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 Sixty: Dutch

3:48 PM, November 13th, 1899

Dutch herded the apricot cans to the side where the pack of canned strawberries and corned beef were huddled. It was a very small pack. Whatever, he thought, shoving them all out of his way, it's enough. A sheet of wood had been placed inside the chuck box, creating a fake wall. And as Dutch tugged that wall down, his sorrow sifted away. The money was all there, in four enormous potato sacks. A few nights ago, Dutch couldn't resist and poked a sewing needle through the nearest bag. Through the Judas, he saw stacks of glowing green bills and that excited him beyond belief. Today, it only scarcely soothed the anxiety.

Monroe shoulda sent that letter by now… unless he never got there. I always expected a few of Favours' loyal ruffians to come after us for what happened, but they're takin' a lot longer than I thought. Maybe they had a more pressing target to take care of…

The image of Monroe's corpse sinking in a river somewhere kept Dutch up at night. It wasn't just that he was their hope of getting the hell out of there, Dutch liked him! He was good man. Too noble for this part of the country.

But, there are other ways for Monroe to die, Dutch thought, striding to the horse stations, a kind of 'No Man's Land' between Dutch and Rains Fall's tribe, but it was becoming more and more elastic—Flower of the Prairie and her husband were offering Abigail a tonic for John's health, Kieran was at the firepit, showing some younger Wapitis how to read English, and Javier was strumming his guitar for a crowd of both local and foreign gentlemen and ladies.

Could the Pinks have gotten to Monroe, he considered, mounting The Count. He recalled Swanson's panting when he relayed what happened to him and Lenny. The suits and hats were so perfectly prepared, so coordinated. So… premeditated. There's a rat, Dutch knew. Maybe they leaked Monroe running up to Washington.

He scowled, glancing over above where Jack played with wooden soldiers Hosea had widdled for him. Hosea…

He wanted to keep the plan as hush-hush as possible, but it wouldn't have mattered. Once that bitch found out, everyone would've found out. Trelawny liked proverbs, God rest his soul (heh, as if), and there's always been one he'd repeated that Dutch adopted: two is company, three is a crowd. Secrets worked the same way. If only Abigail and Charles hadn't been there when I told Monroe about Canada. I shoulda used Mary-Beth, not her.

Dutch began cantering out of the reservation, looking one more time to see Abigail holding the native's tonic towards John's lips, whispering in his ear. Even with his heavy black overcoat, Dutch shuddered. Whatever, he snorted, transitioning into a full-blown gallop to Emerald Station. Abigail could try all the innuendos and insinuations at her disposal. She could climb John as he slept, aiming his limp, tired cock inside her. She could lie about how much she loved him as she swayed back and forth, it wouldn't change a thing.

John was his the second he crowned that hat on him back at the oil factory. He had Bill when he let him stay, despite the Karen fiasco. Javier was boomeranging back to his side after that talk by the river. He had Kieran, which meant he had Mary-Beth, Grimshaw was bought with a few sweet words, and even Micah was finally contributing. He would've had Sadie that night—perhaps in more ways than one—if that old dog hadn't interfered. Whatever, he'd get her eventually. Tilly and Strauss would be loyal, he had no doubt, and he'd somehow gotten lucky enough to shed Charles once they got to Canada without lifting a finger.

Good thing too, Dutch thought. That boy is respected and he's a cynic. A terrible combination. That rebellious tart was a risk, but a controlled risk. She didn't come with Dutch and the others on their heists, he could always spin her doubt into a woman's bellyaching after the fact. I did try. I tried to make peace on that ride to Favours. She wouldn't have it.

But what's the alternative, she had said. Support every bad call you make? Put complete faith in you, even when I don't know what the hell's goin' on? I'm sorry, I can't do that.

She just couldn't see reason, even when it was flush against her face. She was the problem.

The mountains were a stunning sight, capped with pure-white snow, the sun partially hidden behind them, enveloping the towering pillars with light. Dutch was too in his own world to care.

When at last he arrived at the station, hitching The Count before braving the creaky platform, he was only there for a minute. The clerk's hands were as empty as their futures. Monroe's letter, and train, were still absent.

Dutch returned the attendant's strained smile, marching back to his horse. On the inside, his scream was ear-piercing. The Count's hooves struck the road like the point on a clock. Tick tick tick. Time was running out. There wasn't much longer they could stall. Threats were closing in from all sides, and that wasn't the worst of it. The doubt was rising, ideas were being exchanged. Hosea wanted the gang to disband. How much longer before Abigail began reciting his vision? How much longer until the others were inspired by Swanson's cowardice?

The ground began tilting upwards, the plains shifting into a copse, then a dense forest. The road grew less even, and The Count's foot found itself sliding onto loose twigs as often as tinging a clock. Snap, tick, snap, tick. Light filtered through leafy curtains so a green spotlight followed Dutch everywhere he went. The wind picked up, blowing earthy flakes in his face and suddenly, he felt as though God was watching him.

