The cold air bit sharply at Arthur's skin as he made his way toward the cabin, the faint smell of smoke hanging in the frozen landscape. Inside, the warmth from the furnace hit him first, but the tension in the air was impossible to ignore. Micah, Bill, Lenny, and Cam were already inside, their voices loud enough to pierce through the quiet of the wilderness.
Arthur slid the door open, the wood creaking under the weight of his entry.
Micah, sitting across from Bill and Lenny, didn't skip a beat. "What's up with you boys? I thought you liked action," he said with a grin, eyes gleaming. "Couple of days on the lam... and you lot have all turned yella."
Arthur gave him a side-eye, gestures barely needing words. He motioned toward the table, where a bottle of beer sat within reach. "Pass me that."
Micah, almost too eager, slid the bottle over to him. "Apart from you, of course," he added, his eyes flicking to Lenny.
Lenny's voice was low, but sharp. "Shut up, Micah."
Arthur took a drag from his cigarette, eyes scanning the cabin. His gaze landed on the furnace, checking the fire, making sure it was burning properly. But the air inside the cabin still felt off—like a simmering pot, too close to boiling.
Next to him, Cam shifted his weight, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Cam's presence was steady, grounded. Unlike Micah, who thrived on stirring the pot, Cam had a quiet strength about him—a presence that demanded respect without trying. His eyes flicked between the others, watching the interaction with a look of mild amusement but a hint of wariness. He was still getting used to being in the middle of all this chaos, but it didn't stop him from keeping an eye on everyone.
Micah huffed, his voice almost mocking as he stood up and paced. "I ain't never seen so many long faces. What's the matter? You all get your fill of running, or is it just cold feet?"
Arthur didn't answer, but Bill, who was lounging by the corner, shifted uncomfortably. "I guess... I guess folks miss them... that fell."
Micah tilted his head, eyebrows raising. "Well, when I fall, I don't want no fuss."
Lenny smirked. "When you fall... there'll be a party."
Bill and Lenny burst into laughter, but Micah's expression darkened, his jaw tightening.
Cam shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he wasn't entirely entertained by the exchange. "If I was you, Micah," he said, his voice calm but laced with an edge, "I'd hold off on the jokes. This ain't the time for it."
Micah's eyes darted toward Cam, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. But before he could snap back, Arthur took another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke fill the cabin and drown out some of the noise.
Bill, ever the one to push back, chuckled. "A party... probably."
Micah didn't find it as funny. His fists clenched as he turned to face Bill.
"That's funny, huh?" Micah's voice was low, dangerous.
Bill hesitated for a second before answering with a cocky grin. "Sure."
And just like that, Micah lost it.
The punch came fast. A brutal strike to Bill's face that sent him stumbling back, his head jerking from the impact. Bill, now on his feet and ready to retaliate, moved forward, fists raised. But before the situation could escalate further, Arthur, Lenny, Cam, and Javier stepped in.
Arthur grabbed Micah by the arm, pulling him back with surprising strength. "That's enough."
Javier was right there too, grabbing Bill's shoulder, keeping him from lunging at Micah. Lenny, not one to shy away, stepped in between Bill and Micah, trying to keep the peace.
Cam didn't say a word, but his hands were already at the ready, just in case things went south. He wasn't quick to anger, but seeing the group at each other's throats rubbed him the wrong way. With a firm glance at Micah, Cam silently communicated his willingness to back up whatever action was needed.
Micah, his chest heaving with anger, spat out, "Maybe I don't feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two."
The door swung open just then, and Dutch strode in, his eyes sharp and his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Stop it! Now!"
The fight came to an abrupt halt as Dutch's voice commanded authority. He paused, looking between the brawling men. "You fools punching each other... when Colm O'Driscoll's needing punching, hard."
Arthur, shaking his head, turned to leave the cabin, frustration etched into his features.
Dutch's voice followed him out, firm and without hesitation. "You wanna sit around waiting for him to come find us? All of you, we got work to do. Come on."
Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking back at Dutch. "Are you sure about this, Dutch?" he asked, his voice a mix of concern and uncertainty.
Dutch didn't even flinch at the question, his voice unwavering. "Yes."
Arthur hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing on him. "Folks been through a lot recently... we hardly back on our feet yet."
Dutch's expression softened for a moment, a brief flash of something almost fatherly. Then, he clapped Arthur on the back. "And the last thing we need is to get bushwhacked by Colm O'Driscoll."
