#katmorganrdr

You fade in and out, your head swimming with nothing and everything all at once, empty, yet foggy, heavy, yet so light it feels like it could float away if it weren't attached.

You hear the creaking of wagon wheels, voices speaking low and indistinct. You couldn't make out what they were saying, even if you had the consciousness to try.

You try to move your hands, your feet, but you're tied up. Wrists bound together behind your back in an uncomfortable way; ankles roped together, as if you could run in the first place.

The night air is too chilled for your clothing, now mostly soaked from the struggle with the woman in the bath.

If you were all there, you might ask who the people were, or where they're taking you. But you're not all there. Your brain is nowhere to be found, even though the throbbing in your head is insistent that is in fact still in your skull.

The wagon jostles hard during a turn, the horses taking it too fast over the rough terrain. Your head slams against the wooden bed, making you groan against the cloth gagging you as the throbbing in your head grows.

The wagon comes to a halt, and you feel yourself being picked up, someone tossing you crudely over their shoulder and carrying you. You open your eyes, but you can't make anything out.

Too weak to do anything, You listen to the voices. A man yells, another laughs. A lady, presumably the one who helped kidnap you, giggles, her voice girlish and strange sounding.

Then, you're being tossed onto a rough, straw-tick mattress on an old, wooden frame. You can feel the straw poke through the fabric covering, prickly on your legs and face.

You're left alone for a while, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hope that soon it would be all over.

Arthur Morgan looked around the saloon. He didn't see you anywhere, and his last two beers had been delivered by a man who he assumed was the owner. The man was dressed sharper than you had been, and than the bartender. He had money for sure, at least some. And he was looking very displeased about something; likely the fact that he was serving drinks to the rowdy saloon instead of you doing it.

Javier and Sean were off trying to flirt with some of the local women and saloon girls; hell, Sean was practically teasing one of the whores into letting him go a round for free.

Lenny and John were sitting at the table, arguing about something, going mostly unnoticed by him.

"That ain't a real word!"

"No, it definitely is a word, John."

"It sounds like somethin' Dutch would say when he's lyin'."

"It probably is."

"See? You just admitted it! It ain't a real word!"

"Most of the words Dutch uses when he's lying are still real, John."

"…No they ain't. He uses words like ambivalent and… quintessential."

"… And?"

"And those ain't real words! I'm telling' you, he's makin' 'em up, Lenny!"

Arthur turned to them, interrupting the argument.

"Where's the girl?"

Both men look at him, confused.

"What girl?" asks John.

"Y'know, the server."

"Ain't she just… I dunno… serving drinks?" John asked.

"You know," Lenny started, "it has been a while since she last came by here. It's been that man serving since then…" His gaze went around the room, until he found the owner, who was frantically running around the floor, trying to serve drinks to the rowdy patrons.

Without another word, Arthur stood and made his way over to the man, standing in front of him and stopping him in his tracks. He loomed over the man, crossing his arms.

"Where's the girl?"

The saloon owner, Mister Smithfield, shook his head, responding exasperatedly.

"What girl?! There's girls all around here, you brute, I can't keep track of all–"

"Not any girl. Her. The server. Where'd she go?"

Mister Smithfield let out an irritated huff.

"She ran off on me, in the middle of a rush, and didn't even think to say so much as 'I quit'! Leaving me to fend for myself in this pack of– of– of animals!" he sputtered, his tray of empty glasses almost flying from his hands as he tried to gesture wildly.

Arthur's expression went cold.

"She run off. In the middle of a rush? Now, you tell me what's wrong with that statement."

"How am I supposed to know? She hasn't been working here for more than a couple of months, and now she leaves– If she thinks she's gettin' her job back, she can think again!"

The bartender, Cliff, suddenly spoke up from behind the bar, having overheard.

"Now boss, you know Miss wouldn't do that…"

Arthur, realizing he'd likely have more luck with the seemingly sympathetic bartender rather than the angry owner, turned to Cliff and asked.

"When you last see her?"

Cliff's hand stilled from wiping down the bar, his other hand coming up to stroke his chin as he thought.

"Well… last I saw her was… maybe an hour or two ago? Hard to keep track of time when we're busy… haven't seen her since she went to tend to that deluxe bath for the one lady…"

"What lady?"

"She was sittin' right over there. Blonde, short… didn't look like a very– eh– Christian lady, if you asked me; but who am I to judge? Had a couple o' men with her. Real rough types…"

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Rough types? How so?"

"Just… looked like the kind of folk you had to be careful of. I seen my fair share of men you don't wanna mess with…"

Arthur's mind briefly went to the fight with Tommy, how he'd been underestimated in his ability to take on the man. This very bartender was the one working… Yeah. He probably would know the rough types…

"They leave with the lady?"

"No, they waited a bit. I didn't see 'em leave, just realized they were gone at some point after Miss went to tend to the bath."

Arthur's jaw clenched and his fists were balled up at his sides. It smelled a whole lot like trouble…

"Where do ya give the baths?" he asked.

"Uh… back there. Straight back, to the left. Door on the right is the stock room, but when she's tending to someone it's where she sits and waits for 'em to call her in."

Arthur didn't waste any time, going behind the counter, stalking down the hall. He was a man on a mission, determined to see just why you hadn't returned… his stomach was twisting in a way not unfamiliar to him. Like when you hear a gunshot ring out and you go looking for the source.

When he got to the back of the hall, he briefly glanced in the stock room to the right, noting the chair she likely sat in while waiting. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The he turned left, looking at the door to the bathing room. There was no noise coming from inside, no sloshing of water in the tub, no sighs of contentment from a hot bath, no murmuring voices in quiet conversation. It was eerily quiet. The sign said 'PRIVATE' in big, dark lettering. And the door was just ever so slightly ajar.

He pressed it open, door creaking slowly, and went inside.

You wake up to a splash, someone throwing a bucket of cold water on you. You gasp from it, the cloth tied around your mouth muffling the noise as you open your eyes and look around with bewilderment.

Still out of it, the shapes of wooden furniture and the dirty torn curtains blowing from the wind of the open window turn into unidentifiable objects to you. You squint your eyes trying to make them out, head throbbing, and a sickly, sweet taste in the back of your throat, like some kind of fruit gone rancid. The room is spinning but slowly stills, allowing you to focus on what was in front of you.

Colm O'Driscoll.

"There she is… our own Sleeping Beauty…"

His deep, dragging voice makes your hair stand on end, like a spooked cat. He stands in front of the rough straw-tick you're laying on, looming over you, then walks around the side with slow, heavy steps, each one like another thump to your already racing heart. His gaze is assessing, a predator watching his prey, seeing if they're fit for eating or just trash to be discarded.

"I think you'll do just fine. My boys picked out a real winner with you. A fine little piece to play with."

You want to get up, to run from the cabin, to scream. Anything. But you can't, you're stuck just listening. Stuck listening to a man describe how perfect you are for his idea of 'playing', of 'fun'. Hands bound together behind you uncomfortably with a rough length of rope, feet tied at the ankles, too.

Your body shivers and you can't tell if it's from the chill of your wet clothing in the cold air, or if it's just because of how he's looking at you.

"You know, I think you might serve real well here. A lot longer than them other girls they brought me. Most of them…" he lets out a huff, somewhere between amused and annoyed, shaking his head, "they don't last more'n a couple a' days. But you… you got fight in ya, girly, don'tcha? You could probably last me and my boys a good bit. Unless… I go a little too hard on ya… But I'd only do that if you're bad. You gonna be bad for me, girly? Or… are you gonna be a good little thing and play along?"

He reaches down to touch you. His hand comes up to caress your face, knuckle running along your cheekbone. It wasn't gentle, it was possessive. He was looking at the gift brought from his men to him. His new toy. You..

Arthur stepped into the room. It was… eerie. Like some scene in an unsettling painting where the artist used all those strange shadows and disturbing undertones.

The air was still, the steam that was there once now hung low. The bathtub water was cool, only a little above room temperature, a light film of soap and oils on top. The sounds of the saloon were quieter back here, the laughter muffled and the notes played on the piano sounding discordant and off. All of that wasn't to mention the glaringly obvious truth of this room: something happened here.

There was a struggle.

The floor had puddles of water here and there, a towel lay half dragged from the tub, partially soaking wet and the other part still dry. There were muddy footprints on the floor… one smaller set: the woman who had the bath, and two larger sets: the men she was with. No second set of women's. Like she came in and just… never walked out. They led to a service door that he could assume was normally locked from inside, but wasn't right now.

He spotted something on the ground by the tub. It was a white handkerchief, crumpled up and half wet from sitting in a puddle, looking like a little drowned dove.

When he grabbed it off the floor to look at it, the smell coming off it hit his nose. He brought it a little closer, giving a small sniff.

He instantly recoiled at the cloying, sweet smell of it, like fruity and floral but inherently wrong. The taste lingered in the back of his throat and his sinuses.

Chloroform.

He knew the smell. Hosea sometimes used it when they were desperate and had to get someone knocked out, though he preferred not to. And he knew some of the more nefarious uses people had for it, drugging people for all manner of things.

He spat hard on the ground, trying to clear the lingering taste from his senses. His jaw tightened, and he clutched the rag in his fist while turning on his heel and storming out into the front of the saloon.

Mister Smithfield was still out there, currently speaking to a customer about your 'running off'.

"And if she says anything about back wages–!"

Arthur grabbed him by his collar and held the handkerchief against his nose for a moment, just long enough to make him gasp it into his lungs.

"She didn't run off," he growled as he pulled the handkerchief away, tossing it onto the bar counter.

Mister Smithfield sputtered and gasped, both from the sweet air he'd just inhaled and from the shock of being grabbed by a man who looked like a storm-cloud.

"What– what the hell is that?" he yelled as he stumbled back, feet unsteady from the now slowly, spinning room.

"She was drugged and taken. All because you decided a couple o' coins was better than havin' her out here doin' her job!"

John and Lenny smelled the scent off the handkerchief waft toward them as they stood nearby.

"What the hell is that shit? Smells like Uncle brewed a bad batch o' hooch," John said as he eyed the handkerchief with disgust.

"I opened a can of peaches that had hole in the bottom, once. Smelled a whole lot like that," Lenny said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

But it was Cliff's face that said the most. His skin had gone pale and his normally friendly expression looked haunted.

"Chloroform. Knockout drops. That's a smell a man never forgets… Doctor's would use it in the war… I helped hold a few men down after they got near knocked out from it for their surgeries. Docs claimed they couldn't feel anything, but it made 'em real… agitated and restless sometimes. Had some myself once, when they were digging bullets outta my leg. It helped, but if I knew my head would be poundin' like it was afterward, I would'a gone without."

Everyone was silent for a moment allowing the statement to settle over the group like a weighted blanket, the noise of the saloon itself seeming to fade into the background. But then, someone unexpectedly cleared their throat. Arthur's head whipped around to see who interrupted.

"Y'all ain't talkin' about that girl that was in here earlier, are ya?"

It was one of the girls Javier and Sean had been talking to. Their group had overheard as they wandered closer to Arthur and Cliff's conversation.

"Yeah, you know her?" Arthur asked, seeing the glimmer of recognition on her face.

