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-Four: Micah

6:45 PM, November 15th, 1899

Micah hated how she couldn't look at him. "Twice, now," she'd said, "they have touched me and you've done nothin'. Dutch I could forgive, though I really shouldn't if I had half a mind, but those fuckin' redskins? He grabbed my arm, there's still a bruise—"

"Where?" he asked.

Molly pointed to a faint yellow blemish on her forearm. "There! Right fuckin' there! What are you, fuckin' blind as well as well as cowardly?"

"I ain't cowardly," he argued, stomping his foot on solid granite. His leg throbbed but he ignored it.

Molly snickered. "You're as yellow as my battle scar, don't deny it. Stupid I can manage, but not delusional. I've had enough of delusional men to last a lifetime."

"I'm not stu—"

"Micah," Dutch called from outside the tarp. "C'mon, let's get a move on!"

Instinctively, Micah began gyrating away from Molly. Her laugh made his blood boil. "You like it, don't you? You like bein' his errand boy. That's why you couldn't kill him."

Micah turned to her. Abigail had taken Jack on a walk, so they were alone in the infirmary, except for Scarface, who wheezed periodically in his sleep. His right hand had been tonsured into a stump at his wrist; his leg was studded with so many stained bandages Micah couldn't see the wound, yet he imagined it mirrored the first, only above the femur. Black spirals engirdled his eyes even though he'd done nothing but sleep since he got here, lazy bastard.

Micah snatched Molly at her jaw, squeezing tightly. He was tempted to rape her, here and now—he could do it before Dutch called for him again, it didn't take a lot for him. The thought of doing it over John, maybe even on top of him excited Micah for a reason he couldn't discern. But no. No, she don't get to feel good, she gets to feel scared.

"I couldn't kill him," Micah growled, his bristled yellow hairs itching her eyelashes, "because something very rare happened, you tart. I missed. I promise, if you keep mouthing off, I won't make that mistake again with you. And I'll blow your tits off first, you'll be Grimshaw's twin. Won't that be nice?"

He clamped down on her mouth even tighter, and still she croaked out a giggle. "Ahin't rhare…" she struggled, "it's imphossibhle. You nhever mhiss. Nhot less you whant to."

He raised a fist to slap her for that—he wasn't sure why, but that seemed worse slander than any other insult that slipped her lips. He was interrupted by a booming chant.

"Micah! Now!"

"Yhou betther ghet movhin'," Molly smirked, "your bhossss is cahlling you."

His hand followed through, sending her to her knees.

Still, as Micah pushed past the tent tarp, he felt as though he'd lost that exchange.

Bitch don't know what she's talkin' about, he thought as he crossed to the horse stations through camp. That is what was left of camp. Dutch, Tilly, and Bill had been in Annesburg for most of the day, making final preparations for their assassination. The rest had gotten busy packing. When the natives said they had till noon tomorrow to make themselves scarce, even Micah doubted it was an idle threat. Tilly's wagon had been rendered wounded from the damage with the Murfrees and officially pronounced dead after the travel up the mountain to the reservation. The gang only had two more wagons that were mobile, and they were being loaded to the gunwales. They couldn't take everything now, which was a shame because no one had any idea where the hell they were going.

Do you take a can of bleached strawberries or a warm coat? A set of clothes or spare horseshoes? A crippled man who was at hell's gate or a book in case you became stricken with boredom? These were the questions the gang asked themselves.

Grimshaw had taken some of their discarded belongings into Emerald Ranch to sell, but the price was so insultingly low she returned, tossing them in the forest. "I'll let the wolves have it all before I let that damn curly wolf shopkeeper try and seduce me with pennies." Ironically, for a woman of Grimshaw's age and, heh, unseemly curves, pennies were probably a fair price for seduction.

Dutch, Tilly, and Bill were already ahorse, Dutch and Tilly on Knave of Hearts, Bill on Brown Jack, waiting for Micah. Dutch's right arm was in a sling, yet he had no trouble commanding his mount.

"Glad you could finally deign to bless us with your presence," Dutch said dryly, turning his horse around. Micah didn't answer. He was still pondering over what she'd said. Forget about her, he reflected. She got mad at me for Dutch too and forgave me. Cuz she knew I couldn't a' done nothin'. Just like with those redskins, she'll come around. He grimaced. Shit… I probably shouldn't have hit her… eh, whatever, she fucked up our plan by rippin' up those state bonds, she deserved it. And she done worse to herself, I seen her punchin' and pinchin' her legs like they murdered her father. Yeah, she deserved it. Maybe next time the bitch'll know her place. Under me…

"You got a plan yet for them Indians?" Bill asked Dutch when they beat the rickety bridge leading down the mountain, away from the Wapiti Reservation. The sun was falling fast and the sky was bleeding. There were a few clouds, all black with horrible rumblings. "For when we're gonna get that money back?"