With that, Dutch motioned for the others. "Let's go."
Arthur took one last look around the cabin before heading toward his horse, the others already gearing up to ride.
"I know you hate him, Dutch," Arthur said quietly as he adjusted his saddle, his voice almost a whisper.
Dutch's eyes remained fixed on the horizon as he mounted his own horse, grabbing his Carbine Repeater with a practiced hand. "He's here for us."
Arthur shook his head. "I doubt that."
Dutch's face hardened. "No, you're just doubting me."
Arthur sighed, never one to back down from a challenge. "I would never doubt you, Dutch. You... you always said revenge is a luxury we can't afford."
Dutch's eyes flicked to Arthur, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "This is the right call, Arthur."
Dutch handed Arthur the Carbine Repeater, and Arthur took the rifle, examining it carefully, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead.
"And this is more than revenge for business long ago," Dutch continued, his voice low and firm. "They were talking about trains and detonators."
Arthur stared at the rifle in his hands for a moment before slipping it into place. "And you think now is the time to hit a train?"
Dutch gave a small, almost sardonic smile. "Now you might fancy living on deer piss and rabbit shit... but I'm getting too old for that life."
Dutch then called out to Simon Pearson, Charles, and Hosea, who were staying back at camp.
"Mr. Matthews, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pearson… would you please look after the place... there are O'Driscolls about."
With that, Dutch nudged his horse into motion. "H'yah!"
One by one, the rest of the gang followed suit. Arthur, Bill, Micah, Lenny, Javier, and Cam mounted their horses, all of them ready for what was about to come.
As Cam settled into his saddle, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something worse than they had already faced. He wasn't sure how things were going to turn out, but something in his gut told him that this was going to test the gang more than ever before.
The cold wind sliced through the gang as they made their way southwest, the snow crunching under the hooves of their horses. The mountains loomed over them, towering like silent sentinels. Cam's eyes scanned the terrain, keeping an eye on everything and nothing at the same time. It was a habit he'd picked up from years on the move. Trust no one, and keep your head down when the shit hit the fan.
He stayed close to Arthur, as he usually did. The two of them had a silent understanding, one that went beyond words. Cam wasn't the loud, attention-grabbing type. He preferred to listen, watch, and follow his instincts. And right now, those instincts were telling him that things were about to get messy.
Dutch rode ahead, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon, as Arthur and the others followed closely behind. Cam stuck with the rear, his rifle slung across his back, a revolver at his hip. He stayed in the back to keep his eyes on the group—and, more importantly, on the landscape. The mountains were treacherous, the snow blanketing everything in a heavy silence.
"Southwest, right, Arthur?" Dutch asked, his voice carrying over the howling wind.
"Yeah, he said follow the main trail southwest. They're camped near some lake," Arthur responded, glancing over his shoulder at Cam, his eyes unreadable, but there was a slight nod between them. The unspoken bond was there—Cam had his back.
Dutch grunted in approval. "Alright, let's find these bastards before they find us, and rob this score they're planning."
The gang picked up the pace, their horses snorting and kicking up snow as they moved. Cam kept pace without a word, his mind always alert, always ready for whatever the night had in store. The tension between Dutch and Arthur hadn't gone unnoticed by him. The cracks in the old man's leadership were becoming more apparent, but Cam kept his distance from those conversations. They weren't his battles to fight.
As they rode, Dutch slowed his horse, eyes narrowing as he spotted something ahead. "What's that? Tracks... horses, quite a few of 'em."
The group stopped, the air thick with anticipation. Dutch's sharp eyes never missed a detail.
"Far as I can tell, the only fools out here are us and them... they must be this way," Dutch murmured.
They continued, their pace quickening now as they moved to follow the tracks. Arthur glanced at Dutch with that familiar, heavy gaze. "You good, Dutch?"
"Of course," Dutch said, with a certain coldness. "Listen, I know you don't think much of my ideas recently, but this is the right move."
Cam rode quietly, his face unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his revolver. Dutch's ideas were getting harder to follow, but Cam wasn't about to question them openly. The man had led them this far, even if the direction sometimes felt uncertain.
Arthur gave a short nod, glancing over at Cam. "Okay... you know I got your back."
Cam's gaze flicked between the two, but he remained silent. Loyalty was something he understood—no need to put it into words.
The tension in the air thickened as Dutch's voice cut through the silence. "This feud between you and him... needs to be put to rest, one way or another."
Arthur's words were blunt. "You killed his brother, Dutch."
Dutch didn't flinch. "Yes, I did. And I hope the bastards'll be reunited soon enough. That's how this'll end."
Bill piped up, his voice hard with resolve. "Damn right, boss."
Cam's lips pressed into a thin line. The O'Driscolls were always trouble. Colm O'Driscoll, in particular, had been a thorn in Dutch's side for too long. And now it was time to settle it. Cam knew the O'Driscolls weren't the type to forgive, but neither was Dutch. And from what Cam had seen so far, this gang didn't just fight to survive—they fought for something more.
They came upon a hill, the faint scent of smoke drifting up from below. Dutch slowed his horse and squinted ahead, spotting something in the distance.
"See that smoke?" Dutch murmured, eyes narrowing. "Let's cut up here and take a look. They said it was near the lake, so we must be close."
The group rode upward, their movements silent and efficient. Cam stayed close, his instincts telling him that something was about to go down. The air felt heavier as they crested the hill, coming into view of the O'Driscolls' hideout below.
Dutch motioned for them to stop. "Hold up here," he commanded, his voice a low whisper.
The group fell into line, horses standing still in the cold, their breath billowing in the icy air. Dutch turned to the group, his tone unwavering. "Alright, gentlemen. This is it. Are we goddamn ready?"
Various murmurs of agreement filled the air, each member of the gang showing their readiness. Cam stayed focused, watching the men below, calculating their positions in his mind.
Dutch turned to Cam and Arthur. "Mr. Morgan and I, we're going to head up here a little, see if we can't get a sense of the layout of the camp."
Cam gave a slight nod, ready to follow, but Arthur spoke before he could.
"You good, Cam?" Arthur asked, his voice steady but carrying a hint of concern.
Cam's lips twitched into a small smile. "Always, Morgan. Just keep your head down."
With a grunt, Arthur and Cam began making their way up the hill. Cam's boots crunched in the snow, but he moved quietly—too many years of tracking men in harsh conditions had taught him how to be silent when it counted.
Once they reached the top, Arthur settled in with his binoculars. Cam leaned against a rock, surveying the camp below. He could see Colm O'Driscoll standing next to his horse, barking orders.
Dutch came up beside them, his eyes narrowing. "There they are... That's definitely them."
Arthur didn't need to confirm. He could see it too. "Colm?"
Dutch nodded, his eyes cold. "Yeah... that's him."
Colm's voice carried across the distance, and Cam could make out bits of the conversation. The O'Driscolls were planning something. Maybe a train robbery, maybe more. Whatever it was, it was clear they were still a threat.
Dutch turned to Arthur and Cam. "Alright. You two stay sharp. We move in close, take out as many as we can quietly. I don't want to raise a ruckus until we have to."
Cam gave a quick nod, his rifle already in his hands. "Understood."
As they descended toward the camp, Cam's mind was already racing. This wasn't going to be a clean fight—there were too many O'Driscolls for that. But they'd take them down, one by one.
Dutch motioned for them to follow him, and the gang moved forward, staying low, moving swiftly through the snow-covered terrain. The tension was palpable, and Cam could feel the weight of it settling over him.
As they crept closer to the O'Driscolls' camp, Dutch's voice broke the silence again. "We'll circle around the far side and go down that way, same as Micah and Bill."
Arthur's eyes flicked toward Dutch, and Cam could sense the unease in Arthur's voice. "I just wasn't sure you agreed with me."
Dutch turned to him, his eyes hard. "Arthur. Have you completely lost faith in me? Our needs right now are supplies, equipment, and a way out of here. Everything else, including Colm, can wait."
Cam stayed silent, his rifle trained ahead. He wasn't here to question Dutch. He was here to fight. And fight he would.
As the gang got into position, preparing to make their move, Dutch looked to Cam. "You good, Cam?"
Cam smiled, a brief flash of confidence. "Always."
Dutch nodded, then signaled to the others to get ready. The storm was coming, and it was going to be a hell of a fight.
The O'Driscolls wouldn't know what hit them.
The wind cut through the trees, sharp and bitter. Snow crunched beneath the boots of Dutch and the gang as they moved through the thick forest, heading towards the mining camp where the O'Driscolls had been holed up. It had been a rough couple of days, but today, they were going to settle the score. Cam could feel the weight of his revolver in its holster, a comforting reminder of how he handled business—quick, precise, unforgiving.
