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-Eight: Charles

9:21 AM, July 30th, 1899

So much for the welcome home party, Charles thought as he fed the cold, runny, Pinkerton corpse to the lake.

They were already packing up. Again. Charles, fully aware of the definition of insanity, grunted and strolled to the center of camp, filling up his breakfast by the fire. He sucked down the stew with mixed feelings; on one hand, it was irrefutably better than the prison food he'd nibbled on the last few days, but on the other, it was the same goddamn thing he'd eaten every day with the gang since Colter. He sighed, realizing with Pearson gone, the food was probably set to only get more tedious—the seaman had at least known variations to the recipe, whereas Tilly…

Charles, fully aware of the definition of insanity, brought the bowl to his lips and drank the watery broth. A chicken bone stabbed his upper lip, siphoning an ounce of salty liquid out of his eye before he rustled it back to its natural place. He swallowed and set the bowl down, electing not to say anything to camp's new meat trimmer; to be perfectly honest, he was amazed Micah hadn't slipped a venomous baby snake into it.

"You ready?" a tired voice said, placing his hand on Charles' shoulder. He nodded, and they embarked on the gang's hilarious excuse for a stable. John and Lenny were already there, getting acquainted with their new horses. Kieran had gone out last night with what little funds the gang had left and bought three new horses: a Turkoman, a Kentucky Daddler, and an Appaloosa, which Charles had, too eagerly, claimed. It was white with black spots and reminded him of Taima—he'd even named it as such: Taima II. He knew he'd change it, of course, Uncle had named his current horse after his previous one and Charles hated it. To converge an animal's identity with another's was denying it its own. He'd only ever done it once before and he was a child then. Charles cringed, shaking his head. It was a weak, desperate comparison. Because it wasn't an animal.

It happened back when his mother had died, or more accurately, when amry soldiers had broken into their shack at night, stealing her away. Charles' father cried, beating his head on the misshapenly cut floorboards.

"Hadn't I done everything?" he decried. "I built it in the middle of nowhere, I never told anyone 'bout her 'cept Mama, she wore a thick linen veil so the priest couldn't see her… Hadn't I done everything?!"

Charles, seven years old at the time, just stood there, staring at the ajar door, trying to will his mother back, swearing, promising he wouldn't cry. And he never did. Not then nor ever again.

A few weeks later, his father had brought a whore home with him. Now this hadn't been anything new; whoring and drinking had become his favorite pastime—and with how much of his day it bled into, it was practically his career—and Charles had accustomed himself to sleeping outside so he wouldn't hear the awful noises coming from his father's room (in fact, it was most likely the seed that would grow into a love for the outdoors). But this one was different, with burnt yellow hair, dark skin, clapped-out saggy body that wasn't worth anything paper, and a smile that was too outstretched to be paid for.

"This is Clarissa," his father had said, "she is my wife now. She'll be your new mama."

Charles remembered shaking her hand wordlessly before retreating outside for what he knew would come next. The next morning, while his father slept, drunk on booze and sex, the woman had come out to make breakfast, slightly disappointed to see Charles had beat her to the punch. It wasn't much of course, just moldy bread and expired preservatives—most money went to firewater and whores.

"Why, thank you, uh… God, I'm sorry, what was it again?" she asked between a mouthful of menses-red jam.

"I'm glad you're here," he'd said.

"Oh, thank you… me too."

"I missed you, Mom."

She choked on her bread before roughly swallowing it."Uh…" she stole a gander over her shoulder, hoping Charles' father had come out—she lacked the skills to deal with what was benign asked of her.

"Will things be as they were before? I'd like that." He drank a glass of water he'd harvested from the nearby stream. It was turpid from the pollutants released by the oil farms over the hill.

But things weren't. His father was done with her within the fortnight and she was tossed out in the pouring rain black and blue and red. Charles had been next.

"Why won't ya speak to me, boy?" his father had asked as he'd clouted him with his wolf-head wooden cane, decorating the child with love bites from the brown hound. "Why won't ya speak to ya goddamn father?!"

Charles had left not long after that. At least that's what he remembered doing. At some point, memories get too distant, too blurry to discern from dreams, swept away in an endless grey fog of uncertainties until the only thing you can say to keep from going insane is 'fuck it, who cares.'

But he knew one thing for sure: Taima II was only temporary.

"Dutch," John said, "do you need me for this? Abigail's losin' it after last night—"

"Well, maybe that's on you," Dutch remarked, not looking at him, focusing his gaze solely on The Duke, one of the two black mustangs Javier, Charles, and Lenny had brought back with them. "Maybe next time you'll stay with your family instead'a sneakin' off to hump in the woods like a couple a' horny rabbits…"

John recoiled like he'd been slapped. "Come again?"

