Runaway Train (RDR1/John Marston)

Prologue

"When I'm gone, they'll just find another monster. They have to, because they have to justify their wages." ~ Dutch Van Der Linde

"What?" John asked in a voice filled with quiet rage. "Say that again."

"Your wife," sneered Edgar Ross, staring down the barrel of John's pistol. A pistol, ironically enough, that had been a gift from the man it was currently aimed at. "She was killed in a prison riot last week," he finished with a grin. "But don't worry. Soon you'll be joining her. Archer?"

John glanced to the side to notice that Archer Fordham had his gun trained on John with an angry look plastered on his face. The rage in his eyes was so palpable John could practically feel the heat coming off his skin, baking the freezing air around them. Fordham's boots crunched snow as he took a step towards John, and then John knew. They meant to kill him here and now. He was never supposed to survive this quest. How on Earth could he have ever believed otherwise?

Perhaps he should let them kill him. Already, he could feel the pain crushing his soul into a thousand tiny pieces at the thought of Abigail dying afraid and alone, all because of him and the life he led. Her death was entirely his fault.

"My son?" John questioned, his voice a hoarse whisper with his finger tightening on the trigger of his gun.

"He's been sent to an orphanage a long way from here," Ross gloated. "We can't give him back to you, can we? You're a dirtbag criminal. He'll stay there for a couple more years until he comes of age, and then they'll turn him out on the streets."

"You bastard," John hissed. At least Jack wasn't dead. That was something. An orphanage wasn't a great option, but at least he was being cared for.

"I did all that for you," John growled, taking a step towards Ross, his brow knit tightly and his voice shaking with rage and grief. "I gave you Javier alive and I watched both Bill and Dutch die right in front of me. I made sure they all reached justice, and you let me go on with all that knowing Abigail was dead? Fuck you." He shook his head.

Ross's smug, unafraid grin taunted him like a knife to the gut. He was so arrogant that he believed John's instinct for self-preservation would win out over his desire to kill Ross, since there was no way for him to pull the trigger of his gun without Fordham shooting him immediately after. Or maybe, he thought John would hesitate because of his desire to get Jack back. And John did want that, but part of him believed, at least a little, that Jack was better off without him.

"John-," Archer Fordham began to say, as if sensing what was about to happen next.

"This is for my wife," John growled as he pulled the trigger of his gun.

He expected the light to go out of him instantly as Fordham fired his gun too, but somehow the blackness of death did not overtake him like he figured it would. Instead, he watched Ross crumple to the ground with a hole in his forehead. Somehow, miraculously, Fordham's shot had missed John altogether. It went wide and accidentally hit one of the soldiers standing behind John. Fucking moron couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

He ducked and rolled as the three or so remaining army soldiers opened fire, trying to hit him before he could escape. Luckily, Buell - his horse - was standing nearby with the army mounts, so John only had to make it that far.

He began to run, until a sharp pain in his thigh caused him to yelp in agony and fall to the ground. Firing blindly over his shoulder, John dragged himself to his feet, barely registering the pain in his thigh as a gunshot, and a bit dazed by the sight of his own blood as it poured from his leg and stained the clear, white snow a bright crimson color.

Buell was very close, but it took all of his strength to keep limping forward, firing his pistol over his shoulder in an incoherent rage. Thankfully, it seemed he'd hit a few of the men because there didn't seem to be as many gunshots now.

His fists clasped Buell's creamy, yellow mane, and he pulled himself into the saddle like a sack of potatoes, running on pure adrenaline. "C'mon, boy," he growled, pulling himself upright and grabbing his repeater from the long holster dangling by Buell's side, "Get me the hell out of here."

Another bullet grazed his shoulder as he kicked his good foot against Buell's side. Gushing blood like a stuck pig, John hung on tightly to Buell's mane as the stallion galloped away from the army. John's last act before they rounded the bend in the trail was to shoot several of the army horses right between the eyes. There was no way they'd be able to follow him as well on foot. He hated to shoot innocent horses, but right now it seemed like the only way to escape without dying.

Buell tore down the road like a racehorse with John bumping painfully along for the ride. Once they were a good mile or so away, John steered Buell off to the side and pulled him to a stop. His hands looked pale, and his leg was still gushing. Maybe he'd nicked an artery, in which case he'd bleed to death soon if he didn't get the wound bandaged.

Sliding down from Buell's back, John crumpled to the snow and began to dig. This was just a faint dusting, and he knew that below it, he would find plenty of green moss and dead ferns. Using the spongy, absorbent moss and other plant life, John packed his wound full to slow the bleeding. Next, he tore the red neckerchief from his throat and wrapped it around the packed wound to hold all the plant material in place. It wasn't a perfect bandage, but it would greatly delay his death by exsanguination if he was lucky.

He was also lucky he still had the strength to haul himself back onto Buell's back, but somehow he managed to. Kicking Buell into a gallop again, He wrapped his arms around Buell's neck and held on, forgetting to even steer the animal.

He wouldn't have been able to steer even if he'd tried. There were tiny, black spots in his vision, and his body felt strangely light and numb, but somehow simultaneously tingly. He felt very cold even though the air became warmer the further down the mountain they traveled, and his head felt very heavy and cumbersome.

"Buell," he whispered right before losing consciousness, "Take me someplace safe. Please."

He didn't remember much about the next few hours, only that it took all his strength to hang on to Buell and keep the horse moving forward. He didn't steer, and the reins were still wrapped around the saddle horn to keep them from trailing by the horse's feet. But as long as they kept moving, there was more distance between them and the army, distance that might just keep John alive long enough to find Jack.

Eventually though, John passed out completely. He could feel himself falling from Buell's saddle and hitting his head on the ground. That was the last thing he remembered for a good, long while.