Dutch gave the signal to halt, and the gang slowed, their eyes scanning the area. The camp was ahead, nestled at the bottom of a ravine, snow and debris piled high around the decaying structures. The O'Driscolls had been hiding here, licking their wounds and preparing for something big. Cam could feel it in his gut—this wasn't just a skirmish. This was a message, and it was time to send one of their own.
"Get ready," Dutch's voice cut through the quiet, low but commanding. "We hit them hard. We hit them fast. No mercy."
Arthur looked over at Cam, his hand on his revolver. "We make sure they regret messing with us."
Cam nodded, eyes already scanning the camp. He didn't need to say anything. His actions spoke louder than words. His hand brushed the grip of his revolver, and his heart rate picked up slightly. This was what he was made for. No hesitation. No remorse.
Dutch motioned for Bill and Micah to take the right flank, while Arthur and Cam were assigned the left. "Move out," Dutch barked, and the gang melted into the trees like ghosts.
As Cam crouched low, moving swiftly and silently through the snow, he caught sight of the first O'Driscoll—a lanky bastard with a rifle slung over his shoulder, staring off into the distance. He didn't see Cam coming.
Without warning, Cam dropped to one knee, his revolver already out, the cold steel familiar in his palm. The shot rang out, sharp and clear, cutting through the stillness. The O'Driscoll crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading across the snow where he fell. Cam didn't waste a second. His eyes moved to the next target—a man trying to duck behind a stack of crates.
The O'Driscoll had no chance to react before Cam's second shot rang out, catching him in the chest. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, the air knocked out of him in an instant. No mercy. No time for hesitation. Cam didn't pause. He moved again, his body a blur of motion as he closed the gap between himself and the next group of enemies.
Gunfire erupted from the O'Driscolls as they scrambled for cover, realizing too late that they were under attack. Cam's eyes flicked across the battlefield, calculating, anticipating. One O'Driscoll fired wildly in his direction, but Cam was already moving, his feet carrying him effortlessly behind a stone pillar as he returned fire.
A flash of movement to his left caught his attention—an O'Driscoll charging at him, his knife raised, desperate to close the distance. Cam didn't flinch. He stepped to the side, his revolver raised. The shot took the man in the shoulder, spinning him off-course. Cam didn't wait to see the man hit the snow. He fired again, the bullet tearing through his throat. The O'Driscoll fell with a guttural cry, his knife clattering to the ground, useless now.
Cam's breath came steady, his senses heightened, every movement controlled. He wasn't just shooting; he was calculating, feeling the rhythm of the fight. He spotted another O'Driscoll running toward him, trying to flank his position. Cam didn't wait. He fired, hitting the man square in the chest. The O'Driscoll was sent sprawling backward, his weapon slipping from his hands as he fell.
The sounds of battle echoed around him—shots, grunts, and the occasional shout—but Cam's world had narrowed to just him and his targets. The O'Driscolls were starting to realize that they were outmatched, that they were fighting against a storm. And Cam was at the eye of it.
Dutch's voice rang out, clear and commanding, but it barely registered in Cam's mind. He was already moving again, finding his next target—a man trying to make a run for it. Cam drew his revolver, his finger tightening on the trigger before the man had even fully turned. The bullet struck him in the back of the head, and he crumpled forward, dead before he hit the ground.
The last O'Driscolls were scrambling, trying to regroup, but Cam was already upon them. The snow was stained with blood, the ground slick beneath his boots. He moved swiftly, like a predator hunting its prey. No words, no mercy. Just a flash of steel and the crack of a shot.
Another O'Driscoll dove behind an overturned cart, his rifle trained on Cam. Cam didn't hesitate. He fired, hitting the man in the arm, sending the rifle flying. The O'Driscoll scrambled to get to his feet, but Cam was already there, his revolver in hand. One last shot. The man dropped.
As the dust settled from the battle at the mining camp, the air was filled with the sharp bite of the snow and the steady beat of horses' hooves as the gang regathered. Cam Gallagher, his eyes hard from the fight, rode alongside Arthur, Javier, and Lenny as Dutch waved the crew to follow him.
Micah, always quick to stir the pot, called out, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Nice of you two to join us," he sneered at Javier and Lenny, but his gaze flickered over to Cam for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Cam had quickly earned his place in the gang, but there was always an edge of mistrust between him and some members of the crew.
