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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Abigail

She watched in amazement as the man’s hands bounced along the black and white keys, belting out a jaunty tune across the saloon. Her legs were not yet long enough to touch the ground, so her pointed shoes, which only just peeked out of the hems of her skirt, swung daintily to and fro.

“Watch me. I’ll show you.” The old man playing the piano said to her. His eyes were kind and wrinkled at the sides. She eagerly readjusted herself on the battered bar stool, propping herself up onto her knees so she could reach the keys properly. He played a simple pattern in front of her and waited patiently as she slowly repeated the notes. Soon they were playing a slow and clumsy tune together, but a tune nonetheless.

“You’re pretty good for your age, kiddo.” The man smiled. She felt her lips tug upwards and her cheeks redden bashfully. Little did Abigail know, but this was the last moment of cotton brained happiness she would ever experience in the cathouse.

___

The Madame had taken Abigail off the streets when she was eleven, promising her a warm bed and food as long as she helped keep the place clean. Although she was too young to do any real work, it didn’t take her long to piece together the things that happened when her fellow coworkers would lead a man upstairs. Sticky liquor and sickly perfume could not mask the hazy glances the girls would send to their clients. Abigail could not quite catch the hot, breathless comments that would fall against prickling skin, though she got the jist. Hushed groans and creaks permeated beyond the cardboard thin walls of the dorm rooms at night. It wasn’t just the draughts and bedbugs that kept young Abigail wide awake on nights like those.

No matter if the man was dressed in an expensive suit, or dirty rags like her own, they all shared the same sleazy expression she could not quite pinpoint. She guardedly watched when these men would quickly slip out the door in the morning as if nothing had happened, while the girls wiped at their smeared lipstick and readjusted their crinkled undergarments. Their charming facades suddenly fizzled away the moment they were sure their client had disappeared.

The nice girls still offered Abigail a weak smile as she passed by, too scared to ask them questions.

They all knew this same fate was going to come upon Abigail someday. She had to earn the roof over her head, after all. The time would come when the Madame would decide that scrubbing floors and polishing glasses were not enough.

___

1894

As she often did, Abigail found herself disinterestedly reflecting on all these things as her client busied himself with her. Her mind vaguely wondered how her life had managed to lead her here; Seventeen and nothing to show for all the years, a cheap worn down whore.

To think that she once had dreamed of saving enough money to run away and start a new life. Maybe in San Denis, where she could play music on the grandest stage in the world. However nowadays, she no longer bothered herself with music, seeing as she wasn’t getting paid to look pretty on the keys. She could never afford such a fanciful dream anyway, especially when the policy was that The Madame got the brunt of the profit the girls made, leaving them with just enough coins to buy whatever necessities they needed. Stashing even a little of their hard earned money behind the Madame’s back was strictly prohibited.

She shuddered to think of what happened to the last girl who was caught with a few bills concealed beneath her pillow….

~~~

Her name was Mabel, a freckled, dreamy doe eyed thing with a shock of stunning red hair. Stunning, until Madame grabbed a fistful of it and dragged her down the staircase, calling down all the girls as she waved the stolen bills high above her head for everyone to see. Jarring thuds shook the whole cathouse as the girl’s body heavily collided on each and every step. The girls watched on in horror as Mabel screeched for help as she was yanked down the staircase one by one. She was dragged across the stained rug to the roaring fireplace. The Madame fished around in the embers, making a big show as she pulled the heavy metallic poker from the flames. She brandished the glowing red tip for all to see. That night, the young girl’s screams were forever burned into Abigail’s mind as The Madame pressed the scorching metal into her freckled face. The heated smell and sizzle of searing skin filled the tense room. Mabel screamed and screamed.

“You’ll be nothing without me, you stupid trash!” Madame shrieked, holding the girl's thrashing face into the ground. “How could you take from me after all I’ve done for you! After I made you desirable! You’ll have nowhere to go now, little brat, not when you’re spoiled for life!” Mabel’s once beautiful face was now permanently disfigured, branded with the shame of not only being a whore, but a thief as well.

Mabel was kicked out of the door, where she collapsed into a crying heap at the doormat, begging to be let back inside as it had started to rain and she had nothing but her underclothes on. She pounded and screamed on the door for hours, before eventually crawling away like a pitiful, shivering, dejected dog. Never to be seen again. Abigail often wondered what happened to a girl like her, as she was too grotesque to ever find work again. Too scarred and ugly to ever be loved in this unforgiving world.

“Now, does anyone else have any secrets they want to tell us about?” The Madame addressed the pale crowd of girls in a honey coated voice. The silence was so thick you could choke on it. After an uncomfortable pause, The Madame spoke up. “Well then, I hope we have all learnt a lesson, girls. Now be dismissed.”

Abigail did not sleep a wink that night. Her stomach swirled with such potent terror she feared she would be sick. Her body was as stiff as a board as the madame’s words echoed in her skull. The lockbox filled
with things she didn’t dare look at burned a hole into her mattress.

~~~

Even with this man pulling away at her under garments, she could still feel the presence of the box. It’s cold, hard, uncomfortable lines pressed into her back. Only a thin, stained mattress was between her and her deepest, darkest secret. The fear of being found out had never gone away, however for some reason she couldn’t bear to get rid of the thing. The box filled her with a forbidden sense of rebellion. A silent brooding expression of her hatred towards the unjust Madame and the pigheaded men who wasted money on her services.

She also found that filling the box up was something she was good at. It was nice to know that she could do something besides whoring. A reminder that she is not just a plaything, but cunning and dangerous as well. She was in control. Her little secret.

Little did Abigail know it, but this box was a trove of hope and dormant dreams. She was waiting for a spark to ignite the kindling that she didn’t even know could be lit. A match could only be used once, after all.

She pulled herself back into the moment, remembering that she actually had to seduce the man in front of her. In a practised motion, she ran a hand seductively through his jet black hair, realising just how much pomade he had caked it with.

Now, the delicate dance of thievery had begun.

Her heart was racing and her pupils were dilated, but not for the reasons this clueless man would think. Her fingertips noted silky velvet and plush leather as her hand continued down his back. She took her time unbuttoning the ivory buttons that adorned his black vest, scanning for pockets as she flashed him a lewd smile. The scent of good cologne and whiskey prickled her nose. The clinking of cold, heavy brass chains. A man like him was bound to have something good on him. But the way he was sitting made it impossible to look.

Completely naked now, she latched her arms around him and tugged him forwards onto her, masking the disgruntled groan that escaped her with a flirtatious one. He landed on top, holding himself up by his hands. Now the victim was contorted into the perfect position. Abigail felt like a spider skillfully trapping her prey in an erotic web.

His dark eyes were completely entranced as she ran her hands up and down his sides, feeling for any foreign objects protruding from the fabric.

She moved her hands down to his pants. They were tight to his form. Risky. She ran a hand over his ass, feeling the pocket. Holding her breath, she slipped a hand in, flashing an innocent, sultry smile as she discreetly groped around for anything. A wealthy man like him usually keeps a retired wedding band tucked away somewhere.

He grinned at her charmingly, an unreadable sparkle in his dark eyes.

She couldn’t feel a band, but she could feel something cold and hard.

She grinned back at him, pushing down the unsettling feeling that she somehow recognised his face from somewhere.

The object was round and smooth with a chain. A pocket watch.

Bingo!

Slowly, carefully, she fished her prize out of his pocket. She dramatically threw her head back to expose her neck, the gesture distracting him as she slipped the metallic object between the bedframe and the cracked yellow wall. Yes! She giggled sweetly as she had been taught to, a dark menace behind the act as she congratulated herself on another robbery well executed.

Too easy.

“That’s a valuable one, y’know. Gold plated.” The voice above her suddenly boomed at full volume.

Her head snapped up. The lustful atmosphere dropped dead.

“It was a smooth robbery, actually.” He continued casually. “I’m sure any other lesser man would fall for the likes of your charm, Miss.” He mused half to himself.

“I…”

Caught.

Abigail sucked her arms around her chest. His body loomed over her, trapping against the cramped wall and bed. A wolf, towering over her with dark, hungry eyes. His teeth were all too close to her throat as it bobbed nervously. She was suddenly aware of just how naked she was.

Her heart pounded like a rabbit’s, but from the proud way she held her chin up, you wouldn’t be able to tell. “You say lesser men, yet here you are lying with the cheapest whore you could find. Rich talk for a man of your age who walks in here all decked out in iron with no familial obligations, sir.” She hoped he could not hear the tremor in her voice as she spoke. If he was going to kill her, she was at least going to go down with a bit of dignity.

Something dark momentarily flashed across his face and Abigail flinched, knowing it was all over. Then he abruptly broke into peals of booming laughter. Abigail's scowl only deepened as he pulled himself off of her.

“...What?” She asked, feeling stupid and not entirely comfortable with the easy going nature of the situation. Every cell was on guard, waiting for this man to spin on his heel and strike her down. Women like her go missing all the time, only for their body to be found in a ditch a couple days later. After all, no one cared for the life of a lowly whore.

“Fiery temperament… I like it.” He smiled to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots back on. “And observant as well, you’re a lot smarter than you present yourself!” He approved.