I… I ain't always proud of what I do, but I ain't a bad guy. Once we get to Canada they can be free to fight me or leave me or do whatever they want. But we need to be free first. Bluejays were out of sight, but he heard them whistling a song he couldn't understand. Why are they all so short-sighted? Why can't they see the truth: the future has come and it don't want us no more. John talked about being a rancher, but they bred cattle in factories now, Mary-Beth wanted to be a writer, but they shot books through projectors now, Charles always fancied hunting, but pretty soon there would be no woods or plains or animals—just machines. America was dying, and they needed to get away or it would kill them all too. They were so close, so unbelievably clos—

Snap! Snap! Dutch's head gyrated to the noises. The woods were crackling on either side. He squinted and saw whooshes and flashes in the dark thicket, obscured by trees bending in strange poses. He impelled The Count faster, and his strong white legs pulsated with effort. They blasted past all the strangely shaped trees, away from flashes in the dark. They continued bulleting along for a minute, two, until Dutch was confident he abandoned whatever was creeping around in the shadows. No horse could ever catch The Count, it was the reason he'd stolen him from an auction.

Dutch's shoulder sunk with relaxation until he saw the green spotlight was still on him, an eye that wouldn't blink. Stay calm, he told himself. You're actin' silly. Don't be Esau, be Jacob. Be Jac—

Snap! Snap! They were riding up beside him, just out of sight. Dutch's boot bruised his horse's ribs as he kicked, stirring it faster and faster. We can make it! We can outrun them! Whoever the hell is behind us, the Pinks, the Murfrees, whatever, we'll escape them!

Tick! Tick! They had turned onto the stone road now, and the clock was growing louder behind him…

C'mon, you dumb beast! He kicked harder and The Count, panting exhaustively, found the strength for quicker strides. The green spotlight tanned as the woods started clearing into grasslands. The tall blades blew to and fro from the sharp wind on The Count. Dutch's grown-out hair was floating like a cape from the speed. He felt sweat sliding back and flying off of his face. He'd rescued The Count nine years ago, the stallion was no foal anymore, but now it seemed not so. He and his master were young again, stronger and faster than ever, white lighting on land with a pink handkerchief.

All the same, when the first blow hit Dutch in the back, he writhed with pain, head falling into The Count's flowing mane. The second blow came from another army man. He sped up abreast The Count, uncoiling one hand from his reins, patiently timing up his right arm with Dutch's face, and let loose, smacking him so hard he let go of his horse.

Dutch met the ground roughly, groaning as he doubled over twice in awkward somersaults. His vision went blurry as soon as the rock collided with him.

Breathing coarsely, he struggled to force his eyes open. Through a distorted, greasy film, his eyes saw a circle of army men surrounding him, dismounting from their younger, faster horses. They stood around, waiting for someone. They were all sporting a repeater, nonetheless, Dutch snuck his hand to his holster. Like Monroe's letter, it was gone. Perhaps it was on the other side of him, one foot from his scalp, but he didn't have the strength to turn himself over. The image of that clerk shaking his head with a smile popped back into Dutch's mind and he groaned weakly.

After a moment, the soldier's eyes swirled to a lone rider returning to the crowd. When he got close enough to hop off his steed, Dutch saw he held The Count. The pale steed resisted his captor's grip, whipping his head from one side to the other.

"That's my boy," Dutch wheezed with a thin smile.

The man struggled with the horse for a moment, then sighed, saying something Dutch couldn't hear over the sound of his heart drumming. Then he removed a pistol. The Count's white pelage was tarnished with flecks of blood as it came tumbling down.

Dutch didn't have the energy to mourn or shout, so instead he whimpered. He saw the soldier with the pistol quicken, saw his foot lifted into the air, then it stomping down on him. Then darkness.

10:33 PM, November 13th, 1899

"Wake up. WAKE UP!"

Dutch lurched upright in an instant. Although he was in agony, he breathed lazily. His skull wobbled on his neck; he blinked incessantly but his vision stayed foggy.

It was dark, but the wind brushed his cheeks. I'm outside.

A lantern swung and flickered so capriciously that sometimes the figure holding it was a black silhouette, and other times, a clear image, clad in a blue uniform with a brown hat, brown pants, a rotten yellow bandana, and white suspenders.

"I know you," Dutch croaked, the smudges in his sightline unclogging as the man approached. "You killed my horse."

"You killed my colonel," Zeke responded, leaning close enough to kiss. "Then you took me hostage."

"I… I let ya go… didn't I?" Dutch asked. His eyes had mostly returned, but thirst was striking him copiously and his tongue became nearly too dry to move.

There were other lanterns around him, he could see it plainly now. Other men in similar or even identical garb stood around him, lines of orange light and inky shadows curving around their smiles so their gleeful pale faces looked like that of tigers.

