A roaring filled the air—a sound of hooves, wind, and distant thunder.
When the flames died down, the room was silent. The crib was empty.
Far from the rolling hills of England, somewhere in the wild heart of America, a strange light blinked into existence above the windswept plains. In the distance, coyotes howled, their haunting calls echoing under the starlit sky. The plains were vast, stretching endlessly under a bruised sky that was caught between dusk and dawn. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional whisper of wind through the grass.
A tall figure on horseback trotted along the edge of a desolate trail, his hat tilted low to shield his eyes from the last slivers of daylight. He wore a long duster, tattered and dusty from long days on the trail. His eyes, though weary, were sharp as they scanned the horizon, seeking trouble, fortune, or whatever might wander his way.
The man's horse snorted, sidestepping nervously as the air grew thick, charged with an unnatural energy.
"Whoa there, girl," murmured Arthur Morgan, patting the mare's neck with a gloved hand. His voice was gravelly, seasoned by years on the run and far too many nights under the open sky. He followed his horse's gaze to a strange, green glow emanating from the tall grass up ahead, like fireflies but too big, too bright.
"What in the hell is that…" Arthur muttered, dismounting to investigate. He approached cautiously, boots crunching on the dry earth. His hand hovered near the revolver at his hip—old habits died hard, after all.
As he drew closer, the green light faded, leaving nothing but a faint shimmer in the air. And then he saw it, nestled in a hollowed patch of grass—a tiny, wriggling bundle, covered in the remnants of strange, glittering dust.
Arthur knelt down, his breath catching as he took in the sight. It was a baby, barely old enough to sit up, dressed in what looked like nothing Arthur had ever seen. The child's emerald eyes glinted in the dark, staring up at Arthur with an odd mix of curiosity and familiarity, as though the baby somehow recognized him, somehow understood that Arthur Morgan—outlaw, gunslinger, man of questionable morality—was his only protector in this strange, ruthless land.
"What're you doin' out here, kid?" Arthur whispered, though he didn't expect an answer. Gently, almost reluctantly, he reached down, lifting the child into his arms. The baby didn't cry, didn't make a sound, just looked at him with those impossibly green eyes, as if he could see right through every wall Arthur had built up over the years.
Arthur straightened, looking around as though expecting someone to jump out from the shadows, hollering that this was some kind of trap. But the plains were empty, a vast nothingness stretching out under the night sky.
"Well, this is just perfect," Arthur muttered, adjusting the child awkwardly in his arms. "Never figured myself for babysittin' duty."
The baby gurgled, a soft, contented sound that cut through the tension hanging in the air. For a moment, Arthur felt his own defenses falter, the edges of his hard exterior softening in the presence of this strange, innocent life.
"Well… ain't no way I'm leavin' you out here to the wolves," he grumbled, trying to convince himself as much as the child. "Guess we'll figure this out together."
Arthur mounted his horse, cradling the baby carefully against his chest, shielding him from the chilly breeze. As they set off down the trail, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that his life had just taken a turn, one he couldn't explain, one he couldn't control.
"Wherever you came from, kid," he murmured, glancing down at the boy, "looks like you're stuck with me now."
The baby didn't respond, of course, but his eyes sparkled in the moonlight, an eerie brightness that hinted at a hidden power, something ancient and strange.
Arthur didn't know it yet, but this small life would change his path, forcing him to face a world of magic, fate, and choices more complex than any shootout or robbery. But for now, he rode on through the night, the child silent and watchful in his arms, as the Wild West stretched out before them like an open wound under the endless sky.
The camp lay under the pink haze of dawn, the sun just a sliver above the horizon, casting long shadows that mingled with the last clinging wisps of night. Birds were starting to call from the trees, their songs sharp against the quiet murmur of waking men and the distant clinking of pots and pans. In the middle of camp, a small fire crackled, its glow waning with the dawn, and around it sat three figures—a scene that had become as regular as the sunrise itself.
Arthur Morgan sat hunched over his coffee tin, blowing at the steam rising in lazy spirals. His face was hardened by years on the run, the deep lines around his mouth and eyes a testament to a life of rugged survival. Beside him sat Hosea Matthews, his face thoughtful as he poked at the fire with a stick, lips twisting into that familiar, calculating smile whenever he thought of an angle to play.
And then there was Henry.
Henry, they called him—a name that felt far too simple for a boy with a strange past and eyes that held a quiet, unsettling intensity. He'd come into their lives fifteen years back, a tiny, wriggling bundle Arthur had found under the stars. And somehow, over time, the boy had carved out a space for himself among them, had become a son to Arthur and Hosea both, if either of them would ever admit it. Now Henry was a young man, lean and wiry, with a quietness to him that made the other gang members keep their distance. Even Dutch himself respected that distance, though the leader's eyes often lingered on the boy with a calculating gleam, as if he were an enigma he meant to unravel.
Henry was sitting across from Arthur, his shoulders hunched and his fingers toying absently with a knife he'd picked up somewhere. He looked like any other young outlaw, but there was something about him, something about the way he watched everything, that made you wonder if he was seeing things the rest of them couldn't.
Hosea finally broke the silence, his voice soft, but clear enough for both of them to hear over the crackling fire.