Abigail was at a loss for words.

“I’m impressed, Ma’am. Although I’d take it that you’d be in big trouble if anyone found out what a practised thief you are.”

She grabbed a fistful of bedsheets. “So what? You’re just going to rat me out, then?”

He laughed again and passed her her undergarments, which he had only been tossing to the floor moments beforehand. “Great heavens, my child! I may be common white trash but I certainly am in no place to judge how someone gets by in their day to day. Certainly not me.”

Abigail curled in on herself. “Then what are you getting at?” She asked defensively.

The man stood up straighter, turning to face her. “You have a secret, and I now know it, do I not?” He asked.

Abigail nodded, a tide of dread pooling in her stomach.

“Well I’ll give you this, how about in return for a secret of yours, I’ll tell you a secret of mine, that way, we’re even.” He smiled genuinely, a mischievous sparkle on his face.

“I… I suppose that would be fair.” Abigail stammered, unfamiliar with anything ever being remotely even between herself and a man.

He began animatedly pacing the small room. “Well, Miss, I am a purser of freedom. Me, me and my family - my gang, we ride for the sake of all Americans. We take from those who have too much and give to those who have none. Our dream is to reform America into the land it was destined to be; an educated, equitable utopia where men and women can be free to do whatever they please under the eyes of God.” He said proudly as if he had recited this a thousand times in his head, dramatically waving his arms to convey the grandiosity. “You see, my boys are all downstairs right now celebrating because we just pulled off a real big job. A big bank a couple towns over… Well, let’s just say it’s not so big and grand anymore.” He chuckled, his whole frame rumbling. “We showed those rich fools who are in charge! We really did!” His voice cracked with exaggeration.

He spoke easily and friendly, as if he hadn’t been preparing to lie with her just moments before.

Abigail's mouth hung agape.

Dutch paused for a moment, remembering his manners. “Oh - My apologies, Miss. I forgot to formally introduce myself. “ He held out his ring adorned hand to her, smiling at her with pure sincerity. “Dutch Van Der Linde.”

Dutch Van Der Linde. Leader of one of the most notorious gangs in the country. It all made sense now. She could remember hearing the name in the paper, could remember the crude sketch done of him in the columns. The picture where his black bushy eyebrows were knitted together in a tight, menacing scowl. She could now see that the sketch was so different to how he actually looked. Kind hearted and relaxed. She had never met a man like him before. As he held out his hand, he looked not at her body, but into her eyes.

Sensing Abigail's hesitation, he continued. “Listen, me and my gang could do with someone like you to ride with us. You’ve proven you can handle yourself, you can theif, and you’re more perceptive than any of my boys combined…. And besides, we have girls in the gang, and I’m sure they would appreciate a more…. feminine touch around the camp.” He chuckled.

Abigail didn’t quite know what force made her reach forwards. But for the first time in her life, someone was looking at her not as a whore, but as a woman. He was not talking at her with the request of sex, but the request of alliance, partnership, family. Before she knew it, her hand was in his firm one. The two equals shook.

“Abigail Roberts.” She blurted before she could stop herself.

“Well, it is very nice to meet you, Abigail Roberts.” Dutch said warmly. “So, what do you say?”

The thought bloomed in her mind like a budding flower. To ride in a gang of outlaws… To be unbinded by the cruel grasp of The Madame. To hand out justice however she would see fit. She could finally be the one at the reins of her own life. To have a new family.

She had always known who Abigail the prostitute was, but she had never even considered who Abigail the free woman was. The possibility was tantalising.

“I don’t expect you to decide right away, of course.” Dutch said as he buckled his belt. “My gang’ll be hanging around until tomorrow night. We’ve got to get moving soon, so you have until then.”

Abigail nodded “Uh - Thank you, mister.”

He creaked open the door, walking out before pausing, turning around slowly with a serious look in his eye. His voice dropped a note. “My thanks is only worth anything if you keep your lips sealed, Miss Abigail. Just remember, secrets go both ways.” His expression softened. “I await your response.” Suddenly the door slammed shut, startling Abigail from her stupor. Just as quick as he was there, he was gone.

Abigail released the breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding in one great rush. She bolted to her feet, putting a hand over her mouth, and scanned the room. The same small wardrobe was pushed into the corner. The same dingy vanity table reflected the same face as always. If no one had told her any different, she would have believed that nothing had ever happened.

She scrambled back onto her bed and stuffed her arm between the bedframe and the wall. Her hand grappled along the length of the bed frame, as if she was afraid that what she was looking for wouldn’t be there. Her fingers closed around the cool round metal disk. She pulled the thing out of the gap and took a look.

Gold. Real gold. It was heavier than she expected. She traced a pad over the textured engravings, feeling the grooves on it’s solid, shiny surface. When she tilted it slightly, the engravings shimmered in the light, revealing delicate pictures of birds and flowers. In the centre of the disk, the initials were written in bold;

D.V.

The pocket watch pulsed gently with every quiet, soothing tick. She felt like she was holding a heartbeat in her palm. She squeezed it tightly between her hands and shut her eyes, pressing the living thing into her chest, feeling the steady thrum against her collarbone.

