The muddy streets of Valentine were just starting to dry as the sun pushed through the overcast skies, casting long shadows down the town's bustling main road. The clamor of hammers, wagon wheels, and cattle filled the morning air. The others had left, riding back toward camp with whatever gossip and goods they'd wrangled from town.
Cam Gallagher stayed behind.
Leaning against the hitching post outside the general store, he adjusted the brim of his hat and watched the townsfolk drift past. There was a rhythm to Valentine—rough, honest, and a little suspicious. Just like him.
A couple of cowhands gave him a side-eye. One whispered something under his breath. Cam pretended not to notice.
His name was starting to float around. Word traveled fast when you worked with a man like Herr Leopold Strauss.
Debt collecting wasn't a friendly job. It left a taste in your mouth—bitter and heavy. Cam knew he was part of something that didn't sit right with everyone, but he'd seen harder times. People didn't pay unless you gave them a reason to. Strauss made sure of that.
A wiry butcher, bloodstained apron and all, paused near the stall.
"Hey," he grunted, nodding at Cam. "You're one o' them boys works for that German feller. Strauss, right?"
Cam gave a slow nod. "That's right."
The butcher chewed on his cheek, spat near the trough. "Heard about what happened with old Jenkins... reckon you boys don't mess around."
"I reckon folks oughta pay what they owe," Cam said simply. He didn't smile.
The butcher let out a low whistle and walked off, muttering something to a passing rancher.
Cam adjusted his coat and pushed off the post. Valentine had eyes, and they were watching. He wasn't sure he liked the attention, but it came with the territory. Maybe someday they'd know more about him than the debts he collected.
Maybe they'd see he wasn't just another thug with a ledger and a gun.
The next day
The muddy streets of Valentine still glistened from last night's rain, steam rising where the morning sun peeked through the clouds. Cam Gallagher stepped out of the boarding house above the gunsmith's, his shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a quick wash. A quiet morning—for once.
He crossed the street and pushed into Keane's Saloon. The place smelled of whiskey, cigar smoke, and eggs frying somewhere behind the bar. It was loud in the kind of way saloons always were—laughter, boots clomping on wood, chairs scraping—but Cam felt at ease in it.
He ordered coffee, a plate of eggs and sausage, and took a seat near the back corner, watching folks come and go.
That's when he noticed the man.
Sitting a few tables down, well-dressed, well-groomed, with spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose as he scribbled into a leather-bound notebook. His suit was too clean for Valentine, his shoes too polished. But he didn't look soft—just... tired. Frustrated.
By the bar, a much older man lay passed out, snoring and twitching in his sleep. Silver hair, whiskey-soaked clothes, revolver strapped to his leg like it hadn't seen a draw in years.
The clean man sighed, closed his notebook, and walked over to Cam's table—hesitant at first, then gathering his confidence.
"Excuse me," he said, voice warm, British, but unpretentious. "Sorry to trouble you, but... you look like a man who gets around."
Cam raised a brow. "That so?"
The man smiled faintly, chuckling under his breath. "Terribly sorry—I've just had a long morning. My name's Theodore Levin. I'm a writer. Working on a biography of that man over there—Jim 'Boy' Calloway. Or rather... what's left of him."
Cam glanced to the bar. The old man snorted in his sleep, mumbling nonsense.
"He used to be one of the greatest gunslingers the West had to offer," Levin continued, "and now I can barely get three words out of him unless they're about whiskey or regrets. I was hoping to write the tale of a legend... but the legend can't remember his own story."
Cam nodded slowly. "So what do you want from me?"
Levin looked around, lowered his voice. "Help. I've been trying to track down others—people who do remember. Rivals, old comrades, enemies. I've got names. Faces. And I could use someone with... well, let's say, a firmer spine than mine to go meet them."
He reached into his satchel and slid four faded photographs across the table. Names written underneath in tidy penmanship:
Flaco Hernández
Emmet Granger
Billy Midnight
Black Belle
"I'd like you to talk to them," Levin said. "Ask about their time with Calloway. Maybe get a photograph while you're at it. And if things get heated..." He paused, eyes flicking toward Cam's sidearm. "Well, use your judgment."
Cam studied the photos. Faces full of attitude. Rough around the edges. Gunslingers from a time already slipping into memory.
"What's in it for me?"
"Half the proceeds from the book," Levin offered. "Fair share. And perhaps a little place in history, too. If you're into that sort of thing."
Cam pocketed the photographs, eyes never leaving the man. "You're a good talker, Mister Levin."
"I try," Levin said with a smile. "And you seem like someone who could use a good story to chase."
Cam stood, dropped some coins on the table for breakfast, and tipped his hat. "I'll think about it."
"I'd appreciate that," Levin replied. "Just... don't get yourself shot, Mr. Gallagher. I haven't written a tragic epilogue in some time."
Cam gave him a crooked smile as he pushed through the saloon doors and stepped out into the rising light of Valentine. In his pocket, the photos whispered old tales waiting to be told.
But he wasn't in a rush.
Not yet.
Cam had just finished a quiet breakfast and stepped out of Keane's Saloon, stretching as he took in the crisp morning air. The sun was just beginning to climb in the sky, casting long shadows on the dusty streets of Valentine. As he walked, the sound of raised voices caught his attention. He turned to find two strangers—Proetus and Acrisius—arguing outside a general store. A woman, Helen, stood nearby, clearly exasperated with the scene.
Proetus noticed Cam and waved him over. "Hey, you! We could use a hand with something. You seem like the type who's not afraid of a little risk."
Acrisius rolled his eyes but glanced toward Cam. "We need someone who can shoot straight. Proetus here thinks we can prove our courage to Helen with a little game."
Helen, who seemed caught somewhere between annoyance and amusement, looked at Cam. "You wouldn't believe the nonsense these two get up to."
Cam raised an eyebrow. "What kind of game are we talking about?"
Proetus grinned. "Nothing too wild. Just need someone to shoot bottles off our heads. We're trying to show Helen we've got guts."
Helen crossed her arms. "It's ridiculous."
Cam considered it for a moment, the sound of the argument between the brothers fading as he weighed the risk. He'd dealt with fools before, but if they paid, why not? He wasn't looking for trouble today, but it seemed like an easy way to make a quick bit of coin.
"Alright," Cam said, his voice steady. "Let's see if you're as brave as you say you are."
They made their way to the back of the saloon, where the brothers quickly set up their bottles—one atop each of their heads. Cam examined the situation, a mix of skepticism and amusement on his face. He drew his revolver, gave them a pointed look, and aimed.
"Stay still, now," Cam warned, his voice cool as he squeezed the trigger. The bottle on Proetus' head exploded into pieces. Proetus cheered as Acrisius laughed.
"Not bad! Alright, now let's try something smaller," Acrisius said with a grin.
Cam nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he prepared for the next round. This time, the bottles were smaller, perched carefully on the brothers' heads. With the same smooth motion, Cam fired again, knocking both bottles off with ease.
Helen, who had been standing to the side, shook her head. "You two are insane. This is a terrible idea."
But the brothers weren't deterred. "Now one last challenge!" Proetus called out, a devilish gleam in his eye. "We'll stand on one leg!"
Acrisius groaned but did as his brother said, balancing precariously on one leg. Proetus followed suit. They both wobbled as the bottles were placed once more, and Cam took a deep breath. The shot rang out, and the bottles were gone before they could even react.
The brothers staggered, barely managing to stay upright. They laughed, exhilarated by the adrenaline and the satisfaction of completing their foolish challenge.
"Well, damn," Acrisius said, shaking his head. "Guess that proves we've got guts, eh?"
Proetus clapped Cam on the back. "You're good with a gun, my friend. We owe you."
Helen looked at Cam, her expression softening. "I didn't expect it to be done so quickly. You're a damn good shot."
Cam nodded, tipping his hat. "Just doing my part. You two should probably think about a new hobby, though."
Proetus grinned. "Well, here's your payment." He handed Cam a few bills. "Not much, but it's what we've got. You earned it."
Helen took a step forward. "I still think you're crazy for doing that, but thanks for humoring them."
With that, the brothers gave Cam a quick wave and walked off toward the edge of town with Helen in tow. Cam watched them leave, the money now safely in his pocket.
He walked back into town, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done, even if it had been a bit on the ridiculous side. At least it paid.
Cam spent the morning walking around Valentine, taking in the sights and sounds of the busy town. He hadn't planned on spending much time here today, but when he felt the weight of the bills Proetus handed him, he figured he could indulge himself for a bit. The heat of the afternoon sun was starting to settle in, and a little poker game at the saloon sounded like just the way to pass the time.
He pushed the door open to Valentine Saloon, the familiar scent of whiskey and tobacco wafting through the air. Inside, the place was alive with chatter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. A few men hunched over the poker tables, their faces tense as they played, while others leaned against the bar or engaged in their own conversations. A piano played in the corner, and the rhythmic plunking of its keys added to the laid-back atmosphere of the place.
"Afternoon, folks," Cam muttered, tipping his hat to a couple of regulars sitting near the door.
A few of them nodded at him, offering half-hearted greetings. Cam wasn't exactly a stranger around here—he'd done a bit of work with Strauss, made a few acquaintances—but he wasn't a local. Still, he had a reputation for being a straight shooter, and that was enough to earn him some measure of respect in the saloon.
He walked to the back, where the poker table was set up. A handful of men sat around it, their eyes wary as Cam approached. A man in a green vest, holding a cigar, raised an eyebrow at him.
