Henry woke to the faint light creeping into his tent, a sharp ache pounding in his head, the familiar taste of stale whiskey lingering in his mouth. He squinted, rubbing his temples, piecing together the night's memories—firelight, laughter, that shared bottle of whiskey making its rounds.… he couldn't quite say where dream ended and memory began. Shaking it off, he pushed himself up, pulling on his boots and stepping out into the crisp morning air, hoping a strong cup of coffee might beat back the headache clawing at his skull.
Arthur was already up, leaning against one of the crates with a mug in hand, his hat pulled low as he watched the camp begin to stir. When he noticed Henry, he smirked, tipping his mug in greeting.
"Well, well, look who decided to join the land of the livin'," Arthur drawled, his voice carrying that faint amusement Henry had come to expect whenever a good hangover hit him.
Henry winced, managing a half-hearted grin. "You ever wonder why whiskey tastes so much better goin' down than it does in the morning?"
Arthur chuckled, nodding knowingly. "Ain't that the truth. Here," he said, motioning to the percolator on the fire. "Get some coffee in ya. Ain't a cure, but it's better than nothin'."
Henry poured himself a mug, the bitter aroma cutting through his foggy mind as he took a cautious sip. He leaned against the crate beside Arthur, savoring the quiet and watching as the rest of the camp slowly came to life.
"So what's the plan today?" Henry asked, hoping for a quiet morning.
Before Arthur could answer, Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth strolled over, their eyes bright and filled with mischief. Karen looked between Arthur and Henry with a grin. "Well, we've decided you boys are comin' with us into Valentine."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, giving the three of them a skeptical look. "Oh, have you now?"
Tilly crossed her arms, smirking as she met Arthur's gaze. "We deserve a bit of fun after bein' cooped up out here, and besides," she added with a mischievous glance toward Henry, "we could use some… chaperones."
Henry chuckled, exchanging a glance with Arthur, who rolled his eyes but shrugged, clearly resigned to his fate.
"Alright, alright," Arthur said, his tone grudging but amused. "Guess we ain't got much choice, do we? Uncle!" he hollered, looking toward the slouched figure already dozing by the campfire.
Uncle jolted awake, his eyes blinking as he looked around, half-dazed. "What's all the racket?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
"We're headin' to Valentine," Arthur called over, smirking. "And seems you're comin' along. Think you can stay in the saddle without fallin' asleep?"
Uncle grumbled but dragged himself up, muttering under his breath as he made his way to his horse. "This better be worth it," he mumbled, giving the girls a weary look. "Not sure my bones were made for gallivantin' around every time you girls get restless."
With everyone mounted, they rode out of camp and made their way down the winding trails toward Valentine, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the landscape. The girls chattered and laughed as they rode, their energy infectious, even pulling Arthur and Uncle into the banter. Henry rode close to Tilly, sharing a few jokes and letting the fresh air ease the last remnants of his hangover.
Valentine came into view, the rough little town bustling with early morning activity. The clank of hammers from the blacksmith, the shouts of vendors hawking their goods—it was all a familiar noise, grounding them in the hum of daily life.
"Now don't go causin' a scene," Arthur muttered as they hitched their horses outside the saloon, giving Karen a warning look. "Last thing we need is for Dutch to hear about a brawl in Valentine 'cause you lot got too rowdy."
Karen rolled her eyes, grinning. "Please, Arthur. We're here for a little fun, not trouble. Ain't that right, ladies?"
Mary-Beth and Tilly laughed, nodding in agreement as they strolled toward the saloon, leaving Arthur, Henry, and Uncle trailing behind.
The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the muddy streets of Valentine. Henry and Uncle were sprawled on a weathered bench outside the saloon, the heat of the day and the whiskey weighing on them both. Arthur, slouched beside them, had tipped his hat low over his face, already nodding off with his arms folded across his chest, his soft snores barely audible over the bustling sounds of town.
Uncle, his bottle half-drained, let out a satisfied sigh as he leaned back, nudging Henry with his elbow. "Tell ya what, Henry," he drawled, slurring just a little, "not much better than a cool drink on a hot day… makes a man feel civilized, don't it?"
Henry chuckled, accepting the bottle as Uncle handed it over, the liquor sloshing as he took a long swig. "Maybe if we had chairs without splinters in 'em, Uncle," he replied with a grin, wiping his mouth. "And if you didn't smell like a horse left out in the rain."
Uncle let out a snort of laughter, clapping Henry on the back with a wheezy cackle. "Hell, kid, that's part of the charm!"
Just then, Mary-Beth slipped out of the saloon, looking around until she spotted them. Her eyes brightened as she approached, giving Arthur a bemused glance as he dozed, then took the empty spot beside Henry. She gave him a warm smile, leaning close, her hand finding his with a gentle, almost shy touch.
"Henry," she said softly, her voice low as if she didn't want the whole town overhearing, "I heard somethin' mighty interestin' from the bartender."
Henry raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Oh yeah?"
She nodded, her eyes alight with excitement. "There's a train comin' through in a couple days—passenger train, full of rich folk. Some business types comin' down from Saint Denis, lookin' to set up in the West. Seems they're loaded, carryin' cash, bonds, maybe even some jewelry."
Uncle leaned in, his attention sharpened at the prospect of easy money. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, scratching his chin. "Now that's the kind of news I like to hear."
