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-Six: Micah

11:48 AM, October 31st, 1899

His leg hadn't ached for some time, yet the waves drummed and sparkled with such attractiveness, that he couldn't resist soaking his burgundy bandana in the waters of the Lannahechee river. He'd been here for two hours, staring out with his binoculars at the trainyard from the gap where the back of the station met the fishing dock. Micah had made up some excuse to the gang about checking the mail for the letter they were expecting from Monroe—offered to pick up some potatoes too. He'd lied about where he was going, of course, told them Rhodes, when in fact, he was at Saint Denis.

Liquid trickled down his knee in teary droplets. The image reminded him of Molly's flopping, ecstatic thigh when he finished up on her yesterday afternoon.

The city had calmed down since his last visit, but not particularly by choice. There was a suit and bowler hat on every corner of every street, along with the monkeys in blue, keeping the peace by force. He'd heard the Pinks couldn't clear the mob out of town, so they'd given some fat Italian with scarred knuckles Bronte's old job, with limited authority, to keep the criminal element employed with minor liquor racketeering and bookmaking. The mobsters were satisfied enough to halt off another war, and Saint Denis had never been cleaner. Win, win.

And it was all due to Micah because he'd shot that policeman in the cemetery. He almost felt hurt, that after all he'd done for this town, he was rewarded by hiding his face so they wouldn't gun him down on sight.

Whatever, he thought, loosening the straps that tourniqueted his shoulder. Arthur's Carcano rifle was heavy. My reward is forthcoming.

Any moment, the train was due, and right on schedule, Dutch would arrive with his band of losers to rob it. Micah knew there was no one to appreciate his shit-eating grin, but it didn't stop him from growing one. Because he knew the train couldn't be robbed; he'd spoken with the trainyard foreman this morning, mentioned that he'd caught wind of some ill rumors that the Lemoyne Raiders were planning to kill all the army soldiers guarding the train's haul, send a message that the army was not welcome in their state. As per company policy, the train had been alerted ahead of time at another station and was now barreling clean through Saint Denis, making its rest stop at Annesburg instead.

The plan was simple: Dutch and the others would arrive in a couple of minutes, probably entering from the railyard where there were fewer Pinks, and wait for the train that would fly right on past them.

Then with Arthur's gun (oh, the irony) he would blow that slick mustached smirk off Dutch's face—along with the rest of the face. He was a good shot, one bullet was sufficient. Micah dug around his pocket for a cigarette and lighted it while he stalled. The noise would draw the law in on them and the gang would just assume the train was a setup the whole time like with Blackwater—they'd never suspect him. Why would they? He wasn't there.

He was on the way back from Rhodes on Uncle's horse when he spotted the Saint Denis train, bulleting along way ahead of schedule. His poor magnanimous heart would ache too much and he'd be compelled to follow it, just to make sure things had gone as planned. When he'd see the train hadn't been infiltrated, well, his hands were tied. He'd hop aboard, breaking his precious pacifistic oath to Dutch to foreswear using guns—the man would be dead, what difference would it make?

He'd kill every man on that train and suck the cargo dry until all the money was stowed atop Micah the Fourth (that was the new name he'd given to Uncle's horse, it seemed fitting with the beast's blonde coloration; it was probably the name he'd give to his future son with Molly, too).

It wouldn't be easy. He needed to race like greased lightning to catch the train and stop it on his lonesome, taking out a dozen heavily armed men at least—all before it reached the Pinks' nest in Annesburg. He had maybe ten minutes. But it didn't matter. Micah Bell was a brave, adventurous man, he wouldn't be swayed by trivial things such as fear and common sense.

And it would so perfect. Bringing back the money single-handedly would be just the same as bringing back the Blackwater money he tried so many times to do—they would have to respect him, have to love him, Dutch would be gone, there would be no more excuses. Even with his botched job on that boat, no one would object to him being leader.

Anyway, Molly was right. Even if they did, who would rise up if it wasn't me? Hosea's dead, Arthur's dead, John and Bill're too stupid, Grimshaw's an old bitch—and if Molly wanted, an old dead bitch.