"So, Blackwater," he began, his tone almost casual, as if they were planning a Sunday picnic. "Dutch thinks it's a once-in-a-lifetime haul. But we all know what a mess that town's become."
Arthur grunted, taking a swig of his coffee. "Dutch thinks a lot of things, Hosea. Doesn't make 'em all good ideas."
Henry glanced between them, his face impassive, though his eyes betrayed a hint of curiosity. "What exactly are we after there?" His voice was soft, carrying an accent that had softened over the years but still had a lingering cadence that didn't quite fit with the rough talk of the West.
Hosea's gaze sharpened, a glint of enthusiasm flickering in his eyes. "A haul, Henry. A goddamn fortune. There's a payroll coming through, fat with money that could set us up nicely for the next year. Enough to move us further west, away from all the trouble." He tilted his head, giving Henry a slight, knowing smile. "Dutch thinks it's fate."
Arthur shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Dutch always thinks it's fate."
Henry's eyes narrowed slightly, considering. He knew enough about the gang by now to understand the way Dutch's 'fate' tended to backfire, leaving the rest of them with bruises, broken bones, or worse. But there was a strange, unspoken loyalty among them, a tether that kept them all bound to Dutch's dream, even when common sense told them to run.
"So, what's the plan?" Henry asked, glancing at Arthur, whose face was set in a grim frown.
"We go in quiet," Hosea replied, his tone far too optimistic for Arthur's taste. "Dutch thinks we can get in, grab the cash, and slip out before anyone's the wiser."
Arthur gave a skeptical grunt. "Dutch also thought Colm would sit down and play nice. Look where that got us."
Henry's lips twitched, though he quickly stifled the smile. "And what's my part in all this?"
Hosea leaned forward, eyes bright with the thrill of a well-laid plan. "You're the distraction, Henry. You've got that way about you—people notice you, but they don't quite know why." His smile grew wider. "That's the sort of thing we can use. Dutch thinks if you stir things up a bit, it'll keep the eyes away from us long enough to grab the cash and get out."
Henry felt a prickle of something he couldn't quite name—a tug of anticipation, laced with an edge of doubt. He'd been with these men long enough to know their tactics, their strengths, and their limits. And he knew the precariousness of their situation better than most. This wasn't England, where the rules were written in ancient scrolls and whispered secrets. This was the West, wild and unforgiving, and he'd learned its rules the hard way.
Arthur's gaze settled on Henry, a mixture of pride and caution in his eyes. "You up for this, kid?"
Henry met Arthur's stare, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "When have I ever let you down?"
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. "You got that damn cocky streak in you, just like the rest of us." He softened, glancing briefly at Hosea before muttering, "Just… be careful. Blackwater's crawlin' with Pinkertons, and I'd hate to see you get tangled up in that mess."
Hosea looked between the two, his expression unreadable. "This is the life we've chosen, boys. The risks come with it. But together, we'll make sure we all come out of this one in one piece."
Henry nodded, glancing out toward the open plains that stretched beyond their camp. He felt a strange calm settle over him, as if the land itself were offering him some quiet reassurance. For as long as he could remember, the gang had been his family. He'd learned to ride and fight, to speak their rough language, to navigate their tangled loyalties. And yet, there was always a part of him—a flickering ember from another life—that felt out of place here. Like he was a shadow, a whisper, something not quite of this world.
As the sun rose higher, casting long streaks of orange and gold across the camp, Hosea clapped his hands, signaling the start of another day. The rest of the gang began to stir, pulling on their boots, strapping on their guns, readying themselves for whatever Dutch's "fate" might throw their way.
Henry rose with them, his gaze steady, his heart quiet. There was a weight in his chest—a strange feeling that something was on the horizon, something he couldn't quite name
The crisp morning air was sharp and biting as Arthur and Henry rode out from camp, the faint mist rolling off the river and hanging in the trees like ghostly wisps. They had left the chatter of the others behind, the faint sounds of camp life fading until there was only the steady rhythm of hooves on damp earth, the gentle creak of saddles, and the occasional rustle of deer or rabbit in the underbrush.
Arthur glanced sideways at Henry, who rode with that same strange quietness he always carried, his gaze fixed somewhere far ahead, unfazed by the wilderness. There was a mystery to the kid, something Arthur couldn't ever quite place, even after all these years.
"Seems like a good day for it," Arthur muttered, pulling his hat low to shield his eyes from the early sun.
Henry gave a faint nod, his voice soft but steady. "Weather's perfect. Shouldn't have much trouble finding game."
Arthur chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "You say it like you know the damn deer personally, kid."
A small smirk tugged at Henry's mouth, and Arthur caught a glint of mischief in those green eyes. The kid was sharp, all right. But he was more than that. Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that, sometimes, Henry was… well, different. Not in a way you could put into words, but in a way you could feel, like the prickle of a storm in the air before you even see the clouds.
They rode deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick and tall, their trunks damp and dark from the early morning fog. Arthur's mind drifted, memories washing over him like the warm glow of the sun breaking through the trees. He'd watched Henry grow from a scrappy, wide-eyed kid with barely a word to his name, to the quiet but capable young man sitting across from him.
