The morning mist clung to Blackwater like a shroud, hanging thick and low over the quiet streets, muffling the distant sounds of townsfolk stirring to life. Dutch gathered the gang just out of sight near the docks, a fire in his eyes as he laid out his grand plan, his voice low but filled with an unbreakable confidence that bordered on recklessness.
"All right," Dutch began, a sly smile on his face as he addressed the group. "This is our moment, folks. Hosea, Arthur—you two have your own leads to follow, sniffin' out any loose ends. The rest of you," he continued, casting his gaze around, "are comin' with me. We're hitting that boat, taking the payroll, and getting out of here before anyone knows we're there."
Arthur, standing with his arms crossed, let out a harsh sigh, his expression dark and doubtful. "Dutch, you're bringin' the whole damn gang onto a crowded dock to rob the town's pride and joy? You think that's smart?"
Dutch's smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Arthur, you don't get it, do you? We go in fast, we go in clean. We've done jobs like this before. You're just gettin' cold feet."
Arthur's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Ain't about cold feet, Dutch. It's about you takin' Henry in there, draggin' him into this mess when he don't need to be. You want this job done right? Let the kid stay back with us, keep him out of the damn line of fire."
Dutch waved a dismissive hand, his gaze unwavering. "Arthur, Henry's ready for this. He's part of this family, part of this damn dream. He's ready to step up."
Arthur's eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he took a step closer to Dutch, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "Listen to me, Dutch. I don't give a damn about your 'dream' right now. I'm tellin' you, you're makin' a mistake if you put him in there. He's just a kid—"
Dutch's face twisted with defiance, his tone cutting as he interrupted. "Arthur, you're the one who doesn't understand. Henry's more than capable. Hell, he's proved it time and time again. He ain't a kid anymore. He can handle himself."
Arthur clenched his teeth, fury building beneath his calm, gritty exterior. "Handle himself?" he hissed, his voice sharp, unyielding. "You think draggin' him onto that boat with the Pinkertons watchin' every inch of that town is 'handle himself'? You're lookin' to get him killed, Dutch. You're blinded by your own damn pride!"
Dutch's eyes darkened, his tone dangerously calm. "You forget yourself, Arthur. I know what's best for this family, and I know what Henry's capable of. This is our future, our chance to break free. And I need Henry by my side."
Arthur's face contorted with barely contained rage. He took another step closer, his voice as sharp and cold as a drawn blade. "You're gamblin' with his life, Dutch. You've dragged us all into hell, time and again, for this so-called freedom you keep preachin'. But you put him in danger, and I swear, it'll be the last mistake you ever make."
A tense silence fell over them, the weight of Arthur's words hanging thick in the air, as cold and deadly as a loaded gun. Hosea, sensing the rising tension, stepped between them, his voice calm but firm.
"Dutch, Arthur's right," he said, his gaze shifting from one to the other. "Henry's young, and he don't need to be in the thick of it, not like this. We can pull this off without riskin' him."
Dutch turned his gaze on Hosea, his expression softening for a moment before the fire in his eyes returned. "Hosea, you're always the cautious one, but this is our moment. I see somethin' in Henry. He's ready to be part of somethin' bigger, and I'm gonna give him that chance."
Arthur let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he stared at Dutch with pure disdain. "Bigger? You don't care about what's best for him. You just care about what's best for you, for your goddamn 'legacy.' This ain't about him—it's about you wantin' to prove somethin' to yourself. You think draggin' him along's gonna get us that future you keep yappin' about?"
Micah, who'd been lurking nearby, watching the whole confrontation with an amused smirk, chimed in with a mocking laugh. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arthur! Stop playin' the father figure. Boy's got more guts than you'll ever give him credit for. You're just mad Dutch don't follow your every whim."
Arthur's face twisted with fury as he rounded on Micah, his voice a low growl. "Shut your damn mouth, Micah, or I swear to God, I'll shut it for ya."
Micah spread his hands, feigning innocence as he grinned, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, look at this. Arthur, all high and mighty, tryin' to play protector. Maybe you just don't got what it takes to see Dutch's vision."
"Vision?" Arthur spat, turning back to Dutch, his voice a raw, angry whisper. "Dutch, you keep talkin' 'bout this dream, this damn freedom you keep chasin'. But you're gonna end up with nothin' but corpses in your wake if you keep this up. You don't drag Henry into it. Not this time."
Dutch's face was set, a cold determination gleaming in his eyes. He looked at Arthur for a long, tense moment before finally speaking, his voice low but unyielding. "I'm the one leadin' this family, Arthur. Not you. You got a choice—stand with us, or stand aside. But I'm takin' Henry. And that's final."
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his voice like ice. "Fine, Dutch. But if anythin' happens to him… anythin' at all… you're gonna have me to answer to."
Dutch held his gaze, an unspoken challenge passing between them before he turned away, calling the gang to mount up. Arthur stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of barely controlled rage, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Hosea placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, his voice quiet but filled with understanding. "We'll keep an eye on him, Arthur. You know as well as I do… Dutch won't listen to reason. Not anymore."
Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze following Dutch and Henry as they moved toward the horses. "He's lost his damn mind, Hosea. And I'm startin' to think… there ain't no comin' back."
They mounted up, the gang falling into formation as they rode toward Blackwater, the tension thick and suffocating. Arthur kept his gaze locked on Henry's back, a fierce protectiveness burning within him, a silent promise that no matter what happened, he wouldn't let Dutch's blind ambition swallow the kid whole.
Arthur stood with Hosea, watching as Dutch, Henry, and the rest of the gang rode off toward the docks, the line of horses kicking up clouds of dust in the early morning light. The boat they were aiming for loomed in the distance, a hulking shape in the water, bristling with Pinkertons and lawmen. Arthur's jaw tightened as he watched Henry ride beside Dutch, looking focused but tense, his green eyes fixed on the path ahead like he was steadying himself for what lay ahead.
