"I believe you." Three words. It was just three words.

Quiet, gentle, and promising.

At first, Arthur felt relief. Perhaps he hadn't been so ridiculous and pitiful. After all, Charles was still here. The man had listened to his ramblings and was yet to dismiss him a lunatic like any other sane person would.

Then he remembered Dutch's apathetic expressions. Micah's relentless brutality. Ethan's death.

What did it matter if Charles believed him or not? The ball was already rolling. He had seen it himself. Things couldn't be changed. The man was better off leaving, running, and getting as far away as he could before everything fell into shambles.

Oh, what had he done? The only thing his pathetic temperament had accomplished the past two days was to worry everyone around him. Now, he might have even put Charles into danger.

There was no denying it. His weakness had caused him to make a grave mistake. Charles had absolutely no part to play in all this. "Charles." Springing to his two feet, he spun around and slammed two hands upon the man's shoulders. "Charles, listen to me. You need to get the hell out of here. Now. Before all of this…"

A deep frown tugged at the end of Charles' lips. "Have you gone mad, Arthur?" he said, incredulous. "I ain't going anywhere."

"You must!" Hollow panic choked him from the inside. Charles would die, die brutally, and it was all because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You…" His mind whirled. How would Charles die? Shot? Stabbed? Hung?

Betrayed?

Pale blotches of white began to dot his vision. He felt he could faint any second.

"Arthur, get a hold of yourself!" The raw anger in Charles' voice was so out of place that it shocked Arthur back into reality. He stepped back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He tried to push away the bloody visions, the ghastly deaths.

"...Sorry," he mumbled, ashamed.

Charles sighed a heavy sigh. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning against the pole behind him.

"You know," he began, tone somber. "I told you before that my mother was taken away. My father and I never knew what happened to her. That was probably why he took to the drink."

Arthur nodded, silent.

"She told me something once, when I was very young. The Indians, we all believe in something called the 'Great Spirit.' It's like God, the one that the Reverend's supposed to talk about. The Great Spirit, it knows and sees everything. Sometimes we look to it for guidance."

Charles continued, deep in thought. "I think...the Great Spirit might have been watching over you," he said. "My mother shared many stories of its benevolence. Perhaps it also chose to intervene in your life."

"That's stupid," Arthur blurted out. "I'm just a fool. Something like that ain't got no business with me."

"It ain't stupid." Charles' expression was so serious that Arthur couldn't help but fall quiet again. "I'm told that there's been all kinds of occurrences. Sometimes, the Great Spirit takes on the form of a human, the forest, or even an animal-"

An animal?

"Wait." It couldn't be, could it? If he closed his eyes, he could still see the buck grazing far away. Compared to the memory's clarity, all else seemed like a dream gone horribly wrong.

"You saw something, didn't you?" It wasn't a question.

"I suppose."

The slightest hint of a smile graced Charles' face. "It seems that the Great Spirit saw it fitting to give you a second chance."

Arthur cast his gaze downwards. Even with this new realistion, it bore no impact on the situation. The Great Spirit couldn't guide his actions, tell him whether he was doing the right or wrong thing, or even if he was headed in the proper direction.

"Alright." Charles struck a fist against the palm of his hand. Startled by the sudden enthusiasm, Arthur raised his head. "We won't get anywhere if you keep moping about," Charles said. "Let's tackle one problem at a time."

"What do you mean?"

He heard Charles draw in a deep breath. "I think, we should start with the obvious." The words were unexpectedly grim. Arthur found himself suddenly bracing for what would come next. "I'm very sorry for asking this, but in your memories...who do we lose?"

At the question, he felt his insides twist. All the dreadful memories he had managed to shove into some deep and dark corner of his mind were rising to the surface. At the time, they had somehow been bearable. In a brief, but painful process, he would recount every detail and every feeling in his journal. It was his escape and his solace.

"Sean."

Little did he know then, it was Sean's death that marked the beginning of the end. He missed the Irish bastard, but still he told himself that Dutch knew what he was doing. Dutch always knew best. Dutch always had a plan.

"Hosea."

Why had he agreed to the bank job again? Every fiber of his being screamed no, but he went forward all the same, the loyal dog he was. Then and there, it cost them nearly everything.

In fact, it had.

"Lenny," he whispered.

Poor lad didn't even have the time to react. Two goddamn Pinkertons behind a corner. One second, he was shouting and the next…

Arthur knew it was over for Hosea the moment Milton got his hands on the poor man. But, Lenny. It was unexpected and it was cruel. When it happened, he could scarce believe it. With the Pinkertons in hot pursuit, he crumpled to his knees. Grieved, he reached out, shaking the empty shell of the brightest kid he ever knew.

Wake up, Lenny. Wake up. Goddamn it, wake up, why won't you?!

Yet, like the blasted fool he was, he pressed on. Everything was falling apart before his very eyes, but still he held tight. Indeed, it had been like trying to grip a crystal ball. He cradled it, clutched at it, doing all he could to keep its shape when the truth was, it had shattered into a million pieces so long ago.

An impossible task.

"Anyone else?" He must have paused long enough for Charles to urge him to continue.

Who else? There had to be someone. Someone else...

"Now I wish there was something I could do to make the two of you get along better."

"Well that's easy. Make him change."

"Very funny.

...What is that?"

A scream, full of raw, unadulterated terror.

"It's Kieran!"

"What the hell have they done to him?"

Kieran Duffy. Just when he had started liking the boy too. At the very least, it had been an instant for Lenny. What was done to Kieran, however, was nothing short of pure savagery and brutality.

"Kieran." Unchecked anger in his delivery.

The Van Der Linde gang would never forgive the misdeeds of the O'Driscolls. Never mind what had happened to Dutch's lover, to Sadie, or even him, there was no denying the fact that Colm and his gang were the worst of the worst.

Like leader, like follower. They killed, robbed, and raped anyone in their way. To Colm, his men were indispensable tools and they reveled in the fact. There was not a single inch of goodness to be found within them.

...All except one. No. Two.

"Um...w-what?" Just like before, the stammer came straight out of the blue.

Arthur nearly slapped himself in the face. They had completely forgotten about Kieran's presence. Tied to one of the stable's supporting poles, the boy must have been quietly listening all along.

"Kieran?" It didn't take long for Charles put two and two together. "But...he's an O'Driscoll."

"I t-t-told you...I ain't one of them…" The usual dejection had returned to Kieran's voice. "I told you…"

"Wait, Charles," Arthur called out. "We can talk about him later." He took a couple steps towards the stable's exit, beckoning for the man to join him. It wasn't that he didn't trust Kieran, but now was not the proper time or place. "It's Sean, Hosea, and Lenny we should be more worried about."

"What were the biggest causes?"

Arthur frowned. It was a simple question; one that he thought he had all the answers to. Yet confronted with it now, he found that he had no idea where to begin. There were so many possibilities, so many factors, that it would be impossible to blame it on any single thing.

Nevertheless, it was all too easy to direct his bitter feelings at one source.

"Micah."

"Micah?"

"He was the rat, Charles. In the end, he sold us out to the Pinkertons."

"I knew it." There was no surprise to be found in Charles' voice. "I've been watching the man for as long as I've been in the gang. I'm not usually one for insults, but trust me when I say this. He's scum, Arthur."

"You ain't gotta tell me that."

"So, we get rid of him?"

"I've…" Arthur trailed off. He would be lying if he said he hadn't considered the option before. "I don't know. Dutch trusts Micah. The thing is, Micah saved his life. The Reverend did too, and you see how Dutch still keeps him around, as useless as that ol' priest is."

"Seems it ain't that simple." Charles looked as troubled as Arthur felt. "And murdering one of our own is something Dutch would never approve of."

"...Right."

"And honestly, neither do I."

Earlier in the day, a certain thought had occurred to him. Now, the more he reflected upon it, the more ridiculous it seemed.

Twenty years.

He had ran with the gang for over twenty years. And in all those years, before the events of Blackwater, the gang had never faced any significant losses. Well, Dutch's lover was murdered by Colm O'Driscoll and he never knew how Bessie had gone. But for as long as Arthur could remember, they always survived no matter what. Death hadn't even the slightest chance.