"Yeah," he answered, "never."

Bill was confounded. For Tilly and Micah, it was merely a tragic confirmation of what they'd already weaned. "What? Y-you're gonna let those sons-of-bitches get away with it?!"

"Bill, if you know a way to work around a three-to-one disadvantage, I'm all ears. I'll be waiting a long time too, since you can't even count that high."

"What about that Maxim gun we stashed in Lakay?" Micah suggested. It was Molly's idea, but they didn't need to know that.

Tilly gasped. "There's children! Wounded too. Folks who didn't do nothin'!"

"So?" Bill and Micah said in sync.

"No," Dutch said firmly, wearily. He'd considered it before. "We ain't doin' that."

"If you wanted, I could sneak in and steal it," Micah imputed. "We got tonight, no one'll see me—"

"No! Why is it so hard for you people to listen to me? I'm your leader, I'm tellin' you what's what, and that's that. No room for debate. Christ, you talk about it like it's the only goddamn money in the world. There are literally millions of greenbacks floating around in this stupid, industrialized country—we'll fuckin' find more!" He glowered at them incredulously shifting his head between Bill and Tilly, landing on Micah last. "You all—fuck me, haven't any of you read Evelyn Miller? I've talked 'bout him for years. You know what he says: 'American corporations, especially the monopoly tycoons, have successfully won the battle of public opinion, convincing its working population that money is rare, when in fact'—oh never mind, why do I bother with you morons?"

He turned away, urging his steed faster. Micah simpered a bit seeing Dutch struggle so much with the horse—man was so used to riding The Count…

Although Micah suffering the same problem dampened his enjoyment a mite. Uncle's Mustang, which the gut on that old fool had named Mustard Sandwich, jockeyed with Micah as he tried to keep his reins pointed east. Damn thing's too willful for its own good. He brought his heel to its gaunt frame, stabbing its ribs with his spurs until it stopped fighting him. Then he kicked it some more. They all yield eventually, he thought, and that bitch will too.

He was glad Dutch had vetoed his proposal. It was the same as before; if he brought that money home for the gang after asking good ol' Dutch for permission, it was Dutch's handiwork, just Micah's hands. He would be the brute, the hat with a gun. He was the meat trimmer putting the juicy venison on a plate, but Dutch had put the cleaver in his hand, so it was him who'd be washed with flattery and ballyhooing—that's how it was. The old timer knew it, that's why he left in Shady Belle.

Micah bit his bottom lip. He knew all that, knew it in his bones. The plan hadn't changed, next time he had Dutch alone… Bang! He'd take over as the new gang leader, they'd rob a few banks or something (the plan was elastic, the details were still being amended) and they'd disappear, out of the country to wherever they wanted to go. He knew all that, and still his first instinct was to ask for Dutch if he could be of any help.

Molly's sultry accent jounced into his mind. You like it, don't you? You like bein' his errand boy.

No, Micah insisted, no I don't. When the chance arises, I'll snatch it, I swear. Hell, how 'bout tonight? Sneak into his tent and slit his throat. After last night, people will assume the Indians, no one will—oh shit, what if I wanna fuck Molly tonight? Well, I could do both—eh, nah, best hold out a little longer, just a little. When the time comes, I'll know. I will.

The sun fell to its crown and the wind picked up fallen crimson and golden leaves when Tilly chuckled and spoke.

"Since I'm the only optimist among us here, I feel it my duty to find the silver lining in our predicament: at least our money ain't goin' to waste. It ain't just sinkin' to the bottom of the ocean like at Saint Denis."

Micah thought her head rotated to leer at him, but he couldn't be sure. A floating brittle leaf smashed a branch overhead and the naturally occurring sequins arrowed into his eyes.

"The natives are gonna be able to live a good life, after all they been through. You wanna say money ain't rare, Dutch, well I'll tell you what is: a warm feeling in your chest. And I got it now."

"I gotta warm feeling, too," Micah said, "or I guess I should say hot. Cuz it's hot as hellfire, Foreman girl."

