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-Nine: Dutch

12:46 AM, November 16th, 1866

"Where is the line?" he shouted at his mother, blood falling from his knife in heavy rivulets. "Where is the goddamn line?!"

11:24 AM, November 16th, 1899

Dutch Van der Linde hitched The Duke back onto the horse station at the foot of camp. Javier hadn't minded his borrowing of the animal, thankfully, since Abigail had ridden off with Knave of Hearts—his default choice of horse since The Count was killed.

He swallowed the buildup of saliva in his mouth, along with the painful thoughts. Poor brute had never hurt a soul—why did the world hate them so much? They robbed because they needed money to get away; they never hurt people who didn't force them to.

Dutch took a brush to The Duke's mane, ironing out the tangles. He wasn't ready to turn around, to let the others see him. He glanced over The Duke's back to the Wapitis, packing, rebandaging the wounded. He was surprised to find he couldn't despise them. They'd ruined everything, stolen all he'd worked for, what he'd sacrificed so much for, and yet, he felt bored watching them.

The Duke neighed painfully as Dutch ripped out a knot in its brown hair, only slightly lighter than the rest of its hide. As he calmed the stallion with soft whispers and a warm, gentle hand on its head, a memory coalesced.

He was eleven years old when the soldier knocked on his door, telling him his daddy had died in Gettysburg. His mother had broken down in hysterical sobs, slapping the man so hard he landed on his ass. Dutch held her back so the man could escape with his life, kicking up a stream of dust as he sprinted.

She'd hit him for that, fashioning a gorge of blood as her blow split his lips.

"Your father," she growled, eyes dark and pale blue with tears, "was a loser. A zero."

She told the same thing to all the neighbors for months, as she shopped at the butcher, as she bought the newspaper, as she spoke to Mr. Fitch, Dutch's schoolmaster. "Zero commendations. Zero medals! Ol' Nancy Woodward's son came back at the age of sixteen with a bruised leg and a shadow box filled to the gunwales with shiny golden medals to show for it!"

She wore black for as long as he remembered afterward, a thick black dress that fell over her black boots, long black gloves stretching to her elbows, and a wide black Big Valley hat that may as well have been a veil with the filmy shadows it cast over her face. The getup complemented her raven hair.

The other children called her The Woman in Black. At school, they avoided him like the plague.

"She's a witch!" Hare-faced Harold cried to the students in the yard, drumming his fingers in the air, shaking his shaggy red head of hair back and forth. "She may wear the colors of a widow, but don't be fooled: she killed her husband! And now, every night, she searches far and wide, using that black to hide herself in the dark air, for another soldier on his way home from the war! My great aunt says she tempts them from their wives Lilith-style, then cuts their throats!"

He hadn't looked so much like a hare after that when Dutch knocked his buck teeth out.

He'd broken into Nancy Woodward's house that night and stolen the polished wooden shadowbox, bringing the shiny golden medals home for his mother. Yet, when he brandished his prize to her, proud and smiling, he saw in her pale, tired eyes that she hadn't really wanted them.

She wanted her husband back.

As much as Dutch hated to admit it, he felt he was her son now. He didn't want the money, he didn't want the natives to suffer as Hare-faced Harold did. He wanted Arthur back, and Hosea, Sean, Lenny, Pearson, and all the rest.

Dutch sighed, letting the brush slip from his hands. He stroked his hair, plucking out a gray strand, wincing at it. His father had died at forty-five; he was now forty-seven.

"You are going to die old," his mother had told him. "Your father was eight years older than me. My mama said I shouldn't have married him, and she was right. Never marry anyone older than you; even if he hadn't died in that war, he would've died eight years before I did. I would've hated him those years, bein' so lonely. You will not die eight years before me, Dickie, y'hear? Don't you dare make me die before my own son, there's nothin' worse for a mother. You will be old and you will die right here in this house, sitting where I'm sitting."

He chuckled. She was right about the first part, wrong about the second. He was never going to die there.

Dutch entered his tent. It was larger than all the others, and his bed was cushier. He sat on it, sinking into the soft fabric. The comfort shot euphoria from his ass to his head and he yawned hoarsely. He rose quickly. He couldn't nap, they were leaving soon. He didn't have the faintest clue as to where, but the natives' threat didn't seem idle.