It was rather foolish, actually. They risked their lives almost every single day. Countless times that they nearly lost someone. Even then, death remained a foreign concept to the Van Der Linde gang. So when it finally struck, they were far from prepared. Things crumbled, and they crumbled fast.

Killing Micah would be simple. It would be satisfying too. Oh, how he so desperately wanted to pull out his pistol, march over to the hut across, and put a well-deserved bullet through the bastard's eyes.

But he couldn't.

Not now, at least. He had to save people first, not cause more bloodshed. And somewhere in there, he wanted to be the better man. A good man. The realisation came at the cost of his life, but he had been wrong all along. Just like Charles, he too possessed a moral compass; one he always ignored.

"I think...I should prioritise keeping everyone alive."

"You mean we should prioritise keeping everyone alive."

Arthur groaned. Charles Smith, a man too good for this cruel world. "Yeah, yeah. We. The thing is, the Pinkertons are already all over our trail. Robbing Cornwall's train was the first big mistake."

"I heard."

"It'll be sometime before they catch up to us. We have to find a way to run, and run far." In the end, it wasn't just Micah. It was law in a world that didn't want their kind no more. "We're wanted men, Charles. We're sinners, marked for life. But I think, Dutch was right in a way. He wanted money, because somewhere in the back of his goddamned mind, he envisioned a life for every one of us. A life where we could live out the rest of our days in peace. No worries. No fear. Just family."

An unexpected chuckle escaped Charles. "You're beginning to sound like him."

"Shut up." Though it came out a growl, he couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. "But, that's why I've started my own stash. Dutch always hides our savings somewhere near camp. Money that will probably never be used for all of us. So if things start going poorly, we'll still have a way out."

"Not a bad idea." Charles nodded his approval. "I'd be glad to contribute."

"That's...more than I could ever ask for." He leaned his head back and shut his eyes. The exhaustion was finally beginning to settle in. He could feel the heaviness in every limb. His neck and shoulders ached, his spine was stiff.

"It's been a long day." Noticing Arthur's enervated state, Charles seemed to come to a decision. He pulled a few tools from his saddle and began to make one last round around the stable. "Let's call it for tonight, then."

"Sure." Sleep was coming, and it was coming fast. He wasn't sure if he could make it back to his room. But, still he had to say it. "By the way, thanks...for everything."

He received no response for a moment. Then Charles reappeared from the darkness, giving him a tiny shrug. "Just watching out for a friend."

This time, it was Arthur's turn to smile. Perhaps choosing to share his dilemma with Charles had placed the man in danger. Perhaps it had made the future uncertain, or unimaginably worse. But as someone who only ever knew how to bear his burdens alone, it was certainly a welcome change.

That night, he dreamed no more. It was a restful and peaceful sleep, one of many he hoped would come.

Dutch's words came to life as early as the crack of dawn. Boxes rattled, Grimshaw shouted, and the wagons creaked. Now that the weather had shown them a bout of mercy, there was no better time for the Van Der Linde gang to move on.

"Arthur, start packing!" The door slammed open. Hosea had woken him for the second day in a row. "We want to be off this mountain and away from the snow by midday."

"Alright!" Grunting with effort, Arthur pushed himself off his bed and to his feet. He hadn't much, anyways. His satchel, his lantern, and a few worn pieces of sheets he called a bed. He grasped the end of one and began to fold them together into a neat pile.

It took all of two minutes to check the entire room. The others might have liked lugging endless junk everywhere they went, but all he ever cared for were his satchel and hat. Tucking the bedroll underneath his arm, he left the cabin to join the others outside.

"So the question is, where now?" As usual, Dutch consulted Hosea on their latest dilemma.

"I told you, we should set up camp in Horseshoe Overlook near Valentine." Although it wasn't the first he heard this exchange, Arthur found himself interpreting it in an entirely new way. It seemed it was Hosea who had always been ready with a solution. "We'll be able to hide out there no problem as long as keep our noses clean."