"Don't it feel good, Dutch," she pressed, ignoring Micah's comment with difficulty, "actually givin' back instead of just takin' and takin—"

"No," he answered flatly. "No, Tilly, it most surely doesn't. And you know what also doesn't help? You fuckin' wavin' it in my face. Newsflash, dear: you don't poke a bear, and sure as hell don't poke it after he's been fucked in the ass by Paul Bunyan, ya hear?"

Silence accompanied them for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived at Annesburg, gingerly scouting it out with binoculars atop a hill, they were pleased to see Dutch's meeting with the krauts had borne fruit.

Andrea had done as Dutch asked: assembled the workers. Through a thick lens, Micah distinguished their bobbing lanterns waiting in a dark clearing, ahead of the coal mine, north of the settlement. Cornwall's boat swayed in the shifting waves that bounced off the black sea at the docks, eastmost of Annesburg, and the south was where Dutch's jagged finger waved in front of him.
"You're gonna stay down there," he ordered condescendingly. Down there? He wasn't even trying to pretend he didn't turn his nose up at Bell the Third. "Bill, you hitch up at the top entrance. If all goes well, I'll rustle up a minimalistic little rally outside Jameson's office, enough to pull the extra security away and distract the Pinks so they don't notice Tilly slip on the boat."

Micah noticed for the first time she wasn't wearing her usual white and yellow dress, instead opting for a maid's uniform, an all-black leg-of-mutton shirt covered with a flowing ivory apron that touched her polished T-strap shoes. She stuffed her shirt so she looked pregnant; it was reminiscent of his own beer belly.

She looks good, Micah mused. He decided when Dutch was dead and he was leader that he'd rape her in the night, gag her so she couldn't scream, cut out her tongue afterward so she couldn't whisper the truth to anyone. Chop off her fingers too so she couldn't write it out—just in case. He had a feeling Molly was the jealous type.

"But," Dutch continued, smugly, "if things go rotten, as they're prone to, I need you boys to ride in from either side and pick us up. I'll be with the crowd and Tilly will be near the docks, waiting for our shot. We'll be pretty exposed if we're picked out, so stay on guard." He handed his silver-paneled revolver to Tilly (heh, appropriate since she did love her silver linings), keeping the golden one for himself. One-handed men can't use two guns after all, as John would soon learn. "One shot's self-defense, three in quick succession means shit's gone belly up, got it?"

Of course I've got it, Micah thought, gritting his teeth, does he think I'm as stupid as Williamson?

"Got it," Bill said. After swallowing roughly, Micah echoed him.

"Alright," he glanced over his shoulder to Tilly, "remember, keep your head down, and if anyone looks at you funny, bury your head in your hands and cry."

She nodded solemnly, and Dutch stirred the Knave of Hearts until the pair descended the hill to the left. Bill followed, overshooting where Dutch hitched his horse, riding to the northmost segment of town. Micah trailed the overlook past the collapsed mine and collection of slum houses to the southern edge of Annesburg. Several lawmen were posted at the sheriff's station that stood like a watchtower to those trying to enter. Micah continued beyond it before he was spotted, following the road until the light from the mining town no longer shined on him. The thick opaque night swallowed him, yet he had no trouble seeing.

Micah Bell had spent a very long time in the dark, crocodile that he was. That was the sweet spot, lurking where no one could spy you, creeping up slowly on your prey, maybe they'd migrate over a bit by coincidence, no matter, you'd tail them for as long as it takes, never sleep, never stop, until… Chomp!

Micah had been put through a lot these last few months, but nothing had changed; he was still a croc, and he was still on the hunt.

If I could just get that damn money back, he thought, crotch itching astride Tilly's Cunt—it was the name he was endowing Uncle's horse with until he came up with something better. If I could just get it back, the plan could proceed like it was supposed to with that damn train. I had two shots, why I couldn't nail the basta—no! No, don't let her get in your head. You're human and you missed, nothin' more. Don't doubt, just think.

The money was probably with Aleshanee, he was the new chief after all, if that old fool could be trusted. Certainly it was well-protected, trying to take it by force was out of the question. Charles was on good terms with the Indians now, though Micah wasn't on good terms with him.

Maybe Molly? he pondered. She could sweet-talk him, get him to pluck it right from under their red noses, replace it with a sack a' letters or something. They wouldn't notice until they were days out. I'd have to kill Charles of course, can't let him take the credit for it—though that'd be a fuckin' privilege—and then I can deliver it to the gang.

The flickering dots of light in the distance began to churn. The empty black night ignited with sounds of chanting, much in Germanic gibberish, but Micah discerned the reciting of No work, no rent! No work, no rent! over and over again. Dutch's protest had blossomed, it would seem. No gunshots, however, so he wasn't needed just ye—

Or maybe he was. Micah grinned gleefully. If Dutch were to die tonight at that rally, some lucky Pink got a shot off, real travesty… and Molly got the money from Charles, then we'd have it all. The gang would kiss our feet, my feet, they'd have to, there's no one left to turn to. Hosea's gone, Lenny's gone, John's as good as gone, Dutch and Charles are on their way—

Reality slapped him and he sighed. No… Molly couldn't sweet-talk if her life depended on it. Besides, Charles would never betray his own kind for some five-dollar Irish whore.

His groin itched again—Jesus what the hell did the fat man do to this saddle?

No work, no rent! No work, no rent! The krauts kept intoning. Micah was sure he heard Dutch's self-satisfied voice among them.

You don't deserve this, Dutch had said. Micah still wore it, though he wasn't sure why. Langton had blown a hole in the center of its band, and now the leather had peeled where the impact of the bullet tore through, the sharp, rigid edges chafing his sweaty forehead.

No work, no rent! No work, no rent! they continued clamoring.

He removed his binoculars and brought its lens to his eyes, but Tilly's Cunt, Tilly's stupid fucking Cunt jerked up for no reason and the binoculars kissed his greasy forehead. When he stared through them now, the liquid fogged the image and he couldn't make out a thing. He tried wiping it away, but his hands were sweating too and that only made the problem worse.

And the horse kept fighting him, kept fucking fighting him as he heeled it repeatedly. Goddamn, Dutch's only got one hand and he can keep his under control!

He wiped it on his shirt, but somehow that was wet too and he realized he was sweating through his clothes.

He brought his eyes into the binoculars, but it was sodden and oily. Useless. He cursed and tossed it off the coast, aiming for the water and coming up short. I'm always comin' up short.

It felt darker all of a sudden. Aside from the specs of light in the distance, he couldn't see the yellow Mustang under him—

"Fuck!" he cried as the horse shimmied its neck left and right, making the saddle shake against his manhood. He felt it blushing from the furry abrading leather, which mirrored his forehead. He felt a pink circle being carved at his brow by the jagged material.

Micah thrusted his spurs against the beast as hard as he could until it finally stopped moving.

No work, no rent! No work, no rent!

"Shut up!" he bellowed to no one in particular.

I ain't a crocodile, he thought in a whisper, I'm used to the dark cuz I'm always livin' in someone else's shadow. Morgan, Marston, Dutch, even fuckin' Tilly. He wants her to be the one to kill Cornwall—why? I'm tough, I'm fast, I could be in and out of that boat before anyone even knew I was ther—

The idea struck him at once, as spontaneously as the lightning illuminating his curved features.

That was just it. He'd be the one to kill Cornwall. Not Tilly, him.

He could picture it: Dutch's arm around his shoulder, Molly's cherry lips around his cock.

"I knew you'd come through for us in the end, friend," Dutch would say, a smile playing across his stubbly face. "I was wrong. You do deserve that hat."

Molly would say something similar, but with all the semen in her mouth, the words became tommyrot.

Dutch had to die, of course, but why jump the gun? Why not return to camp with his blessing in hand—what better way to seal his position as leader than by having the previous one endorse him?

Molly's voice slithered in and out of his ear. You like it, don't you? You like bein' his—

He ignored her; she wasn't too bright, after all.

He wasn't an errand boy, he wasn't a meat trimmer, and this was a good idea.

Micah's groin finally stopped aching as he whipped Tilly's Cunt forward, dashing closer to the orange flickers until they swelled into streetlights and lanterns.

The lawmen at the sheriff station were absent now, no doubt cycling back with the rest to keep the protest from getting out of control. Micah saw it in detail as he galloped along the left side of the road, at the front steps of the miner's hovels.

Dutch was shepherding them underneath Jameson's office, in the big red building on stilts, hanging over the tunnel the two sets of train tracks bled through. The horde of workers orbited around him, waving cardboard signs lazily tied to leftover wooden scraps from the lumber yard, some in English, some in German. The foreigner who'd helped Charles stood beside Dutch, in his best suit, which was a horrendous gray and brown patchwork of sloppy holes and ugly stitches.

The other miners wore simpler clothes—Micah suspected that was all they had. Tattered jeans, grimy white shirts warted with slashes, straw hats whittled down to their last golden needle. Micah could smell them from nearly a hundred feet away; it was a repugnant odor.