Their only hope seemed southwest, so he figured they should start that way…

Dutch caressed the soft sheet, wishing he could take it with them. Their wagons were overloaded as it was, he couldn't justify dragging along this monstrosity when he could just sleep in a bedroll like everyone else. And it's not as though I sleep much anyway, he thought.

The cotton was cold, not as it would be if a woman lay on it. He pictured Molly, not as he'd last seen her, cowering behind Abigail, green eyes peering out from over her gaunt shoulders, as though she was scared he'd strike her again. No, he imagined her when they'd first met, with her passionate red smile, eyelashes that battered flirtatiously at him, fancy skirt twirling in a stunning display of color as they danced to the ballad of an accordion, guitar, and piano, in an incomprehensible rhythm. (The musicians were drunk as a lord.)

Dutch had always loved to dance; it was confidence mostly, and he had that in spades.

When the war had finally come to a close, and the townsfolk had gathered on the streets to celebrate with ale and music, Dutch danced with twelve girls, five of whom were over twice his age.

Dutch squirmed, fondling the place on his wrist where his mother's sharp, firm grip wrapped around it. She hadn't even had the decency to pull him to an alley before she berated him, no, she'd done it in the middle of the festivities, screaming so loudly the music was cut off abruptly.

"What the hell are you doin'?" she bellowed at him, spittle spewing from her crusty lips. Everyone was staring at them.

"I-I was celebrating," he'd said, trying to break her hold on him, but she held tight. "The war's over!"

A few people hooted at that, and Dutch smiled a bit. His mother smeared his smile with a slap.

"Halley is eighteen!" his mother cried, pointing at a horrified blonde with a hand at her mouth. "Jenna is twenty!"

"Mama—"

"Dina is almost fuckin' thirty!" The shadows masking her face eddied around as her hat shifted beneath the yellow streetlight. "What have we talked about, Dickie? You are not gettin' married until I'm dead, you're goin' to stay by my side and be a good fuckin' son." She bared her teeth doggishly. "A good fuckin' loyal, lovin' son, is that so much to fuckin' ask? Don't you know how lucky you are, boy? How many brats would kill to have someone who loved you as much as me?" Her finger arrowed again, this time to Edward Poole, an eight-year-old boy in the crowd. "Little Eddie's daddy died in the war, and his mama tied a sack of rocks to her foot and jumped in Lake Hawthorne! What did I do?"

Dutch's lips were quivering. The bruise was rising on his jowls. "I'm gratefu—"

"I pulled myself together," she roared. "I kept in check, all for you, so I could be a good mama for you! You are not leavin' me! Not for some cheap tramp!"

"Mama, it was just dancing!"

Her clutch on his wrist tightened until it blushed red. "You're my son! Mine! You don't think my eyes work, boy? I saw him, I saw him studyin' all the posters. 'Enlist: your country calls, 'tis your duty to obey,' 'Volunteers for the war are wanted immediately,' 'Help Him win by savin' and servin'." But it was that damned flyer with the pretty girl with the big brown eyes that hooked him in." She sneered in a mocking tone. "'Oh, save me, brave soldier. I neeeeed you.' No! I need you, Dickie, and I'm not lettin' another whore with cute brown eyes take you away from me! Not like your father! Can't you see you're shamin' him with this behavior?"

"I was just—"

"The sins of the son are the sins of the father," she urged. "They say it's the other way 'round, but it ain't so. What you do now tarnishes his name. So you're goin' to be a good boy, Dickie. Right?" He fought her as she yanked him away, back to their house up the hill. "Goddammit, boy, you are crossing the line with this attitude a' yours, you really are!"

She hadn't lived long at all after he'd left. Dutch felt a twinge of guilt for that now, but he wasn't sure why.

He shook those thoughts away, siphoning deep exhales, emboldening himself until he was ready. It's time, he thought, no more stalling.

He gathered the rest of the gang before he made the announcement, apart from Bill, who was sleeping and wouldn't care either way. He kept the words soft and hopeful so the news hurt less; camp morale was low enough as it was.

Grimshaw stepped in when he was done, speaking in her flat, relaxed voice, but he could hear the sorrow under the cold tone. She encouraged the gang in her lukewarm way, urging them to press on and get back to work.

"This don't change nothin'," she said. "Ya can't see the path ahead of you with tears in your eyes, so let's just keep movin'. And it ain't like it was with Mac and Davey and Jenny and Arthur. We can still get them back, but first, we gotta get outta here."