There were times Henry had made him laugh, times he'd made him worry, and times… well, times Henry had downright baffled him. Arthur still remembered that day by the river, a good seven years back, when they'd been out hunting and a sudden storm had blown in, thunder crashing across the plains and lightning splitting the sky. They'd taken cover under some trees, hunkering down to wait it out.
But Henry had stood up, calm as anything, his face turned up to the rain like he was looking for something beyond the storm. "What're you doin', kid?" Arthur had barked, thinking the boy had lost his mind. But Henry had just looked back at him, his eyes calm, almost… serene, like he was in on some secret only he could understand. And then he'd held his hand out, and for a split second—Arthur could've sworn on his mother's grave—the lightning seemed to curl toward him, like it was reaching back.
Arthur snorted, shaking his head at the memory. "Still ain't figured out how you pulled that one off."
"What's that?" Henry asked, glancing over with a raised brow.
Arthur waved a hand. "That stunt you pulled, that storm years ago. Don't tell me you forgot. You held out your hand like you was callin' the damn lightning yourself."
Henry's lips curved, but he said nothing, turning his gaze back to the woods. Silence settled over them again, broken only by the rustling of leaves as a breeze wound through the trees.
"Still don't know what to make of you, kid," Arthur admitted after a long moment, his tone thoughtful, almost confessional. "Seen you do things I ain't never seen anyone do, not even Hosea. Hell, not even Dutch."
Henry shrugged, looking out over the sprawling landscape, his voice low. "Guess some things just can't be explained, Arthur. The world's a strange place."
"Strange don't even begin to cover it," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. But he couldn't deny it, there was something about Henry that felt… otherworldly. He'd seen the kid talk to wolves, calm them like they were hounds with nothing but a look. He'd seen him disappear in the woods only to reappear later, seemingly out of thin air, carrying a game animal as big as he was. And he'd seen him heal from scrapes and wounds faster than anyone he'd ever known, almost like he had something powerful thrumming just below the surface.
They rode in silence for a while longer, the woods deepening around them as they reached a clearing scattered with wildflowers. Arthur dismounted, the leather creaking as he landed, and Henry followed suit, drawing his rifle from its holster on his saddle.
Arthur scanned the tree line, his eyes keen and watchful, his voice dropping low. "Think I saw a couple of bucks out this way a few days back. Big ones, too. Keep low and quiet, and we might just get ourselves a decent haul."
Henry nodded, his movements precise, almost too graceful. They split up, slipping into the shadows of the trees with practiced ease. Arthur crept through the underbrush, his footsteps muffled against the damp earth. He stopped, crouching low as he caught sight of a flash of tawny fur in the distance.
Raising his rifle, he focused on the buck's silhouette through the iron sights, taking a slow breath as his finger brushed the trigger. Just as he was about to shoot, the buck looked up, its eyes meeting his through the distance. And then… it bolted.
Arthur cursed under his breath, lowering the rifle. But before he could move, he caught a faint sound, like a whisper. He turned, peering through the trees, only to spot Henry further down, his own rifle lowered, his gaze locked onto the fleeing buck. The kid was murmuring something, his voice low, melodic, almost like… like a lullaby.
As if on cue, the buck slowed, glancing back over its shoulder as though unsure of its own decision to flee. And then, impossibly, it stopped, standing still under Henry's gaze, its breathing slowing.
Arthur felt a shiver run down his spine. He'd seen Henry's influence over animals before, but never quite like this. The kid approached the buck slowly, raising his rifle and, with a single shot, ended its life mercifully. The creature collapsed quietly, and Henry kneeled beside it, one hand on its hide as though offering some silent thanks.
Arthur made his way over, his expression a mixture of awe and something darker, something wary. "What the hell was that?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.
Henry glanced up, his expression unreadable. "Just... showing respect. They don't deserve to be scared, Arthur. They deserve peace, even at the end."
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, glancing from Henry to the buck, and back again. "Strange way of lookin' at it, kid. But… guess it makes sense." He hesitated, then added, "Sure as hell never seen anyone else pull a trick like that, though."
Henry just gave a small, knowing smile, bending down to start preparing the buck for transport. Arthur watched him in silence, feeling the familiar mixture of pride and unease settle in his chest. He'd come to care for the boy, more than he cared to admit, but there was always that sense that Henry was part of something bigger, something older than any of them could understand.
The two of them worked in silence, loading the buck onto their horses before making their way back through the woods toward camp. The morning sun had risen high, casting the trees in gold, and the world felt quieter somehow, as though it was holding its breath, waiting for something.
Arthur glanced sideways at Henry as they rode, and for the first time in years, he wondered what their lives might've looked like if things had been different, if Henry hadn't come out of nowhere that night on the plains. But he knew better than anyone that life didn't give you those kinds of choices. The world was wild, unpredictable, and the best you could do was hold onto the things that mattered, come hell or high water.
As they neared camp, Arthur's voice broke the silence, rough but sincere. "Guess it's you and me, kid. Whatever you are. Whatever comes our way."
Henry looked over, and there was something in his gaze—a quiet gratitude, a bond that was as solid as the land they rode over. For a moment, he almost spoke, but instead, he nodded, his voice soft as he murmured, "Whatever comes."