Javier didn't even flinch at Micah's remark, his voice calm but clear. "Is everyone alright?"
Dutch, already scanning the aftermath, nodded. "I think so," he said, his voice firm. He whistled for his horse, mounting quickly. "Good work, boys. Now, let's tear this place apart."
Without hesitation, Dutch began issuing orders, his tone unyielding. "Bill, you go search that wagon there. Micah, search that building. Arthur, you take that building to the left."
Cam shifted in his saddle and caught Arthur's eye. The two shared a silent understanding before Arthur nodded and headed off in the direction Dutch had indicated. Cam turned his horse toward the opposite side of the camp.
"Alright, men, quick! Find those detonators, explosives, anything you can. Let's go," Dutch called, his voice sharp.
Cam's boots crunched over the snow as he dismounted near a half-buried crate. It was cold, the wind biting at his skin, but Cam's focus was razor-sharp. He yanked open the box and immediately found bundles of dynamite, their fuses glinting ominously in the pale light. His fingers tightened around one of the sticks, and he called over to Bill. "Hey, Bill, this looks like the real thing."
Bill, already hauling boxes around, turned and gave Cam a knowing grin. "Looks fine. Smells good," he said, accepting the dynamite from Cam and setting it carefully on a crate.
"Come on, let's move," Cam urged, his eyes scanning the camp for any signs of further trouble. The camp was eerily silent now that the fight had died down.
Dutch's voice rang out, pulling them back to task. "Did we get everything?"
Micah, with a roll of paper in his hand, nodded and approached Dutch. "Think so, Boss. Found this on one of 'em."
Dutch took the paper, his eyes scanning it quickly. "Thank you, Micah," he murmured, eyes glinting as he read further. "This is perfect… something about a train they were going to rob. Leviticus Cornwall…"
Dutch folded the paper and tucked it away. "Mount back up, let's keep moving," he barked, turning to face the men.
Cam mounted his horse with fluid ease, his gaze never wavering from Dutch. He wasn't just part of this crew for survival—he had his own reasons for sticking around, reasons that he didn't share with just anyone. But for now, the mission was the priority.
"Alright, let's get outta here," Dutch called. The gang mounted their horses and followed him out of the camp, their horses snorting into the cold air.
Micah spoke up, his voice dripping with feigned approval. "Good work, fellers."
Dutch glanced over his shoulder, his voice booming with pride. "Not bad for a bunch of starving down-and-outs. They can pummel us as hard as they like, but we'll always get back up and fight. That's who we are. Outlaws for life, fellers. Wait until we have John, Mac, Charles, and Sean back riding with us, and I believe… I know… they will all be back."
Cam's thoughts flickered to John and the others. He'd heard about the missing gang members, and he knew that getting them back was just a matter of time. But that didn't stop him from feeling the weight of their absence. "You didn't get Colm, but this will hurt him a lot more than any bullet in the head," Arthur said, his voice still carrying the weight of their recent loss.
Dutch's grin was tight, his eyes cold as he looked over to Arthur. "Especially when we rob this train, too."
Arthur gave a short laugh. "Yeah, I guess we'll see about that."
Dutch's gaze became steely with determination. "Oh, indeed we will."
The gang continued through the snow, their horses creaking under the weight of the cold. Arthur spoke again, his voice lower now. "You know… he'll come after us."
Dutch didn't look back as he spoke. "Oh, of course he will, just like all the rest. But we're going to stay a step ahead of them, make sure we always know where they are before they know where we are. We allowed ourselves to get a step behind in Blackwater. That won't happen again."
Cam rode a little apart from the others, his horse's hooves leaving dark prints in the snow as he thought. He was part of this fight, yes, but he knew well enough that Dutch's vision didn't always align with his own. The outlaws were family, but family was complicated. Cam's own past weighed on him like a stone in his chest, but the future—the train, the war with Colm—was something else.
Dutch's voice broke into his thoughts. "Alright, dig in, fellers. Let's make some ground."
They rode a fair distance before spotting someone in the snow ahead of them. The figure was a lone rider, clearly trying to escape the aftermath of the battle. Dutch's voice rang out, cutting through the air. "Hey, you see that feller? Wasn't he at the camp with Colm?"
Cam was already moving, his instincts taking over as he turned his horse sharply and spurred it toward the lone rider. He didn't need Dutch's orders to know that taking prisoners could lead to valuable intel. With a flick of the reins, Cam was off, riding hard through the snow to catch up to the man.
