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-Nine: Mary-Beth

10:32 AM, July 30th, 1899

The Elysian Pool was something out of a storybook. It was a brilliant blue that shimmered and sparkled even with the sun veiled behind grey clouds. Mary-Beth half expected the Lady of the Lake to emerge in a graceful levitation, offering Excalibur to the rightful king of Logres.

She sighed then, crestfallen by who that reminded her of. I miss him…

"Okay, Mary-Beth," Dutch called from the ground, rifling through the three large cases of luggage they pinched from the stagecoach, "try these." He tossed her a regal-looking moss-green gown that was so thick it caught the wind like a parachute and fell one foot from where he stood. He groaned dramatically, a smile playing across his face that Mary-Beth couldn't help but giggle at, though she instantly regretted it when he scooped it up and handed it to her, saying "I bet you'll look real pretty in this."

She hated it. The way he studied her features intensely, practically ogling her. She knew Dutch didn't have such thoughts, but it almost felt like he was undressing her in his head; the feeling was all too familiar.

Her mother had died of typhoid when she was twelve, and since then most men had kept one eye on her, though her being poor as a church mouse and alone most of the time may have aided them in that endeavor. It was those glances that had guided her career path—understand that for a girl with no money, there were really only three options: marriage, though she was exactly searching for suitors considering she hadn't even flowered yet; whoring, an unappealing prospect for the same reason as the first; and thievery.

The scams were mostly straightforward: get their attention, distract them, lift their purses. Took her many tries and many bruises, but eventually, she perfected it. Until she met Abigail, Mary-Beth would've sworn she was the best thief in the state, rivaling that of Robin Hood, without the righteousness of course—this was reality. Attracting the marks had never been too tough, it was the greatest strength of being a beautiful woman.

"Why don't you try that on?"

And the greatest weakness.

"Uh, sure, um, mind turning around?" she said sheepishly, rubbing her hands across the rough green fabric.

"Why? I known you for years. You don't think I got a pretty good idea a' what you look like under there?"

"... I… ah—"

"I'm jokin'!" His laughter was not a pleasant sound, but she joined in, feeling like it was required. "I get it! Girl needs her space, I'll turn 'round." And he did. Slowly.

She got to work quickly, shedding her lavender skirt, stripping down to her white underdress and applying the new lime garbs. It wasn't for her—the green was reminiscent of vomit and she suddenly felt her face matching the dress' hue (when surrounded by the presence of retch, the urge always struck her).

When she looked up, she saw Dutch staring dead at her with a large yellow hat in his hand. It was unclear as to how long he'd been watching.

"Try this on, I think it'll complete the look."
She took the bright banana-colored sun hat on her head, feeling it was quite unnecessary for the weather, but realized that might have been the point. Rich folks is—are—always wearing the most superfluous clothing.

"Hmm… Mrs. Kilgore… you are ravishing," Dutch purred.

"Thank you," she whispered, missing Arthur more than ever.

As mentioned before, Mary-Beth was aware of the effect her charms had on people, and that made communion with the male species very challenging; there'd only ever been four, now three (well technically two because one was dead ((technically one because the other was missing, probably dead))) exceptions to that rule. She remembered when little Lenny first joined the gang, how happy she'd been; finally someone with as much of a passion for reading as she. They sat together by the riverside, his nose stuck in some book about American law, hers in Frankenstein.

Then she caught him trying to glance down her shirt. They hadn't read much together after that.

She wasn't nearly enough of a prude to resent the boy; he was an adolescent virgin, she knew that as well as she knew of her aforementioned impression on people. Still, it was hard to ignore the hurt it gave her on occasion, all the stolen glances from the men in camp—Uncle, Pearson, Javier, Micah (though his glances weren't stolen)—, to think all she was good for was cleaning, reading, and helping folks get it up.

She supposed it was why she fancied Kieran so much. He had never been subtle about his attraction to her, but it was one of admiration, not possession. When he gawked at her with his dark green eyes—painted with strokes of brown and gold—he wasn't fixed on the part of her between her legs, but all of her; it seemed all she had to do was cough and he'd shower with care, with the kind of unconditional love reserved only for your family. The thought of those beautiful brown eyes shooting at her like she was a normal person made her greener than the dress. He was attentive and affectionate, but never made her feel claustrophobic, only excited. But now, with Dutch, it was all she felt. Trapped. Helpless. Alone.

