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From the direction of the chair, a voice cut through the murmurs. Arthur was standing over Dutch, his posture rigid. "Dutch. You calm now? You hear me?" There was no response. Dutch continued to stare at the ground between his boots.
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Hosea?"
Hosea crouched slowly, bringing his face level with Dutch's. His expression was one of profound, fatherly sorrow. "Dutch? Can you hear me? Are you back with us?"
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then come the response, it was swift and violent. Dutch's head snapped up. He didn't speak. He spat, a thick glob of saliva striking Hosea square on the cheek.
The camp gasped as one.
Hosea recoiled, not from the spit, but from the hatred in Dutch's eyes. He slowly wiped his face with his sleeve, his heart breaking visibly.
"Don't," Dutch hissed, his voice a low, venomous rasp after hours of silence. "Don't you talk to me. I am sick to see your face."
His gaze swept over the assembled gang, his lip curling in a grotesque sneer. "In fact, I am sick to see the faces of all of you."
Arthur took a step forward. "Dutch, that's enough—"
"You hear me?" Dutch shouted over him, his voice covered Arthur's. "A bunch of degenerate outlaws. Killin' people left and right, not for survival, not for principle, but because you enjoy it! All of you always have!"
The words hit like gunshots. Faces paled.
Bill bristled. Lenny clenched his fists. Javier's mouth fell open in disbelief. Even Uncle stopped drinking.
His voice began to rise even further, losing the rasp, gaining a manic, theatrical timbre that was somehow worse than his rage. "You pretend at loyalty! At family! But you're just animals, dressed up in fine words I taught you!"
He threw his head back and laughed, a raw, barking sound that held no joy, only a bottomless well of bitterness and spite.
"You ever hear yourselves?" he went on. "You pretend you're better than the rest of the world, but you're animals! Thieves! Murderers!"
The shock in the clearing was palpable. This was a desecration of their shared history, a poison poured on every memory of campfires and shared struggles.
Then, a figure moved with decisive, furious purpose. Susan Grimshaw strode forward, her back ramrod straight, her eyes blazing. Before anyone could react, her hand swung in a tight, powerful arc.
SMACK.
The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. Dutch's head jerked to the side. The manic laughter cut off.
Miss Grimshaw stood over him, her hand still raised from where she had slapped him across the face with all the strength she had, trembling not with fear, but with righteous fury.
"Are you even listening to the filth coming out of your own mouth, Dutch van der Linde?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You taught us to treat each other like family! You were the one who said we were more than thieves! And now you call us degenerates? What in God's name has happened to you?"
Her words struck a chord. Abigail hugged Jack tighter. In the faces of Karen, Tilly, Lenny, even Bill, there was a flicker of painful recognition. That was the Dutch they remembered preaching to, the idealist, the dreamer. To hear those ideals now twisted into weapons against them was a betrayal deeper than any failed plan.
For a moment, just a moment, it looked like something might break through to him.
Then Dutch slowly turned his head back to look at her. A red welt was already rising on his cheek, but he seemed not to feel it. His eyes were pools of dark, wounded malice.
"Oh, Susan," he said, his voice dripping with condescending pity. "Even you. You've chosen your side. You stand with the betrayers."
"We didn't betray you, you damn fool!" Miss Grimshaw shot back, but Dutch talked over her.
"You did! The moment you doubted me! The moment you stopped trusting! The moment you turned your backs! I was the leader of this family! I built this! I should have had your unwavering faith! I should have had everything that was mine!"
His voice was rising to a shout again, his binds straining as he leaned forward in the chair. His wild eyes scanned the crowd, landing with laser focus on Mary-Beth, who still stood close to Caleb.
"Everything!" he roared. "Including her, that little slut Mary-Beth, who now spreads her legs for that son of a bitch Caleb!"
A collective, horrified intake of breath swept the camp. Mary-Beth went pale, then flushed with a mix of shame and fury. Caleb's hand tightened on hers, his own expression turning to ice.
Miss Grimshaw drew back her hand again, but Arthur stopped her with a raised arm.
Dutch wasn't finished. He was lost in his own narrative of victimhood and grandeur. "I had a plan! A beautiful plan! But none of you would listen! You all decided old Dutch had lost his mind! Well, I haven't lost it! My mind has been opened! I see the truth of the world now! The truth you're all too weak, too stupid, too treacherous to face!"
He was screaming now, spittle flying, his body trembling against the ropes. "The truth is, this world doesn't want saviors! It doesn't want dreams! It wants you to kneel! And you… all of you… you've chosen to kneel to him!" He jerked his head violently toward Caleb. "Instead of standing tall with me!"
His tirade ended as abruptly as it began. He slumped back in the chair, chest heaving, his manic energy spent. He stared straight ahead, past them all, muttering now to himself, "They'll see… they'll all see… when it all burns…"
Caleb's voice cut through the chaos, calm and sharp.
"That 'truth' you're seein' is paranoia, Dutch."
Dutch snapped his head toward him. "You don't get to speak."
"I do now," Caleb replied evenly. "Because you crossed a line you can't walk back from."
