Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

OCTOBER 1894

That fateful evening, everything had seemed relatively normal. Until, of course, it wasn’t.  

Abigail approached John at the campfire. The New Austin heat had cooled as the sun went down, and now there was a chill in the air. As such, he had been sitting with Arthur and Javier, the latter strumming his guitar somewhat aimlessly. 

“John? Can I talk to you?” She asked. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” He looked her up-and-down. There was something wrong, her body language was off, her voice a little shaky. She’d been acting standoffish and strange lately, so he’d been giving her space. Perhaps she was upset by it, and they’d likely argue. But then they’d go back to normal soon enough, as they always did. 

She glanced at the other two men. Arthur was nodding off, and Javier was paying no attention, instead focused on his guitar. She cleared her throat. “Can we talk alone?” 

John raised an eyebrow, but complied nonetheless. He grabbed his jacket off of the ground first, slightly put off by the fact that he had to leave the warmth of the campfire. Abigail lead him to the area overlooking the rocky cliffside, where two sideways barrels sat as makeshift seats. She gestured to one of the barrels. John sat, confused.

He looked at her, tilting his head. “You alright?” He was starting to get a little worried.

Abigail nodded tensely. “No. Yes. I will be.” She sat down on the other barrel gingerly, folding her hands in her lap. 

Her confusing answer did little to abate his worries. On instinct, he shrugged his jacket off and placed it around her shoulders. She accepted the gesture with little gusto.

“It’s okay. You can tell me,” he assured her. 

She shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her throat. “Christ, I just.. I’ve been tryin’ to figure out the best way to say this. Spent all day tryin’ to come up with the words and I still can’t.” 

John was silent as he waited for her to continue. 

She was quiet for a good while, staring up at the stars. The sky was an inky black, and the cosmos twinkled in a cloudless sky. “I just— I can’t keep doin’ this, John.”

His heart sunk. What did she mean by that? Couldn’t continue with their relationship? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done wrong lately, besides being a little distant. But they both liked their space at different points, and it was never an issue before, so why would it be a problem now?

John opened his mouth. Closed it. “I… you’re breakin’ up with me?” He let out an awkward sort of breathy laugh as a nervous tic.

Abigail pursed her lips, mulling over her words. She shook her head. “No. I need out of this ,” she gestured loosely. “This life, I can’t do it.” 

What else would she do? She hated her life before. Was her old life really better than whatever existence she’d carved herself in the gang? 

“So… you’d rather go back to prostitutin’?” He asked, indignant. He felt immediate regret upon seeing her expression. The way her mouth pressed into a thin line and her brow furrowed. 

She stomped her foot angrily, a cloud of dust rising from the impact. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’ and you know it! Christ, you can be so—“ She cut herself off with a clench of her fists. 

“So what are you sayin’, then? You leavin’ ‘cause ‘a me?” He stood up, rising to his full height. He was just about ready to storm off and leave. 

“Will you get your head outta your own ass for a minute an’ listen to me? This ain’t helpin’ nothin’!” She threw her hands in the air, gesticulating with an air of anger. 

John sat back down with a huff. “I’m sorry. Go on.” he forced out. He had so many questions, so much more he wanted to add. But he’d hear her out; deep down, he knew she was right. Arguing wouldn’t help her explain herself. 

She shook her head sadly, not meeting his gaze. “It ain’t nothin’ against you, John. You know how much I care about you. But I gotta do what’s best for me.” She hugged herself — hugging the jacket, John’s jacket, closer.

“And?” he pressed.

Her arms were still crossed, but the ire was gone from her voice. “I need to feel safe, and livin’ on the run with a bunch’a criminals ain’t safe. I have to protect myself.” 

Rationally, John couldn’t argue with her logic. But the thought of losing her hurt more than he could have ever thought. 

He said nothing in response — Hell, what even could he say?

Abigail reached out to touch his arm. “I’m sorry, John. I ain’t doin’ this to hurt you.” She let out a sigh, and when she finally met his gaze, her eyes were misty. “I already know what your answer is gonna be. But I have to ask, ‘cause I’ll spend the rest of my life kickin’ myself if I didn’t. Will you come with me?”

His mouth went dry. There were two clear-cut paths laid out in front of him. 

He could keep living this life — wild, lawless, dangerous . All the freedom he could want and all the danger that came with it. Going to sleep and wondering if he’d be greeted with a torched camp and a knife in his throat in the morning. The constant brushes with death and the exhilarating temptation it brought.

Or a life with Abigail. Freedom — but in a very different way; experiencing the wild, untamed world with the woman he loved by his side. 

That meant no more gang. No more safety net. No more stability. No more Arthur or Hosea or Grimshaw or Dutch.

Dutch … 

He thought of how Dutch would react, shuddering. He’d be labeled a traitor… and maybe Dutch would be right for it. After all, how selfish could he be? To leave his family, even if it was for Abigail? He couldn’t do that, could he? They needed him.

But Abigail wanted him. Yet she was willing to leave, seemingly with or without him. She’d survived much longer without him. True, she didn’t need him. But did the gang need him? Surely they did, he put his due effort in and in turn they took care of him. He owed the whole gang so much. 

He bowed his head down, unwilling to see the look on her face when he rejected her. “I… I can’t.” You fucking coward. 

Abigail nodded, seeming like she expected this. “I know,” she said sadly. She rose from the barrel she was sitting on. Silhouetted by moonlight, the grayish jacket on her almost looked like a pair of angel’s wings. 

Perhaps, she was an angel, of sorts. She wasn’t meant to stay in Hell with him. She was meant to soar to the heavens, far above this life. 

She was leaving. She was leaving him. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, a dull ache blooming in his chest. “Wait. Abigail?” 

“Yeah?” 

He couldn’t let her leave without saying it at least once. He exhaled shakily. “...I love you,” It felt only fair that if she was going to shatter his heart, he may as well give it to her fully. 

She gave him a sort of sad smile. “I know you do, John. I know you do.” 

And just like that, she was gone, like smoke dissolving in the air, having left his heart adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

NOVEMBER 1899

FIVE YEARS LATER

Three months.

Three months had passed since everything had fallen apart. 

He had rode until the horse he’d stolen (after Old Boy had been shot out from under him) until it dropped. Then another, and another after that, until he’d passed through West Elizabeth. He spent his time roaming New Austin for a few weeks, then he went north into New Mexico. 

John wandered the desert almost as a ghost, wandering from place to place aimlessly. He was far enough away that he hadn’t seen any Pinkertons, and he’d done his due diligence to cover his tracks.

He hadn’t fully let his guard down yet, but he felt confident enough to stay in a settlement for more than a day or two. 

That was how he had found himself in his newest haunt. For the southwest, it was a decently big town — one by the name of Brimstone. It wasn’t quite the size of Blackwater, but it was close to as large, and besides, it was a good place to lie low.

John hitched his newest horse in front of a water trough. “Go ‘head, get yourself a drink, miss. You’ve earned it,” he said, smoothing his hand down her mane. 

He’d stolen the Gypsy Cob from a rather bold bounty hunter (who’d unfortunately caught a bullet in between his eyes). She was a pretty thing, white splashed-bay coated with soul-stirring blue eyes. “I’ll be back, lady. Think I’m gonna get myself a drink an’ find us a place to stay.” He had no reason to speak to the horse, but he’d been sorely lacking conversation as of late. 

The horse, naturally, didn’t answer him back, getting herself a well-deserved drink.

The town’s saloon was right across from where he’d hitched his horse. It was a short walk inside, every step made a little more excruciating by the sun beating down on him. 

God, he was filthy. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t caked in sweat . 

The saloon, of course, housed degenerates of all sorts — the exact people John fit in seamlessly with. However, it was fairly empty, considering it was high noon.

All the better. Meant less people would talk to him. The wooden floors creaked under every step he took, drawing the attention of the few patrons inside. 

John fished a coin out of Arthur’s his satchel and apathetically tossed it onto the bar.

The bartender looked at him curiously. “You new ‘round these parts, stranger?”

“Guess you could say that,” John replied impassively. “Gimme a whiskey.” 

The bartender poured him a shot and slid it to him. “You look rough, partner.”

“Feel rough,” John muttered before tossing his head back and downing the shot. The acrid taste and slight sting in his throat made him feel a little bit less like a zombie. 

The room was quiet for a moment. The only other patrons were either sad drunks half-asleep on the floor, or crusty old men playing cards.

It was a downright depressing environment. Then again, he supposed he fit in perfectly with that. 

“We got rooms and a bath upstairs, if you need ‘em. Fifty cents for both.” The bartender informed him.

John sighed deeply. He reached into the satchel blindly, then placed a dollar coin on the counter. “That should cover me for about one bath and three nights.” 

“Thank you kindly, sir. Can I get you anythin’ else?”

“Nope,” John replied tersely, "just the bath.” 

“Sure, partner. Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right.”

He muttered a thanks in reply and pushed himself away from the bar. 

As swiftly as he could manage, John sorted himself out. There was no reason to be hurried, but from months of being on the run it had become a habit to do just about everything quickly. After all, he had no idea when he’d next have to pack his things and go. 

That had been his reality ever since the Blackwater incident. For most of the year, there was always someone hot on his tail, only now he didn’t have the safety in numbers that being in the gang provided.

Firstly, set down the few items he owned inside his rented room. Soon after scrubbing himself clean in a rather tepid bath, shaving, and putting on (semi) clean clothes, John walked outside, the blazing sun still high in the sky. According to the bartender, there was an open-air market the next street over. He needed supplies; it had been almost two weeks since he’d bought anything, and his rations were getting uncomfortably low. Should he have to flee town suddenly, he’d probably be up shit creek without a paddle. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have any money. When Arthur gave him the satchel, there was a ridiculous amount of money with it.

Arthur…

It still hurt to think about him. Hurt to think about a lot of people. All the people he’d lost. 

Hosea. Miss Grimshaw. Lenny. Sean. Kieran. Jenny. Mac. Davey.

Even Abigail, though she wasn’t a direct consequence of Dutch’s insanity. Though it had been years, he still felt her absence keenly. Almost like a wound that never quite healed. She haunted his thoughts nearly every day — but did she still think of him?

He had no idea if she was even alive. And now, it would be nigh impossible to find her with the bounty on his head. 

Perhaps it was fate that he ended up completely alone. He’d spent his formative years alone on the streets, and now it was much the same.

Of course, the difference was that he knew how to take care of himself. 

Still, he was just as alone as he’d been then. 

The open-air market was much larger than he expected. Not only that, but it was rather crowded considering the time of day. 

Merchants came from decently far, but considering Brimstone was the only town for miles, it made sense. The closest town was Tumbleweed, and it had taken him about two days to get from Tumbleweed to Brimstone. 

He was perusing the lackluster selection of fruit — granted, it was hard to get a nice selection of produce all the way out in the desert. A kindly old woman was selling plums, upselling to him about how they were the best locally-grown fruit you could find in Brimstone.

