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-Five: Javier

6:42 PM, July 29th, 1899

They lay flat on their bellies, as they had been for hours, watching, waiting for an opening. The evening was still, but it wasn't serene, it was tedious. Javier's whole body twitched with the desire for action, to rebel against their current stagnant state. To alleviate this jitteriness, he munched on the last stale biscuit, finding it expectedly dry and flavorless.

Shady Belle was crawling with Pinks, Javier saw as he glanced out the binoculars he bought back in Van Horn. They tried not to be obvious, failing, of course, tucked by the walls and under the windows in the house, playing the same waiting game the trio was now. Still, Javier had to give it to them: getting a dozen men to stay out of sight for what must've been days was still an impressive feat. Shady Belle looked to be doing worse, like someone had shot it in the face on its deathbed and now everyone was just waiting for that last drop of blood to hit the floor before they went tearing at the will. Although it had been a minute, maybe the house had always looked this way. Nostalgia wore rose-tinted glasses.

"Hey," Charles whispered. "Can you pass me the binoculars?"

Javier obliged, reaching to Lenny in the middle, who then handed them to the long-haired man. He hated it here; the mulch was sharp on his chest and arms and the trees were tightly packed together making him feel claustrophobic, and against himself, he was reminded of being trapped in that sinking sardine can. He could still taste the water, cold as death…

He beat off these unsavory memories, instead reminiscing on the journey back.

They'd conned the warden, and by eight in the morning, he had a dinghy on call to row them back to the mainland. Then by eight o' one in the morning, that dinghy was called off; a wild tempest, the bastard child of the storm that had marooned them, had been queefed up and was raging across the Lannahechee River, mocking any attempts of a paltry dinghy to challenge it.

They were trapped.

There was a hulking steamship coming in from Van Horn, the warden had told them (between his furious bouts with the mile-high stack of paperwork on his desk), that was bringing in a new shipment of criminals and lowlifes for prisoner transfer—it was burly and resilient enough to survive storms twice as harsh, the warden promised. On its return trip, they were promised passage.

It was the shortest sojourn Javier ever had behind bars: six days. Even so, it was an eternity.

The food the guards shared with them wasn't much better than the slop allotted to the prisoners, and Lenny, Charles, and the Mexican had to abide by stale biscuits and moldy strawberry preservatives for breakfast, crusty bread and greasy white lard for lunch, and a fish stew for dinner that the guards passed on. Javier found out why later when he was puking his guts out over the penitentiary's stone walls; it turned his stomach so much that it was still funneling out at the same time it was slapping the wet, marshy grounds—like a waterfall of rancidness.

"It's Warden Jameson," explained Rodey Dickinson—the guard with the dominating sienna mustache—as he ate with them in the staff canteen. "Him and his brother's so desperate to get their company back from whatever moneybag's eatin' their stock like pussy—"

"Or steak…" whimpered Hendrik Otto—the other guard with the scarred face—as he stared at the gray-green-red jelly atop his sandpaper biscuit.

"—that they's cuttin' cost wherever they can find it. The crops the prisoners sow and reap in the fields used to go into their meals, now he just sells it on the side. I hear soap's getting cut back next. 'Stead of a rectangle, it's gonna be a square. Gonna smell like a pig pen from here on out."

Javier felt guilty now he'd made such a scene about them taking their money—seemed they needed it just as bad.

"Stocks?" Charles asked.

"Pieces of a company," Lenny said. "You sell 'em when you need immediate spending money, but the less you own, the less control you got. What I'm getting is Jameson's mining company was goin' through a rough time, so pawned off stock to some bigwig who bought it all up. Now their company's doin' well, but they own so little stock it's only theirs in name at this point."

"Huh, y'all are associates of a foreign investor, and you don't know what a stock is?" Rodey said with a knowing smirk. "Might wanna keep that to yourselves."

The next few nights passed by at a snail's pace—Javier could've sworn he was living a full day by the time the sun was halfway risen. The nearly poisoned food had drained him of most of his strength when it was supposed to be doing the inverse. His mood was foul, though that was from more than the viands. Should've known. Should've fuckin' known.

Javier dreamt of Sean, the poor bastard. He remembered singing around the campfire with the Irishman; he'd been a terrible singer, his voice was always hoarse and unpleasant when straining to reach the proper notes, but had the confidence to surpass this hindrance (or maybe he was just perpetually drunk—actually most likely both). It was always a delight having him there, hearing his grating voice rise higher and higher until it cracked with laughter. God he missed Sean.

And Arthur. And Pearson. And Hosea (Dutch could talk his talk, but Javier knew the old man was gone with the wind). And Jenny. Mac. Davey. Nothing was going right for them anymore.