Mary-Beth squeezed Henry's hand, her gaze steady, a hint of worry crossing her face. "Just be careful. Word is, they'll have some guards with 'em. But if anyone can pull it off…" She trailed off, her gaze drifting to Arthur, who was still snoring softly beside them.
Henry chuckled, tipping his hat to her in thanks. "We'll keep that in mind, Mary-Beth. Much appreciated."
She smiled, her fingers lingering in his hand just a moment longer, her cheeks flushing faintly in the afternoon light. Just as she opened her mouth to say more, the sounds of a scuffle caught their attention from across the street. Henry's gaze snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Tilly standing by the bank, her back to the wall as a rough-looking man in a dust-stained coat leaned in close, crowding her with a sneer that could be heard in his tone.
"C'mon now, sweetheart," the man drawled, his voice low and sinister, his fingers digging hard into her arm. "Ain't no need for all this fightin'. Just be sweet, now. No one's gonna help ya here."
Tilly struggled, pulling against his grip, her face twisted in anger and disgust. "I told you, back off!" she spat, her voice strong but with a crack of fear.
Henry moved across the dusty street like a storm, his face set in a dark, unrelenting fury as he closed in on the scene unfolding by the general store. Tilly was backed up against the wall, her face a fierce mask of defiance even as a thickset, rough-looking man grabbed at her arm, leering close enough that she turned her head, trying to pull free.
"Get your damn hands off her!" Henry's voice rang out, cold and deadly, as he reached them, shoving the man back with a force that sent him staggering.
The man barely had time to look at Henry before Henry's fist connected with his jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the street as the man stumbled back, blood spurting from his mouth. Tilly broke free, stepping quickly aside as Henry advanced on the man, his gaze hard, unyielding, like a storm that couldn't be held back.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" the man spat, clutching his mouth as he tried to regain his footing, his hand reaching instinctively for the knife at his hip.
But Henry wasn't giving him the chance. His hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against the wall, his vision tunneling, rage filling every inch of him. Without thinking, his fingers tightened around the man's throat, a heat building in his chest, burning bright and strange, something wild and dark that felt like it was surging up from his very bones.
The man's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a wordless gasp, but Henry didn't let up. His grip tightened, the edges of his vision blurring as he felt that strange, primal energy pulse through him. His head pounded, his heartbeat echoing in his ears, and suddenly, an intense, blinding light burst from his hands, crackling with an energy he didn't understand, didn't recognize.
The next moment, there was a deafening crack, a sharp, unnatural burst, and then—a sickening, explosive force that sent Henry staggering back, his hands falling to his sides, his ears ringing.
He blinked, struggling to regain focus, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The man's body slumped against the wall, but his head—his head was… gone, nothing left but a twisted, bloodied stump. Bits of blood and bone had splattered across the wood behind him, dripping down in gruesome trails, staining the dust below.
The street had gone silent, every onlooker frozen in shock, their eyes wide as they stared at the carnage.
"What the hell…" Henry muttered, taking a shaky step back, his hands still tingling with that strange, burning energy, though it was fading fast, leaving him feeling empty, hollow. He looked down at his hands, covered in blood, his mind racing. He hadn't done that—or had he? He didn't remember seeing a gun, didn't remember anything that could explain… this.
Arthur pushed through the gathering crowd, his face darkening as he took in the sight. He glanced sharply at Henry, a wary look in his eyes. "Kid… what in God's name happened here?"
Henry shook his head, swallowing hard, the words catching in his throat. "I… I don't know, Arthur. He was just there, and then… and then…"
Arthur stared at him, his expression a mix of caution and disbelief as he studied Henry's face, searching for some explanation, something to make sense of what had happened. But all Henry could do was look down at his hands, his heart pounding, the strange feeling lingering, like a secret he'd never asked for, a power he couldn't understand.
"I didn't mean to," Henry muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I don't even know what I did."
Henry's chest tightened as he looked over at Tilly and Mary-Beth, standing frozen a few paces away, their faces pale, eyes wide with horror. Tilly's hand was over her mouth, her fingers trembling, while Mary-Beth's eyes darted between him and the twisted mess against the wall, her expression a mix of shock and fear. They stared at him as though he were something monstrous, something they couldn't recognize.
"Tilly…" Henry started, his voice shaking, but the words wouldn't come. How could he explain something he didn't even understand?
Tilly took a half-step back, her eyes locked on him, the look on her face cutting deeper than any wound ever could. He'd seen her fight, seen her look at men twice her size with defiance, but here, now… she looked at him with a fear that cut him to the bone.
"I didn't mean to… I… I…" he stammered, looking between her and Mary-Beth, the weight of their fear pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe.
Without thinking, Henry turned and broke into a run, his boots pounding against the dusty road as he shoved through the growing crowd. He could still hear the murmur of voices behind him, people muttering in shock, disbelief, fear—whispers of "What the hell did he do?" and "Is that even possible?" reaching his ears in fragmented snatches.
His mind was a blur as he burst into the livery stable, the familiar smell of hay and leather mingling with the haze of panic in his mind. He grabbed the reins of the nearest horse—a wiry, grey stallion—and pulled himself into the saddle, his hands shaking as he kicked his heels into its sides. The horse reared slightly, startled by his roughness, but then surged forward as Henry urged it into a gallop, the sound of hoofbeats thundering against the dirt road as he tore out of Valentine.
