Dutch's Daughter [[RDR2 Arthur Morgan x OC]]

chapter 22; lost boy

"Get out here, you inbred trash!" Dutch's guttural voice pierces the dense swamp air.

Doors swing open on, the sound of thumping boots and loading guns pouring out with the men of Braithwaite Manor. They make the six Van der Linde gunslingers look puny in number but little do they know what this gang is capable of. After months on the run, losing man after man and the still fresh wound of a fallen brother, they're more than ready for this fight. John stands beside Dutch, pistol gripped firmly in his hand and teeth grinding with anger.

"Easy, John... we'll get yer boy back." Charlotte soothes from behind, tightening her fingers around the barrel of her shotgun.

'We've come for the boy." Dutch hollers.

An older gentleman descends from the grand front step, two armed men at either side of him. He twists his mustache between two fingers before gripping the holstered pistol on his belt. "Shouldn't have messed with our business now, should you?"

"Whatever complaint you have with us, alleged or otherwise, that is a young boy. That is not the way you do things."

"Get the hell off our land." The man sneers, his wicked smile turning downwards.

Dutch straightens his back, his eyes turning dark with blood lust. "If you ain't gonna be civilized about this..."

John is the first to raise his gun, spilling the first blood of the night. The rest follow in suit, an immediate gunfight ensuing. In under five minutes, the front of the house is clear of living Braithwaite's and littered with warm bodies. A younger fellow with a hole blown through his chest, topples over the railing of the balcony and crashes onto the ground below. Pistol smoking, John's feet hit the dirt, scrambling up the porch and knocking the grand entrance door open, ready to be met by more foes.

"Get in there and find Jack! And find that Braithwaite woman!" Dutch is close behind, barking orders at his men. Arthur keeps close to John, keeping his back covered. Mr. Marston has never been known for making rational decisions with a sound mind let alone with one flooded with adrenaline and fear for his son's life. Or maybe he's more afraid of the beating Abigail will give him if he comes back empty handed.

Once inside, the group splits up, picking off the last few in a frantic search for the beloved boy. A chorus of 'Jack!' and "Where are ya' Jack?" carries throughout the house, accompanied by occasional shots and a rhythm of bodies thudding to the floor.

"It's barricaded... this must be where they're holed up. There's something... pushed up against it..." Dutch strains, pushing with all his strength against the obstacle. "Charlotte, get up here and give us a hand!"

Immediately she starts up the stairs, Arthur following closely. They pause in the hallway, finding Dutch and John heaving their weight into a shut door. Something is keeping it closed from the other side.

John twists his neck to look at the pair. "Arthur, get over here!"

"No!" Dutch barks, eyes shut tight as he pushes his full strength against the door.

"Dutch, we need his help, what's the matter with you? My boy's behind this door!" John bites.

Arthur looks to Dutch, waiting for his approval before assuming his place. Three weeks have passed but the two are just as much at odds as they were the day they're bond was split. Charlotte, in between the two men, looks at her father and Arthur.

"Arthur, take John and find another way to get in that room. I can try and pick the lock." Dutch's jaw tightens, the vein in his neck protruding with his rising temper. She replaces John's spot on the door, ignoring her father and putting all of her attention on the doorknob.

"There's something barricading it from the other side, picking the lock won't do shit."

"I know that."

"Then why are you wasting time?"

"Because you two can't be in the same room without wanting to kill each other and we got bigger things to focus on right now, if you haven't noticed." Charlotte pulls a pin from her hair, shoving it into the lock mechanism.

Dutch opens his mouth to say more, to defend himself or to attack Arthur, but he's interrupted by Hosea. "We got company out here!" More armed Braithwaite men ride in on horseback and carriages, guns blazing. At the same time, a fury of shots can be heard from within the barricaded room. A decadent dresser slides across the floor and the door swings open. Immediately, Dutch storms in, his dark narrowed eyes search the room and land on the locked closet door. Lifting his pistol, the lock is undone with a single shot. He drives the heel of his boot into the center of the door and with a loud crack it's open. Mrs. Braithwaite, cowers in the corner, her thin bony arms shielding her whimpering face. Dutchs thick hand wraps around her frail wrist, heaving her to her feet before forcing her back to the wall.

"You want me to kill you too, old woman?" He spits in her face, fisted pistol resting beside her head on the wall.

She manages to loosen her wrist, swinging it towards her captors head. "You bastards!" She screeches but her wrinkly fist is caught in Hosea's. He forces it back against the wall, keeping her pinned as the barrel of Dutch's gun presses into her neck.

"Where's the boy?"

"We have lived in this house for a hundred and twenty years... We never had no problems 'cept for Yankees! You killed my sons!" She cries out.

"And I will surely kill the rest of 'em, less you start talking!" Dutch booms, pressing the weapon further into her saggy skin.

"I know your type... common scum. You filth!"

Temper wearing short, Dutch rips her off the wall, gripping her by the hair. "Let's get this hag out of here. Any more of her sons to deal with?"

"They're all dead." John takes a satisfied look around the room filled with murdered Braithwaites. The old woman's eyes follow his, opening wide with horror.

"Nooo!" She howls, kicking and thrashing against Dutch's tight grip, mourning for her lost children. He drags her down the spiral staircase by the hair, through the front doors and down her ridiculously elegant front steps. Tossed into the gravel below, she looks up at the crowd of Van der Lindes surrounding her.

John kneels down to look her in the eye. "Where's my boy?"

Weak and defeated, she pulls herself up to face him. "My sons gave him to Angelo Bronte. So my guess is Saint Denis." A deep chuckle begins working out of her. "Either there or on a boat to Italy!" She cackles evilly. The butt end of rifle drives into spine, sending her face into the dirt.

"Leave her! I told you she was crazy." Dutch waves for the gang to saddle up. Fire pours from the windows, climbing the outer walls and consuming the ancestral (and incestual) home. The flames glow in the defeated witches eyes.