Hosea straightened slowly. "No," he said, voice breaking. "Caleb's right, you didn't see the truth, Dutch. You lost yourself."
For a long moment, the camp was silent except for Dutch's ragged breathing.
Then Arthur spoke.
"That's enough."
His voice carried weight now, authority forged by necessity, not ego.
"You're stayin' put," Arthur said. "Until we decide what to do next. You're not leadin' anyone anymore."
Dutch stared at him, hatred burning in his eyes.
"You think you can replace me?" Dutch whispered.
Arthur shook his head. "Ain't about replacin' you. It's about keepin' people alive."
Hosea nodded slowly. "From now on, decisions are made together. No more blind followin'."
One by one, the gang shifted.
Not dramatically.
But unmistakably.
They didn't stand behind Dutch anymore.
They stood with Arthur. With Hosea. With each other.
Dutch saw it.
And something in him finally broke completely.
He slumped back in the chair, a hollow laugh escaping his lips.
"Do what all of you want," he muttered. "You always do." No one answered him.
Caleb turned back to Mary-Beth, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"
She nodded, though tears shimmered in her eyes. "I am… as long as you're here."
He squeezed her hand gently.
The silence that followed was absolute. The last vestige of the myth of Dutch van der Linde had not just crumbled, it had been publicly, viciously, torn apart by the man himself.
There was no coming back from this. The leader was gone. In his place was a bitter, broken stranger spewing venom at the people he once claimed to love.
Arthur looked at Hosea, then at Caleb, his face a landscape of exhaustion and resolve. The question of what to do next was no longer a question. It was a grim necessity. The camp had its answer, delivered in spit, slaps, and the ugliest truth of all.
Hosea let the silence settle for a moment longer after Dutch's hollow muttering faded into the background noise of the camp. Then he exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with age and disappointment, and straightened his back.
"Pearson," he said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. "Susan."
Both of them looked to him at once.
"I want Dutch's tent cleared," Hosea continued. "Everything out. Clothes, weapons, papers, keepsakes. All of it. Leave him the bed. Leave him a couple of his books. And the gramophone. Nothing else."
The order was a physical severing. Dutch's tent had been the heart of the camp, a place of strategy, inspiration, and authority. Stripping it was a symbolic dethronement.
Pearson swallowed, then nodded. "Alright… alright, Hosea."
Miss Grimshaw's jaw was tight, but she gave a sharp nod of agreement. "You heard him," she snapped, already turning. "Karen. Tilly. Sean. Lenny. Move."
The four named hesitated only a fraction of a second before obeying. They passed by Dutch's chair without looking at him, ducking into the tent that had once been the symbolic heart of the camp. The canvas flap fell shut behind them.
Dutch didn't react.
He sat slumped in the chair, wrists bound, eyes unfocused, lips moving soundlessly. "…they'll see… all of it… all burnin'…" he murmured, as if reciting a private scripture only he could hear.
No one answered him.
John moved away from the crowd then, instinct pulling him toward Abigail and Jack. Abigail had already drawn Jack close, one arm wrapped protectively around him as she whispered reassurances he didn't quite understand.
Jack looked up when John approached. His young face was confused, frightened, trying to make sense of the raised voices and the way everyone was acting like something sacred had just shattered.
"Pa?" Jack asked quietly. Then, after a glance toward Dutch's tent, "What happened to Uncle Dutch?"
John knelt so he was eye level with him. For once, he had no smart words, no half lie ready to soften the truth.
Abigail answered instead, her voice gentle but firm. "Uncle Dutch is sick, sweetheart. His head ain't right right now."
John nodded, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "That's all it is. He's sick. Folks act strange when they're sick."
Jack frowned, absorbing that. "Is he gonna get better?"
Abigail pulled him into a tighter hug. "We don't know," she said honestly. "But we're gonna make sure everyone's safe."
Jack nodded slowly, accepting the answer as best as a child could, and buried his face into Abigail's shoulder.
Across the camp, Caleb guided Mary-Beth away from the chair and the tent, steering her gently by the hand. He led her to a log near the main campfire, away from the center of attention, where the crackle of dying embers was steady and familiar.
"Sit," he said softly.
She did, her movements stiff, like she was holding herself together through sheer will.
Caleb crouched in front of her for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, brief, reassuring, grounding. He rested his brow against hers for a heartbeat before pulling back.
"Whatever he said," Caleb murmured, keeping his voice low so only she could hear, "don't you carry that with you. That wasn't a father figure talkin'. That was sickness."
Mary-Beth swallowed. "I know," she whispered, though her voice trembled. "I know it wasn't right."
He studied her face, the tightness around her eyes, the way she was breathing just a little too fast. "You don't gotta be strong every second," he said. "You already said you'd be okay as long as you're with me. That's enough. But it's alright to let it out too."
That did it.
The moment the words settled, her composure cracked completely. Mary-Beth gasped, then broke down into sobs, her hands clutching at Caleb's arm as she leaned into him, burying her face against his sleeve. Her shoulders shook as everything she'd been holding back poured out all at once, fear, betrayal, grief for the man she'd once looked up to.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,726 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -