The morning sun broke over the ridge, painting Horseshoe Overlook in dull gold. The camp buzzed with the usual unrest — the smell of beans cooking, the sharp whistle of boiling water, the occasional grunt as Pearson swore at his stew pot.
Wyatt sat on a log a little distance from the others, rolling the coin over his knuckles. His eyes — red-tinged and unreadable — were on the trees beyond camp. The coin had been quiet since the train job. Still. Watching. Like it was waiting for him to make the next move.
"You look like you're tryin' to scare the trees into talkin'," Arthur muttered as he walked past, saddlebag in hand.
Wyatt flicked the coin into his palm. "You ever wonder if we're all stuck in something we didn't ask for?"
Arthur shrugged. "Every damn day."
He kept walking, calling over his shoulder, "I'm headin' out to find the Reverend. You know, before he ends up buried in a ditch again."
"Good luck with that," Wyatt replied, pocketing the coin.
Arthur waved it off.
Wyatt didn't go with him. He'd dealt with Swanson before — soft-handed, half-drunk, and usually passed out where he didn't belong. But something didn't sit right that morning. A weight. A whisper in his blood.
Instead of riding out, Wyatt walked the perimeter of camp, checking the rifles and resting his hand on Mercy's grip. Every so often, he would glance at the trail Arthur had taken. The coin in his pocket pulsed once — faint, but there.
And then it stopped.
Later, when Arthur returned with mud on his boots and blood on his knuckles, Wyatt didn't need to ask.
"Found him near the tracks," Arthur muttered, brushing himself off. "Damn fool was passed out on the rails. Had to fight a man over it too."
Wyatt raised a brow. "He alright?"
Arthur nodded, then scoffed. "He's alive. Don't know if that counts as alright."
They didn't speak much more about it. Some things were better left buried under silence and grit.
By late afternoon, Strauss sent word. Collections needed doing — the kind of work that didn't leave room for moral high ground. Just ledgers, names, and faces you'd rather forget.
"You coming with me?" Arthur asked, as he cinched his saddle.
Wyatt was already mounting up. "Let's get it done."
They rode out toward the first name on the list — Lilly Millet, Valentine. Strauss had described her as "uncooperative," which was Strauss's way of saying "someone I think I can break."
The town hadn't forgotten the train job. Eyes followed them as they rode in. Folks remembered faces — especially when they were covered in soot and smoke just days earlier.
They found Lilly outside her rundown shack, screaming at her lover.
Arthur approached, sharp as ever, leaning into the weight of his presence.
Wyatt stayed back, watching, listening.
Lilly shouted something about not having the money. Her lover stepped in, fists clenched, and that's when Arthur decked him with a single punch. Clean. Final. The man hit the ground and stayed there.
Lilly cried, cursed, and screamed — but she gave up the brooch.
"I hope you rot," she spat at them as they left.
Back on the horses, Arthur sighed.
"You alright with this?" he asked.
Wyatt didn't answer immediately. The sun was setting behind them, casting their shadows long across the dirt road.
"Debt's a chain," Wyatt said finally. "But we're the ones choosing to carry the links."
Arthur glanced over. "What does that even mean?"
Wyatt shrugged. "Just thinking out loud."
The next debtor was a farmer — Wrobel. A decent man by all accounts. Bad luck. Wrong time. The door creaked open under Arthur's knock, revealing a hunched figure and a house that looked more broken than lived in.
"I don't speak English," the man insisted, holding up his hands.
Arthur didn't care. The threats came easy, and Wyatt watched as Wrobel fumbled to pull a few coins from a cracked jug hidden beneath a floorboard. No fight. No pride. Just survival.
As they rode off, Wyatt couldn't shake the image — the man's hands shaking as he offered up what little he had.
"Feels wrong," he muttered.
Arthur looked over. "It is wrong. But we're not exactly saints out here."
Back at camp, Strauss waited with that same rat-like grin.
"Excellent," he said, pocketing the brooch and coins. "More where that came from. Keep the pressure on."
Arthur gave a grunt and walked away. Wyatt stayed behind for a second longer, watching Strauss as he scribbled in his ledger.
"How do you sleep?" Wyatt asked.
Strauss didn't look up. "With a clear conscience and a warm blanket."
Wyatt turned and walked away, the coin in his pocket suddenly heavier.
That night, he sat by the fire, Mercy and Judgement resting beside him, boots stretched toward the flames. The others drank, laughed, sang. Dutch even cracked a smile. But Wyatt sat in silence, staring at the stars.
He wondered if in some other world, that farmer hadn't been crushed by poverty.
If in some other life, the coin had brought him somewhere better — or maybe worse.
But right now, this was where he was.
This was the world he'd chosen.
And for better or worse, he wasn't ready to walk away.
Not yet.