She was happy when she heard the rumbling of a stagecoach just over the hill and saw precisely that coming down—her time alone with Dutch was at an end, she thought. Poor naive girl…

"Greetings gentlemen," called Dutch, "I see you got on well enough, di—oh God… what the hell is this?" He pointed to a sore spot in the illusion, golden letters spelling out Butterfield Overland Mail Co. "They'll see this, goddammit! Go back! We can afford a little lon—"

"Dutch," Charles said, appearing on horseback beside the carriage, a dour expression quivering on his face, "we got bigger problems."

11:09 AM, July 30th, 1899

"Bounty hunters?" Dutch said at last.

"Fifty strong he said, at least."

"What's the play, Dutch?" asked John. "Back to Colter? I mean we gotta lie low, right?"

"We've… had worse odds." He said it so apathetically, so deadpan, that Mary-Beth thought she'd imagined it for a moment.

"Dutch… I seen these guys in action. White Tom beat Charles in a damn draw, when the hell's that ever happened?"

"You're speculating Lenny. Just cuz one dead guy is pretty good with a gun don't mean fifty are—and if you don't recall, we beat fifty Pinks back at Shady Belle, thirty more at Lakay."

"Dutch…"

"Don't Dutch me. I'm sick of it. Dutch, Dutch, Dutch, Dutch. Why do you even ask for my input if you already made up your damn minds? And you're wrong, by the way. Think things are ever gonna cool down?" He threw up his hands incredulously as if to emphasize his point. "No. For better or worse, this is how it is now. Those Pinks… they just keep comin' and comin'..." His eyes became black and distant and for a moment, Mary-Beth thought he whistled a lament for the west. "What we gotta do is stay loose. We got one day and they got no clue where we're at or where we might be goin'. That buys us more time. We'll snoop around Annesburg, I'm sure there's some vault or somethin' with jewels or somethin' valuable. Tonight we'll rob it, then we'll sell it, and we're gone."

"We still gotta get outta here Dutch," Lenny said. "That boatman won't be back till next week Sean said, and even then, it's just Louisiana. Matter of fact, we don't even know for sure if the boatman is comi—"

"It's somethin'! It's somethin', which is more than your whining is contributing!" Dutch bellowed, slamming his fist on a table that wasn't there. "Look… one mission at a time. The luggage is over there. Find somethin' fancy that fits and let's move."

As it would turn out, robbing some random rich actor's laundry wasn't the best place to look for tailoring. While Dutch—thank God, he was ringleader so his costume was the most essential—found a black suit and white tuxedo that clung well to his figure, albeit a little tightly, Charles and Lenny had to make do with two equally undersized garments, the buttons bulging and tight with the jacket hem only reaching halfway up their forearm. There hadn't been anything that fit John unless he was to be unsexed and dressed in another fancy green gown; perhaps in the Netherlands it was custom to take two wives—none present knew, they'd never been.

"New plan," Dutch decided, to everyone's relief, none more than John's, "you are a thug I've hired to drive me around and offer security, not a fully employed bodyguard. That ought to explain your casual clothing."

To deal with the damning font embroidered on their wagon, the most efficient—by which I mean the most simplistic—course was taken. They draped a long red cloak over the stagecoach's top so its ends covered the lettering just above the doors on both sides. The now empty trunk of clothing was then tied atop to keep the silken red cloak from flying off with the strong wind. Even by the Dutch Van der Linde's standards, it was sloppy.

Mary-Beth was the first one inside, followed unfortunately by Dutch who sat next to her in the narrow carriage. Opposite to them plopped Charles and Lenny, while John took rein as the driver outside and guided the cart into a steady gallop.

The seats were a dry leather and the company was cramped and suddenly Mary-Bethw as so hot she could only breathe by batting her large yellow hat in her face, cooling her down while tickling Charles' face with its tall white feather.