In a few days, Monroe's letter would be waiting for them. Then the train, whistling excitedly for them to board. And then they would be in Canada, and Dutch would be in the ground. He'd stop jerking off into Tilly's cauldron every time she brewed stew. Everything would be exactly as it was supposed to be.

Micah unwrapped the moist bandana from his leg and hung it on his neck; the coolness helped against the southern heat. He raised his binoculars and squinted through them, between the wooden columns holding up the station's roof, for a minute, two, until a pink handkerchief slid into sight and he smiled slyly.

Dutch was sweating profusely. Dark patches glistened under his arms, even after shedding his black overcoat. He was shoehorned between Bill, Javier, and Kieran on his right and John, Sadie, and Charles on his left. Poor Dutch, Micah thought, studying his panting, bulging cheeks. You put on a few pounds, old man? Don't you worry, your pal Micah'll help trim some off. I'm a damn good meat trimmer after all, you said so yourself.

Micah stuffed the binoculars (though they might have been opera glasses, this was theatre for him) into his black satchel. He unclipped the tight straps and hoisted the sniper aloft and down into his grip. He'd polished and cleaned the weapon carefully, he wasn't taking any chances; split the bullet too for higher accuracy. It snapped musically when he cocked it, the scope was clear as a pond, no smudges or blotches.

Micah the Fourth glowered at him from where he was hitched at the dock piling.

Micah the Third chuckled. "Sssshhhh…" he told the beast. "Snitches get stitches. Remember that, friend." He pretended life was one of those picture shows for a minute. The Mustang could walk and talk like a person and tried to tell the gang what happened, so Micah tackled it, gagged it, and sawed off the gelding's head off, placing it where John slept out of spite (he was still bitter over that talk they had about pissing on graves). Reality came back to him and he found himself inspired; not a bad idea. Maybe I'll do that with The Count if it returns to camp with its headless rider.

He thought of the headless horseman and cackled again. Suddenly, he heard the thunderous tumult of a train bell in the distance and was glad for it. He wanted to see the shock on Dutch's face just as he pulled the trigger.

Through the gun's long lens, he focused on Dutch's visage, specifically, his lovely forehead. The train crossed into the scope as it blocked Dutch and the others. And when it passed, there would be a change in management around the clowder of outlaws.

Micah exhaled, readying his shot. The train completed its obstruction, running the hell out of town as if it were in a race. Dutch face was exposed, and the pathetic expression of stupid confusion was exactly what Micah had longed for. He felt his peter blossom in his pants and his finger nuzzled the trigger…

Then Dutch cantered out of view and Micah found himself almost shooting John when he charged after their patriarch. They're followin' it, Micah realized, trying to get a clear shot on Dutch, but it was too late. The gang had formed a line on the train tracks leading out of Saint Denis. He'd have to shoot through five foreheads if he wanted Dutch's. If he had the bullets he would have. They're fuckin' followin' it!

Micah felt like he did back on the Grand Korrigan: shaky and cheated. This cannot be happening… It was all slipping through his fingers… again!

He flipped the rifle over his back. Realizing with a curse that he forgot to strap it to himself, he picked it up from the ground, tightened the leather bands over his shoulder, and raced to his steed, climbing and riding off with everything he had.

This isn't right… it's not fuckin' fair! One second… one more goddamn second and this was over!

That loud fucking train bell screamed again and Micah's ears rang. His eye twitched.

They galloped ahead of him and, even in the heavy marshy wetlands by the coast that slowed their horse, were nearing the caboose. So fast, why are they so fuckin' fast? It was a flatcar, littered with heavy wooden crates and three long cylinders of thick drill fabric.

There was a guard, and Javier lassoed him, tugging him off the train without raising any alarms with a vociferous gunshot. John took the lead from there, removing his boots from the stirrups, leaning over his horse while Kieran lassoed the Ardennes to keep it from running rampant.

Micah saw that bastard lining up his feet with the cart's platform and instinctively whipped out his gun to shoot Marston. No… no. The dumb horse was jerking him around too much, he couldn't get a clear bead on him. Besides, he may have been too far back to clearly identify, but one of the gang would've given chase, and Micah wasn't an expert equestrian. They'd catch him and from there probably kill him. I need to be the one who gets that fuckin' money…

He let the rifle slide from his sweaty palms, disappearing into the bog below. John jumped onto the train's caboose, ribs bouncing off the obsidian-black railing. Micah whipped his ride faster, he'd chosen lucky, the Mustang was built for speed. His black boots were balancing on top of his saddle then, and he leapt, landing beside a crouching Marston as bullets spewed out the windows above. Micah slapped the taupe wooden planks with a hard thud.

