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-Two: John

1:06 PM, July 30th, 1899

John rode back to the swampy environs of Lakay. He normally hated the humid, dank stink of the place, but he was happy this time as he hitched Horse, dropped down into a pool of mud that splashed up to his chest, and meandered quickly over to his son and wife.

Jack and Abigail were smiling at him, the former holding his arms out for a hug, the ladder turning her cheek for a kiss. John stopped dead in his tracks.

"John! C'mon, get over here!" Dutch called. Groaning, he stomped over to him, nearly ramming into Mary-Beth as she rushed by. Poor girl was green as the grass. "We're doin' the oil job now, John."

"Now? I—damn it, Dutch, can't I spend a little time with my family? I just got back."

Dutch blenched like the words were a closed fist. "Ain't I family too? C'mon, I need ya."

"But I just got—couldn't ya just send someone else—?"

"I want you, John. You're my son."

"Dutch," Abigail's firm voice emitted as she walked over, John clinging to her grey dress, "you had better not be sendin' John out again. He just got back."

"You don't say…" Dutch grumbled, muttering something about echoes. He sighed, opening his eyes with renewed patience, talking as if to a child. "John will be fine. He's a big boy and he's the best shot I got left with Arthur gone and Micah out of commission."

"His wounds ain't even fully healed from Saint Denis!" she argued.

"Oh, what wounds? His tooth? Poor little Johnny got a toothache?"

She placed her hands about her stubborn hips. "And his ear's torn up. And his—"

"Oh God! John, you need a doctor?!"

"And his ribs are still healing. And—"

"Well, John might as well come with me then. His wounds are clearly terminal, so I ain't do no worse to him no more than he's gonna be gettin' soon enough."

"You're not a funny man, Dutch Van der Linde."

"I disagree, I quite think I'm hilarious." he turned to the woman passed out by the riverside, sleeping on a bed of muddy grass—a bottle in her hand obviously. "Molly! Ain't I hilarious?"

"Fuck you!" was the indecisive answer.

Dutch sighed. "Gets more charming with every bottle…"

Abigail snapped her fingers loudly. "Dutch! Jack ain't seen his father practically—"

"Practically being the keyword there—"

"—all day! Can't ya just ask Charles to do it?"

Dutch exhaled again and smiled. "Abigail… you need to have faith in me. When I say I need John, well, then there's probably a good reason why I need John, ain't there? Stay calm—"

"I'm calm."

"—and don't worry. I'll have him back before ya know it. With some state bonds, I hope." He lowered his head to the waddling bookworm. "What do ya say to that Jack? We'll be able to buy you some new toys? Or books?"

"Yeah…" the boy whispered, demurely. Answering a question with a limpsy blanket statement was one of the downsides of spending time with his father.

Abigail didn't seem satisfied. "Dutch—"

"Abigail," John finally cut in, just wanting this over with. "I'll be fine. I feel fit as a fiddle."

"Well," another shy voice interjected. It was so shy John thought for a moment it was Jack. Before he remembered that accents existed, "I mean, I could go in John's place."

"No, Javier," Dutch's answer was hard and cold, not like the tone he'd donned with Abigail. "I want people I can trust."

With that he turned and began walking away and John, seeing no other option, followed him, after giving Jack a wave and attempting to lean in and kiss Abigail on the forehead, before realizing they were too far apart for that, and instead just hurried off.

They were mounted on horseback—John on Horse, Dutch on The Duke—when Javier gave his valiant second attempt. "Dutch… maybe—maybe you were right. Maybe I was too rash about Micah, too pushy, I admit it. But this? The silent treatment? You're better than that. C'mon, let me tag along, just like the good old days?"

The dust kicked up by The Duke had partially settled by the time Javier had finished. John started to follow when guilt and obligation set in and he spiraled around, talking quickly. "Javier, keep loose. Dutch'll come 'round, he always does." He chuckled. "Hell, bastard had me on my ass, screamin' in my ear a few weeks ago, and now I'm his favorite."

"He chuckled again, then frowned when he realized how much that last word stung Javier. He changed tactics, trying to appeal to that darker side of the Mexican. "And don't worry a minute 'bout Micah. After what he did in the graveyard… Not now, the gang can't take any more madness, he's harmless besides, but I promise you this: he ain't comin' with us. If I got to twist his arm or make him disappear, he ain't comin' with us. So you look forward to that."