Had he accidentally forgotten his pocket watch? Or.. or is it possible that he purposely left it behind for her? Deep down, Abigail felt she knew the answer.

~~~

"Are you just gonna stare at that all day?." Bessie broke Abigail out of her stupor.

“Just admiring my reflection.” Abigail retorted dryly as her warped eyes stared back at her from the shining face of the cast iron pan. The pan that her hard earned money was buying. Not that she would see a lick of any profit, she thought bitterly.

“...Let’s be quick. Madame will be on you like a hawk if you hold us up any longer.” Bessie was right. These days it seemed the Madame always had a bone to pick with Abigail. Bessie would be free from any of her wrath of course, being the oldest and most loyal dog in the pack.

“Alright, well do we have everything she asked for?”

Bessie double checked their list of supplies and nodded. The two girls paid for the supplies and left the store quickly, keeping their heads low to avoid any unsavoury attention that girls like them were so used to receiving.

As Abigail stepped out of the general store, the stench of animal and human hit her like a thick wall. The hot, humid breath of civilization curled her face. She lifted the hem of her tattery old skirt up and she took a step onto the squelchy road, stepping over the deep, muddy grooves carved by passing wagons.

Normally, she would have immediately turned down the idea of tramping around this cesspit of a town. However when Bessie asked if Abigail would escort her to town to collect the weekly list of groceries, she figured that the outdoors might quell her racing mind.

It was only last night that she had seen the strange man, but it felt like a lifetime ago….

As they began the long trek back to the cathouse, Abigail found herself so caught up in her obsessive thoughts over last night’s incident that she almost didn’t hear it; The newsboy’s boy’s voice was loud and boisterous, competing for attention over the constant hum of clopping horses, shuddering wagons and general chatter.

“Newest issue! Notorious gang strikes again!”

Abigail almost dropped her bag of supplies as she snapped around. The young boy was standing atop a crate, trying to stand out above the chaos of early morning. Obviously spurred on by Abigail's sudden interest, he waved the newspaper around enthusiastically, shouting, “Bank robbery in Goldwater! Van Der Linde fled the scene!”

Abigail stalked up to the boy and took a paper, A huge picture occupied over half of the newspage. It displayed the aforementioned bank left in a state of disarray, next to this was the blotchy wanted posters of two younger men and the aforementioned Dutch Van Der Linde. The bounties under their names jumped out at her. And though Abigail could not read the title, the big bold capitals conveyed all she needed to know.

“Since when did you care about the events of the big, wide world?” Bessie mused, appearing behind her shoulders and looking down at the paper in Abigail's shaking hands.

“Since never.” Abigail dismissed, putting the paper back down and briskly walking away. She opened her mouth and then thought better of it, snapping it shut. Her stomach did flips in her chest.

“What has gotten into you?” Bessie finally exasperated, putting a hand on her hip as they dodged an oncoming horse.

“I just have a stomach ache.” Abigail said breezily, the lie rolling off of her tongue like water trickling over smooth pebbles.

The older girl gave her a look. Abigail was a good liar, but she could never hide anything from Bessie. She was like an older sister to her.

As Abigail's silence stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, the girl shrugged disinterestedly, hardened face returning to the focus on the road.

A sharp twang of anxiety pulled at Abigail's stomach as the cathouse came into view in the distance. This was the only chance she had to talk.

“What do… What do you think of the Van Der Linde gang?”

Bessie chuckled halfheartedly. “What do you want me to say, they’re a band of killers?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Abigail exasperated, hating the amused expression on her face. “Like the whole… Take from the rich and give to the poor stick… Do you really think?”

Bessie paused for a moment. “I heard they were handing out loaves of bread to the orphans down in Armsdale, and sure, it is a pretty thought…”

“But?”

“But it’s still robbin’ and killin’ all the same. If you ask me, no matter how you wanna dress it up, all men are the same, out for themselves.”

“But it ain’t just the men. Haven’t you heard, females can be outlaws nowadays. Things are changing for women.”

“Yeah. Things are changing for the women up there in the city with fancy educations and daddy’s money. Things never change for us. You know that.” An edge of annoyance seeped into her voice.

“Times are changing.” Abigail protested.

“Not for us!” Bessie snapped finally, cutting the conversation short.

Abigail snarled and stomped off in a huff, returning back to her regular pace once she had put some distance between them. They trudged forwards in stony silence.

After a few minutes of tension, Bessie caught up.

Abigail turned her nose away.

“... It’s nice to have dreams, Abigail. But that’s all they are… just dreams.”

Abigail lowered her head, knowing what was coming next.

“I mean, you know what happened to Mabel.”

“Yeah… I know. I know.” Abigail muttered, haunted. There wasn’t a day that Mabel’s twisted face didn’t enter her mind.

“Besides,” Bessie sidetracked cheerfully. “You’ve got us girls to look after you. I mean, sure. The life is hard, but we’re your family. Remember that.”

Abigail deflated a little. “...I guess.” Unaffected, Bessie continued the speech that she had recited to the other girls a hundred times over. Abigail paid no attention, her mind reeling to somewhere vaguely bitter.

This is how it always was. This is how it will always be. She could always count on the other working girls, her only real family, to stamp down her dreams. Not in a cruel way so much, but more in an older sisterly way, practical and blunt. Girls like them could not afford to indulge in such fantasies.

Deep down, Abigail knew she was never going to run off. Even if she wanted to, this Dutch Van Der Linde hadn’t even told her where to find him! She thought indignantly. She had spent the whole trip to town eyeing over any sign of the gang’s presence, but there were so many rough and tumble iron laden idiots swaggering around, how could she tell the difference between a member of the Van Der Lind gang and just another regular john from the cathouse?

All men are all the same.

She knew all this from the beginning. It was all just a stupid fanciful distraction from the real world.

… And yet she felt like someone had tipped an ice cold bucket of water over her head. She pathetically kicked at the rocks lodged in the road. A lump of sadness as cold as a stone sunk into the pit of her stomach as they rounded the corner to the cathouse.

Home. This is how it would always be…

Abigail shouldered open the door, languidly plonking the heavy bags and pan in the doorway for someone else to deal with. She sighed and began traipsing her way to the kitchen. Diverting her eyes from the floor only once it had occurred to her just how silent the room was. Dead silent.

Realising just how many eyes were on her. And how all the girls clung back to the walls, arms sucked around their chests nervously. Wide eyed. Expectant.

Abigail stopped starkly in the middle of the room, staring bewilderedly at the ring of girls that trapped her in. Her eyes finally landed on The Madame in the centre of the ring, she burned holes into Abigail.

Something vile rose in her as her eyes slowly lowered, following the line of The Madame’s arms to the thing she was clutching. A box. Small, dingy metal thing with a measly, rusted latch.

Maybe if she had been smarter. Maybe if she had hidden it better. Maybe if she had never had the thing in the first place. Maybe if she had already started running.

The dingy lamp overhead cast a harsh glow against her silhouette, like a bold, naked headlight in the middle of a Saint Denis stage.

A stage. And she was the star.

Maybe dreams do come true.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Abigail

“Does this look familiar to you?” The Madame asked quietly, voice cold and reserved, blood coated shards of ice. Her white face was starkly blank, eyes wide and intense.

“It’s not yours. It’s mine. It’s none of your business!” Abigail immediately began, her composure deteriorating rapidly, voice rising in volume.

“That’s not how this establishment works. You know that.” The Madame looked directly into her eyes. The grave, unforgiving lines in her face were contorted menacingly.

The woman grabbed the iron poker. The slow, steady scrape of metal up against the hardwood floor filled the room. The Madame’s heeled boots clipped with every step towards the fire pit.

Abigail knew what would happen next. Oh, she knew.

She instinctively stepped back. Hand grappling behind her for the doorknob.

The command was almost too quiet to make out. “Bessie. Door.” Short, clipped.

No one moved.

“BESSIE. Door!’ Abigail heard a slight whimper from behind her, a shuffle of feet, and the cold, sinking scrape of the iron latch being pulled shut. Door locked.

Trapped.

Abigail turned around slowly, her heart faltering…

Maybe Bessie had wanted to apologise for what she’d done, but the only noise that left her mouth was a shuddering breath through trembling lips. Her glittery eyes diverted to the floor shamefully. Abigail raised her chin, regarding the girl below her with half lidded, hateful eyes, urging everything within herself not to cry.

She would not let them see her weakness. She turned back to Madame.

“I knew there was a rat amongst us.” The Madame growled animalistically, finally letting up the cool, calculating act from before. “It was only a matter of time before I found out!” A cruel snarl cut across her face. She waved the iron poker wildly in Abigail’s direction. Brandishing the glowing tip theatrically to punctuate her words.

Taking slow, long steps forward across the stage. Prowling sadistically towards the cornered prey. Exposed teeth and hunched forwards. Like an animal restraining its desire to pounce.

The Madame was a grotesque spider, and Abigail was caught in her web.

“You see, if you know you have a rat, the first trick is to lure it out from its hiding hole.” She proudly explained to the girls with a wicked smirk. Bessie sank further back into the shadows. Ashamed.

The shopping trip. It was all a trap. All set up to coax Abigail out from her room. To let her guard down.

Betrayal. That was the first thing Abigail felt. And then anger. White, blindingly hot acid coiled in the deepest pit of her stomach. The vile substance boiled and swelled inside of her, forcing it’s way through her pipes and surging up through her throat. The vocal exclamation of hatred that escaped her was lost to her own ringing ears.

The flames fueled her body into frantic action. That was why when the Madame raised the metallic poker to strike, Abigail was ready.

She careened out of the glowing red path of the weapon, making no noise as the tip of the poker kissed a searing path along the length of her arm.

“You rat!” Madame screeched. Her face contorted in furious shock. Without missing a beat, she swung the weapon blindly. A blur of silver metal. A blinding light flashed across Abigial’s eyes as the blunt length of the poker connected with the side of her skull. A hollow thunk echoed across the horrified room.

She landed on the floor violently. Disoriented but not yet defeated, Abigail propped herself up onto her elbows, raking her tongue across her teeth, tasting blood. The Madame loomed above her. Cruel, wicked. Hair askew and panting wildly. Abigail drove her foot into the woman’s gut, revelling in the pained howl that escaped her lips as she buckled inwards. Abigail's box fell from her grasp with a clatter. The illegal jewellery, wedding bands and dollar bills spilled all over the stage for everyone to see.

Without wasting a second, Abigail lashed a hand out for the metallic poker. The Madame let out a strangled cry of rage as they began wrestling over possession of the weapon.

Abigail dug her feet into the floor, trying to push the larger woman over. It was no use. Her shaking body was bending backwards, the woman’s weight and strength pressed over her, grinding her slowly into the ground. Abigail drove her knee up, feeling it connect with the woman’s stomach, and the weight was lifted.

The Madame coiled backwards, her bare teeth and wild eyes flashed behind a curtain of dishevelled grey hair.

Abigail charged forwards. Her fist closed around the handle of the poker, and she heaved with all her might, trying to pull the weapon from the Madame’s iron fist.

Suddenly her skull snapped backwards. Abigail gasped, tears pricking her eyes as the roof snapped into view. The Madame yanked her back by a fistfull of hair as if she was some lame disobedient dog. Abigail shrieked and writhed as she was pulled to the floor.

The Madame kneeled above her smugly, trapping Abigail against the stained rug and the faded wallpaper. cringed victoriously toyed the glowing hot poker before her eyes, indulging in the way that Abigail’s reflexively cringed under the scorching heat of defeat. “This is what happens to stupid girls who chase after clouds!” She screeched rawly. The surrounding girls cowered.

Abigail knew none of them would come to her rescue. Some of them cried, others watched morbidly, unable to tear themselves away. This was all just hot gossip to pull them from their dreary chores for just a moment. She didn't blame them.

It was the Madame she blamed.

So that was why she did it. As the Madame closed her in. And as she desperately clawed backwards on her hands and knees, like an animal fearing for its life. Her fist closed around something cold and metal. Unplanned and instinctual. With all her power, Abigail brought the foreign up over her head. Over and down. The trajectory was clear in her mind.

It slammed down upon The Madame’s skull with a starling crack.

Gasping and breathless, Abigail pulled herself out from under the woman. Desperate to put as much distance between herself and the aggressor, she crabbed backwards until she felt her back hit the wall.

She leaned back heavily on the faded wallpaper as she tried to regain composure.

Everything went still besides the raggard rise and fall of Abigail's chest.

She waited expectantly for the Madame to get up and finish the job… Before she realised just how silent the room was. Dead silent.

Abigail's eyes flew open, confused. She uneasily scanned the crowd of girls as they stared at the floor in mute horror. They stood affixed to the spot like lambs, unsure of what to do with themselves.

The whole world was frozen. No one dared move.

Abigail swallowed shakily, the thick saliva pooling dreadfully in her ice cold stomach. “No… I…” The stifling tension of accusation filled the room.

Heart racing. Abigail followed the direction of their eyes to the puddle of red.

Her shoulders hung limply, sagging tiredly. Legs splayed out awkwardly underneath the body, as if she were a ragdoll that had been carelessly thrown to the floor.

Abigail followed the oozing path of blood to her scalp. The mess of matted, stringy grey hair could not hide the way her skull bent inwards, like a crater on the face of the moon, shining with blood.

The full weight of her head slumped unnaturally into the floor, partially smushing the folds of face. Her mouth hung open in an unvoiced exclamation of shock, revealing bloodstained teeth that had lost their bite.

Glazed eyes lidded in white glossy emptiness, affixed unseeingly to a spot in the distance.

…The body was not moving.

Abigail gasped. Looking down to her hands, realising how tightly she was clutching the cast iron pan. The weapon clattered loudly on the floor, mixing with the growing pool of blood. She dropped it quickly as if it were made of burning coals.

Realisation hit everyone like a wall. Suddenly the organised ring of girls burst into chaos, scattering and screaming. Like disturbed livestock, rearing and screeching, nostrils flaring. Eyes, everywhere. Wide with accusation.

Abigail shrunk in on herself, looking at her hands. “No… No! I didn’t mean it!” The words fell on deaf ears.

Abigail’s box of stolen valuables still lay on the ground. Loose pieces of change, silver rings and dollar bills decorated the floor. In a simultaneous unison, anarchy broke loose. The girls fell to their hands and knees. The vultures flocked to the ground to grab as many fistfuls of stolen goods as they could. Jumping and scrabbling over one another to stuff their pockets full. Tearing the knees of their skirts and pulling at one another’s hair in the blind struggle. The lifeless body of the Madame lay undisturbed next to them.

Take what you can and run.

Abigail watched as the girls that she had once considered her family descended into madness.

Not wanting to wait for the moment that they turned on her, she blindly lunged for the first shiny thing she could see.

The pocket watch.

It would be more than enough to buy herself a train ticket. Get herself as far away from here as she could. Maybe food and shelter for a couple weeks. God only knows where she would go or what she would do, all she knew was that she had to get out.

Clasping the pocket watch like a lifeline, she lunged for the unmanned door. Her shaking fingers unclasped the heavy iron latch. She shoved past the door and ran.