The midday sun climbed high, filtering through the canopy in patches of light as Arthur and Henry set up a makeshift camp on a soft patch of ground. They'd strung up the game, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air, earthy and rich, mingling with the scents of pine and the dry, dusty scent of fallen leaves. Arthur leaned back against a log, chewing on a piece of jerky while he watched Henry work with that same steady focus he seemed to bring to everything. The kid was crouched low, his knife flashing in the sun as he sharpened it against a small whetstone he kept in his pack.
Arthur chuckled, breaking the peaceful quiet with his rough, blunt humor. "Funny thing, Henry," he drawled, tipping his hat back with a smirk. "Think that's the first time I've ever seen you sharpen that blade, let alone use it. You tryin' to look mean or somethin'?"
Henry didn't look up, but Arthur saw a faint grin tug at his lips as he continued honing the knife's edge. "Never hurts to be prepared, Arthur. Besides, you know as well as I do… sometimes the sight of a good, sharp knife is enough to keep trouble at bay."
Arthur chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well, I reckon most folks wouldn't get close enough to see it anyhow. You got that look about you, kid. Just somethin' in those eyes that'd make a man think twice."
Henry's smile faded slightly, his gaze lowering as he wiped the blade clean. "You say that like it's a good thing."
Arthur shrugged, taking a long breath of the smoky, pine-filled air. "Might be, might not. Keeps you alive, don't it?"
They let the silence settle in again, the kind of quiet that was peaceful out here in the wild, where the world was nothing but trees and sky, where time felt slower, like it was taking its sweet time to unravel. The crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of fat dripping onto the flames created a gentle rhythm, a harmony of survival and routine, the sounds of men who knew their place in the world, or at least pretended they did.
Suddenly, a twig snapped—a sharp, brittle sound that sent a shock through the stillness. Arthur's hand went instinctively to his sidearm, but before he could even touch it, three men emerged from the trees, guns drawn and trained squarely on them. They were rough-looking sorts, drifters by the look of their tattered clothes and hollow eyes. Their faces were obscured by wide-brimmed hats pulled low, casting shadows that made their eyes glint like coals.
"Hands where I can see 'em!" the lead man barked, his voice coarse and laced with years of dust and cheap whiskey.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, but he kept his expression calm, letting his hands slowly rise to shoulder level. "Well, hell… if it ain't our lucky day," he drawled, his voice cool and steady, a faint smirk on his lips as he eyed the men with contempt barely hidden behind his gaze.
Henry didn't move, his face as impassive as stone, his green eyes fixed on the three men with that unsettling intensity that had rattled even Arthur at times. The lead man's gaze flickered uncertainly, like he'd felt the weight of those eyes, but he didn't falter. His gun remained steady, pointing squarely at Arthur's chest.
"Don't go gettin' smart with me," the man hissed, his voice thick with the kind of cruelty that came from years on the wrong side of civilization. "Just hand over whatever you got. Cash, weapons, that meat cookin' over there… don't care how hard you worked for it. Just pass it on over nice and slow."
Arthur kept his hands raised, though he shot a look at Henry, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Y'know, I'm gettin' mighty tired of folks comin' out of the woods and interruptin' my lunch," he muttered, his voice low enough that only Henry could hear. "Wasn't like this ten years ago, was it?"
Henry allowed himself a faint smile, but his eyes never left the men. "Reckon not. But guess times are changin'."
The second man, skinnier and more jittery than the others, snorted. "Ain't got time for your little chit-chat," he spat, waving his gun toward Henry's pack. "Dump it out, kid. Let's see what kinda goods you got in there."
Henry's eyes flicked to Arthur, a silent question hanging between them. Arthur gave the slightest nod, and Henry reached for his pack, moving slow, careful, keeping his movements deliberate as he began pulling items from it, one by one. His knife, his canteen, a small bundle of dried herbs he'd gathered. Each item fell into the dirt with a soft thud.
One of the men, watching intently, leaned in closer, his gun lowering just a fraction. "That's all?" he sneered. "You two out here with nothin' but scraps?"
Arthur's face twisted into a mocking grin. "Guess we ain't as rich as you thought, huh? But we're full of surprises, boys."
And that's when Arthur moved.
With a speed that defied his rugged build, his hand shot down to his revolver, and before the men could react, he fired a shot that sent the lead man staggering back, clutching his shoulder as a red stain bloomed through his shirt. The second man's eyes widened, his mouth open in shock, but he barely had time to gasp before Henry lunged at him, his knife flashing in the sun as it met flesh with a sickening, wet sound.
The third man—a scrappy, younger fellow with wide, panicked eyes—stumbled back, his gun shaking as he aimed it at Arthur.
"You… you goddamn fools!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "I'll kill you both, I swear to God—"
But he didn't get the chance. Henry's knife was already spinning through the air, and with a clean, swift arc, it lodged itself deep in the man's shoulder. He dropped his gun with a strangled scream, clutching at the knife handle as he collapsed to his knees.