Then the laughter started. "I'm jokin'! Only jokin'! C'mon, don't worry 'bout it, we got more than enough people still at camp, your boy'll be fine, I promise. Anyway, can I please explain the plan for everyone now?" After a brief silence, John grunted and Dutch chattered away. "I'm Tacitus Kilgore, a foreign investor who dhoesss noht spek Englesh viry well." The accent he performed was an assault on speech. "Charles and Lenny are my… what? Assistants?"

"Advisors," the boy answered.

"Right, advisors. John's my bodyguard. Gives him a good reason to have a gun if we need to get out of a hairy situation and—oh God. John, you missin' a tooth?"

"You just noticed?"

"Yeah… heh. Really rough rumble you two kids took last night?"

"I lost it gettin' Jack back." That shut him up.

"But, seriously, y'know what we really need? A—"

"Dutch!" came the smooth voice of Javier as he walked over. "If you need another gunman, I can—"

"John will be more than sufficient," Dutch spat.

Javier's face was grim, and oily, courtesy of the humid climate."Dutch, I was there with them on the island. For six days. You don't think it'll be a little strange if I'm suddenly absent?"

"Don't care. I'll make somethin' up."

"Dutch, just beca—"

"I won't have people ridin' with me who I do not trust. And who do not trust me."

"¡Dios Mio! Because a' Micah? Because I asked you to do one goddamn thing?!"

"Because, Javier, you do not trust me! And…"—he looked away, tightening his satchel to his black steed—"and that breaks my heart. After all I done for you…"

"I trust you Dutch! Have I not always been loyal? Have I not always kept the faith?" He grabbed the man's shoulder, trying to spin him so he could see him, look him in the eyes, but Dutch fought, keeping away.

"Faith?" Dutch cackled, pivoting around, wrapping his rough hands around Javier's shoulders and shaking him. "Trust ain't built on faith, it's built on reciprocity. I teach you English, teach you to read, write, count, give you a home, a family, and you repay me with nothin' but doubt!"

"I ain't doubtin' you!"

"Yeah, you is! Doubted me at Shady Belle and you're doubtin' me now!"

"Jesus! I just want you to cut one lying bastard loose!"

Dutch let go of him then, eyed him up and down, examining him like his wickedness was something alien. "Did it ever cross your mind for one single second that he might just be innocent? That with all that adrenaline you simply saw things wrong? Three people saw what happened, but no, you're way, the minority way, is right, hang what everyone else thinks! Hang Micah up too while we're at it! No trial, no chance to explain, just send him packin'. Sounds a lot like a dictatorship to me. Heh, a Mexican dictator, maybe you ain't in the wrong country after all, Javier. God… look at you… just like every other revolutionary: ain't no better than those you spit at!"

Charles wasn't even the object of this sharp sermon and still he couldn't help but wince. Javier was practically in tears, lips quivering, shame coldly blanketing him like sleet. Dutch's angled face softened and he licked his lips twice before saying in a murmur "That—I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

"No… it weren't," Javier whispered before running off, pushing past Swanson to free his own matching black filly which he'd named The Baroness (the irony is tortuous), riding off as fast as he could.

"Javier!" Lenny called, but it was for naught.

"Shit… he'll be back," Dutch insisted. "He'll be back… I k-know it."

"That was too damn far, Dutch," John said.

"I know! Hence, why I said 'that was uncalled for.' I swear, if you lot keep stating the obvious it's gonna drive me mad! Let's just… get on with this."

Charles had a great many things to say, so naturally, he kept them to himself as Dutch climbed atop The Duke, followed by the other three.

"Is it possible we could be gettin' the plan any time soon?" John questioned in his typical sardonic manner. "Is that in the cards?"

"Yeah, the plan is—uhhh. No. Y'know what, this package is incomplete."

"Huh?" came Lenny.

Dutch sighed, flailing his hands dramatically at the four men. "I mean… just look at us! We look like a bunch of hardened robbers. And if I'm Mr. Kilgore, where's my real financial advisor? Where's my all-American wife?"

Before anyone could interject, he turned his head crookedly over his shoulder and shouted "Mary-Beth!"

She was jotting some gauche tripe on her notebook, writing over the random numbers Strauss had written (although Charles was confident he just made up that excuse to justify his defilement of her property in the name of curiosity; it was why Charles never kept a journal) when she head and rushed over, nearly tripping over a dry yet far from brittle root that was protruding from the clumpy earth. "Yeah, Dutch?"

"How'd you like to get married?"