One grinned at Dutch with long yellow fangs, making the resemblance even more damning. He was fatter than the others and his fingers were dancing across the stout, strangely shaped pistol at his side. "Now, boss?"

"One moment," Zeke answered, glancing at the fat tiger.

Fat tiger… Dutch tried forcing the thoughts of Pearson away, but couldn't shake the picture of his wide eyes never blinking, even when his skin whitened and his blood flooded down his shirt… No! Don't doubt, never doubt. I did what had to be done.

"So…" Dutch began, attempting to distract from those unpleasant thoughts. He leaned his head down so his saliva flowed to the tip of his tongue, lubricating it enough for the words to slip out. "You're the leader? That shithead we heard was assembling the racist derelicts of Favour's brigade to avenge their beloved father-in-arms, that was you?"

The orange light accentuated Zeke's smirk. "Guilty."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised you did a shit job at it." Dutch cackled, motioning towards the flashing ginger flames around them. There couldn't have been more than a dozen, and unless the United States Federal Government was experiencing a brutal lantern shortage, there couldn't have been much more than a dozen soldiers.

"It's enough," Zeke insisted, his smile only wavering a mite.

"Hmph." Dutch felt a droplet explode on his head. He stared skywards to see the stars, bright and practically within reach, before the gray clouds crept in, shrouding over the pretty flecks of gold until everything above was a muted overcast. More droplets began to fall. Dutch noticed the thinner air for the first time now that his breathing had returned to its normal rhythm. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he squinted downwards until at last, he made out trees. I'm on a mountain. The Sisters are nearest to Emerald Station. Why the hell am I here?

"Now?" the fat tiger asked again, jouncing with excitement.

Zeke swiveled fully to answer. "Just another second."

"You sure?" another soldier joined in. "The rain's starting. If ground melts to mud our horses won't be much use."

"I know the land," Zeke insisted, again turning completely to address this man. Mother musta taught him to look folks in the eyes when he spoke to 'em. "It is all rock and stone. Our horses will have no trouble."

"If I might have a word?" Dutch rose to his feet. He tried to raise his hands to show he meant no harm, but they were bound at his back. Ten guns clicked in his direction. Zeke waved them all away. "Would that be alright with you, gentlemen? It's in your interest, I promise."

"I'm sure it is," Zeke joked. "Sure, old man. I know you've the right to silence, but as them savages have surely shown you, some rights ought to be treated with less… diligence than others. Out with it." His eyes were fixed and unyielding. Musta taken what Mother said to heart.

Dutch tilted his head one more time, sucking in the thickening rain. His tongue wasn't dry anymore. "Now, the optimist in me wants to believe you've kidnapped me for ransom, but the realist says you want to punish me for my sins against your dear colonel."

"The realist is very astute."

"So, can I ask, what's next? Torture?"

"Of a sort," the firm eyes said, glimmering with joy.

"Well, I was hoping I could appeal to the sanguine optimists inside all of you fine folk." Dutch glanced around with a bright grin from ear to ear. No one else was smiling, but he could tell they were at least interested. "My friends have recently come into a bit of money… four thousand dollars. And if you want it, it's all yours, every penny. Send a letter to a man named Tacitus Kilgore tonight explaining this situation, I have no doubt they'll mail you two hundred stacks of green Jacksons by morning."

Zeke snorted. "You think you can buy us?"

"How am I buying anyone? You fellers have done all the work, don't you think you deserve it? And c'mon, I mean, really, let's be honest, army salary." He shuddered dramatically. One lantern shook as the man held back a titter. "C'mon, be optimistic with me, why don't you? Can't you men see you've lumbered onto something huge right now? Four thousand dollars."

"That's what? Only three hundred bucks a man?" Zeke inferred.

"Now?!"

"No!" he bit back at the fat tiger. "When it's time, you'll be the first to know. Not another word."

The rising sound of rain overpowered the tiger's disappointed grunt.

Dutch felt his heart in his throat. He glowered at the fat tiger's eager fingers on that big gun. That certainly ain't a normal pistol. A BB maybe? They certainly ain't gonna start the torturing with a regular bullet, it'd be over too quick.

He spoke faster. "It ain't three hundred bucks, it's a downpayment on a house. It's a ring for the missus—you got a missus, Zeke?"

"No."

"But, you got a mother, don't you?" He didn't answer. "I thought so. With all that mannerly eye contact." Dutch smacked his lips. "Is she overbearing, Zeke?"

The man was taken aback so much his jaw dropped.

Dutch smiled. "Yeah, she is. I knew it. I got a sixth sense 'bout these things. My buddy's goin' through somethin' similar with his girl, so don't feel bad, Zeke. Happens to the best of us."

Those unblinking golden-green eyes were spilling the boy's secrets, but he couldn't tear them away. Mother doesn't like it when you break eye contact, does she? 'That's so very rude, Ezekial!' I bet she said.

"Now," the optimist continued, "I'm just extrapolating here, but let me lay out my theory 'bout you, Zeke. You idolized the colonel, strange considering he really ain't all that special." He revolved his stare to all the other men. "I mean, really, what's he done for you boys that's so immeasurable this guy's rallying you together for vengeance?"

"Shut up," Zeke whispered.

"Combining that little nugget with this kid's mother's domineering personality, I am goin' to go out on a limb and say there was a father in his life, one who died. I wager in the army. Am I in the ballpark, Zeke?"

"Shut up," he repeated softly.

"Is that why she's so protective of you? Is that why you love Favours so much? Did you look at him and see your pappy—"

"Shut up!" His gun lashed Dutch across the cheek, so hard he collapsed onto his knees in a newly formed puddle. The barrel formed a circular imprint on his forehead where he pressed it. "You don't know anything about me, old man!"

"Kid… I know… because my mother was the same way." Dutch was confused at the way the truth had weaseled its way into another one of his lies. He spoke weakly, without even meaning to. "Civil War, right? My daddy kicked it in Gettysburg."

"A… Antietam," Zeke said reluctantly. "M-my grandfather that is. My daddy left us the second my momma's belly bulged." His lips quivered, yet he still refused to break his gaze.

Dutch smiled thinly. "Grandpappy. I shoulda known. Heh, I forget sometimes how old I am."

Zeke chuckled dryly, and a few other soldiers followed him, a bit confused. "W-what did you do? About your momma?"

"The only thing that can be done," Dutch said honestly. "I hit the bricks." The gun fell from his brow, however he remained on his knees. "And… kid, kid, listen: three hundred dollars can help ya do that. Send it to her in an envelope. Should be enough to last her a while if she's still got any brains left. Live your life, let go of her."

Then, at long last, the dripping golden eyes peeled away, aimed blankly down in consideration. Then the boy grinned proudly. "You think I'm an idiot? No one just offers four thousand dollars freely… not unless they really got ten."

Dutch faked an irritated groan. It was a struggle to mask his smirk. Intuitive little bastard, ain't he? "We got eight, but you ain't gettin' a nickel more than four. My people went through a lotta shit to get that money."

"Oh, I think you can rustle up a few more nickels." His gun clicked and found its way back to Dutch's countenance. "Somehow, I can't say how. I guess I just got a sixth sense 'bout these sorta things."

Dutch hoped the heavy rain distorted his face. He was smiling fully now. This kid… I like him. "Six. That's all I can do. I told you: my people went through a lot for that money. I gotta feed the monkey."

"What are we even talking about this for, man?" a soldier asked, lantern swaying as he stepped forward. "We can't back out at this—"

"Shhhh…" Zeke demanded cooly, golden-green orbs sweating from the clouds' rivulets. "I'm tryin' to have a conversation here." He turned back to Dutch. "Even so, you think six thousand dollars—hell, eight thousand—is enough to buy our loyalty?"

"Precisely," Dutch agreed. "More importantly, I believe it is enough to buy others' loyalty."

When he didn't elaborate, Zeke was forced to ask: "What the hell do you mean?"

"If a house or a ring don't suit ya, you can use the money to acquire guns. You can't want revenge solely on me, am I right?" The golden-green eyes didn't gaze away and inside them Dutch saw he was. "Yeah… that's what I thought. You ain't gonna beat them Wapitis with…" he counted out all the lanterns theatrically, "... this many men. Six thousand dollars can purchase quite the cavalry…"

"You would go turncoat on them?" Zeke asked, acting more shocked than he was. "But… but I thought you was their friend?"

"Friends can become enemies," Dutch started, lifting his knees from the dank puddle, "and enemies can become friends. I ain't your enemy, boy. Favours? That was business, not personal. I needed him outta the way for somethin' I'm not prepared to delve into with you gentlemen. I don't care a continental for any of them stupid savages. Y'know, one of them offered me her son's finger as payment for killing Favours, can you believe that?" He glanced around incredulously and all the other men shook their heads with him.

"No better than beasts…" one muttered.

"Exactly!" Dutch's eyes lolled back to the golden-green. "Look, take the money. Cut me loose. You'll never see more nor my pals again, I promise. You can feel free to hire some bandits or enliven some of your more lily-livered compatriots in the army with all them green Jacksons. Then… oh, then… you can make the village of those Injuns burn! Hell, I'll raise a drink to that! If you're offerin'."

A soldier opened his mouth, only to be shushed again. Zeke took two steps until his hat's brim met Dutch's long sodden raven hair. "You… you're seriously alright with this? With us burning the Wapiti Reservation down?"

"It would be a goddamn pleasure to watch that cesspool go up in smoke." Dutch smiled as though he shared their hate. He was really smiling because of the truth: by the time these idiots get their money and buy more guns, the Wapitis and us'll be long gone.

