Dutch didn't bother arguing with Hosea again—some things, especially when born of ignorance, couldn't be fixed with words. Minds shaped by a different era often needed reality to do the teaching.
He had done what he had to do.
Now it was time to move on.
He stepped out into the crisp morning air. The sky was clear—just like it had been after the gang's train heist in the game. This time, however, the train job hadn't happened. Still, time marched on, and the weather had improved.
Dutch's eyes landed on Arthur, standing near the firepit, deep in conversation with Micah. He raised his voice:
"Arthur! Gather the others. We'll divvy up the Blackwater money now. After that, we move to Horseshoe Overlook."
Arthur turned, blinking. "Wouldn't it make more sense to split it once we get there?"
Dutch smiled—sharp, sly. "Maybe you can wait, Arthur. But I doubt everyone else has the same patience. What do you think, Micah?"
At the sound of "Blackwater," Micah lit up like a lantern. "Oh, Dutch! My good and noble Dutch! Your wisdom is like sunlight after a storm!"
Dutch didn't even blink. "Micah, what I've always liked most is that mouth of yours. It's like a shiny little dagger—makes a pretty show, even when it's useless."
He waved Micah closer. "Come now. Let's make a show of it and count the earnings."
Micah practically bounced on his heels. That money had been haunting him for days. The retreat from Blackwater had gone surprisingly well—no deaths, thanks to Dutch—and the stolen cash had made it onto the wagon intact.
But Dutch knew Micah too well.
Micah didn't care about loyalty. He cared about money.
"Dutch, seriously," David said, approaching with Javier and Bill. "We can split the money at Horseshoe. This seems… unnecessary."
But Dutch wasn't hearing it. He looked at the assembled gang—Bill lumbering along like a disgruntled marine, Javier ever watchful, Arthur skeptical.
They were loyal men. Misguided at times, flawed, but loyal.
Micah wasn't.
Dutch would not let that seed of rot spread.
He watched the gang come together—Arthur, Hosea, John… twenty-six in total. So many familiar faces. So much potential. Dutch could almost believe again.
Jenny was the first to reach him, light on her feet. "Dutch! How's your wound?" She fluttered around him like a butterfly.
Dutch smiled warmly. "All healed, child. Nothing to worry about."
Jenny, sweet Jenny. Forced into the gang after running from a life as a nun. One of the few innocents among them.
Micah, meanwhile, was vibrating with anticipation. And just as he stepped forward again—eyes hungry, fingers twitching—Dutch's smile changed.
"Micah," he said calmly. "Let's talk."
Dutch's tone was soft. The gang hushed.
"You ran first at Blackwater. Tried to take the money and vanish. That's betrayal."
Micah froze.
"You show no affection for this gang. You're a mad dog, biting anyone who comes near—man, woman, child. Even Jack."
Micah's lips parted. Dutch raised a hand.
"Let me finish. You fired at civilians to escape Blackwater. That's not just reckless—it's damn near unforgivable. You nearly tore down everything we built."
Silence.
"I won't let this gang rot from the inside." Dutch's voice turned hard. "Arthur, David—grab him."
Micah blinked, stunned. "Wait—wait, Dutch—"
He reached for his revolvers.
Too late.
*Bang! Bang!*
Four shots echoed in the clearing—two from Arthur, two from David. Micah's hands and knees buckled, pierced clean through.
Screaming, he collapsed.
"Dutch! Why? I—I was loyal! I was loyal!"
"You were a snake!" Arthur shouted.
Then Susan Grimshaw stepped forward. Shotgun in hand.
"Bang!"
Micah's leg exploded in a mist of blood. He shrieked, writhing in the snow.
"Been waiting to do that since day one," she muttered.
Dutch raised a hand. "Ms. Grimshaw, please—"
But Susan wasn't finished. "No one liked him, Dutch. Not one of us."
Arthur nodded. "He never belonged. He was poison."
Even Charles, watching from a distance, spoke up. "If it wasn't for the rules, I would've ended him myself."
Dutch approached Micah's broken form, now twitching and sobbing. "You were never one of us. Not really."
Micah reached out for his revolver with a shattered hand. "I gave everything for you…"
Dutch crushed the reaching fingers beneath his boot.
"Bill. Finish it."
Bill didn't hesitate. Three shots to the head. Micah's body stilled, face unrecognizable.
"Useless trash," Bill muttered, dragging the corpse away. "Let the wolves sort it."
Dutch turned back to the others.
"Now that that's done—Ms. Grimshaw, get everyone packing. We ride for Horseshoe Overlook."
He paused, voice rising. "As for the money $150,000—I'll use it to build something better. Something lasting. Trust me, and I'll make it worth it."
Hosea stepped forward. "We trust you, Dutch. All the way."
And just like that, the gang fell in line. Arthur. John. Bill. Javier. Susan. Even the skeptics nodded.
The rat was dead. The house was clean.
Dutch smiled.
The future was his.
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