The town faded behind him, the sights and sounds disappearing in a blur, replaced by the endless stretch of wilderness ahead. He rode hard, his body hunched low over the horse's neck, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away—away from their horrified faces, away from the mangled body he'd left behind, and away from the burning, terrifying power that still pulsed in his veins.
The wind tore past him, whipping at his face, as his mind replayed the moment over and over, a nightmare on an endless loop. The way the man's head had just… shattered, the blood spattering the wall like a dark, twisted painting. And the feeling in his hands—hot, electric, like something alive that had forced its way out of him.
"What the hell did I do?" he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the roar of the wind and the pounding of hooves. He gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white as he tried to push the memory down, bury it deep where it couldn't reach him. But it stayed, gnawing at him, as raw and real as the fear in Tilly's eyes.
After what felt like hours, he pulled the horse to a stop near a grove of trees, his breath ragged, the night closing in around him. He swung down from the saddle, his legs unsteady as he stumbled forward, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. The forest was silent, the only sound his own harsh breathing and the distant call of an owl.
He slid down to the ground, his back against the rough bark, his head in his hands. He was no stranger to violence—he'd fought, killed, done things that would haunt most men in their sleep. But this… this was something else, something unnatural, and the feeling of it left him cold, hollow.
Arthur sat stiff in the carriage, his jaw set tight as he guided the horses down the winding path leading out of Valentine, Tilly and Mary-Beth and Karen sitting in it behind him. They rode in silence, their faces pale and strained, eyes fixed ahead as though looking back would make the memory of what they'd seen more real. The afternoon sun was slipping low, casting long, uneasy shadows over the trail as they left the town and the horror behind.
Uncle sat beside Arthur, quieter than Arthur had ever known him to be. Not a single muttered joke, not a lazy gripe, not even a nip from his flask. Arthur glanced back, catching a glimpse of Tilly's haunted expression, her gaze distant, as though she were watching that moment unfold over and over again in her mind, just as Arthur was.
The image burned bright in his memory: Henry standing over the crumpled form of that man, the rage twisting in his eyes, and then the explosion—sudden, unnatural, like nothing Arthur had ever seen. Blood and bone scattered like dust in the wind, and Henry… Henry standing there, looking down at his hands like he didn't know who he was anymore.
They reached the outskirts of camp as dusk began to settle over the hills. Arthur brought them in slowly, keeping his movements calm and steady, though his mind was anything but. As they dismounted, he gave Tilly a soft nod, trying to offer some reassurance in his gaze.
"You alright, Tilly?" he asked, his voice gruff but gentle.
She nodded, though her eyes didn't meet his. "I… yeah, Arthur." Her voice was strained, carrying a weight he'd never heard before, and she disappeared toward her tent without another word, Mary-Beth close behind her.
Arthur watched them go, his heart heavy. Whatever had happened out there… it was something that didn't fit in their world of guns, grit, and blood. It was something far stranger, something that felt like it had no place in the world he knew.
Uncle finally broke the silence, his voice a rough mutter as he glanced in the direction of Tilly's tent. "I don't know what in hell I just saw, Arthur… but I ain't in no rush to see it again."
Arthur shook his head, his gaze hardening as he looked toward Dutch's tent. "No," he replied, his tone low, determined. "But someone's got to understand it… and I need to find Henry."
He made his way toward Dutch's tent, his stride slow, purposeful. As he entered, he found Dutch sitting at the small table, pouring over a map, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of grand plans and hidden schemes. Hosea sat across from him, listening, though his sharp gaze shifted as soon as he saw Arthur's face.
"Arthur?" Hosea said, straightening, his expression turning serious. "What's happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Arthur took a slow breath, his mind struggling to find the words for something he couldn't fully understand himself. "It's… Henry," he said finally, his voice rough. "Something happened in town. Somethin' that I ain't ever seen before, and sure as hell ain't ever want to again."
Dutch raised an eyebrow, setting his pen down, his gaze sharpening as he leaned back in his chair. "Go on, Arthur. What did Henry do?"
Arthur glanced away, the memory of that explosive moment flashing through his mind, the image of the man's head… gone, leaving only a bloody mess and the stunned horror on everyone's faces.
"There was a man… he was harassin' Tilly, had her up against the wall in town," Arthur started, his voice low. "Henry stepped in, and… he got angry. Real angry. I've seen him take down men before, but this was different. He grabbed that fella, started layin' into him, and then… I don't know how to explain it. One moment he was chokin' the bastard, and the next—"
Arthur paused, struggling with the words, his jaw clenched tight as he relived the sight of blood and bone scattered in an instant.
"Next thing I knew, the man's head just… burst. Like it was hit by some goddamn cannon. But there wasn't no gun. Just Henry, standin' there, lookin' at his own hands like he'd never seen 'em before."
Hosea's face was grim, a shadow crossing his eyes as he absorbed Arthur's words. Dutch, too, was silent, his expression hardening as he took in the weight of what Arthur was saying.
"Christ," Hosea muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth, his gaze distant. "This isn't just rage, Arthur… this is somethin' else."
Dutch leaned forward, his eyes cold, calculating. "And where's Henry now?"
Arthur shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. "He bolted. Took the first horse he saw and rode off. Couldn't blame him. Tilly and Mary-Beth, they looked at him like… like he was some damn monster."
Dutch's expression darkened, his fingers tapping slowly against the table. "If Henry's got somethin' in him he can't control… that's a danger, Arthur. To all of us."