On the fourth day, when they were standing out in the prison yard, in line with the guards as though they were one, Charles, with the windy air blasting his long hair to the front of his face like a veil, finally asked what they were thinking:

"Hey… uh, any chance we could… y'know… pay the girls' block a visit?"

"If you could, take me with you," grumbled Hendrik, losing his hat to the wind and cursing as he trotted over to pick it up.

With that, the final tine of hope they held collapsed.

The last two days were the hardest, bearing little except repulsive meals, disheartening weather, and rock-hard mattresses (the warden had been rationing the wool too and selling it back to a carpet manufacturer in Saint Denis). The other guards had warmed to them a little, or at least gotten used to their company, but their mood was so black that the gang thought it wise not to engage them in conversation. And there hadn't been a single pleasant view in the shithole (as long as the three men would live, none got over being barred from the women's cell block).

I'm never comin' back here, Javier decided then, or any damned prison. I'll die first.

Then, at last, this morning, they'd got off the transport ship in Van Horn—with the warden escorting them personally. Lenny had spun some more gibble-gabble on the way, invoking terminology that either didn't exist or could only be found in the thickest, stuffiest of books. It was smart, Javier conceded. Dodging questions woulda been suspicious, so instead he talks without saying a word. Like Hosea…

Didn't mean Javier liked the kid. He always believed you couldn't trust a man with no loyalty—a simple credo, but a good one. It was the only reason his family was still alive back in Mexico; money buys a man's silence until his pockets are empty, but loyalty buys it forever.

Javier didn't fault Lenny for not believing in Dutch anymore, hell, Arthur hadn't. Nor Hosea, Karen, or most of the others; Javier even found it to be a challenge at times—Dutch's philosophies were… fickle, at best. The problem was Lenny had gone over Dutch's head about the boat job, had robbed Trelawny of his suit without asking—he wasn't a team player. Javier didn't trust anyone who thought they were worth more than the group. That precise problem was the reason why every Mexican Revolution he'd been alive to see ended the same way: with a dictator.

And he could see it in the kid's eyes when he strung that greedy warden along that his plans wouldn't end when they got to the mainland. Lenny had greater plans for the Jameson brothers… plans that no one, certainly not Dutch, was privy to.

After making port at about noon, they did a supply run, picking up a pair of binoculars at the fence, as well as a compass and map. (Unfortunately, there was no food, no dried meats or canned beans to be had, so they were forced to feast yet again on the prison biscuits.) Afterward, they tried to catch a stagecoach in Van Horn, but apparently some drunkard got in a fight with the driver last night, with the only supplied reason being some mumblings about him being British—as though that was some kind of clear explanation.

"So, what now?" Lenny asked. "Walk to Emerald Ranch or Annesburg?"

"That's a day's walk at least," Javier pointed out, "maybe two."

"I know. Do we have enough food?"

"Not nearly. Maybe the pub's got—"

"No, I checked while you were talking to the fence, pub's cleaned out; some big guy came 'round with a mighty appetite."

"Well… maybe…"

Then a panicked Charles hurried around on horseback, ponying a second one behind him. "C'mon! C'mon! Let's go!"

Javier and Lenny didn't need clairvoyance to know what would happen next. Some drunks stumbled out of the saloon, demanding their horses be returned, waving revolvers around like badges. Javier leapt onto the steed, yanking Lenny up, and the two equines cut dirt as fast as they could, feeling the wind of bullets on them as they stormed out of Van Horn.

Presently, Javier smiled at the memory: one of the drunks looked like a baby—bald head, wide eyes, whining agape mouth, and stout bean-shaped torso.

"Oh, pass 'em to me!" Lenny said ecstatically, practically bouncing. Charles forked the cheap, withered binoculars over and the boy donned them eagerly.

"Know what you're lookin' for?" asked Javier.

"I think," Lenny answered. "Dutch told me about this old American colony—real old, a few decades ahead a' Columbus—that disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Charles and Javier said in unison.

"Yeah, just… poof. Gone. But they wrote a message that to this day, we don't really understand."

"What was the message?"

"Uh… I can't remember. Doesn't matter. What matters is where they wrote it: etched on the bark of a tree."

Javier understood then, and he started looking out near Shady Belle and seeing if he could spot anything on the trees. He waited that way for three whole minutes before Lenny sighed, turning around.

"Never mind."

His heart sank and the lurking suspicion that they were abandoned began to become overwhelming. Dutch left us before back on that boat… why not again? No, no, you're being stupid. El tonto. Dutch would never—y-you're family.