Arthur grinned, spinning his revolver back into its holster with practiced ease. "Now, look what happens when you go pokin' around where you don't belong," he said, sauntering over to the downed man and giving him a condescending once-over. "Gonna think twice before you interrupt a man's lunch next time, ain't ya?"
Henry approached the lead man, who was groaning in the dirt, clutching his bleeding shoulder with a look of pure hatred etched into his face. Henry crouched down, his green eyes as cold as ice. "You boys might wanna think about headin' back the way you came. Ain't safe to be sneakin' up on strangers out here."
The man spat in the dirt, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You ain't nothin' but a pair of damn killers," he sneered, his voice thick with pain and venom.
Arthur chuckled, his gaze steady as he shrugged. "Maybe. But we're the ones walkin' away, so I reckon that makes us the smart ones."
Without another word, Arthur and Henry turned, leaving the men where they lay, broken and bleeding, but alive enough to learn their lesson. They walked back to the campfire, Arthur grinning as he grabbed the roasting meat and tore off a piece, the savory, smoky flavor filling his mouth.
"See, Henry?" Arthur said between bites, his tone almost casual. "Ain't nothin' wrong with a little sharp steel, when the time comes."
Henry glanced down at his knife, the blade still gleaming with the slickness of blood. He wiped it clean on the grass, sheathing it with a quiet resolve. "Guess you're right, Arthur," he murmured, his voice low but sure. "Sometimes… you just gotta be prepared."
They shared a quiet look, a moment of unspoken understanding passing between them as the world around them returned to its peaceful silence. And with the scent of cooking meat and fresh blood mingling in the air, they resumed their meal, the wilderness once again settling around them, vast and untamed, a place where men like them could live and die by the steel at their side and the sharpness of their wit.
The sun was low and slanting golden light across the camp as Arthur and Henry rode in, their horses clopping over the worn path that twisted through the trees. They had made a good haul—enough venison and fresh game to feed everyone for a few days if they rationed it right. As they neared the heart of the camp, where a few of the others sat around whittling, smoking, or just watching the world turn, Arthur gave a whistle, signaling their return.
Preston was the first to wander over, wiping his hands on his worn shirt, his face lighting up with the sight of the haul. "Well, hell, Arthur! You and the kid did all right, didn't ya?"
Arthur chuckled, patting his horse. "Yeah, reckon we did, Preston. Got enough here to keep your pots busy for a while."
Henry dismounted, handing over the reins and grabbing a large haunch of venison wrapped in cloth. "Think you can do somethin' with this?"
Preston grinned, taking the meat with a nod. "Can I? This here's gold in my hands, kid. I'll get somethin' real special goin' for tonight. And maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you have a taste before the rest of these hogs get to it."
Henry smiled, but it was a quiet, modest one as he nodded. "Much obliged, Preston. You're the only one around here I'd trust with it anyway."
Preston winked, shuffling off toward the cooking pots as Arthur and Henry began unloading the rest of the game. A few others wandered over to see what the hunters had brought in, whistling their approval and muttering half-hearted complaints about not getting invited along.
Mary-Beth strolled up, her eyes bright with a little more than just curiosity. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, flashing Henry a warm smile. "Look at you, out there bringin' back food for us like a regular hero," she teased lightly. "Bet you had half the deer in the woods runnin' scared."
Henry chuckled softly, adjusting his hat, looking down and missing the way her eyes lingered on him. "Didn't take much, Mary-Beth. Arthur here did most of the work."
"Oh, don't be modest, Henry," she pressed, stepping closer and nudging his arm. "You're every bit as good as him, don't let Arthur tell you otherwise."
Arthur, overhearing this, let out a rough laugh. "Ha! Well, kid's got his moments, I'll give him that," he said, giving Henry a playful shove on the shoulder. "But don't be goin' and gettin' all big-headed now, y'hear? No need to break every heart in camp."
Henry looked at him, confused. "Breakin' hearts?" he asked, casting a bemused look around as if he'd missed some obvious joke.
Mary-Beth giggled, her cheeks turning a faint shade of pink as she looked down, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't listen to him, Henry. He just likes to stir things up."
"Yeah, he likes to stir somethin' all right," Tilly muttered with a smirk as she walked by, carrying a bundle of firewood. She tossed Henry a wink, adding, "Don't let Arthur fill your head, Henry. Some of us around here think you're worth a little admiration."
Henry smiled politely, still oblivious to the looks shared between Tilly and Mary-Beth, who exchanged amused glances as they walked off. He watched them go, a faint frown on his brow, clearly baffled.
Arthur clapped him on the back, chuckling. "You poor, blind fool. They're all after you, y'know?"
Henry shrugged, the thought bouncing off him like water off a rock. "I reckon they're just bein' kind, Arthur. Ain't nothin' more to it."
Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Lord help ya, kid. Maybe one day you'll see what's right under your nose."
As the sun dipped lower, the camp sprang to life with the promise of an evening feast. Preston's stew bubbled in the pot, the rich scent of herbs and meat wafting through the air, drawing folks in like moths to a flame. Someone brought out a guitar, another a harmonica, and within minutes, the haunting, soulful strains of music drifted over the trees, mingling with laughter and the smell of the feast.
