Tied to the tree was a man with dark brown hair, wearing a stained white linen shirt on his upper body, dark canvas riding pants on his lower body, and knee-high brown cowboy boots on his feet.
He looked listless, maybe from being tied up too long or from not having eaten.
"Who is this man? Is he one of ours? Why is he tied up?" Jamie asked Lenny, pointing at the man bound to the tree.
"Him?" Lenny scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. "He's an O'Driscoll. The O'Driscoll Gang is our rival outfit. Arthur caught him when we were laying low after Blackwater. Dutch said he might be useful later, so we didn't put a bullet in him."
"Oh." Jamie frowned, eyeing the prisoner. "So we've got a blood feud with this O'Driscoll Gang? One that won't end until one side's gone?"
"Exactly." Lenny nodded. "From what Dutch has said, he and Colm O'Driscoll used to work together, but somewhere along the line Colm killed Dutch's woman. Since then, Dutch has hated them, and he even set a trap to kill Colm's brother. It's bad blood through and through."
Lenny glanced around the camp and added, "As for the lookouts, Hosea and Karen—you probably greeted them when you came back with Arthur. Let me think... who else haven't you met?"
After a moment, Lenny snapped his fingers. "Right. Reverend Swanson. I was wondering who I was forgetting. He's usually in camp, patching folks up when needed, but his head's not in the best place these days. Drinks too much. Most of the time he's either staggering around talking nonsense or passed out in some corner."
Lenny's voice lowered slightly. "There's also Sean MacGuire. He got separated when we fled Blackwater. Don't know if he's alive or dead."
Jamie placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "No news is good news. Maybe Sean will find his way back to you tomorrow."
Lenny gave a half-smile. "Maybe. Anyway, we should head back. You any good at cards? I think we've got enough men for another table."
"Cards? I don't know how to play. I'll just watch," Jamie admitted. He thought bitterly to himself—useless in this world, no strength, no courage.
Aside from some modern knowledge, what good was he? He sighed. How did I even manage to save Arthur? Why can't I remember clearly what happened back in Valentine?
Lost in thought, Jamie followed Lenny back toward the four men at the card table.
"They're playing Blackjack," Lenny explained as they walked. "Easy rules. You'll pick it up just by watching."
By now the camp was swallowed by night. Besides the cooking fire, another fire had been lit, and lanterns glowed from wagons and posts.
A horse neighed in the distance as Arthur rode in, fresh from the river. Hosea and Karen, finished with lookout duty, returned with him.
At the table, Micah shoved his cards forward. "I'm done. My turn for lookout." He and Charles, who had just finished feeding the horses, headed off to relieve Hosea and Karen.
"Do we need watchmen even in camp at night?" Jamie asked without thinking. As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt childish.
"Of course," Lenny replied without a hint of judgment. "O'Driscolls or Pinkertons could come sniffing around anytime. Better to have warning than wake up dead. And there's always wolves and bears near camp."
Ms. Grimshaw appeared, her sharp voice cutting through the chatter. "The pies are in the oven, gentlemen. Time to get the meat cooking. Charles! Where's Charles?"
"Charles is on lookout," Jamie answered quickly.
Susan narrowed her eyes, then barked, "Bill, fetch him back and take his spot."
"Why me?" Bill groaned. "Plenty of others sittin' around."
"Why?" Susan snapped. "Because Charles can cook, and you can't. Truth be told, if I tossed the meat straight in the fire, it'd taste better than whatever you burn. Now stop whining and go."
Bill muttered under his breath but obeyed, getting up to swap places with Charles.
"Alright, men, hurry up and get that meat on the fire. Once it's done, we can start celebrating," Ms. Grimshaw called out, clapping her hands to keep everyone moving.
"Hey, Jamie, you gonna do some grilling?" Arthur walked over, rubbing his still-damp hair from washing up, and gave him a nod.
"I can't promise it'll be any good, but I'll give it a try," Jamie said, a little eager.
He'd always dreamed about moments like this. Back when he used to watch videos made by survivalist bloggers, what stuck with him most was how they cook their food just beside their camp fire.
Cutting meat fresh off the kill, sticking it on a branch, letting the fat sizzle and drip into the flames, sprinkling on a pinch of salt, and eating it straight off the stick.
Every time he saw that, he wanted to try it himself. But with the little money he had back home, it was something he only ever got to imagine.
He and Arthur collected their share from Pearson, who'd already marinated the meat and skewered it on thick wooden sticks. Being close to Valentine meant tonight's meat was mostly beef and mutton.
Jamie frowned a little.
He'd never liked mutton—the gamey smell always turned his stomach.
Even the smallest hint of it was enough to kill his appetite.
Luckily, Pearson handed him two slabs of beef ribs instead, each the size of both his palms put together.
Heavy with marinade and dripping juice, they must've weighed close to two kilos. He followed Arthur to the fresh firewood crackling nearby.
Arthur sat down on a makeshift bench of split logs, passing his skewer over. "Hold this a second, I need to grab some tools."
"Hey, Arthur, don't just think about yourself. Get one for me too," Uncle called, his nose red and swollen from drink.
"You lazy old coot," Arthur barked back, half-annoyed, half-amused. "You want tools, get 'em yourself. I ain't your servant." He shot Jamie a smirk and disappeared into the trees.
Uncle didn't look the least bit offended. He gave a wheezy laugh and turned to Jamie. "New fella, you're Jamie, right? Folks call me Uncle. Been with this gang longer than most—longer than Arthur, even."
"Nice to meet you, Uncle," Jamie replied politely.
"Good lad. Since you're already holdin' those skewers, mind takin' mine too? I'll go whittle me a stick." Without waiting for an answer, Uncle shoved his own skewer into Jamie's arms and lumbered off in the opposite direction from Arthur.
Jamie looked down at the extra weight and sighed under his breath. "Figures. No wonder he gets away with freeloading."
The camp had quieted a little, only the crackle of fire and the low hum of voices carrying across the clearing.
That was when Jamie heard light footsteps approach behind him. He figured it was Arthur back already, so he didn't bother to look.
Then a pale arm draped across his shoulder, and a glass bottle of whiskey appeared in front of him.
"Want a drink first?" a woman's voice asked.
Jamie froze, realizing it wasn't Arthur.
He turned his head quickly—too quickly—and ended up colliding with a soft, warm chest.
The faint smell of perfume mixed with sweat filled his nose, making him stiffen like a deer in a lantern's glare.
"I—I'm sorry, Ms. Jones. Didn't mean to…" he stammered, pulling his head back, face burning.
Karen Jones stood there, her coat tossed aside, wearing only a thin white lace top that left little to the imagination.
She gave him a sly little smile before stepping over the log to sit beside him.
"It's fine," she said smoothly. "I just saw you sittin' here alone and thought you might want a drink. Wasn't Arthur with you? Where'd he go?"
"He went to cut some sticks for the meat." Jamie lifted the skewers to show her.
"Figures. Here, take this bottle. If it runs out, there's more on the table—whole case of it."
She set the whiskey down next to him, then added with a teasing tone, "Arthur's one of the best at grilling. Stick close, and you might learn a thing or two. Who knows, give it a couple years and you could take over Pearson's job. Lord knows everyone's sick of his cooking."
"Alright," Jamie said, watching her rise and walk off.
Only when she was gone did he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. His cheeks still burned, but the shadows of night hid the worst of it.
Camp cook, huh?
He almost laughed at the thought.
Sure, he could cook well enough to keep himself fed, but hiding away in the camp wasn't why he was here.
He had bigger things ahead—this wasn't some story about a kitchen hand chasing dreams.
This was the world of Red Dead Redemption, and he had his own path to carve.
"Did Uncle go find tools himself?" Arthur returned and sat back down next to Jamie, carrying the makeshift grilling tools he'd crafted.
"Yes, he went by himself," Jamie answered honestly.
"Hmph, about time," Arthur spat, then jabbed the tools into the dirt beside the campfire.
The so-called tools were nothing fancy—just some Y-shaped branches Arthur had cut down.
He stuck several of them into the ground in a half-circle around the fire. Then, taking the skewers of meat from Jamie's hands, he adjusted them—pushing the chunks to the middle of each stick so both ends were exposed.
One by one, he set them across the branches, creating a rough but sturdy grill.
As the meat began to sizzle, Uncle stumbled back into camp, reeking of booze.
"Arthur, I knew you wouldn't let me down," Uncle slurred, letting out a loud burp.
"Get lost, you useless drunk. I don't know why Dutch puts up with you wasting our food," Arthur growled, glaring at him.
"Heh, you'd all miss me if I were gone," Uncle chuckled, lifting his bottle and taking another swig, eyes half-shut with drink.
"Rat. Cockroach. Hope you rot in hell," Arthur muttered under his breath, still fuming.
His eyes fell to the bottle at Uncle's boots.
With a grunt, he picked it up, tipped it back, and took a long swig himself—finally quieting down.
Just then, Javier strolled over, guitar slung across his chest. He sat on a nearby log, gave the strings a test strum, and said, "Gentlemen, how 'bout a little music before supper?"
The moment his fingers danced over the strings, a bright, cheerful tune filled the air.
The mood of the camp shifted instantly—voices softening, laughter carrying across the fire.
Jamie sat quietly, listening. He didn't know the melody, but the warmth of it tugged at him all the same.
He flipped the skewers now and again, copying Arthur's motions, while humming along without even realizing it.
Arthur and Uncle recognized the song straight away, humming and half-singing under their breath. The tune carried tales of young love, the kind that promised a happy ending.
When Javier wrapped up the song, he rose, guitar in hand, and wandered over to the second campfire. There, he struck up another lively number, and soon half the camp—Pearson included—was singing along.
As the last chord faded, Pearson cracked open the oven, checked the trays, and grabbed a skillet. With a sharp clang of metal, he hollered, "Apple pies are ready! Come get 'em while they're hot!"
That got folks moving. One by one, they drifted toward the chuck wagon, plates in hand, eager for dessert.
Jamie stood and said, "I'll fetch ours. You keep an eye on the meat."
Arthur just nodded, turning another skewer as the fat dripped and hissed in the fire.
Jamie lined up at the wagon with the others, grabbed a tin plate, and handed it to Pearson.
The cook, still wearing his ever-present top hat, glanced at him and set two golden pies onto two plates. "Plenty more where that came from. If it suits your taste, come back for seconds."
"Thank you," Jamie said, then carried the plates back to the fire.
He blew on one of the steaming pies before taking a bite. Sweet and tangy filling burst across his tongue, the grainy apples soft but not mushy.
The crust, though, was a little too sour and tough, not nearly as good as the filling deserved.
Still, it wasn't bad.
After finishing one, Jamie set the other aside, saving room for what really mattered—the meat, now sizzling and dripping with promise over Arthur's makeshift grill.