And then he was off, trailing Dutch once again. John was at least pleased with where they were going; the idea of going west again agreed with him, along with the weather. The grass sang its music in the wind, the spotless (apart from the big yellow one) blue sky conveyed a feeling of peace and renewal—like anything was possible, like none of his sins could touch him today, and the climate was warm, in a soothing way, like a blanket—or better yet, a cuddle of a naked woman underneath a blanket. He thought of Abigail then and his (happily) worn member jolted awake. Then he thought of the whore and the Red Eye and the shame weighed it back down.

"What's the plan, exactly, anyway?"

Dutch searched his satchel with a blind hand, not answering until his grip was satisfied by what it found and he pulled it out empty-handed. "We'll wait till nightfall, then sneak into the facility, silencing any guards till we get to the foreman's office. The bonds should be somewhere in there."

John opened his mouth, about to release a stream of barks along the lines of "Why the hell did you drag me away if we ain't movin' till nightfall?" but let his jaw close with a sigh. You had to pick your battles when it came to arguing with Dutch and he wasn't ready to die on this hill. And like he mentioned before: Dutch had the power to make him believe almost anything the longer he talked and sometimes, when John was so fervent on his position, he was scared Dutch would actually succeed. That was probably why John didn't talk much (no, no, his tongue isn't a deformed elephant man; it's just as long as everyone else's ((no, no, he doesn't have a rare speech impediment that only perks up when he utters more than three words at a time))). Better to keep your thoughts to yourself, no one can touch 'em that way.

"You welcome, by the way," Dutch said, not facing John.

"For what?"

"For gettin' ya away from Abigail! I know all them days glued to her must have been torture. I love her, but God, can she be a bitch!"

"Y-yeah…" John said between gritted teeth. The spot in his gums with the missing teeth was armorless and bleeding slightly from the weight of the others atop it. John didn't notice.

"I'm kiddin'!" Dutch faced him and John saw he was sporting a large grin from ear to ear. "I'm kiddin'!" His giggle folded into a cough when he saw John wasn't biting. "I'm-I'm sorry, John. Shouldn'ta said that. She's a good woman. A good wife and mother too. Too good, I think. I think she's confusin' your priorities…"

"My priorities are straight as an arrow."

"Are they? John, what woulda happened if you stayed behind with your girl and boy? Played a few games, read a few books, takin' her out into the woods?"

"Jesus, Dutch—"

"John, do I need to remind you that the Pinks are on breathin' up our asses? No more fun and games, we gotta get busy workin' or get busy diggin' graves. Aside from Molly or Karen, ya think anyone else is takin' a day off?"

"Dutch, I ain't—"

"I know." He sounded tired. "I know. Just… I don't know, don't listen to everything she says, I guess. I can't have you doubtin' me now, John."

"I ain't."

"There's enough goin' 'round as is."

"I ain't."

Dutch glimpsed back again, a weary smile played across his countenance. "You're a good boy, John. Oh, I really need you now, John. Hosea's gone, Arthur's dead, Micah's… disabled, Javier's untrustworthy. I… I know it's been hard, but we are so close to gettin' out…" He measured a Bill-cock with his fingers. "This close."

"When you say it, Dutch, I believe it." And he did. Heh… Laaaaacrimooooosa. "And Dutch, ya got more friends than you think. People ain't doubtin' you, they're just scared. And rightly so. But ain't no one forgotten what you done for them and ain't no one forgotten that you're gonna get us outta this." Dddddddies Iiiiilla.

Dutch smiled again at him, but it was softer, more vulnerable. "Thank you, John. I don't know what I'd do without ya, you really keep me centered." He took a long pause before he spoke again. "I swear John, no more deaths. I know I said it before, but I mean it. Ain't no one else gonna be dying." Qua. Res. Ur. Get. Ex. Fa. Vil. La. Iuuuudiiiicaaaanduuuus Hoooomoooo Reeeeeus. "'Cept maybe Pinks if needs be."

The rest of the ride was soiled by that last comment—oh if only Dutch knew when to stop talking. What followed was piercing silence save for the attention-arresting raven—as if they needed any more bad luck—on high and the rhythmic clippity-clop of the horses on the fresh dirt. That brilliant black layer of dirt, a mark of Mother Nature's presence and prowess didn't last long as they arrived at Cornwall's factory.

The destination did not mirror the journey at all.