Silence clung in the air for a time, apart from the rain clattering. Then, at last, a slow simper crossed Zeke's cheeks. "I am so glad you feel that way…"

Dutch sighed. "The feeling's mutual. Now that we're resolved, could you please untie my arms? I won't run, I promise, hell you can shoot me down if I try. You bastards tied the rope real tight and I'm beginning to chafe. Oh, and do you need me to sign the letter? They might believe it more easily. And remember, the recipient is Tacitus—"

"... because," Zeke continued slowly, coiling an arm over Dutch's shoulder, "if what you say is true, then I've got some good news for you."

Thunder tumulted closeby, very very closeby from their altitude. Zeke's face shined with blue lightning and his eyes no longer seemed golden-green. He led Dutch to the edge of the cliffside, where hundreds of tall trees sat like ants beneath them. His boot touched a loose stone and he would've fallen to his horrifying death if the boy's grip hadn't been so taut.

"It's good we're on the same page, Dutch Van der Linde," Zeke said, his voice louder than the boisterous thunder strikes that went boom boom boom. "Wanted man in five states. Worth over ten thousand dollars yourself."

Dutch became acutely aware that with his hands bound, he couldn't grab hold of anything. One foot dangled over the brink already. The bounty never said alive… His heart was racing now, eyes darting as though there was something he could use. He tried to think of something to say, something to cajole his way out of this. But despite the monsoon hitting him now, his throat had gone dry as the desert again.

Zeke's eyes were cold and blue. And they never blinked. "Don't look at me, Dutch, look, look…" He hurled his lantern with a grunt, pinching Dutch's cheeks, forcing him to watch the sparkling orange light in the darkness as it fell down, down, dow—
And then he saw it. The luminous blue of the lightning displayed it proudly: The Wapiti Reservation. It appeared desolate and abandoned, but when the lightning's flash subsided, there was a small speck of faint red from the dying firepit. Kieran was teachin' little boys how to read by that firepit, he thought. His breath grew hoarse and desperate, and he felt those awful eyes on him—when lightning struck they were blue, when shadows fell, they were white. We ain't at the Three Sisters. We're on that damn mountain Bill and Rains Fall took a stroll on. We ain't five hundred yards from the damn place!

"Though I have to say," Zeke purred, "I find it a little peculiar you not caring 'bout the reservation… considerin' all your friends is there…" Dutch gaped at him, yet his eyes were gone. They were on the fat tiger. "Now."

"Now?"

"Now!"

The tiger curled his fangs and raised his girthy pistol. Dutch winced instinctively, expecting it would hurt. A lot. But the fat tiger kept raising it, past Dutch until it hung at two o'clock due east.

A blinding red flare streaked across the gray-black sky, illuminating every falling droplet so it looked like a bead of blood.

It began as a rumbling, that echoed up the mountain where the pebbles by Dutch's feet began to bounce. Then when they burst from the trees far below, he saw the flickering of a hundred orange lanterns, moving too fast to be on anything but horseback. And they were charging straight for the reservation. The army.

"No…" Dutch murmured. This can't be happening! This isn't real! However, when he opened his watery eyes, the orange glow of lanterns was only brighter.

"Yessss…" Zeke's grin was pale and stretched past his ears. Boom boom boom went the thunder. "They are all goin' to die now, Dutch. And you are going to watch."

"God no, don't do this, I'm begging you! Please!" He tried to face the man, to make him understand, but the fingers around his jawline tightened, and he could only watch the soldiers getting closer and closer. "I-I lied. It's forty thousand. Forty thousand dollars and it's all yours! Just turn your men around!"

"I know." Zeke's voice was icy venom. "We've been watching you for days, Dutch. I know where you put that money, between the apricots and the corned beef. Don't you see? It's mine already." His hand left Dutch's shoulder, wrapping around his scalp until the older man howled in pain. "No bartering, no deals, no escape. They die tonight, Dutch,"—boom boom boom screamed the sky—"and then it's your turn."

With every bolt of lightning, Dutch's vision faded to white. He saw Pearson, Sean, Trelawny, Lenny, John, Arthur. It was happening all over again. Again and again and again they came for them. They don't want folk like us no more, his son had said. Why didn't I listen? To Arthur, to Hosea, to Rains Fall? They're all gonna die and it's my fault.

He strained his hands against the rope, but it didn't even stretch, let alone show any sign of breaking. All the same, he tugged harder. His fingers dripped with blood and rain.

"All this!" he cried. "For Favours! For that fuckface pussy bigot?! What do you want from me? To hear me say 'I'm sorry'? Well, you win: I am sorry! I'm sorry I killed him with a gun! That I didn't make his death last for a month like he fuckin' deserved!" His arm was shaving against the rope as he thrashed; it grew slick from the red and blue fluids covering it. "Please… they didn't do nothing… It was my idea! Rains Fall didn't even know about it, none of them did! Matter a' fact, they fought me on after I did it. They wanted peace! Punish me, hurt me, torture me!"

