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"What's going on, Dutch? Arthur? Caleb?" Hosea asked, voice gentle but firm, cutting through the rising tension like a knife through soft bread. Caleb wisely fell silent, shifting just slightly to let Arthur or Dutch answer first. Arthur, looking weary, opened his mouth, but Dutch beat him to it.
"Arthur and Caleb went to break Micah out. Turns out, no need. Some damn stranger got there first. Shot Micah dead through the jail window. Now the whole damn town's crawling with law looking for whoever did it!"
There was a pause.
And then Hosea chuckled.
It was quiet at first, but unmistakable, a dry, almost relieved laugh. The sound caught Dutch flat footed, his head snapping toward Hosea.
"Jesus, Hosea," Dutch barked, "how can you laugh at that? He was one of us! He was family!"
Hosea's eyes twinkled just faintly. "Yes, Dutch. He was part of the gang. But let's not pretend he wasn't a walking disaster. You know it. I know it. Hell, half the camp knows it. You know damn well he nearly got Lenny jailed too with his stupidity. Micah was a powder keg looking for a match. And if we're lucky, that stranger just saved us from burning the whole camp to the ground."
Dutch's face turned an angry shade of red. His mouth opened, no doubt ready to unleash a storm of protest but Arthur cut in fast.
"Enough," Arthur said firmly, stepping between them. "Not here. Not in front of everyone." His gaze swept across the camp, meeting the eyes of Lenny, Javier, Sean, Mary-Beth, Tilly, and the rest, all watching with rapt attention. "We'll talk about this in private."
Dutch exhaled hard, his shoulders heaving once, twice, and for a breathless moment, Dutch's eyes flashed with something dangerous, and then it vanished behind a mask of calm. He straightened his vest with sharp tugs.
"You're right, Arthur." The words were smooth as oil over broken glass. "We'll discuss this privately."
Before he then turned on his heel with a harsh huff and stomped toward his tent. The crowd slowly began to disperse, the murmurs fading as people drifted away, though Caleb caught snippets here and there, Bill grumbling under his breath, Mary-Beth whispering to Tilly, John lighting a cigarette and shaking his head.
Hosea exhaled through his nose, watching Dutch go. "Well. That went about as well as expected."
Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. "Christ, Hosea. You couldn't have waited five minutes?"
"Waited for what? The eulogy?" Hosea shook his head. "That boy was trouble, Arthur. You know it. I know it. Hell, even little Jack probably knew it."
Arthur let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. Hosea clapped Arthur on the shoulder, offered Caleb a brief, knowing glance, and then followed after Dutch, no doubt to discuss this even further in private.
Susan Grimshaw approached, her arms crossed. "So it's true? Micah's really gone?"
Arthur nodded. "Two bullets. Professional job."
Susan's lips thinned. "Good. One less troublemaker mouth to feed." She walked off before anyone could respond.
As the sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows across Horseshoe Overlook, the gang slipped back into their routines—cooking over the fires, tending to the horses, mending clothes, sharpening knives. But the air was different now. Tense. Edgy.
Caleb walked over to the hitching post, giving his horse, Morgan, a gentle pat on the neck. "You did well today, girl," he murmured, feeding her a sugar cube from his pocket.
Arthur joined him a moment later, leaning on the rail.
"You were right, you know," Arthur muttered, voice low. "About Micah. The gang might be better off without him now that it thinks of it."
Caleb looked at him, surprised. "Didn't expect you to say that."
Arthur gave a weary half smile. "I mulled it over and what happened at Blackwater was around 60% because of him, so maybe what Hosea said helped me make up my mind." They shared a quiet moment, the kind only men who've seen too much can appreciate.
Inside Dutch's tent, the heavy canvas walls muffled the noise of the camp outside, the clatter of pots at the fire, murmured conversations, and the occasional horse snort. The lantern hanging from the tent pole cast a soft glow, flickering slightly with the faint breeze slipping in under the edges.
Dutch sat hunched on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer. His usually sharp blue eyes were distant, shadows under them making him look far older than his years.
Across from him, Hosea sat calmly in the battered wooden chair they'd hauled from the last camp, legs crossed, fingers steepled in his lap.
For a long while, neither spoke. The tension between them softened, stretched thin like cooling wax, as both men let the storm of their earlier clash settle.
Finally, Dutch cleared his throat, his voice low, rough.
"I… I'm sorry, Old friend," he murmured, his words slow and deliberate, as if tasting each one before it left his mouth. "For snapping at you like that back there. I shouldn't have—" he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It's just… losing Micah, it stirred up a lot. Reminded me of… Blackwater. Of the Callander boys. Of Jenny."
His voice cracked faintly on the last name. Hosea's brows softened, and he uncrossed his arms. Dutch continued, "We've been bleeding people, old friend. And now, another one, right when we're still licking our wounds." He ran a hand back through his dark hair, disheveled now. "It's a heavy toll."
Hosea nodded slowly, then sighed, his chest rising and falling in a weary rhythm. "It's okay, Dutch," he said quietly. "I understand your outburst. We've all been carrying this weight."
He paused, his eyes narrowing faintly. "But… you know as well as I do, Micah wasn't exactly good for this gang. From the day he rode in with us, he stirred up trouble. And the others… they didn't trust him. Not Lenny, not Charles, not John. Not even Arthur. Especially Arthur, you know his opinion about Micah."