The gang gathered around, huddling close as the stars began to peek out, one by one, in the fading twilight. Arthur and Hosea sat off to the side, sharing a flask of whiskey and trading stories. Dutch was in his element, of course, holding court like a king, spinning tales and rallying spirits with his charm and easy laughter. The others joined in, one by one, their faces lit by the firelight, each face softened, relaxed, free in this rare moment of peace.
Mary-Beth slid into the spot beside Henry, holding two mugs of cider. She handed one to him, her eyes twinkling as she clinked her mug against his. "Here's to the hero of the hunt," she said, her tone playful, but her gaze was sincere.
Henry took a sip, glancing at her, a faint smile on his lips. "Didn't do much," he said softly. "But… thank you, Mary-Beth."
"Oh, hush," she laughed, nudging his arm with her shoulder. "You're too humble, Henry. And too quiet for your own good. A little boasting wouldn't kill you."
Henry chuckled, glancing around at the gang's laughter and singing, a rare moment of contentment settling over him. He watched as Sean regaled the others with some wild story about a bar fight he'd gotten into up north, his words slurring slightly, arms flailing as he reenacted the tale with exaggerated gestures.
"You know, Henry," Mary-Beth said softly, bringing his attention back to her, "you don't always have to be so serious. We all care about you here. Maybe… maybe it's time you let yourself enjoy it a little more."
He looked at her, his green eyes thoughtful, a flicker of something like understanding crossing his face. "Maybe I just don't know how," he admitted quietly, almost as though he were speaking to himself.
She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm lightly, a warmth in her gaze that softened her features. "I think you do. You just need to let yourself try."
Across the fire, Arthur caught the exchange, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he raised his flask in an unseen salute to the kid. There was a part of him that wanted to protect Henry from the world, but another part of him knew that Henry had carved his own path just fine. Whatever mysteries the kid held, he'd done all right by them all these years.
The night stretched on, the music growing wilder, voices rising in song and laughter, filling the woods with a rare, joyful abandon. Even Henry, who so often sat on the edges, found himself drawn in. He laughed at Sean's outlandish tales, listened as Hosea shared a quiet story about his younger days, and shared a silent, knowing look with Arthur across the fire—a look that spoke of battles fought, hunts shared, and countless miles ridden together under moonlight and sun.
As the party wound down, Henry leaned back against a log, his gaze drifting to the starlit sky, a rare smile tugging at his lips. For a moment, he let himself feel it—the warmth, the closeness, the feeling of belonging. It was a fleeting thing, fragile as the smoke rising from the dying fire, but it was real, and tonight, that was enough.
The sun was barely up, casting a hazy light across camp, when Dutch's voice rang out, clear and commanding, pulling everyone from their tents and sleep-ridden stupor.
"Up and at 'em, folks! Today's the day we head to Blackwater!" Dutch's voice had that confident, rolling thunder in it, the kind that inspired and sent a thrill through the group. Everyone knew this was more than just another job—Blackwater was big, dangerous, and complicated. But to Dutch, it was also their salvation.
Arthur trudged over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, while Henry, already up, stood leaning against a tree, arms crossed, watching as Dutch gathered everyone by the fire pit.
"All right, listen up," Dutch began, casting a look around the camp, his gaze fierce and determined. "Today, we're goin' after a score that could set us up for good. Enough money to get us far from this mess and give us a real start." His voice was steady, a low rumble that demanded attention. "Now, we go in, we go out, and we leave no trace. Blackwater don't know what's coming."
Arthur folded his arms, a skeptical look crossing his face. "Dutch, you're actin' like this is gonna be a walk in the park. Blackwater's swarmin' with law, Pinkertons everywhere."
Dutch turned to Arthur, his jaw set, but his eyes gleaming with that unwavering confidence. "And that's why we do it quick, Arthur. In and out. You know the drill." He glanced over the group, his gaze finally landing on Henry. "And Henry… you're comin' with me on the inside."
Arthur's expression darkened, his voice low and blunt. "Dutch, he ain't goin' in there with you. Kid's smart, but he ain't ready for somethin' like Blackwater. Too risky."
Dutch raised his chin, his eyes narrowing at Arthur's challenge. "Arthur, Henry is part of this gang, same as the rest of us. He's ready. I've seen the way he handles himself, just like you. He knows how to keep his head down, and he's got that steady calm we need in a place like Blackwater."
Arthur shot a look at Henry, a protective glint in his eyes. "Maybe, but he's still green. Ain't nothin' wrong with lettin' him stay back, keepin' watch, doin' somethin' else that don't get him killed."
Dutch's expression hardened, his voice lowering. "Arthur, you questionin' my call here?"
"Maybe I am," Arthur retorted, his voice equally quiet but carrying a dangerous edge. "Not everyone's cut out for your brand of fate, Dutch."
"Seems to me," Micah drawled, sidling up with that smug, twisted grin, "the kid oughta pull his own weight for once. Ain't like he's doin' nothin' useful sittin' back at camp. Hell, let him go in and see what he's made of." He gave Henry a sharp look, the kind that made Henry's blood boil. Micah had always taken a sick pleasure in pushing Henry's buttons, in trying to get under his skin, and today was no different.