"Huh?" she and Kieran (who was across fishing in the lake but had the ears of a fruitbat) said together.

"We need a woman's touch here to finish our ensemble and I'm thinkin' you're the right kind."

"Well… I—"

"Ain't I the right kind?!" said a raspy voice as it hobbled over.

"I swear," Dutch said, turning to Charles, "she's only sober when ya don't want her to be…"

"I could play your lady, Dutch Van der Linde," Molly proclaimed proudly—as if she'd forgotten that was her role currently—shoving Mary-Beth with enough force to ground her. "Unless you forgot I got lady parts downstairs…"

"I guess I have. Been so damn long since I seen them." His tone was feral, monstrous. To be honest, Charles couldn't blame him. Their declining sex life hadn't been a secret to anyone, and he imagined more guilt should be placed on the one who was stone-cold drunk half the time.

"Besides," he continued, "you are unpredictable and a risk. Mary-Beth is safer."

Molly didn't even try to contest this, instead arguing with "What 'bout Grimshaw? She's more your age anyway." There was an edge there that even naive dog-eared Kieran picked up on.

"Grimshaw must stay and keep the camp in line." It was said in a shaky monotone.

She stood not three feet from his horse now."Yeah, great point. It should just be me then." She offered her hand abruptly and when it wasn't seized as quickly as it had been given, she took him by the hand and strived to pull herself up.

"No!" Was Dutch's adamant answer as he ripped free of her grip, letting her fall rump-first onto the coarse, broken-up soil below that stained her ruby skirt with dark blemishes.

She gazed up at him, eyes glowing with shivering green rings that burned like something out of a circus act. She said one word and she said it in a bear's growl. "Why?"

Dutch's mouth fell until he looked like a trout. He was winding up, and Charles knew to nothing good, but before he could cut in, the first word was already out, as loud as it was slow as it was paunchy with hate. "Because… money's tight… and I don't have five dollars to rub together."

She dove at him like a mongrel cat, claws out, hissing between gritted teeth. Swanson and Uncle grabbed her by the arms holding her back as she screamed. "Fuck you, Dutch! Fuck you! I'll fuckin' kill you!"

Finally, once she'd been dragged back inside, Dutch spoke, beckoning to Mary-Beth. "Alright, now that that's over with, let's go."

Reluctantly, the girl took his hand and ascended onto The Duke and the five rode off.

Once they crossed the county line of Bayou Nwa, entering the Bluewater Marsh, Charles pried his mouth open. "Are we gonna talk about that business with Molly?"

"Nothing to say," Dutch answered simply. "Lenny, take Charles and John up to Emerald Ranch. Hosea met a feller there by the name of Seamus, big red barn, can't miss it." He reached over midstride, handing him a thick stack of green bills. "That's pretty much all the savings we got left… buy the fanciest wagon you can find. Tacitus Kilgore must ride into Annesburg looking like he's got money to burn."

"What about you?"

"Well, we're prepped for war, ain't we? Need the right armor. And since—"

"You ain't goin' back to Saint Denis, are ya?" Lenny interjected.

"And since we can't go to Saint Denis—see, I answer all your questions if you would just let me talk long enough—and nowhere 'cept maybe Blackwater's got the fancy clothes we'll be needing, I went to see Alden this morning. Gave me a tip 'bout a stagecoach leaving this afternoon, laden with enough clothing to make a lady blush. So while you're out gettin' the pumpkin carriage, me and the beautiful Mrs. Kilgore will be fetchin' some gowns and glass slippers, won't we?"

"Y-yeah…" came Mary-Beth's demure response.

"Hold on a little tighter, dear, I'm scared you'll fall off and break your damn neck!" Mary-Beth's hands pinched a fraction more against Dutch's chest as she held on—the smallest amount she could possibly muster.

"Hey, Dutch," Charles chimed in, changing the subject. "We said this guy was from the Netherlands, so… how convincing is your accent?"

"Uh… you heard it already."

"What? That was real? Thought that was a joke!"

"No, no. That's uh, pretty much all I got."

"Wait… you don't speak any Dutch?" Lenny inquired, confused.

"Not a lick."

"But your name—"

"Daddy died before he taught it to me. Another thing those Braithwaite's and Gray's answered for."

The thrill began to subside for Charles, leaving room for only the paranoia. The amount of things that could go wrong was starting to set in.

It's gonna be the Korrigan all over again…

"Relax," Dutch said, as if reading his thoughts, "trust me. Those guys don't care about accents, only money. It's the universal creole."

"Dut—"

"Have some damn faith! I've brought us this far!"

And seven of us are dead because of it…

They reached an unmarked crossroads, where the road divided, one leading northwest and the other extending northwards.