"That's what I'm doin' right now." The searing blue eyes leaned closer. "Kiss me, Dutch."

"What?"

"Kiss me… 'You have to kiss a girl before you get to touch her,' my momma used to say before I smothered her in her sleep. Kiss me, Dutch, so I can touch you…"

His lips were cold and wet, but his tongue was hot. It wormed around in Dutch's mouth, licking up fragments of his breakfast that were lodged in his teeth. "I'm going," he whispered softly, reaching for Dutch's belt buckle, "to fuck you into the dirt."

Bang! Zeke stumbled back and fell off the side of the mountain.

Dutch, hands moist enough to slip free of the bonds, pulled back the hammer on Zeke's revolver and shot the fat tiger next. There were more men and more lanterns than he had bullets, but that worked to his advantage. He aimed for the flickering orange flames and fired. Glass flung everywhere, oil spilled over the soldiers and the fire followed. One man shrieked until he was charred into a black husk and died. Dutch started down the mountain, avoiding the soldiers' volleys on the way down. When he met the bottom of the foothill, Dutch raced in the direction of the explosions, thunder ringing overhead as he ran. Boom boom boom.

The forest was dark, but the lightning lit his path. He was out of breath and exhausted by the time the white horse came into view. The Count, he thought for an instance, but it was not. Just another army garron. His last bullet took care of its rider and he lumbered atop the steed, spurring it forward, uphill, across the rickety bridge, to the reservation.

A massive semicircle of men and women formed a perimeter, guns and bows in hand, firing back at the soldiers. The moon shone down at their backs, so Dutch couldn't make out which people were his.

A dynamite arrow whistled by, exploding at the ground, scattering pellets of black dirt with the army men who went flying. The water had cascaded to Dutch's breeches, but when his horse leapt over the wall of fire caused by that arrow, he felt a little warmer.

"It's me!" he cried as bullets skinned along his jacket. "It's Dutch, you idiots!"

"Dutch?" a grim voice that could only have been Charles called. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Collectin' the mail—"

"LOOK OUT!"
A lasso looped around him, yanking him off his stallion just as he heard gunshots pass overhead. The horse collapsed beside him, dotted with red bulletholes. He glanced to the forest, the fire from Charles' explosive arrow had been extinguished by the heavy rain and he needed to squint again.

The second wave was inbound. They were ahorse, which meant their bouncing arms missed most of their shots, but they had enough men to compensate.

"We need cover!" Dutch wailed, squatting behind his horse's bleeding cadaver, trying to fire back with an empty pistol.

"If we move, they'll breach the reservation. The women and children would be completely exposed!"

This is why you sleep in houses, not damn tents. He remembered how much of a clouting Shady Belle took and stayed standing. A flimsy hut of fabric couldn't take such treatment.

He growled, reloading his revolver with the spare bullets in the dead horse's satchel.

A soldier raced at him, every bang from his gun spraying strips of skin from Dutch's equestrian cover onto his face. He took his time, lined up his shot, and blasted that soldier square through the mouth.

Charles appeared beside him—he wasn't prepared to be picky about available cover either. He ran out of arrows, and using the horse's belly to balance his repeater, began firing bullets that cut through the gaps in the tight blue droplets, blowing men off their horses.

They had an advantage: the soldiers were treading uphill, the natives had a more serviceable position. Still, men on their side were dropping like flies.

"Where's the others?" Dutch asked between deafening recoils.

"The gang is holding the right side, that crescent where y'all set up camp."

"Then that's where I'm goin'." Dutch crept up before Charles tugged him back down.

"No. The other natives moved to help them, the path up that way is mostly stone, so the army's been concentrati—"

A bullet whizzed over them, and another hit their cover, squirting red juice over Charles' new wolf skin vest Flower of the Prairie had sewn for him.

Charles gasped, spat out a chunk of raw meat, and continued. "They've been concentrating most of their efforts on the right side, cuz the left side is mostly mud. But now they're movin' a whole goddamn platoon that way on foot. It's just Eagle Flies and a for more guardin' it. I need you there!"

"I'm on the way," Dutch promised, not even caring that he was taking orders from that defector. He kept his head low, sprinting northwest, following the reservation's only bulwarks: tiny pebbles outlining their territory. God almighty, he thought, even if not one soldier breaks the lines, children are still gonna be gettin' killed from lucky bullets flyin' from the field through the tepees. His suspicions were proven true when a lantern overlooking a tepee on the east side shattered from a stray volley, igniting the tent like a powder keg.

That's too far away. God forgive me…

He found Eagle Flies where Charles said he was, back to the reservation, spending shells left and right as he returned fire to the dark. When Dutch tapped his shoulder he nearly blew his head off.

"Oh, it's you," he sighed with relief.

