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-Five: Grimshaw
8:02 PM, October 30th, 1899
Pearson's Navy-issued bronze watch shimmered in the moonlight. Tick tick tick.
Swanson gave it to her before he left. He had urged a few others to join him, but not her. Just gave her the watch, a respectful pitying smile, and then he was gone. Tick tick tick.
She gave Dutch a one-week ultimatum one month ago to the day. She hadn't forgotten, nor had he. Still, she made her rounds as though nothing was amiss, staring at the watch as the seconds ticked by, hoping to ignore where they currently were.
The reservation was populated in an oval shape, and the gang was arranged in a crescent around the right side of the oval—it matched the moon in the sky. She trailed along the camp, ensuring things were as they should be. Abigail and Jack were sleeping in their tent, contributing nothing as always. Susan was tempted to prod the woman awake, insist she string up the clothesline for the next time they did laundry or help finish unloading the wagons, but the boy was dozing on her lap, and the smallest twinge of motherly generosity made her keep marching on her way, out of sight. John and Dutch had left several hours ago to study the train's path coming up through Saint Denis and determine the best place to stop it.
Susan's heart fluttered as she walked—it was really happening. All the talk had come to an end, it was really, truly happening. For better or worse, their fates would be sealed by what happened tomorrow. We can't tread water in perpetuity, she thought. If we don't get that money…
She tried to relax, replaying Dutch's silky voice in her head (it was easy, he repeated himself so often): just one more score. Monroe won't fail us, he'll get that train. Our community will survive, better than that, we'll thrive. Just one more score.
Tick tick tick. Strauss was counting up the camp funds again. Susan never understood why. He'd written it in his notebook when he gave some money to Swanson—he knew what was in that wooden red box. In the back of her head, I like to imagine she knew the truth: that obsession is a valuable tool. Keeps the mind occupied from other, scarier things. She should know, her obsession with Dutch functioned similarly.
She passed Tilly's chuckwagon without a sign of Uncle. Considering the empty bottles of beer littering their makeshift campsite—as well as a passed-out Bill—she guessed he'd had a few too many and was nakedly sleeping in a tree somewhere, he'd done it many times before. At least some of the gang were keeping busy: Kieran and Javier were standing watch somewhere on the outskirts of their camp, and Tilly and Micah were prepping food for breakfast tomorrow. Of course, they cut the potatoes into chunks that were hilariously, stupidly, too large, because God forbid that girl do anything right.
Molly was up to her usual nothing, using her wounds as an excuse, there was always one with her. She couldn't find Mary-Beth in the dark but that girl usually kept herself scarce when there was work to be done. Probably daydreaming about that O'Driscoll boy—Susan couldn't believe she had given them her blessing. What was she thinking?
Susan exhaled deeply and saw white puffs materialize in the cold air. I'm back… Back to bein' that crabby bitch everyone wished would drop dead. She shook her head. They needed her this way, to keep this dump in order. It's exactly what Dutch said he needed: order.
She hated self-deprecating humor, found it tasteless, but she couldn't help chuckling at her situation. One conversation, a few sweet words, and she was back to lowering herself, making herself despised, just in the vain hope he'd appreciate her. The sad part was she wasn't even sure if she loved him anymore or if she was just trying to make all the decades she followed him blindly, sinned for him, killed for him mean something. She didn't know.
She did know that Dutch was right, things were better this way. It did strike her as odd that all the bad things started occurring when she went soft: Sadie got scarred, Bill choked Karen, Dutch beat Molly, Swanson up and left, and Charles and Abigail began thinking above their stati—
Speaking of which, where is that big-boned Indian? she wondered, looping around the crescent two more times, not spotting him anywhere.
"Shit," she muttered, deducing where he most likely was if what Bill told her had been veritable. She stormed warily into the reservation, hovering moth-like to the large flame cooking in the central firepit. Most of them were sleeping, but it didn't stop her from jumping at every shadow, expecting ruffians to cover her mouth, grab her, and steal her away to the middle of the forest where no one could hear her scream as they ripped her skirt (heh, to be honest, that was probably more of a fantasy than a fear; no young men would rape a fifty-year-old woman with one breast). She didn't trust these folks, despite all of Dutch's flowery words—he may be cajoling, but he also saw the world with the thickest set of rose glasses in existence. Charles said the chief was a pleasant fellow, but his opinion of them wasn't unbiased, he'd made his love for them and disdain for what the gang was doing abundantly clear. And either way, it didn't matter; William McKinley was surely a nice man, and America was eating itself alive. Leaders don't represent what they lead.