Arthur spun back around, his patience fraying as Dutch's words hit him like a slap in the face. That cold, calculating look on Dutch's face, the way he spoke about Henry like he was just another problem to be managed—Arthur had seen it before, but this time, it cut deep.
"Hold up a damn minute, Dutch," Arthur growled, his voice low but laced with simmering anger. "Henry does one thing that don't sit right with you, somethin' he can't even understand, and you're already talkin' about him like he's some rabid dog? Like he's a threat to the gang?"
Dutch's eyes flashed, his face hardening. "Now, Arthur, you know as well as I do that we've got to keep this family together, keep it safe. If Henry's losin' control—"
"That boy ain't lost control!" Arthur snapped, stepping forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Dutch. "He just saved Tilly from some bastard, and maybe he went a bit too far, but you weren't there, Dutch. You didn't see the fear in his eyes after it happened. He's scared out of his damn mind, and all you can think about is whether he's a liability."
Dutch's jaw clenched, his voice dropping into that cold, smooth tone that was always more dangerous than his shouting. "Arthur, I don't need a lecture on loyalty from you. I'm thinkin' about this family, what's best for all of us."
Arthur let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You wanna talk about loyalty, Dutch? Alright then, let's talk about loyalty. Henry's been with us for years—never questioned you, never flinched. He's been there for every damn fool plan we've run, done every dirty job you needed, no questions asked. And one strange thing happens, somethin' he couldn't control, and you're ready to hang him out to dry."
Dutch's gaze darkened, his mouth twisting as he kept his voice low. "Arthur, we don't have the luxury of bein' soft. One man's weakness can bring us all down. If Henry can't keep that… whatever it was in check, it could ruin everything."
Arthur's temper flared, his fists clenching as he took a step closer, his voice rough, edged with fury. "Funny how you're so damn cautious when it comes to Henry, but Micah… Micah's got blood on his hands that didn't need spillin'. He's stirred up more trouble than anyone in this gang, and you still defend him, call him 'family.' That man's got the devil in him, Dutch, and we all see it—but you?"
Arthur's voice rose, frustration spilling over as he gestured toward the camp. "You call us a family, Dutch, but when it comes to Micah, you're blind. He's the one causin' trouble, rilin' everyone up, but you don't see it. You're lettin' the wolf in the fold, and now you wanna turn your back on Henry, who's never once gone against you. Explain that to me, Dutch, 'cause I sure as hell don't understand."
Dutch's eyes narrowed, his expression hard, though Arthur could see a flash of anger, something personal in the way Dutch's face tightened. "You're startin' to sound like Hosea," he muttered, his tone laced with contempt. "Second-guessin' me, questionin' every decision I make. This gang, this family, it's all held together because I make the hard calls. Not you, not Hosea, and certainly not Henry."
Arthur clenched his teeth, the anger boiling over until he couldn't hold back. "You talk a big game about 'hard calls,' Dutch, but sometimes it just looks like pickin' favorites. Maybe you've lost sight of what family's supposed to mean. If Henry's got somethin' wrong with him, if he's hurtin' or scared, then we stand by him. We don't turn our backs the first chance we get!"
Dutch stepped closer, his voice icy, his eyes narrowing as he met Arthur's gaze. "You're walkin' a dangerous line, Arthur. Questionin' me, doubtin' me in front of the others… you keep goin' down this road, you'll be the one out in the cold."
Arthur let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he looked at Dutch, disappointment clear in his gaze. "I'm startin' to wonder if you even know what loyalty means anymore. Hell, maybe we're all just pieces on a board to you, somethin' to move around however it suits your grand ideas."
Dutch's face darkened, his expression hardening with barely restrained fury. "You're forgettin' yourself, Arthur. I brought you into this gang, gave you a purpose. Don't you stand there and pretend you know better than me about family."
Arthur met Dutch's glare with an unyielding look, the disappointment in his eyes sharp, cutting. "Then prove me wrong, Dutch. Prove to me that you still give a damn about the folks who built this gang with you. Prove to me that Henry matters more to you than some wild plan or a twisted sense of pride."
With that, Arthur turned on his heel, storming out of the tent, his chest tight, anger simmering hot beneath his skin. He knew one thing for certain—Henry needed someone to stand by him, and if Dutch couldn't see that, then it would be Arthur and Hosea who would.
As he strode across the camp, his mind racing, Arthur saddled up his horse, determination etched in every line of his face. If Dutch wouldn't stand by Henry, then Arthur would.
Arthur swung himself into the saddle, his mind clouded with the weight of Dutch's words. As he rode out of camp, a bitter frustration gnawed at him, heavy and unrelenting, twisting deeper the farther he rode. He couldn't shake the look on Dutch's face, the way he'd spoken about Henry as though he were nothing more than a liability to be managed, a threat to be contained. It didn't sit right. Hell, it was eating at him, twisting up every ounce of loyalty he'd clung to for Dutch over all these years.
Was Dutch scared of Henry? Did he see something in him he didn't understand, something he couldn't control? Or was it somethin' uglier—jealousy, maybe? Arthur didn't know, but he'd seen Dutch's eyes flash cold too many times lately, seen the way he leaned on Micah like some damn loyal lapdog while he cast out the others like they were nothing more than worn-out tools.
The sun was sinking by the time he reached Valentine, the town washed in fading light as folks went about their business, heads down and eyes wary. Arthur's gaze swept over the bustling main street, looking for any sign of the kid, but Henry was nowhere to be seen. He stopped a stable hand, described Henry's face, his hat, the way he rode—but the boy shook his head, muttering something about not seeing anyone like that.
Frustrated, Arthur headed for the bar, thinking maybe the barkeep had seen him pass through, maybe stopped for supplies or a drink to clear his head. Pushing through the saloon doors, Arthur paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, smoke-filled room, the sounds of low conversation and clinking glasses mingling with the faint twang of a fiddle from somewhere in the corner.
As he moved toward the bar, he noticed two men sitting at a corner table—a tall, wiry man dressed in a battered coat with a hat pulled low, and another fella seated beside him, scratching away in a notebook with an air of focused desperation.
Arthur nodded, pulling out a chair and settling himself down. "You boys been sittin' in this hole long enough to see everyone who passes through. Lookin' for someone," he said, his voice low and tense. "Kid named Henry. You'd know him if you saw him—tall, bit wiry, maybe lookin' like he's in one hell of a mood."
Calloway leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin playing on his face as he chuckled, more to himself than anyone else. "Well, now… if you're lookin' for that boy, you'll be disappointed. Ain't seen him since he helped us some days back. Seemed a bit… troubled, though, if you don't mind my sayin'. Not unlike the way you're lookin' right now."
Levin perked up, nodding eagerly as he shuffled his notebook. "Yes, yes! The young man… he was… very friendly," he said, waving the notebook in front of Arthur with a faint gleam in his eye.
Arthur's gaze flicked down to the notebook, but he pushed it away with a sigh, shaking his head. "I need to find him." He looked Calloway square in the eye, his tone firm. "I ain't got time to sit around. You sure you ain't seen him pass back through here?"
Calloway shrugged, his eyes narrowing as he took another slow sip of his whiskey. "Look, I ain't a babysitter."
Arthur grunted, a knot of worry twisting tighter in his chest. He could picture Henry running, that haunted look in his eyes, the way he'd glanced down at his own hands like he didn't know what he'd become. Damn it all, Arthur thought, if Dutch had just shown him one ounce of loyalty, one sign that he was willing to stand by him, maybe Henry wouldn't have run. Maybe he'd still be here, still trustin' them.
He rose from the table, tipping his hat to Calloway and Levin in thanks. "If you catch wind of him," he muttered, his voice gruff, "you make sure he knows he's got someone lookin' out for him. Understand?"
Calloway chuckled, raising his glass in a lazy salute. "Don't worry. I'll keep an ear out. That kid's got somethin' in him. Can't say I've ever seen it before, but… somethin' fierce."
Arthur turned without another word, his mind already focused back on the trail ahead. He couldn't give up now. He'd find Henry if it took every damn inch of land between here and the edge of the country.
The cold wind bit at Arthur's face as he reached the top of Mount Hagen, his horse panting, breath coming in thick clouds in the thin, icy air. He'd been tracking Henry for what felt like days, chasing down every half-heard rumor and faint trail from Valentine all the way up through the rugged mountains. But here, at the top, the faint scent of Henry's trail seemed to vanish, leaving Arthur feeling like he'd reached the end of something, though he couldn't say what.
He climbed off his horse, boots crunching against the snow-packed ground, and looked out over the vast, sprawling view below. The land stretched out in all directions, a mix of jagged peaks and thick forests, endless and indifferent. Arthur's heart felt heavy as he took it all in, the realization settling over him that maybe… maybe Henry didn't want to be found. Maybe he needed to be out here, alone with whatever storm was brewing inside him.
Arthur's shoulders sagged as he let out a long breath, his gaze drifting over the expanse before him. "Damn it, Henry," he muttered to himself, a pang of sorrow cutting through his chest. "Just when we got you back, you're gone again."
He turned to head back to his horse when he caught sight of something that made him pause. A man stood near the edge of the cliff, his silhouette striking against the pale sky, his figure too well-defined, too still, like he was carved out of the very rock itself. He was dressed sharply, almost out of place in the harsh wilderness—a fine dark suit, polished boots, and a wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his face. Arthur's brows furrowed as he looked him over, unease prickling at his skin. This fella didn't belong out here, that much was clear.
"Hell are you doin' up here?" Arthur called out, his voice rough as he took a few cautious steps closer, hand instinctively resting on the grip of his revolver. "Ain't many folks come up this way for leisure."
The man turned slowly, his movements unnaturally calm, like he had all the time in the world. When his gaze finally settled on Arthur, a small, almost polite smile crept onto his face, his eyes glinting with a strange, unsettling light.
"Leisure," the man repeated softly, his voice smooth, almost too soft for the biting cold that cut through the mountain air. "Now there's a word. Some would call it fate, others… destiny." His smile widened just a touch, though his eyes remained as cold and unreadable as the sky above. "And you, Mr. Morgan, are you here out of leisure?"
Arthur's spine stiffened at the sound of his name slipping out so easily, like the man had known it all along. He frowned, a wave of suspicion and wariness washing over him as he watched the man carefully. "Ain't got much interest in leisure these days," he muttered, his voice guarded. "Got business I'm tendin' to. Lookin' for someone."