"Regroup at the Elysian Pool in two hours," Dutch commanded. And he yawed The Duke and the married couple disappeared underneath the large hills that rippled along Bluewater Marsh.

Charles started as soon as they spurred their horses to Emerald Ranch.

"What are we gonna do 'bout Molly?"

"Whoa," John exclaimed, "talkin' more than I've seen you do in months. You feelin' alright?"

"Dammit, John, be serious!"

"Sorry, but what do you want us to do?"

"John's right," Lenny agreed, "Grimshaw'll do her best, but how do you make someone fall out of love?"

"And look, you men weren't here as long as I was. I've seen Molly firsthand for years—this is who she is. Musta figured a long time ago that actin' unreasonable turns a lot more heads your way than actin' reasonable."

"Should we try talkin' to her?"

John snorted. "As a married man, I can say you got a better chance a' seein' God than talkin' a woman outta somethin'."

"John…"

"I'll talk to Abigail, Charles. I will. Get her to start makin' an effort with her. Heh. A woman who loves an undeserving man probably knows how to talk to a woman who loves an undeserving man."

"C'mon, John," Lenny said, "you're sellin' yourself short. You always have."

"Sure."

Lenny cleared his throat for the next topic of conversation, and Charles could sense he was broaching it out of necessity rather than want. "So no sign on Hosea?"

"No. Sadie's been back and forth, scoutin' bars from Lemoyne to New Hanover. Nothin'."

"Bars?" Charles asked, shocked. "He's a drunk?"

"You didn't know?"

"But… he drinks."

"Yeah. It weren't always a problem, until Bessie died. Fell into a bottle for a year. Arthur's death musta triggered a relapse."

"You… you don't sound too concerned, John."

"I ain't. Even drunk, he's smart as a tack. No Pinks'll find him unless he wants to be found. And we tried the way you're thinkin' of. Pinched him outta every saloon in the country and the next night he'd go missing. Then one day, he just set his beer down and never touched it again—least not like that. He'll come back, but only when he's ready, not sooner. Nothin' good comes from rushin' a man."

"Same with Karen?" Lenny asked hopefully.

John fell silent for a fleeting moment before he answered. "That, I ain't sure about. Karen… I love her, but does she strike you as the kind with a lotta self-control?"

Lenny's own silence was his response.

"One problem at a time. We'll get there. Long as she don't drink herself to death first."

"Guys… I don't wanna be the guy who keeps digging up problems… but they are there, one layer deep, and we need to address them. So I guess I'll be that guy: Mary-Beth…"

John sighed, picking his words gingerly. "I… I mean… Look. You're new, but this just how Dutch is, he don't mean nothin' by it. He treated Abigail the same way when we started at it, in fact the comments only got worse. But he never touched her, never. And he knows Kieran is sweet on her, he'll respect that, I know it. Hell, y'know what? When I gave her my last name, Dutch even patted me on the back, and y'know what he said? 'My plan worked.' Maybe it's the same deal, just actin' sweet on her to stick some balls on Kieran."

"Maybe, but—"

"Jesus, Charles! I was—I was hoping we could talk 'bout baseball… or somethin' more pleasant. Been weeks since it was just the three of us, ridin' alone like this."

"Sorry…" It sounded forced but it was genuine. A weakness of reticence. "Wanna… wanna talk 'bout baseball? Or… somethin' else?"

The rest of the ride was wordless, marked only by the occasional sigh as one of the three men struggled to arrive at a conversation piece and the snapping sound of a hand smooshing a mosquito.

10: 04 AM, July 30th, 1899

The name Emerald Ranch always embedded a certain image in Charles' head—an image of a quaint, happy little ranch, with grass as green as gemstones and skies as blue as the ocean. The folk were kindly and treated each other like family, the sort of people who'd tell you to eat heartily when you broke into their house and took a seat at their table. The cattle were treated so well that when they'd dream, it would just be an extension of the day they had.

That was not the case.

In reality, Emerald Ranch was dirty and rundown. Everyone bought their livestock from Saint Denis and Blackwater now, and of course, they shipped theirs in nice and cheap from the other side of Texas. Business wasn't exactly booming. There had been a bar shootout that resulted in the establishment being shut down, and they hadn't even had the budget to knock it down and no fool was dumb enough to buy into it, so it just sat there all ghostly and lonely as the men trotted through town to the massive red barn at the end.

They hitched their horses by the massive water tower near the train station—a lot of people seemed to be leaving, few seemed to be coming—that's how it is, I suppose. Everyone's always on their way to New York or California, ain't no one ever going to Emerald Ranch.