~~~

Run she did, making it two feet out the cathouse before she collided straight into what felt like a wall.

“Woah!”

She watched the pocket watch slip from her grasp, fall through open air, and then clatter loudly against the landing stairs. Her foot got caught. She tripped, she stumbled, she toppled. Her weight hammered forwards and the base of the stairs hurtled towards her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the fall.

How could she be so stupid?

And then she stopped.

She opened her eyes, confused. A hand had caught her just in time. The stranger hefted Abigail back to her feet.

“Are you ok, miss?” He steadied her, studying the bruises across her body and face.

“Let go of me!” She exclaimed violently, yanking her arm away from the man. Completely disinterested in anything but her watch. She looked past the man for a split second to check if it was ok. Thankfully, it lay unharmed at the bottom of the steps.

The man caught the way her eyes had darted, and instinctively followed her line of sight down to where the glistening, golden treasure lay unguarded at the bottom of the staircase. His face darkened.

She hopelessly watched him as his eyes narrowed. He stooped over and grabbed it. He began turning the treasure around pensively, observing the careful engravings. Her heart fell.

“That’s mine!” Abigail snarled as the stranger distractedly fondled her only possession. Preoccupied, he made no response.

She didn’t have time for this!

She eyed him up and down, weighing up her options. He was young, not much older than she, but tall, towering over a head above her. A rifle swung haphazardly against his broad shoulder plates and a gun belt hung loosely around his hips, accompanying the whole look. His weapon was waiting just within arms reach. Long, dark hair. Dark eyes. Unkempt and unshaven. Outlaw.

The man seemed fascinated by the engravings. He was silent for a moment, thoughtful, before he spoke, slowly and evenly. “Where did you get this, Ma’am?” He looked up, regarding her with calm, calculating eyes.

The watery morning sun bounced off of the pocket watch, making the engravings shine.

D.V.

His gaze was purposeful, searching her inquisitively. He waited expectantly for a response.

He knew Dutch?

Their gazes locked. The silence stretched on as time slowed to a stop. An unspoken understanding grew between the pair.

He nodded solemnly, face hardening with realisation. He handed the watch back to her, averting his attention to the door. He tipped his head slightly in its direction, the gesture was almost indiscernible. Follow.

Abigail’s mouth opened, and then snapped shut. She moved to follow the man, but hesitated a moment, looking out to the distant train station.

She could run now, but how far could she make it? Surely by the time she made it to the station, the law enforcement would already have caught her. And forget fleeing on horseback, she had never ridden a horse in her life!

She balled her fists. Screw it. Gathering her feet, she followed Dutch’s accomplice to the door.

He flung the door wide. Inside the cathouse, everyone froze as the awkward squeal of hinges filled the room. They looked up in alert as the unexpected presence entered the room, caught in the act of picking over scraps of treasure. Abigail in trailed timidly behind John.

One girl was caught red handed fruitlessly tipping Abigail's box upside down to see if any more valuables would fall out. Others had been crawling around amongst blood stains and silver pieces.

A thin trail of smoke rose from where abandoned poker lay had singed a hole in the rug. Glittering shards of what once was a vase decorated the floor.

A dead body lay in a pool of blood.

The dark haired man scanned over the hectic landing room, his eyes unreadable. He placed a hand on his hip, seemingly unimpressed by the whole thing as if this was all just a daily occurrence for him.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… My apologies, ladies,” He began loudly, as if he were interrupting a tea party. “I’ll just be a few moments; I’m here to tie up some…Loose ends.” His voice had an edge of malice, deliberately projecting past the girls to some unknown receiver.

His spurs jingled loudly as he casually stepped over the lifeless body of The Madame. Abigail didn’t dare to look at it, instead choosing to veer widely around the pool of blood.

Evidence of half done chores lay scattered around the landing room, abandoned the moment the Madame called all the girls down to watch the show; The pair passed bags of shopping that still needed to be unpacked, and a half mended bodice slung over the back of a chair. These chores would never be finished.

“Uncle, where are you, y’damn bastard!” The man shouted gruffly, stalking towards the bar. Abigail followed tentatively behind him.

“Goddamnit…” He spat once he saw that “Uncle” wasn’t on the stained couch nor the bar stools. He spun his attention to the bar counter, haphazardly pushing aside a stack of emptied glasses and peering over the side. “You useless sack of shit…” He mused quietly to himself as he looked over the side of the bar.

Curious, Abigail peered over to see what he was looking at.

“Oh, wow.” She commented as she caught a sight, or a smell, of the slumbering lump who was passed out behind the bar. The light glared off of his sweaty receding hairline. He snored loudly, his stomach rising and falling with each snort. His shirt, the colour of a rotten squash, clung to his fat body, the ends of which were lifted around his middle, exposing his bare belly to the world. He was covered in stains, including a yellow one on his scraggly grey beard. Abigail did not even want to begin to guess.

She hadn’t even known this guy was here this whole time, let alone stealing booze behind the counter, evident by all the empty drinks scattered around his rising form. He was cradling a half filled bottle in his sleep, sloshing beer all down his side.

He must have stayed behind undetected from last night, when Dutch Van Der Linde and his gang visited in celebration of their successful bank robbery.

He looked like a pig dozing face up in the paddock, completely oblivious to the world around him.

The dark haired man stomped to the other side of the bar, huffing loudly and shaking his head. He prodded Uncle with the pointed end of his boot. “Uncle.” Uncle did not stir. “Uncle!” John brought his boot down again, hard. The snoring cut off abruptly, Uncle choked loudly on his own spit, before falling back into a steady rhythm, dazedly mumbling something about maidens and pushing the disruptive boot away.

The dark haired man exhaled a long, exasperated stream of air from his nose. He turned, grabbing a bucket of soapy water that was intended for mopping. He held it above Uncle’s head, lining it up, before tipping the whole thing over. A waterfall of freezing water cascaded all over Uncle with a splash. A startled holler escaped the man. He leapt up from the pool of water with a start, relaxing only once he realised that the aggressor was just his friend. “Alright, alright! I’m up!” He spat, swiping at the bucket. “Jesus, John, you could have warned a guy!”

John could not have a more sour look on his face. “I don’t know why I even bother getting your pathetic ass. If I had any choice, I’d have just left you here, make you someone else’s problem.”

“Aww… You can’t help it. It’s because you love me, John. In your own sad way.” He teased.

“You’re dreamin’. Now git up. We need to get outta here, quick.” John barked, giving Uncle a final prod. The fat old man languidly got to his knees.

“Ain’t nothin’ worse for an old man than the cold, you know.” He grumbled, wheezing as he languidly staggered to his feet. Despite his claim, he seemed too listlessly unbothered for the chilly water to affect him.

“Yeah. But a wash would be good from time to time.”

Abigail watched the two men bicker as they made their way to the door, feeling like an outsider as she trailed behind them.

“Sakes alive!” Uncle jumped as he almost tripped over the dead body on the floor.

John paused in front of the Madame, seeming to notice the body for the first time.

John leaned over. “What happened here?” He murmured to Abigail.

Before Abigail had the chance to open her mouth, Bessie bolted up, “The Madame is dead!” She cried, face pale and tear stained.