His stomach growled at the prospect of having something fresh to eat. He’d been living off of canned food and jerky (when he remembered to stop and actually eat, that was) for months. 

“How much will it be?”

“Five cents, sir,” 

He fished around inside his satchel until he found a quarter and placed it in her wrinkled hand. Then, he grabbed a second plum. “Keep the change, ma’am,” 

She grinned. “Bless you, young man.” 

Sometimes, it was the simplest acts of kindness that made him feel a little less like an irredeemable monster.

John nodded at the old saleswoman, then continued to wander aimlessly. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted to buy, but he was hoping something else would catch his eye the way the plums did. 

The trapper’s stand didn’t have much that interested him, but he did stroll by a little slower upon seeing a few of the pelts. Nothing was quite attention-grabbing enough, and after a moment he continued on.

Until he stopped dead in his tracks — because the woman just a few yards ahead looked eerily familiar. 

It couldn’t be… could it? 

Abigail. 

He’d recognize her anywhere. The woman who had haunted his dreams every day since she had left his life. 

She looked good. Happy. Relaxed. Healthy. All adjectives that couldn’t be used to describe himself.

She turned to face him — and when their eyes met, it was as if time had completely frozen. He forgot how to speak, how to stand, how to breathe . His mind played those last moments between them, how she had left him with his heart in her palm.

“Wait. Abigail?” 

“Yeah?” 

“...I love you,” 

“I know you do, John. I know you do.” 

“John?” 

“Abigail,” he whispered. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. He pushed away the urge to run to her, scoop her into his arms and never let go, instead walking to her at a slightly hurried pace. He bumped into indignant townsfolk, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. His sights were solely on Abigail. John had complete tunnel vision; all he could focus on was her.

He was enraptured yet again by her bright blue eyes. They seized all the sadness in his heart when she looked at him. 

“It’s, um, it’s really good to see you,” He finally said, dumbly. He mentally kicked himself. He’d been thinking about this moment for five years and that was the best he could come up with?

His only other want was to take her into his arms and kiss her like he’d never see her again. He had so many questions for her. How long had she been here? Why was she in Brimstone, the middle of nowhere , of all places? 

“I heard what happened, it was in all the papers," she said, face scrunched in concern. “...You look like death.”

How he’d missed her. He thought about her so often, wondering what a reunion between them would be like. 

"Thanks," he replied, accompanied by a dry laugh, "I feel like death." 

She reached out to touch him, just a brush of her hand against his chest. Still, it made his heart flutter.

“...I thought you were dead,” she added quietly. 

John could say the same about her. He sighed, trying to ignore the memories she unwittingly dredged up. “I was one of the lucky ones,” 

“Karen? Arthur? Hosea?” 

He simply shook his head, eyes downcast. There was so much he needed to tell her. It would surely take hours just to cover everything that had happened this year alone.

She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “God, I’m sorry,” 

At that moment, a little boy — one with eyes that were the same blue as Abigail’s — decided to make his presence known, tugging on Abigail’s skirt insistently. “Mama, what are we doin’?” 

John’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. He had no idea that Abigail had settled down and had children. “I– I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a feller,” 

She tilted her head, appearing confused. Then, understanding washed over her. “Oh, John, I’m not…” She shook her head. “I’m not married.”

She could tell he was still (justifiably) confused, so she continued.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone. John, this is my son, Jack… Jack Marston.”

Chapter Text

John felt like he was trying to inhale a lungful of water. He forced himself to exhale, the action coming out shakily. 

“Marston,” John carefully repeated, voice eerily calm. “Like me?” he breathed. He stared at Jack as if the boy had three heads. In return, Jack simply stared back.

Jack Marston.

Marston.

Abigail’s son. 

Her son, Jack Marston.

His son, Jack Marston.

Their son, Jack Marston.

“Maybe we should talk somewhere private.” Abigail replied evenly, trying to keep the situation under control. “We’re livin’ at the women’s home. It’s that big house up the road from the church. I… um, I was on my way to work, but we can talk after. I’m off at five o’clock, and then I’ll explain everything, I promise.” She assured him. 

John swallowed hard. “I…” Really, what could he even say? He could hardly look her in the eye, let alone form full sentences. All of his thoughts seemed to form excruciatingly slow, too busy trying to process the bombshell she’d dropped on him. “Alright,” he replied weakly after a few more moments. 

Abigail did not say anything else to him, but she did give him a hopeful kind of half smile. Then, she ushered the boy along. John stared at the two once their backs were turned, the gears in his head sluggishly moving along.

She had to be fucking with him. This had to be some sick joke, that’s all it was… wasn’t it? 

But he knew Abigail, and he knew she wouldn’t lie to him. Not like that, not over something so major. She’d have nothing to gain from it. 

Maybe she expected him to be angry. Maybe he was angry. He didn’t know. After all, how was someone supposed to feel upon discovering they had fathered a child and didn’t know for five years?

Five fucking years. And if the gang hadn’t fallen apart, he may have never known.

Yeah, maybe he was a little angry.

Angry at what, though? Himself, for not piecing together that something was wrong and running away with her all of those years ago? Angry at Abigail for not telling him? Angry at Dutch and the rest of the gang for stealing away a part of his life? Maybe a combination of the three? 

When just about the sixth person had practically shoved into him, John forced himself to start walking. He moved aimlessly, ignoring all of the sights and sounds of the town. His boots kicked up sand and dust as he walked — or rather, trudged.

A son. It wasn’t the most unlikely thing that could have happened. He remembered what it was like. The two of them would be giddy after a robbery, or eager to sneak away from camp, stealing quick moments and being less-than-careful. That was when nothing in life felt truly pressing — they were young(er) and irresponsible, and neither of them was thinking of any kind of consequence. 

He found himself back in front of his horse. 

John sighed. “Hey there, Missy,” he greeted her softly, deciding then and there that Missy was a fine name for the horse. He’d grown quite fond for her for the short time he’d had her. Perhaps it was a bit odd, she was the closest thing to a listening ear he had. 

Missy nosed at his palm in search of treats. 

He chuckled lightly despite himself. “I know, I know. I’ll remember your peppermints next time, promise.” He was quiet for a moment, petting her mane thoughtlessly.

Maybe a ride would clear his head. When he was younger he used to peel out of camp, Grimshaw yelling after him, going as fast as his horse could comfortably go. He’d embrace nothing but the air flowing through his locks and impulsivity in his heart. He usually didn’t go far, especially when he was a teenager (being secretly frightened that everyone would leave camp and he’d get left behind), but it was just a way to get away from it all. After spending his developmental years in the slums of Chicago, he had become fond of the open wilderness. 

Of course, he was older now, and a little significantly more jaded. 

“Why don’t we go for a ride, huh? You wanna explore?” John said, earning himself a strange look from a passing stranger. 

Naturally, Missy didn’t reply.

The vast sea of sand and cacti surrounding him certainly calmed his mind. It was a monotonous view, but it lacked the stressors of town. 

Not to mention, it felt a little less unbearably hot with the constant movement. 

It was on the open road that he could finally sort out his thoughts. He’d been wandering aimlessly for a while. It was lonely, quiet. 

He hadn’t checked his pocket watch, but if he had to guess, it had probably been a little over an hour. 

He clicked his tongue, slowing Missy’s pace to a walk. “Take a break, girl,” He said, not wanting to push her too hard. He slid off and hitched her to one of the only trees nearby— a joshua tree. 

Sitting underneath the limited shade of a joshua tree, John tried to think of what Arthur would tell him to do. 

“Don’t understand what her problem is,” a 20-year-old John muttered. The song and dance had gotten old at this point. Him and Abigail would fight over something stupid and immature, and John would go and sulk in Arthur’s tent for a while. 

“You can’t just hide in my tent for the rest ‘a your life, Johnny. So you best figure out what the problem is,” Arthur replied disinterestedly, clearly more interested in scribbling something in his journal than listening to John whine. 

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he retorted, getting needlessly testy with Arthur. “She’s impossible to figure out.”

Arthur sighed and hefted himself off of his cot. He placed his hands on John’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Listen to me. You need to step up, be a man, and go to your woman. Talk things out with her. And for Christsakes, take some responsibility for once.” 

“Hey!”

John glanced up to where a grizzled-looking man stood just a few feet away, hands on his hips in an effort to look intimidating.

John sized up the man in front of him. He was visibly disheveled, with a long, dirty beard, shirt half-tucked, and caked in mud below his knees. “You need somethin’, partner?” he asked indifferently. 

“Yer trespassin’ in this here land. There’s a hefty fee for that, cowboy.” 

“That so?” 

The man smirked, pistol now in hand. “‘Fraid so.” 

It would take more than some hillbilly with a dirty gun to scare him into handing over his money. 

With lightning quick speed, he drew his revolver, aiming at the man squarely in the chest. “I don’t think you wanna do this,” John warned.

The idiot aimed his own gun. 

With precise speed, John pulled the revolver’s hammer. Time seemed to slow.

Inhale….

Finger on the trigger.

One…

Two…

Three.

Pull the trigger.

…Exhale.

The bullet hit him squarely in the chest. The man crumbled to a heap on the ground, sputtering. 

John sighed. He supposed he ought to be getting back to town anyway.

A few hours later, John waited anxiously on the doorstep of the women’s home, hat in hands. It was a large house, likely once an old manor, with a weathered wood exterior. 

The door creaked open, an older woman with graying hair appearing behind the door. “Can I help you?” 

He smoothed his hair back nervously. “I’m, uh, I’m here to see Abigail.”

She looked him up-and-down suspiciously. “Hold on a second,” she stated curtly, then closed the door in his face. 

After what felt like several minutes, she came back, still with a slight scowl on her face. “Follow me,” she said, not waiting for him to follow. 

He walked into the house. It was well kept, but he cared little about the finer details, his mind focused on Abigail. She led him up a spiral staircase and down a dimly lit hallway with red carpeting. She stopped in front of the final door, gesturing to the door, then turned on her heel.

John inhaled deeply and poised himself to knock.

But Abigail beat him to the punch and opened the door. 

“Hi, John,” she greeted, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear timidly. ‘I’m glad you came,” she sidestepped to let him in.

The space was small, but it was cozy. A double bed was in the corner of the room, pressed against the wall. There was a green-painted nightstand with an oil lamp atop of that. In the middle of the room lay a decently sized plush rug — some sort of animal skin, in a shade of dark brown. In the center of the left wall sat a small fireplace, which currently wasn’t burning. An empty bookshelf was to the right of that, housing trinkets, blankets, and a few of her son’s toys. On the opposite side of the room there was a small table with two chairs pulled up to it. The room was kept neat, just like how Abigail always liked her space to be. 

The sun had started to set, casting the room in golden hour’s glow. 

“Evenin’, Abigail,” He greeted. Internally, he winced. There was a considerable level of awkwardness between them. “Where’s the kid?”

“He’s in the next room over, there’s a woman here with a daughter about his age. She usually watches Jack while I’m at work,” She explained, shifting her weight. “I, well— I made tea.” She said, gesturing to the table, where two teacups sat, steam curling upwards into the air. “Why don’t we sit down?”

She made tea now? He distinctly remembered her being preferential to coffee. 

He sat down at the table, and she sat opposite to him. 

God, the last time they’d been sitting face to face like this, it was the night she’d left camp. 

They were so different now. 

“Did you know?” He asked. It was perhaps the question at the forefront of his mind. He had to know. “When you left, that is? Did you know?” he clarified.

She was quiet for a moment, staring down at her teacup as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “Yes, John. I did.”

She knew. Had he done something to make her not trust him? Why didn’t she feel the need to tell him something so monumental, so life-changing? 

“And, what?” He huffed out an indignant laugh. “You just conveniently forgot to tell me?”

She crossed her arms. “Will you stop? It ain’t like that.” 

“Yeah? Then how is it? Because from where I’m standin’, it don’t make you look like a saint.” He bit back. It probably was harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t help feeling resentful.

“It weren’t right, I admit it.” Abigail said, sounding just a touch bitter. “But I was scared, John. And I knew you wouldn’t leave the gang. I also knew you had no interest in bein’ a father. So… I thought it was the best thing to do — I know it was wrong. But when I tried to find you, the gang was already gone.” 

John was quiet as he digested this. She had looked for him, but it was too late. He knew that part wasn’t her fault. 

He took a deep breath, trying to keep himself level-headed. 

“...For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. But like I said, I was doin’ what I thought was best for me.”

He still couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “You sure he’s mine?” he asked calmly, gaze directed at the wall.

She raised an eyebrow. “You really think I’d’ve bothered with all of this if he weren’t?”

John said nothing in reply, knowing she had a good point. It wasn’t the brightest question to ask, but he had blurted it out anyway out of a sense of morbid curiosity. Almost as if her confirming it would make it more real. 

And make it real, it did. 

There was a pregnant pause. The only thing that could be heard was the faraway noise of the cicadas outside.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re plannin’ on doin’. I know you’re on the run. But… if you want to see the boy…” she trailed off, seeming to struggle with how to finish her sentence. “We’ll be here.” 

A part of him wanted nothing more. He’d spent these last five years dreaming of her, dreaming of what could have been. This could be a fresh start, a chance at normalcy. She was once again extending the olive branch. She was open to having him — a wanted criminal, back into her life, even though she had once left him for, well, being a criminal. 

That was an oversimplification of things. It wasn’t just that John was a criminal, it was that she was surrounded by degenerates and wanted safety for Jack. She didn’t want her baby to be raised in a gang, and a part of him couldn’t blame her, either. Would he have wanted any child of his to be raised in the gang? They may have been his family, but that was a dangerous life. One a baby had no business being involved in. Hell, he considered himself decently scarred by growing up in a gang, and he only fell into that life when he was twelve.

He supposed he didn’t blame her. The life she was pursuing seemed fairly decent in comparison to the shitstorm he’d been in as of late. 

And she was offering him a place by her side. At least, he was pretty sure that’s what she was offering.

But he had those little nagging fears, the same things that had stopped him from pursuing a life with her before. The concept of fatherhood was fucking terrifying. Even worse, he was being actively hunted by the law now. He had one of the highest bounties in the entire country, second only to Dutch. 

He rose from the table, a dull headache already beginning to manifest at his temple. “I need to sleep on it,” he said tiredly. He had much more to say, but his mind was so clouded.

“I understand,” Abigail replied. She followed him to the door. “Goodnight, John.” 

There was a pause between them, neither of them quite knowing how to end the interaction. She was closer to him than she’d been since that night all of those years ago. Close enough to touch. To hug. To kiss. 

None of those things happened. He was torn between leaving so he could dissect his thoughts in peace and staying so he could try to understand more. He desperately wanted to understand the situation. He wanted her , wanted things back to normal, he never wanted to tear his eyes from her ever again and yet he needed some space from it all.

“You too,” he finally muttered back. He was forcing himself to walk down the hallway and not look back. 

He knew if he looked back, he’d never leave.

John Marston — a father. He had a son. What a frightening thought. 

John had no fond memories of his father. He was an angry, bitter, disturbed man. Sharp-tongued (when sober) with a sharper backhand. The man did the bare minimum to keep John alive, and even that seemed to be a small miracle. Some of his earliest memories were of pickpocketing and scrounging for food — in general, his early years were spent struggling to survive. In no small part, thanks to his father. 

Eight-year-old John waited in a dark corner of the saloon as his father gambled what little money they had saved up. 

It wasn’t like that money was going to be used for anything better. It was always used on either gambling or whoring, with the occasional bit used on food. Generally, Pa let John scrounge for his own food, saying, “There’s food everywhere, boy, you just ain’t know how to find it.” 

As a result, hunger was no stranger to John. He could be crafty when necessary, sure, but finding food wasn’t always the easiest task. 

Still, Pa made sure he had just enough so he didn’t keel over, and rarely ever did he allow any sort of luxury. On his birthdays — when Pa was sober enough to remember, that was — he’d get a peppermint candy tossed at him, and to John, it was special. It absolutely the bare minimum, but it was some sort of acknowledgment at the very least.

He savored those moments. It was one of few times Pa would pay any positive attention to him.

Today wasn't one of those days. John was lucky the saloon owner had taken pity on him and let him stay inside. Though maybe the sight of John shivering in the winter storm had convinced the man.

He knew that people weren’t always heartless. There was usually some sucker out there that would take pity on him enough. Enough for him to keep surviving to the next day.

Unsurprisingly, Pa’s blackjack game didn’t go very well. The cursing and yelling surprised the boy very little. He only became concerned when gunshots began to echo throughout the room. Familiar with this song and dance, John kept low to the ground, and crawled past the chaos and behind the bar. It was unlikely a bit less likely that he would catch a stray bullet there. He curled up in himself, knees pressed to his chest, as he waited for the violence to end. Pa always collected him after it was all said and done. 

Only, Pa didn’t collect him this time.

That had been the last time John had seen his father alive. He had seen the aftermath: when he made his way to the gallows and saw his father’s corpse hanging from the noose, neck broken. 

The apathetic crowd had already begun to dissolve, their bloodlust satiated for the time being. The sheriff had shoved his father’s meager belongings into John’s hands and left, leaving the child alone to stare at the corpse. 

It was bitterly ironic, John thought. Jack could likely be in the same position as John was once. Saddled with nothing but a deadbeat criminal for a father. One who was bound to be tried and murdered just as his father before him.

There was also the entire matter with Dutch, who could be arguably viewed as his non biological father – but the damage Dutch had done to him was an entirely different beast. 

Then there was Hosea who was the closest thing John had to an emotionally stable parent, but that would require him to unpack all of the painful emotions he’d shoved away when the elder man had died.

Of course, John could change the tide. He could simply vanish. He’d thought about it many times over the course of the day, of simply leaving. The kid could grow up without knowing his pathetic excuse of a father. Abigail would raise him well. She was a good person.

John was not.

But still, he desired to at least meet the boy. He felt like he owed it to both Jack and himself, in a way. One positive interaction was all it took to be better than his own father. 

He’d meet Jack. Talk things out with Abigail, too. Then… well, he’d figure out to go from there.

Resigning himself to the idea, he let his eyes shut. He was weary from the day’s events; as anyone would rightfully be. It wasn’t everyday you learned that you had an illegitimate child.

Eventually, he finally drifted into a fitful, dreamless sleep. 

The next morning, John woke with a splitting headache and a crick in his neck. He hadn’t even bothered undressing the night before, mind elsewhere. 

He stumbled out of bed and walked to the mirror, taking in his disheveled appearance. His hair was mussed, pieces of it sticking up at unnatural angles, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. His clothes were rumpled, too — in general, he looked like he’d seen better days. He set out to make himself look a little less like a ruffian, if for no other reason then so Abigail wouldn’t think he was a complete slob. 

Abigail . What a strange thought, that she was in his life again. 

He supposed he’d go and see her and the boy after she was finished with work. Besides, it gave him a bit more time to process his feelings. Or even figure out what to say to the kid, at least.

He fixed his hair, combing through the greasy locks with his fingers (part of him bitterly wondered why he even bothered with washing his hair, when it got oily the next day) until it didn’t look like a rat’s nest anymore. He took off his ridiculously wrinkly vest, tossing it uncaringly on the floor. He smoothed out his shirt, and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. 

Well, it was a slight improvement. He didn’t look like scum stuck to someone’s boot anymore. 

Finally, he placed Arthur’s his hat on his head, as he did every day, and made his way downstairs. 

Aside from a couple of sad drunks and a bartender, it was virtually empty in the saloon. He walked over to the bar, placing a coin on the counter.

Was drinking the best way to greet the morning? No. Did he care? Also, no.

“Startin’ the day off with liquor, partner?” The bartender chuckled, in the middle of toweling off a glass. “Must be havin’ a rough time,”

That was the understatement of the century. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ignoring the man’s comments completely, he instead asked, “You know where a feller can get work ‘round here?” 

The bartender hummed thoughtfully as he rummaged around for whiskey. “Well,” He paused to pour the drink. “The sheriff’s lookin’ to replace a deputy. Last one got shot for foolin’ ‘round with another man’s wife. Weren’t nothin’ pretty. Think he’s lookin’ for a couple new deputies, if I recall,” He added, then slid the shot over to John.  

John grimaced, the action pulling at the scars on his cheek. “Pass. Anything else?” He was reminded of Dutch’s plot back in Rhodes, posing as deputies in a hare-brained scheme that ultimately blew up in their faces. 

That, and personally, he wasn’t too fond of law-enforcement types.

“There’s a ranch ‘bout ten miles north that could surely use some help. Almost all of the farmhands are indisposed, on account of part of the property catchin’ fire,” 

John snorted. Him? A rancher? The idea was laughable. “Eh, don’t think that’s quite for me,”

“I’m sure you could ask in town, partner. Folks round here is always lookin’ for someone to hire. People ain’t comin from farther away no more, so there’s some jobs open.”

John tilted his head, interest mildly piqued. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Gang’s been terrorizin’ the area. They don’t come into town, thank the Lord, but folk are just scared to leave town, now. Ain’t too safe to go into the desert. Surprised you didn’t get robbed on your way here.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You must be real lucky, Mister.” 

John didn’t say anything at first, not feeling a need to divulge that someone had attempted to rob him yesterday. He didn’t need to draw any undue attention himself. 

Instead, he finally brought the shotglass to his lips. “Hm. My brother used to always tell me I’m lucky.” 

Chapter Text

The evening sun beat down on John's face mercilessly, as if telling him that he needed to move. That he needed to do something besides sit around watching clouds pass overhead. He had spent most of his day just outside of town in a haze; trying to get a sense of things. He squinted against the bright sun, his hat doing little to shield him from said brightness. 

He inhaled a lungful of dry, arid air, and stood up. The dryness in the air seemed to remind him of how parched he was. 