He hitched Uncle's old steed at one of the streetlights in front of the slums. No one had seen him yet, no one besides the town drunks and the Pinks who paid him brisque glances as they hurried to position.

Micah did too, sinking to the back of the shabby town where the streetlight couldn't reach him. In the darkness he climbed atop the roofs, darting as close to the action as he could get. He didn't have a sniper, but Tilly's Cunt queefed up a repeater in the rifle scabbard of the saddle. It'll do, he decided, lining up his shot. He was in the dark, but the croc could see very well.

The agents had formed their own circle around Dutch's, making their threats and brandishing their guns.

"You are in violation of Annesburg's laws," the sheriff spoke in lieu of an agent—as if his people were the ones running the show. "If you don't cease immediately, I will have no choice but to arrest you all."

"Verletzung?" Andrea questioned, struggling to find the English words. "F-f-for… uh… w-what?"

It was an obvious query, yet for all intents and purposes, it locked the sheriff in checkmate. They weren't actually breaking any laws, Micah knew. Dutch was too clever for that. As long as their rally didn't turn violent in any way, there wasn't much to be done.

Still, the sheriff was terrified. He was a vain-looking man with a weasel-esque face, silver hair parted in the middle, and a large star on his chest no one ever acknowledged. The Pinks, by contrast, were far more reserved. They held their guns suggestively, cocked and dangling about their legs. They knew this protest wouldn't amount to much damage—if the people hadn't started rioting yet, why would they now? One was a carrottop like Molly, but a little younger and a little more attractive. Another was shaped like a jar, with a rotund base, and narrow arms and legs, while another had a plump, vacant face, similar to a worm. There were dozens more and they stayed still as statues, beady eyes jumping back and forth just in case something happened. But they knew nothing would.

They were wrong. Micah smiled, focusing his aim, treating himself to a long exhale before his fingers coiled around the trigger.

Bang!

The jar of a man shattered at the head, his bowler hat floating and rolling off in the gurgling wind.

Hell broke out in an instant. Protesters started screaming, not realizing where the shot came from, only knowing it couldn't have been them—they didn't have guns.

But the Pinks didn't know that…

Andrea was shot first, twice in the chest. Dutch caught his lifeless corpse before he hit the ground and it retched scarlet vomit all over him in shiny streams.

From there it was a turkey shoot. Pinks gunned them down from all sides, they didn't bother aiming, they couldn't miss. Signs were slashed with dark blood as they fell with their owners. Dutch fired back, roaring an inperceivable bellow of rage. Three shots.

Idiot, Micah smirked, watching the fireworks from on high, that's only gonna make it worse…

And right he was, because when Dutch confirmed that the protesters were indeed armed, the bullets rained even harder on them, from the sheriff and his deputies now.

The miners rushed forward, using their only advantage, their proximity, and clouting the Pinks and lawmen alike with fists, loose gravel, the spikes on their wooden signs where they split them in half, whatever they had. The Pinks stepped back as they fired, but soon they were overtaken by the mob.

Now's my chance, Micah thought, sliding down the narrow roof onto ground level. With every gun in Annesburg now focused absolutely on the krauts, he could slip onto Cornwall's ship.

He began running, piercing into the dim orange streetlight of the town right as the foghorn brayed, so boisterous it cut through all the gunshots. Hooooooooooooong!

The black mammoth of a ship was starting to pull away, trying to cruise downriver and escape this madness. Jameson wouldn't, however, but I'll let you in on a secret: Cornwall didn't care a continental about his business partner.

For such a fat vessel, with a dozen smokestacks, two decks large enough to hold a thousand people each, and the fifty lifeboats bedizened across its black hull that he just had to have, the ship was really moving.

There was no time to take the long way around the trainyard. Micah barreled through the warzone, clearing a path by blasting everyone in his way, Pink, lawman, miner, he didn't discriminate. And he wasn't cheap with his bullets.

That's it, that's it, he thought excitedly, nearing the docks. He could make it.

A Pink shot a protester blocking his path and Micah thanked him with an explosion to the face.

A miner stumbled into Micah's arms, bleeding copiously from the stomach. "Please…" he wheezed as Micah shoved him aside. I don't got time for this.

Two more miners rushed him, either thinking he was a lawman or too fiercely drunk on adrenaline to care. Click! His gun was spent.