They approached the massive green barn doors and banged roughly on them until a grumpy foreman emerged, wearing a white shirt and leather apron—both of which were at least ten years old. His hair was in full retreat, leaving a massive bald spot on his head, and with the bright sun out this morning, the light shined right into Charles' eyes.

"You Seamus?" John asked.

"Depends. Are you the Chinese whore I ordered from Saint Denis two hours ago?"

"I'm not Chinese, nor a whore, so I'm going to wager… no?"

"Then I ain't Seamus and I'm gonna ask ya not to knock on my damn doors again." He tried to slam the door as though that was the end of this. Lenny stuck his foot in before he closed, greeting with a smile.

"Hello, my name is Leonard—"

"That doesn't sound Chinese to me…"

"—and I believe you met with our associates? Hosea Matthews and Arthur Morgan?"

He stopped struggling with the door at that. "Maybe. Where are they?"

Lenny licked his lips, weakened by the memory. "Dead. Both of them, tragically. But now we are in need of something from you—"

"Sorry, I only deal with people I know." He went right back to work on closing that door, until Charles grabbed him by the apron and yanked him outside.

"Then let's us get acquainted. I'm Letsnot Wasteanytime and this,"—he pointed to John—"is Iheardyou Sellstagecoaches."

"That is an absurd rumor and I will not strengthen it by saying a word. If you touch me again I will sick the law on you so fast your head'll spin."

"Mr. Seamus," Lenny said cooly, "we are prepared to pay handsomely. Look at us: we look like honest guys? What, you think we're gonna walk into a police station and turn you over with murder charges hanging over us? So let's just talk, no commitment, just chatter. Shootin' the breeze. Hypothetically, if we wanted a really, really nice stagecoach, the kinda shit Queen Victoria rolls out on,"—he leaned closer and whispered like he was giving a secret—" how much would that set us back?"

Seamus mirrored this, leaning close to Lenny until they were barely a breathe apart. "Hopefully it would set you back to wherever the fuck you came from so I don't have to do it myself. Get lost, I don't sell wagons."

"Listen friend," John warned, standing between Charles and Lenny so they had him boxed in an equilateral shape of men, "we can do this the way where you get a bullet in your chest or twelve hundred—eh, I don't like you so let's make it nine hundred—dollars in your hand."

"I'll tell you what I'd like in my hand: Chinese tits, but I can't because she's late. Unless you boy's got Chinese tits, fuck off."

"Oh, I'll show you what we got…" John said, striding closer.

Charles grabbed him, whispering into his ear. "We don't need the heat." He turned back to Seamus and tried a different tactic. "C'mon. You'll never see us again. Twelve hundred dollars."

"I abide by a very simple principle: I don't play ball with folks I don't know. But when two forces are opposed, a deal can always be struck. How about this: do me a favor, prove you're decent folk—er, well, decent to me—and I'll show you what I got in stock."

"We don't got time for this!" growled John.

"Then I ain't—ain't—ain't—" Seamus' eyes shot wide with the unmistakable yellow-white glimmer of fear.

Charles turned around hastily to find six riders in black galloping from over the hill to meet them by the barn. Seamus' friends, Charles trowed, must be. He heard thunder crack in the distance and realized the sun was gone, buried by thick layers of dark clouds. Charles' right arm began to throb in agony, memory of when it had been shot in Blackwater. There a reason it's actin' up now?

"Hey Seamus!" the lead rider introduced. He also bore a large black Big Valley hat that covered his face, save for the jagged white grin he boasted. "How are ya?"

"G-good," he twiddled his fingers obsessively.

Charles had a gun in his holster, plain for all to see, as did John. Lenny had one tucked in the back of his pants. Two of the men already had their guns drawn—shotguns. Stay loose. They can't be here for us. How could they have known we'd be here?

"And to you three fine gentlemen," the simpering ringleader said, still on his horse, looking down on them like he was God himself, "good morning. My name is Clyde McGregor, Clyde to my friends, White Tom to my enemies, Sweet Clyde to the ladies, and Mr. G if you're in a hurry."

"Well, Mr. G," Lenny said, clearing his throat, "I don't normally divulge my name to strangers, but since you gave me three, I'd feel bad given' you none. I'm Cliff,"—he pointed to John—"that's Harold,"—then to Charles—"that's Sun Shines, Indian fellow, don't speak much English."