It was a short trudge back into Brimstone. The saloon was one of the first buildings in town, and he was grateful for the respite from the hot sun. 

The floor creaked obnoxiously upon his arrival, all eyes seemingly going right to him. Two law enforcement types — deputies, most likely, seemed to regard him with unnerving interest, sitting at a table whilst nursing their drinks. The shorter of the two, a pudgy, balding man with a thick beard, flicked his eyes to the other — a tall, lanky fellow. 

John ignored them and walked to the bar. 

“Gimme somethin’ to drink, quick,” John requested, tossing a coin onto the bar.

The bartender swiftly poured him a shot of something amber-colored. 

The deputies were still eyeing him up. The tall one whispered something to the overweight one.

Danger. You blew your cover. Run.

He tossed his head back and downed the shot, hoping it would calm his nerves some.

It did little to abate the unease clawing at his mind. He slid his right hand, unseen to the deputies, to his holster. He didn’t do anything else, just kept his hand in a convenient place.

The tall one slinked over, giving him a smarmy grin. “You a bounty hunter, mister? You sure look like one.”

Did he? He was wearing dark, nondescript clothing, purposefully chosen so as to not stand out. Maybe it was the facial scars, or the excessive-for-a-normal-civilian arsenal on his person. Ever since the downfall of the gang and subsequently being on the run, he’d acquired a second holster. Though dual wielding wasn’t quite his specialty, it had been needed on occasion in the past few months. The repeater strapped across his back was more of a warning signal than anything. Like a brightly colored poisonous animal — stay away or risk the consequences .

John huffed out an amused laugh. “No, sir. Just lookin’ for work.”

“That’s too bad. Cause we got a job that pays well…”

That did pique his interest. “How well?” 

“It’s a two-hundred dollar bounty. We could use an extra gunman. Split between us three, that’s about sixty-six dollars each… are you interested?”

Well, John found he couldn’t quite say no.

After assuring the deputies he’d be back after he took care of something, John walked outside, the setting sun casting the area in a golden-orange glow. The town was livelier than he’d seen it before; people were getting off of work and on their way to their homes. The saloon was starting to fill, too — mostly men coming in after their shifts, and a few scantily-clad working girls had come in to capitalize on said men. 

At almost the same time John was preparing to saddle up, he spotted Abigail walking out of the tailor’s shop. She looked tired, but kept her head held high, as she always did.

When her eyes met his, her expression softened. He raised his hand in a wave, and she began walking to him. 

“Hi, John,” she breathed, clasping her hands together. “I didn’t expect to see you here,”

“Well, I, uh, I’m stayin’ in the saloon.” He replied, gesturing lazily behind him. 

“Oh,” Was all she said.

Things were still quite awkward between them. He figured it was best to start bridging the gap. 

Only, he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.

“Do you, um, do you need a ride?” He thought about how sickly hot it was. Not to mention there was no shade to be found. 

She bit her lip. “I walk home every day,” It wasn’t exactly an outright no, but it seemed like a lead-in to one.

John smoothed a hand over his hair. “Well, we’re goin’ to the same place, anyway. Only makes sense. I’d feel like an ass if I made you walk the whole way home in this heat,” he left it at that, not wanting to push her boundaries. 

“Well… I suppose it makes sense,” Abigail replied simply. 

God, the tension between them was so frustrating. Obviously, there were some harbored feelings on both ends, problems rooted too deeply to be fixed with one conversation.

But he wished it could be simpler. 

They walked in a tense, thick silence until they reached where Missy was hitched. 

“Well, here she is,” John gestured to the horse, finding it easier to talk about surface-level things than anything pressing. “Abigail, this is Missy. Missy, Abigail.”

Abigail stepped forward, admiring the horse’s coat. “She’s beautiful. Where did you get her?” 

He shrugged. “Found her while I was on my way here,” it wasn’t outright a lie, but it was a half-truth he felt comfortable enough telling. Abigail was smart, he was sure she’d infer enough from his statement.

She said nothing else, but she did give the animal a polite pat.

At least the conversation was flowing easier than he worried it would. Of course, having a conversation about horses was considerably easier than discussing the feelings — both good and bad, between them.

John saddled up, reaching a hand out to Abigail. She accepted the gesture, hoisting herself up with his help. Her arms wrapped around his waist, the simple touch feeling electrifying. 

“Where did the scars come from? I’ve been meanin’ to ask.”

“Wolves,” he answered simply. God, Colter felt like it was several lifetimes ago. He realized that he should have probably elaborated. so he added, “We were up in the mountains. I was sent scoutin’ ahead in a storm and I got lost. Weren’t for Arthur and Javier,” he paused, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It hurt to think about Javier’s betrayal, and it hurt even more to think of Arthur’s death. John shook his head, metaphorically clearing the cobwebs. “…If it weren’t for them, I’d be dead,” he added softly, clearing his throat at the end. 

“I’m sorry,” she offered. “Did they both…?”

“Javier is still around somewhere, I’m sure,” he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping out of his tone. Though he tried not to dwell on it, Javier siding with Dutch had made sense considering the former’s fierce loyalty. It was just a shame that fierce loyalty wasn’t in John’s benefit. 

It still stung to think about. 

“I see,” 

He sighed. “Guess we got a lot of catchin’ up to do,”

“I’d reckon we do.” 

Sensing that a subject change was needed, he asked, “So, uh — Jack. What’s he like?”

“He’s wonderful. He’s so bright, I’d swear he’s smarter than me already. He’s learnin’ to read— and he’s a fast learner, too.” Though he couldn’t see her face, he could imagine her smiling brightly.

All of those traits sounded like things he absolutely didn’t inherit from John. He wasn’t a literary type; back when Dutch and Hosea tried to teach him to read, it took a long time to pick it up. Even as an adult, he often had to re-read words and sentences carefully, the words at first appearing out-of-sorts or wrong somehow. Coupled with his atrocious handwriting, John never found much use for a pen and paper, usually. Maybe he just wasn’t creatively minded. 

He was good with a gun. He knew how to intimidate, to rob, to steal, to kill. 

All things he prayed that boy would never inherit from him.

“I ain't too sure I know how to level with him. With any kid, really.”

“I suppose my only advice is to just… try. He loves talkin’ to people. Sometimes a little too much,” She admitted, shaking her head fondly. “You two might have more in common than you think. He… well, he reminds me a lot of you, sometimes.”

John found he didn’t have much of a well-articulated response. “That so?” he finally managed to utter, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

"He's a sweet boy," she added, her words having a gentle warmth to them. "I… it's been nice to have a part of you with me."

On one hand, John didn't want to imagine himself as being Jack's father, let alone anyone's father. To think it, after all he'd done — and the blood that he'd spilled in order to survive — he didn't know how to nurture. He was born into violence, and had carved his life around it. It was all he'd ever known.

On the other... to be with Abigail again, maybe even be a proper family — it left him with a breathless, aching sort of longing, a desire to make everything alright.

It was a desire, perhaps, too strong. Too strong to quell. A wish to live a normal, peaceful life. A wish to spend it with Abigail.

John’s fingers gripped the reins tightly, and he steered the mare to the left. The town slowly grew further and further away, neither of them saying anything for a few moments. 

Abigail's voice pierced through the heavy silence that had settled between them like a thick fog. Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions and years of unanswered questions. "Did you ever think of me these last few years?" Her voice, like a soft melody that had long been forgotten, carried a hint of vulnerability and longing.

If only she knew. "I thought about you every day," he murmured sincerely. 

The quiet settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Neither of them said anything else the rest of the ride.

Minutes later, they had arrived at Abigail's living space. She let him in, the room noticeably missing Jack. She explained that she had to pick him up from her housemate’s room, the latter having been babysitting him. John sat down stiffly.  

“Ready?” Abigail asked, hand on the doorknob.

No. “As I’ll ever be,” John responded, ignoring the queasy, slightly nervous ache in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, or the questionable-quality saloon food he’d had earlier.

Knowing his luck, it was probably a combination of the two.

“Alright. I’ll be right back,” She said and then left.

He reminded himself that he was the adult in this situation, and he had no reason to be intimidated by a (barely, if his math was correct) five-year-old.

Or maybe, that feeling in the pit of his stomach was raw, unfiltered guilt. It weighed on him heavily, feeling like a boulder atop his chest. He’d probably never stop feeling guilty around both Abigail and Jack for the rest of his sorry existence — however much longer it may be.

Abigail returned with Jack in tow, drawing him out of his thoughts. The boy paid him little, if any, mind, and instead made a beeline for a small wicker basket in the corner, practically overflowing with toys and trinkets.

“Jack, remember when I told you stories about your father?” 

That succeeded in earning some acknowledgement from Jack. He titled his head, looking at John with a very sideways glance. “Uh-huh,” 

She nudged John forward slightly. “Well, this is him. He’s comin’ to visit with us for a bit.” She explained this so simply, as if it wasn’t some life changing moment.

“Uh,” John said dumbly, “Hey there, kid.” He didn’t think that interacting with a five-year-old could be so difficult.

Off to a great start, Marston, he thought wryly.

Still, it earned John a bright, toothy smile. “Momma, can I show him my toys?”

“Absolutely, honey.” She had sat herself on the bed behind them. When John turned to look at her, she offered him an encouraging smile.

John sat down on the floor reluctantly, his knees audibly cracking as he did so. 

“So… what do you like to do?”

Jack said nothing for a moment, brow furrowed as he dug around in the basket for something specific. “I like reading; Momma helps me with my stories. I’ve been reading Tom Sawyer.” 

Last John checked, Abigail was illiterate. So either she’d learned to read in the last few years, or her and Jack were both illiterate. He made a mental note to ask her about that later.

Jack handed John a wooden doll. It was relatively simple and nondescript, with no real standout features, but it had a sailor suit on. 

“Tom Sawyer, huh?” He finally asked. “I think I read that too, when I was a bit older than you.” The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer had been the first book that John had read cover-to-cover — Hosea had gifted it to him after he’d learned to read. He had cherished that book for many years afterward — in fact, he’d only lost possession of it during the escape from Blackwater. 

Jack chattered excitedly about seemingly nothing in particular, telling John about his toys and the adventures he’d come up with about them. It made John feel an odd sense of domesticity that he’d rarely, if ever, felt in his life. He let himself imagine a life where this was his everyday — when the things he had to worry about most were what was if they were having chicken or beef for supper, or what book Jack wanted to read, or if Abigail needed more yarn to knit with. 

But it wasn’t that simple. He was daydreaming of a life he didn’t deserve, a life he himself had rejected. And now he had to pay the price for it. 

Even if he did dare settle down — what if his outlaw past caught up to him? He couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to Abigail or Jack. What if the government found him and had him executed? Sure, they’d survived without him before — but that was before he’d gone and reintroduced himself into their lives. They’d been doing fine without him.

He’d needlessly made it so much more complicated than it had to be. He just had to show up in Brimstone to ruin their lives. He could have gone anywhere, and it just so happened to be the place where Abigail had started anew. He couldn’t just up and leave without good cause, either; he’d already gone and broken Abigail’s heart before, he couldn’t do that to her again. 

At the same token, just his mere presence put them in danger. And now Jack was growing attached to him — for Christ’s sake, he was sitting on the floor with Jack, playing with him. 

His heart clenched painfully inside his chest.

He wanted to be a proper father to Jack, wanted to protect him from the world and the dangers that lurked there. Wanted him to grow into something better than John was. 

And yet, there was still that nagging voice, screaming that this was not right. That this could never work. He knew that Abigail's happiness and safety were more important than his own selfish desires, yet... he found himself yearning for what he could never have.

He swallowed roughly, the guilt and regret weighing down heavily on him. Then, he stood abruptly.

“I… I um, I have a job that I should get to soon. But… I’ll come back real soon, I promise.” 

“Oh,” Abigail said, sounding a bit conflicted. “Okay. I’ll walk you to the door. Say goodbye, Jack.”

Jack offered him a cheery smile. “Am I gonna see you again tomorrow?”

When the kid was looking at him like that, tugging at some emotions that he had no idea he even possessed, it was hard to say anything but ‘no’. 

“Sure, kid. See you tomorrow.” John replied, meaning every word.

The pair walked out of the room, Abigail shutting the door behind her softly. 

“So…” They both said at the same time. 

“Oh, sorry. You go ahead,” He prompted.

“I don’t, um, I was tryin’ to see what you were thinkin’.” She replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

John sighed, scratching the back of his neck. Why was it so hard to talk to her now? Any time anything beyond surface-level topics came up, it suddenly became very difficult to converse with her. “I mean… it’s good that he likes me, at least? But, fatherin’ ain’t somethin’ I know much about, Abigail.”

She hummed, pursing her lips together. “Well, I don’t expect you to know what to do right away. What matters to me is that you try.”

“I am tryin’,” he replied, somewhat defensively.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Abigail retorted. She sighed, shaking her head. “I…  I wasn’t sure how you’d take all of this,” she added, hugging her arms to her chest. “It means a lot to me that you’re here,” 

She had no idea how much her words struck him time and time again. “Abigail?” he asked, without really knowing what he was going to say next. There were a lot of things he could say, like, I’m still in love with you, but he faltered. 

Blue eyes peered into his knowingly. “Yeah, John?”

He hesitated, struggling with how to proceed. “I… have a good night.” He opted to awkwardly brush a hand down the side of her arm. She watched him do so with a raised eyebrow.

He turned heel and left, leaving her alone in the hallway before she could say anything else. 

The irony wasn’t lost on John that he — a wanted man — was doing bounty work. After meeting up with the two bumbling deputies at the saloon, they were leading him to seemingly the middle of nowhere. Supposedly, they were on their way to a man by the name of Ezra McKinnon — who was wanted for a handful of murders. They had been riding for at least twenty-five minutes in relative silence, leaving John to stew in his thoughts. 

He seemed to be doing a lot of that, lately.

With the sun having been down for some time, the air had cooled noticeably. There was a slight chill, but in all honesty, he was thankful for the respite. He’d never been fond of the harsh heat (being raised up north would do that to a person, he supposed), but he’d grown accustomed to it nonetheless. 

That still didn’t mean he found the extreme warmth to be pleasant. The cold, however? He could handle that. 

“Hey, bounty hunter,” The tall deputy stage-whispered. He moved his horse close enough to elbow John, prompting an irritated whinny out of Missy. 

John steered his horse away from the deputy, internally recoiling from the unexpected touch. Outwardly, he did nothing but paste on a stoical expression. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get so close to my horse. You need somethin’, partner?” John asked, deadpan.

The tall one put his hands up in mock surrender, chuckling. “Sorry ‘bout that, friend. Was just curious about a couple things, ‘s all.” 

John raised an eyebrow, silently willing him to continue. 

“Where you come from, anyway? Ain’t nobody comes to Brimstone, least of all lately.” 

He wondered if the man was asking out of genuine curiosity, or if he was perhaps suspicious of him. 

Though, neither of the deputies seemed too bright, so it may very well have been the former. 

“West,” John answered simply, hoping it was enough to shut the deputy up. 

As luck would have him, it wasn’t. “Yeah, but ‘west’ where?” 

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “San Francisco,” it was the first town that came to mind. It wasn’t one-hundred-percent a lie; there had been a time (granted, long ago) when the gang had been camped near the area. Dutch had been practically salivating at the thought of robbing the Bank of California.

Those plans had fallen through — as many of Dutch’s schemes tended to, but it had still been a good couple of years nonetheless. That was a simpler time. 

“A city bounty hunter! Jed, you hear that?” The tall one called to the overweight one, who was a few yards ahead of them. 

The overweight one — Jed — fell back, chortling with his taller companion. “We got ourselves a city boy helpin’ us take in bounties? I bet he ain’t ever seen any real gang action.” 

For what wasn’t the first time that night, John wondered if the sixty-six dollars he’d be getting from this bounty were worth it. 

He held his tongue, knowing he could have used a great range of inflammatory retorts. Most of them were considerably rude, and would probably jeopardize his money, so he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“He ain’t a man of too many words, neither,” the tall one added, still laughing obnoxiously. 

“Don’t have much to say to the likes of you, I’m afraid,” John retorted, earning himself matching dirty looks from the pair. “How much farther to the bounty?”

Jed clicked his tongue. “Ain’t too much farther. Feller’s holed up on the outskirts of Widow’s Patch.” 

He had no idea where that was. “I see,” 

Thankfully, neither of the deputies bothered him for the rest of the ride over, which was fortunately short. 

Finally, they arrived at a small, dilapidated farm, complete with a lone vulture perched on the roof of the farmhouse. Across from the farmhouse was a fittingly small barn, and a shed with holes in the roof. They, too, were rather worn-down. 

The three men dismounted silently. 

The tall one placed his hands on his gun belt, shouting, “Ezra McKinnon! You’re wanted for murder! Come out peacefully and things’ll end a lot easier for us all.” 

John personally thought it was a bad idea to announce their presence to Ezra and whomever else may have been lurking there, but he said nothing. It wasn’t his operation, after all. 

An almost eerie silence greeted the trio. The only thing that could be heard was a faraway coyote in the distance. 

“Maybe he ain’t here,” Jed suggested. 

John rolled his eyes. “They’re probably trying to come up with some kind of escape plan, since Lanky over here felt the need to tell the whole state that we’re here.” He unholstered his gun. “Look; one of you, take the barn, the other, take the farmhouse. I’ll check the shed.” 

No sooner than when John had finished speaking, he heard a gun cocking. With lightning-quick reflexes, he aimed his gun, spotting a grizzled outlaw behind the fence with his gun aimed at Jed. 

A quick headshot did the trick, the two deputies barely even having time to react. 

“Well, if they didn’t know we were here before, they definitely do now. Let’s make this quick,” John stated.

He stalked his way to the shed, walking as quietly as possible. The property seemed essentially deserted, but John knew better. Outlaws congregated together, there would likely be more.

The way the area was laid out reminded him of how the gang’s camps were, in a way. He saw a stew pot sitting above a burned-out fire. It remind him of Pearson — he hadn’t known what happened to him, or if he made it out safely. 

Really, he didn’t have much a clue about a lot of the gang. Mary-Beth, Karen, Pearson, Uncle, Tilly, and Swanson had all cut and run before things had boiled over — not that John could fault him. If he wasn’t so caught up in making sure Arthur and Miss Grimshaw made it out safely, he probably would have cut and run, too. He had no loyalty left for Dutch, and it was clear Dutch had felt the same about him.

Of course, he’d failed both of them spectacularly. Susan had been shot by Micah, and Arthur…

He shouldn’t have listened to Arthur when he told him to run. Maybe he could have saved him, and Arthur could have died somewhere safe, instead of God knows where on a cold, lonely mountain. 

Suddenly, John was grabbed from behind, his assailant trying to pin his arms behind his back. Using all of his energy, John stumbled the both of them backwards, until his attacker hit the barn with a thud. Slipping out of their grip, John grabbed them by the collar and delivered a swift punch. 

The person in his grasp was undoubtedly the bounty. He had a scar over his eye that matched the description in the wanted poster. 

John punched him again for good measure, then tossed him to the ground, pistol aimed at his heart. 

“Ezra McKinnon, you’re under arrest.” 

Recognition sparkled in the man’s eyes. “H-Hey, I recognize you! Yer one of Dutch’s boys! I seen you out east.” 

John stepped closer, mouth pressed in a thin line. If he let the man live, then he’d surely reveal John in an effort to lighten his own sentence. Any criminal with half a brain would have.  

The only conclusion was that Ezra McKinnon would not be leaving Widow’s Patch alive.

Ezra scrambled backwards until his back hit the barn wall. “Do you really think you can outrun everythin’ you’ve done? I’m sure yer bounty’s at least triple more than mine. Somebody’s gonna find you eventually,” he spat desperately, punctuating his statement with a weak, bloody cough. “Ain’t no room for people like us in this world no more, and we both know it,” 

“Oh, believe me,” John replied coolly, finger on the trigger. “I know.” 

He fired, the bullet hitting the man squarely between the eyes. A trail of crimson quickly began to trickle down his face. 

At the sound of a gun firing, the deputies came rushing, proving they were just as useless as John predicted. He could have done this entire thing by himself. 

“...We were supposed to take him alive.” one of the deputies — John didn’t even bother sparing either of them a glance — said defeatedly.

John exhaled, staring at the corpse with contempt. “It was either him or me,” 

Neither of the deputies said anything else. Jed picked up the body, hefting it over his shoulders. 

They walked out of the barn, scaring away a few crows that had come to feast.

“You bastards killed my cousin!” An unfamiliar voice shouted, charging at the trio from the left. He was aiming for the tall deputy. 

John fired his gun, barely even looking in the man’s direction. He crumpled to the ground in a heap. 

On the ride back to Brimstone, the deputies were even chattier than they had been before (which made the experience all the more unpleasant for John). 

“I’m gonna rent me a workin’ girl with summa my money,” Jed arrogantly stated. “How ‘bout you, Cal?” he asked his companion.

“I’m probably gonna spend it all at the saloon,” the tall one — Cal, apparently — replied. “How about you, bounty hunter? Whatcha gonna do with your share?” 

“Dunno,” John said curtly. He was likely going to save it along with the rest of his cash, having no real need for any large sums of money at the moment. Of course, he had no desire to divulge this with the deputies, nor anyone else. He much preferred to keep his business private, especially around strangers (annoying ones, at that).

Mercifully, he was spared from any more pointless, irritating small talk, as they arrived in town moments later. 

John hitched Missy in front of the Sheriff’s office, the other deputies doing the same with their horses. Jed took Ezra McKinnon’s corpse off of the back of his horse, slinging the body over his shoulder. John followed the two deputies inside.  

Sheriff Acothley was a native man who looked to be about ten, maybe fifteen years his senior. The sheriff gave John a once-over, “I see you brought in help.”

Cal piped up. “He’s a bounty hunter, sheriff. Weren’t for him, well… let’s just say it probably wouldn’t’a ended pretty.” 

Surprising. John half-expected the two idiots to take all the credit.

The sheriff hummed, seemingly intrigued. “Thank you for saving their skins out there, Mister…?”

“Uh, Roberts. John Roberts.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to use Abigail’s last name, but it had happened to be the only thing he came up with on the fly. 

Sheriff Acothley affixed him with an unreadable expression. “Very well. If you’re looking for more work, John, feel free to stop by soon.”

“More bounties?” John asked.

“They’re seemingly endless, unfortunately. Fortunate for you, I suppose.” 

He laughed humorlessly. “Guess so,” 

The sheriff was still looking at him in a strange sort of way. After a few more tense seconds, he finally placed the money on the desk. 

John picked up the wad of cash, quickly eyeballing it before stuffing it in his satchel. The sheriff said nothing else, waving him off. 

As he left the sheriff’s office, he couldn’t help but ignore the nagging feeling he had in the back of his mind. Was Sheriff Acothley onto him? The man clearly wasn’t stupid — especially in comparison to his two idiot deputies.

Ezra McKinnon’s words from earlier rattled around in his head, unceasing in their repetition. 

Do you really think you can outrun everything you’ve done?

Chapter Text

DECEMBER 1899

As the days slowly passed, John had started to feel something like normalcy in Brimstone—fragile, fleeting, but there all the same. His room in the saloon wasn’t much, but it was his. A roof over his head, even if it was a shabby one, was a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed in years. Add to that his steady, if unglamorous, job running errands for the sheriff, and for the first time in... well, forever, he felt the tiniest bit at peace (or at least, as at peace as a lifelong fugitive could feel).

Not that it meant much. A sheriff’s errand boy wasn’t exactly what John envisioned when he thought about his future. In fact, if Hosea had still been alive, he would’ve probably had a laugh at the irony. John could almost hear his voice in his head—“John, you and I both know you’re not the law-enforcin’ type,” followed by that rueful smile of his.

The thought of Hosea hit John like a wave, as it always did. It came out of nowhere, sharp and unexpected, and for a moment, he could feel the old man’s presence. John clenched his jaw. He’d never get used to it—the grief always arrived in the quiet moments. It was a cruel reminder of what he’d lost.

Walking through town, he’d often see a pair of old men playing chess. It made him think of Hosea and Dutch—how their voices carried their history, their arguments, their plans. Witnessing it had John missing them both, even if Dutch might as well have been dead to him, now. He almost wished that were the case, sometimes. It would’ve been easier to forget.

But there was something that weighed heavier on him these days. Something worse than losing the gang. It was the reminder of what he had—what he could have had—if he had run away all those years ago. Abigail and Jack. They were the quiet ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much he told himself it didn’t matter. Things between them were delicate, like glass on the edge of breaking.

John had been joining them for dinner almost every night, but it was always awkward. Jack’s innocent questions made it worse. Abigail’s polite distance stung like a thousand cuts. It didn’t take an idiot to notice that she was growing weary of the way John skittered around having a mature, straightforward conversation with her.

If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t blame her one bit. They weren’t close—not like a family should be. And yet, when he saw Jack smile or heard him laugh, something inside John twisted with longing. It was the life he could have had, the life he still might ruin.

After their cumbersome family dinners, he didn’t linger, instead bidding the pair a goodnight and leaving, sometimes to do bounty work.

Then, the cycle would continue the next day. It was a fragile system, one cultivated by the avoidance of communication, but for now, it worked.

He couldn’t keep running from the truth forever, though. He was getting too close to Jack—too attached. Jack was so… innocent. He’d been shielded from the harshness John had faced growing up, instead given a tender, softer upbringing.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be the kind of father who wandered in and out of his son’s life like a ghost. But how could he face Jack, how could he promise anything when John had nothing to give?

The warmth of the dim room wrapped around John like a thick, familiar blanket, the kind that spoke of comfort and something far more intimate. His senses were hazy, half-drowned in the soft light of the fire that flickered in the corner. The air was thick with the scent of warmth and something deeper, more primal. It wasn’t the comfort of the surroundings that held his attention—it was her.

He could feel her presence before she even spoke, a weight that settled over him like a memory he’d tried to bury. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment, his body responding before his mind could catch up.

“John,” Abigail’s voice was low, soft, but it carried the same command it always had. It made his stomach tighten, his pulse quicken. There was no confusion, no hesitation here—just a deep, undeniable pull toward her.

His gaze lifted to find her, sitting atop him—naked, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something between desire and the remnants of sleep. He didn’t look up at first, his gaze fixed on the space between them. But he didn’t need to see her to know what she was doing—he could feel it in his chest, in the tension that was building.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, warm and teasing, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “You’re awful red. It ain’t like this is the first time you’ve seen me nude.”

John swallowed, the heat in the room suddenly suffocating, or maybe it was just her. She was close, so close, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The way her skin caught the firelight, the way she seemed to glow, was enough to make his chest tighten, his breath hitch. The room felt small, the world outside this little bubble ceasing to exist entirely.

“Been a while,” he muttered, his words slipping out on their own. It didn’t matter that it had been so long—this felt real. She felt real. Every inch of her, every movement, was impossibly vivid. He didn’t want to fight it. He didn’t need to.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing just near his ear, sending another wave of warmth through his body. “You’re funny,” she said, the words laced with something more—something teasing, something that left him wanting more.

John’s lips curved into a grin, the familiar banter slipping effortlessly into place, but this time it didn’t feel like just words. “Apparently bein’ ‘round beautiful women makes me funny.”

She smirked, a look in her eyes that shifted—intense, calculating. She leaned forward, her breath hot against his skin, her voice dropping to a low purr. “Flattery and sweet talkin’ ain’t gonna get you nowhere. It takes more than that to impress me.”

The air between them shifted, thick with something unspoken, a challenge hanging in the space. Without warning, she swung her leg over his lap and settled herself atop him, her body pressing down against his. It wasn’t slow—it was immediate, direct. And in that instant, John didn’t have to think. He didn’t want to think. He simply reacted, his hands sliding up her body instinctively as she shifted, her eyes locked on his.

“So,” she whispered, her voice now a challenge, “Impress me.”

The room seemed to pulse with her words, with the undeniable tension between them. He could feel the weight of her on him, could feel the heat of her skin as it pressed against his, the air thick with desire and something else—something that felt like fate, like inevitability. There was no more hesitation, no more thought, only the feeling of her, of this moment.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice rough, low, as he slid off the cot and sank to his knees, the words coming naturally, like they always did when they were together. His heart hammered in his chest, but it didn’t matter. He was no longer thinking. He was simply reacting—lost in her.

John’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could react, something sharp pierced the illusion of warmth and longing. The distant crack of a gunshot, far off but unmistakable, shattered the stillness of the moment. His spine stiffened, muscles taut as the sharp report echoed through the air, then another… and another. His body was already on edge, and he had no choice but to snap awake, the image of Abigail fading into the distance like smoke.

Normally, he wasn’t fazed by gunshots—hell, they were just a part of the world he lived in. But ever since he’d been on the run, his nerves had been frayed to the point of snapping at the slightest noise.

If Arthur were still alive, John thought bitterly, the man would tease him mercilessly over how jumpy he'd become.

Early into his fugitive life, John had been ambushed by bounty hunters near the border of West Elizabeth and New Austin—his guard down, his mind clouded by exhaustion. Since then, he'd never been able to sleep soundly. Even the smallest sound set him off, a habit he'd reluctantly grown used to, despite how much it gnawed at him.

He exhaled sharply, willing his mind to settle as the faint glow of the oil lamp flickered and sputtered low. Reaching for the nightstand clock, John squinted through the dim light, eyes bloodshot and heavy with fatigue.

Five-thirty in the morning.

The time on the clock did nothing to soothe him; if anything, it only added to the weight that settled in his chest. Another sleepless night. Another day to face the uncertainty of his choices, his past, and the ever-present fear of what might come next.

John rolled his shoulders, stretching the tight muscles in his back as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he stood, the chill of the room biting at his skin. His body protested every movement, but he forced himself to get up. He could still feel the heat of the dream clinging to him, like the weight of a memory he couldn’t quite shake. But reality was calling, and it wasn’t kind. He shoved his feet into his boots by the bedside, scraping the floor as he trudged to the small washbasin in the corner. The water was cold as he splashed his face, the shock of it a welcome jolt to his senses. He stared at his dimly-lit reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin. Dark circles under his eyes, several days worth of stubble, his face drawn and tired. His image was a ghost of the man he’d been—a constant reminder of everything he’d lost, everything he was running from.

He wiped his face with the rough cloth he kept by the basin, then reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. It was bitter, but it was all he had. He could feel the burn of the liquid in his throat as it went down, his body slow to react.

Taking one last look at the quiet room, he grabbed his gun belt from the back of the chair and put it on. The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped out of the room. In time, the sun would rise, and it would become warm yet again. Until then, he was forced to deal with the biting morning chill.

He was exhausted, but there wasn’t time to linger. There never was.

He stepped outside into the cool morning air, his mind was already shifting to the task at hand: Montgomery Freedman. The bounty was simple enough—track him down, bring him in. Alive or dead, the payout was the same.

But as John began to walk down the quiet street, the weight of it all seemed to press down on him harder than usual. He had done this countless times before, yet today, it felt different. His thoughts lingered on his fractured life in Brimstone—Abigail, Jack... the fragile peace he had almost found. For a moment, it felt like it could all fall apart in the next breath.

The streets were still quiet at this hour, the townsfolk not yet awake to fill the roads with their usual noise. There was only a peaceful hum in the air, a serenity that made the town feel like it was still tucked under a blanket of sleep. John appreciated the quiet; it was a rare kind of peace. He ambled down the street, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat, his boots scuffing against the soft dirt road.

He'd always been good at moving like a shadow when he wanted to—slipping through spaces unnoticed, blending in with the surroundings. But today, his movements were slower, less deliberate, as if the weight of his thoughts was dragging at his heels.

A familiar rustling pulled him from his reverie. "Hey there, girl," he greeted hoarsely as he approached Missy, his voice rough from the lingering haze of sleep. She was hitched nearby, content in her own quiet world, her head down and her tail flicking lazily.

He reached out a hand to stroke her muzzle, the warmth of her breath mixing with the cool air as she huffed softly, nudging his palm with her nose. The affection was familiar, a comfort in the midst of his uncertainty.

She snorted this time, nostrils flaring as she nosed at his palm, her patience for affection running thin. She was more interested in the promise of treats than in any of the pleasantries he could offer, but he didn’t mind. John couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound rough, but real.

“Guess I’m not enough, huh?” he murmured, smiling faintly as he fumbled for a peppermint in his pocket. He unwrapped the two he had, offering them to her.

His connection with Missy, so uncomplicated, was a brief but necessary escape from the mess of his thoughts. He smiled faintly as he scratched behind her ears. "You're a good girl," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t much, but the quiet companionship was a small comfort in a life that seemed determined to offer nothing but complications.

As Missy enjoyed her treats, John took one last, lingering look at the sleepy town before mounting up. The calmness of the morning wasn’t enough to drown out the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something was waiting for him out there in the hills.

John rode through the desert, the sun already high and unforgiving in the sky. The heat pressed down like a weight, the dry air stinging his throat with every breath. His hat pulled low over his eyes, but even that didn’t shield him from the intensity of the midday sun.

Missy’s hooves kicked up dust with each step, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence of the desert. There was nothing out here but the occasional caw of a crow, the wind howling through the sparse brush. The land stretched out endlessly before him—unforgiving, barren. It was a place that made men feel small, and John had spent enough time out here to know that it didn’t give mercy to anyone.

But Freedman had chosen it. Weeks here, alone, hiding, but still leaving enough of a trail for a man like John to follow.

The sun beat down relentlessly, making it harder to focus, but John didn’t let up. He’d been tracking fugitives like this for years, but something about this one felt different. The more he thought about Freedman, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this man than just another criminal on the run. But it wasn’t his place to wonder why. His job was simple: find him, bring him in.

John urged Missy forward, the mare trotting slowly, carefully, as though she, too, could feel the weight of the desert pressing down. The landscape was mostly flat, with small, jagged hills rising like ancient bones from the earth. Freedman’s tracks seemed to lead toward one of those hills—a natural place to make camp, where you could see anyone coming from miles away.

The wind picked up, swirling dust around John’s boots. He dismounted and scanned the area, his boots sinking slightly into the loose sand as he moved. His hand hovered near his holster, the weight of his gun a constant reminder of what was at stake.

The wind blew harder, carrying the faint scent of smoke. A campfire, still warm, burned somewhere ahead. John’s heart rate quickened. He was getting close now. Freedman had to be nearby.

John moved quietly, the creak of his boots muffled by the wind. He crested a small rise and paused, squinting into the distance. Below him, tucked between two rocky outcrops, was a small camp—a fire pit, a few discarded tins, and a weathered blanket spread out on the ground. It was simple, secluded—exactly the kind of place someone would go if they were trying to hide from the law.

Freedman wasn’t here now, but he’d left enough signs to show he hadn’t been gone long. The camp looked abandoned, but there was no doubt in John’s mind: he was close.

John was still for a moment, listening. There was something off about this—about Freedman’s decision to camp here, about how easy the trail had been to follow.

He didn’t have time to second-guess. Missy was already moving again, and John urged her forward, his body tense as he made his way to the camp. As he drew closer, the air grew thicker with the dry scent of the desert, as if the land itself was holding its breath.

Finally, when he was close enough to see the last remnants of Freedman’s fire, John stopped again. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the surroundings, the harsh terrain offering little cover for anyone trying to stay hidden.

John dismounted, boots scraping against the hard, cracked earth as he made his way toward the pit. The signs were unmistakable. A few remnants of charred wood, some scattered belongings—Freedman had been here for a while. It wasn’t just a quick stop, but a place to rest and lay low.

He scanned the area again, his eyes narrowing as he searched for any movement.

John crouched down next to the fire pit, inspecting the ground for any more signs of the fugitive’s movements. The sight of the fire pit, the remnants of a life that had been lived out here in the harshest conditions, stirred something in him. Freedman wasn’t just a criminal to catch. He was a man, just like John—doing whatever it took to survive.

The thought lingered as John stood up, brushing the sand from his pants. He shook his head as if to clear it. Time was the essence if he was to get the jump on Freedman, and the faint wagon tracks leading away from the area was the best place to look.

The fire pit before him smoldered, its faint traces of smoke disappearing into the dry, hot air. He'd been here long enough to know that the man was most likely moving, trying to get further into the wild, to find a new place to hide.

He mounted Missy and clicked his tongue, nudging her forward with a steady hand. The mare’s hooves kicked up a light trail of dust as they began to climb toward the ridge.

The land here was barren, rocky, dry. A few scattered cacti and tufts of brown brush were all that marked the landscape. The wind was picking up, stirring the hot desert air, but it didn’t cool the sweat that beaded on John’s brow.

As he crested the ridge, he paused again, his gaze sweeping the land ahead. The valley below was vast, dotted with scattered scrub, and in the distance, John could see the glint of what looked like a wagon—likely Freedman’s.

It wasn’t moving.

John slowed when he neared the rocky outcrop that overlooked the valley below. There, at the bottom, just beyond the shadow of the ridge, he saw movement— a figure walking toward the wagon.

He dismounted, careful not to make a sound. Missy stood stock-still beside him, as if sensing the gravity of the moment. John surveyed the scene from his vantage point, considering his next move. He needed to approach this carefully, give Freedman the least chance of escaping or turning the tables.

John moved swiftly, carefully, down the rocky path that led toward the valley. His boots crunched softly on the sand as he descended toward the figure below. His hand was steady on his gun, but he didn’t draw it yet. He needed to get closer.

The wagon came into clearer view as he reached the base of the ridge. Freedman was too focused on it to notice him.

John took a deep breath, pulling his hat down further to shield his eyes. The final move was his to make.

Without another thought, he stepped forward.

“Montgomery Freedman, you’re under arrest.” The words felt colder than they should have. John’s voice was steady, his posture firm, but something in his gut twisted as he watched the man before him.

Freedman didn’t flinch when John approached. He didn’t fight, didn’t argue, didn’t even beg. He just turned slowly, looked at him—eyes hard, weary, resigned. There was no fire in his gaze, just a dull acceptance, as if he’d known this moment would come one day. But it wasn’t just him that John saw.

Freedman’s wife clung to their two children, holding them close. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable—eyes wide, desperate, and accusing. They weren’t looking at John like he was a lawman. They were looking at him like he was the devil incarnate. And maybe, in that moment, he felt like he was.

John could feel it—the weight of their lives, barely scraping by. He had lived it, had breathed it, had fought through it for years. He knew the desperation in their eyes; it was the same desperation that had driven him to make decisions he’d never speak of, decisions that still haunted him.

John’s eyes flicked over to the woman and children again. The boy, no older than Jack, had his hand clutching his mother’s skirt, looking up at John with wide, fearful eyes. The girl, barely old enough to walk, clung to her mother, unaware of the danger at hand. A family just like his own—or what his family could have been, had things turned out differently. That thought struck him like a hammer to the chest. The realization twisted something inside him.

Guilt. Sympathy. There was a part of him that wasn’t as cold as he liked to pretend. That part, the one he kept buried deep, was looking at the woman and children and feeling the weight of their fear, their need.

“...I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, ‘sides tryin’ to provide for my family,” Freedman said, his voice a low rasp, the plea hidden in the defiance.

John’s hand twitched at his holster. The cold metal of his gun felt heavier in that moment, a constant reminder of the stakes at play. He was the law here, wasn’t he? This was what he was meant to do.

But was it?

For a brief second, he saw Jack’s face—his innocent eyes, full of hope and trust. He saw the way Abigail had looked at him when he’d walked back into their lives, the unspoken plea in her gaze to be something more, something better.

The guilt—God, it gnawed at him. His entire life had been about survival, about making it to the next day. But at what cost? What kind of man would he be, looking at this family and dragging them through the dirt?

John’s thoughts raced, flickering back to his own choices, his own mistakes. The ones that still haunted him. His family—his own family—was a fractured thing, held together by pieces of lies and guilt. He had a chance here, a chance to make a decision that wasn’t just about the law, but about mercy. Could he be that man?

Freedman’s eyes held his, waiting. The silence stretched between them like a rope pulled taut.

He could end it now. He could take the bounty, take the satisfaction of justice, and move on.

But he didn’t want it. Not today. Not this family.

John’s breath was shaky as he finally spoke, his voice low, strained. “…Go.”

The family hesitated, frozen in place, eyes wide, unsure whether to believe him. It was a moment of fragile possibility, like they knew it was their one shot, and they were afraid to take it.

His mouth felt dry. There was no turning back. He added, his tone hardening, a sharp edge of finality to it. “’Fore I change my mind.”

That was all it took. Freedman didn’t waste another second. He hustled his wife and kids onto the wagon with shaking hands, the wheels creaking and kicking up dust as they sped off. John watched them go, unable to shake the image of them disappearing into the horizon. He stood there for a long time after, the silence pressing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of his decision.

But the guilt was still there, lingering in his chest like a dark cloud, refusing to leave.

Freedman and his family were out of his reach now, but something about the way they had left—the look in the wife’s eyes, the fear in the children’s faces—haunted him.

He turned away from the path the wagon had taken, heading back to Missy. She was waiting, her ears flicking back as he approached, but she didn’t move. John mounted up with a heavy sigh, guiding the mare forward. His movements were mechanical, but his thoughts were a whirlwind.

His hand found the brim of his hat, and he pulled it down lower, the shadows hiding his tired eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of Freedman’s family. The boy, wide-eyed and full of fear, had looked at him like he was a monster.

Missy’s steady gait was the only sound for a long while, and John let it soothe him, just for a moment. He needed to think—needed to process everything that had just happened. There was still so much uncertainty ahead, and the thought of returning to Brimstone made his chest tighten.

John chose to make camp in the desert, not keen on the idea of traveling through the night. He needed some space from his usual routine anyway. After a dissatisfying dinner of a rabbit he’d hunted down, he’d elected to go to sleep just as the sun was setting. It was much earlier than he normally slept, but he needed a break from his thoughts more than anything.

Sleep, unfortunately, did not come easy for John that night.

The morning sun was already high by the time John arrived in Brimstone, the heat pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t escape. The memories of the previous night—the look in Freedman’s wife’s eyes, the way the children had clung to her—were still fresh in his mind, a gnawing feeling that wouldn’t loosen its grip. He hadn’t felt right since he’d made the choice to let them go, and something told him that discomfort wasn’t going to fade anytime soon.

He pulled Missy to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office, the familiar creak of the saddle shifting with the movement. He glanced up at the dusty wooden sign, the morning light casting long shadows along the street. With a deep breath, John dismounted, his boots hitting the dry ground with a soft thud.

His hand was still clutching the crumpled bounty poster, the edges frayed from the day before, and the ink already starting to fade.

John pushed open the door, the old wood creaking in protest. Inside, Sheriff Acothley sat behind his desk, flipping through the pages of a newspaper, looking completely uninterested in anything happening outside his small, dusty office.

John stood there for a moment, watching the sheriff. His patience was wearing thin, but he managed to bite his tongue, unwilling to be the first to speak.

Finally, Acothley’s eyes flicked up, his expression unreadable as he set the newspaper down. “What is it, John?”

John’s voice was steady, but the words came out blunt. “That bounty poster I took yesterday…”

“You mean Freedman?” Acothley replied, not even bothering to look up. He reached for his cup of coffee, taking a long sip.

“Yeah. Why’s he wanted?” John’s question cut through the air, sharper than he intended.