The girls quickly recovered from their shocked stupor, their eyes turning on Abigail.

“She killed her! Murder!” One of the girls bawled. Spurred on by the sudden outrage, the crowd broke out into noisy disenchantment, protests and accusations being flung around the room.

“I have no family to go to!”

“I told you we were going to get screwed over some day!”

“I always knew she was a rat!”

“I’m glad the witch is gone for good.”

“What are we going to do?”

Uncle raised his eyebrow at Abigail, impressed. John looked to the crowd of girls, his face calm.

“Look,” He began, digging around in his saddle bag. Silence swept over the girls as they watched John procure a fat wad of cash from nowhere. Such an absurd sum looked a strange sight in the hands of a man whose clothes were so tattered and dusty. “I don’t know what’s happened here or what you guys are going to do,” The girls watched, enchanted as John dexterously divided the stack of cash. “It’s not much, but it’ll be more than enough for a train ticket out of here for each of you.” He said, the crisp, green notes crinkled as he carefully counted out twenty or so neat bundles. “I heard that the monastery out East is always looking for more girls.”

He held out the cash. The girls looked at each other all unsure of themselves, slowly forming an orderly line.

Some timidly took the money from the strange man, others snatched it quickly, obsessively counting over the sum. Not many of them had ever held this much in their lives.

“Just get yourselves out of here.” John finished. The girls, who were still slipping the money into their pockets and bras, nodded in shock and awe. They stood around like lost sheep, still not quite believing what had just happened.

Content with his job, he tipped his head in a respectful goodbye, and walked out the door alongside Uncle.

One second he had been so mean… next he was handing out cash like it was candy?

Abigail turned to follow, but hesitated. Someone sniffled sharply behind her. Abigail’s shoulders tensed.

“Theres… There’s no way you’re actually going with that guy…. “ The fragile voice whispered. “No one just hands out money like that. Be smart about this… Please.” She choked.

Abigail silently turned around. Bessie looked up at her. Fat teardrops spilled down her cheeks; A traitor to her own family.

The girls were all looking at Bessie now, regarding her with disgust, as if she were mud on their shoes.

Bessie’s voice trembled and broke. “I didn’t think you were serious, running off with a gang. They’re going to turn you into something you're not. I’m so sorry, sorry for everything! We can fix this, we can change all of this. Just, please, think.” She rambled feverishly, her hand shaking as she held it out to Abigail.

Abigail’s lip curled with disgust, her stomach physically recoiled from the extended limb.

“I…“ Abigail choked. She swallowed back her emotion, taking a second to steel herself. Her fists curled and uncurled by her sides. Bessie looked up at her expectantly, biting her lip to stop it from trembling. Like some lame dog at Abigail's feet.

Under the intensity of the desperate set of eyes, her resolve hardened to stone. Abigail's voice dripped with poison when she next spoke. “You told me things could never change… But obviously they do.”

With an air of finality, she held up her chin and spun on her heel.

She heard a thump. Bessie collapsed to her knees, crumpling in on the chaos that her life had become. Her ragged howls wracked the entire building. Abigail did not feel an ounce of guilt.

Without looking back, Abigail marched out of the cathouse for the final time, the light of a new day obscuring her resolute figure.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Abigail

The men had already made it down the landing steps and were waiting for her, absorbed in an ongoing conversation.

“Well, what was that?” Uncle exclaimed at John, who was leaning against a wooden support beam with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What was what.” John grambled, an agitated scowl crossing his face at the derision.

“Well.. You know…” Uncle exasperated somewhat guiltily. “With the way things’ been recently… I don’t know how Dutch is gonna feel with you handing out all our money like that.” He mumbled, holding his hands out defensively.

John scoffed as if it were a stupid question. “The Dutch I know would have done the exact same thing if it were him in there.”

“Yeah… I suppose.” Uncle, seemingly content with this explanation, relaxed, returning back to his leisurely temperament. “Wait… So who is this?” He asked, seeming to notice the girl who was lingering tensely for the boys to snap out of their self absorbed bickering.

John turned expectantly on Abigail. Both men’s eyes were on her. She hastily wiped the emotion from the day away.

She was really in it now. There was no time for doubt.

“You can call me Tracy-Anne.” She said firmly.

“John Marston.” John held his hand out. Abigail shook. The name sounded familiar. The image of an ugly, murderous outlaw flashed before her eyes.

Uncle chuckled. “Well, Miss Roberts! It is surely a pleasure to meet a woman as fine as you.”

“Keep it in your pants, old man.” John barked. “Now let's get a move on before we bring any more unnecessary attention to ourselves. Do you know how to ride, Miss Roberts?” He asked as the group rounded the corner, approaching the ratty hitching posts that sat in a muddy paddock behind the cathouse.

Abigail swallowed her shame. “Do it look like I know how to ride?” She grumbled dryly, gesturing to her pathetic appearance.

“Oh, that’s no problem.” Uncle butted in boisterously. “You can sit behind me.” He drawled.

“I think I would rather sit behind a rabid cougar.” She retorted sourly. Her palms were clammy… She just wanted to get out of here as fast as she could.

“She’s a feisty one, John! I like you already, Miss!” Uncle cackled good naturedly as he approached his mount. The corners of John’s lips were pulled into a grin.

The boy’s amusement faltered as distant commotion could be heard from the other side of town. Abigail's blood spiked. An icy rod of fear lodged itself in her stomach.

“...Let’s get out of here before things become too prickly.” Uncle said, laboriously mounting his horse.

The commotion was getting louder, accompanied by the quickening beat of hooves heading straight for the cathouse.

Abigail hurried over to John, who was already pulling himself up onto his mount. The dark brown horse nickered uneasily, flaring and tossing it’s head indignantly at Abigail’s presence. Her sweaty palm timidly met the creature’s prickling neck, trying to soothe it. The animal stamped its hoove angrily, splattering mud everywhere.

The law was getting nearer. Hoofbeats thrummed louder and louder, pounding against Abigail's mind.

She retracted away from the agitated animal, suddenly unsure. “But where will you take me?” She fretted, looking up at John Marston, the man, the stranger, the outlaw.

“We’re going back to our camp. It’s not far out West of here. From there you can do whatever you want, stay with us a while, or leave once you’re back on your feet. It’s your choice.” He explained quickly. He strained his arm out to her.

The Law was right around the corner. A shout of surprise bellowed from within the cathouse as a law man stumbled into the fresh murder scene. The simultaneous sound of guns being drawn from holsters and raised voices of alert followed. Tension was thick in the air. Abigail could sense the impeding presence of law men as they scattered like ants in their search for the killer. In their search for her.

“You better be tellin’ the truth, Mr Marston.” She took John’s hand.

“Just climb up and grab onto me.” John assured. She unsteadily shoved her foot into the stirrup, pulling herself up and swinging her leg over the barrel bodied animal. She quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. It had been a very long time since she had been on a horse.

“You on?” His entire frame rumbled.

“Mhhm.” She hummed into his back.

With a cry and a lash of reins, the body below them lurched forwards. Before Abigail had a moment to think, they were hurtling forwards. She jumped and her hands flew for better purchase around John’s waist. The robust animal jolted haphazardly underneath her legs.

“Let’s go ‘round the back streets.” Uncle cried to the pair.

Civilians looked on with horror as the group thundered across the scummy street that lined the backside of the town, fleeing from the growing cacophony of chaos behind them.

People jumped out of the way as the girls from the brothel spilled onto the streets, some running for the train station, other’s beelining it in all directions. Police men on horseback pushed past the women, cutting through the crowd in pursuit of Abigail. The deafening gallop thundered in Abigail’s ears.

“Hey! It’s them!” Someone cried from behind them.

John pressed his head down as he urged his horse onwards. “Aw shit.” He grumbled as a team of four law men suddenly materialised behind them. He desperately urged his horse faster with a kick of his spurs. The sweat slick horse pressed forwards, billowing heavily.

A piercing blast ate into the air. Abigial shrieked and ducked as the metallic kiss of death whizzed by her head. She clutched onto John for dear life as they shambled away at breakneck speed. The world raced past in a blur.

More bullets penetrated the air. Abigail’s ears burst with pain. Startlingly close. So close in fact that for a moment she thought she might be dead, until she saw John’s revolver pointing upwards, letting off bullets into the sky, sending a clear message to the pursuers. A thin stream of smoke trailed from the smoking tip. The heavy scent of gunpowder burned her nostrils. Her ears squealed.

Abigail spared a furtive glance behind her, clenching her jaw.

Unfazed, the law men were eating up the distance between them, every lumbering bound forwards gaining closer.

“They’re still chasing us!” Abigail’s voice was eaten away by the thundering of horse hooves clashing against the ground.

John clenched his jaw. Wordlessly, he twisted around. His shoulder muscles flexed as he raised his arm, squeezed his left eye shut, and took a second to line up his sights. And then he pulled the trigger.

A single precise bullet. It soared through the air, cutting into space where the man’s head had once been. The law man’s skull burst into an explosion of red. The limp figure was flung into the air as his horse reared from under him. The dead weight hurtled to the ground with a sickening crunch, where it lay there abandoned. Mangled and contorted by the impact.

