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 Fifty-Nine: Strauss

9:15 AM, November 12th, 1899

Tears were streaming down her face. "W-what am I going to do?" she croaked between sobs. A hand offered her a handkerchief and she took it, filling it with gobs of snot.

"My dear…" A gray notebook was rustled through. "... Sweetgum Tree, do I have that right? If I may, I fear you are incorrectly examining your predicament."

"H-how so?" she sniffed.

"You are fixating on details that may be relevant—moving to another country will invite predicaments, of course—but there are several benefits you neglect to consider. For instance, the United States army will not be there to unjustly harass you, nor will you be coerced into settling on an inarable spit of land. You will be free, perhaps for the first time in your life, to exist as only you desire. Have you ever been to Canada?"

"N-no…"

"Well, I have. It is absolutely lovely. Cold, I'll grant you, but lovely. The people there aren't like the people here. They won't persecute you or assault you, not like your poor friend was…"

The memory resurfaced in her mind. She hid in the handkerchief again, blowing, and when her face perked up, it was covered with green globs. "Oh, God… that was terrible…"

"Yes, it was unpardonably tragic."

"Oh, and she was only my age…"

"Yes, she was, wasn't she? We wouldn't want history to repeat itself would we?"

"No!"
"No, of course not. And in Canada, it won't."

Her head bobbed left and right. "My parents would never—"

"That's another one of Canada's strengths. It's booming cities. My cousin moved there a year ago. Said he could walk into any place and practically be handed a job that paid twice what he made in Austria. If your father and mother are concerned about work, I assure you personally—"

"No, it's not that. They were born here, raised here, married here. Sentimental idiots are determined to die here…" She stuffed the gooey fabric into a ball angrily.

Pale fingers extended and she slipped the handkerchief into them. It was gently placed inside a seaweed-green wool vest pocket. "Well… I'm sorry to hear that. So you won't be joining the others? That's a shame. I've been talking around and many wanted to see you there—"

"I want to come!" she insisted. "I do. I want freedom and work and all those other things you said… but, I mean… what can I do?"

The crate creaked as the figure across from her leaned closer. "My dear Sweetgum Tree, stunning name by the way, I'm going to tell you something that I know will offend you. I apologize in advance. When I was growing up in Vienna with my father, mother, three brothers, and one—uh, that's it. Just them. When I was growing up with them, my uncle immigrated to America through a convenient work detail. The rest of us tried to earn a living, which wasn't easy. Country was in a war, economy dipped, disease spread, the usual quirks of life. My father pleaded with my uncle to send us money, posted a letter every day—I know, I made the drops. Eventually, a letter came back to us. No money, but an offer: he could take on an apprentice at his firm. Only one. It was a great opportunity, to move to the States, take the steps towards a well-paying career. My father wanted it to pass to my younger brother, Johan, so he wouldn't have to work in the tannery like my father, my mother, and I, or prowl the streets like the mongrel burglar my brother was. And do you know what I did, Sweetgum Tree? Tell no one, it's a secret. I faked smallpox. Burned little patches on my skin with a match and a needle. It did the trick and I moved to America instead of him. Two years later I found his hand was crushed under a rotating printing press. He died soon after. Do you understand what I am telling you, Sweetgum Tree?"

"N-no, I don't, Mr. Strauss."

"My point is…"—the crate scraped against the dirt until there was only a foot of air between the two figures—"you've convinced yourself the scope of your future is bound by the will of your family. I am here to inform you that this prison you're encaged in is entirely of the mind. The bars are wind, Sweetgum Tree, you need only reach out to break them. Your life is yours, dear child, not your parents'."

"I-I can't…" Her eyes wavered with confused emotions. "I… I don't have any money. I couldn't survive up there!"

"There was another reason I imparted my little anecdote on you, Sweetgum Tree." Fingers softly pressed against hers. Jovially, of course. Courtship was not the desired effect, only making a strong impression. Leopold knew only too well the power touch had on one's memory. "I see myself in you. I wouldn't be here without my good Uncle Dominik and his helping hand, in fact, I shudder to wonder where I'd be. We all need that helping hand, anyone who says otherwise is a liar or born rich. Or both. I can be that helping hand for you, my dear. I want to be." Fingers left flesh for a pen.

"My rates are reasonable, and because I know now you're especially in need, I'll trim them by a quarter."

"Oh, Mr. Strauss," she said, longing and regret swimming in her voice, "I couldn't… I shouldn't…"

"You can," a flat tone encouraged, "quite easily. I'll float you the money for four weeks, with the first payment due at the end of this one. I know we might not be in Canada by that point, so I'll keep it very low. A couple coppers, nothing more. After that the payments will get a bit more substantial, but I'm a reasonable man, if you ever have an ounce of trouble paying me back, don't hesitate to inform me. We can renegotiate or I can delay your next payment for a small percentage more."

"Mr. Strauss—"

"And you should, Sweetgum Tree. Because I have a knack for noting good investments and all I see is good when I look at you. I've seen you paint, it's truly marvelous."

Her face lit up predictably. "Y-you really think I'm good?"

"Absolutely. The colors on that sunrise landscape were immaculate."

"You think so? Watercolor or pastel? Are you thinking of the sunrise I did in the spring or winter?"

"Sweetgum Tree, you have a gift. And I can say from experience: with population booming in Canada, so is the demand for art." She gulped nervously. "It is a rare untapped bubble that some fine artist will pop sooner or later, siphoning all the wealth and notoriety that will surely come with it. My dear, I believe that person will be you."

A strange kind of involuntary giggle shot from her lips before she covered her mouth. However, when her hands pulled away, she was frowning. "But… my parents…"

Leopold stood. "My child, I don't expect you to make this decision lightly, nor should you. Take all the time you need, I'm aware I've given you a lot to digest. But just remember: you're sixteen years old, practically a woman. If you don't take the leap on this, you'll spend every second of your life wishing you had." He took a few steps away before revolving back to her. "And my rates are more than reasonable, don't forget."

He exited her tepee then, ambling towards where his table was set up in front of Tilly's chuckwagon. After the Murfrees' assault, the wheels were Chicagoed and when the wagon came to a stop in the reservation, it sagged down and they knew it wasn't going anyway ever again. Tilly was dicing more onions, with Mary-Beth awkwardly mincing the deer Charles and Kiona had brought. They both paid him slight smiles. Leopold returned the favor on Tilly alone.

He didn't care for Mary-Beth. When John had been carried into camp on a makeshift gurney, the girl had cried her eyes out. It wasn't even her husband… Where others saw rivulets trickling down her face, Leopold just saw a fish flopping pathetically on land; as useless as it was obnoxious.

He sat down, rifling through the red crate waiting for him. There were only a few green bills left, not that it mattered. Dutch had stashed away forty-two thousand three hundred seventy-four dollars, money was of no object now. He only kept the debts coming for appearance's sake. And it kept Bill busy when the time came to collect.

Dutch could talk about freedom, autonomy, and liberty, but Leopold knew the most important human rights: the right to donkey work. It was the only thing that kept a man sane. Karen was a lovely example. She didn't rot indolently in her own filth because she was drinking her guts out, she was drinking her guts out because she was rotting indolently in her own filth. Leopold turned his head, spying Uncle resting on an uncomfortable bed of rocks, and wondered what forestalled the man from swallowing the barrel of his gun.

That's what made Morgan so great, he wrote in his gray notebook. When he wasn't sleeping, which was a sparse habit of his, he was on the clock. God, you win. I miss him.

There was a sudden clamor by the reservation's entrance. The inaudible muffle of a dozen panicked voices. Leopold saw natives alongside some of the gang flocking like geese. Against his better judgment, curiosity took hold and he adjusted his glasses before promptly following the crowd. In a sea of bodies, he clung to his journal tightly, until the tide pulled him off the side, between the hermaphrodite Aleshanee and a rigidly erect pine tree.

To his right was a mob of Indians, many with weapons, be they guns, bows, knives, or point sticks. Sadie pushed past them to the forefront, eyeing down the man who sat on horseback at the outskirts of their new camp.

Her voice was dripping with venom. "James Langton."

He hadn't come alone. Eight men saddled in horses were on both sides of him, guns drawn. Langton descended, running a hand through his thick black horseshoe mustache as he tipped his white hat at Sadie. "I thought you was the worst bounty hunter I'd ever seen, duck. Good to know I was once again right."

"You shoulda killed me," she told him, hand on her holster.

"Oh don't worry, duck, you ain't long for this world. None of y'all are."

"Get off our land," Aleshanee growled.

"Ma'am, do you understand you are harboring wanted fugitives?" Langton asked. Murmuring began among the natives as though this was new information.

Knowing something and hearing it said aloud are two different things, Leopold wrote.

"Are you also aware that as such, your right of land don't mean shit?" He pointed a finger at Sadie while holding his belt with his other hand to keep it from snapping. "I am within the law to come in there and gut this duck from her ugly marred beak to her hairy cunt."

Leopold began scribbling in his notebook. He'd heard enough. Sadie is either going to spit in Langton's direction or cock her pistol to assert her dominance.

Her head reared back and jerked forward as she sent a clod of saliva at the bounty hunter's feet. At the same time, she drew her revolver and pulled the hammer. It cocked with a loud click.

Leopold scoffed with a loud scoff. Why do I stay with such a predictable bunch? They wear their emotions so obviously.

A skirmish was made among the wall of people and Micah emerged from it, shoving everyone aside, guns in hand. Leopold wasn't surprised. With John out of commission, Dutch would need every gun he could get—why keep Micah behind a countertop when you could throw him in front of enemy lines? He currently was wearing a loose brown shirt with heavy black pants and leather chaps. The stars on his spurs were bent and tarnished, and on his moppy mess of hair sat Arthur's—no John's cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band. Leopold wondered how many people noticed he was wearing that. Uncle and Abigail followed shortly after the hat with a gun.

"What do we got here," the former meat trimmer mused, striding closer, limp gone. "Ah, vultures." He pointed up, where a spiral of dots hovered above them. "Intuitive little sons-of-bitches, ain't they?" In an instant, his dual pistols were whipped out at Langton, who only went tsk tsk tsk. Uncle and Sadie followed suit, along with Paytah, Aleshenee, and some other natives. And of course all of Langton's men. Their dark red horses flared their nostrils.

"Micah Bell," Langton greeted. "At last, a familiar face. I'd like to see a few more if I could. Pray tell, where might Dutch Van der Linde be?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry 'bout that partner. Stupid a' you, showing up like this, with this goddamn scouting party. You think we was gonna let you gallivant outta here?" Micah's fingers were twitching with excitement on the trigger, Leopold could tell. He won't shoot, however, the Austrian wrote down. He'd be first in line to get shot by the other bounty hunters. Mr. Bell is many things, but completely mentally disabled is not one of them.

James Langton didn't know that, however. He stood, hands on his belt, but Leopold spotted the sweat dripping down his neck. It was the bifocals, they might as well have been a telescope.

"You don't want to do that partner," James insisted.

"Don't I?" Micah's smirk was full. Sadie stood next to him, not disagreeing with the turn of things, but besides her half-smile scar, her expression was collected. She was thinking the same thing as Leopold, the same thing Micah was too short-sighted to even consider: he wouldn't have come knocking at their door when he knew he was outnumbered.

"Take a look yonder." Langton pointed behind them to the mountain peak above them. A hundred eyes tracked his yellow, crusty fingernail. "You see 'em? They're far, I'll grant you that, but with those new spangling Carcano rifles, they might as well be right here amongst us."

Leopold could see them.

"Bullshit," Micah said. "They're ain't no one there. Ya really think these juvenile scare tactics will work, dead man?"

The bounty hunter hoisted his middle finger in the air, tapped his hat with it, and lowered it so it aimed at Micah.

Bang! Micah's cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band flew off his hand, landing by two large boots. Langton leaned over and scooped it up, studying it carefully.

"This was Arthur Morgan's if I recollect the posters right." He doffed his white hat, holding it in his left hand. Arthur's was in his right. "Heh, the bar stories I heard about that joker. Part of me wondered how it took so long for a bullet to eat his face. So I wonders to myself: 'maybe it's the hat. Maybe the hat is bulletproof.'" He yanked it down on his balding head so everyone could see his exposed forehead through the bullethole in the band and crown. "Guess not."

"Get lost," another voice added, clearing his way to the front of the pack. "We aren't afraid to fight you." Eagle Flies' hazel eyes shined with resolve. "You have your snipers, sure, but we have arrows. I can hit a penny on its side from forty feet away. Can one of your Carcano rifles do that?" The other natives lifted aloft their bows in agreement.

"How big is an Indian's head, Ezra?" Langton asked one of his men, one with a lobster tattoo stretching from his shoulder to neck.

"A lot bigger than a penny, sir," Ezra answered. Leopold took down his name, just in case.

"Let it go, man," Uncle said, shotgun cocked. "You ain't gonna get to us unless you want every man you have, yourself included, to die. Find some easier quarry, I heard Anthony Foreman's in Rhodes. You got the manpower, go get him!"

"The higher the risk, the higher the reward."

"And the higher the climb, the greater the fall," Abigail said, smushed between Paytah and Uncle and the bulwark of natives behind them.

Langton simpered at her. "Mrs. Marston—or is it Roberts? Hard to keep track of who owns a horse when everyone's mountin' it. Can't help but notice your husband isn't here with us. What do you say? Was his hat bulletproof, or did he join dear Arthur?"

Leopold audibly groaned when she blinked. Why is everyone so obvious?! Can't they keep their feelings on the inside where they belong?

James noticed it too. "So he's alive? Good, I'd hate to lose him, he's worth the most after Dutch."

"And as you can see…" began a voice as dry as sand and as sweet as honey. A path was cleared for him and Rains Fall exited the reservation, meeting James Langton face-to-face. Leopold rolled his eyes. He'd expected it, naturally. Even a wise chief didn't have the basic cognitive abilities to comprehend that pissing contests were a waste of time and effort.

"Father!' Eagle Flies cried out protectively, but the chief only ignored him.

"… Mr. Van der Linde isn't present. There is nothing for you here." The brims of their hats hugged.

"I wouldn't say that…" he glanced to Sadie. "There's a debt needs payin'."

"You won't pay it today, sir," Rains Fall commanded.

Langton will leave, certainly, Leopold jotted. He can see by now the men worth an assault like Bill, Javier, Charles, and especially Dutch aren't here, so why not wait until they can strike and get all the fish in one net?

All the same, the pissing continued. "I'll pay it whenever I fuckin' please—"

His orange-banded white hat was pierced with an arrow. It left his hands, impaling the dirt. Eagle Flies loaded another arrow, deliberately, so Langton knew he wouldn't miss next time.

"Fine," the bounty hunter said, removing Arthur's hat, flipping it several times as he spoke. "We'll go. It's not like y'all are goin' anywhere. We'll be back, with every man I got this time, which I guarantee is twice what your paranoia tells you it is."

So don't you be gettin' too cozy, pappy, this ain't over. Oh, here, my gift to you.

"So don't you be gettin' too cozy, pappy, this ain't over. Oh, here, my gift to you." Langton thrusted the hat in Rains Fall's chest, bullethole facing up.

So predictable. Leopold shook his head. So very pre—

"You there! Bookkeeper?"

Leopold was so caught off-guard he searched his left and right, as though there was another bookkeeper. The stew Tilly prepared must've been cooked with sawdust in lieu of onions because his throat was dry suddenly. "Yes," he managed.

The glare from a silver circle burned his eyes when Langton raised it. The coin was propelled with a musical clink into Leopold's hand. The Austrian fumbled it, dropping it into a pool of mud below; he fished around until the dollar was back in his grasp, along with cool, squishy goo.

"That's my deposit," James said. "I bet ya two dollars that I'll have this entire gang dead before Thanksgiving." He tilted his head to the side, waiting for an answer.

But Leopold was frozen. Like he'd been when they'd come for precious Anna…

No father, take me instead, Johan had screamed.

I'll kill you, David had cried, lunging at the man with a steak knife.

We can't support her, his father yelled, twisting the blade free from David. And she's too young to pull her weight. It's better this way! You idiots are only thinking with your hearts! Well stop! Your head's a better investment. Why can't you be more like Leopold there?

Daddy was right, Leopold thought, his heart suddenly racing a mile a minute. Daddy was right. Daddy was right.

"Yello?" Langton called out. "We have a deal, kraut?"

His throat was too dry to speak, so he conjured images of chocolate. His salivary glands did the rest. Oh, little Anna loved chocolate. Stop. Your head's a better investment. Your head's a better investment.

"Deal," he wheezed out.

"Good," James Langton smirked and mounted his maroon filly. He paid the reservation one last look, holding on Leopold for the longest time. "I want that paid in full."

Then he and his compatriots stirred their horses into ferocious gallops and disappeared in a puff of orange dust.

Eventually, the nervous mob dissipated, but the whispers lived on. After everything that had happened, and now this? It was bad that Dutch wasn't here, he'd be able to assuage the natives instantly. Instead, rumors spun into truths and fears snowballed into facts.

We need that letter, Leopold wrote. Monroe said things at Washington move slow, well things here are moving fast as greased lightning. If we don't beat it and soon, we'll be the ones who get beat.

Leopold collapsed in his chair by the wagon. He wiped the grime from his hands against his cherry-red funds box. When he was done, he was perplexed to find they were shaking uncontrollably. He realized instantly his heart hadn't ceased drumming.

When he flipped me that coin… I… I thought he was going to kill me.

He brought his pen to paper, almost writing that thought down. When the tip made contact, he took a breath and instead wrote: Langton is an idiot, too shortsighted and egotistical to be taken seriously. Just to get the last word in he fed us a silver dollar, which only pushes us closer to our aim and further away from him. All of a piece they are, Langton, Mary-Beth, Molly, and the others. If only they could take after me, this gang would be so much better off.

Leopold set down his notebook. He removed Langton's ante from his pocket, reaching to drop it in his red box along with the other camp funds. He slipped his hand over it, but his fingers wouldn't release. His reflection was greasy and jagged in the metal, and with the redwood from the crate shimmering in it, it seemed as though blood was pouring from his forehead. Leopold pondered if there really was such a thing as a bulletproof hat. No, he decided. I wouldn't wear it anyway. Hats are itchy.

The coin slipped, plopping into the box with its quarter brothers and nickel sisters. When it became just another coin among hundreds, Leopold felt calm.

He dumped the box out and got to recounting. He signed the sum in his journal beside what he'd written the night before. The difference was one dollar.

By the time he'd finished, Charles had long returned with Kiona, apologizing like the emotional little boy he was, swearing never to leave them abandoned again, especially with John on sabbatical.

Dutch arrived a few hours after Mr. Smith, with Bill, Javier, and Kieran.

"Where the hell were you?" Abigail asked crossly as he hitched The Count.

"Recon," was his only answer.

"For what," she demanded, other members of the gang falling in line with her curiosity. "The job is done. There's nothin' left to do but wait."

"Just call it a… side project, to be completed if we got the time."

