Loyalty Divided

Chapter Forty Four

Late March 1899

Late morning sun shone over a moderately sized camp sprawled outside the port town of Blackwater. Tents and makeshift shelters dotted the landscape, interspersed with wagons that served as both home and storage for the Van der Linde gang. Smoke curled lazily from a few cooking fires, carrying the scent of breakfast through the crisp spring air.

The camp hummed with muted activity as gang members went about their daily routines. Some tended to the horses, brushing them down or fetching water from nearby streams. Others gathered around small, crackling fires, sharing stories or quietly preparing for the day ahead. The atmosphere, while tinged with caution, held a sense of camaraderie that had become a hallmark of their nomadic existence.

Arthur Morgan stood at the edge of the camp, his gaze sweeping over the familiar faces and the worn paths that marked their temporary home. Beyond the camp, the town of Blackwater loomed like a promise and a threat. Its docks bustled with activity, the sounds of ship horns and distant voices carrying on the wind. For the gang, Blackwater offered both opportunity and danger, a precarious sanctuary on the edge of the law.

He spotted Charles Smith tending to a line of horses, brushing down their coats with practiced care.

"Morning, Charles," Arthur called out, his voice carrying warmth despite the chill in the air.

Charles looked up, a brief smile touching his lips. "Morning, Arthur. Got some fine horses here, ready for anything."

Arthur nodded, his thoughts drifting to the newer faces that had joined their ranks. Javier Escuella had brought his own brand of charm and skill with him, becoming a trusted member of the gang. Abigail Roberts, a prostitute that Uncle had introduced to the gang and now with young Jack at her side, had found a place among them, her determination and resilience a quiet strength within the group.

Bill Williamson, always quick with a joke or a fight, had become a larger-than-life presence, often stirring up trouble as much as he helped out. Sean MacGuire, with his Irish wit and penchant for troublemaking, had carved out a niche alongside the gang, always ready for the next adventure.

Charles, a skilled tracker and fighter, had proven himself invaluable time and again, his quiet demeanor belying a fierce loyalty to the gang. Micah Bell, a newer addition whose sharp wit and reckless ambition had both impressed and unsettled the others, lingered on the outskirts of the group's trust.

Lenny Summers, the young and eager gunslinger, had quickly become a favorite among the gang, his optimism a refreshing contrast to the harsh realities they faced. Jenny Kirk, a fierce and independent spirit, had found her place among the outlaws.

And then there was Josiah Trelawny, the enigmatic conman who drifted in and out of their lives like a wisp of smoke. His ability to vanish and reappear at will kept the gang guessing, his talents useful when discretion was paramount.

As Arthur reflected on each member, he couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and concern. The gang had grown, yes, but with growth came heightened risks and tensions. Blackwater, with its promise of opportunity and danger, was a test they had to navigate carefully, their future uncertain yet bound by the bonds forged in the crucible of their shared struggle against the encroaching law.

As Arthur strolled through the camp, his eyes scanning the morning bustle, he spotted Hosea Matthews seated under the shade of an old oak tree. The years had etched deeper lines on Hosea's face, and Arthur could see the weight of their outlaw life in every furrow.

"Mornin', Hosea," Arthur greeted, his voice gravelly yet warm.

Hosea looked up with a wry smile. "Ah, Arthur, just the man I wanted to see. Got a little proposition for ya."