"Charmed, I'm sure. These big bugs,"—he pointed to his own entourage of five. "Gave me some names I could relay, but I'm fairly confident they were fake, so I won't bother. As you can probably imagine, they don't call me Clyde. Our alliance is more of necessity than desire. See… we're bounty hunters." Charles' right arm began shaking now, so violently it must've looked like a squirrel was up his shirt. His last three unarmed confederates drew their own guns, revolvers, so that Charles was staring down five barrels (seven if we count double barrel). "James Langton's bounty hunters to be precise. Err, formerly, anyway. We're lookin' for some nasty sons of bitches that gone come through here…" His smirk rose even higher, till it seemed to touch his hat. "Know anything 'bout that?"

"Well, I ain't a part a' this," Seamus said backing away, "so I'll just leave yo—"

"Eh, nah." Two revolvers jumped over to the fence. "Till we get all our facts straight, you just stay right there."

Charles' eyes darted around, examining his situation. He and John were crack shots, but even for them these odds were poor. In a standoff, maybe, but they already had guns on them, and the men holding said guns weren't the Kierans or Lennys, they were hardened and grizzled. Veterans. Their horses were hitched on the other side of the street, not at all a manageable distance.

Clyde, or White Tom, or Mr. G, or whoever the hell he said he was slowly pivoted his head back towards the three men, that gleeful smile fixed immovably. "I said: you know anything 'bout that?"

"Can't say we have," Lenny murmured. "We-we have papers…"

"... Okay…"

"We can prove we are as we say…" It was a weak bluff, but perhaps it would—

Then the bounty hunter started laughing. "Well what would be the point in that? I believe you."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I'm good at readin' people and I know you fellers're honest folk."

"Oh, good."

Charles' arm quaked more than ever. He tried to gauge something from the faces of Clyde's retinue, but they were as rigid as a painting. Jesus, Arthur was more expressionate than these zombies…

"Yeah… well,"—Clyde clapped his hands and his stoned-faced men lowered their guns—"we'll get outta your hair. Pleasure to meet you gentlemen." He took his black Kentucky Saddler's reins and started to trot away, the other five on his tail.

"Uh, yeah. Likewise," was Lenny's only response, stammered though it was.

"Have a lovely a—actually!" His horse froze and the five men followed suit behind him. For a moment, six men and their horses stood frozen as statues until they revolved back to their original stance. "Y'know what? You seem like intelligent men a' thinkin'. I had some a few questions 'bout both my professional and romantic life and was wonderin' if you could give me an impartial perspective?"

"Uh, we really should be on our way…"

"Just one second. I promise!"

Lenny looked to Charles and John, and deciding he had no choice, gave the politique answer."Umm, yeah, as long as it's just a second."

Charles' arm was still acting up and he slapped it twice with his left fist, hoping the twitching would desist. It did not.

"It is. So, I—oh, you can stay here too, partner," Clyde said to Seamus, who had his hand on the green barn door, so close to escape. He turned around with a fake smile, playing the part of a calm law-abiding citizen. What's he so worried 'bout? Charles wondered. They ain't here for a fence. "So, before we struck out on our own, me and my friends used to run with a… Christ,"—he looked to his men for support, who surprisingly surrendered nothing in response—"I think army is a pretty accurate word, don't you? Eh, split the difference. Used to run with a tiny army of bounty hunters—fifty or sixty strong—down in New Austin. Led by a guy named James Langton. Ever heard of him?"

"Can't say we have."

"Didn't think so. His name holds a lot of cachet, but only of late. He runs the largest bounty hunter guild west of Tombstone. There's even a saying 'bout him: 'when the King comes for you, you best believe he's bringin' all his horses and all his men.'"

Charles' head pounded trying to imagine all of his enemies in one room. It would have to be an arena—only spot big enough. Pinks, mobsters, raiders, O'Driscolls, and now a whole army of goddamn bounty hunters?! We fuckin' torched!

"Unfortunately, best thing 'bout workin' with Jameson is also the worst thing: the numbers. There's less risk, but less thrill, and most surely, less money. Good God is there less money once all the sharks start getting their piece."

"Hear hear!" said his backup in unison. That was the only thing Charles would ever hear them say.

"So I did what any rational American woulda done. I quit. And here is where I want your opinion, Mr. uh… sorry what was it?"

"Just Cliff is fine," Lenny said through a forced smile, readjusting his hat nervously.

"Cliff… what are your thoughts on job security? Should I have stuck with that crew, grinding out pennies in safety, or taken my shot for retirement in one job?"

"I mean… to each his own, but uh, yeah. I would, I would probably say you did the right thin—"

"Thank you! Thank you!" He gasped like a thousand pounds had been lifted off his shoulders. "God, thank you! I been doubtin' myself and I really needed to hear that. I'm too big a coward I think, would never have even considered it if it weren't for my girl, which brings us neatly into item number two: my love life. I told you one of the names I've been known by is Sweet Clyde, right?"