She nodded, her earlier laughter nowhere to be found.

"Honey, that's Pearl White. She's a mean little thing… We worked the same line down in Blackwater before everything went to shit there. Used to be a good girl 'til that devil Colm O'Driscoll got his claws in her."

"Ye sayin'… she's Colm's girl, now?" Sean asked, slurring his words from having taken too many shots of rye. "I been a couple'a rounds meself wit'… wit' ol' Pearl. Never t'ot she were the type ta go wit' the likes a' him! Right bastard…" Despite being three sheets to the wind, his anger was evident.

"Mhm… she is. He uses her as his sweet face to make people trust 'em more… and if that's sweetwater y'all got on that there in your hand, it's definitely hers."

"Sweetwater?"

"That's what she called it anyway. Used to use it on men after they passed out from a night with her, to make sure they stayed passed out 'til she left with all the money in their pants… used it on me when she left our group, a few other girls, too. The bitch took everythin' and ran."

"Should'a figured O'Driscolls would be behind this shit…" John muttered, shaking his head.

Arthur shoved the crumpled handkerchief in his pocket and squared his shoulders.

"Lenny! Get Sean back to camp. He ain't gonna shoot straight in the state he's in. Let Dutch know what's goin' on. John, Javier? You're with me." He turned, grabbing Smithfield by the collar of his shirt and shoving a finger against his chest. "And if we don't find her, I'm burning this place to the goddamn ground," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Smithfield didn't even have time to react before Arthur let go, pushing him back and making the man stumble. He stormed to the back hall towards the service door, not bothering to look behind him to make sure they followed.

He was carrying the weight of your survival on his shoulders, and he didn't care what anyone had to say about it.

"Don't you worry, girly… this bed? It's temporary…" Colm's breath smelled like rot and whiskey and stale cigars. He was on the mattress with you now, next to you, face inches from yours and his voice a whisper that seemed to get colder with each word. Every time you looked away, he gripped your chin and turned your face back towards him. "We'll be movin' out here in a few hours. Then you'll have a nice, comfortable bed… one you won't mind cuddlin' up to me on…"

He punctuates his words by licking a long stripe up your neck to your ear.

It felt slimy, and violating, making you recoil with a small involuntary whimper.

He inhales the scent from the hair, behind your ear, then gives the side of your head a testing kiss. It would almost be considered tender if not coming from him.

He lets out a low, creeping chuckle.

"Girl, you smell like fear. I like that, you know. Means you know what I can do to ya…"

He pulls a knife from beside the bed, and traces it up your arm, to the front of your blouse, then slowly pulls off each button with the knife, each thread popping as they snap off.

He uses the tip of the knife to open your blouse with slow, delicate precision, revealing your chemise and stays. Then, with more force and less restraint, he slips the knife blade under the neckline of your chemise and yanks downward, tearing through the chemise and stays in one smooth motion.

As he takes a moment to look over your exposed chest and stomach, you vaguely register somewhere back in your brain, behind the fear, his expression reminds you of a child opening a present on Christmas day.

You barely notice the tear running down your cheek, but he does.

"Aww, don't cry now, girl… I ain't gonna hurt ya that much… Hell, maybe if you're good enough, I'll keep ya. How's that sound? You wanna be mine?"

You shake your head no, more frantic tears now spilling down from your eyes, vehemently against letting him have any ideas about you wanting this. Who could want this?

He just chuckles again at your frantic look, amused with your defiance.

"Oh, you're gonna be a fun one, huh? Most girls, they realize by now they ain't goin' anywhere… they find it easier to be… agreeable. But you… you're different, huh? You're gonna give me a hell of time."

He laughs at the thought, grinning ear to ear.

"Don't you worry none, I like me a challenge. I like breakin' in a feisty little filly like you. Now, how 'bout we get you out of those ropes, hm? Just for now. You can let me see just how much fight you got in ya."

He takes his knife again, grabbing you and pulling you to sit up by your arm, and roughly reaches behind your back to cut through the rope. The sawing only takes a moment, and when your hands are free you pull them back, rubbing your wrists as if you could make the burn of the rope go away. He pushes you to lay back again, then unties the long strip of fabric his men used to gag you.

"There. Now we can hear how pretty you sound…"

You don't say anything, refusing to interact as much as you can with your limited autonomy. You don't look away, knowing he'll just grab your chin and make you look at him anyway. But the look you're giving him… it's no longer fear. It's daggers.

You're interrupted by someone pushing the door open and walking just into the doorway.

Colm turns his head, looking at whoever dares intrude right now.

"Pearl…" he growls, "you better have a damn good reason to be in here right now, woman.".

He turns to look back at you.

You watch as she shrinks back a little, but she still has a slight defiance to the set of her jaw as she answers him.

"The boys are gettin' into the moonshine you said not to touch. Casey's tryin' to pick a fight with the scouts already. If they're too drunk in the morning' to sit on a horse, we ain't goin' nowhere…"

Your hands, now free, don't move yet… you feel the steady pressure of your revolver tucked and still hidden in the waistband of your skirt…

If he just looks away… just for a moment…

It takes what feels like forever, as he rubs your jawline in steady, smooth strokes… but finally he turns his head to answer her.

A slow, sadistic grin spreads across his face.

"Now Pearl, you're a terrible liar when you're poutin'. You come in here when I'm havin' a bit o' fun like there's a fire out there… tell me, that really what's goin' on, or you just burnin' up 'cause I ain't lookin' at you?"

Pearl looks like he's slapped her, flinching at his cruel words, her face turning red. You use the opportunity to slowly guide your hand down to your waistband…

Pearl stammers, trying to think of something to say, but can't. She ends up looking at you, her eyes burning holes into you. This is your fault to her… a distraction, not a prisoner. Thankfully, Colm's body is blocking the view of your hands.

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Colm slowly looks back at you, about to say something, but you draw the gun from your waistband quickly and pull the trigger, the gun aimed at him.

Right before the pull, in a flash, his hand pushes the one you're holding the gun in up, above your head.

BANG!

The gun goes off, and the bullet grazes the top layer of skin on Colm's shoulder.

He doesn't react much, aside from how heavy he's breathing. His eyes, full of rage now, stare into yours, deep and cold.

You're shaking.

Then, he begins to laugh again, that slow, deep chuckle of his. He's amused. He's furious. He's danger.

He pries the gun from your fingers and tosses it across the room on the floor.

"Thought I didn't know 'bout that piece you was hidin' from me, huh? Yeah… I knew… I was wondering how long it'd be before it made its appearance… you really are a little fighter, huh girly? Don't worry… you ain't gonna be fightin' for long."

Suddenly he lifts your skirt up, bunching it around your waist, then with no hesitation he tears through your drawers with his knife, ripping them off and throwing them to the side.

"There… now we can have a good time… c'mon now, I'll make sure it's real good for ya… gonna make you squirm on me, girly," he taunted, his vile commentary making your gut twist in revolt. You feel like you're gonna throw up…

He starts slithering his hand up your thigh, making you shudder.

"Bet you want this… bet you're just achin' for it. Let's see, shall we?"

His words are so disgusting.

Disgusting.

Disgusting.

Before his hand reaches its destination, you spit in his face, landing the glob warm and wet on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you move. The warmth of it seemingly contrasting against his icy, cold glare.

Then, he smiles.

He reaches up, not to wipe it from his cheek, but to smear it across his face with slow, terrifying deliberation, like he's applying some kind of twisted warpaint.

He leans in closer, his rancid, rotting breath right under your nose.

"Now," he whispers in an almost fond tone, "that wasn't very agreeable, was it?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer, his hand a blur as he backhands you with a closed, heavy fist.

Your world shatters, the tang of copper in your mouth as everything goes black. The last thing you register is Colm's deep, guttural chuckle, and his hands, slithering up along your thighs before prying them open.

When you wake, it's slow and cold. Rain pattered on the canvas covering the wagon, a sound that sooths your mind, giving it a small background to listen to instead of focusing on the dull throbbing sensation in your head. Your thoughts are sluggish and thick. The wagon creaks as it rolls along, and the damp wood underneath you is a welcome, if temporary, respite from the poking straw-tick.

Your shirt was tucked into your waistband in crude effort to cover your chest, considering the buttons were snapped off, but it didn't provide much warmth or modesty, especially with nothing underneath. Your skirt was at least pulled back down to cover your legs, but you no longer had shoes on, your toes chilled from the exposure to the cool air.

There's a small, gray stream of soft light coming through the canvas. It must be early morning, you think.

You realize that though your feet around bound and the cloth is back wrapped around your mouth, your hands are still free…

You frantically reach behind your head, trying to find where the knot to your gag is. It all feels like one continuous piece of fabric, making the knot impossible to locate. You try and slide the cloth up or down, to pull it off, but it's tied tight enough that it's deep in the groove of your mouth, making that impossible, too.

Finally, you reach down to try and untie your bindings on your feet. You could jump out of the wagon, be free… but your fingers are too cold and numb from both the chill in the air and from how tightly they were tied just hours before. You pick desperately at the knot, the hemp biting into the skin around your ankles more each time you think you got something loose, a testament to Colm's men knowing their trade. You pick at it… pick for what feels like forever.

But eventually, the rough rope against already cold, numb fingertips makes you lose all feeling in them entirely.

You close your eyes, trying to think of something, the tears brimming in them again.

Your hands begin to search your pockets in hopes that you could find something, anything inside them that could be of use. But you quickly note that the men must have cleaned them out, nothing left inside… nothing except one thing, folded up and laying against the lining on the edge… something they missed.

You pull it out and clumsily smooth it before holding it up to the small strip of gray light.

A five dollar silver certificate.

A gift from a ghost.

Your tears still as your eyes trace the lines of the scene on it… tracing the lines of Lady Electricity… of her wings…

You know Mister Smithfield won't come for you. Nobody would likely come for some forgotten widow like you. Nobody would ask where you were, or talk about you.

Nobody would come for a ghost.

But this… this was proof that someone had thought about you… Somebody had seen you.

Another ghost.

And as you realized that, looking at Lady Electricity and her wings, letting them carry you, you held to the desperate, foolish hope that that other ghost would come for you; you were unaware that he was already looking.

The last time you were watching the sunlight stream through, praying for a single, bright ray to shine on your body, just to provide a little bit of warmth on your tired skin, you blinked and it was suddenly dark again.

Did time pass so suddenly because you fell asleep and didn't know it, or was it a single, torturous moment of hallucination that left you feeling so cold when you saw the dark outside that window?

You didn't know anymore.

In your fist you grip the silver certificate Arthur gave you. It tires you too much to try and look at the intricate details on it, so instead you hold onto it, crumpled in your hand, letting it be your anchor. Every now and then, you feel it there, moving your fingers along it, the texture simply reminding you that this is real.

You are real.

You shift in the bed uncomfortably, looking around the room, listening for the sound of anyone, anything. No noise. Not even birds chirping outside, or wind blowing against the glass in the window. You're so used to the noise, the camp never really being quiet, always a snort of a horse or clanking of bottles or yelling of men. Hooves on twigs, boots on dirt, a log tossed in the fire that's usually under the window, crackling and popping loudly even into the small hours of the night. Men yelling or singing or talking low about one thing or another.

But the birds are what you really miss. You feel as if you are abandoned by everyone, even nature itself.

Colm is gone. He and the entire gang are gone. Once they heard Arthur Morgan could be hot on their trail, they left the place with fire under their asses.

‘The Manor,’ which you now know to be Fort Riggs after overhearing some men talking about it below the window, was left behind for some place out by Owanjila. It happened suddenly. One minute they were all scrambling around, gathering their supplies and horses and everything they could before fleeing. And you heard horses, wagons, lots of noise and commotion outside. But you fell into a fitful sleep and when you woke, it all stopped.

Complete silence.

The least Colm could have done if he planned on leaving you here to die would be to unshackle your leg from the bed. You can't stand, too weak to move much. It would be a small mercy, one you would gladly have taken. But maybe he planned on coming back for you.

You don’t know which thought is worse. Having to live another second with the vile demon that is Colm O’Driscoll? Or being left to rot as if you are already dead.

You wonder if God's miracles can truly happen in real life. If not God’s, then maybe some power given by some other god, like when Athena grants people wisdom and strength in battle, or when Poseidon takes mercy on a small ship full of men out on a raging sea, drifting their vessel to the shore of some safe refuge of an island.

Maybe Lady Electricity could flow through your body, let you grow wings so you can fly away from this place. Fly away to safety. Fly home.

Where is home, now? You don't know the answer to that either. But it's not here. That, you do know.

So, you lay. Lay there, waiting for what you think must be certain death.

Or maybe you are already dead. Maybe death is just being in whatever spot you happened to meet your demise, locked there for all eternity…

No…

You run your fingers along that crinkled paper. You're alive.

You think all of this, but you still hope. Hope for wings, hope for a home, hope for Arthur Morgan, likely the only person who could find you here.

It's stupid to have hope that a man would take enough notice of you to look for you. You only just learned his name the last time you saw him. You're just another woman in a saloon…

The sound of nothing seems to echo off the walls and through the door, down the staircase. The emptiness is closing in.

But then, you hear a noise that cuts through the fog of your tired mind.

Creaking footsteps, slow and tentative, up the stairs.

Your heart thuds in your chest and you move your head slightly to try and see who is coming into the hall.

Colm, coming to finish the job? One of his men, come to have a piece of whatever he left? You daren't think it would be Arthur. You know better than that.

A glimpse of straw blonde hair and pale skin.

Pearl.

She peers around, then steps inside the room you're in.

Her eyes are puffy, swollen and red from crying, but she has a determined, set look about her.

“P-pearl?” you rasp out, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

This is dangerous for her. She shouldn't be here. You have no idea if Colm has left you for dead, or if he plans on coming back for you.

—

Pearl didn't know why she came back to help you. She didn't understand it.

There had been others. Other girls, women, who she had helped Colm take, and who then died soon after.

Maybe that was why. You weren't dead yet. None of the others lasted this long. None of them laid there, day in and day out, wondering when their torture might end.

Colm hadn't grown attached to those ones, either. He hadn't started threatening his men about them, telling them he'd cut off their hands if they so much as touched you. He hadn't become obsessive the way he did with you. Sometimes, when you were sleeping, or lying there in a dissociative state, he would stand in the doorway and just watch. Just look at you. He didn't whisper ‘sweet’ things into those other women's ears, things Pearl was sure weren't actually sweet to you. He didn't sleep with them, tenderly running his hands up and down their back after he did what he wanted to them. He just grunted into them and left.

But for some reason, he decided he would keep you.

None of the others had been there long enough to become ‘his’. They were all their own person, just taken, abused, and killed by a wild and cruel man

But he would make you his, or kill you trying.

In all of this, Pearl had watched you.

She heard you whimpering, heard your cries, delirious mumbles at times, or your moans of pain, sometimes inflicted by her own hand.

She saw the way you cowered when he approached. How you feared him. Feared her. But you never resigned yourself to give up. Refusing to look him in the eye, telling him that you would bite his lips off if he tried to kiss you one more time.

He laughed when you said it. She watched him laugh. He liked the fight. And in some sick way, it earned you the tiniest shred of respect from him. Something she never had. Maybe that's why he wanted to keep you so badly.

He stopped trying to kiss you, acted gentler with your body, would shift his weight if he laid on you in a way that made you too uncomfortable. Not like it would cancel out any of the cruelty he’d shown you. Nothing could do that. But that was more than any of the other girls had been given. More than she had been given.

She saw the relief in your eyes when she brought you water, little bits of food, when she laid the blanket over top of you as you shivered in the bed, stripped bare of your clothing and your dignity.

And she saw the look in your eyes when you saw her as not a torturer, but a victim. A victim of Colm’s cruelty, rather than just another abuser.

She didn't deserve that, she knew. She didn't deserve your pity. But… it was there. And she couldn't deny it.

Maybe that's why she came back.

Maybe.

Pearl stopped in front of you, looking up and down at the bruises on your body.

She never really looked at them before.

Sure, she saw them.

But to look at them? That was dangerous. That made the bruises real.

Made you real.

Made her part in all of this real.

It was starting to crack a carefully crafted facade of indifference. She began to think of the other girls before you… what were their names? She couldn't even remember that. She never bothered to learn them, more likely. Why would she learn the name of someone who would be disposed of so soon? It would make them human.

But you… she didn't know your name, but now she wanted to. She wanted to help. She knew it wouldn't wash away the sins she'd committed previously, but… it would still help you. She could still, hopefully, save you.

“Pearl?” you repeat, your voice quieter this time as if you're afraid you might startle her. She still hasn't answered you. Just stood there and stared.

She finally takes a few slow, tentative steps forward. She looks at you like she feels guilty. Like she actually feels remorseful for what role she took in your current position. She swallows hard, and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You can see the bags under her eyes, and the area of and surrounding her eyelids are riddled with the tiny, red, pinprick dots of someone who has been heavily crying on and off for hours.

You can see the bruises around her neck, up under her jawline, a dark, deep purple, beginning to turn a sickly greenish huge along the edges.

You can see the fear in her eyes. Fear that doesn't look like it's for herself, but rather, for you.

She bends down beside you, avoiding looking at your face, and whispers to you.

“I– I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry…”

She finally looks at your face. Fading marks from where you'd been hit. Cracked, dried lips. Eyelids that look like they're struggling to even just stay open.

“I want… I want to help you.”

Your brow furrows, and you shake your head weakly.

“Pearl… I–”

The words die in your throat. How can you tell her that though you are keeping hope, it isn't her that can help?

What can she do, now, when you're here and in this state?

She has no key to unlock the shackle and chain that binds you to the wrought iron bedframe, not any tool to pry it off your ankle…

She has with her no food to aid your hunger, or water to quench your thirst.

She has no way to carry you, which would be necessary considering the weakness in your legs. You would try to stand from the bed, but you can't manage more than to pull yourself to the edge of it to use the chamber pot she had placed nearby previously for your use.

How many days have you been here? How many hours have you spent wondering if you would ever be saved? And now, she wants to help. Help that, from her, is too little, too late.

As you watch her, you see it. The same thoughts swirling in her head. She sees it. What can she do?

“I– I wanna help…” She shakes her head, tears beginning to swell in her eyes. “What’s your name?” she asks in a choked whisper.

You open your mouth to answer, to tell her, but a creaking from the door stops you cold.

No…

“Well now, ain't this just peachy?”

Colm smiles that sadistic, cruel smile from the doorway. You and Pearl both watch him, frozen.

“I told you you'd come crawlin’ back, Pearl.”

—

Charles rode to the trapper who was camped near Riggs Station. The air was warmer down here, summer settling in on them after a cold, wet winter. The man watched Charles warily as he approached on Taima, riding harder than the man would have liked someone to be when riding toward him. Charles didn't bother getting off his horse, pulling her into a quick stop beside the man’s camp.

He looked around at it. There were a few things strewn about, what looked to be the man's mess kit, furs and leather, along with other various items.

“I don't want no trouble now…” the trapper said, putting one hand up placatingly, but reaching for his rifle that stood beside him, loaded and ready, with the other.

“Not here for trouble, just information,” responded Charles, his matter-of-fact tone slightly putting the other man at ease. He still was guarded though. “I’m looking for a friend. He’s tall, broad shouldered, dark blonde hair… Would have been riding a dark chestnut colored Hungarian Halfbred?” Charles asked.

The trapper watched him closely for a moment, before giving a short nod.

“Yeah… he was through a couple o’ hours ago now… looked rough, like he ain’t slept in days.”

“That’d be him. You know where he was headed?”

The trapper watched Charles, unsure if he should trust him, but eventually nodded once, slow.

“I know the roundabout way he was goin’. He was askin’ ‘bout O’Driscolls. I told him I traded with ‘em here and there, but I didn’t know where they was comin’ from for sure… It’s somewhere south of here, I reckon. Though I ain't sure they’re gonna be stayin’ south too long, now.” He paused, looking Charles up and down and narrowing his eyes. “You a bounty hunter?”

“Not exactly… Why?” Charles noticed all the things the trapper was doing. He was keeping his firearm close, which wasn’t unusual, but there was an urgency in it, it seemed. He told him that he didn’t want trouble, as if he’d been expecting some. He wanted to go south and find Arthur, but the fact that this trapper had been so on edge made him suspect something. "You said you didn’t want trouble. You already had some, I assume?”

“Yeah… Got robbed, ‘bout an hour ago now. Been tradin’ with them O’Driscoll’s. Ain’t had no problems yet... ‘Cept this time, they wanted more than usual. Said they was in a rush, needed supplies for goin’ a long ways. And they decided they didn't like my prices too much… so they just took what they was wantin’ instead.”

So they were on the move, Charles realized. That wasn’t good. If they were moving camp, and they took you with them, then they didn’t have much time. Losing them would possibly mean never finding you.

“Do you know anything about where they’re going? Or where their old camp was? You said it was likely south of here?” he asked, much more urgently.

“Ain’t sure where they’d be headed. As for where they are…” The trapper thought for a moment. “They could be down south, southwest. Maybe somewhere near ol’ Fort Riggs, it's been used as a camp before. Been a awful lotta’ folks gettin’ robbed comin’ through them parts…”

“Thank you, appreciate it.”

And with that, Charles rode south, finding and following some horse tracks that could be Arthur’s, could be O’Driscolls’. He would have no way of knowing until he came to their end.

He rode as hard as he could without fatiguing her. Taima’s muscles rolled underneath him, carrying him fast and steady, pushing forward.

The tracks led him south, slightly westward. The trapper may have been more correct than he'd realized. After about half an hour, he saw Arthur riding up in the distance.

“Arthur!” he called out, pushing the horse to catch up to him and Boadicea.

Arthur turned to look behind him, his brow furrowed as he saw Charles approaching.

“Charles? The hell are you doin’ out here?”

Charles' eyes scanned Arthur’s state. He was dirty. His beard was unkempt, hair wild and messy. The trapper hadn't been wrong, he looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and there was an almost erratic look there that reminded Charles of something half feral.

“Arthur. You’re running yourself ragged out here. Have you slept at all?” Charles was concerned. Extremely so.