The only response given to this was the crack of full open fire. Careless bullets pounded away at buildings, sending plumes of shrapnel in their wake. Screams filled the air. Civilians covered their heads and thrust themselves to the ground.

Abigail threw her head down, cringing at the thought of her skull being disassembled at any moment. They charged through the gunfire.

The town was growing scarce as they neared open country.

Now as the town fell out of harm’s way, John twisted around again, glaring down the barrel and spraying the men liberally with bullets. The first bullet met the law man’s chest, then another in the shoulder, then another in the gut. He was dead before he hit the floor. The final bullet kissed the other law man right in between the eyes, a perfect mark. Two men dropped like flies. John turned his back on the final law man, ignoring the lone straggler.

“Aren’t you gonna kill him?” Abigail cried.

“Haven’t we killed enough people for today?” John chuckled at his own joke. After a few lifetimes of deafening silence from Abigail, he relented. “Uh. Sorry. Bad joke.” He said stiffly. “He should leave us alone now that he has no more buddies with him.” He explained.

John was right. The law man turned tail and fled, racing past the dead bodies of his fallen comrades back to the safety of town. The back of his horse grew smaller as it receded into the distance. Spared.

Abigail let out a sigh of relief. Her heart was pounding so hard it ached. The invigorating wind rushed past, filling her soul. Her hair whipped up freely behind her. The race of hoofbeats tearing up the ground was electrifying. A breathless laugh tumbled from her lips. The bubbling noise was lost to the boundless blue sky.

She had never felt so alive!

Never once had her life in the cathouse been this exciting.

“Woohoo! I thought we were gonna be creamed back there!” Uncle whooped breathlessly, sharing Abigail's sentiment.

John’s shoulders fell back down to a neutral riding position, reins falling slack in his hands.

“Sure. You could have done some more of the heavy lifting, though. Did you even touch that gun of yours?” He grumbled, slowing down his horse until he and Uncle rode abreast to one another.

“Well it’s not like you’ll be needin’ my guns out on jobs anymore, looks like we got ourselves a little killer on our hands!” He laughed.

John shot Uncle with a deadly glare.

The electric atmosphere suddenly dropped dead. Abigail's smile faltered. She wordlessly looked down at the saddle, wishing she could curl in on herself.

Killer.

How it had all spiralled out of hand so quickly. She hadn’t meant to kill The Madame; it was in self defence, she reasoned with herself.

Still, the thought of the bloodied face of the only woman she could consider as a mother arose a swell of emotion in Abigail's chest, threatening to register on her face. She swallowed it down. No. Abigail did not feel this way out of sympathy for The Madame, who she was certain had gotten what she deserved. But the image of her wanted poster being plastered around town, hanging loosely off of every post in the state. She was now a wanted criminal. A murderer. No different than the outlaws that surrounded her now.

Not to mention the fact that her entire family betrayed her. Bessie, the shopping trip, the door, leaving her alone to fend for herself….

“You got any family we can take you to, Miss?” John’s voiced pulled her out of her gloomy retrospective.

“No. My folks passed when I was young.” She said quickly, trying to sound braver than she actually was.

“I’m sorry for your-”

“No. Don’t bother. It was a long time ago.”

