Arthur's POV
The damn rain hadn't let up all morning. I could barely see out the cracks in my hat brim, droplets sliding down like the world was cryin' for somethin' it had already lost. Dutch had pulled me aside earlier—leaned in close with that particular look he got when he knew something wasn't sittin' right.
"Micah's holed up in some jail down in Strawberry," he said.
Strawberry. A fancy name for a muddy stain in the mountains.
He didn't have to say more. I didn't like Micah, but we didn't leave folks behind, even if they were ornery bastards with a death wish. So I saddled up, nodded to Hosea, and made my way out through the wet hills. The gang was movin' southeast, toward warmer places. I was headed the opposite way.
Wyatt's POV
The wagon creaked under the strain of mud and supplies. My coat was soaked through, boots caked in the filth of too many hoofsteps. I walked beside Charles and Javier as we escorted one of the overloaded wagons through the sodden trail southward.
Lemoyne was where Dutch said the new camp would be—somewhere warmer, more hidden. The Pinkertons had been sniffin' too close around Horseshoe. We were ghosts with too many footprints. It was time to vanish.
Ahead, Pearson was arguing with Uncle, who had managed to sleep through most of the ride even with the rain dripping onto his face.
"Can't believe we're riskin' our backs while he naps like a damn possum!" Pearson growled.
"Possums are useful," I muttered, brushing the water from my hat. "They keep the ticks down."
Charles chuckled low. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said about Uncle in months."
We kept movin', slow but steady. The coin in my pocket had started to hum again—faint, but persistent. I ignored it.
Arthur's POV
By the time I reached Strawberry, I was already soaked to the bone and twice as irritated. The sheriff was a smug bastard, sittin' on his porch like he had the whole town in his pocket.
"I'm here for a friend," I told him.
He didn't even look up. "Ain't got friends in there, mister. Got a criminal."
I leaned on the desk. "He got a mouth on him, sure. Probably deserved a knock or two. But we're takin' him back."
He stared long enough for me to think about how many bullets it would take to get through this mess. Eventually, I played it smart—bribed who I had to, then caused just enough of a scene to get Micah free.
And of course, he had to open his mouth the second he was out.
"About damn time!" he barked. "I been rot—"
"Shut it, Micah."
We barely made it out of Strawberry before the shootin' started. Fools didn't know when to stop.
Wyatt's POV
By sundown, we reached the swampy, overgrown part of Lemoyne. The scent was thick with mud, trees droopin' low like they were carryin' the weight of ghosts. Dutch directed us to a grove near the Kamassa River. The place was half-rotted but hidden, and that made it perfect.
Camp was rebuilt from memory. Charles set the first tent poles, then I helped Javier with the canvas while Lenny unpacked crates of salted meat. There was something easy in the way we worked—like old rhythm returning.
Later, I found myself by the fire, Mercy and Judgement sitting on the log beside me. The red glow in my eyes caught in the embers—Susan glanced my way, paused, then offered a nod.
Maybe they were starting to see me. Maybe I was starting to see myself.
Arthur's POV
We didn't stop running until the woods swallowed us whole. Micah was talkin' too much, like he always did.
"Damn fine work back there, Morgan! Thought they'd skin me alive if I stayed any longer."
"You're lucky they didn't."
He laughed. I didn't.
Something burned in my lungs again—same pain from that coughing spell back at the camp, sharper now. I pulled my bandana up just in case, hiding the specks of red in my spit.
Micah kept yammering.
"You know Dutch'll owe you for this."
"Don't care about owing."
When we finally circled back toward camp, the trees parted to show tents and smoke already rising. And someone was standing just beyond the light—Wyatt, arms crossed, his eyes catching the firelight like coals. Like judgment.
Wyatt's POV
Arthur returned just as the last rays of dusk gave up on the world. Mud up to his shins. Micah limping and bitching beside him.
But I only looked at Arthur.
He nodded once, tight, tired.
"You hold things down?"
"We made it."
The others crowded around, Dutch greeting Micah like some long-lost brother. Arthur said nothing more. Just handed his reins to Javier and sat beside me at the fire, his silence enough to say he was glad to be back.
We watched the flames for a long time. Neither of us spoke. But that was fine. Brothers didn't always need words.