"What the hell are you doin' here, Micah?" John growled, counting to three before peeking around the corner of the cart door and firing back at whoever was inside.

"I was… I was…" he began, panting, hair waving here and there. "I was headin' up from Rhodes. Saw… saw the train weren't stopping. I… I wanted to help."

"You wanted to help?" John asked incredulously. "You got TB or somethin'?"

"Don't… don't give me any a' that infamous scarface wit, scarface." He shifted from all-fours to a kneel. "Give me a gun."

John opened his mouth to deliver more of his scarface wit when a window shattered and glass cascaded down into the brim of Arthu—his hat. It was mine. It should be mine. Scarface saw he didn't have a choice. "Here." He passed a double-action revolver. Micah saw his blonde locks reflected in the shiny metal. It fit snugly in his hand and he remembered how much he enjoyed killing. He hadn't held a gun since Lenny died, and that wasn't fair. Dutch will answer for that and more. Once this is over.

"We gotta hurry," John continued. "Before we run outta track." They burst through together, killing the guards in the first car easily enough before moving onto another flatcar—the pattern continued that way: baggage car to flatcar to baggage car. Oh, and they shot more working men along the way, too, don't fret they'd break their killstreak. They'd repeated this rhythm twice before the baggage cars transitioned into boxcars. With no way through, they had to go over.

"So much for sneaking on here," John muttered, as they leapt up in sync, grabbing the metal roof and pulling themselves atop the cart. Micah snickered as more army men joined them on the other side and he pumped his trigger finger. The men were clad in blue uniforms, but they turned red when they fell off into the swampy plains, probably set to be a crocodile's dinner.

He's not the only one, Micah thought, watching Dutch and the others ride up beside them. Dutch looked him dead in the eyes but didn't say a word. You think I'm not worth the breath outta your precious lungs? Think I'm nothing? She may be bitchy and theatrical, but Molly was right about that complacent piece of shit.

Micah and John sprung to the next boxcar; it gave the blonde meat trimmer déjà vu. He thought back to Saint Denis when they'd been clinging tightly to the cold steel rooftops, barely keeping ahead of the police that shadowed them. Saint Denis didn't work, but this will. I haven't failed yet. That money will be mine. They'll see me get it, and they'll love me for it. They'll love me so much I'll kill Dutch publicly and they won't care. They'll love me, and so will Molly.

John fell into the prone position at the end of the carriage. Micah realized why when a bullet bounced off the iron hide of the wagon, flying up and skinning some of his hair. He joined John on his stomach, firing down at the army soldiers who hid behind more scattered wooden crates. Their hats dripped red when he shot them off. Bang! Bang!

When they were all dead, Micah hopped down, wincing as his joints recoiled. He glanced to the side to see Sadie tearing hell-for-leather, pushing her Thoroughbred to its limits. The dense mud ate her horse's hooves but she wouldn't stop. She untucked her boots from the stirrups and hurled herself onto the train, landing face-first ahead of him, stumbling onto her knees, crawling behind a crate next to John. Two men on the roof of the adjacent wagon started firing down on them, and the two wooden boxes they hid behind quaked as tiny flinders blasted off of them. Tragically, the crates did not break, and when the two soldiers stopped to reload, Sadie cracked her shotgun and poked a hole in each of them.

"Ain't this something?" Micah quipped as he darted over and crouched with them. "Two scarfaces, ain't it my lucky day?"

She didn't acknowledge him. Steam emitted from her gun as she tossed the spent shells out and replaced them. "What is this piece a' shit doin' here?" she asked John.

He shrugged. "Same as us, I reckon."