"Oh, sorry!" she said when he finally sneezed, placing it back on her head.

"Dutch," Lenny sighed, "you sure you wanna go through with this? A lot could go wrong. We could just take a few days…"

His answer was firm and absolute. 'No. We sent the letter, we're halfway to Annesburg, we gotta finish this. I know this ain't our best disguise, but I know those fellers—their type. Our green'll talk for us."

"And you remember I told you the warden can sniff a lie out like it's shit?"

"I do. That's a workaround, but doable." Mary-Beth felt his arm snake around her bent shoulders. "Besides, my sweet wife would never tell a lie." He laughed again in that ugly way he did—when did it become so ugly, she wondered, it never used to be.

"Mary-Beth," Charles said, holding a shining silver hunting knife with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the grip. "I want you to have this—it was Arthur's."

"It was?"

"Yeah… I was keepin' it but… figured if things get hairy, John's got his gun and the three of us know how to fight. You need somethin', though."

The fabric on the grip was rough against her palm, but it was comfortable, in a strange way. "Oh, I-I don't know what to say… thanks, Charles." Like a child with a toy sword, she couldn't help playing with it, swinging it around, imagining she was Joan of Arc, that it was her Excalibur.

"Whoa, careful there, killer!" Dutch joked, as she almost scraped his leg with the cutlass. "You're gonna stab me!"

"Yeah," Charles laughed. "We should partner you with someone whose all skin and bones; who you couldn't stab if you tri—oh! Lenny!" His eyes perked up in mock surprise, as though he'd just uncovered a brilliant idea. "Here, switch spots with me, practice over here." He stumbled onto his crouched knees and scooped her up, spinning them around and dropping where she'd sat.

Lenny looked out the window at the dark waves off the Lannahechee River. Mary-Beth pretended to admire her reflection in the blade's shiny frame. Charles itched a piece of lint stuck to his disguise. Because they all knew the real reason why Mary-Beth was where she was and hoped Dutch wouldn't. Eventually, the dimple-faced girl found enough staunch to sneak a peek.

The glare Dutch was giving Charles wasn't all hate.

11:37 AM, July 30th, 1899

Mary-Beth made a vow then and there: the only way she'd find herself back again in Annesburg for more than five minutes was if she was someone had a gun to her back—actually, scratch that, she made a vow she'd never be in Annesburg again for more than five minutes.

Smog hung thick in the air like a second layer of dark dingy clouds, the road was slim since half of it was reserved for the endless string of trains that blew by in a hurry—as if they were stuck in a perpetual state of being five minutes late—, and every soul they saw seemed starved of sleep, comfort, and fair wages. One white man was so smothered by all the dirt from working at the mines that he looked black, another must not have eaten in four days he was so skinny, every bone protruded from his body so clearly he might as well have been a diagram for those college boys up east. Not a single worker wasn't coughing their lungs out in a raspy, weak scream.

They passed the train station, gunsmith, and some German store Mary-Beth tried to pronounce, before blushing from failure and turning away until they reached their destination: the red and white structure on stilts watching over the trainyard that composed the main office. In front of it stood Warden Jameson and his brother, Archibald Jameson. And a crowd of a dozen policemen and private guards.

John stopped the stagecoach and they funneled out, Dutch helping Mary-beth down in her awkward dress. Lenny took lead, addressing the warden first; Mary-Beth knew because he appeared exactly as Lenny had described, down to his fancy Saint Denis attire, clean-shaven, high cheekbones, and grey hair. His brother on the other hand was just about the opposite: all sunken in eyes, furry face, and orange-haired.

"Warden! It's a pleasure to see you again!"

"Same here! Sorry again you were stuck with us for so long."

"Oh, forgotten already!" He turned to the short orangutan of man. "And you must be Archibald, it's a delight, I've been keen on meetin' you for a while now, sir."

"Oh, the feeling is mutual, I assure you," Archibald replied in a high-pitched voice. He turned to Mary-Beth, or more accurately, the man aside her. "And this must be Mr. Kilgore!" He offered his hand. "How is how our fair country treatin' you?"