Dutch spread his arms out in eager anticipation. "Well then, let's go! Clean noses, and everything else." He turned, motioning at Arthur, who was already making a beeline towards the last wagon in line. "You're in that one, with Hosea. I know you two like to talk about the good old days…"

And everything that's gone wrong with you. Already out of hearing distance, his mind completed the final phrase of Dutch's sentence. Hosea followed close behind.

"Looks like it's you and me, Arthur." In a single motion, Hosea had climbed into the passenger's seat. "This'll be a long ride."

"Just like the good old days, huh?" Arthur moved towards the back of the wagon and tossed his bedroll inside. But right before he joined the old man, something suddenly came to mind. "Wait a moment, Hosea."

He changed direction, taking a few steps back to observe the entire structure. As suspected, one of the rear wheels was beginning to become loose. He gave it a few good smacks to secure it back into place.

"Something wrong?" Hosea quipped as Arthur rejoined him.

"Naw. I just noticed one of the wheels were a bit off."

"Good eye!"

Arthur shrugged, reaching out to grab the horses' reins. The others were already far ahead and he was eager as anyone else to escape the snowy weather. With a sudden burst of energy, he shouted a command. Then, off the wagon went.

They spent the first half of the trip mostly quiet. Arthur kept his eyes peeled, mind blank as he watched the scenery gradually change around him. Hosea managed to sneak in some shut-eye, hands folded on lap, and body leaned back. Then as the wagon stuttered onto the first patches of yellowing grass, something seemed to awaken in the old man.

Hosea straightened and turned to face the broad horizon, almost as if eagerly awaiting something. His gaze had become distant, focused on something far, far away. Though curious, Arthur said nothing for a time. It wasn't until he noticed the forlorn expression on the man's features did he decide to break the silence.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Oh, ah." At the question, Hosea seemed to remember himself. His shoulders sagged he reverted back into a more relaxed position. "Sorry, I lost myself a bit back there." He chuckled warmly. "You see, I was up in this bit of a country with Bessie long ago."

Bessie. Arthur only ever heard bits and pieces, but the woman who had stolen Hosea's heart must have been mighty impressive.

"I see."

"I was always particularly fond of this stretch of road," Hosea said. "I was hoping to catch a glimpse of it. There is this very tiny creek that runs next to it. And alongside the same creek, there is the prettiest array of flowers growing alongside it. Sunflowers, poppies, lilies, you name it. Bessie loved it."

Though the man appeared perfectly content, the touch of sadness in his voice was not lost on Arthur. It was moments like this that reminded him how much he loved Hosea like a father. There was something terribly genuine about the old man; something that he never quite felt from Dutch.

"But, never mind me." Hosea chuckled again. "Seems like the older I get, the more I find myself thinking about the past." He leaned towards Arthur, reaching to lay a hand on his shoulder. "I've been meaning to ask, my boy. How are you feeling?"

He had anticipated the question even before they started their journey downwards, but once again, he found himself at a loss for answers. Should he tell Hosea everything, like he did Charles?

"I'm...fine."

It wasn't a matter of trust. Hosea could tell him to walk blindfolded right into a swarm of Pinkertons and he would do it without any fear or worry. But he had already taken a huge risk with Charles. And unlike Charles, Hosea had ran with Dutch for so long that casting doubt on his lifelong partner without precedence would undeniably lead to problems.

He hadn't any doubt Hosea would believe his words. That, he was absolutely sure of. Yet the very first promise he had made to himself was to save as many people as possible. And causing a rift between two of the most beloved people in his life was perhaps not the greatest idea right now.

"Sorry for worrying you," he mumbled.

"Why are you apologising?" Hosea sounded confused. "You can tell me, Arthur. Something has been troubling you and I'm concerned. So is Dutch, but he'd never tell you that."

"It's just…" Suddenly, he was glad he didn't have to look the man in the eye right now. "The robbery with Cornwall's train had me worried, that's all."

"You were very adamant about that," Hosea continued. "I've never seen you so upset before."

Arthur bit the inside of his lip, silent.

"Though, I must say. It's made me a little proud." A barely audible sigh. "You've always listened to us without so much as a complaint. Sometimes, I see you writing furiously in that journal of yours and it's clear that you're bothered. But there's never a peep from you, about how you truly feel."

"You're thinking too much, old man." It was an automatic response. "Nothing bothers me."

Hosea laughed, louder than normal. "Ah, there you go again, my boy. Don't belittle yourself so much. Your opinion is as valuable as anyone else's."

Of all the things Arthur had expected on this trip, getting lectured by Hosea was not one of them. But all it showed was the naked truth - and the sad fact - that he knew next to nothing about himself.

They passed the rest of the trip making small talk about what lied in the West, about the Pinkertons and Cornwall, and the occasional revisitation of the past. They talked about hobbies, exchanged hunting tips, and how getting old really sucked. By the end of the trip, Arthur had become overcome with determination. No matter what was to come, he could not and would not accept a future without Hosea.

Funny how the true value of something only came to light after it was gone. He would not lose Hosea again.

The sun barely peeked over the horizon when they finally pulled into Horseshoe Overlook. Bill was the first to spot them. He immediately stomped over. Arthur noticed a gigantic hammer in one hand. "You men are REALLY LATE!" Bill yelled, waving the tool around. "We've already set up Dutch's tent!"

"Sorry, sorry." Hosea gave a cheerful wave, then exited the wagon. "Arthur here's getting real old. Can't drive the horses like he used to."

"Very funny." He pulled the reins together and slid off his seat. "I'll get the horses settled in first."

"Better be quick about it, Morgan." As always, Bill didn't sound too pleased. Then again, the man himself was the furthest thing from pleasant. "We could use an extra hand getting situated."

Arthur waved him off. It was like this every time they moved. Moaning and complaining until everything was right where everyone liked. Then Pearson's utensils went missing, Strauss' back ached from a twig on the ground, or Grimshaw couldn't "get no shit done!"

Just like that, a couple of days passed. He made the occasional trip to Valentine in between, mostly for supplies, but there was no rest for anyone until all tents and utilities were where they belonged.

His tent was always one of the last things on the priority list. Right as he was setting down the final nails, he saw Grimshaw approach him from the corner of his eye. "Arthur, I've got this," she announced.

"What?"

Uncouth as ever, she snatched the tools straight out of his hand. "That terrible Reverend of ours has gone missing. I need you to go find him." She pointed in a general direction.

"Not again…" Had it been morphine? Alcohol? Or both? With Swanson, it was always impossible to tell.

Either way, disobeying Grimshaw would be worse than disobeying Dutch. "I got him." He sighed in exasperation, then got to his feet and whistled for his horse. Luckily, he had an inkling where the priest would be. Some rundown shack near the railroad, playing away what little money he had left. No money at all, if he was being honest here.

The accuracy of his memories still startled him every time. As he drew near his destination, he could hear Swanson's mad chortle. It was soon cut short by a scream as the Reverend discovered his losing hand.

Eager to get things over with, Arthur slammed open the door, a tad more violently than intended.

Swanson looked up from his pile of cards. "Mr. Morgan!" he exclaimed upon seeing him. "I took your advice, sir. I took your advice."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and come home." Arthur reached out to grab him, but Swanson slapped his hand away. In an awkward motion, the priest staggered to his feet, knocking over his chair as he gripped Arthur by the shoulders.

"I took your advice, sir," he repeated. "I have removed myself from Morpheus' embrace. No more shall I sink, sir. I am free. I am free!"

"Whatever you say, Reverend." He wrapped an arm around the man's chest and began to walk backwards and out of the barn. Swanson struggled underneath his grip, but the man was too far gone to put up a proper fight. "I'll see you folks later."

Seeing that his chance at easy money was vanishing, one of the poker players immediately got to his feet. "Hey, you can't just walk away like that!" he called out, indignant. "That man owes us money!"

"Drunk out of his mind, and he owes you money?" Arthur retorted. Goddamn Swanson, why couldn't the Reverend just sober up for once? "Just look at him!"

"Why can't we all just get along?" Swanson blurted out. "These are good men, Arthur. They're children of God. Children of God…" Right as the last word left his mouth, the man's eyes rolled up into his head and he was out like a candle.

Arthur snorted.

"Well, uh…" Seeing that the Reverend was in no condition to continue, the indignant player fell silent.