The cold wind bit at Cam's face as he chased the O'Driscoll down the snowy path. His horse galloped hard, hooves crunching against the frozen earth beneath. The man ahead of him—Kieran Duffy—was a far cry from the hardened killers Cam had seen in the O'Driscoll gang. The way the man was frantically urging his own horse to move faster, eyes darting over his shoulder, told Cam everything he needed to know: this wasn't a man looking for a fight. It was a man trying to escape the consequences of his choices.
Cam was no stranger to that feeling.
"Keep running, boy," Cam muttered under his breath. "It won't save you."
Kieran had stolen a head start, but that wasn't enough to outrun someone like Cam. His horse surged forward, covering the distance quickly as the snow-dusted landscape blurred around him. Kieran's horse was tired, its rider clearly unprepared for a chase in this kind of terrain. It was only a matter of time before Cam closed the gap.
With a snap of the reins, Cam urged his horse faster. He aimed his lasso with deadly precision, the loop flying through the air and catching the target around Kieran's torso before the man could even react.
"God damn it!" Kieran yelled as the rope jerked him back, causing his horse to stumble. He barely had time to scream before he was yanked off his horse and sent sprawling into the snow. Cam's horse skidded to a halt next to the man, who was now face down in the snow, panting and struggling to free himself.
Cam dismounted swiftly, his boots crunching in the snow as he approached Kieran. "You've made this harder on yourself than it needed to be," he said, his voice low and steady.
Kieran turned, panic in his eyes, his hands gripping the snow as he tried to push himself up. "No! Please! Please, don't—"
Cam crouched down, grabbing Kieran by the arm and pulling him up to his knees, his hand tight around the man's shoulder as he forced him to stay still. "Shut up," Cam growled, his grip firm and unyielding. "You're coming with me."
Kieran's body trembled, his breaths shallow. He tried to squirm out of Cam's hold, but it was no use. "I ain't one of 'em! I swear I'm not! I don't know anything about Colm's plans, I don't—"
"Save it," Cam cut him off. "You're not getting away with that lie. You're one of them, and you're going to talk."
He didn't bother with kindness, didn't care about Kieran's pleading or fear. He'd learned a long time ago that mercy only got you killed. The O'Driscolls were a ruthless breed. Cam had no love for them, and he sure as hell wasn't about to let one of them walk away just because they begged.
With practiced ease, Cam tied the man's hands behind his back, securing the lasso tightly around Kieran's wrists. He could feel the tension in the man's body—fear, guilt, desperation. It was all there, in his every movement. Cam was sure it would break him eventually.
"Let's go," Cam said, standing up and pulling Kieran to his feet, using his body to help the man stay steady. He didn't trust him not to try something stupid—especially not now. The O'Driscolls were known for being sneaky, even in the most hopeless of situations.
The ride back to camp was long, each step dragging on with every mile they covered. Cam kept his grip on the lasso, his eyes scanning the snowy path ahead, ever-vigilant. Kieran, for his part, remained eerily quiet. His breaths were heavy, ragged, but he hadn't tried to escape. Not yet.
But Cam knew better than to assume anything. The O'Driscolls were cornered animals, and cornered animals were always the most dangerous.
Kieran glanced over at him, his face pale and filled with dread. "Please, mister... don't take me back there. You don't know what they'll do to me. I can help you, I swear."
Cam's eyes flickered to Kieran, then back to the trail ahead. "Help me?" Cam scoffed. "The only thing you can help with is digging your own grave deeper. The O'Driscolls aren't the kind of people who just let you walk away. You were either with them, or you were dead."
Kieran's lips trembled as he looked down at the snow, hands shaking behind his back. "I swear... I only joined up 'cause I had nowhere else to go. I didn't mean no harm. I ain't like them, I ain't."
"Doesn't matter," Cam replied coldly. "You made your choice. You'll deal with it now."
The two rode in silence for a while, the only sounds the creak of the saddle and the crunch of snow beneath their horses' hooves. But it wasn't long before Kieran spoke again, his voice hoarse with fear.
"Listen," he said, almost pleading now. "I don't know much, I swear I don't. But I heard talk. Colm's got plans... big plans for that train robbery. It's more than just money, it's personal. He wants to make Cornwall bleed."
Cam's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt. The name Leviticus Cornwall had been circling around the gang for a while now, and hearing this just confirmed the suspicion that the O'Driscolls were gearing up for something massive.