Dutch's jaw tightened, his teeth clenching for a beat. He inhaled through his nose, steadying himself. Hosea's words were careful, and measured, but beneath them, Dutch could hear the real meaning, the unspoken judgment. That Dutch's instincts had been wrong about Micah.
Dutch almost snapped again. He almost spat back that Hosea didn't understand, that no one did, that Micah had been more than what they saw, but something in the old man's calm gaze stopped him. Dutch swallowed the words, forcing them down like bitter medicine.
"I understand," Dutch said softly, a touch strained. "I know no one liked him. I know his mouth ran too fast, his fists flew too quick. But I saw… I saw a man trying, Hosea. Beneath all that bluster, beneath the filth and fury, there was a good heart somewhere in there. Maybe he just didn't know how to show it."
Hosea's lips twitched faintly at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite agreement. More the soft tolerance of a man who'd known Dutch for decades, who had seen the bright flame of idealism burn in him even when it scorched the ground beneath their feet.
That flame had drawn them all together once. And now? Now it burned dangerously close to consuming them.
Hosea pushed up from the chair with a quiet grunt, smoothing his vest. "I suppose that's why we follow you, Dutch. You still see the good when the rest of us have stopped looking."
Dutch stood as well, resting a hand on Hosea's shoulder. "And I suppose that's why you've always been at my side, old friend. You see the cracks before they turn into breaks."
For a moment, their eyes met, the years between them, the countless miles, the gunfights, the heists, the betrayals, all hanging in the silence.
Dutch gave Hosea's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We should bring Micah home," he said quietly. "Give him a proper burial. Not one of those butchered civilized affairs. Something real. Something ours."
Hosea gave a resigned nod. "All right, Dutch. We'll do it your way." He knew better than to argue now. Some things you couldn't pry loose, not even from Dutch.
As they stepped out of the tent, the last traces of sunlight had disappeared, leaving only the firelight and lantern glow around camp.
People cast glances their way, watching but pretending not to, curiosity burning in every face. Arthur stood by the fire, Caleb beside him, both falling quiet as Dutch and Hosea approached.
"We'll ride at first light," Dutch announced, his voice firm again, the mask of command sliding neatly back into place. "Arthur, Caleb, I want you two with me. Javier, Charles, you'll come too. We'll ride quiet, no banners, no noise. We bring Micah back and we put him on the ground. Proper."
Arthur's jaw tightened slightly, but he gave a small nod. Caleb, stood beside Arthur with leisure, and simply said, "Understood Dutch."
The gang settled again, but the tension didn't truly leave. They all knew that this, this wasn't the end of anything. If anything, it was just another stone added to the pile they were already carrying uphill.
Morning came cold and pale.
The small group rode out just as the sun cracked the horizon. Dutch led, his coat flaring behind him, Hosea at his side. Arthur rode quietly, his hat pulled low, and Caleb followed, eyes sharp, every sense alert. Behind them, Charles and Javier brought up the rear.
Caleb kept his expression neutral, but his grip on the reins was tighter than usual. He didn't want to be here. Not for Micah. The man had been nothing but trouble, reckless, cruel, and a liability to the gang. But Dutch had made his decision, and no one, not even Hosea, could sway him now.
As they rode, Caleb turned the situation over in his mind. If they were going to do this, they needed to do it smart.
"Dutch," Caleb spoke up, keeping his voice steady. "Arthur and I were in Strawberry just yesterday. If we ride in again today, especially after what happened, it's gonna draw eyes. Might be better if we stay outside, keep watch. That way, if things go south, we can cover your retreat."
Dutch glanced at him, his sharp eyes assessing. After a moment, he nodded. "Smart thinking, son. You're right, no need to push our luck."
Hosea, riding beside Dutch, gave Caleb a knowing look. "Practical. I like it."
Arthur, who had been silent for most of the ride, exhaled through his nose. "Makes sense. Less chance of the law recognizing us twice in two days."
Dutch clapped Caleb on the shoulder. "See? This is why I keep you around. You think ahead."
Caleb forced a small smile, though the praise sat uneasily with him. He wasn't doing this for Micah. He was doing it for the gang, for Arthur, for Hosea, even for Dutch, despite the man's stubbornness.
When they reached the outskirts of Strawberry, the town was already stirring. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the distant murmur of voices carried on the wind. The law would still be on high alert after Micah's murder, and the last thing they needed was another shootout.
Dutch turned to the group, his voice low. "Javier, Charles, you're with me and Hosea. We'll slip in quiet, grab Micah's body, and get out. No fuss."
Javier gave a curt nod, his hand resting near his revolver. Charles, silent, simply adjusted his bow, his sharp eyes scanning the town ahead.
Arthur and Caleb dismounted near the tree line, pulling their bandanas up over their faces. Caleb checked his revolver, then his repeater, ensuring both were loaded and ready. "Keep sharp," Arthur muttered, crouching behind a thick oak. "If this goes bad, we'll need to move fast." Caleb nodded, settling into position. His heart pounded, but his hands were steady. He'd been in enough tight spots by now to know how to handle the rush of adrenaline.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 6/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 2)
- Rifle (Lvl 2)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 1)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 2)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 2)
- Poker (Lvl 1)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 1)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lv1)
- Persuasion (Lvl 2)
Money: 731 dollars and 61 cents
Bank: 40 dollars, 2 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets