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-Four: Molly

12:31 PM, October 30th, 1899

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked her in a whisper, so close the heat from his breath tickled the back of her neck as she turned away from him. It felt good, only she was too angry to enjoy it. Fuckin' pussy. "If I went for Dutch right then and there, John would have killed me. I couldn't go to the Pinks, you mighta gotten caught in the crossfire. And we still need the gang's protection until we can raise another six thousand dollars." He stroked her shoulder, but she batted it off, bundling the thick, uncomfortable blanket over her head. He gabbed some more so she stuffed her ears with the heavy fabric until the buzzing of his voice left the tent. Men, she thought. Loud mouths, no balls. She was glad the state bonds got torn up the other night. Let those bounty hunters have Micah, let them tear him limb from limb. She wanted to see the blood drip from his mouth as he died painfully. I've made up my mind. He doesn't get to fuck me for at least a week.

The gang was moving again. Mary-Beth said so this morning. Crates were being stuffed, tents rolled up, wagons loaded to the brim. The blanket weighed her down so she struggled until she was sitting up and saw three wagons were filled and ready to depart—Tilly's chuckwagon was damaged from the Murfrees' assault, but they patched up the wheels and figured it would be shipshape enough to limp to the reservation. If it would last after that no one knew. Before the bastard left, Micah gathered all the medical supplies from Molly's brown tent and stocked it on the back of the middle prairie wagon lined up at the camp's exit. After that, the tent was stripped down around her and Molly had to smother herself with the blanket so the sun's glare wouldn't keep her up. Grimshaw sat in the first cart, spitting demands, complaining about this and that, while Dutch stood beside her, feeding The Count an apple. Dutch… She'd kill him. He wouldn't get a slow death either anymore; she would repay what he'd done to her a hundred times over. She gritted her teeth and then winced in pain, clutching her throbbing jaw.

Later, Kieran helped her out of bed and down the river to wash up before leaving with the others. Naturally, she told him to go fuck himself. "If I'm gonna smell, I'm gonna smell! If you don't like that, you can cut off your nose, or preferably, steer fuckin' clear, you O'Driscoll asshole!" They all thought she was a fucking idiot, that they weren't secretly raising their cups to Dutch for what he did, or cursing him for not doing enough. She couldn't wait until they were all dead. The bonds may have set her back, but she'd find a new way. Their upcoming heist involved a lot of money floating around. Who'd notice if a few thousand went missing?

When Molly marched back up the hill from the brook, she found Abigail smoking by the horse stations. When she saw the Irishwoman she put it out under her boot and smiled as best she could.

"C'mon, I'll drive you to the reservation," she offered. Molly naturally told her to go fuck herself, only when she saw the status of the rest of the camp—Dutch and Kieran, on horseback, Grimshaw, Strauss, Uncle, and Micah on the first wagon already pulling out of camp, and John, Tilly, Sadie, Mary-Beth, and little Jack on the overpacked wobbly chuckwagon—she knew it wasn't really a choice. Abigail and her wagon were the only way she was getting out of this shithole. She didn't mind not being seated next to Micah—bastard didn't deserve her company right now, but still… I really gotta be ridin' with the camp whore?

They hobbled aboard the rig, led by Sadie's horse, Robin. Heh, perfect name, Molly snorted, cuz all that blonde bitch does is stealin' and robbin'. And whoring. She remembered Dutch trying to get in that skank's pants back in Shady Belle. If she'd been feeling herself, perhaps she wouldn't care anymore, however her mood was especially black today and she could only soothe the rage of imagining those two together by imagining them lying together in pools of blood. Soon…

Abigail whipped the Thoroughbred into a swift canter. Molly glanced over her shoulder, staring at Beaver Hollow as they rode farther and farther away. It was as though they'd never been there. She remembered the start of their sojourn there, Micah on top of her, kissing her neck, hands all over… She felt a twinge of nostalgia before recalling how their sojourn ended. Her, bruised and broken in a dozen spots, him over her, with that smug, atrocious expression. And Micah in the corner, hiding in his tarp like a wrinkled turtle. Fuckin' pussy. Suddenly she spat on the trail leading back to the Hollow. Good fuckin' riddance.

They continued in silence for a time (a blissful time), passing towering trees that opened into large clearings with gorgeous views of Roanoke Valley and the Three Sisters. Then Abigail had to ruin it by speaking.

"You feelin' any better?" she asked with a shy smile. Molly wanted to smack her.

"I'm fuckin' peachy." She turned away, hoping that would be it. Then her throat dried up and she groaned, hands tied. "I'm thirsty, got some whiskey?"

"No, sorry, I think it's all in the chuckwagon."

"Of fuckin' course it is."

"I'll get you some when we get there."

Molly grimaced, nearly losing it. "I don't want it when we get there, I want it now." I'll start with this narcoleptic bitch. I'll ask Milton to use a knife instead of a gun. Insist on it in fact. That meeting in Van Horn swimmed back into her mind and she smiled. She'd been so in control, said whatever she wanted and they couldn't do squat. She pictured Ross with his atrocious cane and thought of beating him with it. The image made her want to touch herself.

Then Abigail had to ruin it by speaking. "I-I'm sorry for what Dutch did to you." Her pale blue eyes were twinkling with fake pity and it made Molly sick.

"No, you ain't," Molly said, finding herself yanking an orange strand of hair from her scalp.

"I am, Molly, I am. I want to help." She tugged the reins in so their wagon lagged behind the others, far enough so speaking at full volume wouldn't be a risk. "I can help you get away if that's what you want. Reverend left today, caught the 12:10 to Blackwater if I remember right. It ain't too late, you could meet him before he hops a boat—"

Molly interrupted with a scoff. "Do I have a sign on my face that says 'pass me around?' I am a one-man woman. I'm on that man's juice for a few days and now you think I want to throw myself at him?"

"That's not what I'm sayin', Mol," Abigail sighed, "and you know that. I'm saying that you could have a better life, away from this shit. You ain't well known with us, the Pinks ain't gonna come lookin' for you."

I don't know about that, Molly thought, seein' as how I'm their best friend and all… But what she said was, "That desperate to get rid a' me, ain't you?"

"You can do better than Dutch," the whore tried.

"You couldn't. Speaking of which: don't worry, your secret is safe with me…"

"Mol—"

"I won't tell John that boy is Dutch's son." Abigail exhaled deeply, trying to keep her cool. Molly smirked and leaned forward so her words burned right into the bitch's ear. "That musta been tough, you were only like seventeen. Was it tough, getting plowed by your donkey of a husband all day and Dutch all night? Oh, pardon me, he ain't your real husband, is he? I didn't want to say nothin' at the time, but my daddy was a marriage officiant and that union Swanson did for you was phony as a three-dollar bill. He ain't your husband, he ain't nothin'. And neither are you. You're just a cheap five-dollar whore."

Abigail raised her fist as Molly expected. Micah is gonna kill her when he sees what she's done to my—

Only Abigail didn't strike her. Her hand landed on Molly's shoulder and squeezed softly. "I know what you're tryin' to do. Tryin' to push me away like you done all the others. But I ain't fallin' for it again, Mol. I ain't been a good friend to you, and I think that's partially to blame for what happened to you… and I want to start over. I promised John I would try with you, and now I want to really try. I want to be friends, Molly."

The fuck is this? Molly shied to the corner of the wagon. What game is this harlot playin'? She didn't know what to do except sneer. "Piss off, whore."

"No," Abigail said with an iron resolve. Her sea blue eyes never blinked and Molly found when she stared into them she couldn't blink either. It was hypnotic. Abigail's eyes revolved like whirlpools. How they didn't drive off the road I'll never know. "You won't scare me away."

"L-leave me alone, you cunt." Just leave me alone, leave me the fuck alone. Eyes on the road. Think about Jack or John, but stop fuckin' talking.

The shining twin whirlpools kept spinning. "No."

Abigail reached her hand out again and Molly slapped it away in fear. Her own green eyes reflected her captor's frosty blue ones and she felt a shiver working down her body from her face; it numbed her, all the pain and bruises. And she hated that. She liked the pain, pain made sense. This… was confusing. "I got… I got to take a piss," Molly whispered.

"Pardon?"

"I NEED TO PISS!" Thank God Abigail had sagged so far back from the others because there wasn't any creature within a five-hundred-mile radius who hadn't heard that shriek.

Abigail weaned the wagon off to the side of the road and they came to a steady halt. "Are you oka—"

Molly couldn't hear her finish over the sound of her boots crunching on the fallen auburn leaves as she ran off into the woods. She needed to clear her head. As her feet pumped strenuously on the uneven, jagged terrain of sticks and sharp stones, she tried to imagine Abigail dead, blood pouring out of her tits, Milton standing over her with a shotgun, but the image was growing hazy. She couldn't make the picture anymore. She's fuckin' cheating me! She's upsetting the plan, making me confused!

Molly ran until she couldn't run any longer; her chest bounced with a red fury and she panted doggishly. She was approximately two hundred feet from the wagon (no, that was not a fault of her injuries so much as her spoiled, shriveled body). Amidst the tightly planted trees was a boulder eroded in the shape of a plump deflated cock. She pretended it was Micah's and sat on it—she felt nothing. This was all very confusing.

Branches rattled violently, leaves spewing down as another figure burst through, panting, only on a much lower level than the first sprinter.

"Why do you care about me all of a sudden?" Molly asked. "What's your angle?"

"I don't got an angle," Abigail lied. "'Cept that I feel guilty. Molly…" Twigs snapped under her feet as she moved closer to the Irishwoman, step by step. "I've been slapped around by more than a few men in my day—some of whom I was smitten with."

"John?" A stab of delight impaled her as her imagination went to work. Another knife cut her after, however this one was coated with horrible poison that turned her insides black and sickly (this second knife is what normal folk call self-reproach).

"No, not John," Abigail said. "Someone else…" Her eyes drooped for a moment, the entrancing spell in them wavering. "I-I was really young…" Then, just like that, she was back, whirlpools swirling mesmerizingly. "I want you to know, Molly—well, maybe you already do, but I still got to say it…" She was feet away now. The wind blew and her scent washed over Molly. It reeked overwhelmingly, but it was a pleasant reek—like coffee or salt from the sea. "It wasn't your fault, Mol. It wasn't."

"I hate you." Her nostrils flared savagely. She realized for the first time today that she wore her white shawl with cute little pink roses on it. She thought it would look much better on Abigail, especially when it was wrapped liberally around her neck, worn tight, so tight her face turned purple. It would compliment the roses nicely. She found the shawl slipping into her hands and curled it into a long pallid rope. Lean a little closer, bitch, I gotta surprise for you….

The whirlpools couldn't have been more than two inches away now. So big and bright… "You can go right ahead and do that," Abigail said. "Hate me if you want. But I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you, now."

Molly was hugging her then.

The whirlpools weren't ice-blue anymore, they were blue as the prongs of a fire. Molly knew because she'd never been warmer inside. It was better than being with Micah; when she felt Abigail's frizzy, unkempt hair on her neck and cheek, and her arms reciprocating the hug, it was softer than the snow-white featherbed, the golden mulberry silk pillows, the navy linens, and the stunning cerulean bed canopy of her old life. She was a child again, safe as could be, far, far away from the evil man who had hurt her so badly. Molly's sister had died in labor, but when she clung to Abigail, she heard a tiny little heartbeat throb up and down—although maybe that was hers.

When they finally broke off each other, they giggled softly at each other, holding hands tenderly. They sauntered back to the wagon, letting themselves get lost a few times—they were in no rush.

By the time they climbed back onto the cart, Molly had told her everything: her favorite color (spring green), her favorite food (jam and treacle tarts; she'd eaten a dozen a day when she was a chubby short girl back in Ireland—she begged and pleaded with Dutch, but he could never seem to find her any here), and her mother's successful career as a fashion designer in Dublin before landing on her feet nicely when they moved to America so her father could work as a railroad architect for a tycoon named Henry Licer. She prattled on and on like never before.

Robin neighed at their delay, but they told the foal to shut up.

Abigail gabbed for quite a bit too, and Molly stayed firmly focused on her eyes, her rosy cheeks, the way some of her raven hairs poked out from her top knot, swaying gracefully across her face in the wind. She's pretty, Molly realized. Am I as pretty as she is? A needle of jealousy cut her into her chest, but it melted away as they chatted. Abigail mentioned her life growing up in an orphanage, living a life prowling the streets in tight corsets and stockings, and when she did, Molly wanted to cry, and nearly did—she had to forcibly push the tears back inside with her thumbs. She didn't want Abigail to think she was a crybaby. Dutch sneered and called her that on more than one occasion and it hurt. It had been a while since she cared what someone thought of her. Abigail chuckled as she talked on her pregnancy, the awkwardness of it, the severity of her mood swings (heh, must've confused Molly since she's had those mood swings since birth—maybe her baby's been late twenty years).

They were still talking when the temperature lowered as they trekked north—Molly (brace yourselves) gave Abigail her shawl so she wouldn't be cold (yes, you heard me right, she gave something)—up until they neared the reservation. Kieran met them three-quarters of the way, galloping fiercely on Branwen.

"Where the heck have you been?" he asked loudly over his horse's panting. "We arrived thirty minutes ago, I looped back thinkin' y'all were got captured by Murfrees!"

Molly opened her mouth to scream something spiteful—fuck off or I'll shove a shamrock so far up your O'Driscoll ass it'll tickle your lungs was loaded and prepped—but Abigail interceded. "Sorry, long piss break."

He did a double-take."Piss break?"

"Yeah…" Abigail tapped above her waist. "Weak bladder." She whipped Robin into motion. She didn't shout or shoot any stern looks, but Kieran knew the conversation was over and fell into line as they trotted uphill. Molly burned that moment into her skull; having your way without making a scene was foreign to her and she wanted to study it later.

On the way, she mentally dressed Abigail in a fancy silken dress, it was a soft lilac (Abigail said it was her favorite color) with white pleated seams running in line with her abs. It seemed more appropriate than the tattered black skirt and tweed navy shirt she wore now. She thought of herself now in one of those Victorian dresses she'd seen in photos—it was identical to Abigail's, only green instead of purple. She pictured them dancing together, laughing, drinking (she giggled thinking about them in a bar with their elegant attire, drinking every big man under the table). It all felt right.

Then the uneasy sensation struck her as they crossed a rickety bridge, entering their destination. She couldn't let the Pinks kill Abigail. And with the way the woman had talked so sweetly of Jack, she wasn't sure if she could let them kill him either, but that was a mite more up in the air. She was angry at her for a moment, for complicating everything. Then Abigail smiled jovially at her and the fury was gone.

Grimshaw's wasn't however. She cursed the girls out wildly as they came in, bitching about their absence, how worried she was—the lying hag. Abigail held Molly's hand and they ignored the woman as they rolled off to the side of the reservation where the chief said they could stay. He sure as hell wasn't letting a bunch of outlaws mingle with their young, Dutch had said, so the best they could get was a small stretch of land between the tepees and the surrounding forest. It was stony, Molly noticed as she hopped down. Great, this'll be fuckin' comfortable. She noticed Charles living it up with the natives at the center of camp, roasting some wolf at the campfire. She almost blew a fuse at the hypocrisy, the inequality of it, but remembered Abigail's example and calmed down.

The gang was busy unpacking, throwing up more tents, trying to find a patch of land that wasn't literally hard as rock to sleep on. Dutch, of course, claimed the only spot in the dirt and grass, abut the wall of the small bulging mountain peak. Well, one of the only spots, anyway, but still incredibly rude (by which I mean there were plenty of spots not atop rocky terrain, Molly just liked to whine). She realized suddenly she was benefitting from this system—she couldn't sleep with Micah, so she'd probably need to move back in with Dutch. Or I could stay with John and Abigail, she thought, not grasping the inconveniency of three adults and a child staying under one relatively small tarp.

The gang had swung back into its usual rhythm: Grimshaw was barking orders, Kieran was managing the horses—like Charles, those lucky bastards were allowed to stay with the natives, hitched with all their steeds—, Mary-Beth was doodling something shitty, Uncle was passed out on the rough granite, and Tilly was getting a fire going to brew Pearson's cauldron on (goddamn selfish Indians ain't gonna share their food neither?). Micah was beside the chef, removing the canned goods from the chuckwagon and laying them out where they were easily accessible.

She tramped over to him, tapping his shoulder. "Meet me in the woods in a few minutes."

1:25 PM, October 30th, 1899

Molly waited for three minutes. He is not a prompt man, is he? Just like Dutch, ain't got no respect for anyone's time but his.

She suddenly heard boots mashing frozen dew and then he was there, his smiling yellow face protruding from the thick vegetation. "Hey, Molly." His jaws slid ajar and he brought his three foremost fingers together, waving them around as though he was going to say something romantic. Molly heard paper crease as his other hand reached into his pocket, and she wondered if he would read a poem for her. She perked up slightly, but he stopped and pulled out an empty fist. "Hey," he repeated, casually, his romantic hand falling to his side.

She snorted, not sure why she was surprised. He's a lily-livered coward.

He cleared his throat. "Well, uh… we should get to it before it gets too cold." He unbuckled his pants and let them drop. He thought he was gonna—he thinks I'm some five-dollar—

She took a deep breath, thinking about Abigail. And then she began chortling instead of shrieking, finding the humor in the moment. Men. No balls but all dick. Silly, silly creatures they are. She was impressed by how quickly she was able to mimic Abigail's relaxed demeanor. "I didn't ask you here for that, Micah. Zip 'em back up before it freezes off." A chilly gale hit them and he complied quickly. She smiled excitedly. "I think I got it figured out. We weren't seein' things right before, we were too mad 'bout what's been done to us. We were so mad we were takin' it out on the gang, but what did they ever do?"

Micah snorted, clacking his belt. "Are you fuckin' with me? What are—"

"I'm deadly serious, darling," she said, letting her smile fall like Abigail did so he knew she meant it. "You sad cuz they took your guns and made you a meat trimmer"—the word made him snarl—"but who was really to blame for that? Jack? Abigail?"

His blue eyes sparkled prettily, but not as pretty as Abigail's had, as he figured it out. "No… it was Dutch."

She couldn't help the grin flitting back to her lips. "Yeah. Always Dutch. We were worried 'bout how to keep you safe from bounty hunters, but why should we? When we got a dozen people watching both of our backs."

"Wha—"

"Dutch needs to die. Not anyone else, just him. With him gone, you can be the new leader, we'll take the money and the gang and finish his plan. Head on up to Canada."

Micah stroked his arching golden mustache, shaking his head slightly. "That can't—no. They hate me, they'd never make me leader."

"Without Dutch, they'll have to."

"But… John, Bill, Javier—"

"None of 'em are leaders, they're all followers," she insisted. "Charles and Kieran too. Who else is left? Tilly? Strauss? Uncle? No one likes Grimshaw, and if they do, we'll kill her too. I hate that bitch anyway."

Micah's simper grew across his face, matching hers. "We would save them. And they would adore us for it."

"And we'd lead this gang to salvation," Molly finished.

"Yesss…" Micah drawled, approaching her with a twisted, wild face. He coiled his hands around her shoulders and kissed her. It was passionate and intense; greedy drool had made his mustache wet on her lips, but she found she enjoyed it.

He kept going and she let it happen, violating her vow on the one week—she was in a good mood after all.

She'd made a new friend today. A friend.

Aww, Molly made a friend. They grow up so fast.

So now Dutch is the prime target. I wonder on just what holiday that assassination is going to fall on...

Hope you enjoyed this switcharoo. I liked the idea of Micah leapfrogging to different schemes on a whim-trying to play the plotter when really he's just a dumb outlaw who wants to watch the world burn.