The man's eyes held a faint gleam, a knowing look that unsettled Arthur even more. "Yes," the man murmured, his gaze drifting out over the valley below. "The young man, lost to himself… searching for answers he cannot yet understand." He turned back to Arthur, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Or is it you, Mr. Morgan, who seeks the answers?"
Arthur narrowed his eyes, his grip on the revolver tightening as he tried to make sense of the strange words. "How the hell do you know who I'm lookin' for?" he demanded, his voice harsh, though there was an edge of doubt in it. The man's presence was unsettling, the air around him thick with something… unnatural.
The man chuckled softly, the sound low, almost condescending, as he took a step closer to the edge, his gaze drifting down over the cliffside as if he were admiring a masterpiece. "I know many things, Arthur Morgan. I see the past, and I see the paths of men who walk through the fire… and those who turn from it." He paused, his eyes flicking back to Arthur, a spark of something dark and knowing in them. "Your friend… the young one… he walks a path few could endure. But you know that, don't you?"
Arthur's face darkened, his jaw clenched tight. "I don't know who the hell you are," he said, his voice low and edged with barely restrained frustration. "But Henry's got enough trouble without strangers meddlin' in his life."
The man raised an eyebrow, his smile never faltering. "Trouble finds those who seek it. And your friend, young Henry… he has a gift, a power that burns within him. Something even he does not understand, but that does not change what he is."
Arthur's breath caught, the man's words cutting deeper than he'd expected. It was like he was seeing something Arthur had sensed but hadn't wanted to name, a feeling he'd tried to push away in his search for Henry. But here was this stranger, speaking it out loud, bringing it to life with words that seemed to hang in the cold air between them.
"Power?" Arthur echoed, his voice low, bitter. "Ain't no such thing in this world, friend. Just survival, and a fight for what's yours. Anything else is a damn fantasy."
The man's smile remained, though his eyes held a flash of something sharper, almost amused. "You may believe that, Mr. Morgan. But as you continue down this path… well, you may find yourself questioning the very ground beneath your feet."
Arthur's jaw clenched, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as he looked at the man, refusing to be drawn into whatever twisted game this was. "You got a funny way of speakin'," he said finally, his tone hard. "Ain't sure I like it."
The man laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver up Arthur's spine. "You're not the first to say so," he murmured, his gaze drifting away from Arthur, back toward the valley below. "But that's alright. Some things… some paths, Mr. Morgan, must be walked alone."
With that, he turned back, tipping his hat to Arthur in a strange, almost mocking salute. And before Arthur could say another word, the man turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist that clung to the cliffside, his figure fading as if he'd never been there at all.
Arthur stood there, his breath caught in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to piece together what he'd just seen, what he'd just heard. The man's words lingered, wrapping around him like a cold fog, leaving him unsettled, his thoughts clouded with doubt.
And as he looked out over the valley, alone with only the quiet and the endless mountains surrounding him, he felt the weight of the journey ahead press down on him, heavy and unrelenting. Whatever Henry was facing… Arthur knew now that it was something far bigger, far stranger than any trouble they'd faced before.
The narrow streets of Strawberry were quiet, shrouded in a misty dusk as the day sank into night, but the silence didn't reach Henry. He staggered through the muddy paths between the old wooden buildings, his steps uneven, the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand nearly empty. The world around him spun, the edges of the street twisting and tilting in his vision, but he kept walking, fueled by the hazy, bitter rage boiling inside him.
Faces blurred past him, shadowed and strange, their voices garbled like they were speaking from underwater. He felt their eyes on him, the pity, the disgust, the wary glances of the townsfolk as they stepped out of his way, but he didn't care. Hell, he wanted their eyes, wanted them to look at him with fear, with anything but that damn pity that seemed to follow him like a shadow. The pain in his chest burned, the strange, sickening guilt gnawing at him with every step.
He stumbled, catching himself against the side of the post office, leaning heavily against the rough wood as he took another swig of whiskey, the liquid burning down his throat. "Damn town… damn people," he muttered, his voice thick and slurred, the words barely making sense even to himself. "Ain't nothin' here I want… just faces… faces that won't leave me the hell alone."
He shoved off the wall, weaving through the street, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the faces in the dim light. He wanted them to disappear, to fade into the shadows, to leave him be. Every person he saw felt like a ghost, their eyes accusing, their expressions twisted in ways he couldn't quite place, but all of them felt the same—they were watching him, waiting for him to crack, waiting for him to become that thing he'd glimpsed back in Valentine.
In his mind, he could still see it: the man's face, the look of sheer terror before… before his own hands had done somethin' unnatural, somethin' that didn't belong in this world. The memory of it burned in his gut, each flash of blood and bone making him feel more hollow, more lost. He couldn't remember the feeling itself, couldn't understand what had driven him to that point, but the aftermath lingered like a sickness, a weight pressing down on him that whiskey couldn't lift.
He pushed his way into a narrow alley, the darkness closing in around him as he leaned against the wall, tilting his head back and taking another pull from the bottle, hoping it'd dull the sharp edges of his mind, hoping it'd blot out the memories clawing at his insides.
"Goddamn faces," he muttered, his voice rough and low. "Everywhere I look… just lookin' at me like I'm… somethin' they don't understand." He took a shuddering breath, the whiskey sloshing as he raised the bottle to his lips again, the liquid spilling down his chin in his haste.
He wanted to find trouble, wanted a reason to lose himself in something other than his own mind, to let the fists fly, to feel the sharp pain of a brawl over the dull, haunting ache in his chest. But the streets were empty, and the quiet, peaceful town mocked him with its calm, with its silence. He felt the weight of it press down on him, as if the world itself was watching, waiting for him to break.
"Y'alright there, son?" a voice called, rough but cautious, and Henry looked up to see a local shopkeeper standing at the entrance of the alley, his face barely visible in the shadows.
Henry's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the bottle as he took a step toward the man, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Y'want somethin'?" he slurred, his voice thick with the haze of drink. "You standin' there lookin' like you've seen a ghost. Maybe I am one."
The man held up his hands, taking a step back, his eyes flicking to the bottle in Henry's hand. "Now, easy there, friend," he said, his voice cautious, edging on wary. "Just makin' sure you ain't plannin' on causin' trouble in these parts."
Henry laughed, a rough, humorless sound that echoed off the walls of the alley. "Trouble? Ain't got no trouble here. Just a man tryin' to forget. Now leave me be, unless you're lookin' for a fight." He staggered back, swaying on his feet, his gaze wild as he stared down the shopkeeper, daring him to come closer, daring him to say somethin' else.
The man shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned and disappeared back down the street, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. Henry watched him go, the bitterness churning in his gut as he raised the bottle again, taking one last, desperate pull before the whiskey ran dry, leaving him with nothing but the emptiness, the hollow ache that he couldn't escape.
He stumbled back into the street, his gaze unfocused as he looked around, his voice hoarse as he muttered to himself. "Ain't no place left… nowhere left to run. Faces followin' me everywhere… followin' me like shadows." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper now, and he looked up at the sky, the stars blurred and distant, cold and indifferent.
He threw the empty bottle against the wall, watching it shatter, the pieces scattering at his feet, and for a moment, he felt as broken as the glass, fragments of himself scattered across a world that didn't give a damn.
Henry stirred, the dull ache in his head spreading out like wildfire the moment he tried to open his eyes. Everything hurt—his ribs, his fists, but mostly his head, pounding like a damn hammer was tryin' to split it open. He blinked, squinting against the pale light filtering in from the small, barred window, casting harsh lines across the cold, stone floor.
But there was something else, a sound that pierced through the fog in his mind—a voice. A low, mocking drawl that he recognized instantly, one that made his teeth clench and his hands curl into fists despite the throb of pain in his knuckles.
"Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up. Little ol' Henry, sleepin' off his whiskey, gettin' in trouble like a big boy." Micah's voice slithered through the cell bars, each word dripping with gleeful malice. "Hell, kid, never thought I'd see the day you'd get yourself tossed in a cell like a real outlaw."
Henry sat up slowly, wincing as the world spun, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the bile rising in his throat. He glanced over to the next cell, and there was Micah, grinning like a damn devil, his eyes alight with a twisted delight that made Henry's stomach turn.
"Micah," Henry muttered, his voice hoarse, laced with the bitterness of a hangover and the residual fury simmering just under his skin. "Didn't realize this place was takin' in the likes of you."
Micah chuckled, leaning casually against the bars of his cell, his arms folded, his hat tipped back as he looked Henry up and down with that same infuriating smirk. "Oh, they're doin' me the courtesy of a little stay," he sneered. "Seems I rubbed a few folks the wrong way. But nothin' they ain't gonna let me out for… eventually."
Henry glared at him, his fists clenched tight in his lap as he fought back the urge to tell Micah exactly where he could shove his smug smile. "What the hell do you care what I been doin'? Thought you had bigger things to worry about."
"Oh, I don't," Micah drawled, his grin widening. "But you? Drunk in the streets, pickin' fights with lawmen, makin' a damn fool of yourself in front of half the town. Real smart, Henry, real smart. Almost as if you're tryin' to ruin what little rep you got with Dutch and the gang."
Henry's jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he forced himself to look away, his mind replaying Dutch's cold words, the way he'd so easily turned on him after all these years. But the last person he wanted to hear that from was Micah.
"Don't you worry about me," Henry muttered, his voice low, though the venom in it was plain as day. "Least I know where I stand."
Micah chuckled, a sound that grated against Henry's skull like nails on stone. "Oh, do ya now? 'Cause from where I'm sittin', seems like you're about as lost as a dog in a storm. One minute you're a good little pup, followin' Dutch around, next minute, you're half-crazy, gettin' in trouble like this. What the hell happened to ya, Henry?
Henry's head snapped up, anger flashing in his eyes as he met Micah's gaze. "You don't know a damn thing about me," he growled, his voice tight with barely restrained rage. "And you sure as hell don't know what I been through."
Micah's smirk only grew, his voice dropping into a low, mocking tone. "Oh, I know plenty. Word spreads fast, Henry. I heard about that poor bastard in Valentine… heard about that… scene you made. Now, what would make a mild-mannered boy like you go do somethin' like that?"
Henry swallowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the memory claw its way back, the twisted flash of blood and bone, the horror on Tilly's face, the terror he couldn't scrub from his mind no matter how much whiskey he threw down his throat.
"Shut up, Micah," he muttered, his voice low, but Micah just leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity.
"Oh, I think I struck a nerve," Micah sneered, his voice laced with mock sympathy.
Henry clenched his jaw, his head still throbbing, but he managed to turn and glare through the bars, meeting Micah's smirking face with a scowl. "What the hell are you on about?" he muttered, his voice rough and raw from the whiskey and the shouting the night before.
Micah leaned forward, his grin widening. "Oh, I'm just tellin' ya what I heard, Henry. Story goes, some poor fool in Valentine got himself on your bad side, and you tore through that place like you was possessed. Heard it took half the town to pull you off 'im. Folks been sayin' you came down on that fella with fists flyin' like a damn storm, wrecked up the place somethin' fierce."
Henry shook his head, his fists clenching as he leaned against the bars. "That ain't what happened, and you know it," he said, his voice low, tight. "Just some damn bastard messin' with Tilly. Put him in his place, that's all."
Micah chuckled, shaking his head as though he found Henry's denial amusing. "Oh, sure, sure. But y'know how stories travel. By the time it reached Strawberry, you'd taken on a whole gang of Pinkertons bare-handed, tossed some poor bastard through a window, smashed up half the saloon. Hell, folks here are startin' to think you're some kinda wild animal."
Henry's jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration running through him as Micah's words sank in. "They can think whatever they want," he muttered, forcing himself to look away. "Ain't none of it true."
Henry gripped the edge of the bunk, his knuckles white as he forced himself to keep calm, to block out Micah's voice, to not let the bastard's words dig into him. But the doubts were already there, buried deep, Micah's words bringing them to the surface like some twisted, ugly truth he'd been trying to ignore.
Micah laughed softly, shaking his head. "Hell, I'll be outta here by tomorrow. Dutch'll see to it, one way or another. But you? Dutch is already wonderin' what the hell you are, thinkin' maybe you don't belong. Ain't it a shame?"
Henry looked up, his gaze cold, meeting Micah's smirk with an anger that ran bone-deep. "If Dutch don't trust me, he sure as hell shouldn't trust you," he spat, his voice edged with steel.
Henry clenched his fists tighter, his nails digging into his palms as he listened, each of Micah's words digging deeper, stirring up doubts he'd been fighting to ignore. But he couldn't give Micah the satisfaction of seeing him rattled, couldn't let him know how much those words hit home.
"Think whatever you want, Micah," he muttered, his voice low, his gaze fixed on the cold floor beneath him. "But one day, you're gonna push too damn far. And when that happens, Dutch ain't gonna be the one savin' your sorry ass."
Micah's eyes glinted with a spark of amusement, his grin never faltering. "Well, I look forward to seein' you try, Henry."
The heavy clank of boots echoed through the stone hallway as one of the guards entered, his silhouette framed by the dim light that filtered through the jailhouse door. His rough, weathered face twisted into a scowl as he took in the sight of Henry and Micah in their cells, his gaze narrowing as he looked Henry up and down with that same hard-eyed suspicion all the townsfolk seemed to have for outlaws.
"What are you two jabberin' about?" he growled, his voice thick with irritation as he stopped in front of Henry's cell, crossing his arms. "Haven't you boys caused enough trouble for one day?"
Henry leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he met the guard's gaze, the glimmer of whiskey-fueled defiance still flickering in his eyes. "Just a friendly chat, officer," he drawled, casting a quick, mocking glance over at Micah, who sneered in response.
The guard shook his head, his patience wearing thin. "Yeah, well, that's about enough of that," he muttered, pulling a heavy key ring from his belt. "Your little performance in the streets is all folks been talkin' about. Don't need any more hell-raising from you."
He shoved the key into the lock with a hard twist, the metal screeching as the door creaked open. He stepped back, gesturing for Henry to get up. "Alright, time's up. Get the hell outta here, and try not to cause any more damn trouble."
Henry rose slowly, wincing as the bruises from the night's brawl made themselves known, but he kept his smirk, casting a sidelong look at Micah through the bars. He adjusted his hat, the mocking smile on his lips widening as he held Micah's gaze.
"Be seein' ya, Micah," Henry said, his tone smug, satisfied, the look of a man who'd won something, even if it was just a small freedom. "Reckon I'll be breathin' free air while you're sittin' here, rotatin' with your own damn thoughts."
Micah's eyes flashed, his smirk wavering for just a moment as he glared back. "Oh, don't you worry, Henry," he replied, his voice low, carrying an edge of dark promise. "I'll be out soon enough. Ain't no cell that can hold me for long."
The guard's jaw clenched as he strode over, baton gripped tightly in his hand. He slammed it hard against the iron bars with a resounding clang that echoed through the small space, cutting through Micah's muttering like a gunshot. Micah jumped, his smirk faltering as he glared up at the guard, a flicker of fear flashing in his eyes before he masked it with his usual sneer.
"Shut yer damn mouth, Bell," the guard barked, his voice carrying a low, dangerous edge.
Henry tipped his hat, throwing a quick wink at Micah. "Sure, Micah. Keep tellin' yourself that."
The guard gave Henry a shove forward, impatient. "Enough of the dramatics," he snapped, steering Henry out of the cell and through the hallway. "Get out there and don't let me see your sorry hide around here for a long while. And don't you go stirrin' up any more trouble."
Henry shot him a look, a lopsided grin still playing on his lips as he stepped out into the fresh air, the sunlight blinding him for a moment as he took in a deep, slow breath. Behind him, he could still hear Micah's muttered curses echoing through the jailhouse, and it only served to widen his smile. Whatever was waiting for him out there, at least it wasn't the cold stone and iron of that damn cell—and at least he didn't have to suffer the company of Micah Bell.