Arthur spat into the dirt, a harsh snarl escaping his lips. "Damn it, Hosea. Kid ain't ready for this. He's barely got a taste of what we do, and now Dutch is throwin' him right into the fire, right onto a boat with half the damn law in Blackwater waitin' for 'em."
Hosea nodded grimly, watching the departing riders with narrowed eyes. "I know, Arthur. Believe me, I know. Dutch's ambition's gotten too big for his own damn good, and he's draggin' Henry along just to prove some point."
Arthur scowled, his face flushed with anger, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. "The kid hasn't killed a man, Hosea! Not a one. Hell, he barely knows what it feels like to be in the middle of a real fight, let alone a heist gone bad. And Dutch? He's too goddamn blind to see it."
Hosea put a steadying hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Dutch sees what he wants to see. He's wrapped Henry up in this 'family' talk, made him feel like he's got somethin' to prove. And that's all Dutch needs—someone loyal enough to follow him off a cliff."
Arthur shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Loyal enough to die for his damned fantasies, more like. Kid's too young for this. He don't deserve to have Dutch's lunacy pinned on him. Hell, half the gang don't even know what they're gettin' themselves into." He looked back, eyes blazing. "Dutch has got this plan, but he don't care who gets chewed up in the process."
Hosea sighed deeply, his voice weary. "Dutch was always a dreamer, Arthur. But now? He's got somethin' else burnin' him up inside, and he can't see the harm he's causin'. He's got that look in his eye—the one that means he's too far gone to listen."
Arthur's fists tightened again, fury simmering just below the surface. "That damn fool. Henry looks up to him, thinks he's somethin' special. And now, he's draggin' him out there, tryin' to turn him into some… some killer. What kind of future is that?"
Hosea's gaze softened as he watched Arthur, his voice low and almost fatherly. "You care about the boy, Arthur. That much is clear. But if you're gonna keep him from fallin' into Dutch's hands, you need to be ready for when he sees the truth himself. Because that day'll come, sure as the sun rises. And when it does, he's gonna need someone he can trust."
Arthur clenched his teeth, his voice dropping to a cold, determined whisper. "I ain't lettin' him go down like that, Hosea. I don't care what Dutch thinks or says—Henry's got more in him than Dutch's damn dreams. He ain't some pawn for Dutch to throw away on a whim."
Hosea nodded, glancing back at the dwindling figures in the distance, his expression dark. "Then we watch. We stay close, keep our wits about us, and be there to catch him when the truth knocks him down."
Arthur looked out toward the docks, his face grim as he muttered under his breath. "You know, Hosea, if Dutch gets that boy hurt—or worse… I won't be able to let it go. Ain't no forgivin' that."
Hosea's gaze was knowing, understanding the weight of Arthur's words. "I know. And if that time comes… well, we'll cross that bridge when we reach it."
They stood there in silence, watching as the gang neared the water's edge, the dull thud of horse hooves fading as the distance grew. The low hum of voices, the rustle of the town waking up, and the gentle lapping of water against the boat all blended into a tense stillness.
Arthur's voice broke the silence, a mix of anger and regret. "If anything happens to him, Hosea, I'll hold Dutch responsible. Ain't no dream worth that kind of sacrifice. Not for Henry." He took a breath, looking down at his calloused hands, fingers twitching with the urge to do something, to stop what was already in motion.
Hosea placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder once more, his voice steady, resolute. "We'll be there, Arthur. And if Dutch's dreams come crashin' down… we'll be the ones left standin'."
Arthur nodded, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, his gaze locked on the distant boat as it loomed over Blackwater, ready to swallow up anyone who dared to step on board.
The mid-morning sun hung high over Blackwater, casting harsh beams of light that made every shadow along the docks seem darker, sharper. The ferry sat moored at the pier, its hull gleaming in the daylight, thick ropes creaking as the boat bobbed lazily on the water. Townsfolk bustled along the pier, oblivious to the outlaws moving through the morning crowd, heads low, faces shaded by hats.
Dutch strode at the front, his every step filled with purpose, a sly grin stretching across his face as he glanced back at the gang. His eyes flickered with excitement, catching Henry's in particular, giving him a nod that felt like both a command and a test. Henry adjusted his hat, his fingers tight around the handle of his revolver as he tried to steady his breath. This was bigger than anything they'd done, and he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, a quiet dread that he tried to ignore.
"Remember, folks," Dutch said under his breath as they walked, his voice calm but fierce. "We're walkin' in there, takin' what's ours, and walkin' out. Ain't no trouble unless it finds us."
Micah, with a smirk that Henry wanted to slap clean off his face, sidled up next to him, his voice dripping with mock concern. "You hear that, kid? Dutch says we're doin' this the easy way, so try not to piss yourself on the way in, huh?"
Henry's jaw tightened, but he kept his focus on the ferry ahead. "Maybe try keepin' your mouth shut, Micah," he muttered.
Micah's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with something mean and twisted. "Sure, sure. Just don't go runnin' off once the guns come out."
Dutch threw a sharp look back at them, his voice a low growl. "That's enough, both of you. This is our time, gentlemen. Act like it."
They reached the gangplank, and Dutch motioned them to hold back, surveying the scene with a gleam in his eye. Passengers milled about, some boarding, others waving off loved ones. A few guards stood by the loading crates, their attention half on their posts, half on the dockworkers unloading cargo. The smell of fish and saltwater mingled with the sweat of dockhands and the scent of warm wood baking in the sun.