Dutch shook it violently before answering. "Iyyy amm… uh, how do you say? Mayking up wards?" The brothers gaped like trout. Dutch took her hand then, waving it as proof of ownership. "Theese es mae wiefe."A bold lie, and yet the warden's superpower didn't register. Mary-Beth had to hand it to him, it was brilliant; avoid a lie detector by disguising gibberish as prestige.

"And, uh, who is this scarred—smart-lookin' fellow?" Archibald stammered in John's direction.

"Our driver," Lenny responded, picking his words carefully. "Didn't have anyone on our payroll available, so we went with this guy. "Shouldn't be a problem if things go as planned."

"Y-yeah, s-sure—" the little man croaked out at John's stone-cold face that said he would be watching very closely. "How 'bout a tour of this lovely facility?"

"Sounds great!"

"So, you want to take down this cherry drop in small nibble or just gulp 'er down?"

Now it was the gang's turn to gape. "Come again."

The warden sighed. This was clearly not the first time his brother had tried that line. "He means you want to start with the main office or take a walk around the town?"

"Sumewon drobbed a charry?"

"No, no," Lenny groaned. "Let's see those famous mines first."

On paper, Mary-Beth should've been feeling at least a fraction of Lenny and Dutch's confidence (from proximity if nothing else) yet a very different emotion was taking root inside of her—the kind Dutch hated.

This is wrong. Why are they so damn eager to meet with a man they've never even heard of before?

11:50 AM, July 30th, 1899

The mines were just as bad as she feared, worse in fact. There were two levels of workers digging their pickaxes against the cave walls, yanking down on the sheets of rock. It was so dark they couldn't see without flashlights attached to their helmets, and with these long shifts, Mary-Beth wondered if they ever saw the sun anymore. Carts of coal were loaded onto the mine railway and shipped outside, where they were packaged and distributed on the oncoming trains.

Afterward, the Jameson pair showed them the lumber yard, where trees from the surrounding forest were harvested (a fancy word for chopped down with an ax) and hacked into smaller pieces, again to be shipped off.

Next, they were shown the poor housing conditions of their staff, a fact Jameson seemed to take pride in. The gap between each house was so small the housewives could only string up three articles of clothing at a time to be dried. If the miners were claustrophobic from work, they'd find no solace here.

They took a stroll around town next, taking it all in again, a little slower this time. They passed many German laborers and Mary-Beth grew scared one of them spoke Dutch and would point out Dutch's ridiculous accent, but if anyone knew anything, they stayed silent about it. They passed a general store that hadn't seen a customer in ages, shut down for reasons Archibald refused to digress to—I'll say two words however: Morbach Monster. That and nothing more. Marybeth saw a woman on the street—a woman of the hour—and she matched the other residents of this town: bony, pale, gaunt, exhausted beyond belief, and halfdead. Mary-Beth altered her vow—she'd never be in Annesburg again for more than one minute.

Finally, they returned to the main office (Mary-Beth still didn't understand why it was dyed with barn colors, that rural aura didn't hold any sway here).

"Let's show you inside," said the warden, rising up the first two steps leading inside.

"Yes! I was just about to say that!" said his brother, climbing four.

"Sunds splindet tah mi!" was Dutch's answer as marched upward alongside everyone else.

"Wait!" it came from the warden. "Sorry, your, uh, bodyguard must wait out here, we don't like having guns inside."

"B-but you have guards," Lenny countered, a little flustered.

"Oh, well surely they don't count! These men work with the sheriff, or at the very least, are sanctioned by him—they ain't gonna hurt anyone."

Dutch pretended to mumble balderdash to Lenny while he whispered it back. In the lop now, Mr. Kilgore put his foot down, insisting his guard come.

"My… guard… come…"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but it's policy. Surely you understand the sanctity of that."

Mary-Beth realized suddenly why they were so excited to meet Dutch, why they were so stupidly trusting. They weren't. The Pinks were here, waiting for them in that barn of a building. She wanted to whisper it to Dutch, tell him the truth, but he was already walking up and John was already walking down.

Her head began to reel. Do I scream it? That gives the game away for sure. Do I take off, leave without them? She found Arthur's knife in her sleeve and clutched it tightly, ready for what lay beyond those oakwood doors. No, no, she decided, for better or worse, we go out together.

As the doors slowly creaked open, she waited in anticipation for all the hats that surely pop out, guns in hand, a hundred at least, a shotgun a piece. She burned her palm from the tight grip she kept on her weapon, ready to use it, more ready than she'd ever been in her lif—

It was empty. Not one agent.

Mary-Beth almost choked on her relief, growing faint and dizzy from it—she felt silly, prepped to pass out like some affluent madame upon seeing a spider (maybe it's the dresses, she wondered).

The brothers showed off some machinery they had some men working on, though Mary-Beth wasn't fully listening. Something about smaller engines for smaller vehicles. Akin to Carl Benz's automobile powered by a gas engine, but with coal instead.

Once they finished their rambling, Lenny's head turned to the office at the end of the hall. "Might we conduct our final talks in there?"

The men froze, partly in fear but mostly out of embarrassment. Iyt was Archibald who spoke first. "That's um, not an office—"

"What do you mean? I can see it's a—"

"Well, no, it is, it's just… not our office. It belongs to Leviticus Cornwall."

The name was like a gunshot. It shut everyone up.

"You… you heard a' him?"

"Uh, only by reputation," Lenny jumped in. "But, y'know, it's quite a reputation."

It all makes sense now, Mary-Beth deduced, no doubt at the same time as the rest of her confederacy. Why they're so damn desperate for an investor. It ain't—isn't—just any fat cat who's the majority stock owner, but Cornwall. Heh, there can't be any businessman in America with the guts to stand up to him. But we ain't—aren't—an American investor…

An idea took her and she said "I thought you were the owners, not foremen."

Archibald flinched, clearly offended at even the prospect of being a foreman, a straw boss. Even though that's already what he was. "We are not the majority shareholders, but it is still our company, built by Jameson's, led by Jameson's."

She drove the scalpel a little deeper… "But it's Cornwall's office…"

"Yes," the warden jumped in, feeling equally as small as his brother, "but y'know what? Let's us meet in there, much nicer chairs than our offic—"

"My office."

"Yes, of course, your office (that I am helping you pay for)."

"Right this way," Archibald beckoned with his teeth gritted.

He held the door open as they entered, Mary-Beth trying to conceal her triumphant smile.

The office was the bane of quaint. The walls were littered with maps of countries Cornwall had been to, the desk by the window nearly stretched across the edges of the room, with enough drawers and crannies to house a whole store of mementos. On the edge of the massive varnished Sandalwood desk sat a crystal frog. Mary-Beth could only imagine the story that came with that.

But what caught her eye most about the desk was the locked drawer in it the top-right corner. What's in there, she wondered.

Whilst the men and Lenny talked over the profits of production, cost, and who and where the product was generally shipped to, Mary-Beth gave Charles, who was standing next to her while she sat (there were only three chairs plus Cornwall's, which made sitters out of her, Dutch, Lenny, and Archibald), a sharp kick with her boots (heels would have been preferable, but the luggage they robbed didn't have any and the Jameson's didn't seem to notice). With his attention fully hers, she subtly positioned her fingers. First she pointed at herself, then to the person next to her, then to the warden.

Charles got the signal and rose to take action. "Mr. Warden?"

"Yes?"

"Me and Lenny—"

"Lenny and I," Mary-Beth, against herself, couldn't help but spit out. Her eyes apologised as he started again.

"Lenny and I… had some questions about our incarceration with you."

The scent of a lawsuit scurried Warden Jameson into action. "Oh, I-I-I thought we were past that."

"We are, we just had some questions. Right Lenny?"

"Y-yup," he agreed, catching on and standing up."Sure did."

Charles walked over and opened the door out, holding it for the warden who reluctantly exited with them.

"Oh, sorry about stealing your brother," Mary-Beth joked.

"Not worry…"—he whispered the next part—"Hell, you can have him. Dick."

With Mr. Kilgore unawares in the ways of English, Mary-Beth found it up to her to strike up a little chatter before her next act. "You a married man, Mr. Jameson?"

"Archibald, please. And no. I was in love once, though…"

"Oh, what happened to her? I don't mean to pry, yo—"

"She married my brother."

"Oh." Feeling she had been checkmated, Mary-Beth just dived right into her plan. "Oh! Oh! That's terrrrrrible!"

"It's—"

"Oh! I just, oh I just can't—" She fainted then, collapsing to the right of Cornwall's desk near where Archibald sat.

Instinctively he rushed to collect her, scopping her up by the arms, holding her onto her shakey feet. "Are you alright?"

"Whwats guin un?" was Dutch's cry of confusion.

"Oh! I need—I need air…" she moaned weakly, coiling a limp arm over the coal man's shoulder. As he carried her to the window, she shot a look Dutch's way, flicking him a hairpin and mouthing one word: Now.

Like Charles, he understood the message and rushed to the locked drawer, picking it with the hazel hairpin. No matter what fancy brand Cornwall used, it still popped open after thirty seconds of finagling.

While he stuffed his shirt with papers, Mary-Beth made a show, coughing and wheezing by the window, whining over the sour air, holding Archibald close to her so he didn't turn around.

At last, when she glanced over her shoulder and saw Dutch was finished, did she return to normal and retake her seat beside him. "Oh, I feel much better now, thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it." He was still a little bitter over the catalyst of her reaction.

"Wul, uh, I thencs ets tim tah gu?"

"I agree."

"What did he say?"

"He said we really must be going, but thank you much for your time and we have a lot to consider."

12:40 PM, July 30th, 1899

They bursted from the doors, scurrying down as quickly as they could while maintaining the illusion they were still happy to be there. John rejoined them as they reached ground level and marched to the stagecoach. It was just a few feet away…

Just a few feet…

"Wait!"

The five of them froze in unison, switching their winces into smiles as they turned around. "Yes?"

"Thank you for coming!" said Archibald, a pleasant, stupid smile on his face.

"Oh, well it was our treat, I'm sure," Lenny called back, before racing onto the step of the wagon and opening the door, half inside, when Dutch yelled over to the brothers.

"Oh, uh, eh, how do you say, uh, C-Cornwall? We-when… he… back?"

The warden and his brother shared a glance of horror before addressing their company. "A-a week… but… don't go meetin' with him nwo, ya hear? I-I don't want to be crude, but…"—he lowered his voice as though he wasn't still screaming across a dozen feet—"he don't like foreigners." A lie obviously—well, perhaps not a lie, but not one told with good intentions. Poor men couldn't have their new investor speaking with the man who owned them, now could they? The Dutchman might get scared away.

"Wu-will… do."

They followed Lenny in a rush inside, with John climbing atop the rig and mushing Céline and Horse out of there as fast as he could. The weight on top the wagon toppled off from the speed and the red drape blew away, revealing their lie, but by then they were long gone.

Inside, Dutch creased the papers greedily as he read.

"What is it, Dutch? There a safe?"

"Jewels?"

"Expensive boat we can fence off?"

"Even better…" he finally said with a deep, giddy voice. "State bonds! At his oil factory!"

None could hide their disappointment.

"And Cornwall's got a contract with the army. To develop… a railroad!" he said it with a excited scream, as though it was so obvious. "Don't you see? Oh, this couldn't be more perfect… and there's even a notice for a dynamite shipment being moved down to Saint Denis tomorrow night. Oh, this couldn't be any more perfect…"

"So what does this mean?" Charles asked.

"What this means, boy, is you're gonna scout out Van Horn tonight—the shipment should be passing through there at ten tomorrow night. I want you to assemble a crew and take it for us. As for the state bonds, me and John—oh, sorry, Mary-Beth, John and I—will roll out tonight and head over to Heartlands Oil Fields."

They arrived at the Elysian Pool sooner then Dutch could finish his long-winded monologue about family and faith, which Mary-Beth saw as a good thing. The Duke and Taima II were exactly where they left them, hitched by a tree in the exact shape of a carrot.

"Charles," Dutch said, "toss that wagon in this lake, will you?"