Dutch stroked her back appreciatively as she spoke, tenderly squeezing her shoulder. He'd been lying back in Beaver Hollow when he'd said he might take her back after this was over, just telling her what he knew she wanted to hear, but now….

She inspired him in a unique sense, not in the way young, foxy girls do, from the groin up, impaling you with fire and desire, but instead a more subdued heat. The warm, pleasant kind that stemmed from your chest and tingled to your toes. He'd thought she was too old before, yet nowadays, the white hairs were sprouting like weeds faster than he could pluck them. How old was she? Fifty? Fifty-two?

Heh, that's better than Halley or Dina, he thought bitterly.

"How you holdin' up?" she asked him when the others dispersed back to their duties.

"Fine," he said, forcing the pout. "C-could… could you tell Jack?"

"Sure."

"And get Mary-Beth to tell the Wapitis. Rains Fall, maybe, but someone we trust for sure. Though it won't matter. With all that money they have, they won't need another hired gun."

Her face drooped. She licked her trembling lips. "What… what about John? Tilly says he's awake now."

Dutch was relieved. That was good, right? If he was awake, that means he wasn't dying. "I'll tell him."

He strolled past the misty eyes to John's tent—another one left standing because they didn't have the room to store it with them. He flicked the flaps up and entered.

The fabric was burgundy, and when the light shined inside, it made the color of the room a dark red. It presaged very grim tidings.

When we get through this, Dutch thought, our next infirmary should be yellow and bright. Sanguineness never killed anyone.

It reminded him of his old home; his father's sister had given him maroon drapes as a wedding gift, and Dutch never fancied the way the sun passed through it, staining the kitchen a putrid ruddy red. It got worse during the summer days when the humidity forced them to keep the windows open and the wind made those red curtains sway as though there was someone hiding behind them, watching, waiting.

And Dutch especially feared being watched on the day he came home drenched in Harold's blood.

"It was an accident," he whispered to his mom, shaking.

"I know," she told him, encouragingly, tracing a wet washcloth across his smeared clothing.

"I meant to gash his cheek, just a tiny scratch on the cheek so he'd shut up, but he moved… he fuckin' moved and my knife… missed…"

The rag was soft against his forehead as his mother cleaned the blood, but it was so cold he jerked back against her. "It's okay, darling. Just breathe. Breathe and start again. You were carousing town? Why so late?"

His expression marred into an ugly frown, quivering until he broke down with sobs. "I was tryin' to meet Strawberry Gwen!" he admitted. "I saved up some money and—"

"Strawberry Gwen the strumpet?" his mother asked, cooly. He expected her to be furious, but this was worse. He knew she was mad, why couldn't she just get on with it? The slaps, the berates, whatever, it was better than the suspense. The fear of the fist cut a hell of a lot deeper than the actual blow.

"Yeah," he whimpered, "the fuckin' whore. Mama, I'm sorry, but Trevor told me he had his first one when he was even younger than thirteen, and I—"

"What happened after that?" Her black hat tilted over her head, concealing her expression. But he knew, below the icy, calm accent she was talking in, she was fuming with rage.

"Well… I couldn't find her in the saloon, so I checked the alleys; I heard she does a few quickies down there—"

"Christ," she muttered.

"—but when I went between the church and the butcher's store, I found Harold there, lying on the ground with his back to the building. I was gonna keep goin', I didn't want to start nothin', but he was grinning and his face was trickling with saliva. I thought he'd gotten fucked so I asked him after Gwen. It was only after I saw the bottle next to him and realized it wasn't saliva.

"He told me… asshole… he told me I was goin' after this all wrong. He said I should be askin' for Jim Hands, the boy-whore."

"And you didn't just walk away?"

"I was goin' to, but he had that smug simper, that stupid toothless simper… I-I was just tryin' to scare him, so I popped out the knife you gave me for my birthday—"

"For your protection."

"I know! But when he saw it, he leapt up and pushed me against the fence—"

"Oh lord… the church's fence?"

"Yeah."

"God forgive you." She gave a brisk prayer.

Dutch cleared his throat. The dagger rested on the table, and he flicked it in great twirls. "And I grabbed his chin and swung the knife—only to scratch up his cheek… and he moved."

"Jesus." She stood over him for a time, not saying a word, only wiping the scarlet streaks from his new vest. Her lips pursed lazily as she spoke: "No one saw you, right?"

"Y-yeah…"

"Good." She laid the bloody cloth next to the weapon. She didn't rise from his knees, only stared up at him with large eyes, obscured with heavy shadows. "Everything will be alright, sweetie."

He blinked. "What?"

"Nothing's been done that you can't make it up to me for."

Dutch's jaw sank into a gawk. "I-I killed a man. I killed Harold."

"No, you didn't," she said immediately, stretching to her full height, twice his when he was seated. "A drunk did. Some common piece of trash. Our marshal needs to get crackin' down, he's lettin' all sorts of bad things go down these days. Too old, I suppose."

"That's… that's not what happened," Dutch whispered gravelly.

"Yes, it is."

"No."

"Yes, honey, you're in shock, you're not thinkin' straight. Don't worry, mama's here, she'll help you see things right…"

"No!" Dutch shouted, bouncing afoot. "I-I killed him! I did it!"

"Sssh… keep quiet if you know what's good for you…"

"And… and you don't care, do you?" He swiped the knife from the table. The blood was still wet on its tip. "But me dancin' with pretty girls, that's too far?!"

"Dickie Van Gurp," she warned, the pieces of a scowl hidden on her face, "I'm your mother, and you, boy, are crossin' the line right now!"

"How? Where is the line?" he bellowed at his mother, blood falling from his knife in heavy rivulets. "Where is the goddamn line?!"

"Don't you swear at me, son! After all I've done for you, you don't get to swear at me! Think any other woman in this town woulda forgiven you like I just have? Especially after… you, oh God you went droolin' for a fuckin' whore! All this coulda been avoided if you woulda just listened to me and been a loyal son! I tell you now, things are gonna change 'round here, mister! You better believe you ain't sneakin' out this house after dark no more, I'll buy a bloodhound and tie him up outside; he'll wake up the whole county if you try this disobedient behavior again. And you ain't gonna be flirtin' with that Minnie girl no more. How many times I got to tell you: you ain't gettin' married until I'm dead! You don't get to pack your bags and leave me, not after all I done! And that's a fact now, you're gonna be a loyal, lovin' son, like you was supposed to be! Like you promised to be! Like poor Harold was… oh God rest his soul. Don't you know what you done, Dickie? Don't you know how upset his mother'll be? She'll probably take that shotgun she keeps over her fireplace and blow her fuckin' head off! Or maybe she'll pay you a visit first, huh? Thank God your mother ain't gonna spill them beans. If I did, why, you'd be hanged and buried with the other murderers, at best. You don't gotta worry 'bout that, though. Not as long as you're a good boy. You are goin' to be a good boy from now on, ain't ya, Dickie?"

The knife clattered to the floor. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Who are you?" he whimpered as tears cascaded down his patchy mustache. "You ain't my mama… you can't be…"

"Apologize, at once, Dickie," she ordered, scooping the rag off the table. Its white cotton had dyed into a pale pink. She waved it at him. "You can't play the moralist with me, you little urchin! Apologize!"

But Dickie never apologized. He ran, and kept running until he was Dutch. He met Hosea in California, Arthur and John in Texas, and Grimshaw in Kansas. The rest came shortly after: the wanted posters, the notoriety, the bounties, and the Pinks. And then the train.

The remnants of that botched heist, no, never mind, the heist was flawless (mostly), the needless heist, I believe works better. The remnants of the needless heist sat across from him, and Dutch stayed with him, gently pressing his hand against its scarred cheek for nearly ten minutes until John stirred and awoke.

"D-Dutch?" he sighed groggily.

"Hey, John." He bit his bottom lip, shaking his head agonizingly. "I… There's two sides to me, John. One that wants to let you rest and heal, to gain your strength before I tell you—"

"Tell me what?"

"—and then there's the other. It's pleading with me, no, commanding me, to keep no lies, to let you know as soon as possible. And, oh man, as much as this pains me, I have to agree. I couldn't sleep at night holdin' this from you."

"Dutch, what's goin' on?" John's raspy breathing grew anxious.

