...

Feel free to leave any predications or suggestions! I'm curious what you guys are thinking!