Henry's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And who asked you, Micah?" His voice was cold, low, each word like a coiled snake ready to strike. "Last I checked, Dutch makes the calls, not you."
Micah laughed, a low, derisive sound. "Oh, I got under his skin, did I?" He turned to Dutch, his voice dripping with false innocence. "Ain't nothin' wrong with the kid havin' a chance to prove himself. Just don't think we should be coddlin' him like he's some delicate flower."
Arthur stepped forward, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You keep your damn mouth shut, Micah. Henry's done more for this gang than you ever will."
Dutch raised a hand, his voice sharp, commanding. "Enough! I don't need to remind you all that we're a family here. And as a family, we take care of each other." He looked to Henry, his expression softening slightly. "Henry, it's your choice. You're ready, or you're not. But know this—today could be our ticket to freedom. Your chance to show the world you're more than some quiet kid standin' in the shadows."
Henry looked at Dutch, then at Arthur, who met his gaze with a subtle nod, a quiet encouragement that spoke volumes. The entire gang's eyes were on him, waiting for his decision. But it was Micah's sneer that finally pushed him over the edge.
"I'm goin'," Henry said, his voice steady, unyielding. "I'm tired of waitin' around while everyone else takes the risks. If this is what needs to be done, I'll do it."
Arthur frowned, glancing between Henry and Dutch. "Then I'm goin' in with the two of ya. If this goes south, someone's gotta make sure we get out in one piece."
Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "There we go. The three of us. We're a team, Arthur, just like old times. Henry, you're with me, and Arthur's got our backs."
Micah rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, but he backed off, giving Henry one last look, his eyes glinting with something dark and resentful. "Well, ain't that sweet," he sneered. "Just don't say I didn't warn ya when the kid freezes up."
Henry felt his fingers itch for his knife, but he forced himself to stay still, keeping his gaze locked on Dutch and Arthur, ignoring Micah's goading.
Dutch looked over the assembled group, his eyes fierce, brimming with the feverish belief that had always driven him, that fire that fueled his grand dreams and wild schemes. "We ride in an hour," he announced, his voice ringing through the morning air. "We hit Blackwater, we take what's ours, and we vanish before they know what's happened. This is what we've been waitin' for, folks. This is our future."
The gang murmured their agreement, voices low and filled with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. They knew what was at stake, each one of them feeling the weight of Dutch's words, the tension simmering beneath the surface.
As the group dispersed to prepare, Arthur placed a hand on Henry's shoulder, his face grave. "Listen, kid. You don't gotta prove nothin' to anyone, least of all to Dutch or that bastard Micah. Just keep your head low, stay close, and don't take no unnecessary risks. Got it?"
Henry nodded, meeting Arthur's gaze, his voice firm. "I know, Arthur. But I ain't just a kid no more. It's time I pulled my own weight."
Arthur gave him a rare smile, one filled with pride but shaded with worry. "You're a damn fool, Henry, but you got guts. Just don't go tryin' to be a hero. We ain't got room for heroes in this world."
With a final nod, Arthur walked off, leaving Henry to gather his thoughts, the weight of his choice settling over him like the dawn mist. He knew that once they crossed into Blackwater, everything would change. But he was ready. And as he stood there, the gang moving around him, preparing for what was to come, Henry felt a spark of something fierce, something resolute.
He was done waiting.
As the gang scattered to ready themselves for Blackwater, Hosea made his way over to Henry, his expression half stern, half worried. Susan Grimshaw followed closely behind, her face set with that no-nonsense look she reserved for the younger members of the gang, the one that meant business. Arthur lingered nearby, arms folded, watching as they surrounded Henry like a trio of worried parents.
Hosea placed a hand on Henry's shoulder, squeezing it firmly. "Now, listen to me, Henry. Dutch might think this is all gonna go smooth, but you know better than that. Keep your damn wits about you, and don't get caught up in any heroics. You stay close, keep your head down, and if things look like they're about to go to hell, you find Arthur and you follow him out, you hear?"
Henry nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I hear ya, Hosea. I'll be careful."
Susan huffed, crossing her arms tightly. "And don't you let Dutch talk you into some reckless nonsense. Man's got a head full of dreams and a pocket full of promises he can't keep. You do what's smart, not what's grand. You're a bright kid, Henry. Don't be stupid out there."
"Yes, ma'am," Henry replied, nodding earnestly, though he couldn't help feeling a bit embarrassed by the fuss they were all making.
Arthur stepped up, giving Henry a hard look. "Remember, kid—stick to the plan. Don't go wanderin' off, don't get any ideas, and don't let Micah rile you up. Bastard'd love nothin' more than to see you get in over your head."
Right on cue, Micah's grating laugh cut through the morning air. "Jesus Christ, you three mother hens, cluckin' around the boy like he's some kinda delicate flower. Ain't this precious." He sneered, sidling over with that ever-present smirk, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "What's wrong, Henry? Need a diaper change, too?"
Henry's jaw tightened, his hand moving instinctively to rest on the handle of his revolver. "Micah," he said quietly, his voice low and controlled, "you best keep your damn mouth shut."
Micah laughed harder, his tone mocking, laced with poison. "Oh, did I hurt your little feelings, Henry? You know, maybe Dutch is wrong puttin' you on this job. Maybe you're just too much of a little snot-nosed brat to handle the big stuff."