"Just better," he said as they rose and hurried to the next cart. It had a door and they entered. "Like most thi—"

"Get down!" John yelled, shoving him to the side and firing. Bang! Micah's heart raced. He peeped up, soaking in the cart. It was dark, in sheer contrast to the bright world outside. The vague outline of racks and lockboxes hugged the walls, stretching on for what seemed like miles to the exit. The backlighting from the sun illuminated the two silhouettes standing at the doorway, firing at them. Micah heard the gunshots above him, aimed at John and Sadie who were cowering abut the shelves. He fired from on his belly, striking a few kneecaps before their heads fell into view and then he hit those.

Sadie and John stepped over him, not offering a hand. He stood up on his own, smirking in the shadows. You ain't above me, you'll see. Soon, you'll see.

"Money's in the front cart," John whispered, more as a prayer to himself than a statement to his retinue. "And of course, we're comin' in from the very back. Another brilliant plan."

Good, there was doubt, Micah could use that later. They squinted at the light as they emerged from the wagon, onto another flatcar. This one was cluttered with large barrels that Micah hoped had booze in them. While John created cover fire for Sadie to scatter to a barrel in perfect shooting position to the army goons on the other side, Micah put a bullet in one of the cylinders closest to him. Shiny gray sand oozed out and he sighed, disappointedly.

"Dammit, Micah," John cried, reloading behind a barrel as the bullet holes pierced it, burying him in the gravelly powder. "Fuckin' help!"

Yeah… now you want my help. Ungrateful bastards. Maybe I should turn you into the Pinks, leave you all, Molly by my side, only her. He stood up abruptly and fired cleanly. The last blue-clad army idiot standing at the doorway of the next cart—a passenger one to mix things up—took it in the heart, stumbling back like all the others. But Micah shot him from too far away, the bullet didn't tear enough flesh to kill him instantly. The stupid bastard had enough juice to wobble bow-legged a few feet backward, shooting one of the ceiling lights on the train.

Then the family of ceiling lights caught fire and exploded also, until the whole car was a sea of rising orange flames. And it wasn't stopping there, it stroked the mahogany wooden planks forming the ground they stood on and began to trail along it.

"Beautiful fuckin' work, Micah!" Sadie screamed over the crackling.

"T-that ain't my fault," he bemoaned. The veins on his neck bulged and throbbed.

"Nothin' is," John said, shoving him against a barrel. "Always a goddamn act a' God."

"Come here!" hollered a voice that made Micah's blushing pink cheeks darken into a hateful red. It was Dutch, riding alongside the train with Bill and Javier—Kieran had fallen back ponying three horses. Damn Dutch… does he expect me to beg? To yell thank you until my lungs are gone. If that son-of-a-bitch would've just stayed still for one more—

"Jump now," he continued, "before the fire catches you." John jumped first, landing on the furthest horse from the train—Brown Jack. What, you think the stupid cripple can't make it that far? My leg's healed up now, I ain't a damn—

Sadie leapt to the black Mustang and the Mexican that accompanied it, leaving only The Count and its master, all of their master. Micah groaned as he pumped his legs, balls and taint aching when he landed.

"Get going, Bill," Dutch bellowed to the rider ahead of him, and with The Duke on their heels, the two horses tilted into a pace slightly brisker than the train, as though it was standing still and they were walking past it. Bullets started raining down on them from the roof of the next passenger cart. "Shit! Fire back!" John led that order, gunning down two before leaning up, balancing on the horse's croup, and bouncing to the flatcar ahead of the one on fire.

The wind slapped them then, forcing Micah to swallow Dutch's scent. Despite them living in a damn cave for the last few weeks, he smelled nice. Micah had never used French soap (or any soap since he was ten) but he imagined it was exactly what Dutch smelled like. His lengthier, fuller hair stretched down to his shoulders now and Micah pursed his lips so the air would deposit it in his mouth. He tasted nice, too, akin to perfumed wet hay.

Bullets are gettin' tossed all around… he thought. No one could tell which direction the bullet came from. This is my moment.

He raised his pistol slowly, taking his time. He was going to remember the feeling of Dutch's warm blood on him for years to come. The gun was a centimeter to his ear before Micah realized two nosy, bumptious riders behind him were studying every goddamn motion he performed. Sadie and Javier. Fuckin' leeches. They don't got what it takes to be free of him. He jerked the weapon away.

"—cah! Micah!" Dutch growled. "Make the goddamn leap! Now!"