"Keep talking," Cam said, his tone rough.
Kieran swallowed, clearly nervous, but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I don't know the details. But there's gonna be explosives, dynamite, and some real big boys with the guns. Colm's been planning it for months. He said this one's gonna hurt Cornwall bad. Real bad."
Cam's hand tightened around the reins. The more Kieran spoke, the clearer it became: Colm O'Driscoll was planning something dangerous, something that could tear the entire region apart. But right now, Cam had a prisoner to deal with—and no patience for games.
The rest of the ride back was uneventful, the camp slowly coming into view. The snow had started to fall heavier now, blanketing the ground in a thick white layer. As they neared the camp, Cam saw Dutch and the others waiting near the entrance.
As the camp came into view, Cam urged his horse forward, feeling the strain in his muscles but pushing through. The camp, a series of dimly lit fires and makeshift shelters, had a quiet energy to it tonight, the calm before the storm. Dutch would make sure of that.
Cam: "We're almost home, Kieran. I wouldn't start begging yet."
Kieran tried to squirm in his bindings, his teeth chattering.
Kieran: "Please! I hate Colm! I swear, I just joined 'em. I didn't know what they were doing!"
Cam: "Save it."
As they approached, Dutch stepped out from the cabin, his figure cutting a silhouette against the orange glow of the campfire. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Cam and his prisoner, his lips curling into a satisfied grin.
Dutch: "You find the little shit, did you?"
Cam pulled Kieran off his horse, throwing him to the snow-covered ground with a harsh thud. Kieran's head hit the cold earth, and he groaned, trying to roll over, but his limbs were bound too tightly. Cam stood over him, a cold, calculating look in his eyes.
Cam: "Yep. Got him. Didn't take long either. He's nothing but a runt trying to play with fire."
Dutch walked forward, holding a rolled-up piece of paper in his hands, his eyes scanning Kieran's body.
Dutch: "Very good. You sure he's one of them?"
Cam: "No doubt about it. He's scared, but he'll talk soon enough."
Kieran looked up at Dutch, his fear now fully realized. He had heard stories about Dutch Van der Linde — tales of his charisma and brutality mixed together in a way that made men quake.
Dutch: (sarcastically) "Welcome to your new home… hope you're real happy here."
Cam stood aside as Dutch motioned for him to untie Kieran. The ropes came loose, and Kieran, now free, tried to scramble away, but Cam's hand shot out and gripped his arm. There was no escape.
Kieran's frantic pleas began again, but Cam wasn't moved by them. Dutch watched, arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Dutch: (mocking) "Oh, whatever you say, son. I'm sure you're as innocent as a lamb."
Bill and Uncle emerged from the shadows, their faces grim and serious. Uncle grunted as he took hold of Kieran's other arm, and Bill moved to secure his legs.
Dutch: "Alright, Uncle, Bill, get him somewhere quiet. We'll let him stew for a bit. He's going to get hungry, and then he'll sing like a bird."
Cam: (coldly) "He's already singing, Dutch. He just doesn't know it yet."
As Bill and Uncle dragged Kieran off to one of the small cabins to tie him up, Dutch turned to Cam, nodding approvingly.
Dutch: "Well done, Cam. You brought him in good and proper. Not easy to keep up with an O'Driscoll on the run, but you did it."
Cam gave a small nod, his gaze shifting over to the shack where Kieran would be locked up. The gang would get answers, but not without a little time and discomfort. It was all part of the game. They were ruthless, and the O'Driscolls had just walked into their web.
Dutch: "I can't believe it... an O'Driscoll in my camp. What's the world coming to?"
Cam: "You want me to make him talk?"
Dutch: (grinning) "You're a bit eager, aren't you? Let's get him hungry first. Make him wait. We'll find out what he knows soon enough. The O'Driscolls may be running their mouths, but we'll make 'em think twice about crossing us again."
As Dutch spoke, he began to walk away, but then paused, turning to look at Cam once more.
Dutch: "Well done, Cam. That was exactly what we needed."
Cam: (nodding) "No problem. I'll keep an eye on him. We'll get what we need."
The camp seemed to grow quieter after the capture. Dutch disappeared into the cabin to finalize plans for their next move. Cam watched Kieran get hauled off, the poor fool still calling for mercy as the cold night air whipped through the camp.
It was only a matter of time before they had the information they needed. And then, there would be no stopping them.