"Actually Dutch," he objected, "I got an idea for this thing. Think it'll help rob that dynamite shipment."

"Alright," Dutch sighed, "but be smart with that thing. I don't want it comin' back to haunt us. Remember all a' Emerald Ranch is lookin' for it."

All except Charles mounted their steeds, who instead connected Taima II to the stagecoach. Even Mary-Beth, reluctantly, sat on The Duke.

"Oh, Dutch, I can take her back with me," Charles offered, "more room anyhow."

Dutch flashed him a happy smile. "That won't at all be necessary, Charles. Be careful with that carriage."

And before Mary-Beth could hop off, they zoomed off together into the shrubbery surrounding the lake.

She had no idea how long they rode together, but it felt like hours. She wanted to start a conversation, kill some time, but was nervous at what direction it could lead. She hated feeling this way, so helpless and scared. It hurt too, he'd used to read to her when she was having nightmares. What would Karen do? she pondered. Drink herself to death, probably. Oh God…

"Mary-Beth," he finally said, in a voice that was different from his usual, softer and stranger, "I-I thought you were just great today."

"Thank you," she said quickly.

"Really, you were. We were. God, we was in such sync, weren't we."

"Uh-uh."

"Yeah, yeah. You and me—you and I—such a great team—"

The Duke neighed painfully as his foot whacked a rock, and they heard echoing the sound of metal striking the floor. Dutch brought the steed to his halt and checked over his shoulder nervously before he laughed. "Just a horseshoe. His horseshoe popped off."

"Oh," Mary-Bteh smiled, mirroring his relief. She had worried for a second the horse had tripped a mine.

"Would you be a doll and fetch it for me, Mary-Beth?"

She was suddenly scared again, her smile vanishing. "Don't we have plenty of spares back at camp."

"Yeah… but its right there. Might as well."

Complying, she hopped off, dragging her gross green dress across the leaf-strewn dirt. The air was hot like they were back in the south and the clouds refused to break, leaving the earth in a dim grey hue. Every tree seemed to have a hollow, and Mary-Beth felt like there were eyes behind that dark little crevice, watching her, eating her up. She rushed over to the horseshoe, than ran as fast as she could, not fast in the constrictive dress which was choking her. If her gown was red, she would've been a spitting image for Little Red Riding Hood—the fear in her eyes was so perfect it overpowered the other details that contradicted said image. At last, after what must've been a mile, she reached the horseshoe, bent down and picked it up and twirled around. And she saw the Big Bad Wolf.

"D-Dutch?"

"You're so beautiful…"

And his tongue was down her throat, strangling her own. His hands were rough and possessive against her as he held her neck stiff, keeping her from jerking away.

"Dutch…" she gagged into his wet mouth, pushing against him, fighting. She started swinging her arms but he grabbed them and held them at her side. "Dutch!"

But he didn't hear her. Or pretended not to. He shoved her against a tree, the hollow just above them, looking down, watching her…

The bark cut into her skin, drawing blood even through the thick cloth. What would Karen do? she wondered again, the thought echoing again and again in her mind.

He let go of her right arm and spread her legs, ripping the fabric at her waist. His breath was foul and odorous, like a dog's… heh, or a wolf's.

What would Karen do? And Little Red Riding Hood felt Arthur's knife in her hand…

And Dutch's neck was so plump and pink…

"Wait!" he screamed, and he pulled off of her. But he hadn't yet seen the knife. "We-we can't do this… I'm sorry… oh God, oh God I'm sorry…" Tears flooded his eyes then and Mary-beth just stared at him, unblinking, unflinching. "I'm sorry, Mary-Beth… but it's wrong. For both of us." Silence surrounded them for a time. Neither the wolf nor the girl could speak.

Until, after at least three minutes, Dutch gave her a weak smile, trying to encourage her. "Let's… let's just keep this between us. I'm shudderin' thinkin' of what poor Kieran would think, poor boy'd probably kill himself. Or Molly, Jesus…" His smile grew, becoming more and more polite. "Let's just go home."

"Y-yeah." Mary-beth just stared at him, unblinking, unflinching.

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