"John… Charles, Molly, and… Abigail left this morning to head into Rhodes. They wanted to meet with my dynamite guy, so I fed 'em his name and let them be on their merry way. God forgive me… it was only a few minutes when I realized my mistake: the fence, he's… not a particularly progressive feller. Fuck me, I should've known better, sendin' Charles instead of myself, damn me to hell! Just as I arrived, I saw it was too late. Law had Charles in chains, the fence musta lied about some bullshit to get him arrested. And… Molly and Abigail must've fought back…"

John's eyes winced as they widened. "No…"

"John… she was arrested with him, too. They all got loaded up in a wagon and taken away. To Sisika Pentientary, I'd imagine. I hear Rhodes' jail's runnin' out of room."

John nearly leapt out of his bed—heh, or rolled I suppose would be more apt. He landed on his good side and tried to pull himself up, which he found rather tricky with only one leg. "No! We gotta get 'em back!"

Dutch rushed to his side, coaxing him. "John…"

"I can't lose her, Dutch! We were finally a family again!"

"John," Dutch cried, voice so boisterous that John froze with fear. "She's gone, I saw it myself. Maybe when we land on our feet, we can organize some kinda rescue, but now we gotta focus on gettin' the hell outta here before trouble arrives. I need you to stay cool, stay loose, can you do that?"

"Dutch… she's my wife…"

"And Jack's your son. He needs you now more than ever. Besides, in your state, you'd only get yourself killed goin' after her. Fuck, that's generous. In your state, I doubt you could even go after her at all." Dutch cradled him in his arms, rocking his boy until his heart quieted and his breathing relaxed.

"I need her…"

"I need you, John." After a pause, he followed with: "I need you to get better."

"I'm so tired, Dutch," John moaned, eyes fluttering.

"I know… just sleep. We ain't leavin' for a little longer. So just… sleep."

John began snoring in his arms, his body thumping up and down rhythmically. Eventually, their hearts began to drum in sync, so they might as well have been one person with two heads, three arms, and three legs. And against himself, against everything he believed, Dutch smiled.

He couldn't help himself, it was who he was. And who he was was a man with a plan. It formed on his own accord as they told him about the dynamite. Charles nearly spotted him on the trail, but he held back just enough. If it had been The Count it wouldn't have been a problem at all, but Javier's damn horse was too headstrong, always leading him further than he wanted.

It hadn't mattered. They'd gone ahead as he'd foreseen, into the pub to find Randy.

Dutch had always been a good thespian, picked up a trick or two from Hosea, not that he'd really needed it. Rhodes was a Confederate town, you throw around rumor of a black-brown man with girly long hair being a child rapist, and you best believe the law will drink it up. Molly and Abigail had fought back as he'd required too; he'd expected that. The bitches were like The Duke—headstrong.

It's what's best for everyone, he thought as John's head bobbed on his chest. John used to sleep with him this way sometimes when he had bad dreams. Then she'd arrived, and he'd only ever wanted to sleep with her. She was attractive, Dutch could never argue with that; it's why he couldn't refuse Uncle when he'd brought Abigail to camp. But he'd only ever had the heart to fuck her a few times. The truth was, she reminded him of his mother a mite, with the raven hair and pale blue eyes…

It's what's best for everyone, he repeated. The law probably won't hold 'em for too long. I left so they got no one to back up that child rapist claim and Abigail and Molly had done a few cat scratches at worst. They'll probably only be held for a few weeks, that's all.

By that time, if Dutch's new plan worked out, they would be long gone. Out of the country, with one hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars, if the number Strauss fed him had been accurate.

It will work, he told himself. It has to.

Perhaps it would, especially with his three heaviest anchors cut loose. Four, really, if you counted Micah, which, by this point, he most certainly did.

His smile grew until it reached ear to ear. Everything is gonna be just fine. I got faith.

The memory of what he'd asked his mother resurfaced, yet unlike normal, it didn't dampen this cheery moment one iota. In fact, it seemed to improve his mood.

"Where's the line?" he'd squealed with his thin mustache and blood-soaked knife. "Where's the goddamn line?!"

It was only now, at this exact moment, with John's head resting on his shoulders, did the answer come to Dutch, after so many sleepless nights of pondering it:

There was no line. No line at all.

END OF ACT III

Act Three is done! Phew, that was a long one.

And there we have it: Dutch framed them. No Molly, no Micah, no plotting. No Abigail, no Charles, no objections to his authority. And now John is his...

Hope you enjoyed this chapter; I had a lot of fun linking Dutch's behavior to his mother's parenting-his lust, OCD, hatred of Abigail, wearing all black with a pink cloth, etc.