Micah did, a good loyal dog, catching his leg hard on the metal railing. He squeezed it, panting from the pain. He wondered for a split second if it hurt more because his leg was—

No, stop it, my leg is fine, absolutely fine. I ain't a damn cripple.

"Micah!" barked John, blasting a soldier off a horse on the opposite end of the train. That's all they do: bark bark bark. I ain't Arthur, I ain't some hat with a gun. I got rights… "Uncouple that carriage before it blows us all up!"

I wish it would, he thought, scrambling to his hands and knees. God dammit, I wish it would. The tears were cold as they spilled down his nose, where his mustache soaked it all up. It was a pleasant contrast from the coupler, which was an iron (an excellent conductor of heat) Janney and burned his skin as he pried the lock pin off. The wagon broke formation at last, falling far behind them, where it exploded so violently Micah's ears began ringing as he fell to his butt.

When he found himself on his feet, Javier and Sadie were on the train, Javier rummaging through some military boxes, yanking out metal pieces in a smorgasbord of shapes and sizes, stacking them on top of each other one after the other until, voila, a Maxim gun stood, erect and shimmering gold in the yellow sunlight. The sun was so bright, so—

A silhouette formed around it then, black and blue, with a double-barrel shotgun. It was standing on the roof of the metal open wagon, aiming his gun down at the crowd. On instinct, Micah shot him clean through the shoulder and he toppled over, landing face-down on the flatcar. Micah couldn't help laughing as the man emitted a horrible, irreplaceable sound, and grunted on his feet, shotgun aimed at Javier. Micah frigged his trigger again. Click! He panicked, flinging his gun at the soldier's head, disorienting him long enough for Micah to charge. He tackled the man forward, into the next cart.

It was dark as night in there, just like the other one, with the only light coming from the single door. Micah couldn't make out any masculine or feminine features in this army guard, couldn't identify his age or weight or anything. He was just a faceless minuteman, and Micah would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy strangling him in the thick blackness, feeling the squirming grow more and more desperate until it finally halted. The white of his smile glowed.

A tumultuous string of tiny explosions went off behind him and he saw Javier operating the Maxim gun, shaking as it fired four thousand rounds a minute. He gyrated from side to side , and Micah could only imagine the bodies he was leaving in his wake.

Bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang!

Bill had made it over now, rubbing his ass as he stood up. Afterward, another man appeared from nowhere, crashing on all fours. It was Dutch, who fought to his feet and drew his guns, warding off all the soldiers with the others. From his viewpoint, Micah couldn't spot all the enemy soldiers, could only take in all the bullets hitting them like a hailstorm from each side. Lead tips were sprinkling over the platform; it all went round flurries so deafeningly no one could tell which direction the bullets were coming from.

No one at all.

Micah's oily white grin stretched to his ears, as sharp and definite as Sadie's scar. He lowered himself and suddenly the dead soldier's shotgun was in his hand. The wooden handle was greasy with the sweat and blood of the last one to use it. Micah didn't mind; it reminded of Molly, bare to the bone, slick with sweat (among other things) and wasn't surprised to discover he had a stiffy. Even when he stopped thinking about her it wouldn't quit.

Outside this wagon, the sun was afire and burned the world with its light and heat, but inside, it was pitch black. He could see outside but no one could see him; it was lovely. He cocked his shotgun and aimed it at Dutch. No more escape, no more luck. I win this time. Yet his leg—the one that was shot—was twitching irregularly. Insecurity crept through the cracks of his thick skull. Is this enough? A quick, quasi-painless death? I can make him suffer so much more… and the plan's fucked anyway… The gun shook quizzically until it went rigid with resolve. No. He dies now.

He locked the gun onto where Dutch hovered behind one of those wooden cylinders. He sparkled with gray dust. Wait, the natives trust him… if I kill him are we gonna be able to stay on the reservation? We got no where else to—oh fuck it.

Bang!

Smoke leaked from his twin barrels as the orange flash shook Micah back.

And Dutch turned.

The shells didn't graze, no, no. They didn't nick, slash, scrape, skin, scuff, or scratch. No, not at all. No, the gunshot tore John's right leg clean off. His hand had been hovering behind his leg too, so in a red storm, it snapped off with his femur. Blood gushed from both the wounds, the stub ending at his knee, and arm ending at his wrist, but John was too shocked to shriek. His skin shuddered into a ghostly complexion, apart from his right eye—a blood vessel burst and it pooled bright red.