“I’m fine, I been sleepin’,” he answered dismissively, his voice rough and low. “Why you out here, Charles? I ain’t comin’ back yet,” he said, looking away from him.

“Dutch sent me to fetch you.”

Arthur's nostrils flared in irritation.

“I said, I ain’t–”

Charles interrupted him before he could finish.

“I won’t make you go back right now.” Though he was concerned, he knew there would be no convincing Arthur, and all he could do to get him back to camp was to help him find this woman and bring her back. Or at least find her…

“I have a lead. Fort Riggs. And they’re on the move. Ain’t a guarantee, but it’s a lead.”

On the move.

Not good.

Arthur’s jaw clenched hard enough that Charles saw it twitch through his facial hair.

“Fort Riggs… goddammit. I was out that way already. You sure?”

“No. But it's a lead.”

Arthur hated to admit it, but maybe he missed something. Maybe he didn't go far enough, he never went to the actual fort. Stupid. A stupid mistake. Arthur Morgan didn't make mistakes. But he could feel the tired in his bones, beneath the adrenaline of looking, searching, a search that bordered on obsession.

His teeth ground together, making his voice come out tense and harsh.

“Well, it ain’t far off. I’m goin’.” He only took a moment to look at Charles hard in the eyes. “You gonna ride with me?”

Charles met his gaze and nodded.

“Always,” he said, and both men immediately set off in the direction of Fort Riggs.

Arthur rode like he could outrun the possibility of a mistake. Like speed alone could keep him from thinking about you not being found.

Neither asked what they were both thinking. Was it already too late?

—

You watch as Colm circles Pearl, like a predator circling its prey. He’s got a grin on his face and a gun in his hand, and a strange, unreadable glint in his eye.

“Pearl, Pearl, Pearl… What are we gonna do with you?”

Pearl is shaking, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Colm, sugar… I came back… back to you.” Her voice trembles as she speaks, giving him a little reassuring smile and nod, or at least one she thought would be reassuring.

His smile slowly turns cold.

“Don’t you ‘sugar’ me now… You left.” The glint of deranged humor had vanished, replaced by ice and stone.

“Yes, but… but I came back. I’m here. Ain’t that worth somethin’?”

Colm looks her up and down, his eyes clearly searching for something specific. And then he finds it. You know he does when a wide grin spreads across his face again.

“Oh, Pearl… You dumb little whore.” His boots step heavy on the creaking, warped floorboards, making his way over to her. “You went and found yourself a bed to lie in, didn’tcha?”

Her eyes widen, and she looks between you and him, like she’s trying to ask you what it is that he sees. But you don’t know, and your own fear is paralyzing anyway.

“What? C-Colm… I’m faithful to ya’... A-Always have been…” she stammers out, looking at him pleadingly.

Each step closer reminds you of the step of an executioner.

“You always was an opportunistic little thing, huh?” He grips her chin in his hand and lifts it. Right above the bruise of his hand, right below her jawline, is a dark, purplish hickey.

“Well, lookie here. What's this then? You got a little… mark… sure does look like the kind of mark a man might give a woman when they’re bein’... intimate.”

“N-No! Colm, that ain’t what that is! Probably just… a fingerprint. One of yours. Lord knows I don't fault you for it sugar, but you were squeezing awful hard,” she cries out.

He wraps his hands around her neck, making her tense, instantly quiet. Fat tears begin to fall from her pale blue eyes.

He tilts his head, not squeezing like either you or her expected, moving his thumbs on her throat. You watch what she can't see: him placing his thumbs where they lined up with the bruises there that he'd left. Sure enough, his thumb is a far way off from that dark little hickey under her jawline.

She looks up at him, silently pleading.

“Opportunity… I understand that, ya’ know…”

He glances at you as if you share some sort of inside secret about it, before looking back down at her. “But you ain't even waited a whole day to go spread them legs for whatever filth wanted to get a quick fuck in ya’, woman. Sounds less like opportunity, and more like… disloyalty.”

He takes his hands off her neck and watches her, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulling one out. He lights it with a flick from his lighter, then takes a deep drag from it, then holds it, flicking the ash to the ground.

“How is it…” he walks a few steps towards her, beginning to circle, “that you think… you're gonna talk your way outta’ proof, woman?”

He completes his circle around her, standing directly in front of her. She closes her eyes, looking at the ground, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs now.

“I… I swear, Colm, I–”

“You swear?” he rumbles, cutting her off. “You swear? Lonnie saw you, Pearl. Saw you comin’ outta’ that saloon with Micah Bell.”

She shakes her head no, desperate for him to believe her, to stop.

“Please, you gotta believe me, Colm! I been with you three years, I ain't disloyal!”

“Three years. Three years I kept you fed, clothed, and fucked. And you threw it away, went and slept with a rat, a rat that runs with Van Der Lindes! Admit it!” He's gripping his cigarette tight enough that it almost snaps.

“No! Lonnie’s lyin’, sugar! He don't know what he's talkin’ about!”

Colm's face turns red, looking like he was about to explode with rage.

He surges forward and grips her by her throat, pulling her up on her tip toes. His face is close enough to hers that you can imagine how his breath smells from his rotting teeth, having smelled it too many times yourself.

He makes her look at him directly, the look of someone deranged staring right into her terrified eyes. His voice is deceptively low and calm when he speaks.

“You're callin’ Lonnie a liar, now? The man who’s ridden with me for 15 years, a liar?”

He takes the cigarette in his hand and presses the red, burning end of it to her cheek, making her shriek in raw, horrified pain.

You pull your knees to your chest and cover your ears with your hands and squeeze your eyes shut tightly.

He pushes the end of the cigarette to Pearl again, her neck now, twisting it into her skin, right where Micah left his mark on her, erasing the claim the man had laid to her body with his mouth. Colm’s way of taking back what was his.

The shrill cry reaches your ears through your hands, making your own tears spill, unbidden.

Finally, Colm crushes the cigarette and flicks it away, letting her go, and she crumples to the floor, clutching her neck and her cheek, sobbing.

He stands there, fuming, breath coming hot out of his nose in heavy huffs like an angry, enraged bull, before noticing you with your hands over your ears and your eyes shut tight like you didn’t want to see it. 

When he comes over, he pries your hands from your ears, letting them drop beside you, and bends down, grabbing you rough by your chin.

“Open up them eyes, girly. I ain’t lettin’ you miss this.”

When you only squeeze them closed harder, he pulls his hand back and strikes you, backhanding you across the face and sending your head spinning, a choked sob leaving your throat.

“I said OPEN ‘EM!” he shouts, and you cower back in response, but manage to open them, looking at him through watery lashes.

You only comply so he doesn’t send you spinning again.

Colm grabs Pearl by her hair and drags her. She cries out in pain, but he doesn't care, pulling her along the floor and dropping her next to the bed.

“Sit. On the bed. Now.”

The look in his eyes…. He doesn’t look human, not that he ever did much, but this is different.

Now he was just an animal.

She crawls up onto the bed, over the chain you're shackled to, making a metallic clanking. Her body brushes against your legs which seem now to be hopelessly stuck in place.

Your eyes are locked on her face as she cries out, trying to get him to see some sort of reason.

“Colm… M-Micah Bell? I didn’t– I didn’t know it was him!” She looks up at him pleadingly. “Colm, I swear, I didn’t know!”

“Don’t matter if you did or didn’t. It was him, Pearl. And he… he touched you. Fucked you. Ruined you. You was mine! You filthy whore… Ungrateful. Disloyal. Unfaithful.” He practically spits out each word. “That’ll be the last time you cross me. You best believe that.”

Pearl clasped her hands together, looking up at him, pleading.

“Please, please Colm… I’m sorry… I’m so sor-"

*BANG*

Your body registers the wet sensation of blood splattering on your face and a sharp chunk of bone hitting your cheek before you even realize what you just saw. Pearl’s body falls back onto the bed, and you feel a wet warmth spreading across your legs where she’s laying. You stare forward, your already delirious brain unable, or refusing, to process what just happened. You’re locked on the place her head was just before the bang. Your brain refuses to let you look down at your legs, refuses to let you see what lays on you. If you look… you know you'll scream.

You don't even register Colm's steps beside the bed, now standing right next to it. He crouches down to look at you. His soulless eyes try to peer into yours, your expression blank, but you don't glance his direction. It's like… if you look into his eyes… you'll lose part of yourself.

“You seem to be havin’ trouble there, girly… Ain’t you gonna say somethin’? Cat got’cher tongue?” he whispers, prodding, taunting. 

When you don’t answer, he keeps going. “Now, I know you an’ Pearl was close… but she had to go. She betrayed me… I gave her food, clothin’, shelter… Made sure she was wantin’ for nuthin’. And she went and slept with one of the worst bastards possible. Only one worse would'a been ol’ Dutch van der Linde himself.”

You feel your stomach turning, nausea hitting you in a wave and your stomach threatening to spill any minute. You still feel her blood on your face, and you bring your hand up to it, fingers touching where it splattered on you. It’s sticky now, drying down quickly there, but the blood on your legs and lap remains warm.

“Have I ever told you how pretty you look in red?” He bends down to your level again, and leans in close to your face. You can smell his rank breath now, see the yellowing of his teeth, the way his eyes look like there’s nothing behind them.

“You gonna cooperate?” he asks behind a smile. He leans forward, about to press his lips against yours. About to kiss you. The one barrier he hasn’t crossed, simply from the fight you had left in you. The way you resisted it so hard.

And right now, you can’t use it to stop him. All the fight is gone.

—

Arthur and Charles had approached the fort cautiously, unsure if there would be anyone there waiting.There were signs of a camp left abandoned. Uncleaned horse shit, cups and unwashed dishes still scattered, The remnants of a campfire remained, only embers left now. The tracks showed them that they left in a hurry.

Arthur looked around, brows furrowed. He tilted his head, ears listening… but not hearing anything.

“It's quiet,” he grunted.

No birds? There should have been birds… Should have been noise.

Charles eyes followed the tracks around the area. Horses, wagons, humans…

But then… something peculiar.

Some of them were covered by fresher tracks, mainly the prints of men on foot or a single horse, heading back into the camp instead of away from it.

“Arthur…” he said, only loud enough for Arthur to hear him. “We got a problem…” 

Charles gently nodded in the direction of the tracks. Arthur looked and quietly assessed, eyes widening at the realization.

O’Driscolls.

Here.

Now.

Before he could act, the first bullet flew past him.

—

Colm stops.

His lips must be only a millimeter from yours.

There’s noise outside all of the sudden, breaking through the silence.

Little noises, like pops.

They get a little louder. You hear the faint, distant shouting of men.

Colm stands and goes to the small window, looking out for a moment.

“Oh, this is beautiful…”

He turns to face you, smiling like a little kid in a candy store.

“There he is… Ain’t that real sweet? Arthur Morgan followin’ the trail to the little lady. Just like I knew he would.

Arthur.

Arthur’s here.

Your eyes widen as your brain shifts, registering something new. Genuine hope of rescue.

“You did play such a good little role in all this. I was pretty mad when I found out Arthur Morgan had his eye on ya’… Maybe Pearl and them boys who brought you to me did me a favor. Arthur, he’s ‘bout to find out he ain’t just comin’ in for a couple of us… He’s got a whole damn army of us out there waitin’ for him.”

