Red Dead Raiders (RDR3)

Chapter 1 "Power"

"What I want to know," Mercer asked, scraping out the stolen canned corn with a spoon, "is why you kissed that old woman more fervently than that of all the others?"

"She wasn't that old." I said dismissively, tossing a stick into the fire.

"The woman had clearly seen many moons," Raven commented, her eyes on the wood she was shaping with her knife, "Mr. Tyler."

Miguel leaned back and yelled, "Eyy! Antonio! Are you done pissing yet?!"

"Don't rush me!" Antonio came hobbling back from the bushes, "You fools call me Santa Anna for a reason!"

I smirked at him as he approached, "Whatever Demon, you find some ants to preach to?"

He sat down with a huff and straightened his hat, "Boy, I heard about all that-" He quoted in falsetto, "the gods that be nonsense. Don't mock Providence little man, I didn't like it."

"Reverend," I said in mock pain, "you're preaching to the choir."

"Uh-huh, right," he said unconvinced and he glanced at Waya, "word was three people were scalped?"

We glanced at him and his sister as well.

"What?" Waya stated, not an ounce of guilt on his face.

"You scalped someone else?" Mercer asked more like a statement.

"¡Jesucristo Waya! Who was it?" Miguel laughed.

"The guard at the colored car said something offensive to my sister."

"His partner," Raven chimed in nonchalantly, "also fell under the train."

"You threw," I laughed incredulously, "two people under the train?"

"What of," Mercer asked, "that dame you were kissing up on before the party?"

I grew quiet and Waya added.

"You also told us not to rob her when we went through the train."

"She," I answered, "reminded me of my family in Atlanta."

"What happened in Atlanta by the way?" Antonio asked, and I grew cold, distant even. "I mean, I told you all the story of my experience at the Battle of Camarón. Was it glorious like that?"

I looked at the burning wood, my face twitching at the sound of distant screams that I knew weren't real.

"No, no it wasn't glorious at all."

*~RDR3~*

About eight years ago...
Sometime during 1858...

I paced back and forth again and again. They had taken her, again they had taken her. I raked my hands through my hair and mumbled prayers to the Lord. Is she going to be okay?

Is my wife going to be okay?

I swear if she's hurt I could break a sledge over someone's head. I would rip my hair out and scream until the sky fell. God, anything but my wife!

Please let it be another false alarm, please!

Or...
Or...

A smile twerked at my lips.

Or let it be a girl.

My nephew, Clyde Tyler, burst in through the door.

"Is the baby out yet?!"