"Right."

"Well, that's cuz, as the title suggests, I am more than fluent in the ways of seduction, though I think those days are past me. Got me a real sweetheart now, and before the year's out, I'm gonna make her my wife."

"Bully for you," John said genuinely. "I'm a married man myself."

"Strange," he said. His eyes were still hidden by that large hat, the only way to know he was looking at John was by judging where the tip of the hat was pointing. "You don't strike me as the romantic sort. But yeah, I'm crazy 'bout her. You ever been with a redhead, Cliff?"

"No," Lenny said abruptly.

"Oh, it's the big leagues, kiddo. S—"

"Is there a point to all this?" Seamus groaned, annoyance overtaking fear.

"Why? You in a hurry?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I got a Chine—"

"Alright," Clyde relented. "Let me then get to my main point: if it was your professional life or your romantic life on the line, which would ya cut loose?"

Lenny mumbled something in confusion before speaking. "I mean, you already made your choice didn't ya? Decided love was more—"

"Sorry, sorry, I'll stop you right there." He placed his hands at his hips and sighed. "Yeah, I didn't explain it very well, did I? Here, let's try it this way. Know why they call me White Tom?"

"Uh, yo—"

"And it ain't cuz I'm a cracker."

"Then I have no idea."

"Fair. It's cuz I'm like a white tomcat, scruffy, rough. I'm the opposite of a black cat which as we all should know brings bad luck wherever it goes. I supply good luck no matter the time nor place. For example: I'm usually more keen to bring 'em in dead, cleaner that way, but whoever tells me first where Dutch Van der Linde and the rest of his brainless monkeys are gets to live."

The silence was eerily lasting; the kind that strangled you with frozen horror so that the thought of breaking it was foreign and impossible.

"Now, if that ain't being the opposite of a black cat, I don't know what is. Matter a' fact: Scarface, I'll even let your lady live on top of you. C'mon! Ya can't get any more lucky than that!"

Lenny opened his mouth lazily, having the foresight to see he wouldn't finish. "We don't know what you're—"

"Let's not do that. Makes me irritable. How's about this… ten seconds?" He looked back to his blank-faced crew; they were stiff and menacing, like gargoyles.

When he moved away Charles went for it, drawing his gun, breathing steadily so his aim was accurate, keeping his eyes locked on his target…

The gun spiraled a silly amount of times (a few more and a tornado would have kicked up) as it flew from his hand with a bang.

White Tom's revolver was smoking and gleamed even through the clouds, as did his well-kept teeth. "Yeah. Ten seconds. Whoever tells me first gets to live. Whoever doesn't… well, use your imagination…" He suddenly remembered Seamus was still present. "Oh, yeah… you. Cohorting with the criminal element is a crime, too." He fired a second time and Seamus died with a desperate protest heavy on his lips… amidst the blood that leaked from his mouth.

Six guns—two shotguns, four revolvers—cracked in a deadly lullaby as they cocked.

"Ten… nine… eight…"

"W-we got papers!" Lenny screamed in vain. "We can prove who we are!"

Charles' arm whined and whined, speaking to him, saying one word over and over: dead, dead, dead.

"Seven… six… five…"

Charles glanced to Lenny's gun, tucked behind his back, while John's was free to see in his holster. The odds were two against six now. But what scared Charles the most was the look on John's face: something almost possibly akin to… consideration.

He's got a kid, Charles realized. He's got a wife. We're done for.

"Four… three… two…"

Charles' mind whirled away as he remembered his past, the little fragments he was relatively sure were real, and his present, the mess it was. He thought on his future, on who would bury him, where he'd be buried. I'll be buried alone. Ain't no one to be buried with me.

"... On—"

"He's here!" Lenny's shaky voice spat out at last. "Here, by Heartland Overflow, ten minutes north. That's where camp is set up."

It wasn't true of course, but an idea seized Charles and he found himself screaming "You rat!" before tackling the boy to the dirt and clouting him repeatedly.

As they fought, White Tom did exactly as Charles hoped and began to laugh. "Yeah, sorry, Lenny, I won't kill you, but it is seriously in my interest if you die, so… good luck."

Then his boys started laughing, a hideous chorus, one that would offend the sound of a cat retching a hairball. Oh, sorry, the sound of a white cat named Clyde who is the prized match for any and all women retching a hairball.

And that was exactly like Charles wanted them, distracted, offbeat.

So they wouldn't see it coming when he rolled off of Lenny with the boy's gun in his hand.

Bang! Bang!

He put two dead center in the coughing cat and he, very dishonestly to his name, fell off his horse and onto his face—which was, of course, not at all, his feet.