"Alright," Dutch murmured, nodding to Javier, who sidled off quietly, his movements smooth and calculated as he circled around the guards. "Javier's got the guard covered. We stick to the plan—keep it quiet, keep it clean, and we'll be out before they even know what hit 'em."
Henry swallowed hard, casting a glance at the gleaming ferry, its windows reflecting the sky like dark, empty eyes. His heart thudded heavy and slow, each beat echoing in his ears. He'd been in a few close calls, sure—but this was different. The stakes were higher, the risks sharper. This wasn't some backwoods hold-up; this was Blackwater.
Dutch seemed to sense his hesitation and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, giving him a quick nod. "Stay close, Henry. You're ready for this." Dutch's words were quiet but unshakable, like he could will Henry's nerves away with sheer confidence alone.
"Yeah," Henry muttered, glancing away from Dutch's intense gaze. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Dutch smirked, turning back to the gang. "That's what I like to hear. Now, remember: we're ghosts. Quick in, quick out. No mess."
With a final glance at his crew, Dutch led them up the gangplank. Henry followed close, his eyes darting over every face, every guard, every shadow. He could feel the weight of the ferry's steel and wood beneath his feet as they crossed onto the deck, the faint, creaking groan of the ship mixing with the murmurs of the other passengers. The scent of oil and fresh paint filled the air, each step carrying them deeper into the unknown.
As they reached the main cabin doors, Dutch's grin widened, a thrill in his eyes that Henry could feel from feet away. "Alright, gentlemen," he whispered. "Let's take what's ours."
The robbery began smoothly, or so it seemed.
Dutch, with his usual swagger, led the gang into the ferry's main cabin. Their footsteps echoed on the polished floor as they stormed in, guns drawn, sweeping through the room as Dutch barked orders. Passengers screamed, ducking behind seats, some with hands thrown up, others too terrified to move. Dutch's voice rang through the air, full of bravado as he addressed the crowd, his revolver flashing under the harsh electric lights.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Dutch announced with a dark grin. "Today, you're making a contribution to the cause! Cooperate, and nobody gets hurt."
Javier, John, and Henry moved quickly, rounding up the passengers and forcing them to sit along the wall, some of them clutching each other, too afraid to breathe. Henry felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him, the gun in his hand feeling heavier than ever. He glanced over at John, who gave him a quick nod, though his own expression was tense, his eyes darting to every corner of the room.
"Alright, kid," John muttered under his breath, "Stick with me and Javier. We're headin' for the strongbox."
Henry nodded, swallowing hard, trying to keep his breathing steady as they moved toward the rear of the ferry where the bank's money was stored. They could hear Dutch continuing his speech, stalling the passengers, keeping them frozen in place as he prowled the aisle like a wolf among sheep.
Javier broke the lock on the storage room, and they piled in, their eyes widening at the sight of the bank's stash. Thick bundles of cash and gold bars were stacked neatly, gleaming under the dim light. John and Javier started loading up, moving quickly, their hands steady despite the tension thickening in the air. Henry tried to match their pace, shoving wads of bills into his sack, his heart pounding as he worked, every nerve in his body screaming to get out before something went wrong.
But then, a shout came from the far end of the ferry.
"Pinkertons!" someone yelled, and the next moment, gunfire exploded throughout the cabin.
The world tilted as chaos broke loose. Henry dropped his sack, ducking behind a crate as bullets tore through the walls and shattered glass rained down around them. Javier cursed under his breath, pulling out his pistol and returning fire, the blasts deafening in the close quarters.
"Dammit!" John snarled, clutching his revolver as he fired back at the advancing Pinkertons. "They're comin' in from all sides!"
The noise was a wall of sound—gunshots, screams, Dutch shouting orders, the desperate cries of the passengers all blending into a frantic, unholy symphony. Henry took aim, his hands trembling as he fired at the approaching Pinkertons, each shot sending a shock through his body. The Pinkertons were relentless, pouring in through doors and windows, their numbers growing, filling the ferry like a flood.
John let out a cry of pain as a bullet tore through his arm, and he stumbled back, clutching the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep shooting, though his grip faltered.
"John!" Henry shouted, ducking as bullets whizzed past him, splintering the crates around them.
"Just a scratch," John grunted, though his face was pale, sweat beading on his brow. He tried to lift his arm to aim, but his hand shook, the wound weakening him more than he let on. "Damn Pinkertons… they don't let up."
Javier, reloading his gun, nodded toward the other side of the room. "Henry, get us some cover! We need to move—now!"
Henry nodded, grabbing a crate and dragging it in front of them, using it as a makeshift barrier as they retreated toward the exit. But as he moved, he saw Charles through the haze of smoke and gunfire, his face twisted in pain, one hand clutching his gun while the other was red and raw, burned from an exploding lantern.
Charles gritted his teeth, shaking out his injured hand, still managing to keep firing despite the pain. "Ain't nothin' I can't handle," he muttered, though Henry could see the strain in his eyes, the way he winced every time he had to move his fingers.
Then, amidst the chaos, Henry spotted Davey Callander, stumbling forward, his face twisted in agony. Blood poured from a wound in his gut, his hands pressing desperately against the injury as he staggered back, his movements sluggish, his face pale as death.
"D-Dutch…" Davey gasped, his voice barely a whisper as he collapsed, his legs giving out beneath him.
Dutch's face twisted with fury as he saw the wounded gang member. "Davey, damn it!" he shouted, but the onslaught left no time for rescue, no moment for compassion. The Pinkertons pressed forward, their numbers unending, forcing the gang back, closer and closer to the edge of the ferry.
Henry glanced around, searching for Mac, but his heart sank as he saw him, lying near the entrance, riddled with bullets, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. Agent Milton loomed over him, a cruel smile on his face as he looked down at the broken man.