Soon enough, sure as eggs is eggs, she found what she expected. Charles was sitting around the fire with the three natives, excluding that Eagle Flies character Dutch had brought to Beaver Hollow. He hadn't ratted that info to the Pinks, so she trusted him a mite more than the rest. A mite.
What she hadn't expected to find was Mary-Beth there as well, alongside a fully clothed, yet still expectedly trashed Uncle, and a mysteriously off-post Kieran and Javier, all with a beer in each of their hands.
"What the hell are you doin'?" she growled, crooking her hands to her hip. Lazy bastards. "Get back to work!" They all stirred nervously, even the natives who knew her fury wasn't addressed to them, except for Uncle who downed another gulp of firewater.
"Oh, cheer up, ya old sack!" He captured her wrist and pulled her to sit on the tree trunk pew. "This night is fine as cream gravy, we can't just willingly pass it up!" She jockeyed against his hold, prying his fingers loose, but the coot was quicker than he looked. Just as her hand was free, he looped an arm over her shoulder, wrapping her in a tight squeeze she couldn't break. "Here, wait, wait… okay, get this: Charles! Tell her that funny story of you and Eagle Flies breakin' out Pita—"
"My name is Paytah," one of the Indians interrupted. He was covered in receding bruises that reminded Susan of Molly and Tilly's wounds, and a swell of compassion snaked through her before she remembered she wasn't to trust him.
"Whatever," Uncle continued. "Charles, tell her the story of how you broke out of Fort Wallace with the little bastard."
Charles itched the back of his neck in an obvious fashion. It was clearly not a pleasant memory. "We shot a cannonball through the wall and killed many people to escape. It's not very funny."
Still, Uncle laughed hysterically. The laughs were wet with booze. Must've drank our entire stock, the parasite, Susan thought as the giggling caused him to weaken his grip and she squirmed free, jumping to her feet.
"You are all out of line," she said coldly, glowering down on them all. "Last verbal warning. Leave and get to fuckin' work."
"C-c'mon," Kieran tried, scooting away from Mary-Beth, past Uncle, closer to her. He offered her a greasy green bottle. "It's the last day before the last big score. Why not reminisce? Uncle's got some good—well, he's got stories, c'mon, take a—"
"'Course an O'Driscoll would like that, huh? Keep us drunk and off-balance?" She slapped the bottle and its contents slowly leaked out by the fire. Kieran's smile fell and Mary-Beth shot her an evil glare, but Susan only merged her lips and lifted up her chin, maintaining her illusion of superiority. In reality, she was thirsty as hell and that drink had sounded fulfilling. She couldn't set bad examples—they needed to be working, not partying. Dutch needed order, not drunks.
Javier rose casually, brushing his jacket and encroaching on her, arms open. "Swanson told me to give you a hug next time I saw you." He embraced her and it was surprisingly pleasant (huh, affection is agreeable, who would've thought). Then he pinched the top of her back sharply, eliciting a blench of pain from her. "We might die tomorrow," he whispered in her ear. "And you'll be restin' back here with Strauss, Uncle, and the other layabouts. No one is doin' goddam laundry tonight, perra. Shut the fuck up."
He turned to the others with a happy smile (he really did idolize Dutch, didn't he) and led Susan over to where he was seated. This time, she didn't fight as he directed her onto the wooden seat. A splinter dug into her ass, but she didn't care. When you'd been shot, it was hard to think about annoyances like that.
"So, Mary-Beth," Javier asked ardently, trying to change the sour subject, "how's your book comin' along?"
"Oh, terribly," she deflected shyly. "It's terrible. It's tommyrot and codswallop and nothing else."
Kieran cosseted her shoulders with a soft rub. "If you use words like that, it can't be all rubbish."
"It is," she giggled, shrugging from his grip. "Let's talk about something else."
"I got a pimple on my pecker," Uncle said without hesitation.
Mary-Beth growled strangely until it coalesced into words. "Ooooookay… uh, hey"—she looked at the natives sitting beside Charles—"um, if you don't mind my asking, what do your names mean?"
Charles, Pita—Paytah, sorry, and another Indian broke esuriently into laughter at once. They pointed to the woman at the end of their log, who pouted boyishly, blowing her long black hair over her shoulders, rolling her slender eyes, and crossing her shapely arms at her chest. When Susan saw her breasts didn't bulge from the force, she thought this native woman shared her affliction, until she realized it was no woman.
"Shut up," Aleshanee muttered. He saw Mary-Beth and the others were confused so he clarified. "My mother named me She Always Plays to insult me." He passed the hot seat to the native between Paytah and Charles. "And yours isn't that much better."
He wore a hat from a dead fox and had a toothpick in his mouth to clear the gamey chunks of meat in his teeth. Charles and he had caught a large wolf and roasted it with mint and thyme for the Wapitis. Dutch's gang had eaten oily stew thickened with jerky.
"How so?" he asked, spitting his toothpick at the fire. Susan saw it rot into charcoal before it vanished.
"Well, y'know… Brown Hills…?" Aleshanee tried. "Y'know… hills, tits…"
Impetuously, Susan found herself groping her one smooth globe.
"Eh, Alice Andy or whatever ain't so bad," Uncle downplayed, sucking down the tiny droplets of backwash in his beer bottle. "I knew a guy in Africa once named Zintle. Means something like 'she is beautiful.' Apparently he had a twin sister and his mama couldn't tell 'em apart when they were babies so just gave 'em the same name."
Paytah was tipsy and repaid that anecdote with a chortle. That was a mistake because it fed the fire and soon enough Uncle started shooting his trap about his other adventures, beginning with being shipped in a crate to Singapore to escape a burly carpenter whose wife the old man was plowing, eating his toenails and what he could find on deck to survive. Then he spoke of winding up stranded in Brazil, being forced to marry one of the locals because the male population was decimated by some European disease. Susan had heard it all before a dozen times and it was a barrel of batshit then too.
She groaned helplessly. This is such a fuckin' waste of time. There's things to be done.
Eventually (a century later) Uncle ran out of breath and when he did, Susan opened her mouth to end his prattling. The O'Driscoll cut her off.
"Hey," he said to the natives, nervously passing his beer in each hand. "I-I-I don't want to intrude, but, uh, can I ask what your thoughts are about all this? Moving to Canada?"
Suddenly, the orange flames flickered with less fervority.
Paytah's head shifted to Kiona, who went to Aleshanee. Aleshanee turned his right, and seeing that he was outnumbered, Kiona took a drink and cleared his throat. "I… I don't know… this is my home, where I met my wife and had our sons and daughters. And also where they were taken from us and shipped off to reform schools—or worse. Every last one, except my Takoda." He drained his cup. "I'm not sure. I know many will not follow the chief… but I think I will. Not sure how long we'd last by ourselves… and who knows. Maybe moving north is the answer. I don't want to be the captain goin' down with the ship, y'know?"
"Yeah. I don't know if this helps, but I left my country for this one—I'm not a citizen." Javier's glassy eyes shined in the pulsating fire. "I… I mean I would say it worked real well for me, found a home, a family, but then again, I'm leaving this country too, so I guess it didn't work too well."
Susan cringed with pity and shame. Dutch had announced the plan a few hours ago after they'd settled down and she still couldn't place her feelings. Living in a tropical paradise was challenging to complain about, but a frozen wasteland? She thought of her ultimatum again, how easy it would be to march up to Dutch and say time's up, mister, you need to honor your word. Then anyone who was on the fence could stay or leave, there would be no pressure on their part and no more damn guilt on hers. But she knew that would never happen.
Some of it was love sure, he really did love them all, she wondered if it was more than that sometimes. He cut Swanson loose, sure, why not? Man was a damn leech, they were better off without him. But John, Bill, Javier? How could he rob the train tomorrow without them? Easy: he couldn't. It was mutualistic—they needed Dutch and he needed them. He'd never let them go.
Would he ever let me go? she queried. I keep us organized, keep things in check. He needs me, doesn't he? That question was a patsy for the real riddle on her mind: he still wants me, doesn't he?
A shadow outlined their powwow then and by the shape alone, Susan instinctively straightened her spine and tucked loose hairs behind her ears. She knew the shape by heart, remembered how it looked when it bled into hers as they kissed.
"How are my favorite people?" Dutch asked merrily, taking the beer Javier gave him. John sat down next to Javier and Dutch joined him at the tail end of the bole bench. On the opposite side of her.
"They ain't—" She started to say to Dutch, stopping when John's head got in the way and broke their eye contact. She leaned forward and he followed until their gazes locked. "They ain't—" Javier rested his head on his elbow, blocking her eyeline so she could only discern Dutch's chin through the gap in his arm. She sighed and gave up, speaking louder to compensate. "They ain't workin', Dutch!"
He gasped dramatically—or so she heard. "Is that right? You're telling me you lazy-bones have been socializing like normal folk instead a' folding your sheets and brushing your teeth?"
"Javier and Kieran were supposed to keep watch for Pinks," she hissed through tight teeth.
She made out the edge of Dutch's fingers flailing placidly. "They'll never find us here. Lighten up! You only live once, and even you, my dear, with all your audacious good looks, will grow decrepit eventually."
In the corner of her eye, she spotted Kieran hiding a smirk.
"You're the one who didn't want them fraternizing with the locals." She said it flatly, but her words were laced with jagged, spiky ice.
"Cuz I didn't want to wear our welcome out by bothering them." She could tell by his tone of voice he was smiling. "These fine gentlemen don't seem bothered."
"I think we're too drunk for that," the one in the fox hat said—Susan had forgotten his name.
"After being talked to death, I don't blame you." She followed Dutch's fingernail to Uncle, who was passed out on Kieran's lap. "He work in his regaling ditty about being married to a gypsy witch yet?"
"Not yet."
He chuckled. Then Charles stood up and strode over to him. Susan knew him well enough to know he wasn't smiling anymore.
"What's the plan for this train job? What did you and John find out?"
"I didn't hear a please…" Charles didn't budge. "Heh, just kiddin'..." All heads were swiveled in his direction now and he washed the phlegm from his throat with the last of his drink before answering. "Well… simplicity is the lionized sophistication, as they say, so we won't overindulge in the complicated. It should be making a stop in Saint Denis, so we'll sneak aboard while it's loading up supplies, take out the guards, and grab the score before it reaches the Pinks in Annesburg."
"Score?" Aleshanee asked, hair swirling in sync with his beer when he twirled the bottle nonchalantly. "How much exactly?"
He tried to mask the greed in his tone, but it was as plain as the nose on his face.
Dutch picked up on it, of course he did, nothing went over his head. "A couple hundred, maybe a little over a thousand if we're lucky. Not a lot, but enough to buy some land in Canada. Start a new life. From there we'll make a good honest livin', no more thieving."
If Charles was tempted to reveal that lie, that they'd be rich as kings if all went well, his blank stare didn't indicate it. "Eagle Flies offered me a place with the Wapitis," he said offhandedly. "Permanently. I think I'll take it. When we get to Canada, I'm gonna stay with them."
Mary-Beth jumped to her feet, embracing Charles, saying she'd miss him, the stupid solicitous girl.
"It won't be the same without you, Charles," Kieran added, rising and meeting him shortly after his girl. "You've been a good friend."
"He most certainly has." Dutch stood, head to the side so Susan couldn't see his expression. Not that she needed to. She knew he was donning his stock frown—a subtle bust, jowls sharp and diving, precisely melancholy, endorsed with appropriately dark eyes. Inside, however, she knew he was clicking his heels with joy. "That is a real shame, my friend. Is there any—never mind. I was gonna ask if there was anything we could do to get you to stay, but it sounds like you've given this the full tour plus six weeks."
"I have," Charles said simply.
Dutch nodded softly, licking lips, pretending to fight back tears, but Susan knew he was already calculating how soon the doubting half-breed would be out of their sight. Hell, he was probably working out if he could get Charles to take Abigail with him, vent out all the suspicion in camp. "Well, then I guess the only thing to do is celebrate the time we'll have left."
10:27 PM, October 30th, 1899
And celebrate they did. It was a proper party, whiskey and beer getting knocked back assiduously, laughter echoing throughout the reservation, folk swaying with dancing (not Ghost Dancing, mind you, thank God) and singing. Against Susan and Rains Fall's wishes, it had been a melting pot party, natives and criminals alike. Dutch had practically gone to every tepee rousing folk up—if there was one thing he could be credited with, it was that his bubbly personality was contagious. In no time people were wide awake, ready to burn the midnight oil.
There was a native woman who tried to bridge Charles into rhythm, and Susan thought she was courting him until Kiona went over and kissed her. Sadie had remained surprisingly sober and now held a blackout-drunk Uncle by his legs. Kieran had the old man's arms and the pair waddled him patiently out of the reservation to a nearby hot spring. He woke up spewing curses the second his lumbago-ridden back slapped the boiling water. Susan was the only one who didn't laugh—apart from Strauss of course but that's cheating.
John was entertaining Bill and Micah in camp to avoid any outbreaks of violence. They played poker roughly on the rocky ground, each man wishing he was somewhere else (for John it was asleep beside his wife and son, for Bill it was in a bar getting wasted, and for Micah it was three inches inside Molly).
Tilly had swiped Mary-Beth notebook and was prancing around the reservation with it, reciting awful six-year-old poetry. Aleshanee shot an apple off Eagle Flies' head with an arrow, and after bragging over it, the native had retaliated by firing two arrows at once, nailing two smaller plums off Dutch and the hermaphrodite. Children snuck out of their tepees and swiped the arrows when no one was looking, enjoying the sweet fruit, and stashing the needly instruments away for use later (it would greatly improve their game of cowboys and Indians).
Susan wasn't a fan. We've basically forced these fellers to be deported by killin' that colonel, are livin' off 'em rent-free, and now Dutch wants to get out and rub that in their faces.
Tick tick tick. Every second that passed she expected something bad to happen.
Javier chugged an entire glass square of imported rum. Shit, she thought. The train heist it tomorrow, they can't be getting this drunk.
Tick tick tick. Pearson's watch screamed warnings at her with every motion.
Dutch didn't help with his toast.
He propped himself up on two empty whiskey crates, balancing strenuously with so much booze jiggling around in his belly. He whistled haphazardly until he'd won everyone's attention.
"Old friends and new," said he, "here's to paradise! Here's to finding a new home up north and building a better future!"
Some drank to that. Many more did not.
Rains Fall, who up to this point had lurked back in the shadows, absorbing but not participating—just like her—, boisterously stacked three whiskey crates and climbed atop them, a head over Dutch. "Thank you, Mr. Van der Linde," he began grimly. "I too hope we'll find everything we've sought in this new land, although I know many of you won't be joining us. There's no hard feelings, I wouldn't have the heart for it even if I wanted to. I understand why some of you wish to stay, and I'm… I'm very sorry for the way the die is cast. I wanted peace for us and I failed. In fact, I probably left things worse off with the army than my father did." He chuckled bitterly. A hundred eyes were gaping at him. "Everything I've ever done… it's all been for you… and I failed." He stepped off and fled back to the shadows, basking in the dark.
Susan followed his lead—albeit in the opposite direction, finding herself at the edge of the reservation, passing by a soaking wet Uncle as he murmured swears. She stopped on the narrow ramshackle bridge heading down the mountain, and stared up at the milky moon, shining the sky purple.
Tick tick tick.
She couldn't wrap her head around it. She couldn't understand that fool, that dolt—how could he take the blame for something Dutch did? And so easily? She was beginning to see why Dutch was so self-righteous; how could you feel bad manipulating people when they were that gullible?
She found herself laughing manically on that bridge, clutching the decomposing wooden railing for dear life. She and Rains Fall were more similar than she'd thought.
She was gullible too. For all the tears she shed when he left her for a woman a few years younger. For the devout loyalty she gave him—matched by no one. For all the times she said just stick it out. Hold the fort, bear down for just a little while longer.
She felt the watch's heart throb in her hand and plucked a hair, holding it out in the moonlight, even though she knew it was gray.
The time was all gone, and soon, so would they. Either on a train or in the dirt.
Tick tick tick.
Next chapter: it begins...
Forgot about Pearson's watch for a hot minute, so I hope you're hyped about its return. It's going to be the main character in Act IV.