His partner spoke. "How's about you play in his place, huh? That seems fair."

"Fair?" Arthur shook his head. "I ain't got no time to be playing games." And he was certainly in no mood to be chasing down witnesses and stopping Swanson from a suicide attempt. "Good day, fellers."

Their faces filled with disappointment at his words, but to Arthur's relief, neither men decided to pursue the issue any further.

They watched him drag Swanson, rather forcibly, across the floor and out the doors. Once outside, he placed the unconscious priest onto his horse to begin his journey back. However, rather than riding through the forests directly back to camp, he chose to take the long route this time. With the hectic mess that were the past few days, there existed little time for him to ponder the real situation at hand.

After their talk back in the mountains, he had only been able to speak with Charles once. The man mentioned Pearson kept him busy hunting, but that he was always trying to think of a solution. He also told Arthur that he had warned to Kieran to keep his mouth shut, or "something arrow, something neck, something internal bleeding." Whatever the case was, Arthur was simply glad he wasn't on the man's bad side.

Eventually, the road split into two before him, one towards Valentine, and the other back to camp. He prepared to swerve his horse left when he suddenly noticed a familiar, hunched back man standing by the road.

"Penny for the blind? Penny for the blind!"

He wasn't sure how, but he remembered this old beggar. He had seen him a few times on the road, perhaps, but he stopped just once. Or maybe three? Either way, his donations were always met with weird and cryptic messages that he soon forgot.

"Yeah, sure." Clicking his teeth together, he ordered his horse to stop. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a quarter, stepping forward to drop it into the beggar's mug.

With an audible clang, the coin clattered to the very bottom. Arthur guessed it was the only donation that had been received all day. As he started to move away, the beggar's hand suddenly shot out and seized his wrist in a surprising display of strength.

He was pulled forward, so close he caught a whiff of something rancid and rotting. "You…" the beggar hissed. "You are not of this world."

Stunned at the unexpected turn in events, Arthur found himself at a loss of words. Not of this world? What did the old man mean?

Wait, was he suggesting...

"Face yourself. Embrace who you are." The man's words were softer, encouraging even. "Look not to how you lived before, but how you will live now."

"Face myself?" Arthur wasn't sure why or how, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this beggar held the answer to his every question. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Explain yourself!"

"Look inwards." Unperturbed, the beggar continued to speak. "You have all that you need."

"I..." Shit, the man wasn't making any sense at all! Still, he couldn't just let such an opportunity slip by. He had to know. No, he needed to know. "Am I doing the right thing?" he asked. "No, wait. Can everyone be saved?"

"You already have the answers you seek."

Arthur roared. "That don't tell me shit!"

"Mr. Morgan." Unexpectedly, the Reverend woke from his sleep. Arthur spun around. Swanson had lifted his head and was staring at straight at him. "Your journey, your path, will be just fine. You'll do what's right."

"Not you too!" This time, Arthur really did slap himself in the face. "This old man's telling me I already have the answers to all of life's greatest questions and you're telling me I'll do what's right? I just don't goddamn see it!"

"You do see." Swanson's sobriety was both unexpected and unsettling. The Reverend had spent so much of their journey drugged up one way or the other that Arthur could barely remember the person he was when he finally cleaned up his act. "You do see," Swanson said again. "You just can't quite admit it to yourself.

With an exaggerated snore, the man's eyelids drooped and he fell unconscious once more. Arthur sighed with heavy exasperation. Why couldn't he just get a straight answer for once?

He looked back. The blind man's expression seemed to suggest he had nothing more to say. Taking it as his sign to leave, Arthur pulled his wrist away then climbed back onto his horse. He glanced down one final time. "Well, thanks, I guess."

The blind man only smiled.

When Arthur looked back a minute later, the beggar was no longer there.

"Sweet dreams, Reverend." With a grunt, he tossed Swanson onto his bedroll. The man had cost him nearly his entire day, never mind his sanity.

"Agh!" Swanson began to wave his arms in the air like a confused child. "Mr. Morgan? Mr. Morgan? Where am I?"

"Right where you goddamn belong." This was beyond pathetic, for the both of them.