Seeming to get the message, John fell silent. The road stretched ahead.

~~~

As the group ventured further West, the landscape slowly shifted. Uncle tipped the brim of his battered hat further down his face, wiping sweat from his brow as he did so. The broad midday sun baked cracks into the dirt. The roads seemed to stretch on forever, completely barren of life and empty of movement. The horses trudged on steadily, kicking dirt into the hot dry air.

She had made everything tense and awkward! Abigail reminded herself sternly that she had to put her best act on, there was no time to sulk about The Madame, or Bessie, or her parents, or her recent brush with death!

She wasn’t naive enough to think that the game was up. In fact, right now was a crucial time to act. She needed to win over these men if she wanted to be accepted in the gang.

“So how could you tell that I knew Dutch?” Abigail broke the silence casually. “Besides the pocket watch, I mean.” She added quickly.

John, seeming to sense Abigail's sudden change of attitude, opened his mouth. “Well Dutch had already told me about a girl that sounded a lot like you. Black hair and freckles. Said she robbed him at the brothel, so when I saw you running out, I just put it together that you were the girl.” He said simply. “Dutch said your name was… Agatha Roberts…. Or Alice?”

“Like I said, they call me Tracy-Anne.” Abigail responded, her voice a catty drawl. The name was an old alias she went by a couple years back. She experimentally ran a hand along his thigh, squeezing his waist once she reached his gun belt. The gesture was a deeply ingrained reflex she had learnt from her years spent seducing men. She kept a watchful eye on him to see how he would react to the playful gesture. To test whether he would lower his guard, melt like butter under her visceral hands.

John did well at hiding his response to the flirtatious action. However Abigail could easily catch the way his shoulders tensed, eye lashes lowering slightly as his throat bobbed thickly. A sly smile tugged at his lips. A fake smile tugged at hers.

He paused for a moment before speaking again. “Well, Miss Tracy-Anne.” He drawled, placing a lot of accent on the alias, “It seemed to me that Dutch was pretty impressed with you, and if Dutch trusts you, then I do too.” He said. “And, besides that,” He continued, his tone becoming more sincere, choosing to ignore the way that Abigail was touching him. “I can tell a soul that needs savin’ when I see one. Dutch took me off the streets when I was twelve, and I’ve stayed loyal ever since. I owe him my life.” He spoke fondly, proudly.

“Dutch seems like quite a man.” Abigail said, unable to hide the dryness in her tone.

“Oh, don’t listen to his nonsense!” Uncle hackled. “John is Dutch’s prized pony s’all. Which leaves the rest of us to grovel at his boots.”

“I deeply apologise that this man is your first impression of the gang, I swear the rest of us are only half as stupid as him.”

“Whatever you say, your royal highness.” Uncle drawled. The huge white girl he was riding was splattered with red, as if a lazy artist had tipped an entire can of paint over a blank canvas. The horse’s tired head hung low as she trotted. Her ear twitched indifferently as the weightful burden on her back began loudly whistling a tune.

“So, what should I call your uncle?” Abigail murmured into John’s ear. John chuckled.

“He isn’t actually my uncle, at least… I hope not. No one knows his real name, he just sorta appeared one day and, well, we all just accepted that he was Uncle.”

“Well if it’s any condolence, I can assure you that you don’t have any resemblance to him.” It dawned on Abigail how gravelly John’s voice was, like the clash of ice cubes in a cold glass of whiskey. Her throat was parched. She was itching to get off of this horse.

Just as Abigail was busy perseverating over how sore her ass was, John and Uncle simultaneously veered sharply off of the worn down path, with John taking a quick glance behind his shoulder to ensure they were alone and unseen. The horses jostled roughly as they cut a path through the wilderness.
There was no indication of direction, just a bunch of tangled shrubbery that all looked identical to Abigail. John, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going. Abigail couldn’t help but feel nervous.

Squinting ahead past the shimmering translucent ripples of heat, the bold outline of a rock formation loomed into view, casting long purple shadows across the sands. The great silhouette jutted dramatically towards the sun like rows of jagged teeth, exposing the unforgiving maw of the desert to any stragglers, sending a clear message; this was a dangerous country.

The group passed massive boulders that were toppled haphazardly upon each other as if a massive dragon had scattered her dormant hardened eggs across the desert. Abigail could feel the intense heat radiating from their red, hardened surface. The baked faces were worn and smoothened from a millennia of eroding sands and harsh winds, a testament to the endurance of the desert.

As they approached the formation, Abigail scaled the sheer wall of rock with her eyes, getting lost in the jagged vertices and tight crevices where only the toughest weeds could cling to life. The towering wall seemed to press down on the three travellers, regarding them wearily with eyes as old as time itself.

The group skirted around the border of the rock formation, soon approaching a break in the wall, an inviting gap where the boulders were pulled back to reveal a well trodden path. It was like a small hidden canyon that cut straight through the formation. As they passed through the yawning gap, the rocky walls rose up on either side of them, leaving enough space for six or seven horses to ride abreast along the path.

As the group rounded a bend, Abigail's keen eye caught sight of a slumped figure. The lone man was sprawled against a sun baked boulder, rising and falling slowly. He snored loudly. A shotgun lay abandoned by his side, gathering dust. His hat was pulled low over his face to blot out the sun, entirely oblivious to the group as they approached.

John stopped short in front of the slumbering man and a mischievous look overcame his face. “Hey Bill.” He called and lobbed a stone. The stone bounced off of Bill’s forehead with a smack, causing the man to immediately shoot up in a panic as if somebody had lit a fire under his ass.

“Wha- Who’s there!” Bill cried furiously, spinning around blindly as he grappled for his gun. John cackled crudely as he watched his friend blunder about.

Bill finally pulled his hat from his eyes, looking up at John angrily. “Godammit, John!” He exclaimed, voice surprisingly nasally for a man who looked so akin to a grizzly bear. “You scared the shit outta me! You’re lucky I don’t blow your brains out right here!” He waved his shotgun around wildly.

“I didn’t realise that guard duty involved so much shut eye.” John retorted.

“Oh don’t get your knickers tied up over him, Bill.” Uncle cut in before Bill could blow off of his rockers. “This is the second time John’s thrown something at an innocent man today. Bastard is as cold hearted as a snake with a toothache!”

“Yeah, well it ain’t funny.” Bill grizzled, sorely rubbing at his shiny forehead.

His eyes wandered behind John, widening when he noticed Abigail. He suddenly bolted up straight, going as red as a tomato. “Well would you look at what the cat dragged home!!” Bill exclaimed loudly, all traces of the sulky man from before miraculously disappearing. He hastily brushed off of his dishevelled shirt. “Who’s she, John?” He drawled, raking his eyes over Abigail as if she were a hunk of meat.

Abigail fixed Bill with a steely gaze. “I'm the lady you should address directly if you have any manners left in you." John and Uncle broke into an impressed coo, causing Bill redden further, scuffling his boots in the dirt as if he were a frustrated toddler.

Abigail was familiar with this type of man. One of her least favourite frequenters of the brothel. His creased scowl was hardly visible behind his massive overgrown beard. His shirt was stained and the collar was left unbuttoned, sweaty fabric peeled back to reveal a bush of hair growing on his chest. His gut was round, a testament to the amount of liquor he drank. His eyes were as yellow as his teeth. Balding and sweating and grimacing. Big and burly and used to getting his way.

“Jeez! I didn’t realise I was talking to a lady!” Bill mooched. The man begrudgingly followed after John, Uncle and Abigail as they continued down the path.

Signs of life trickled into Abigail's awareness; the slight murmur of people talking, the scent of something cooking, the steady rush of a river. And suddenly the path ended, the rock formation broke off into an open clearing. The clearing sprawled downhill to a huge, rippling river that cut through the heart of the desert. The fertile land that surrounded the river was in stark contrast to the dead, dry silence that existed just beyond this secret world.

People sat by the bankside, their conversions drowned by the burbling stream. Tents and wagons sprung up amongst the grass. A bubbling pot sat underneath a fire, filling the air with the smell of a hearty stew. A dawdy stream of music poured out from a record player, mingling in with the sound of boisterous cackling. The noise and life bounced all around them.

Abigail could see how this was the ideal place for a camp of outlaws. The vast rock stretched across one side like the impenetrable walls of a fortress, shielding these people from detection. The river cut through the ground parallel to the rock formation, bordering anyone on the other side of the desert from crossing.

In the centre of this lively camp sat a roaring campfire. People clung around it’s warmth, pulling up stools as they eagerly leaned in, entirely absorbed as an elderly man stood in the backdrop of the fire. His animatedly retelling of a story had everybody raptured. The group only looked away from the performance once Bill’s voice rang out, “They’re back!” The camp cried with joy. “And John’s brought himself a girl!” Bill added, his hollering voice fattened with gloat as he gleefully watched every single head swivel in surprised union towards Abigail.

Tension filled the air. Abigail scanned over them all, their eyes appraising her with a mixture of guarded scepticism and curiosity. A young girl stared up at her from between the pages of a leather bound book, doe eyed and inquisitive. The black girl sitting next to her wore an unsurprised expression, more inviting than anything. The blonde girl had a mischievous grin, holding a bottle between her ruffled skirts. Two identical looking brutes both shared the same sleazy side eyes and wicked smirks. A fat man looked up from sharpening his butcher’s knife, his forehead creasing with clear trepidation. A rather handsome man sat with an unlit cigarette languidly hanging from his lips, his eyes were sharp and assessing under the brim of his hat, filled with brooding apprehension.

Abigail’s eyes finally landed on the old man. His wrinkled eyes narrowed silently under the brim of his hat. It was minimal, but the slight shift in his expression was obvious, the deep lines of his face shifting into a weary scowl. He regarded her thoughtfully with an unnerving clarity. His penetrating gaze bore a hole straight through her soul. Though his face was as ancient and weary as the rock formations of the desert, he was far from dull. Something sharp and thoughtful sparkled in his eyes, leaving Abigail feeling stripped to the bone.

She almost curled in on the sudden onslaught of eyeballs, suddenly conscious of her tattered clothes and beaten appearance, however the pack of humans shared the same tatty old clothing. The same restlessness that danced just behind their hardened and gruff faces. Unshaved stubble and yellow teeth. Dirt and grit and spit. Abigail was no stranger to this kind of crowd. She held her head high.

Some were young, some were old. Some were male and some female. Some were black and some were white, yet they all sat around the fire together, bathing under the same warmth and laughter. Comrades.

As if the shocked stupor had been broken, suddenly the more excitable members of the gang leapt up excitedly, swarming around John, Uncle and Abigail like an overexcited flock of chatty parrots. The old man moved through the crowd towards Abigail and John.

“She’s with Dutch.” John explained to the man quickly, relieving him from much of its taught apprehension.

“Ah. Good. What’s your name, Miss?” The man asked, his voice gentle but firm.

“It’s -” She was cut off before she could finish. A booming voice burst through the noise, demanding the attention of all.

“Oh Miss Roberts!” He cried joyously. “I was beginning to think I was never going to see you again!” Dutch Van Der Linde himself appeared. The crowd naturally parted out of the way to allow the man through. “And what a pleasure it is to meet again.” He flashed a smile, holding out a ring adorned hand to help her down from the horse.

“Miss Roberts, huh.” She heard John chuff behind her.

Abigail dusted off her skirts slightly and chose to take her own path downwards, landing somewhat ungracefully on the ground. “It is, Mr Van Der Linde.” She agreed, feeling a little stupid and unsure of where she should be standing.

“What’s with her face? Did John steal her from the whorehouse or somethin’?” A man perked up rather loudly, earning him a bout of crude laughter.

The marks from her fight with the Madame still burned freshly, but Abigail raised her nose at the man, letting them glow in the sunlight. “I am here of my own accord, thank you.” She said sourly. The gang broke out into a symphony of amused jeers.

“She is my friend! So in the meantime let’s get her inside, safe and warm! We are safe here! And I want everyone to treat our new member with respect for the time that she is staying, OK! Especially you, Mac!” Dutch cried loudly, causing the identical man next to Mac, who Abigail assumed to be his twin brother, to punch him roughly in the head with a laugh. The playful gesture quickly deteriorated into a tussle.

“Alright! Alright!” Hosea cried horsley. “Stop it, you fools!” The men peeled off from each other, shooting each other wicked looks as if to say that the battle was not yet over. “Idiots…” Hosea murmured under his breath, shaking his head in scrunched disappointment.

Dutch turned his attention back to Abigail. “Come now, Miss. Let’s talk privately” He looked up to John. “You got a minute, son?”

“‘Course.” John nodded quickly, walking alongside Dutch and Hosea, with Abigail following the three men towards the biggest tent out of the bunch. It was huge and open, sitting near the riverside, an advantageous spot where the whole camp could be spectated. The huge fabric flaps were pinned back, letting the arid air and the sound of the trickling river flow straight through the makeshift lodging.

The makeshift lodging was modest. A large crate was stacked with countless books, each and every page lovingly thumbed through. Pushed to the corner, an unlit oil lamp glinted beside a plethora of photographs and mementos, faces of people and things that Abigail assumed to be fond memories of the Van Der Linde Gang.

A prideful vanity table gleamed atop a rickety barrel, proving that even outlaws could keep clean. Every surface seemed to be cluttered with dog eared maps and papers, adorned with the words that Abigail could never even consider learning to understand.

It was modest, but bursting with life and thought.

Abigail felt a little odd seeing just how…. Humane the space was. She imagined that it should have been filled with booze bottles instead of books and bloodstains instead of ink stains.

“I see you’ve already met John here, I hope he hasn’t made a foolish impression of himself?” Dutch gestured to John, voice thick with fondness. “And this is Hosea,” Dutch motioned to the old man, who gave Abigail a small smile and a slight bow.

“Pleased to meet you.” Hosea had a kind voice.

“You too.” Abigail said a little stiffly, feeling like more of an outlaw than the surprisingly polite men in front of her.

“Well, I am infinitely curious how you found us, Miss!” Dutch cried, smiling eagerly as his eyes glittered with mischief.

“Well actually, John were the one who found me.” Abigail explained. “Things ... fell through with my mistress… “ She explained stiffly. “And I guess he was in the right place at the right time, I was holdin’ your pocket watch, he recognised it and took me here.” She murmured quickly. Her whole life had been tipped upside down in one day… It felt like a blur.

“Things fell through how?” Dutch asked without missing a beat, hungrily lapping up every bit of the story.

“Dutch.” Hosea scolded. “The girl doesn’t have to tell us everything. Give her some time at least.” He chidded, sensing the barley withheld tension in Abigail’s voice as she spoke of her day.

Hosea turned his eyes back to her, his gaze softening, gentle, but not quite pitiful. “Do you have any family we can take you to?” He asked gently.

“Parents died when I was a tot.”

“Did you have any belongings?”

“Not a scrap.”

“That’s alright. You are welcome to stay as long as you need. We feed those who need feedin’ and clothe those who need clothing.”

“And shoot those who need shootin’” Dutch added in a starkly proud matter.

“I… uh…. Thank you..” Abigail said earnestly, addressing both men, but Hosea especially. The gratitude rolled out strangely on her tongue. She wasn’t used to saying those words so earnestly, especially not to strangers, but it felt necessary.

“But if you’re gonna ride in the gang, there are a few rules.” Dutch said. Abigail’s spirit drooped a little bit.

“First and most obvious, no snitching. Don’t bite at the hand that feeds you.” Dutch said seriously, Abigail nodded.

“Second, we give to those who need more. We may be low down murderers, but we never steal from the poor, that’s the government’s job.” Abigail nodded.

“And third,” Dutch boomed as he strode over to a tin lock box that was not unlike the one that got Abigail in trouble in the first place. He knocked on the box loudly for theatrical effect, the metallic thud bouncing through the campsite. “Half of any profit made goes straight into camp funds, the other half gets divided amongst whoever was on the job, you got it?” Abigail nodded quickly. “Everyone in camp has to pull their own weight - “

“-cept for Uncle.” John chided gruffly.

Choosing to ignore John, Dutch continued his speech. “... That means that everybody gets even portions from the kitchen, keeping the space clean, and helping out as much as you can with chores.”

“I’m perfectly capable of holding my own, Mr.” Abigail said loudly, causing Dutch to smile widely.

“Well then, I see no reason that we shouldn’t get along, Miss Roberts.” He said, hugging his arm tightly around her shoulder as if they were already best friends. The air was crushed out of her but she chose not to squirm away. He looked down at Abigail, an unspoken glint in his eye that only she could see, a promise. An uneasy feeling filled her. She smiled back at him.

“Well then,” Dutch said as he began guiding Abigail out of his tent by her shoulders, “The girls will show you where you’ll be staying. I’ll get Miss Tilly to set up some sleeping arrangements for you…” He spoke louder as they walked out of the tent and into the open air, raising his head to address the whole camp. “In the meantime, we ought to give our newest recruit a warm welcome! Come on people, let’s liven this pathetic place up!”

The gang broke out in cheers.