Acothley didn’t seem fazed by the question. He sighed, setting the cup down before turning to his paperwork, not giving John the satisfaction of eye contact. “Did you not read the poster, John?”

“I did.” John’s tone was firm, but frustration crept into his voice. “But it didn’t add up. It said he was wanted, but there wasn’t any crime listed. Just that he’s a fugitive.”

Sheriff Acothley finally leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as the whole conversation was all an inconvenience. He raised an eyebrow at John. “Did you read the part about the bounty, too? If there’s a bounty, there’s a reason. That’s all that matters.”

John’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t come here for vague answers. “Ain’t you the one who put the bounty on his head?”

Acothley shrugged, uninterested. “No. That was the last sheriff. I’ve only been here about a month.”

John’s brow furrowed. He hadn't known that. The sheriff’s indifference to the situation was starting to grate on him. “So, what makes Freedman a criminal, then? Why’s he got such a huge price on his head if no crime is listed?”

The sheriff stared at him for a long moment, his gaze cold and calculating. Then, he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk, his voice lowering. “This is an awful lot of questions to be asking, John. You’re usually a man of few words.”

John didn’t flinch at the sheriff’s tone. His gaze didn’t waver. “I just… it don’t seem to add up.”

Acothley’s lips curled into a small, dismissive smile. “And?”

John stood taller, the frustration he’d been holding back beginning to seep through. “You don’t think that’s a little… I don’t know, fishy? There’s a huge price on his head, he’s wanted dead, but there’s no crime listed. There’s gotta be a reason.”

The sheriff’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, the creaking wood under his weight the only sound between them. “I suggest you go on and find him, then. Maybe he’ll tell you himself.” Acothley clasped his hands on the desk, his expression hardening. “You’ve got your job to do, John. Just go do it.”

For a moment, John stood there, absorbing the dismissal. The air felt heavy in the small office. He knew there wasn’t much more to gain here, but the questions still burned.

But as quickly as the frustration had flared, it faded, and John turned on his heel, walking toward the door without another word. His boots clicked against the floor, the creak of the door louder than anything he had to say.

As he stepped out into the heat of the day, the door shut softly behind him, and the weight of the unanswered questions settled in his chest.

There was a sudden chill in the air, unusual for the desert. The sky had clouded over, a blanket of gray smothering the sun. The silence was almost eerie—no distant chatter, no footsteps, just the wind whispering through the empty streets. Even the usual caws of crows seemed to have vanished.

John pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust as he walked. Maybe a walk would clear his head, but each step felt heavier than the last. Thoughts of Freedman, the bounty, the family—everything spun in his mind like a wheel he couldn’t stop.

Something didn’t add up. It gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than he’d been told, but what was he supposed to do about it?

Suddenly, he bumped into someone, jolting him from his thoughts. The man had appeared out of nowhere—or maybe John had just been too lost in his own head.

“Sorry, partner,” John muttered, stepping to the side.

“That’s alright, John.”

John’s steps faltered. His eyes narrowed. “...Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man was finely dressed—too finely for a place like Brimstone. A black top hat, a long black coat, polished shoes. A thick mustache curled over his lip, and a golden pocket watch dangled from his hand. He looked out of place, like he’d stepped out of another world.

The stranger met John’s gaze with an unimpressed stare. “You may have forgotten. Many people seem to make that mistake.”

There was something unsettling about the way he said it, a weight behind the words that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He couldn’t place the man, but there was an eerie familiarity in his eyes.

John didn’t respond, trying to piece together where he’d seen this face before. The stranger’s laugh was a dry, hollow thing, like wind through dead trees. He slipped the pocket watch back into his coat.

“I’ll give you a hint,” the man said, his voice smooth, almost too calm. “You could consider me an… accountant, of sorts.”

John’s brow furrowed. “’Fraid I don’t deal with accountants, partner. Now, I don’t know how you know my name, but—”

The man raised a hand, cutting him off. “I’m afraid you don’t get to decide who deals with you, John Marston.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “You’ve surprised me. And that’s not something I can often say.” He tapped a finger against his chin, thoughtful. “Reuniting with Abigail and Jack... Now that was an interesting twist. Fascinating, truly.”

The mention of their names was like a punch to the gut. John’s breath caught, his hand moving instinctively to his holster. He drew his gun, leveling it at the stranger, his voice low and dangerous. “How the hell do you know their names?”

The man didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed amused. “I make it my business to know,” he said simply, his voice carrying a chilling finality.

“You gonna arrest me? That what this is?” John took a step forward, pushing back the fear with the confidence of a man who’d spent a lifetime surviving. “Just go ahead and try, already. Leave ‘em out of this.”

The stranger chuckled, a dry, mocking sound that made John’s blood run cold. “I’m not the law, John Marston. If I were, you would have been dealt with long ago.” He glanced at John with a faint trace of amusement. “I must admit, you’ve surprised me. It’s been… so long since I’ve encountered someone with your kind of persistence.”

John’s grip tightened on his gun, the tension in the air palpable. “You think I’m just gonna sit here and listen to your cryptic shit? You’ve got one last chance to tell me who you are, or—”

Before John could finish, the stranger raised a hand, almost as if he were signaling for calm. “I don’t need to explain myself. But I will say this—you're on a very unexpected path, Mister Marston. None of this was supposed to happen. There are many parties interested in you.”

John’s mind raced. Interested parties? Who the hell else was watching him that closely?

“If you don’t stop with the riddles,” John said, stepping closer, his voice a low growl, “I’ll put a bullet in your fuckin’ skull right now. That what you want?”

The stranger smirked, his tone unbothered. “By all means, go ahead.”

John’s heart pounded as he aimed his gun at the man’s head, the sound of his breath filling his ears. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked—nothing.

John cursed under his breath, trying again, this time with more urgency. Click. Nothing. Again, and still nothing.

“Damn you!” John snarled, his frustration mounting.

The stranger’s laugh was dry, almost pitying. “Many have tried, Mister Marston. Many have.” With that, he turned on his heel and began walking away, his steps slow, deliberate.

John looked down at his gun, trying to make sense of the malfunction. What the hell? He quickly checked the chamber, but it looked fine—nothing out of place.

When he looked back up, the man was gone. Vanished.

John’s breath hitched in his chest. His heart skipped a beat as he scanned the street, his eyes darting from one end to the other. There was no sign of him—nothing but the same empty road he had been walking just moments ago. The clouds had dissipated, and the sun now beat down from the sky in full force, as if nothing had happened at all.

John took a few steps forward, his pulse racing. Was he losing his mind? The man had disappeared, as if swallowed by the earth.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the empty street. A cold chill ran down his spine. It was as if the encounter had never happened.

He looked down at his gun again, his hand still trembling slightly. What the hell was that?

Around him, the town began to stir again. People crossed the street, wagons rolled by, and the distant murmur of voices returned. It was as if the world had paused for that moment and was now resuming, oblivious to what had just happened.

And the only thing on John’s mind was Abigail.

John made it to Abigail’s in record time, his mind racing. He knocked urgently, the sound echoing in the still air. An older woman opened the door, her eyes narrowing in irritation. Whatever she said fell on deaf ears; John pushed past her, his boots heavy on the creaking floorboards.

“Hey!” she called after him, but he was already halfway down the hall, following the familiar path to Abigail and Jack’s room.

He knocked frantically, the wood rattling under his fist. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat fueling the images flashing in his mind—the strange man’s haunting words, the icy warning about Abigail and Jack.

The door opened, and there she was. “John?” Abigail’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t expectin’ you so early—”

“Are you okay? Is Jack okay?” His voice was strained, his hands instinctively grasping her shoulders. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to the corners, to the window. Nothing seemed out of place, but his gut twisted anyway.

Abigail’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? Jack and I’re fine. He’s playin’ with the neighbor girl in the next room.” She gently pried his hands off her shoulders, concern etching lines across her face. “John, what’s gotten into you?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze still flicking to the door, the windows. He half-expected to see the man lurking in the shadows, watching them. But the room was empty. Just him and Abigail. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint laughter of children next door.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. “I... had a run-in outside.” The words felt hollow, inadequate.

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of run-in?”

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. “Someone knew me. I think I’m bein’ watched.” He knew how it sounded—paranoid, unhinged. Maybe he was losing it. It would be fitting, after everything.

Abigail’s expression hardened into a frown. “Maybe it’s all that bounty huntin’ you’ve been doin’.” Her voice was low, almost accusatory.

John stiffened. So she knew. He’d been careful, or so he thought. But Brimstone was a small town, and word traveled fast. “I ain’t a bounty hunter,” he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. He didn’t see himself that way. Bounties were just jobs—means to an end. Nothing more.

Abigail’s laugh was humorless, her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? ‘Cause if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sure as hell look and act like one.”

He bristled. “Does it matter?” His voice was sharp. “I just pick up bounties here and there.”

She balked. “Does it matter? You’re on the run from the law, John! What’d you think’s gonna happen, workin’ so close with them?” Her arms crossed, her eyes flashing with anger.

He crossed his own arms, his jaw tight. “I can’t just have no job. That’d be even more suspicious.” Deep down, he knew she had a point, but the frustration clawed at him. He didn’t like being scrutinized, even when he deserved it. “It ain’t like I’m a deputy. I just bring in fools that need bringin’ in.”

Abigail’s sigh was loud and exasperated. “You... John, that’s a lazy defense, and you know it. You could sell pelts, for all I care. Anything other than riskin’ your neck every day.” She softened, her voice quieter but no less firm. “Ain’t you tired of livin’ like that?”

He let out an irritated groan. “Jesus Christ, Abigail. Why do you care? We ain’t livin’ together. Far as I’m concerned, I’m just the deadbeat father.” The words tasted bitter, but they were easier to say than admitting the truth.

Abigail threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “You can be so dense sometimes.” Her voice broke slightly. “I care about Jack, John. What am I supposed to tell him if somethin’ happens? ‘Sorry, honey, your father got himself killed because he couldn’t stop bein’ reckless’?” She paused, her eyes glistening. “I care about you, you idiot.”

Her words hit harder than any punch. He faltered, the fight draining out of him. “I... all I’ve ever done is rob and kill. I don’t know how to make a normal livin’. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

The confession hung heavy in the air. It felt pathetic, but it was the truth.

Abigail’s expression softened. She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Now’s the perfect time to start tryin’.” Her voice was quiet, almost pleading. “I want this... whatever this is... to work. You and me... that’s complicated. But Jack—he’s my priority.” She looked away, her voice almost a whisper.

John swallowed hard, his throat dry. “What does that mean? About us?”

She didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between them. Finally, she spoke. “We’ve got a lot to work out. Maybe we will. But right now, I need to know Jack will be safe. That he’ll be happy. That’s what matters most.”

John ran a hand through his tangled hair, his fingers catching in the knots. “You know I can’t guarantee that, Abigail. If the wrong people find me...”

“I know, John.” She finally met his gaze, her eyes soft and sad. “That’s what scares me.”