"John?" Dutch said, studying his friend with wide eyes, voice so low and weak Micah barely heard it.

"D-D-Dutch…?" John stammered, flapping his arms like wings, stumbling off-balance to the edge of the train. And he fell.

"No!" Dutch and Micah shouted in unison. Micah searched the corpse for more shotgun shells but there were none to be had. What kind of fuckin' idiot only has two fuckin' shells?! Why did God conspire against him, he wondered. Why was life so viciously cruel, to him in particular? Dutch was gone when he looked up, bolting on The Count opposite the train to find John among the tracks. Waste a' time. He's dead as a doornail. Micah was too enraged to take even a small measure of comfort in that.

I hate them. I hate them all, these stupid lucky bastards. I'll kill them all! I'll go back to Milton and tell him where we're at, no tricks, no conditions. He can waste them all, that'll be worth a hundred times more than six thousand dollars. He darted from his dark dungeon of a cart, scooping up John's worn Cattleman that he'd dropped. There was a fleck of blood sliding down the bronze frame. As the droplet shattered and drained into his thumb, clairvoyance struck. If I kill everyone here, Sadie, Javier, Bill, Kieran, maybe things'll still go like they were supposed to. I take the money myself and return it to camp, I'll still be a hero. He'd do Sadie, first, she was the fastest, Bill was a good shot, but slow. He'd have only turned around to Micah by the time Sadie's cadaver was cold on the ground, and by then Micah's gun would be trained on him. Javier was manning that forty-two-inch blaster, he'd never have the time to draw his weapon before he was leaking in three places. And Kieran was… well, Kieran. Micah could tie one hand behind his back, blindfold himself, and still squash that little bug. Their backs were all to him, firing away from the train. He could do it, he was fast enough. He aimed his gun at Sadie's ass (her face was already marred, why not scar her last decent feature?) and slid the hammer back. The money would all hi—

Shit, the money! He realized, scanning their environs for the first time. All he saw was a green thicket in every direction, spanning in an endless sea of trees. The waterfront was not in sight, nor the smog or plains associated with Annesburg. We ain't goin' to Annesburg. We're goin' to… shit. Those idiots are gonna drive us off the goddamn bridge!

Micah stood up from his crouch, barely avoiding the volleys from either side of that train (he was lucky Javier had cleared most of them, or else he'd surely be dead). His fingers were taut hooks as he lifted himself up the next cart. One more flatcar and then the money was—

Shit! He dove down onto the flatcar just as a fucking mountain rushed him, nearly having his head ripped off by the train tunnel. It was darker in the tunnel and his vision was a mite foggy, but he still made out the two army soldiers shouting gibberish to each other as they took aim. He rolled to his back, then back onto his stomach in the prone position, repeating what he'd done in the other wagon. He blew out their knees and then heads when they hit the floor.

The train left the cavern and the sun felt soothing on his weary body. He lifted his head up and saw the train engineer pose with one knee on the edge of the train. He was a rotund man in a sleeveless white top, stained with sweat from the engine. He gave short solute and fucking bounced off the train, tumbling down on the ground until he came to a stop. Micah's eyes and jaw went agape when he saw why.

Bacchus Bridge sat in the distance, waiting for them, the end of the track forking into the shape of a snake's tongue. Fuck.

Micah sprinted to the boxcar, but this one was different than the others. The iron hide was thick, at least half a foot wide, and whereas the others had thin metal doors on the side, this one only had a small hatch on top. Micah climbed aboard and gave it his best tug, but he had the sense to know he couldn't open it for forty-thousand dollars (which was roughly how much was inside). Instead, he kept on past it, dropping down to the next carriage, sinking up to his heels in coal. Just ahead of that car was the locomotive, and Micah scrambled to the controls.

It was narrow—Micah wondered how that tubby engineer even fit in the first place. The metal walls were grainy like they'd melted a mite and cooled over. The boiler flared with red flames, hissing at its intruder. Freshly shoveled coal dissolved in its jaws. Micah stuck his head out the window, yelping. His eyes gawked to the right at Bacchus Station until they gawked to the left, still attached to the rusty short building. The blown bridge was just beyond.