The Heartlands Oil Fields were the epitome of mechanical. Hundreds of trees had been cleared (and no doubt sold to the lumber yard, Cornwall never missed a trick) to make room for the behemoth of a factory that stood as imposing and permanent as a mountain. An endless grey railroad track scarred the natural green hue of the land, dividing Cornwall's operation into two parts. To the east, lakes of shiny ebony oil were siphoned by expensive machines and underpaid workers alike. To the west sat their target: a massive factory outlined by a tall bulwark to ward off intruders. The factory boasted massive cylindrical chimneys that leaked pallid smoke like giant reflective cigarettes. Dozens of guards were posted all around it, making a direct assault impossible, even with the full might of the gang, so stealth was their only option.

They stayed hidden deep within the forest that sat about two hundred meters off from the booming smokehouse. "I'll keep watch first," John offered, hitching Horse against a tall oak tree. "You sleep."

"Okay," Dutch said, yawning, almost asleep before he was off his feet. "I'll… take… you… up… on…" He settled on a soft patch of grass, closing his eyes before they shot open, embarrassment shining in them. "Oh! Stupid me! I almost forgot…" he stumbled back onto his feet, rushing to The Duke and stuffing his hands inside his leather satchel—Tilly had made it for him, although they both knew she had just bought it in town (leatherworking was too… I'll be polite and say 'meticulous' for the young lady). "I want you to have this." He removed a cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band.

John ogled at it like it was a naked woman in a blanket. "Dutch… I—"

"C'mon, you need a replacement for the one you lost in Saint Denis… and you've earned it."

He scratched his lice-infested, exposed, flowing raven hair, sizing up his head, dissatisfied. That hat'll be way too big for me, I shouldn't—

Then Dutch shoved it atop his head. It fit well, the brim of the hat lining up perfectly with his brow, and his squinting eyes wheezed gratefully for the reprieve from the beaming sun. "There we go! Fits like a glove, don't it?"

"Yeah," John said, softly at first, then louder. "Yeah."

Dutch bent down again and was asleep before the minute was out—and keep in mind the minute began three seconds after the hat was placed on John's head.

John tipped the hat at no one in particular and stared up at the sky, watching the dusty (polite word for smog-laden—what can I say, I'm feeling polite right now) blue sky bloom into a purple twilight, then watched the gloom fade into a starless night, for the smoke that reflective cigar farted out veiled the pretty, shiny heavenly dots. When the moon, or at least the outline of the moon he could make out from the manmade clouds, reached directly above like a spotlight, shining down its weak light, John finally awoke Dutch. John hadn't bothered waking him beforehand—he didn't tire easily anymore, especially not after hearing what happened to Abigail.

"Shit, sorry I slept in…"

"No worries."

"Been havin' a rough few nights…"

"Molly?"

"Molly." He whimpered then, a peculiar whine that felt reminiscent of a little boy's. "You're lucky you got your thing with Abigail, John. I have the horn so bad I think I'm gonna pop."

Not knowing what to say, John opted for the Charles approach and said nothing, just checking his Schofield revolver—which he knew perfectly well was fully loaded—for ammunition. Luckily, it was filled with bronze-shelled bullets. If things go to plan, I won't need this. He still strapped the bandolier to his chest. When have things gone to plan for us recently?

They rushed down to the tall wooden fence and crept along it until they reached the opening leading to the rest of the factory. Two guards were stationed just inside the fence's border, armed and alert. Coordinating carefully, John and Dutch hurled throwing knives at the men. John hit his mark in his shadowed eye, killing him before he hit the floor; Dutch's aim wasn't as precise, gashing the man's neck instead. Luckily the pain caused him to drop his gun so he couldn't get a shot off and the blood that crowded his throat softened his screams to a wet gurgle. After dragging the corpses outside and pushing them against the factory's bulwark to ensure they wouldn't be spotted while they worked, the pair inched forward, waiting until the path to the large rectangular building was clear from the parties of guards that revolved around it warily.

They darted to the sides of the building, ducking low of the windows—the house was filled with more guards and workers who'd sound the alarms if they spotted two men stalking across the facility. The foreman's office was on the second floor they knew, John had been scouting the place with his binoculars while awaiting nightfall. The front door was the obvious option, if they felt like altering their destination from the office to hell—the guards would be on top of them faster than Uncle could shit (old coot always drank too much coffee ((though I suppose that may be intentional—hastier discharges left more time to sleep and do nothing))). John spotted some crates just off the porch and remembered how he got into JD McKnight's private dock. As it usually does, history repeated itself, as Dutch and John stacked three boxes into a short, chubby, "L" and climbed this sorry excuse of a tower until they were tall enough to make the leap to the building's portico, which was thankfully flat, spacious, and sturdy enough for two men. From there they scurried onto the main roof and ran forward, following the glimpses they caught through the large windows until they made it past the foreman's office and turned over, finding the smaller square window that connected directly to his office. The foreman was a small, gaunt man; his desk was prim and mostly clear, yet with the way he shook his head into his hands you'd have thought he was eight months behind on paperwork. He was alone.

Dutch snapped the lock open with a second throwing knife and gingerly opened it—silent as the grave. John crept down. The foreman's back was to him. He felt a tap at his shoulder and Dutch offered the knife. Instead, John turned away, slyly snaking his arms about the foreman's ears, before ensnaring him in a sleeper hold. He was out in twelve seconds.

"Tear this place apart. They gotta be here," Dutch ordered.

John started at the drawer in the desk. Locked. "Dutch, knife."

Dutch blindly tossed it to him while searching the wardrobe. Empty. He moved to the left by the window, searching in the cabinet when they heard it.

"Look who I rustled up! Caught him trying to sneak in—killed two of our guys!"

"I didn't—" The deflating of lungs against a hard fist followed this denial.

John growled his yellow teeth as he fought with the lock. "C'mon, ya damn…" It ripped open then and he helped himself to all the contents. Shit… Dutch was right. He was. State bonds, thousands a' dollars worth of 'em.

"He stuffed them into his pockets before shuffling halfway out the way they came. "Dutch, I got 'em. Let's move!"

When he heard no response he looked back. Dutch was transfixed, his eyes making out with the window. John pulled himself back into the room and walked over to his hypnotized friend. A tingling sensation claimed him and he felt terrified. A dark foreboding seemed to smile at him, but the worst of it was he could sense the horror wasn't coming at, but flowing from him. Like he was about to do something he didn't want to do. The images of the naked woman and Red Eye filled the darkness when he blinked. "Dutch?"

He didn't face him but John knew the soft words were meant for him. "Look… look." He opened the window and John saw it clearly.

The man was ornamented with red paint that slashed across his face, as well as tiny black lines drawn down his chin like a muzzle. His oily black hair flowed long and freely down his exposed back. Tiny white dots freckled his chest similarly to Taima's, yet unlike the horse's hide, which was grey and dull, his was colorful and alive. Even in the dark, his skin glowed with the vivid clayish hue belonging only to that of a Native. If skinny girl-men tickled your fancy, you might even find him attractive, apart from the blood that trickled down his mouth or the purple marks that decorated his chest (I promise, these were not paint). He was on his knees, his hair held like a leash by one of the many guards in black that surrounded him.

"Another goddamn savage tryin' to pick us off," one of the guards proclaimed. "I said it before and I'll say it again: these freaks are dangerous and our Army needs to grow a pair and cut loose with these half-measures!"

"Exactly," another, one with a burning cigar in his mouth, spoke. "The goddamn Nancyboys in Washington don't have the stomach to do what we ought to. Custer had it right: ya can't reason with these—"

"We will not be bulldozed!" the man shouted as loud as he could. "We will not be pushed off our land for your damn oil!"

"What the hell's he on about?"

"Who knows? That's the other problem with the Indians. Can't speak English. This bastard's probably tryin' to say somethin' completely—"

"I speak English perfectly, friend," the Indian man interceded. "And I know more than that. I know Cornwall's tryin' to move us so he can line his pockets with the oil underneath our land. We will not allow—"

"What's a corn well?"

"Cornwall. Our employer."

"Who?"

The Native cleared his throat, upset. He expected his last few moments could be made at least giving a hero's lament. Idiot. As any politician or comedian (strange how those two careers coincide) will tell you: if you want to deliver a speech, choose your target audience carefully. "My people have sacrificed enough in the name of your country's twisted justice! Now you goddamn industrialists are trying to pick the bones!—"

He kept on like that. The guards were too busy explaining who Cornwall was to the fellow with the big cigar.

On second thought, perhaps the man chose his target audience perfectly because Dutch was mesmerized. He clung to every word, while John was just thinking about how every guard, inside or out, was lured to one spot, giving them the ideal chance to slip away. "Dutch… let's go!"

He didn't move a muscle. His eyes were wide and he nodded stupidly to the words coming out of the prisoner's mouth, although 'prisoner' may have been a generous term considering what happened next.

Big Cigar stuck his cattleman revolver at the man's forehead and cocked it. "Ready to die, pal?"

The man kept his gaze, refusing to blink. "More of us will come. You can't stop it."

Bang! Bang!