"Dammit, is this everyone?" Dutch screamed over the gunshots, pointing to the retinue of Paytah, Kiona, and three more Indians he didn't recognize.

"Yeah," Eagle Flies answered, dropping low behind a boulder with his companion to reload. "The rest are dead. One of your men is in the trees, firing down below. Our other fighters are on the opposite side of camp, defending your people's setup. They don't know the next wave came in on foot, stomping through the fuckin' mud just to kill us and our kids!"

He stood over the mossy rock, unloading his bullets blindly into the darkness.

"That ain't happening," Dutch vowed. "We gotta move up, we can't get a bead on them from here!"

"But we'd be exposed."

"There's trees, c'mon, man, move!" Dutch darted forward, scooping a tomahawk from the field, Eagle Flies waving the remaining Wapitis to follow.

Dutch jumped against a tree, gingerly picking his moment to peep out, firing at the blue uniforms. A soldier ran past the tree, noticing the gunman and aiming his Carbine repeater.

Dutch roared as he drove the tomahawk into the soldier's belly, before ripping it out, hurling it at another soldier's head, clefting it in two. He collected the repeater, continuing to advance. Eagle Flies stayed on his tail, sinking into rhythm with him; Dutch stopped to reload and he shot, and when he reloaded, Dutch fired.

They were winning, clearing the larger force back. They didn't have the numbers, but they had far better aim. They lost one of the natives who Dutch didn't know, besides that, they acted brilliantly, confusing the enemy with large spreads of fire from different angles, dashing quickly so the greenhorns who could barely shoot a stationary target were all but useless, and it helped that, habitually, a well-timed flash of orange would appear from a crow's nest in the trees.

Must be John, Dutch thought before he remembered. Sadie, then. Or Micah.

Eagle Flies stood next to him, crouched under an adjacent tree. Dutch reloaded and joined him in spreading the smell of gunpowder. Soldiers dropped bleeding and screaming.

Good. Dutch smiled. He felt alive. Everyone wants us, but they'll never have us. Not the army, the Pinks, Langton, any of them! We're smarter than 'em, stronger, better. He imagined Zeke's face on every body that lolled limp. He recollected what the freak whispered and squeezed his trigger faster. Fuckface shoulda taken me up on my offer. His fuckin los—

Bang! Dutch felt it hit him. He jolted behind cover, patting down every part of his chest. There was no blood. Heart racing, head throbbing and slick with rain, he glanced to Eagle Flies. The boy gawked at Dutch with large eyes and an agape mouth with blood trickling out of it.

"D-Dutch," he wheezed, as thought the man could save him, as though he was God. Why did he get shot? Stupid boy, stupid stupid—oh Christ, no…

Dutch caught him before his back slapped the swampy terrain.

"No," he said softly. "You're not dying on me, son. Y'hear me? That is not allowed. Y'hear?!"

"I'm… I'm sorry, Dutch," the boy, yes, he looked such a boy, he was a boy, he was always a boy, a few years older than Lenny had been. "I-I let ya down…"

"No," Dutch stressed. "Shut the hell up, no you didn't! You're not gonna die, son. I'm-I'm proud of the man you are, me and your daddy is. He loves you, boy, don't you dare leave him, leave us. I want you to become a member of the Dutch Van der Linde Gang. I want you to be my son, son. So you're not gonna die, y'hear? You're not!"

He died before the first 'no'.

There was a buzzing afterward. Paytah and Kiona in his ear, asking what to do, where to attack. Dutch didn't listen, he turned around and ran. Like with Lenny… Oh, God forgive me…

The soldiers were storming up the muddy hill at them, when Dutch fired over his shoulder, grounding one, another took his place. They were hydras—no, worse, Pinkertons. For every one he killed five more took its place. I blew up the mine and they still killed him…

Time slowed to a halt. Rain inched to the dirt like needles frozen in the sky. He heard the slow clicking of Paytah's gun as it ran dry. Then he saw the red needles flying out, mingling with the blue ones as a hole was driven in the boy's head. Oh, Arthur's head was done in an identical fashion. I'd thought I'd been so clever with the Grays. Like how I thought I'd been so clever with Favours.

Kiona fell too, his wide eyes at Dutch until his body collapsed sluggishly and his face sunk into the mud, along with his fox skin cap.

The bullets lagged past his ears; he heard the imperceptible slow bellow of twenty men stepping on his long shadow. The tears in his eyes mixed with the rain.

The reservation wasn't far ahead, but suddenly, he found his feet planted firmly in the earthy sludge. I ain't runnin' no more. I've been running my whole life. From Mama, from Colm, from the law, from the Pinks, from civilization, from all of it.

The gun was empty in his fist, he could tell by the weight. Still, he pointed it at the men approaching him. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When his eyes peeled ajar reluctantly, he saw the rest of the soldiers dead in the muck.