Her index finger prodded against his pink handkerchief in rough bursts, one per word she spoke. "Well, your 'side project' nearly got us all killed!" We're being hunted by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the state, Dutch, in what world would it have been a good idea to leave us with half our manpower?" She explained everything right then, the bounty hunter's appearance and the snipers on the mountain.

Dutch smiled, but Leopold didn't even need to consider the twitching of his thigh to know what was going through his mind. Mary-Beth, Kieran, Tilly, and the rest were surrounding him. They were hearing all this and from Abigail's seed, doubt was beginning to grow. He couldn't have that.

"Did Langton do anything? Kill anyone?"

"He didn't have to. Dutch, we're—"

"So that's a no?" His grin flashed condescending, for a moment only, before shrinking back to its stock congeniality. "Stay loose, Abigail, you're gettin' everyone all worked up." He addressed the entire gang. "Ladies and gentlemen, I promise, we will be gone by the time that fool Langton rounds up all his thugs. Don't fear, that's what he wants, that's why he came here in the first place."

Abigail opened her mouth to continue objecting, but Dutch had already shown her his back, walking away towards his tent at the back of their portion of the reservation. The wife rejoined her husband and son, and the camp resumed its normal functions until the sun shied away. Uncle was the first asleep naturally, followed briefly by the rest of the enclave.

Leopold found rest challenging. Dread washed over him, and the idea of dreaming became more and more unappealing. It wasn't that he was scared of nightmares, he hadn't the imagination for anything more horrifying than a capital gains tax. He merely had a strange premonition that if his eyes shut, they'd never open.

He slipped the gray cover onto his lap and slid through the inky, scribbled pages until he stumbled onto a clean one. I heard a rumor today, he wrote, of machines in development, capable of—

"Hey, Strauss," greeted a voice in the dark. It strode into the moonlight by which Leopold was penning.

"Mr. Van der Linde." The Austrian nodded his head respectfully.

Dutch knelt down next to him, whispering so as not to wake anyone. Or so as not to have his words heard. "How're you?"

"I'm… I'm in my pajamas," Leopold indicated monotonically, with a bite of sarcasm.

Dutch chuckled giddily. Is he drunk? No, I don't smell liquor. "Heh, yeah. Um, look, I had a real quick question for you, sorry to bother you so late. Uh, you notate our… heh, net worth, every night, right?"

"I try."

"Good. So… would you… I know we didn't officially have it for a full night, but with all the facts in mind, how much—an educated guess, mind you— would you say we left behind in Blackwater."

The number came immediately. "One hundred forty-eight thousand seven hundred and twenty dollars."

Dutch cackled so shrilly he had to cover his mouth. "That… much…?"

"Yes. Provided, naturally, you didn't leave any on that boat when the situation turned sour."

"I didn't." His eyes burned with fire, but his smile was still twisted. "That damn much, huh?" he whispered, turning away."

"Anything else you needed?"

"No." It was another whisper and then Dutch vanished into the howling night wind.

Leopold returned to his book. I heard a rumor today of machines in development, capable of drawing oil from a well with no human labor required. I know it doesn't do well, however, in truth, I am somewhat disappointed to be leaving this country when it finally seems to be improving. I wonder at the prospect of the oil industry's future and have concluded it must be a bright one. No more little girls crying and complaining and whining, only steady reliable machines. They didn't whine, just pushed forward. Like me.

He closeted his pen inside the journal's spine and when he snapped the book shut, he was calm enough to drift away. Come morning his batteries were recharged.

Langton found them...

The Pinks are still looking...

The Murfrees have forgotten nothing...

All the gang can do is hold their ground for Monroe. Hope he hurries up...

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, hope you all liked it. In the game Strauss acts oddly uppity despite being surrounded by people actually putting their lives on the line, so I thought it would be intriguing to showcase his perceived superiority as a coping mechanism he used to push down the grief of losing his sister, shunning all emotions. Then I thought it would be pretty pathetic if the second Langton shows up he starts quaking with fear, then continuing to act as though he was never fazed the second he's gone.