~~~

The roaring fire burned the spot where the fabric of her new dress touched her back. The firelight cast dramatic shadows across the night as Abigail animatedly spoke to the whole crowd. “And… And then I hit the woman over the head with a pan!” Their glazed eyes were wide and sparkling, absorbing every word she had to say. “And…. just like that… She was done!” Abigail finished brightly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She wobbled, watching carefully for their reactions. Their jaws hung slightly agape, faces lit by the dancing light of the fire. As they slowly computed everything she had just uttered, their mouths slowly curled into smiles, and all at once the whole crowd burst into raucous laughter.

A hiss and a click sounded behind Abigail before Karen Jones, whom Abigail had come to recognise as the outrageously wild busty blonde girl, slung her arm haphazardly around Abigail's shoulder, almost knocking Abigail off of her balance. “She’s one of us!!” Karen screamed victoriously, throwing her arms up and sloshing beer into the grass. The gang roared in delight, raising their bottles up to Abigail. Clinks all around.

Karen pushed the opened bottle to Abigail’s hands. She hesitated a moment, before taking it and tipping her head back, the liquid burning as it went down her throat. She was in too deep to stop now.

Abigail joined the gang in their laughter. Somewhere deep down she was aware that recounting the whole ordeal had upset her, but that was a problem for tomorrow’s Abigail. It was easier to laugh about it, because the alternative would be to cry, and there was no way she was doing that in front of the group of strangers.

The booze had loosened her tongue far more than she had anticipated, and with some prodding from Uncle, the whole story of the day tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. It seemed to be going ok, though. The crowd loved the story of the working girl at the end of her tether.

Karen grabbed Abigail firmly by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes intensely. “Come on, dance with me!” She blurted. Abigail linked sweaty arms with the girl, and the pair began to clumsily skip around in a circle. Uncle started an upbeat jig on his banjo, giving them something to dance to. Abigail almost tripped over her own shoes multiple times, but they quickly fell into a wobbly somewhat comfortable routine. They sped up in time to the quickening jig, going faster and faster, the blotty stars in the night sky whizzed past. Laughter tumbled from the two girls, cheeks red with warmth and glazed with sweat.

Her belly was filled with stew and warm with whiskey. It was almost enough to cloud her mind of the predators surrounding her. Almost.

Despite her delirious state, she was still aware of the attention she was bringing. As she spun past, she caught the glistening stares of many hungry men transfixed on her. She was not the naive and drunken girl that they thought she was, she told herself. These were new faces. New rules. She had to keep her guard up.

The music reached a crescendo and Abigail and Karen finally split apart, breathless and giggling.

Panting with her head spinning, Abigail searched the small crowd expectantly for a familiar set of eyes. John, the only man in this camp who she had bothered to remember by name, had had his eyes on her the whole night, trying to catch her gaze. This time however, Abigail could not find his face looking back.

She shrugged and collapsed onto a log, wedging herself between the gaggle of girls as they ushered her over to sit with them. They cheered and patted her on the back as she caught her breath.

Just as Abigail had settled down beside her new friends, Tilly, Karen and Mary Beth, the uneven footsteps of a thoroughly drunk person clumbered towards them. Abigail turned towards the noise, coming face to face with Bill Williamson. The man had obviously put away too many beers than what was good for him, and almost fell flat on his face as he halted in front of Abigail.

“How much does a girl like you cost, anyways?” The man slurred. “Surely I don’t have to pay full price for a bruised fruit.” He leered. The girls went silent, staring expectantly at Abigail for her reaction.

Abigail was listless to their stares. Fire roared through her veins. She flared up suddenly, striding over Bill.

“You are a pig!” She screamed, and raised her hand. It came across the back of his face with a satisfyingly loud smack. Bill wobbled uneasily and toppled onto his ass.

The gang ruptured into riotous laughter.

Uncle slapped his knee, hooting madly. “The moment I saw her I just knew she was a fighter!”

Fighter. She liked it.

Bill went redder than a tomato. He struggled to his feet. “Why I might as well just…” He puffed furiously, his eyes burning and wild, blind with anger and embarrassment. He stood to his full height, towering over Abigail. “You watch your goddamn mouth, you strumpet!” He thundered, taking a menacing stride towards Abigail.

“Bill Williamson!” A voice boomed hoarsely, pulling both of them from the fight. Dutch Van Der Linde stepped out of his tent, his hands resting unapprovingly on his hips.

Seeming to realise what he was about to do, Bill froze, his fist pausing mid air. His eyes nervously flitted around, realising all of the horrified looks he was attracting. His broad shoulders deflated, sagging under the harsh eye of his leader. Abigail smirked slightly. He begrudgingly stumbled away, kicking at rocks and murmuring bitterly to himself as he went to go skulk inside his tent.

Saved.

Dutch looked over to Abigail and waved her over. “Miss Roberts, A word please!” He called. Abigail spared a quick glance behind her shoulder at the other girls before cautiously making her way towards Dutch. Back in the Cathouse, she would have gotten into big trouble for handling her clients that way…

She didn't regret it, though.

As she trudged along, the flaps of Dutch’s tent were pulled back and John stepped out. Their gazes locked for a moment and he flashed her a meaningful grin and wink, raising his bottle in a silent toast. He had seen the entire fight unfold, and he loved seeing Bill made a fool of. He was impressed.

The serious and practical man she had met at the start of the day seemed so different to the John infront of her now. He was far more laid back at camp, and it seemed it only took a few drinks for his wickedly dry sense of humour to come to the forefront. He and Abigail were much the same in that regard.

As she passed by John, she couldn't help grinning back at him. Her smile faltered slightly as she reached Dutch… He didn’t look mad, though. In fact, an amused smile was pulling at his lips. His arms were crossed smugly over his chest and he appraised her with unreadable eyes, seeming very pleased.

“Now don’t get me wrong, Miss Roberts, I like your style, but next time one of my boys goes treating you like that, don’t be afraid to call me.” He said, his voice an octave lower than usual. His eyelids were lowered and his pupils transfixed on her.

“Like I said, Mr Van Der Linde, I can hold my own just fine.” Abigail said boldly, the liquor working her tongue.

Dutch only chuckled, a deep rumbling thing, “I don’t doubt you, Miss.” He said slowly, his eyes glittering with something dark and hungry. He clasped a hand around Abigail’s shoulder. It lingered there for a beat too long, firm and strong. The heavy weight was not quite trapping but not giving her any space to step away. There was a pause.

Abigail’s spirit drooped. There was always a pause.

“... Speaking of earning one’s keep…” He murmured lowly, whiskey wafting from his breath. Before Abigail knew what was happening, she felt herself being gently tugged away, Dutch guiding her into the tent. The flaps closed behind them, blocking the pair from any prying eyes. Darkness fell over them.

Something cold and solid sunk inside Abigail's stomach. She swallowed thickly, not quite knowing why it was that she felt disappointed…. She understood that this was her life, her role, her way of contributing her value. And although men like Bill disgusted her the most, it was those men who she was fully willing to sell her services to.

Dutch had seemed… Different somehow. Perhaps that’s why it hurt more than anything.

Deep down, she knew this was bound to happen.

Abigail pulled down her skirts.

All men are the same. Nothing ever changes.