Snake Skin | John Marston

It All Makes Sense Now

By sunrise, Y/N had managed to set up camp—not quite a camp, really, more like a desperate hiding spot—somewhat near Saint Denis, nestled in the treacherous swamp. The fire crackled weakly, struggling against the dampness that clung to the air, and the haphazard arrangement of branches and leaves offered little respite from the unforgiving sun.

She couldn't dare venture into town for medical attention; the law was still out for her blood, and she was barely surviving on the meager scraps of bird meat she could catch. Her ammunition dwindled as quickly as her strength, each bullet a reminder of her precarious situation.

Leaning against a gnarled tree, Y/N cradled her injured shoulder with one arm while her other hand absentmindedly drew stick figures in the dirt. She looked down at the crude representations she had created, two simple figures side by side. A small chuckle escaped her lips, tinged with bitterness. "I guess this is it, John. Now you can worry about your family," she muttered, the name carrying the weight of a thousand memories—both good and painful.

She glanced at the murky swamp water, then pushed herself up, struggling against the tree that had been her only support. It wasn't just the wound that hindered her; it was the sheer exhaustion that had seeped into her bones, sapping her strength with each passing hour. The pain in her shoulder had dulled in the early morning light, but fatigue clung to her like a heavy shroud.

After moping around her makeshift hideout, inspecting various herbs and keeping a wary eye out for lurking gators, the quiet was shattered by the sound of galloping hooves echoing through the dense trees. Her heart raced as she quickly ducked behind a wide trunk, bracing herself for what was to come. She strained her ears, the anticipation stretching the moments into an eternity.

Soon enough, the riders pulled to a halt not far from her camp. The tension in the air thickened as she listened intently.

"This way. Footprints," one of the men called out, his voice steady but laced with determination.

"Good," the second man replied, and Y/N felt her heart pound in her chest as she crouched lower, still gripping her revolver tightly. She knew she had to remain vigilant.

As the two men dismounted, Y/N held her breath and inched out of her cover, her weapon trained on one of them. Her eyes widened in recognition as she saw the bearded man—he was the stranger who had saved her from the lawman just days before.

"What?" she demanded, voice steady but edged with suspicion. "Are you here to finish the job?"

The bearded man flinched, instinctively raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Hey, don't. I'm not here for that. Instead, we have a proposition," he said, keeping his tone calm.

Y/N's gaze flicked to the second man, who nodded slightly, his body language cautious.

"What proposition?" she asked, her gun still cocked and aimed, not ready to trust either of them.

"Colm wants to see you," the bearded man stated, his expression serious.

"Colm?" she echoed, confusion washing over her. The name meant nothing to her, though a vague sense of foreboding settled in her stomach.

"Our boss, Colm. Colm O'Driscoll," the second man explained, gradually lowering his arms in a show of goodwill. Memories flashed through her mind, fragments of a time she couldn't quite grasp, but the name O'Driscoll didn't ring any bells.

"Hey now!" Y/N exclaimed, shifting her aim toward the second man as he attempted to lower his hands further. "Don't get any ideas, partner."

The bearded man slowly approached her, but Y/N felt the tension coiling in her chest. In a flash of instinct, she pointed her gun skyward and pulled the trigger, the shot reverberating through the swamp. The deafening crack echoed ominously, and she knew it would attract unwanted attention.