He ducked the first swipe, from a handmade stake. The second was more of a wooden bat than blade, and it whacked him from behind. Bushwhacking… traitorous—

The third man held Micah in a half-nelson, flipping the hems of his shirt so the first guy knew exactly where to plug his stake. Micah flipped his leg up to kick the miner, and roared a cry of anguish as he felt a crack in his femur. Still, he drew his hunting knife and buried it in his aggressor's eye socket. The last villain was shot by someone else, who, Micah couldn't say. He scooped his gun off the ground, slipping more rounds into it as he hopped forward, groaning with every step.

Goddamn it, he told himself, I guess that leg wound was worse than I—no, stop! My leg is fine, I just pulled a hamstring or something. I ain't a fuckin' cripple.

The cripple limped until he was out of the thick of it, the docks in sight, the boat pulling away. Its gangway had been pulled in, but it didn't matter to Micah. He had good eyes, and on the jet-black yacht, he spotted the ropes hoisting the life rafts against the hull.

He winced, staring at his leg, wondering if he could make the jump to those ropes. If he had the arm strength to pull himself up while fighting the wind and violent tides.

Ah, what am I saying, of course I do.

He hobbled closer; there were more agents he thought, but he wasn't paying much attention. He fired about randomly, not considering for a moment he wasn't hitting his targets—and to be perfectly fair to him, he was right in assuming that.

He ducked behind a crate as more bowler hats appeared from thin air, their volleys flying overhead. His leg throbbed in agony and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. C'mon, you're so close…

He breathed in and out heavily, savoring the cold oxygen. He raised himself up and gunned down the suits and ties, all except one. The final stupid Pink had crouched behind cover himself—barrels of fishing nets and hooks. He took a shot at the outlaw, and flinders of woodchips stung his eyes where the bullet exploded at the crate.

Eyes blinking furiously, Micah shook his head to stay awake. His leg was cursing him, his damn dead man's hat was scraping his forehead, his groin had started itching again. Don't falter, picture it: Dutch's arm 'round your shoulder. 'My hero!' he'll say. Then they all will.

He exhaled, aiming gingerly… Bang! He hit the latch holding the stacks of barrels together and they rolled away, leaving the sole Pink naked as a baby. Bang! He was sent off the dock into the black sea.

Cornwall was more or less gone, the ass of his cruiser barely still reachable from the T-shaped pier. Micah grunted, pushing with everything he had, throwing one foot after the other until they echoed off the soggy wood of the wharf.

He didn't see Tilly. Had he beaten her, cut off her path? Or was she already on board now? Oh, he would flay that whore if she tried to steal his glory. He'd worked too hard for this!

Then he saw it: a shadow trailing away from him, further to the ship. Tilly…

I'm gonna kill her, he grimaced, raising his gun. Poor man, he was too exhausted to notice the obvious lack of weight in his pistol—if no one else will say it, I will: Arthur wouldn't have been ignorant to that.

He knew he was catching up, because the black vessel and shadow grew larger and larger as he pumped his legs with all he had. Except… he thought wrong. The shadow was getting larger, but not because he was catching up with it.

He overvalued his tired eyes, the shadow wasn't running away from him, it was coming towards him.

He upheaved his weapon, pulling the trigger. Click!

The shadow struck him so hard he flitted in the air for a second before crashing down roughly.

The wood was wet, softer, from the rising tide, and the impact didn't knock him out at once. So Micah Bell was treated to another hoarse holler of the foghorn—hooooooooooooong! A triumphant cheer from Cornwall as he sailed away from Annesburg, completely unmolested.

"No…" Micah grumbled, hand descending to scratch his itchy groin.

The shadow above him thought he was going for a second gun and slapped his wrist away with the silver bear at the head of its cane.

"Yesssss," Ross hissed with a straight white smile.

The silver bear shined brightly in the moonlight, catching Micah's eyes so unimpededly that he had to squint. He had to squint even further when the bear's jaws cracked down onto his skull, sending him to where he was most comfortable: the dark.

In his dreams, he reached out to Arthur.

"You and me," he said, extending his arms, "sons of Dutch. Makes us brothers. And sometimes—"

"—brothers make mistakes," Morgan finished in his hard grizzled voice, blood cascading through his short but wild beard. They embraced.

"Micah…" Arthur continued, sounding peculiar now. When he pushed Micah off, he was wearing Dutch's skin loosely, flesh stretched out to its maximum elasticity. He tore Dutch's face off to reveal Teddy Greenmen, the plantation owner who'd fired his granddaddy, then again to reveal Amos, and his father, and finally, after the blankets of flesh were heaped at his feet, branching out and crawling up his throbbing leg, it was Molly. "You were the mistake."

Micah messed stuff up again... I know, wild...

Well, Cornwall got away now. Or did he...