Colm waited for it to sink in before throwing his head back and laughing.

He was using you as bait to get Arthur to come here.

And he had most of his men out there, hiding. Waiting.

Dread runs through you as you realize, he’s out there alone, trying to fight, outnumbered. And you’re the reason.

You brought him here.

He’s gonna die because of you.

Colm continues laughing as he watches the horror of it spreading across your face, all of it’s too much to bear. 

There’s more men shouting outside. More pops of gunfire, but now it's starting to surround you. Not coming from one direction, coming from all directions.

Colm’s body goes still, and his laughing stops abruptly. You watch him begin to turn white, something dawning on him now as he listens to the gunfire and shouting.

“No… goddammit. GODDAMMIT!”

—

Arthur realized the moment the bullet flew past him. Maybe before that.

This was set to be an ambush.

They knew he was coming.

He and Charles had to suddenly defend themselves from what was too many O'Driscolls, who popped out from behind the trees and outer structures of the fort like bees coming out to defend the hive.

Arthur was ducked behind a broken wagon, using it for cover, while Charles stood about twenty feet away behind a thick tree, peering around to shoot at someone with his rifle a few times before getting back behind it.

Arthur had been in worse situations. But all these O'Driscoll men against just him and Charles? Those odds didn't fare too well…

“Charles, to your right!” Arthur yelled across to him as an O'Driscoll snuck around the side.

Charles shot the man twice in the stomach and he crumpled over like a rag doll.

“How many do you think there are?” he called back.

“Probably ‘least forty!” Arthur responded, before moving forward to another piece of cover, a big barrel that was about ten feet up. He shot a couple of men to his left who were coming at him with shotguns, his revolver’s aim true. A bullet through the one man’s left eye and a bullet through the right side of the other man’s head, both dropping dead on the ground.

More men seemed to be filling the area, and Arthur heard the sound of hoofbeats across the ground riding toward them.

“There's more! Watch your back, Charles!”

Charles didn't respond, but he heard him, as well as a yelling that made his attention turn to it quickly.

Sadie rode in with a shout akin to some sort of warcry, guns blazing and taking out three men on the way.

“O'Driscolls - you sons’a bitches! I'll kill you all, you bastards!”

Arthur's head whipped around at the sound of her voice, and then he saw them. The gang.

Sadie and Dutch rode in from the western side, while John, Javier, and Kieran rode in from the east. It was strategic placement, allowing them to close in on the fort offensively, the only escape being to ride south from the back.

“Need a hand, son?” Dutch laughed as he dismounted The Count and started shooting, his flair for dramatics ever present, even in the middle of a gunfight.

“Ain't got time for your theatrics old man!” Arthur called back in annoyance, but still glad he was here. Glad the gang was here.

The situation had been getting out of control.

With the gang here, everyone quickly fell into place, shooting (and on occasion slashing or stabbing) their way through the army of O'Driscolls that blocked the main house.

John and Dutch easily and efficiently advanced through the crowd, dropping men left and right. 

Sadie stood over a man who was scrambling back on his heels, clutching his bleeding stomach, as she drove a knife down into his chest.

Javier kicked the body of someone who had tried to surprise attack him and met a bullet to the chest.

“¡Eso te pasa!” he yelled, sneering down at him.

Even Kieran was holding his own, covering Charles as he advanced forward in the chaos.

As men dropped on the ground like flies, Arthur moved forward again, getting closer to the front entrance of the main building.

“Colm! You hidin’ in there like some yellah-bellied bastard? Don’t make me come up there just to kill you!”

He heard a laughing that rang out above the shouting and gunfire, coming from high up in the house.

“Arthur Morgan... ‘bout time you showed your pretty face! I been havin’ a whole lotta fun with your girly, here!” he called from the open window upstairs.

Arthur’s grip tightened on his gun and he gritted his teeth so hard it was surprising they didn’t crack from the pressure.

“I’ll get you, you sick bastard! Let her go!” he yelled back, seething as he pushed forward, knocking a man down and shooting him on the ground before taking cover again.

Colm just laughed more, all bravado and face.

“You ain’t gonna take this one from me, Morgan! I ain’t finished playin’ with ‘er yet!”

Dutch’s voice rang out from close behind Arthur.

“Colm, why can’t you just play nice now, and come on out?”

“Oh, that’s rich comin’ from you, Van Der Linde!”

“I think you’re just mad that your woman came cryin’ to one of my men’s beds, aren’t ya?” Dutch taunted, trying to draw Colm out from his spot upstairs. The shooting continued as the two played at this little conversation over the sounds of revolvers and pistols and rifles.

“Didn’t bother me, none. Water under the bridge, partner! You know, Bell did me a favor, I reckon…”

There was a pause in their back-and-forth as an O’Driscoll jumped out at Dutch from behind a pile of wood in front of the porch, brandishing a large knife. Arthur shot the man before he could get close enough though, and Dutch gave him a quick nod in thanks.

“Well, what’s that then?” Dutch finally asked, trying to keep Colm engaged as Arthur moved up onto the porch. 

Only a couple of seconds later, a body fell in front of Dutch from the second story window.

Pearl.

Bruised and battered, limbs broken and sticking in unnatural ways from the fall, and a single bullet hole going right between her wide open eyes and out the back of her head, leaving an exit wound the size of a fist.

Arthur saw it from where he stood, and looked at Dutch, who’s face had turned from taunting to a furious sneer.

He caught Arthur’s gaze and gave him a sharp nod, a signal to move forward while he covered him.

Arthur ran to the door, charging into it, but it was locked. He used his shoulder to ram forward into it.

*THUD*

*THUD*

*THUD*

On the third hit, the door broke, cracking inward and allowing Arthur to run through. Dutch was right behind him, both men sweeping the empty room quickly before proceeding into the next. Someone jumped from one of the closets, grabbing Dutch from behind, leaving Arthur to shoot him off.

In the next room there were two men guarding the stairway, one with a sawed-off shotgun and the other with a double barrel, both instantly shooting at, yet somehow missing Dutch and Arthur. Dutch was quick on the draw, shooting the one man in the chest and then the head, while Arthur ran up on the other and stabbed him in the side of the neck with his knife, his blood spraying Arthur’s face.

While Dutch was reloading, Arthur ran upstairs. Halfway up, Colm ran down, colliding with him and knocking him back down the stairs part of the way until he caught the guard rail and pulled himself back up. Colm managed to barrel past Dutch, too, quickly making his way out the back, but not before getting shot from behind in the shoulder by Dutch. Colm cursed but continued running, the shot not slowing him down as adrenaline rushed through his blood and kept him going, out to where one of his men had his horse waiting.

“That all you got, boys?” he taunted as he rode off.

Arthur tried to turn and follow him, and Dutch yelled out to him.

“Arthur! Get the girl! I’ll get Colm!”

Arthur wanted to follow Colm, but as soon as he remembered you, the bloodlust didn’t matter. All that mattered was your safety.

He ran up the rest of the stairs to the second story and was met by another man who had been waiting up there. He didn’t reach for his gun, just instinctively pulling back his fist and letting forward a heavy swing, knuckles connecting to the man’s jaw. The man punched Arthur once in the eye before Arthur grabbed him by his collar and held him suspended there by sheer strength, punching him over and over with the force of a hammer. The man fell to the ground and Arthur shot him with his revolver for good measure before giving one hard shove to the door, breaking it down.

There you are.

Arthur instantly stills at the sight of you.

You lay naked, curled in the fetal position, staring at the doorway with wide, unseeing eyes. Your hair is a tangled mess, your skin pallid, eyes sunken, lips dry. Your body has fading bruises, a fresh one blooming now on your cheek and mouth. There’s blood splattered on you, all over your face and chest. There’s a shackle around your ankle, chaining you to the wrought iron bed frame.

And a pool of dark maroon blood is at your feet, soaked into the mattress, some of it covering your legs.

“Oh, god…”

—

You hear the gunfire become less frequent.

Less pops and bangs, more silence, the kind of ghostly silence that drifts across a battlefield full of dead soldiers.

You do faintly hear a voice from far off in the distance. Colm. Yelling with someone, but the sounds get quieter and quieter.

You take a single, deep breath in, and look at the doorway.

Arthur.

He’s here.

Right?

You wonder if it’s really him, if somehow this man actually found you and came to rescue you.

Probably just another trick of the mind.

Arthur rushes over, taking off his own dirty, blood splattered jacket, and laying it over you to cover most of your nakedness.

You feel its weight settle on your body, as if it’s a real, tangible item.

He crouches down, making you flinch and whimper slightly from the sudden closeness of an apparition of a man you’ve been daring to dream would arrive.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart… it’s alright… I ain’t gonna hurt ya’...” His voice is too gentle for a man like him, you think briefly. It must be your imagination.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispers, his hand coming out to touch you. You flinch again, and he holds it there, before slowly moving it forward. Predictable now, you don’t flinch as he gently smooths back your ragged hair.

Your eyes focus on his face but you still say nothing. You barely see him.

Is this a dream? It isn’t real… It can’t be.

“I’m gonna get you outta here, yeah?” he whispers, and you swear you see his eyes shining.

Strange.

Like they're wet.

He takes his hand back, and slowly stands, looking down at your ankle.

The shackle.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna get it off, but he decides maybe he should just shoot the chain and worry about the part around your ankle when he gets back to camp. He needs to get you there quick.

He pulls out his gun to shoot at it.

“Now, don’t move sweetheart, I’m gonna–

“NO!” you scream when you see the gun, a Schofield revolver, the same kind of gun Colm used to shoot Pearl.

“No… no… no… please… please no!” you begin to repeat, starting to sob as the image of Pearl plays through your head.

“Alright, alright! Hey, hey…” Arthur says quickly, trying to reduce the panic he sees on you. He sees your eyes locked on his gun like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled, and then he realizes.

“It’s alright, darlin’, it’s alright… Look.”

He crouches down slowly as you continue sobbing, but you watch him, and he lays the gun, and the other one from his off-hand holster, down on the floor, and slides them across the room gently.

You don’t stop sobbing, but you calm some.

“See? No gun… no gun. Don’t gotta’ do it that way if you don’t wanna.”

His voice is still gentle, but firm. He slowly raises his hands, his eyes not leaving yours.

“You see that? Gun, over there. Ain’t on me.”

You bite your lip trying not to sob, and nod.

He slowly stands and approaches you again. He looks at you, a tense breath leaving him as he tries to decide what to do. He keeps his voice low like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

“Alright, darlin’... we gotta get you outta here. We’re gonna figure it out.”

You say nothing still, but your eyes are locked onto his.

“I’m gonna take care of you. You got my word, sweetheart. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again.”

—

You realize somewhere between the rest of Arthur’s gang coming inside to help and Arthur picking you up and carrying you out to his horse, that this is real.

Actually real.

He is real.

Maybe it was when Dutch, back from his fruitless chase of Colm, angry about it yet upon seeing you started assigning everyone things to do, making the impossible task of getting you ready to leave this hellish prison actually seem possible.

