The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xii. Dutch's first boys

John.

Lucky for John, Abigail found things to like about the gang's new camp at Clemens Point. She got over their hurried move quickly enough, once she saw how the site was open and mostly flat, free of the risk of Jack falling from the overlook's steep edge. And the camp had its own raw beauty to it; wild islands just beyond the shoreline that hummed with crickets at night, flickering lightning bugs that Jack tried to catch in his chubby palms.

Arthur had also seemed to loosen his hold on the grudge he'd been harbouring against him, he, John, and Tine away from the camp as often as they were in it. Dutch had been so impressed by what they'd accomplished on the passenger train, and wanted them working together more. As the rest settled into Clemens Point, the three would go further afield on jobs, so as to not make waves in their new home.

Tine's sweet face was the perfect disguise more often than not, so they'd send her into a store to ask a million questions of the shopkeeper, while they raided a storeroom or broke into an illegal card game. She'd flirt with farmhands for information and they'd strike the main houses for their jewelry and valuables when empty of people. She excelled at being a plant, like she'd been on the train, becoming a terrifying third gun if anyone had the mettle to strike back.

As one of Dutch's first boys, John saw how she added something to his and Arthur's bailiwick; improvisation, credible lying, and a ferocity Arthur used to be capable of, but less and less so as he grew older.

Something he hadn't anticipated, though, was Arthur warming to Tine, nor to John himself, once again. The three spent their sojourns out of camp in makeshift camps of their own, joking and drinking, recounting their takes with glee. It was the furthest and most frequent John had been from Abigail since he'd run, all those years ago, but he felt no urge to seek out Tine or have her seek him, contented in his own tent at night, glad to be useful and respected.

And of course, the money they were bringing into the gang spoke well to that. Whenever they did happen to be in camp, Dutch waxed on about moving back west, about finally being free. Soon after any of these pronouncements, they'd be on the road again, out on another job.

He'd given one such moonshine-inspired speech not two days prior, so the three found themselves hunched behind a few trees in the dead of night by the old Fort Brennand, waiting for a coal magnate's stagecoach to come down from Annesburg.

John looked from Arthur, watching the horizon with his binoculars, to Tine, in her blue traveller's outfit, thumbing the velvet-covered buttons dotting her sleeve. Her plan this time was to act as an abandoned new bride, the details of which she'd kept infuriatingly to herself. "Just get ready to kill some guards, all right?" She'd said, "I'm just a poor, innocent girl all by her lonesome." The men had rolled their eyes but let it rest. She hadn't let them down yet.

"I seen it up ahead, Tine," Arthur muttered, lowering his binoculars briefly to address them. "Go." She sprang up from her crouch and picked her way down the hill, pulling a few hairs to float askew around her face. Her usual, eerie calm was replaced by agitated fretting; Tine wrung her hands, paced in a small circle, looked about herself. All with a pronounced sniffing, like she'd been crying and was due to start again at any moment.

Before long, the stage appeared at the crest of the hill and began to make its way down, and Tine whirled toward it, exclaiming, "Oh, thank heavens!"

"Three guards, plus a driver," whispered John from their hiding place, counting the silhouetted figures surrounding the coach.

"Plus whoever's inside," added Arthur, squinting through his binoculars again.

The driver slowed the two draft horses pulling the stage with a "Whoa!", looking down from his seat at Tine. "What are you doing in parts like these so late at night, Miss? This here's Murfree country, ain't safe for a thing like you."