Scurrying, he found the brake lever and took it, his hand slipping right off the greasy rod. He clutched it again, teeth grinding, and yanked forward as hard as he could. The sound of the brakes screeching was deafening. Ruby rivulets slid from his ear. Still, the railroad sleepers passed one by one by one by one. Micah placed a foot by the mouth of the boiler and pushed with his upper and lower strength. He couldn't hear himself scream over the mincing of the wheels on the rails. The blue of the river below came into view. Micah's hair floated upwards…

… and the train, at the very brink, stopped. Drool formed in his mouth as he exhaled desperately. The bubbly saliva fell three hundred feet down.

Micah clambered out of the rig, soaking with sweat. The salty juice leaked into his eyes, and when he rubbed them aggressively with his fists, he lost his footing and smacked the ground, tasting the clayish dust.

He heard shoes crunching on dirt then and his powdered face jerked up.

Sadie, Bill, Charles, and Javier had jumped down from the train, massive sacks on their shoulders branded with a dollar sign. Kieran arrived between the two parties, lassoing six horses.

"You got it all?" he asked excitedly.

"Every cent." Sadie smiled her deformed smile. Micah tried to mock it but coughed on pinkish smoke. They all turned to him then.

"What are you doin' here?" Kieran asked.

"Saving your lives you ungrateful… koff… little… koff…. shi—koff koff koff!"

"Speaking of lives," Charles interrupted, "I'd guess John is alive. If he wasn't, Dutch would've rushed back to us by now." He chuckled flatly. "Wouldn't have wasted time on one of his own."

Bill scoffed. "You're a fuckin' idiot. He's done for. If he didn't die on impact with the goddamn ground going faster than a bird, he's gonna bleed out long 'fore he gets to camp. Goddamn bastards ripped his whole leg off."

Kieran's face whitened. "Wait, John got—oh fuck… that was him who fell? Shit…"

"Like you care, O'Driscoll," Micah said, brushing the dust off his jacket as he rose. "Like any of you do. Bet you fifty million dollars none of you could tell me his middle name."

"Bartholemew," Charles said, casually tossing a bag of money at him. Micah almost capsized from the weight. "You can owe me."

"This is it?" Micah asked aghast. "I saved all your lives and this is the thanks I get in return?" He let the hefty sack hit the ground. "You carry this goddamn thing!"

"Hate to burst your bubble, buttercup," Sadie said, stowing her bag on Robin. Javier did the same on The Duke. "But we didn't exactly need you. The carriage was blown before we passed the station, we had more than enough time to hop off before the track stopped. Hell, you were probably closer to ending us than aiding us. Damn near cracked my head in when you started with those damn breaks."

Micah's heart paced with fury. They made up their minds about me when I first got here. He would never be their hero. They would never appreciate him. They looked at and he knew he was just another Arthur, another hat with a gun. John's Cattleman was saddled in his holster and his trigger finger itched, but he held it back.

"B-but thanks anyway," Kieran sucked up. Fuckin' runt. I'll kill him first. No, I'll rape Mary-Beth in front of him, then make her watch as I kill him, then kill—

"We ready?" Javier asked, mounting his steed alongside Sadie and Bill.

"Yeah," Charles agreed, joining them. "One train down, one to go. Assuming Monroe can work miracles."

Javier rolled his eyes coyly. "Y'know, every time I think you're a glass half-full man, you go and say something like that. Have some faith."

"It's a good plan," Bill added.

"Of course it is," Micah said, "it's a Dutch plan."

He grimaced when no one objected. As he mounted Micah the Fourth, he coaxed himself with a thought: it won't be Dutch's plan for much longer. He'll be dead soon. Then the rest, damn what Molly wants, I've changed my mind. They all die, every single one. The money will be ours and ours alone.

Micah Bell rode off with them back to the reservation, reminding himself again and again on the way that he wasn't a failure. Not a failure at all.

His throbbing leg disagreed copiously.

Micah failed again, shocker.

Will John live or die? We'll see...

On the bright side, they got the money. Train should be there in a few days to pick everyone up.

Expect the next update to take a little longer, I have other things to work on.