But he let Pearson die… and let that snake stay…

"Wait, I see it," Charles announced, holding the binoculars now. "Yeah, yeah, that's it, all right."

"What?"

"Oh, that's real clever."

"What?!"

"Pearson's grave," he said simply. "The cross said Semper Fortis before."

"Are you positive?" Lenny inquired.

"I was there when Swanson etched it in. I'm certain."

Javier butted in next, dying of suspense. "Well, what does it say now?"

Charles smiled. "Salvation Lies Within."

10:52 PM, July 29th, 1899

They waited until nightfall to make their move. Slowly, gingerly, they crawled across the field, out of sight past the tire marks in the mud (Good, Javier thought, they definitely made it out) towards Shady Belle. In the veil of darkness, none of the Pinkerton snipers they knew were on standby could spot them. Besides, the Pinks thought this was a trap, thought the gang would be arriving without thinking, without precautions. Idiots. They kept pushing until they reached over to where the grave stood just beyond the barely standing manor. Then a second one slid into vision, the cross had been knocked over and the grave had been inaccurately read as a hump of dirt or a tiny slope of land. But no. It was Trelawny's memorial.

"Fuck…" Javier whispered. "There can't be more…"

"Shit. Godammit," Lenny screamed into his sleeve to smother the sound.

"He was a good man," Charles said, although everyone knew it was nonsense. A waste of words, I see it. Speaking ill of the dead may be a sin, but when it's a sin stacked up against all the debauchery of a man like Trelawny, there isn't much to fear.

"Let's… just get this over with," Javier mumbled, joining Charles in clawing the dirt off the coffin—except after ten minutes when they finally finished, they saw there was no coffin. Just the fat body of a good seaman. Charles hopped into the shallow grave and looted the stout corpse, finding a letter. The paper was creased to make it look older than it was—Dutch's doing. Charles read it aloud:

Dear Aunt Cathy,

As always, I hope your health has improved since my last letter.

I must confess something to you. I am not in the Navy anymore as I previously wrote. I apologize for withholding the truth, but I hope you'll forgive and understand my shame. In reality, I am making a name for myself in the sport of fishing, and have become quite famous. Last week I caught a catfish the size of a small bull shark. I have a large mansion now in Saint Denis that I'd love you to take a look at. Or, if that's too modern for you (I know what you like) I have another large piece of estate down in Lagras in a spot called Lakay. You should really come visit me sometime once you're well enough to travel. I'd love you to meet my lovely new wife, Mary Elizabeth.

With love,

Simon Pearson

P.S. Please leave this letter where you are reading it so no one forgets about it.

They couldn't really make sense of the last part, but obliged it all the same, dropping it back into the grave before redressing it with a mountain of black dirt they peeled off.

"Lakay?" said Lenny.

"Lakay," confirmed Charles.

The mulch stabbed just as much crawling back as it did away. Charles and Lenny shared a horse this time as they galloped away, leaving Javier alone to lurk in the back, barely within eyeshot of them. He wanted it that way. He was too lost in thought to pay them any mind.

I ain't even got a full peg on dumb Bill. I've been a fool. Should've known. Should've seen it. Against his command, his unnamed black Mustang picked up. I've known John for years, has he ever been the sort to lose his cool, to pick a fight with the police?

It was Micah. It had all been Micah. The horse was racing now, shooting across the tall dark grass like a bullet. Blackwater, Strawberry, Saint Denis, all him! He almost killed Jack, did kill Sean by shooting that poor woman. Sean…

"Javier?"

Micah was dead. I'm going to shoot him dead, if Dutch hasn't already done so. Dead! Dead! Dead!

"Javier!" Charles screamed.

Javier looked behind him to see Charles and Lenny were a fleck in the distance. He'd long passed them. His horse whinnied and whimpered; he had been pushing it—and far too roughly. He finally loosened the taut reins and the animal groaned with relief. He got a good look at it now, it had black skin, with a black mane that was tanned with a faded red; still, amongst all this black, were the greenest eyes Javier had ever seen in an animal, greener than a tiger he'd seen at the circus.

"Sean," he whispered in its seashell-shaped ear, "your name is Sean."

"Javier," Charles called again, calmer. They halted their horse next to his, finally having caught up. "You okay?"

"No," Javier admitted, "but I will be."

"Yeah," Lenny chuckled, "can't wait to forget that dank prison. To home, gents?"

"To home."

"To home…"

A foggy breeze streaked over them, and when it passed, they had disappeared, like magicians in a puff of scarlet smoke.

I hope you enjoyed. I thought Sadie's note to the gang in the base game was pretty obvious and I'm surprised Milton didn't pick up on it, so I wanted the clue to be a little harder. Let me know if you liked it.

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