Uninvited, Grimshaw marched up. She shoved herself between Arthur and the Reverend. "Ugh, what happened?"

He responded to the question with a casual shrug. "The usual."

Swanson cried out. "Where are my Poker cards?!" The Reverend was nothing short of a pitiful wreck. Arthur almost felt bad for him. "I had a flush, I tell you! A straight flush!"

Something like pure disgust passed across Grimshaw's face. "You are utterly unbelievable, Mr. Swanson." Kneeling, she pressed two hands on the man's shoulders. They wrestled back and forth like mother and child, a sight so ridiculous it made Arthur laugh. "I'll make sure he gets the rest he needs. Thank you, Mr. Morgan."

"Sure." He watched them struggle a bit longer, then turned to leave. Though he would never say it, he was actually rather fond of the Reverend. The poor man had just taken the wrong turn, sometime, somewhere in life.

He spotted his tent a short distance away. True to her word, Grimshaw had placed all of his belongings right where he was accustomed to. His chest of clothes, at the foot of his bed. His table was an arm's length away, and his shaving kit two steps in front. His photographs, newspaper clippings, and even souvenirs were strung up around him. Seeing it all now made him realise that he was probably a lot more sentimental than he cared to admit.

He sat down and slipped a hand into his satchel for his journal. Even if the beggar's words remained a mystery, he felt they were important enough to record and reflect upon. And for the first time in what felt like years, Swanson had something insightful to contribute. Though, Arthur suspected the Reverend would remember nothing of the conversation.

His pen had barely met the page when shouting erupted in the distance. "They got Micah!"

Lenny. That was Lenny.

"Dutch! They got Micah!"

SHIT.

He forgot. He had forgotten one of the biggest things that happened when they first arrived here. When Dutch sent Micah and Lenny out to patrol ahead, they had gotten themselves into trouble. Lenny managed to escape, but Micah was thrown into jail.

"He, he's been arrested for murder! He was in Strawberry and..." Arthur saw Dutch ahead, joined by a few others who were still awake at the time.

"It's okay, son. Breathe…" Dutch raised his hands in an effort to calm Lenny.

The boy bent over, hands on knees as he gasped desperately for air. "They nearly lynched me. They...they got Micah in the sheriff's in Strawberry and there's talk of hanging him."

This was it! How hadn't the idea come to him earlier? This way, he could get rid of Micah without suspicion. What better way than to let the law deal with him? He opened his mouth to volunteer, but Dutch cut him to the chase.

"Bill, Javier. I need you to ride out immediately. Rescue Micah before he can be hung."

Wait, what? The startling change in events rendered Arthur speechless on the spot. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't what happened last time, he was sure of it.

Dutch turned around and their eyes met. "Arthur, why don't you take that kid into town?" he said. "Valentine, not Strawberry. And get him drunk. No crazy business."

Still reeling from before, Arthur barely heard himself murmur an agreement. The rest of the gang began to disperse, returning to their beds or assigned tasks. Soon, it was just young Lenny and him all alone in the dusk.

Lenny spoke. "We don't have to if you ain't feeling it, Arthur." The boy must have noticed his stricken state. Though, hiding his emotional turmoil hadn't exactly been his forte as of late. "It's getting dark, anyways."

"No." Arthur dismissed the suggestion at once. "We are hitting the saloon tonight." Goddamn, could he use a drink right now. "Wait for me right here. I'll grab my things and we'll be off."

In his eagerness to join the conversation earlier, he had left his satchel on his bed. He made a dash back to his tent, grabbed his pen and journal, and shoved them into his satchel. Then he swept his eyes around his surroundings, doing one final check for anything that might have been missed.

That was when he noticed a familiar, white letter laying upon his desk. His breath hitched in his throat. The fancy, beautifully-crafted handwriting made his heart stop and his blood run cold.

Mary Linton.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse...

Note: Sorry about the long delay! I am determined to see this story to the end, but life has not been kind to me lately. Updates may be slow and I deeply apologise for this.

It has also come to my attention that for those who use the FanFiction mobile app the story might require frequent updates. I think this is because every time I reread my writing, I always come out unsatisfied with one sentence or another. Then I go back to fix it on the spot. I apologise this for as well! I will try to keep the edits far less spontaneous.

Have a Happy New Year!

Once again, the following are my some of my responses to guest reviews! Thank you, everyone. You are all the best!

WestReader: I think you're absolutely right, and that Dutch could not see that the world was changing until was too late. Arthur saw this far before he ever did and it was only when Dutch was backed into a corner by John did he realise that the world no longer held a place for him. Still, he refused to change and dubbed himself the "monster" that the law will forever try to pin things on. While the majority blame and hate Micah for everything that goes wrong, I believe that the true fault lies with Dutch.

Thank you for your reviews and engaging discussion! I think with so many people finishing the game and moving on, I'm very glad that there are others out there still willing to discuss this amazing game. RDRII will forever have a special place in my heart.

Vincent Reed: That was a fantastic ramble! I love discussions like this, as WestReader mentioned, everyone has their own special interpretation of Dutch and that can also change with whether you've played the first game or not. The parallel you drew between Dutch and Cornwall is something I also noticed as well, but I think the reason that Dutch likes to see himself as different from Cornwall or even Colm O'Driscoll is that he has "a family." There are people he hold dear and everyone who runs with him are fiercely loyal instead of those being bought with money. The ironic part is that Dutch conducts himself similarly to Cornwall and Colm and even in the end, showed that he was willing to throw away men for his own goals just like those two.

Or, he could just be a crazy control freak, as you said. He would probably act no different if he was in Cornwall's position.

I am also of the mind that "Tahiti" was never realistic and that Dutch himself probably didn't buy into the dream. Even Arthur mentions it himself, at some point. It was impossible for Dutch to ever lie low, just because of who he was. He is a showman, a conman, and a man full of pride. Disappearing somewhere could never be a part of his agenda.

As for Micah, I don't think it could be as simple as offing him. In fact, at this point of the story, it would probably cause more harm than good. Arthur's wish, after all, is to save everyone, even Dutch, who seems unusually attached to Micah all throughout the game. ("You think I can't see past the blunder to the heart inside?") It's a complicated situation, one that Arthur will need to find a way to solve. And as you said, the problems are hardly just Micah alone. Remove Micah from the factor, and you'd probably end up with a similar tragedy.

And the mission you spoke of. I think that has always left me unsatisfied as well. It was quite obvious when Arthur stumbled his way back into camp that Dutch hardly cared for him. There are so many clear signs at this point that Dutch has started to lose sight of the person he was, or wanted to be, yet Arthur still sticks by his side to the very end. "Your loyalty is a blessing and a curse."

You're not the only one, I still have a lot of thoughts about this game and I am still discovering new things every day! That's why we all love it so much. Thank you so much for your heartfelt review and I hope to explore more of our discussion soon!

Shahaan: Well, I'm not sure if Dutch actually changed or that the circumstances forced out his "true nature." It's definitely a personal view. Maybe Dutch had always been a bit psychopathic, maybe Tahiti was always just a pipe dream, and maybe he never really cared. Hosea absolutely kept him in check though, if there was anyone Dutch would listen to, it would be Hosea. And we all saw what happened when Hosea was lost.

As for Arthur being a tad emotional, you're probably right. I used to write angst so some of it might have bled through, though I would like to think that Arthur still harboured a lot of regrets even at the end. Faced with everything again, I don't think anyone could be as strong-hearted especially with the clairvoyance of the tragedy that was to come. He probably didn't show how much he agonised over losing Sean, Hosea, and Lenny then, but imagine going through the same pain twice. It would be quite terrible!

And I think it's not so much showing sympathy for the O'Driscolls. Arthur isn't a cold-blooded killer (at least in a max honour playthrough) and he'd shown he could let people go which means he has a certain degree of empathy. Colm throws away men like he throws away money. And in all those bad men, there has to be at least a good egg or two, like poor Kieran.

I'm definitely trying to keep the characters as faithful to the original as possible. Of course, some of it will involve my personal interpretation of the source material, but I'm doing my best to write the situation the way it would unfold if Arthur really did find himself having to relive his life again. Thank you for your support and review! It's always appreciated!