"N-no," he muttered, confused. "T-they're were at least twenty. I-I know there were."

But there were no more, the rest were on the opposite end of the reservation, in full retreat.

Branches shook and limbs snapped, and Dutch spiraled his head to see the figure from the crow's nest drop down onto ground level. He hoped it was Sadie, he needed it to be her. Needed to feel her breasts, needed her warm skin to heat him up, he was so cold…

"Great fuckin' job," Uncle scolded, emerging from the shadows with a sniper rifle. "You proud a' yourself, Dutch? All goin' according to fuckin' plan?"

"Th-this isn't what I wanted," he mumbled weakly.

"What the hell did you think would happen? You can't kill a colonel and get away with it! Did you think they wouldn't want payback?" The old man's breath was hot, reeking of mustard and beer. "Do you know how many people are dead, now Dutch? How many men, women, kids, all innocent, mind you."

"Stop…"

"You did this." His breath was sickening. Dutch felt vomit coalescing on his tongue. "And for what? So you could stick it to the man?" He leaned closer and Dutch had to pull away to keep from hurling. "I know what kind of man you are, Dutch. A glass man. You're hollow and everyone knows it, so ya stand in front of the sun so people are blinded by you. But my eyes are too good for that. I see through the glass…" His pudgy, wrinkled finger tapped Dutch's chest in sync with his heart, "… to that tiny black heart inside. You coward."

Van der Linde smiled suddenly. "You just can't put a muzzle on that mouth a' yours, can you? Not for a million bucks." He chuckled. "That's fine. I'll do it for you."

Uncle moaned, clutching his chest where Dutch delivered the first punch. The second was more of a slap, across the geezer's face, hard enough to post him to the mud.

"What's the matter, old dog?" Dutch asked, punching him upwards at the chin. "Where's this famous bite you promised me? Where?" The next left a pink bruise on his cheek. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not disappointed. I prefer your bark anyway. Won't you bark for me, dog? Bark!" Uncle's beard drank Dutch's spittle. Then it drank blood when he knocked two teeth out.

"Bark!"

"R…R-ruff," Uncle groaned.

"Again."

"R-ruff."

"Again."

"Ruff!" Uncle's sobs were pathetic. Rain glistened off his bald head and belly where his shirt hung too loose.

"Get outta here," Dutch ordered, twirling him to his feet by his red shirt—oh, good, the blood won't stain, crisis averted. He tossed the coot forward where he fell on all fours. Dutch kicked him back onto his face. When he stumbled onto his feet, he was brown as an Indian, gobs of mud plopping into his panting mouth.

"If I see you again," Dutch warned. "You're dead. Now get the fuck outta here!" He was holding Uncle's sniper and fired a shot at the old man's boots to get him moving. His limp was slow and weary, but eventually, step by step, he made his way down the hill. He glanced back once more with innocent, filmy eyes, but Dutch only fired the gun again, trimming off one of the dog's claws. As he tightly squeezed his bleeding finger, Uncle gyrated away, vanishing into the dark night.

When all was silent again, save for the drumming of the rain, Dutch got to thinking.

They're always gonna find us, one way or another. We can't escape… so we might as well take the fight to them. No more running…

He strolled back into the reservation, past all the dying folk, there were too many to count. Mary-Beth and Abigail's hands were dyed crimson as they tried patching up a man whose arm had been shot off.

Rains Fall appeared as if from nowhere, grabbing Dutch by the shoulder. "Where is my son?" he asked sternly, lips shaking with fear.

Dutch pointed to where he had come from. "That way." He neglected to mention that Eagle Flies was dead. Tilly's yellow dress stuck out amidst all the blue and black; she dwelled by the chuckwagon, fishing out as many flagons of fresh water as they had, rushing them over to where so many Wapitis lay, writhing in agony, begging for water.

Morons could just suck in the rain, Dutch thought, whistling for the girl.

"Dutch," Tilly greeted, "where's Uncle? No one's seen him."

"Ran off, I'm afraid."

"What?" She was in shock. "He… he—"

He wiped his nose with his pink handkerchief. "Yeah, real shame. Anyway, I want you to find Javier and Bill, we're headin' out."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"May… May I ask where to?"

"Certainly, you know how I feel about transparency. We're goin' to visit some of Charles' old friends."

She did a double-take. "Now? Why?"

"Because they're going to help me kill the man responsible for all this: Leviticus Cornwall."

RIP...

Another chapter I've been building to for a while, hope it was worth it.

Thought it would be ironic if Dutch seemed to have a connection with Zeke, only for him to flip into a psychopath on a dime-heh, maybe they are similar after all. I also showed Dutch nearly getting raped here to mirror how he nearly raped Mary-Beth way back when.

So now that the old dog is gone, the alliance of people standing against Dutch is dwindling ever smaller...

With his marbles fading away, tune in later to see how he warps his revenge into a legitimate game plan.