The first bullet tore into his skull, the second into his large smoldering cigar. Dutch laughed and kept firing, shooting the other guards, catching them all by surprise.

"Damn it, Dutch!" John shouted. "What are you doin'?"

In response, he lept out the window, laughing like a madman, sliding and dropping down to ground level. Seeing no other choice, John followed, although his knees would curse him for it when he landed. They moved forward, getting into cover behind an oil wagon—it was empty, of course. If it wasn't they would been blown to bits, fire scalding away their flesh, reducing them to brittle ash (oh God, if only…).

Seeing the opportunity, the captive rushed over to them, taking refuge behind the onslaught of gunfire coming at them from all directions.

"Here," Dutch said, tossing him his silver Schofield revolver as he continued blasting with his golden one. "Help us gun these bastards down!"

"The hell is this for, Dutch?" John asked at the same time the Indian asked "Who are you?"

Answering only the Native, Dutch said "We are just the same as you. Revolutionaries. Visionaries. We are… The Dutch Van der Linde Gang!" He screamed the last part loud enough for the whole factory to hear.

"Dutch!" John bellowed as bullets whizzed by, like a father chastising his son. In this case, the reverse.

Ignoring him again, Dutch asked their new companion "And who might you be, sir?"

Firing out post their cover, the Native answered. "I'm called Eagle Flies… sir. Son of Rains Fall, chief of the Wapiti Tribe."

"Well, Eagle Flies, any enemy of Cornwall and American society is a friend of ours!"

"Terrific!" John shouted over the boisterous cling-clang of bullets ricocheting against the oil wagon's iron hide. "You got a damn plan for how we're gonna get out the main entrance now, Dutch! Or you still going chit for chat with a goddamn stranger?!"

"Sometimes, son," Dutch said as bullets bounced all around them, releasing orange sparks when they scratched the ebony wagon, "the simplest plan is the best plan. Eagle Flies drew all the guards to the front entrance, so what do we do? We take the back."

With that he went charging in the opposite direction. Eagle Flies and John exchanged confused glances before following by his heels, feeling the breeze of lead pass them by.

They broke free of the factory, landing on the train tracks unjust outside. The moon must've broken free from the muck because John was doused in white light, like being dumped in a spring of milk. Then when the sound of his blood throbbing left his ears, John heard the sound. Of course… he thought in annoyance, jumping off the tracks just as a train roared by.

The rocks John collided with cut his hand, but someone pulled him onto his feet and he was running again. "C'mon!" the voice said, and if he wasn't so angry at it right now, he might have had the grace to thank it.

They ran inversely to each other, the men and the train; while the train moved for the sanctuary of the tunnel to the right, the three fugitives rushed towards the clearing where the urbanized setting met with the grassy plains and eventually the dark forest where their horses were stowed. The train actually proved itself to be a valued member of the gang, blocking the guards from the factory from shooting them. The trouble came from the second half of the Heartlands Oil Fields operation: the actual Oil Fields. Guards spotted with oil started firing at them as well, leaving the trio no choice but to return the favor. Though John later wished he'd instead opted for the pacifist approach, because when a lone sniper, high up on a tower caught sight of the three with his crimson lantern and got a shot off, smoking the ground near John's feet and launching a stone into his cheek, branding it like a spot of acne. In retaliation, John shot back at him, his aim as true as ever, striking the man dead center in the chest and sending him falling below into the ocean of oil—crimson lantern still clutched stubbornly in his hands.

The whole of it lit up like a powder keg, red and orange fingers sprouting up across its moist slick humus. Two towers caught ablaze and cooked into a charred shell, as did many of the guards who were unfortunate enough to stand near the flaming oval. Heh, you could almost say it was… eye-shaped.

John kept his head down, trying not to look, refusing to look, until he saw shadowy grass beneath his feet. He allowed himself one peak then, but instantly regretted it. Killing to protect your own, that's one thing, but this? This was something else. Eventually, after hours of running, tall slender trees canopied them.

"Thank you," Eagle Flies said, out of breath. "Without you lot, I'd be another pointless casualty."

"Any time," Dutch answered, equally out of breath. "The rest of my gang, it ain't just me and sour-face over there, are gonna be holed up in Beaver's Hollow by tomorrow. You should stop b—"

"DUTCH!" That was the last straw. Helping folks, that's one thing, we do that all the time. Tellin' folks who we is, that's one thing, we ain't shy. But tellin' a man we don't know where we's gonna be hidin' out? That's it. "You have said. Quite. Enough."

Dutch just smiled. He spoke quickly. "That's northeast a' here, where Roanoke Ridge's knob meets the Kamass."

"DUTCH!"

They locked eyes, one pair fierce and enraged, the other amused. The third wheel luckily understood the importance of being timely and said "Yeah… maybe I'll see you fellers later. Thanks again," before tossing Dutch his gun back and disappearing into the woods.

After a long quiet, save for the screams and crackle of the fire in the distance, Dutch broke the silence. "C'mon. Our horses are back over that way. Let's go."

John wished Dutch had said something else; he wanted to argue to fight. He was fuming steam like a train and snarling like a wolf. Tragically, even he couldn't object to that suggestion. "Yeah…"

The crickets came to life as they ambled on, chirping their hoarse, grating little lullaby. Despite how annoying he found it, John couldn't help but admit it was working. He was tired, in more ways than one. Their predicament wouldn't be as infuriating if they would fucking learn from their mistakes, but it was like having the same recurring nightmare again and again. John was just about ready to lie down and sleep for twenty years. Heh, Rip Van Winkle, indeed.

"You had better have the greatest, smoothest excuse you ever gave," John growled, "that would justify what the fuck just happened."

Dutch swayed his head to his shoulders, grinning back at John, a crooked, jagged grin. "No excuse. Guess I've just lost my mind, haven't I?" His simper fell on a dime. "Of course, I got a damn reason that would justify that, have you completely lost faith in me, John?" He sighed disapointedly. "God in heaven!"

John felt his anger disappear in a puff of smoke, solidifying into something denser, the same thing that had fallen on his cock when he'd thought of the whore in Valentine. "You-you do?"

Dutch stomped his feet. "Of course! Where are we goin'? North. Where did we just announce our presence for all to hear? West. Pinks want us to think they're some perpetually renewable force, but they're just damn guerillas! Eventually, they'll run out and how do we speed that up? Divide 'em. We split 'em once down in Saint Denis, I have to think they're still assisting with cleanup from the war, now we'll split 'em again. Half'll go to Lakay and continue the hunt north, the other half will start aways west lookin' for us that way." He said all that without breathing. He huffed deeply again and continued. "And you want to interrogate me 'bout tellin' that young man where we're at? Because, unlike you, I still believe in what we stand for. The system is broken, John. Men like Cornwall, they're the plague, we're the cure. That man and his people need our help and I ain't cold-blooded enough to tell 'em 'sorry, my wife says no.'"

The silence that followed cut deeper than the words. Because John could think of no reply. He felt lonely for the rest of the walk, strange considering his closest friend was three feet ahead of him.

Their horses were happy to see them, though it may have been more relief in knowing they could finally skedaddle away from the horrible bright ball of death in the distance. Dutch mounted The Duke immediately, whereas John grabbed Horse by the reins, lacking the strength to climb until he cleansed himself. "Dutch… I'm s-s—"

"You don't need to be," Dutch insisted, staring down at him from his larger dark horse. "You're concerned. That's good. But you need to know I would never put the gang in danger, Arthur. New opportunities can be created by aligning with the natives. And it's good karma, y'know." He stared off into the vast unknown, a picture of wisdom stamped across his face. "We help one persecuted people fend off from the reality of modernity, and… I don't know. Gives me hope for us, I guess."

John's eyes fell. He didn't know if he should correct him when Dutch caught on. " I-I called you Arthur, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You did."

"I'm-I'm sorry. With the hat… for a moment there I…" His lips strained together and he shifted his head to hide to tears he fought away. "I miss him." It was a whisper.

"Me too," John admitted.

"I-I'm goin' home," Dutch said, again in that mouse voice. And then he was off, vanishing into the night.

John mounted his own steed and spurred it into a trailing gallop. He tried to smile, tried for once to ignore himself, to agree with Dutch, to accept that he did have a plan, that he'd save them, that all would work out in the end. His smile fell into a frightened frown when he recalled the way Dutch had stared out that window at Eagle Flies. Like he was obsessed, addicted. It was warmer here in the west, John knew, in a soothing way, like a blanket. And he always believed the climate agreed with him more.

So it must have been doubt then, that bony chill that twisted his stomach into a corkscrew.

Thought this was a good time to start bringing Eagle Flies into the fold. We'll see a bit more of him here, but a lot more next act.

Speaking of, one of the pieces of the title for Act II (mentioned at the top of chapter 21) is about to come into play, so make some predictions about what it means.

From here on out we're in Beaver Hollow!