Hosea raised his hand, trying to step in. "Micah, that's enough—"
But Micah ignored him, taking a step closer to Henry, his face twisted into a smug, taunting grin. "Or maybe we should send you back to camp, huh? Leave the real work to the men."
The insult hit like a match to kindling. Henry's eyes flashed, and before anyone could react, he drew his gun, pointing it straight at Micah's chest. The tension snapped like a taut wire, the entire camp freezing as Henry's voice came out in a low, venomous growl.
"You got a big mouth, Micah," Henry hissed, his hand steady, his gaze locked on Micah's smirking face. "One of these days, it's gonna get you killed."
Micah's grin only widened, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. "Oh, look at you. Tough guy, huh? Got somethin' to prove, don't ya? Go on, then. Pull the damn trigger. Let's see what you're really made of."
Arthur felt his heart sink as he watched Henry's hand tighten on the trigger, his face contorted in pure, unfiltered rage. But something else was happening, something that sent a chill down Arthur's spine. Around them, small objects began to rattle—the tin cups on the nearby table, a few stray horseshoes in the dirt, even the metal on the wagons. The camp itself seemed to shudder, a faint tremor running through the ground as Henry's anger swelled, raw and intense.
Arthur stepped in, quick as lightning, grabbing Henry's arm and pulling him back, his voice low and firm. "That's enough, Henry. Put it down."
Henry's breath was ragged, his eyes still fixed on Micah, but he didn't lower the gun. Arthur tightened his grip, leaning in closer. "Henry," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension. "Look at me. This son of a bitch ain't worth it. Don't let him take you down with him."
For a moment, it seemed like Henry didn't hear him, the fury in his eyes burning so bright it was almost blinding. But Arthur held firm, his voice a steady anchor in the storm. "You're better than him, Henry. Don't give him what he wants."
Finally, slowly, Henry's grip on the revolver loosened. He lowered it, his face pale but resolute, his jaw set as he pulled himself back from the edge. The rattling stopped, the air clearing as if a storm had just passed. Arthur released Henry's arm, giving him a brief nod of approval.
Micah chuckled, that same smug smirk on his face as he looked between them, clearly enjoying every second of the chaos he'd sown. "Well, ain't that just adorable," he sneered. "Arthur, holdin' the kid's hand like he's some helpless babe. You'd think he was still suckin' on his mama's teat."
Arthur's eyes hardened, and he took a step toward Micah, his voice like gravel. "You keep pushin' your luck, Micah, and I swear, I'll put you in the dirt myself. You got nothin' but venom in that mouth of yours, and one of these days, someone's gonna shut it for good."
Micah's grin faltered just a fraction, but he covered it with a mocking shrug, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, Arthur. Just don't come cryin' to me when the kid proves he's nothin' but dead weight."
With that, he sauntered off, whistling tunelessly, leaving the rest of the camp in a tense silence.
Hosea shook his head, muttering under his breath. "That man's a rattlesnake if I ever saw one. Henry, don't you pay him any mind. He's just lookin' to stir up trouble."
Henry exhaled, his hands still shaking slightly as he holstered his gun. "I know," he said quietly, his voice laced with frustration. "But I'm sick of his damn mouth."
Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, his tone softening. "Look, kid… I get it. Believe me, I do. But there's always gonna be men like Micah—folks who'll try to tear you down just to feel big. You can't let 'em get to you, or they'll drag you down faster than you can blink."
Henry nodded, his gaze steady, though a spark of anger still lingered in his eyes. "I won't let him drag me down, Arthur. I just… I hate that he's part of this gang. Feels like a rot in the middle of somethin' good."
Arthur looked over his shoulder, watching as Micah walked off with that swaggering, arrogant gait. "Ain't nothin' we can do about that now, kid. But we keep our heads straight, stay focused on the job, and we don't let that snake pull us under."
Dutch, who had been watching the whole exchange from a distance, walked over, his face unreadable. "Well, seems we're all set," he said, his voice calm, though his gaze lingered on Henry with a faint hint of concern. "I don't need to remind any of you—especially you, Henry—that this is a job of precision and patience. Keep your heads, don't let emotions take over. We do this smart, we do it clean, and we walk away with our future in our hands."
Henry met Dutch's gaze, his jaw set, his expression resolved. "Understood, Dutch."
Dutch nodded approvingly, clapping him on the back. "Good man. Now, let's move out, folks. Blackwater's waiting, and so's our ticket to freedom."
As the gang mounted up, Arthur fell into step beside Henry, giving him a final, reassuring nod. "Remember, stick close. We get in, we get out. And if that bastard Micah gives you any more trouble… well, you let me handle him. No need to carry that burden alone."
Henry managed a small smile, glancing at Arthur with a flicker of gratitude. "Thanks, Arthur. I'll keep my cool."
Together, they rode out of camp, the gang moving as one toward Blackwater, the promise of freedom and danger in equal measure hanging over them like a shadow. And as they approached the town, Henry felt the anger simmering beneath the surface, a fire he'd learned to control… for now. But he knew, deep down, that one day, his reckoning was coming.