"You put up quite the fight, Callander," Milton sneered, his voice low and mocking. "But this is the end of the line."
Henry felt a surge of rage and helplessness as he watched, but Dutch grabbed him, pulling him back. "No time, Henry! We gotta get out, now!"
As they fought their way to the gangplank, Henry looked back, seeing Pinkertons swarming the boat, their guns blazing. John stumbled beside him, his arm hanging limp, his face pale, his breathing labored. Javier kept close, firing wildly, his face set in grim determination.
Dutch's face was a mask of anger and despair as they finally reached the dock, abandoning the money, the mission, everything they'd risked so much for. The bodies of the fallen lay scattered across the ferry, blood pooling on the deck, the once-gleaming boat now a scene of carnage.
"Run!" Dutch yelled, his voice raw, broken.
Gunfire filled the air, thick and endless, every blast tearing through the din of panic and rage. The gang fought their way through the ferry's main deck, ducking and diving as bullets split the air like deadly whispers. The Pinkertons had turned the place into a war zone, pouring in from every entrance, their revolvers blazing, their shouts lost in the thunder of gunfire and the screams of terrified passengers.
Henry crouched low behind a crate, his back pressed against the rough wood, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He could feel the thud of bullets slamming into the other side, the wood splintering with each hit. John was beside him, gripping his bleeding arm, his face pale and strained as he glanced over at Henry.
"Hell, kid," John muttered, his voice ragged with pain. "I thought Dutch said this was gonna be smooth…"
Henry gave him a tight, humorless smile, his eyes flicking over the edge of the crate to where the Pinkertons were advancing, each step closer tightening the noose. "Dutch says a lot of things."
John grunted, shifting to get a better look at his bleeding arm. "Damn, kid, this ain't lookin' good… Ain't much time before they close in on us."
Then, out of nowhere, Micah sprinted by, his face twisted in a wild grin as he ducked low and made a break for the gangplank, abandoning the rest of the group in his retreat. He shot them a twisted grin, calling out over his shoulder.
"Well, don't let me keep ya!" he sneered, his voice mocking as he disappeared down the dock. "Good luck fendin' off the swarm, boys!"
Henry's jaw tightened as he watched Micah run off, his anger flashing into something sharper, something colder. "Coward," he muttered under his breath, his grip on his gun tightening.
John spat into the dirt, his face twisted with disgust. "Bastard's always thinkin' about himself. To hell with him, we don't need his help."
As the Pinkertons pressed forward, their shouts filling the air, Henry took a deep breath, steadying his aim, his hands going eerily calm as he peered over the crate. His mind quieted, everything narrowing to the barrel of his gun and the target ahead.
He fired once, then twice, each shot finding its mark with deadly accuracy. The first Pinkerton went down, a clean shot to the chest, his body crumpling instantly. Henry shifted his aim, firing again, taking down the next in line with a shot straight between the eyes. The third fell with a single bullet to the heart, and the fourth stumbled back, clutching his throat as he hit the deck.
John looked over, wide-eyed, as Henry continued, his shots precise, each one landing with brutal efficiency. "Damn, kid!" he muttered, ducking as more bullets whizzed past. "You're makin' this look easy!"
Henry's face was set, focused, his eyes sharp as he dispatched another two Pinkertons, each shot ringing out clear and controlled. He moved with a deadly calm, his hands steady as he took aim again, downing two more with swift, merciless shots. "Ain't got time to miss," he replied, his voice low, steady, even as his heart pounded in his chest. "We need to move."
He dropped the last Pinkerton in his line of sight with a single, unerring shot to the temple, the man's body hitting the deck with a heavy thud. Henry took a deep breath, glancing over at John, his gaze intense. "C'mon, John. We stay here, we're dead."
John nodded, grimacing as he forced himself up, clutching his wounded arm. "You got a damn point, kid. Let's get the hell outta here."
They broke from cover, sprinting down the gangplank as bullets zipped past, tearing splinters from the wood around them. Henry kept his gaze forward, his body tense, ready, adrenaline pulsing through him as he led John through the chaos, weaving around barrels and crates, his gun ready, firing at any movement from the corners of his eyes.
Behind them, the ferry was a mess of smoke and blood, the Pinkertons falling back, shouting orders as they tried to regroup. Henry didn't look back. He kept moving, pulling John forward, his voice rough with urgency. "C'mon, John. We're almost there."
John stumbled, his face pale as he gritted his teeth against the pain. "Kid, I don't know how you do it, but… damn glad you're here."
Henry gave a quick nod, glancing around the edge of the pier to check for any more Pinkertons. "Ain't over yet, John. Let's keep moving. Dutch and the rest—if they're smart, they'll already be gone."
The thunder of gunfire roared through the streets of Blackwater as Henry and John dashed through narrow alleys, ducking behind corners and slipping through shadows as they tried to outpace the chaos. Their boots pounded on the wooden boards, the echoes swallowed by the sharp cracks of rifles and the shouts of the Pinkertons chasing them down.
But then, as they rounded a corner, Henry caught sight of it—a hulking figure of steel glinting in the sunlight, its barrel trained on them like a metal serpent ready to strike.
"Gatling gun!" Henry yelled, his voice cutting through the noise as he lunged forward, slamming into John and shoving him down just as the gatling gun opened up, spewing bullets in a deadly, relentless hail. The rounds tore through the air, shredding everything in their path, splinters of wood and clouds of dust flying as the gun mowed down everything between them and the Pinkertons.
Henry and John hit the dirt hard, each scrambling to opposite sides of the street, barely avoiding the lethal spray. Henry pressed himself flat against the corner of a crumbling brick wall, his heart hammering as the gatling gun whirred, the bullets eating into the street and filling the air with the smell of gunpowder and scorched metal.
"Damn it, Henry!" John shouted from across the street, his face twisted with anger and fear. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Henry clenched his teeth, glancing over at John, his mind racing. He knew they didn't have long before the Pinkertons closed in, and with the gatling gun blocking their path, they were sitting ducks. The only option was to make a break for it, but not both of them—not with that much fire raining down on them.
"John," Henry shouted over the roar of the gun, his voice tense, urgent. "You gotta run. I'll keep that bastard busy!"
John's eyes widened, shaking his head vehemently. "The hell I am! I ain't leavin' you behind, kid!"
Henry's face was set, his eyes fierce as he shouted back, "You're hurt, John. You won't make it out if you stay here! Get out while you can!"
John gritted his teeth, his eyes blazing with anger. "I said I ain't leavin'! Don't be a damn fool, Henry!"
But Henry's mind was already made up. He knew John was too stubborn to turn back, but he also knew that if someone didn't distract that gatling gun, neither of them were walking away from this. He took a steadying breath, feeling the weight of his decision settle in his chest.
"John, listen to me," Henry said, his voice softer now, but unyielding. "You got a life waitin' for you—family. Somethin' worth holdin' onto. I got nothin' if I don't help you get outta here. So go on, and look after yourself for once, alright?"
John's face twisted with frustration, his mouth opening to argue, but he saw the steely resolve in Henry's eyes, the calm acceptance. With a frustrated shout, he slammed his fist against the wall, cursing under his breath. "Damn it, Henry… fine. But you better make it out, you hear me?"
Henry nodded, a hint of a smile breaking through the tension. "Go on, John. I'll draw their fire."
Without another word, Henry pushed himself up, darting into the open, his gun raised as he fired off a couple of shots toward the gatling gun's nest. The Pinkerton manning it turned, the barrel whirring as he swung it to follow Henry, the sound of bullets splitting the air like a deadly storm.
"Over here!" Henry yelled, drawing the fire away from John, who took the chance and ran, weaving through the alley as the bullets hammered the ground where he'd just been.
Henry sprinted through the narrow streets, his heart pounding as he dodged and weaved, the gatling gun roaring behind him, tearing through barrels, crates, walls, anything in its path. He could feel the rounds slicing the air around him, the deadly heat of each shot close enough to graze.
But he didn't stop.
He darted behind a cart, the wood shattering into splinters as the gunfire tore it to pieces. He rolled, pulling himself up and sprinting forward again, every instinct telling him to keep moving, to not let that gatling gun lock onto him for even a second.
The world was a blur of smoke and noise, of fire and shadows, but he knew he had to keep them occupied, to give John a chance to make it out. His muscles burned, his lungs straining as he zig-zagged through the streets, every footstep a desperate bid to stay alive.
And as he ran, he caught a glimpse of John, just for a second, slipping out of sight down a narrow alley, his figure retreating toward freedom. Henry's heart lifted, a fierce satisfaction settling over him even as the gatling gun's rounds chewed up the ground around him, relentless and unforgiving.
He cut through the narrow alleyways, his feet barely touching the ground as he pushed himself to run faster, his lungs burning, his body tense, every instinct screaming at him to move, to keep going. Bullets still flew past him, whistling through the air, slamming into walls and shattering windows in a frenzy of chaos. He ducked and weaved, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign of a horse, any means of escape from the hell Blackwater had become.
"Come on, come on…" he muttered to himself, his voice low and frantic as he dodged into another alley, barely avoiding a stray shot that splintered the brick inches from his head.
Finally, he spotted a horse tethered near a general store, pawing at the ground nervously as gunfire rang out nearby. The animal's eyes were wild with fear, nostrils flaring as it tried to bolt against the ropes holding it. Henry sprinted over, his hands moving fast, untying the reins with fingers that shook from the adrenaline still surging through his veins.
"Easy, girl," he whispered, stroking the horse's neck, his voice soothing despite the terror thrumming beneath his calm. "I need ya to get me outta here. Just this once, alright?"
With a final glance back toward the docks, Henry swung himself up onto the horse's back, his grip firm on the reins as he urged the animal forward, its hooves pounding against the ground as they tore through the town's outskirts. The gunfire was fading now, the shouts and chaos becoming distant as he galloped away, leaving the ferry, the bodies, and the blood-soaked pier behind him.
But even as he rode, his heart ached, his mind replaying the faces of Mac, Davey, Jenny… their bodies lying cold and silent, left behind on that cursed boat. It was a wound that would never heal, a scar etched deep into his soul.
He rode harder, pushing the horse into a full gallop, the wind tearing at him, drying the tears that had welled up, mingling with the dust and blood on his face.
As Henry tore out of Blackwater, he threw a glance over his shoulder and felt his blood run cold. An army of Pinkertons was swarming the town like ants, their shouts echoing down the narrow streets, rifles raised as they barked out orders. He watched as they split off, mounting horses and spreading out like a deadly net cast across the plains. A few of them were already barreling down the trail behind him, their revolvers gleaming in the sun, their voices hard and unforgiving.
"Damn it," Henry muttered under his breath, leaning low over the horse's neck, urging the animal faster. "Let's go, girl—ain't time to be takin' in the scenery."
The horse surged forward, her hooves hammering the earth as they cut across the open land, the dry grass blurring past them. Henry gritted his teeth, his focus narrowing to the path ahead, his mind racing as he mapped out every twist and turn that might keep him ahead of the men hunting him. He'd have to make it to the river, then follow it north. If he could reach Aurora Basin, he might just have a chance to lose them in the dense trees and rugged terrain beyond.
The sun was high, casting long shadows over the rugged landscape as Henry pushed on, every muscle in his body tense, his eyes darting over the horizon, watching for any sign of movement. He knew he didn't have much time—the Pinkertons would be relentless, tracking him like bloodhounds. But he was faster, and he had the wild terrain on his side. He'd make it if he didn't falter, if he didn't let the pain and fear slowing his pulse get the best of him.
As he neared the Upper Montana River, the sound of rushing water grew louder, the river winding like a silver ribbon through the valley, its current strong and steady. He urged the horse down the embankment, splashing into the shallows, the cold water spraying up and soaking his boots as they cut across to the far bank. The Pinkertons' shouts still echoed faintly from behind, but he didn't stop to listen; he just kept going, pushing the horse up the incline and back onto the winding path along the river.
"C'mon, just a bit further," Henry muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The trees thickened as he moved north, their branches casting jagged shadows over the trail. He rode along the river, the water beside him dark and rippling under the midday sun, the path stretching ahead like a lifeline.
Behind him, he could hear the faint thunder of hooves, the Pinkertons closing in, their shouts growing louder as they followed the trail he'd cut across the water. Henry gritted his teeth, urging his horse forward, his jaw clenched tight against the burning ache in his chest, the panic clawing at the edges of his mind.
As they neared Aurora Basin, the land began to rise, the trail winding through rocky outcrops and clusters of trees that provided a fleeting cover. Henry's breathing steadied as he took in the sight—this was familiar ground, a place he'd passed through a hundred times. He knew every twist and bend, every rock and tree. If he could just make it into the basin, he might be able to lose them, might be able to catch his breath, if only for a moment.
He glanced back once more, spotting the glint of sunlight on rifles as the Pinkertons crested the hill behind him, their faces grim, their eyes locked on him like wolves scenting blood. A spark of rage flared in his chest as he faced forward, spurring his horse into the basin, his voice a fierce whisper against the roar of the river.
"Not today, you sons of bitches."
Henry pushed his horse harder, the animal's muscles straining beneath him as they tore through the thickening woods. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, shadows deepening as they moved further from the open plains and into the dense, rugged wilderness. He could still hear the Pinkertons' shouts behind him, faint but persistent, their voices riding the breeze like some hellish chant. They were relentless, and he knew they wouldn't stop until they had him or his body.
The path twisted and turned, and Henry navigated it with practiced ease, his mind racing as he plotted his next move. Strawberry was his best chance; if he could make it there by nightfall, he could slip into town, find a barn or abandoned cabin to hunker down in, and lose the Pinkertons for good. But he had to shake them first—no easy feat with their numbers and determination.
Up ahead, the trail split, one path winding toward the river and another weaving through a thick copse of trees. He took the forest trail without hesitation, veering sharply to the left, his horse's hooves thundering against the packed earth as they plunged deeper into the cover of the trees. Branches clawed at his face, scraping across his arms as he ducked low, his heart pounding with each step.
"Just a little more, girl," he muttered to his horse, patting her neck as they barreled through the underbrush. "Get us through this, and I'll see to it you're fed and rested for a damn month."
The Pinkertons followed, though the noise of their pursuit grew fainter, their voices swallowed by the thick layers of pine and oak. Henry pushed on, veering off the main trail, guiding his horse down a steep embankment where he could pick his way through a creek bed that wound down toward the valley. The rushing water might cover their scent, throw the bloodhounds off his trail. He urged his horse through the shallow water, the chill biting through his boots as they splashed through, moving as quickly and quietly as the current would allow.
When he reached the other side, he stopped for a moment, listening, straining his ears for any sign of the Pinkertons. Nothing but the gentle ripple of water and the quiet rustling of leaves. He let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with the slightest relief.
Then, a distant shout rang out—a Pinkerton, too close for comfort.
Henry clenched his jaw, swinging his gaze toward Strawberry, still miles away through the maze of trees and hills. He'd have to keep moving, but carefully. Slipping through the rough terrain was his only hope, leading them off his trail for good.
He nudged his horse forward, keeping to the trees, letting the shadows wrap around them like a second skin. The woods grew denser as he moved on, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in thin, slanted beams, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of leaves beneath his horse's hooves. He weaved through the forest, his movements slow and deliberate, every muscle taut, every sense alert.
"Easy now," he whispered to his horse, guiding her gently as they passed through a dense thicket. "Just a little further."
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the forest floor, bathing everything in a hazy, amber light. Strawberry wasn't far now—he could smell the faint traces of smoke from a distant chimney, hear the distant murmur of the little town's quiet bustle.
He had made it.
He slowed his horse to a trot as he approached the outskirts of Strawberry, his gaze sweeping the small town nestled between the mountains. A few folks wandered the dirt streets, heads down, wrapped in their own business, paying no mind to a lone rider coming in from the woods. He rode past the general store, its windows glowing softly with lamplight, and the faint chatter from the saloon drifted through the open doors.
Henry kept his head low, pulling his hat down to cover his face as he made his way toward the edge of town, where he spotted an old barn, half-hidden in the shadows of a tall oak tree. It looked abandoned, its wood worn and splintered, the roof sagging in places, but it would do.
He dismounted, patting his horse's neck, murmuring a quiet thanks as he led her into the barn, settling her into a corner where she could rest and graze on some leftover hay. He crouched down beside her, rubbing his hands together, the weariness finally catching up to him as he let out a shaky breath.
"Safe for now," he muttered to himself, though his voice held little conviction.
He slumped against the barn wall, his back pressing into the rough wood, his gaze fixed on the narrow gap between the boards, watching the shadows lengthen as night settled over Strawberry. For now, he was out of the Pinkertons' reach, but he knew it wouldn't last.
The silence in the barn was thick, pressing in from all sides, filling the space like a heavy fog as Henry leaned back against the rough wooden wall. The shadows deepened, the last light of the day bleeding through the gaps in the boards, casting thin, slanted stripes across the dirt floor. His horse stood beside him, her sides heaving as she breathed, her coat damp with sweat, and Henry reached out, patting her flank with a shaky hand.
But now, with the adrenaline fading, the weight of the day settled on him like an iron chain, dragging him down, twisting around his chest. His breaths came shallow, every inhale scraping against his throat like sandpaper. His hands, steady during the fight, now trembled as he flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in his bones. The horror of the ferry flashed through his mind, the bodies, the blood, the merciless hail of bullets that had rained down on them.
"Damn it…" he whispered, his voice catching in his throat, barely more than a strangled breath.
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the ferry deck. Mac, lying there in a pool of blood, his face slack, his life stolen away by the Pinkertons' bullets. Davey, his hand clutching his gut, his face twisted in agony, the hope drained from his eyes. And Jenny… her pale, lifeless face among the bodies, her smile gone forever.
"Hell," Henry muttered, clenching his jaw, his fists tight, nails digging into his palms as he tried to hold it all back. But the grief and fury swelled in his chest, too big to contain, pressing against his ribs, clawing its way up his throat. He swallowed hard, fighting against it, but it was no use. The weight was too heavy, the memories too vivid.
"Why the hell'd we go in there like that?" he hissed to himself, his voice rough, bitter. "Dutch… all his talk, all his damn promises, and what do we get for it? Nothin' but bodies and empty pockets."
He slammed a fist into the wall, the impact rattling through his arm, but it did nothing to ease the storm raging inside him. He let out a harsh, ragged breath, his vision blurring as tears pricked at his eyes, a fierce anger mingling with the ache in his chest. He wiped at his face, but the tears came anyway, hot and angry, burning trails down his cheeks as he sat there in the dim, silent barn.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Dutch had promised them a way out, a chance to live free, to escape the chains of the past. But all Henry could see now were broken bodies and shattered dreams, left behind on a blood-soaked ferry deck.
He looked down at his hands, stained with dirt and blood, hands that had been steady, ruthless even, as he'd fought his way through the Pinkertons. He remembered the way his bullets had found their mark, each shot clean and final, each man falling like a puppet with its strings cut. And a part of him—a part he barely recognized—had felt a dark satisfaction in it, a cold sense of purpose. But now, in the quiet, that same purpose felt hollow, empty, leaving him with nothing but the raw ache of loss.
"What the hell am I even doin' here?" he muttered, his voice breaking, barely more than a whisper. "All this… for what? For Dutch's damn dreams? For a future that ain't ever gonna come?"
He slumped back against the wall, his head tilted up, staring blankly at the rafters above as his thoughts churned, dark and relentless. He'd believed in Dutch, followed him without question, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they'd make it out of this life with something to show for it. But now… he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
He let out a shuddering breath, the anger ebbing, replaced by a cold, hollow feeling that settled deep in his chest. He felt alone, more alone than he'd ever felt in his life, surrounded by shadows, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a stone.
The barn was quiet, the sounds of the town distant, muffled, as if the world itself had shrunk down to this small, dark space. His horse snorted softly, nudging his shoulder as if sensing his pain, and he reached out, resting his hand against her neck, taking comfort in her warmth, in the steady rise and fall of her breath.
"Sorry, girl," he murmured, his voice rough. "Didn't mean for you to go through all that. I'll get us somewhere safe… somehow."
He closed his eyes, letting the quiet settle over him, the anger and grief still there, but dimmer now, softened by exhaustion. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, didn't know if he'd even make it through the night. But for now, he'd sit here, alone with his thoughts, letting the weight of it all sink in, the bitter reality of what his life had become.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd find a way forward come dawn.
The air in the clearing was thick and tense, the darkness settling in like a cloak as Dutch stood before the gang, his eyes gleaming with a strange fire, though his shoulders sagged with the weight of the day. Around him, the gang was gathered in a rough circle, faces etched with exhaustion, pain, and doubt. They had barely escaped Blackwater with their lives, and not all of them had made it out. The toll of their so-called victory hung heavy in the air, and Arthur felt it like a lead weight in his chest.
Arthur stormed up to Dutch, his face twisted with fury, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "What the hell happened out there, Dutch?" he demanded, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. "That wasn't no damn job—no plan. That was a damn slaughter!"
Dutch bristled, his face hardening as he looked at Arthur, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. "Watch your tone, Arthur. I did what needed to be done. We had no choice—"
"No choice?" Arthur spat, his voice rising, bitter and raw. "You took us all into hell, Dutch! We lost people—Mac, Davey, Jenny… and for what? Where's the money, Dutch? Where's all this freedom you keep goin' on about?"
Dutch's jaw tightened, his gaze slipping away, but Arthur wasn't done. He took a step closer, his voice filled with a fury that trembled at the edges. "And where the hell's Henry? You dragged him into this mess, threw him right into the line of fire, and now he's goddamn gone."
At the mention of Henry, Dutch's face twisted with a flicker of something unreadable, his shoulders tensing. "Henry… he's fine, Arthur. That boy's got more grit than you give him credit for. He knew what he was gettin' into."
Arthur's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "He's a kid, Dutch. Ain't no need to throw him into a damn massacre, watchin' our people get picked off like flies. He trusted you, we all did… and you damn well used him like he was nothin' but a pawn."
Hosea stepped forward, his face weary, a deep sadness in his eyes. "Dutch, Arthur's right. This wasn't what we planned. We went in for money and came out with bodies. Henry's missing, half our gang's dead… and there ain't no money to show for it."
Dutch's face twisted in anger and frustration, his voice growing defensive. "Hosea, Arthur… you don't see what I see. This was a step, a hard step, but one that had to be taken. We're fightin' for our lives here. This is more than one job—this is about our future."
Arthur shook his head, his expression hard, unyielding. "The future, Dutch? The future's lookin' mighty short right about now. Henry might be out there bleedin' somewhere, or worse, 'cause of your damn 'vision.'"
Dutch's eyes flashed, a fierce determination burning in them. "Henry's tougher than you think, Arthur. He's part of this gang, part of this family. He knew what he signed up for."
Arthur's face twisted with anger, barely held in check, his voice laced with bitterness. "No, Dutch. He trusted you. Trusted that you'd get him through this without leadin' him to his damn death." He took a deep breath, his hands shaking, his voice turning cold, unforgiving. "And if you keep on like this, none of us are gonna make it out of here alive."
Dutch looked away, his gaze flickering over the exhausted, bitter faces around him, his jaw set, his face a mask of anger and something else—something almost like regret.
Dutch looked out over the gang, his face set and grim as he saw the haunted expressions staring back at him. They were broken, bloodied, and without the glimmer of hope they'd held when they'd first set their sights on Blackwater. The casualties were heavy, and the cold realization that their score had left them with empty hands weighed down on everyone, making the shadows longer, the night colder.
But Dutch stood tall, his voice rising as he tried to rally them, to breathe fire back into their weary bones. "I know today was hard. We lost good folks, and I don't take that lightly. But if we don't keep moving, we're finished. The Pinkertons are crawlin' all over Blackwater, and they'll be on us come dawn. We've got to head north, get into the mountains. Lay low until the heat dies down."
Karen scoffed, her voice bitter as she wrapped her arms around herself. "North? Up to freeze our asses off after all this? And for what? Dutch, there ain't nothin' left for us after this… massacre."
Others nodded, murmurs of agreement running through the gang. Their faces were tight, etched with anger and doubt, eyes flickering to Dutch with something close to accusation. Dutch's eyes swept over them, his jaw tightening, but he forced a reassuring smile, his voice resolute.
"We're gonna be all right. We're fighters, every one of you," he insisted, but the words hung heavy in the air, barely filling the silence that followed. He looked around, meeting each of their eyes, pushing the conviction he didn't quite feel. "Stick with me, folks. One more hard push, and we'll be out of this mess."
"Out of this mess?" Arthur's voice was cold, bitter. He stepped forward, his face a mask of barely contained fury. "You got us into this mess, Dutch. Took us in there blind, chasin' a fantasy while half our folks got torn to pieces. What're we chasin' now, huh? Another dream? 'Cause I'm seein' nothin' but empty promises and graves."
Dutch bristled, but before he could respond, John stepped forward, his face tight with pain, his injured arm bound in a makeshift sling. "What about Henry?" he asked, his voice cutting through the cold night air. "Kid was still back there when I got out. I barely made it out myself, and the last I saw of him… he was drawin' the Pinkertons off. He saved my damn life."
There was a beat of silence as the gang took in John's words, a mix of shock and sadness darkening their faces. Abigail's face paled, her gaze dropping to the ground as she whispered, "He's just a boy… never shoulda been dragged into that mess."
"Henry's tough," Dutch cut in, his voice sharp. "He'll find his way back to us. He's smart, he's a survivor."
Hosea shook his head, his voice laced with sorrow and frustration. "Dutch, that kid had no business bein' in that kind of crossfire. He ain't made for this kind of bloodshed, and you know it." He paused, his gaze hardening as he looked at Dutch. "And for what? This wasn't his fight to begin with. This was your dream, Dutch, and he got caught in the middle of it."
Arthur's eyes flashed as he looked over at Micah, who sat off to the side, arms crossed, looking indifferent to the sorrow swirling around him. "This is on you too, Micah," Arthur growled, his voice filled with a bitter venom. "You're the one who pushed Dutch into this damn mess, tellin' him it'd be a cakewalk. Now we've got bodies left behind, good folks who'll never see the light of day again. All 'cause of your mouth."
Micah's smirk was a twisted thing, cold and dismissive. "Aw, quit your bellyachin', Arthur. You'd think you were the only one who lost folks today. We knew what we were signin' up for—this is the outlaw life. You go in knowin' it might be your last ride."
Arthur's fist clenched, and he took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You keep talkin', Micah, and you'll see what a last ride really looks like. We're down good men, and you got no damn remorse for it."
Dutch's voice cut through the tension, his tone harsh, filled with a barely restrained anger. "Enough, both of you. Micah did what he thought was best, same as any of us would." He looked around, his gaze landing on each of them, hardening as he pushed forward. "Now, I need all of you to focus. We're headin' north, into Ambarino. Up into the mountains, where they won't think to follow us. We'll lay low, regroup… and when the time's right, we'll come back stronger."
But his words seemed to ring hollow, barely touching the crushed spirits surrounding him. Karen muttered under her breath, a curse laced with bitterness as she wrapped her coat tighter around herself. Javier looked down at his bandaged arm, the blood seeping through the cloth, his face tense with pain and anger. Charles sat off to the side, his burnt hand wrapped in rough cloth, his jaw clenched as he stared into the darkness, his face hard and unreadable.
One by one, they started moving, gathering their few belongings, shouldering their packs with a weary reluctance, each of them moving like shadows, weighed down by grief, doubt, and the relentless cold. As they saddled up, Dutch watched them, his face an unreadable mask, but there was a crack in his gaze, a flicker of something he was trying hard to hide.
Hosea walked over to Arthur, his voice low, sorrowful. "Arthur… this ain't the gang I knew. And Dutch… he's driftin' further from us with every decision he makes."
Arthur shook his head, his voice rough, bitter. "I know, Hosea. This ain't what we signed up for. But it's too late now, ain't it? We're bound to his dream, one way or another."
As they mounted up and turned north, the gang rode in silence, each face haunted, each heart heavy.