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-One: Uncle

9:43 PM, July 30th, 1899

"Wowee! Guard dog's a-leavin'!" Uncle said, heehawing like a donkey. Tilly was doing her best to ignore him as she loaded all her belongings onto one of the wagons.

Sadie had returned about twenty minutes ago, reporting that Beaver's Hollow was clear and ready for them, so those who were able were heading out. Not all, though.

Kieran was still in Van Horn looking for their favorite drunken blonde (she'd vanished again); Abigail refused to leave without John and refused to allow Jack to leave without her—Molly had a similar situation with Dutch, but didn't have any trouble leaving; and Charles had asked Uncle and Javier to stay and help him with robbing the dynamite transport tonight.

The rest of the gang had filled up three of the wagons and were fact-checking that they had everything they needed before they departed.

"I am goin' to bask in the few hours a' peace we'll have with you gone." Tilly walked past him to the edge of camp, calling for Cain one last time. It had been a few days since anyone had seen him, the general consensus was he'd been eaten by an alligator, after all, there was a reason dogs didn't live in the wetlands. "Lumbago ain't workin' its magic nearly quick enough."

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear, I'll make sure to outlive you, though it will surely wear me down. And by the by, I've eaten elephant shit in Africa. I feel fully qualified to tell ya the grub you fix us is worse. By miles."

Their bickering went on until Tilly finally boarded the chuckwagon alongside Mary-Beth and Uncle waved the pair goodbye. That girl is really being quiet lately, what happened at Annesburg? he wondered.

10:27 PM, July 30th, 1899

Kieran returned a little later, a passed-out Karen dangling on his horse. Blood dripped down her thighs. (Let that be a lesson, kids: don't whore yourself to a man twice your size for one shitty, murky drink of whiskey; do it at least for two shitty, murky drinks of whisky.)

They cleaned her up and set her in bed, with Dutch and John following shortly after, thankfully in one piece. Dutch was beaming and proudly showing off their loot: state bonds, six thousand dollars worth of them.

"It's not enough to get us out, but when we cash it in, it'll be enough to solve our money troubles indefinitely. No more squirrel meat in our stew; it's all steak and expensive cigars from here on out, boys!"

"Just as soon as we find a buyer?" Uncle asked.

"That's what I said."

The old (rotund) man snickered. "That's what I thought."

Dutch smile began to waver as he fixated on Uncle. "Just what are you gettin' at, Lumbago?"

"Nothin', nothin' at all," he turned to Jack and spoke loudly. "Hey kid, when I was your age I used to love fishin'! I'd cast my line out there and hold real patient till I caught somethin', oh but the problem was I never knew what to do with them fish once I caught 'em! They'd do real nice with some salt and oh, maybe some bread! Oh, but them fish are so cute and innocent, they don't need to die, now that I caught 'em I should just cut 'em loose, right? So there I was, rightly torn between the two, going and back and forth, so what do I do? I flip a coin! God's justice, right there! So I'm fishin' now in my pocket, trying to find my lucky penny, but, uh-oh, uh-oh, what's this? Them pocket's are too deep and I got too much stuff in 'em! So I'm searchin' for my penny and the whole time that fish is just dangling out there with a hook in its mouth, waitin' and waitin' and waitin'. That's why I don't fish much no more. Feel just awful stringin' and animal along like that, not lettin' him know what's happenin' next." His next line sealed innuendo. "Am I right, Dutch?"

It was silent until Dutch said between gritted teeth. "Everyone. Get. Packing." He walked back to the boathouse and started to gather his own things. Everything was mostly loaded onto the final wagon by this point, but seeing how Dutch might be a while, Abigail dunked Karen's dirty (and bloody) clothing into the lake, rubbed it with a bit of soap, and hung it over the campfire to dry. Jack was reading Pride and Prejudice, much to Kieran's annoyance, so much so that he left the fire and walked to the lakeside, drinking up the sight one last time, muttering something about how books were stupid.

Most of the remaining members joined Abigail around the fire. Uncle hoped Javier would sing one of his ditties, but he looked so sullen Uncle didn't ask. Bastard's grumpier than Arthur and John. Speaking of John, he finally got a good look at him now, in the generous orange flames. His expression was almost identical to Javier's—crestfallen, melancholy. His shoulders slunk and his head was aimed down in the exact way Javier's way, it was like they were posing for a photograph. Then he noticed the most significant trait about John, one so obvious he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed.

He was wearing a cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band.

"Ain't it a sin to wear a dead man's hat?"

John sighed, walking around Uncle towards his wife. "If that was true, every man who died with a hat on would go straight to hell."

"John, don't try to be clever, it don't suit you—just stick with being quiet and ugly."

John grumbled as he sat next to Abigail, wrapping his arm around her as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"See? That's the ticket!"

"Shut up. I don't want to strangle you in front of my son," Abigail warned.

Uncle reached for the sky, sardonically. "Whooo… careful now…"

"So, John," Javier interrupted, his eyes frozen on the hat the scarred man wore, his voice simmering with something unpleasant, "how did it go? With Dutch."

John didn't say anything at first, just stared into the fire until Abigail elbowed him. "John?"

"It… it was a bloodbath. We've gone and brewed up more trouble for us, I know it. Dutch… he did somethin' real stupid…"

"He ain't what he used to be, that Dutch," Abigail said.

She said it matter-of-factly, but it held the same weight as if she'd tossed Jack into the fire and started running around singing the national anthem with her skirt over her head. Even so, no one argued. No one could. Not even Javier.

Finally, John cleared his throat, and—unsure of what else to do—changed the subject. "Yeah… Abigail? Uh… darlin'? I, uh…"

"What," she groaned, knowing he was about to ask her to do something unbecoming. Of course, she had no idea as to the extent of the Herculean task he was about to assign her.

"Could you… talk to Molly? See how she's doin'?"

She leered at him like he'd just slapped her. "What, did I call someone else's name in my sleep last night? What did I do to deserve this?"

"It ain't a punishment. It's just… you saw how she was… she ain't doin' too good—"

"You stick your hand in the beehive, then?" she countered.

"Well… you're uh, just… so much better at it than me. Ain't she good at talkin' to folks, Jack?"

"Yeah," the boy agreed, not really sure what was happening. "Mama's great at talkin' to people!"

"I would have to go on out on a limb and contradict you on that," Uncle interjected.

"Don't use my son against me," she demanded to her husband, ignoring Uncle.

"You look real pretty," he tried, planting a fat kiss on her cheek.

"I know," she huffed, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Really, really pretty…" He kissed her again, then again. Increasing the pace until it was a full-blown bombardment.

"Stop," she griped, pushing him off. But he persisted, kissing her down her neck, coaxing a faint giggle out of her."Stop… Jack's here…" He lowered her down onto her back, kissing lower and lower, beguiling more giggles from her.

"God almighty," Uncle groaned (his first-ever accurate analysis of any situation).

"Okay!" Abigail finally relented, laughing. "Okay, I'll talk to her, just get off!"

John peeled away and sat back up, covering his smile by scratching his patchy face.

"John," Uncle started, "as much as I want to hurl at what you just did, I feel I must congratulate you. This is the first time I've ever witnessed Abigail Roberts lose an argument in the seven years I known her."

"It'll be the last…" she mumbled. "And it's Abigail Marston."

"Whatever. Charles! You wanna jot the date down so we don't never forget this?"

"No," Charles answered simply, blowing sawdust off his contraption. "Javier. Uncle. I'm finished. Let's go."

"What the hell is that," Uncle queried, "a sled for really fat people?"

It did bear several similarities to a sled for really fat people. It was rectangular, about nine planks of wood wide, with six more planks being used to create a fence around it. A hook had been hammered into its face, and attached to that was a long hairy rope.

"No," Charles grunted as he yanked the heavy toboggan along the grass and muck, still wet with Pink blood from the other night. Finally, he reached Taima II and tied his apparatus to it. "Uncle, you drive the stagecoach,"—he pointed to the red, black, and yellow, mailbox on wheels they'd used earlier in the day—"there's moonshine in the back, I'd better have every bottle by the time we get there."

"On my honor," Uncle said, crossing his fingers. "Can't wait to go to Van Horn."

11:02 PM, July 30th, 1899

"This is not Van Horn." Instead of a whore's mouth around his dick, he felt mud soaking into his socks. It had begun raining too, just to top off his misery. And not the light, tickling rain either, but the heavy, hard rain that hit like a flick on the cheek.

"'Course not." The fraudster said it as though it was obvious. "Our escape route's there. You really think we'd risk leading the Pinks to it by shooting the whole place to hell?"

"But Dutch said the dynamite was goin' to be in Van Horn."

"Wrong. Dutch said it would be passing through Van Horn. On its way to Saint Denis. From there, there's only one road across the Bluewater Marsh that leads to that dump." His arms floated up and beckoned to the dark dank swamp that surrounded them. "Right here."

"But—" He was interrupted by the sound of his foot plopping ankle-deep into the mud. "But now we ain't got cover or nothin'. We're completely in the open and they got the numbers on us."

Charles smiled, a confident smug smile. "That's a lot a' mud you're steppin' in."

"Yeah, thanks for remindin' me!"—he grumbled the next bit—"Whoreson."

"And we're on the main road," he said, tapping his foot against the moist gravel as though to prove a point. "Imagine how much deeper it'll be on either side…" he motioned to the sunken terrain the road cut across. "Yes, the ground works against us, but we'll soon turn that to our advantage. Just as soon as we wetten this wagon with more than rain…"

The supply of moonshine was one bottle short, courtesy of Uncle, but it did the job. The three men doused the stagecoach, focusing most of their efforts in the cabin so the roof would keep the contents from washing away or diluting. Javier and Charles draped themselves in large black coats they'd borrowed from Dutch and got into position.

11:34 PM, July 30th, 1899

After fifteen minutes of waiting in the cold rain, Uncle saw the lights in the distance. He drew his binoculars and shot a glance to the incoming convoy. Two men manned the wagon, with four men on horseback surrounding them. Tough lookin' bastards, he thought. In this weather, the three a' us would have our troubles in a straight fight. He smiled. Good thing this ain't one.

It thundered around him as if God was trying to ward those men away from perdition. The green glint from the Molotov cocktail reflected in the blue lightning as Uncle tightened the reins. Nell II whimpered in fear, and in the rain, it looked like he was crying.

"You'll be fine, boy," Uncle reassured. "Terrified as can be, sure, but you'll be fine."

The lambs marched closer, oblivious, until they were exactly where he wanted them.

Then he lit the fire bottle and rode off, a devil smile marring his face. The men noticed him at last, clicking their guns and screaming warnings toward the man in direct collision with them, but it was too late.

He broke the bottle against the wagon and lept from it, smacking and rolling against the wet ground just as the cart lit up like the sun.

The men panicked, veering off the side of the road to avoid this fireball of death—three equestrians on the right, one on the left, along with the dynamite stagecoach—and landed right where Charles and Javier wanted them.

The mud was so deep that the men were thrown from their horses and fell tit-deep inside the filthy, slimy solution. Rattled and terrified, the poor lambs on both sides adjacent to the road looked up to see figures in black, just out of reach of the pit of mud, holding a revolver in each hand…

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

It was a turkey shoot. Charles made quick work of the men on the right, shooting them thrice a piece (he had the ammo to spare). They couldn't even reach for their weapons.

The same held true on the left side of the road, where Javier shot his three marks before retreating back onto the main road beside Uncle and Charles.

"Gotta hand it to ya, Charles," Uncle said, "ya really stepped up in the brains department when we needed ya to."

"Let's just get this over with, please." He slapped Uncle's arm off his shoulder and jumped down onto the dynamite wagon, its ass sticking in the air while the rest was buried deep in the mud. He tossed up all the crates to Javier, who laid them on the sledge Charles had fashioned back at camp. Without the mail or dynamite stagecoach, they'd need some way to transport it all back to camp.

They whistled and their horses came back to them, though Nell II had been worked up quite a bit. Being tied to hell's inferno typically did that.

"Sssh," Uncle purred, "I told you you'd be fine, didn't I? We made your rope weak enough so it would break immediately upon catching fire and you could run away. Oh, you listen worse than my former wives."

"Probably better lookin' though," Javier quipped. Charles and him laughed as they mounted their steeds.

"Oh hardy har har, ya—"

He was cut off by the sound of a whistle, so sharp it cut through booming thundering. They stared off in the distance and saw the source: the dark silhouette of a man, riding a horse, outlined by the flashes of lightning. And behind him were four men, also horsebound. They began to amble, then trot, then sprint…

"Let's go. Now!" Charles said, turning his horse around and stopping instantly. Because four more men were on the other side. They were boxed in.

Another whistle rang out, this one longer and less violent than the first. He sauntered in front of his men, raising his yellow lantern. He was fat, bearing a thick brown beard, and wore a black suit and a green tie.

Oh no, Uncle thought. That green ain't a coincidence.

"My name is Tom Dalton," the whistler introduced. "Leader of the remaining O'Driscolls. And I'm afraid you have accidentally found yourself in possession of our score."

"Hey! We earned this, fair and—"

"Shut up, Uncle!" Charles sighed. "If we give it to you, will you let us walk?"

The O'Driscolls laughed, a dark, evil chorus that scared even the thunder, for no more was it roaring across the land.

"Well," said Tom Dalton, "my answer to that would depend on if you would like a buttery lie or a bitter truth. You Van der Linde's."

Uncle's throat went dry, despite the rain and he desperately scanned the area for a semblance of a plan. Charles and Javier are on horseback. I ain't. Maybe I could jump under Tom's horse? He couldn't hit me. No, that's dumb. Perhaps—

Then he saw the red boxes of dynamite behind him, still in that makeshift bobsled, and started inching backward.

"We don't know what you're talkin' 'bout," Charles stalled. "We have a contract with a man named Leviticus Cornwall to steal supplies from his rivals. If you kill us, you are at the mercy o—"

"Shut up," Dalton ordered. "My lie woulda been at least buttery, not gamey."

Just a little closer.

His eyes lit up then and Uncle knew he'd been caught."Oh, wait one second. Is that Ms. Adler still ridin' with you?"

"Who?"

"Yeah, she is, ain't she?" He looked back to his men, pulling them into the loop. "Me and Billy broke into her house with some others. Killed her husband. We saw her picture frame but couldn't find her nowhere. Too bad, she looked real nic—"

Then Uncle tossed the dynamite above Dalton and Charles drew his pistol, and—faster than the O'Driscolls could react—shot it. The men launched off their horses from the explosion and Charles, Javier, and Uncle used the clearing to charge away, Uncle being pulled up onto Taimi II with Charles.

It wasn't a casualty-free escape, however, because when Tom and the rest of the O'Driscolla recovered and started firing back, a slow and aged Nell II was caught in the crossfire. Uncle heard his whimpers but wouldn't look back.

The ride back to Lakay was arduous and exceptionally long for the old man, not just because of the grief, but because Charles led them on a few loops before they got back to throw off any tails.

The camp was bare; the supplies had been gathered up, the blood had washed away, and everyone, save one, was gone. It was like no one had ever been there.

Dutch sat by the long-quenched fire, soaking down to his unmentionables. He smiled when he saw them return and that smile engorged even further when he saw the cargo.

"Went off without a hitch?" he asked.

"Not entirely," Charles admitted.

"Oh, well tell me about it on the way. It's a lotta ground we gotta cover if we wanna make the party!" He mounted The Count, who was not in a jovial spirit from standing in the rain.

"Party?" Javier asked.

"We been through a lot, so I thought a party would help lighten the mood."

"Grimshaw knows about this?"

"She will…" Dutch chuckled. "Now, c'mon… onward, gentlemen!"

They galloped alongside him, leaving their haunted home behind forever.

Next chapter we'll see what John was talking about...

Hope Charles' plan was cool for you guys. I wanted one plan to actually work.

Now we got more O'Driscolls to worry about, on top of all the rest.

Let me know if there's anything I can do to improve the story.