“Charles, I want you to do a perimeter check. All the buildings outside, and the surrounding area. Take Kieran with you. Mrs. Adler, if you could be so kind as to find this poor woman some clothes? And maybe a sheet or a towel to cover up that… mess. Let’s get her some of her dignity back… John, find something to get that shackle off of her ankle. There’s a shed outside on the eastern edge of the fence that might have something in it. Javier, find her some water. She needs to drink if we’re to be able to get her back to camp. Arthur…”

Dutch stopped when he looked at Arthur, who was sitting in a chair beside the bed, holding your hand. He wasn’t listening to Dutch, his focus solely on you. You laid on your side, one fist clutching something, eyes closed, but you weren’t sleeping, he could tell that. He wondered what was in your other hand, but didn’t ask, just letting you hold whatever it was, and being there with you, a silent assurance that nothing would happen under his watch. Dutch didn’t say anything else, just letting Arthur be.

Maybe it was when Sadie found some old clothing left behind, and gently helped you into it, having to dress you mostly herself. It was a union suit and trousers that fit well enough to not leave you naked in front of God and everyone else… 

“I know it ain’t woman’s clothin’, but I’m sure you don’t care about that right now. Them O’Driscolls are sick bastards, can’t even bother keepin’ you dressed…” She spat on the floor as if to punctuate her hatred. Her words were surprisingly soothing.

Maybe it was when John announced he found a pair of bolt cutters and you finally had your ankle free from the metal band that had been your existence for however long you’d been held captive.

“Listen, ma’am, I know you’re scared. But we gotta’ get you outta this. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, I promise… Maybe close your eyes, so you don’t gotta see me do it.” Closing your eyes helped.

Maybe it was when Javier offered you water from his own canteen, cool and crisp.

“Here… Drink. Easy, easy, mija. Slow down, you’re gonna choke yourself, cariña. That’s it… just a little.” It tasted better than the freshest spring water you ever drank.

Maybe it was when Charles gave the all clear, having thoroughly checked the perimeter and making sure nobody was left.

“Safe to move out, now. Nobody’s gonna be following us, and we can move in the cover of night… If it goes well, we could get back to camp by morning.” His words were as much to Arthur and Dutch as they were to you, a reassurance that you would be safe.

Maybe it was when Kieran came to you, his hat held over his chest, his nerves showing through slightly trembling hands.

“Ma’am? I just wanted to… to let you know. I seen this kinda cruelty first hand… I know it. I just want you to know… you ain’t alone anymore.” His solidarity made tears spill from your eyes.

Or maybe it was how gentle Arthur spoke, how careful he was to explain everything, every move and every decision.

“Hey, we’re gonna be goin’ now. Takin’ you back to my camp, alright? You can get some proper rest there… it’s safe. There’s others there, too. Other women, some men, but they ain’t gonna hurt ya’. We even got a little boy, John’s son. Name's Jack. Only four years old.”

He speaks to you even though he knows you likely won’t respond. He knows you're listening.

“We’re all gonna be ridin’ together, so don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’ happenin’ to ya’, ain’t nobody here that’s gonna let it. I ain’t gonna let it. Alright? Now… you able to walk at all?”

You shake your head ever so slightly, just enough for him to be able to see it.

“That’s alright. I’ll carry you out then. I ain’t gonna hurt ya’. I’ll be real gentle sweetheart.”

Arthur stands from his chair beside the bed, and leans over, scooping you up like you weigh nothing. Maybe you do. You still feel so hungry.

Your body tenses momentarily, but you begin to relax as you realize he won’t drop you.

“Good girl, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he praises, before starting a slow descent into the hall and down the stairs. He carries you outside, and whistles lightly for his horse.

A dark red mare trots over. Your eyes are too hazy and it’s too dark to make out many features, but you can tell at the very least it’s a fine horse.

“This is Boadicea… She’s a real good horse, and I promise she’ll take us real gentle.”

Boadicea lets out a huff of air softly, as if she’s agreeing, then nudges your arm with her nose, lightly. It's the only thing you haven't tensed.

Arthur had to hand you to Charles, who was seemingly another gentle giant in the group, holding you with softness but solid strength while Arthur swung up onto Boadicea’s saddle. Charles handed you up to Arthur then, and he sat you in front of him, facing him.

“Arm’s up, round my neck now. I know you’re tired, but I got ya’, I ain’t gonna let ya’ fall. Just hold on when you can, yeah?”

You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand still a clutched fist and the other grabbing the back of his shirt as you lean forward against his chest. 

One of his strong arms wraps around you, his hand pressed against your back and holding you to him.

“There’s a good girl… you just stay like that for me, alright? We’ll have you back to camp in no time.”

You hold onto him, and he starts Boadicea moving forward. You focus on the feeling of the wind through your hair as you ride, the cool night air is such a contrast to the cold you experienced back in your prison.

—

You hardly remember the ride to the camp, dozing on and off and listening to the way Boadicea huffed underneath of you, to Arthur’s steady breathing or small words of encouragement, his voice a low, gentle rumble that you can feel in your chest.

“You’re alright, sweetheart, I gotcha’.”

“S’alright… we’re gonna get you taken care of.”

“Doin’ so good for me, darlin’. We’re almost there…”

You stop a few times along the way, him holding you steady while he lets you drink from his canteen, him making sure you aren’t going to give out from dehydration before they can even get you back to camp.

“Can you drink for me, now? Real slow sips… there ya' go, jus’ like that.”

Before you know it, the sun is rising in the sky and you’re riding through the trees, looking around in a daze and wondering where you are.

The horse slows and your grip around Arthur’s neck tightens.

“Hey, hey… it’s alright, darlin’. We’re here, now. It’s alright… We're home.”

Home?

A man with white hair makes his way over to you and Arthur as he pulls Boadicea to a stop.

“Arthur… You found her,” says the white haired man, as the other members ride into the camp behind you. Arthur waits for Charles to come over and then hands you to him, gets off his horse, and takes you back, cradling you like you’re made of glass.

Maybe you are made of glass.

You can’t quite tell what you’re made of anymore.

You’re sure that you knew at one point, but now you aren’t sure of anything, really.

Except maybe one thing.

Arthur Morgan is real.

It hits you in an instant.

This is real.

You are real and your pain is real and Arthur is real.

Colm is real and O’Driscolls are real and Pearl is real.

No.

Pearl was real.

Was.

Now she’s just… gone.

You start to breathe faster as the realization makes its way to your consciousness.

Pearl is gone.

Dead.

And you didn’t, couldn’t do anything about it.

You watched Colm kill her.

And he’s still out there.

Still out there, able to come find you at any time.

He told Pearl he would see her again one way or another.

And he did.

And then he killed her.

What if he finds you?

You don’t even notice how fast your breathing has become, how many tears roll down your cheeks, how fast your heart beats now.

You don’t notice Arthur’s panic as he rushes you to a tent and lays you on a cot.

You don’t see him shouting for someone to help as you start to scream.

You don’t even hear yourself screaming.

You don’t hear your screaming or your crying or your incoherent words all trying to come out at once.

You just see her, that image of her, play over and over.

You smell Colm’s rancid breath in front of your face as he leans to kiss you.

You feel the violation, the humiliation, the degradation that he played out like it was some sick, twisted game.

You hear his words, you hear his laugh, you hear Pearl’s pleading, you hear the gunshot that silenced her. 

You don't really register the flurry of activity around you.

“Arthur, here… give her this.”

“What?”

“Just give it to her. Trust me.”

“Here, here darlin', can you drink this for me? There… nice slow sips. Good girl…”

You don't even register the liquid in your mouth, down your throat, the drops that dribbled along your chin.

But…

You stop hearing, stop feeling, stop seeing. 

Your vision fades out, drifting away slowly.

Your consciousness floats above your body, neither existing here or there.

You don’t wonder anymore, or speak anymore, or think anymore. 

You just are.

“What the hell did you give her, Hosea?” Arthur asks as he watches you begin to calm, begin to drift into a seemingly, surprisingly peaceful unconsciousness.

“Laudunum. Just enough to keep her sleepin’ for a while. She needs it.”

“Well, what happened? She was fine on the ride home, didn’t cry or nothin’.”

“She was likely in shock, Arthur. Or, in some mental state where she wasn’t processin’ anything. Healin’ from what she just went through? That ain’t gonna happen overnight…”

Arthur’s breaths came out in angry huffs now. He didn’t understand.

“I know that, Hosea… but… She was alright, damn it!”

He slams his fist down on the table beside the cot, leaving a slight dent in it.

“I thought she was alright!”

Hosea waits a moment before placing a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder, making him flinch, but not pull away.

“It’s alright… You did what you could.”

“Should’a done better.”

“You did better, Arthur. Better than anyone else would have. Arthur…” Hosea sighs, trying to gather what he means. “Nobody else would have pulled that girl out alive. I promise you that.”

Arthur looks at Hosea, jaw clenched, not answering. But in the end, he seems resigned to having to accept Hosea’s words, at least in the moment, simply because he couldn't do anything else.

He sits down with a heavy huff in the chair next to his cot, watching your lashes flutter in your sleep, hoping that what he did would be enough.

He notices your fist still clenched around something, but it's more relaxed now, more open.

He reaches out and takes the thing you've been holding on to so tightly.

He gently unfolds the crumpled paper, and when he sees what it is, he feels like his heart stops.

“For you, ma'am.”

"Uh... Did you mean to give me this?"

“I did.”

Dutch made his way over as they arrived, the men hitching their horses and walking into camp from the corral. Their shoulders were aching and slumped with tiredness from having been on a job the day before, a night of drinking, and then immediately leaving to help Arthur on his search.

“Arthur still out lookin’?” Dutch asked, his voice uncharacteristically tense.

“Yeah. He's bein’ stubborn ‘bout it. Said he's headed into Valentine to see if he can get any information from the folk in town.” John shook his head as he spoke. “Ain't like him, Dutch. I know he's doin’ what he thinks is right, but it ain't like him to chase a cold lead…”

No, it wasn't like Arthur to do that. Normally he was the one who talked others out of it. But… from what Lenny managed to say when they'd gotten back last night, Arthur seemed different with this woman…

“Dutch, he gave her one of them silver certificates we'd gotten on the last robbery? The one we found in that big safe? I think it was a five dollar one… Not my idea of a casual tip…”

“‘M tellin’ ya, Lenny! It's fookin’ love, it is! Our Art’ur’s sweet on the lass, no doubt in me mind–” slurred Sean a little. He was still quite drunk, hence why he and Lenny hadn't gone with the other three. He leaned onto Lenny, wrapping an arm around his shoulders for support. “And she– oh ho ho– she– she's sweet on ‘im, too. Did ya see the way she touched ‘im? Put her hand on ‘is shoulder, like she was familiar wit’ him! Familiar! Wit’ our Art’ur! ‘Magine that!”

Lenny sighed while Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache from the whole situation.

“And, you two are sure this was O'Driscoll work? Sean ain't just making that up?”

Sean scoffed, taking apparent offense to the comment.

“When ‘ave I ever lied, Dutch?”

Dutch raised his eyebrows, about to tell Sean exactly the last time he'd lied about something, but Lenny shook his head and spoke before he could.

“No, Dutch, we’re sure. It's O’Driscolls.”

Dutch crossed his arms over this chest and let a sigh out through his nose.

“Alright, Lenny, make sure Sean gets into his bedroll before he passes out; You get some sleep, too. Been a long night for all of us, even before all this mess.”

“Javier? What do you think?” Dutch asked after milling on the thought for a while.

Javier took a moment to look around camp, collecting his own thoughts before shrugging.

“Eh, I’m not too sure, jefe… I think he knows what he's doing. He's stubborn, but he isn't stupid.”

“You think he's got enough to go on to get a lead? Or is this some... wild goose chase?” he asked, gesturing with his hands.

“That depends. Most people, I'd say no. But, it's Arthur. If anyone could figure it out… it'd be him. He at least won’t give up until he can't go anymore.”

“Well, Dutch? You think we should be settin’ up a scoutin’ party," Hosea asked as he took a drag off his cigarette before flicking the last of it into the small yet still crackling fire, “or should we be settin’ up for war?”

Dutch shook his head, his mind running circles but his face revealing nothing. Hosea could see it though. He could read the eyes of the man nobody else seemed able to read.

The past few days had taken a toll on Dutch. It wasn't so much that Arthur was out by himself. That was normal. The man went off on his own all the time, sometimes without so much as a grunt and a nod. But to be hunting O'Driscolls just to find a woman he barely knew? And hunting Colm, in specific. It worried him.

Together? Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, John… and any of the rest of the gang? They were fearless. Alone? Dutch worried that alone, Arthur may just be a man.

“I don't know, Hosea. I don't know… I think we'll have to wait and see how Arthur handles it on his own, first. Then we’ll decide.”

“You ain't thinkin’ about goin’ after Colm, too, are you?” Hosea asked, a knowing look in his eyes.

Dutch thought on it for a moment, taking a swig of whiskey.

“Maybe.”

“That wise?”

Dutch just looked at Hosea, not saying anything.

“I know it's personal with you and Colm. But… this woman… We don't know her, or anything about her. Arthur barely knows her himself. And she ain't Annabelle–”

“It isn't about that, Hosea!” Dutch snapped, interrupting him. He clenched his jaw tight, looking away and letting out a deep, controlled breath. He knew Hosea was right, his own pride and want for revenge against Colm was involved here. But it wasn't just that.

Although Dutch never admitted it to anyone but Hosea, he was sorry. Not that he had brought Arthur into the life of living as an outlaw, or that Arthur was loyal to the gang. He wanted that loyalty, that strong tether to him and to them. But, he knew loyalty had cost them all.

He was sorry that the gang had taken Arthur's opportunity to be with Mary, simply due to the nature of their differing lives. Even if he didn't personally like the woman, Arthur had found something in her.

He was sorry that Arthur had already lost his son, and his son's mother, with no opportunity to have prevented it in the first place. No opportunity for justice, either.

Arthur's loyalty had cost him more than Dutch had ever intended. Such was the way of the outlaw, he knew that. Arthur knew that. But, he never had a choice.

That's just this life, Dutch told himself. Over and over again, it's what he told himself. And he believed it, too… most days.

But, he didn't want to abandon Arthur.

“I'm sorry… I'm sorry, old friend. But… this ain't about that. Arthur is family. He has always stood next to me, to us; We will stand behind him. Beside him. Whatever he chooses.”

Hosea nodded once, slow. He knew the thoughts that bounced around inside Dutch’s head better than anyone else. He knew that it was, in part, about that, about Colm and the long standing feud between Van Der Linde and O’Driscoll. But, he chose to have faith that this time, maybe it wasn't all about his appetite for vengeance. This time, maybe it was also about standing by a man that they had raised, and defending his choices, and those he chose to protect.

Dutch knew he and Arthur were different. And things were different with Annabelle than they are with this random stranger Arthur met in a little livestock town. But, he also knew the kind of man Arthur Morgan was. Much like himself, they could say revenge was a fool’s game. Because it was. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to seek it.

Over the coming days, the camp was filled with unspoken worry. The gossip, however, was spoken more than enough. Arthur, going after O'Driscoll's by himself? It was one thing to run into a group of them when someone was off on their own. It was another to go looking for a whole O’Driscoll camp alone. It was one thing to find some lady in need of help by the side of the road and help her. It was another to go looking for one that hadn't asked for help.

“He's been gone an awfully long time, Dutch. Over a week now. Without any word. I just… think we oughta send someone to go check on him…” Hosea said, more than worried since it had been a long time since John and Javier returned, and Arthur had still not.

"I fear that you may be right… I was hoping he would have returned by now, but, since that is not the case… we should send someone. I'll send Charles, maybe someone with him, too.”

It had actually been nine days. Nine days that Arthur hadn't come back. Tomorrow would mark the tenth. It was putting everyone on edge. The protector, gone from camp on a search that nobody was sure about.

Sadie was nearby, waiting to see if Dutch was going to do anything about this whole mess. If he didn't, she was gonna go look herself. O'Driscolls? She would fight them in a heartbeat.

She quickly jumped at the opportunity.

“I'll go, Dutch. Was gonna go by myself, anyhow.”

“No,” Dutch started, “not you.”

Sadie’s jaw dropped, and then defiant anger spread across her face.

“What the hell, Dutch! I'm just as good as any man here, you know that! Let me go, I want to!”

“No. Mrs. Adler, it ain’t–”

“Ain’t what?” she challenged, cutting him off. “Ain't safe? Ain't a woman's job?”

“No, Mrs. Adler–”

Sadie cut him off again, getting progressively more and more worked up as she spoke.

“You think I ain't strong enough? Ain't smart enough? Ain't a good enough shot? Is that it?”

“It really isn't that, it’s–”

“What? I can handle it! I've proven myself! I already shot and killed O’Driscolls, and I'll kill more, too. You can't ban me from a job just because you think I'm–”

“MRS. ADLER!” Dutch boomed above Sadie's own raised voice, making her finally stop talking to listen. He waited until he was sure she wouldn't interrupt him before speaking. “I am not keeping you from a job because you are a woman. I am doing it because we need someone who will bring Arthur back, not somebody who will only encourage him to look further. If the woman is gone, she's gone. There's nothing we can do about that. And we need him back.”

The whole camp had fallen quiet, now staring at the two of them. Sadie's own mouth was set into a firm line, but her eyes were wide with surprise, her cheeks red from being worked up and from being embarrassed, having been yelled at by Dutch in front of everyone. Normally she would have just stormed off. She wouldn't take his shit. But this time hit different...

“If you want to prove yourself? Continue proving yourself? You will stay here. You will help us at camp. For now.” Dutch watched her with a fixed look, making himself clear.

“I ain't doin’ anymore goddamn chores,” Sadie huffed, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.

“Good. You can go on guard duty. Go tell Bill he's relieved from it for now.”

Her face twisted up. She didn't want to do that, either. She wanted to go help Arthur track down the O’Driscolls. It was her first opportunity to possibly find the ones who murdered her husband. She wanted to do something other than standing around camp all day, listening to people talk.

She turned on her heel and stormed off. Everyone watched as she went into the treeline. There was a little bit of noise from that direction, Bill's voice and then her own, yelling, angry. Then a loud “OW! What the hell has gotten into you, woman?” More yelling. Finally, they watched as Bill emerged from the treeline, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, looking disgruntled as he headed towards the campfire.

“That woman's got a stick up her ass ‘bout somethin’…” he muttered, shaking his head and sitting down.

John just stared at him from across the fire. Charles, glanced up from sharpening his hunting knife.

“What?" asked Bill after John stared for a moment. “She punched me. For no good reason, neither.”

After that, Dutch decided to only send one man out, for now, not wanting to take too many of them away from the camp.

Charles rode out that evening, just as dusk hit, hoping to avoid attention by traveling the trail at night, and to start on tracking as soon as he got into West Elizabeth the next morning. He knew Arthur likely wouldn't be just hanging around Strawberry any longer, and he would need to pick up his trail to find him.

A few hours after Charles left, Micah rode back in. He'd been out a couple of days, stating he had ‘business’ to attend to. Whatever that meant. Nobody really questioned it when it came to Micah. Nobody really wanted to know.

When he rode in, he smelled of liquor and body odor. He'd been out longer than expected, twice as long as he said he'd be.

He dismounted Baylock and threw the reins at Kieran, who was feeding the horses.

“O’Driscoll! Horse needs lookin’ after,” he grunted, not even looking at Kieran.

Kieran, as much as he would like to ignore him, listened and took Baylock to the hitching posts. It wasn't the horse’s fault that his owner was an asshole.

“Ain't an O’Driscoll…” he muttered, though Micah didn't pay him any mind.

As Kieran began taking the saddle and tack off of Baylock, Micah, with a shit-eating grin, slowly sauntered over to Dutch, who was already walking towards him with a hard expression on his face.

“Micah. Where have you been?” Dutch asked, his voice stern.

“Awh, Dutch. Whadd’ya mean?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Just had a little thing to take care of. I told you ‘bout it, didn't I?”

Dutch's look didn't change, only sharpened.

“You should have been back to camp two days ago. With Arthur gone, you can't just stay out like that. We need you here, Micah.”

Micah’s grin faltered and he hooked his hands into his belt loops. He could see Dutch wasn't in quite so good of a mood as he was, and he knew he had been out longer than he initially said he would be.

“Right. I got… distracted.” Even he wasn't fool enough to keep poking at Dutch when he was in this kind of mood. “Won't happen again.”

“And? You still haven't told me where you were the last two days.”

Micah’s smile returned, his yellowed teeth making him look even more slimy than he already did.

“I was with a woman.”

John scoffed from his place by the fire. Micah looked sharply back at him but then turned again to Dutch.

“Got holed up an entire night with some pretty thing, then I took her home the next day. Boy, the sounds that girl made–”

“Alright, alright! That's enough. You don't need to go into details, now,” Dutch interrupted before he could continue, shaking his head in exasperation. “Just… make sure you ain't leavin’ camp that long again.”

“Sure, Dutch.”

With that, Micah walked over to the fire, sitting on a log and stretching out his legs, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

John kept his head down as he whittled a piece of wood. Bill and Javier were there, too, Bill nursing a bottle of whiskey and Javier strumming idly on his guitar just to pass the time.

“Where's the Chief?” Micah asked.

“Dutch sent him to go find Arthur,” answered Javier.

“Oh. Right. The prodigal son hasn't returned yet?" he asked sarcastically.

Nobody answered, a response wasn't really needed for the question. Micah knew he wasn't back yet.

“Dutch sent the Chief to chase the Cowpoke to chase the Skirt. Ain't that just poetic?” he said mockingly.

John stopped whittling and looked at Micah.

“Why you gotta have a problem with everything, Micah? Why do you care who Dutch sent?” asked John.

“Well, he could'a sent me. I was down that way myself, anyway… but whatever. Ain't my place to do the decision makin’.”

“No. It ain't. So maybe you should just shut your mouth ‘bout it,” John replied before going back to whittling. Truth be told, he wished he was going to find him. He knew Charles was a better tracker, but he wanted to be there for Arthur, even if he hated to admit it.

“The ‘Great Arthur Morgan’ chasing a skirt. Real shame that is, him goin’ soft on us. I wouldn't be caught dead chasin’ after some woman… Nope… they chase after me.”