John was shooting then too and pretty soon all the riders in black were dead, three toppling over in a similar matter to their captain, the other two leaning forward on their horses, disappearing with them as they ran off, terrified of the obstreperousness this morning was providing.

"The hell was that?" came a voice clad in the red and blue colors of a rancher and soon it was running away, followed by a dozen other dots colored red and blue or yellow and black and whatever colors you can pin on a rainbow.

"Shit," John said, starting over to the water tower where their horses were parked, "we got to go! You get the wagon, I'll get the horses!"

And so they did, stumbling over Seamus' body. Prying the green gates of the barn open, trying not to be too picky as there were only three choices: one was an iron buggy, as dark as it was cramped, barely enough room for one and no cargo space whatsoever (not that they had any, but one would think a wealthy Danish investor would at least entertain the option when traveling), and it lacked all exquisiteness that would no doubt be expected; secondly was a phaeton, a spindly narrow ride too skinny for any adornments or markings except its chestnut base, maroon wheels, and beaver-leather cushioning—perhaps elegant enough, and Charles thought it perfect until he noticed the hitch was Chicagoed (damn thing wasn't going anywhere); lastly, there sat a mostly shipshape mail wagon, featuring a fervid red coating on the base, charcoal front boot as well as baggage boot, and gilded shaded wheels. It was certainly extravagant enough and would have been immaculate except for the large words, printed in golden letters above the door (the image gave Charles an awful recollection of the Korrigan): Butterfield Overland Mail Co.

Shit, Charles groaned, motioning for Lenny to help him out with their vessel as he went around back and pushed it out of the barn. Once Charles saw green grass beneath him he stopped and ran back around. There was no sheriff, but he could spot the townsfolk at the end of town assembling, arming themselves, and readying a posse.

"We almost done there?" he cried to Lenny as the boy fastened Céline and Horse (the new foals he and John made their own) to the wagon.

"The hell is that shit?" John asked, pointing.

"We'll throw a tarp over it or somethin'. Gimme a break, our choices weren't broad!" Charles defended. "Lenny, the whole town's gonna fall on us in a minute. Is it done?"

"Just give me…"

Charles turned to see a dozen riders mounting up and gaining speed. They were coming right for them…

"Got it!" Lenny declared.

"Alright, you two ride out on that thing, I'll lead 'em away on Taima… (II). Now let's hit the goddamn breeze!"

Lenny and John climbed aboard the fancy-looking rig and mushed the horses forward, leading them out the northwest road while Charles intended to lead the trailing pursuers northeast before regrouping back at the lake.

With a mob at his heels, Charles mounted his steed, preparing to disappear (although still in sight enough to prod pursuit) when a hoarse, croaking voice caught him off-guard.

"Yyyurrr dddddeaaaad."

His head shot to his left, then down.

It was White Tom and Clyde and Mr. G all standing together, or lying, more aptly. They bathed in a pool of blood, mostly their own, their white ribs protruding from their pink flesh. Still, after everything, still that stubborn hat stayed planted on their head, hiding their eyes, their windows to the soul as Shakespeare got fat off of saying. Even though the day was grey and dull, a stark bleak shadow covered his face as spoke grimly. "Aaaaallllll thhhhheeee kkkkkkkkinggggg'sssss hhhhhhorssssessssss anddddd alllllllll offffff hiiiiis mmmmmeeeeeeeennnn. Oooooonnnneeee daaaaaaayyyyy behhhhhhhinnnddd meeeeee. Aannnnnd hhhhhhhhhhheeeeeelllllllll rrrrrrriiiiiiiideeesssss wwwwwwwiiiiiiiithhhhhhh thhhhhhheeeeeeem."

Charles breathed hot air at his shoulders as he rode far away, trying to ward off the chill.

Anyone curious about how Clyde knew where they'd be, be patient, that'll be explained in the far future.

Now we've got Langton in the fold. Always an issue I had with the game. There's a five-thousand dollar bounty on Arthur's head alone and yet not one bounty hunter comes to collect, just Pinkertons. Bounty hunters will hound you as the player when you shoot one pedestrian, but not for five-thousand dollars...

Hope Javier isn't coming off as too much of a crybaby here. I just figured that if the closest friend he had said he was just like the people who castrated his Uncle and fed it to the pigs would really get to him.

To recap, there's a lotta good stuff going on: Dutch calling Molly a five-dollar whore, hitting on Mary-Beth, John insisting it's fine, Charles having abandonment issues, bounty hunters showing up, finding the wrong stagecoach to use in a heist that can't go wrong, Dutch's authentic accent, and baseball.

See you next time.