“Maybe if they have a knife in their hand…” muttered John.

Javier and Bill both snickered as Micah scowled. But then he just smiled again, yellow teeth and all.

“Right. Because you're such an expert on what women want, Marston? How long has it been since you got any?” He waited but John just kept his head down, continuing to whittle away at a piece of wood, his movements sharper, not actually making anything, just using it to keep his hands occupied. “S’what I thought.”

After a moment of tense silence, where John thought Micah would finally shut up, but no. Bill had to go and start him up again.

“You really get a girl, or you just pullin’ our leg, Bell?” Bill grunted, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Micah looked over at him slowly.

“I ain't pullin’ your leg, Williamson. Cross my heart.” He exaggeratedly made a cross over the center of his chest.

"How much did you pay for her?" Javier asked dryly.

John snorted at the comment, but Bill didn't bother holding back a full laugh. Micah seemed unphased though.

“Nothin’,” he answered, his grin only growing. “Didn't pay a penny.”

“Bull-shit,” Bill said, looking at Micah again, skeptically. “You didn't get no woman ‘less you bought her.”

“Hell, I ain't gotta pay for no whore, Williamson,” Micah scoffed.

John stopped whittling, unable to hold back again.

“Sure you ain't, and Uncle's the mayor of Saint Denis,” he responded. “Nobody wants to sleep with you, Bell. I seen cheap whores turn ya’ down when you were tryin’ to throw all your money at ‘em.”

“Yeah, Bell. I ain't ever seen a woman wantin' to sleep with you, money or no money,” Bill chimed in. “If you're serious, what’d she look like, then? Bet she was one o’ them poxed out whores.”

"That's where you're wrong, Williamson. She was cute. Blonde, real short. A bit thin for my likin' but had a real nice set on her."

John rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck like that. Jesus Christ...

"Had some ugly bruises from whatever feller had his hands on her ‘fore me," Micah continued. "I didn't mind though, the ones ‘round her neck were fresh enough they hadn't turned that ugly yellah color they get…She was all over me, blubberin' on like a mess… only thing I paid her was charm and compliments."

"Of course." John muttered under his breath, "Micah takin' advantage of a cryin', beaten woman? Sounds about right…” His lip curling in contempt at the blatant cruelty.

“What? You think you're better than me, Marston? You ain't. You'd be doin’ the same as me in that situation.”

John finally looked directly at Micah, incredulous at the claim.

“The hell I would! Some of us don't see women as things to break just because they're down.”

“You speak of women like they are carcasses for the vultures, Micah.” Javier spit on the ground in disgust. “It is pathetic.”

Bill was quiet now, taking a longer pull from his whiskey and finding the dirt under his fingernails very interesting all of the sudden.

John and Javier both looked disgusted by Micah's nonchalance. It didn't surprise them, but that didn't mean they didn't care. They might be bad men, but neither of them agreed with that kind of treatment of an innocent woman.

Micah, however, was ignoring them and just continuing to talk.

“Won't ever forget that one's name either, on account of the pearl necklace I gave her once I was done. Looked real pretty against them purple bruises.” He started chuckling at his own joke, but he was the only one laughing. “Pearl… said she just had a row with her man and was lookin' to get away. And ol’ Micah swept on in and saved the lady's day…”

Javier and John froze as they heard him say the woman’s name.

Pearl.

The one who took the woman at the saloon that Arthur was out searching for.

“Saved the day... Saved the day? Are you kiddin’ me, Micah? That's what you call takin’ advantage of a woman who almost got killed by her man?” John said, raising his voice in anger. “You hear who she runs with? Wouldn't happen to be O’Driscolls, would it?"

“How the hell should I know? I wasn't askin’ personal questions."

“You said you took her home… where did you take her?”

"Why, you gonna go lookin' for her? Get you a piece of her, too? Abigail really ain't givin’ you none, is she?” Micah jeered, clearly enjoying getting Micah riled up.

John stood in an instant, and was in front of Micah, pulling him up by the collar, too quick for Micah to react.

“Micah. I swear to God, you say anything else about Abigail and I will cut your tongue out and feed it to you.”

John dropped him, letting him fall back onto the log seat harshly, almost causing him to fall off of the back of it.

Micah sat there looking shocked for a moment, until he started laughing.

“Jesus Christ– Oh, I sure did get your tail feathers ruffled, Marston!”

John just stood over him, fuming.

“Where, Bell?”

Micah's laughter slowly died as he realized John was serious. He let out a sharp, impatient huff.

"Oh, Christ Marston… I don't know… real close to…some fort somethin' or other, south a little ways of Strawberry. She didn't want me to leave her right there though, had me let her off before we got there.”

John looked at Javier, who was already standing, thinking the same thing as him.

“You think that's her, hermano?”

John gave a single, sharp nod.

“Gotta be. How many Pearls you think there'd be fittin’ that description?”

“Likely not as many as I left on that girl's–!”

Micah's vulgar comment was cut off by a swift, sharp kick to the shin from John.

“Ow! Hey, watch it, Marston!”

“Watch yourself, you goddamn idiot! If Colm finds out you were with his woman, you just put a target on all our backs, and hers! Dutch and Colm are already part of this blood feud, and you just made it worse.”

Micah’s face dropped, realizing what he had just done.

“Well, shit… how was I supposed to know that was Colm’s woman?’

“You better not have let her know where our camp was, Bell, or you’ll be the one to explain to Dutch why we’re movin’ camp again.”

“I didn’t! She don’t know anything ‘bout where we’re at, I ain't stupid,” Micah claimed.

“One small goddamn mercy…” muttered John, now walking toward the horses where Kieran was still at.

Javier went the opposite way, to Dutch's tent.

"Kieran! Hey, kid!" John called out.

Kieran, who was still brushing down Baylock, practically jumped at John calling his name, almost dropping the brush in his hand.

"Y-yes, sir? What's goin' on? I swear I didn't do nothin’..." he said as he fumbled with his hands.

"You know a Fort South o' Strawberry? That the O'Driscolls use?"

Kieran’s face became solemn at the mention of the O'Driscolls, and he nodded sharply.

“Yeah, they got Fort Riggs. Been usin’ it for a hideout for years. They hadn’t been there for a while when I was with them, but there’s a chance they could be back down there…”

“And you know exactly where it is?” John asked with more urgency.

“Yes, sir, I do know the way…”

He was hesitant, wanting to stay away from O’Driscolls at all costs. But, he also wanted to prove his loyalty to the gang since they were beginning to trust him more.

“Alright. Get the horses ready. I’m gonna go tell Dutch we’re ridin’ out.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

John barely heard him, already sprinting to Dutch’s tent.

Javier was inside, relaying the information about Pearl and the O’Driscolls’ potential location to Dutch and Hosea.

“You’re sure it’s the same woman? We can’t afford to go chasing a false lead.”

“It is, it must be. He says it is supposedly a fort, south of Strawberry, that he let her off near,” explained Javier hurriedly.

“Fort Riggs, Dutch. Kieran knows where it is. Said it’s one of their old hideouts, ain’t been used in a while. It’s more’n likely where they’re holed up, now,” said John.

Dutch’s eyes grew wider as he looked between the two men.

“Fort Riggs… Yes, I do think I’ve heard of that…”

“Kieran knows where it is, he’s gonna show us to it. He’s gettin’ the horses ready now.”

Dutch nodded, standing abruptly and beginning to pace.

John knew that look he had. His mind was working to come up with something.

“Alright…” He paced a few more times back and forth before abruptly stopping and clapping his hands together. “Alright!”

Dutch stepped outside the tent, looking around the camp. Everyone had already heard the commotion of John and Kieran, Javier and Dutch, speaking about the newfound revelation, and were mostly gathered around his tent to see what was happening.

Dutch had a plan.

“Everyone! We have information on the potential whereabouts of the O’Driscoll gang, and hopefully it will lead us to Arthur, and, godwilling, the woman he has been searching for. I need you all to be vigilant in keeping the camp safe while we are gone, and prepared for our return. I do not know if we will encounter one O’Driscoll, or fifty of them, or none at all. But so long as Arthur is out there, we will be bringing him and that woman home.’’

He didn’t wait for the gang’s response, already moving into action.

“Hosea, you are in charge until our return, of course. Make sure there are medical supplies ready upon our arrival. If we have the woman with us, I am... unsure of what state she will be in.”

Kieran had managed to get his own horse ready, as well as John’s, Javier’s, and Dutch’s, so when Dutch approached him to mount The Count, he was already handing him the reins.

“You know where this fort is, you said?”

Kieran gulped his voice was earnest as he spoke.

“Y-yes, sir. Been there loads of times.”

“Good. Once we cross the river into West Elizabeth you will lead us there. We can't waste any time looking for Arthur right now, and he may be there as it is.”

Sadie swung up into her own saddle, having gotten her horse ready by herself. She saw Dutch watch her, her eyes challenging his.

He gave her a hard look, but turned away towards The Count, swinging up into his own saddle, not objecting to her coming along. When he was in the saddle fully, he gave her a small, single nod of acknowledgement, and she gave one back.

John was saying goodbye to Abigail and Jack, Abigail actually looking proud of him rather than angry with him for the first time in a while.

"Shouldn't be long, Abigail... might not find anythin' anyhow, but... We gotta look."

Abigail hugged him, and then straightened up, her eyes looking suspiciously watery.

"You bring him back... And... you better come home in one piece, too... No wolves time, you hear me John?"

"Yes, ma'am. No wolves."

He got on his knee and took Jack by the shoulders, looking him in the eye.

"You gonna watch out for your Ma while I'm gone?"

Jack looked up at his mother, then back at his father, and nodded with all the solemnity a four year old could manage.

"Yes, sir... I'll watch out for mama."

John ruffled his son's hair, an intimate gesture that he didn't usually give.

"Good man. I'll be back soon."

He stood, and walked to the horses, joining the rest of them.

After Abigail and Jack went back to their tent, Micah came over, starting to fuss with Baylock’s saddle.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Bell?” John asked, his grip on his reins tightening.

“What do you mean, Marston? I’m gettin’ ready to ride out.”

“The hell you are! You ain’t comin’ with us! Ain’t you caused enough trouble already?”

“Oh, quit complainin’ Marston. If it weren’t for me, y’all wouldn’t even have a lead on the O’Driscolls.”

“So? That don’t mean you got any right to come with us.”

“You think I’m gonna let you decide if I’m comin’ or stayin’? It ain’t up to you, it’s up to Dutch.”

“Micah,” Dutch interrupted with a sharp tone, “John’s right. You’re staying here. We don’t need any more problems.”

Micah looked at Dutch in anger and disbelief.

“What? Dutch, you can’t be serious-!”

“I am, Micah. You’re staying here.”

“You’ll let some broad ride out with you but not me? You ain’t thinkin’-”

“I know exactly what I’m thinking Micah, and what I’m thinking is that you are a liability, and this is none of your concern. Stay in camp.”

His words were final, and Micah knew that, so he sulked away back to the campfire, cursing under his breath.

“Alright, men!” Dutch shouted to the riding posse he’d formed. “Move out!”