"Well, well. If it ain't the stranger looking to try his luck. You here for poker, or just passing through?"
Cam leaned against the table, his eyes scanning the faces of the men. "I'm here for the game," he said, taking a seat across from the man in the green vest. The others glanced around at one another before nodding.
"Alright then," the man said, flicking a few chips into the center of the table. "Don't say we didn't warn you. We're not here to take it easy on the new guy."
Cam smirked, tapping his hand on the table. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
The dealer shuffled the cards, and the game began. Cam focused, playing carefully but with confidence. He knew how to read a room, how to spot the bluffers, and he wasn't afraid to push a bet if the hand felt right. The hours passed in a blur of cards, laughter, and sharp-eyed glances. He was in his element, and it didn't take long before he had accumulated a decent pile of chips.
By the time the afternoon sun began to dip lower, Cam had worked his way to the top of the table, with more than a few stacks of chips to show for it. The men around him weren't pleased, but they respected his skill. He was careful with his winnings, not drawing too much attention to himself, but the tension in the room was clear. Everyone at the table had figured out by now that Cam was a damn good poker player, and they were starting to grow frustrated.
As the last hand of the game neared its end, the tension in the saloon seemed to increase. The cards were dealt, and Cam knew this was his moment. He glanced at his hand—a solid pair of kings. He pushed his chips forward confidently, his eyes locking with the man in the green vest.
"Let's see what you've got," Cam said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The man hesitated, then reluctantly matched his bet. The dealer flipped the final card, revealing a two of hearts, which was nothing to write home about. Cam held his breath as the others revealed their hands. One by one, they folded, their faces scrunched in frustration. When it was the green-vested man's turn, he hesitated for a long moment before finally revealing his hand—an ace and a ten of spades, nothing close to Cam's pair of kings.
"Well, well," Cam said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "Looks like I win again."
The room was quiet for a moment, the others exchanging defeated glances. Finally, the man in the green vest muttered a few curses under his breath before pushing his chips toward Cam.
"Guess you got the luck today," he grumbled, clearly irritated. "Take it all, but don't think we're done here. You won't be walking out with this much forever."
Cam shrugged nonchalantly, stacking his winnings with a sense of quiet pride. "Maybe I won't. But for today, I'll take my chances."
As the saloon goers settled into their own conversations, the front door swung open. The chime of the bell overhead caught Cam's attention, and he looked up to see Charles, Javier, and Bill walk in. They were talking among themselves, but as soon as they saw Cam sitting at the table with a pile of chips, the conversation shifted.
Javier, ever the jokester, flashed a grin. "Well, look at you, Cam. You come here to make a quick buck?"
Bill scowled but said nothing, while Charles nodded approvingly. "Didn't take you for a gambler, but I guess everyone needs their vice."
Cam stood up and clapped his hands together. "Drinks on me, boys. Let's make the afternoon worth it."
A cheer rose from the tables, and the bartender—who had been watching with mild amusement—nodded approvingly. "What'll it be, Mr. Gallagher?"
"Whiskey," Cam said, walking up to the bar and dropping a couple coins down. "Round for me and the gents here. They made me earn it."
He leaned back against the counter, sipping slow. Javier was gonna like this, he thought. Bill too, though the bastard might owe him a drink back. Charles? He might just nod and call it a good time.
A pair of cattlemen started singing some half-remembered folk tune in the corner. A young woman carrying a tray of empty glasses slipped past him with a wink. Cam didn't chase that—he just tipped his hat politely and kept sipping.
Valentine Saloon – Late Afternoon
The light through the saloon windows spilled warm across the floorboards, giving the haze of dust and tobacco smoke a kind of golden sheen. Cam Gallagher sat at the bar, boots crossed at the heel, sleeves rolled up, hat tipped back. A low hum of piano music played in the background, and the smell of spilled beer, sweat, and perfume mixed into the air like old memories.
He'd been holding court at the poker table earlier — charm, wit, and just enough bluffing to walk away with a small stack of winnings and a bigger sense of pride. Now, he was half a bottle deep and two jokes past decent, leaning against Charles with a lazy grin as the bartender poured another round.
"…and then I told the man, if he's gonna accuse me of cheating, he oughta at least wait till I'm sober enough to deny it properly," Cam said, raising his glass. "To honesty!"
Charles chuckled, shaking his head as he raised his drink. "You've got a gift for bullshitting, you know that?"
"It's not bullshit if it works," Cam replied smoothly. "It's strategy."
Javier stood beside them, already three drinks in and grinning ear to ear. "If that's strategy, you must be a general by now."
Cam winked. "I'm more of a lover than a fighter, Javi."
"Oh, we know," Charles said dryly, nudging him. "Especially after last night. Heard you were tryin' to flirt with Mary-Beth like she was some fancy hotel girl."
Cam blinked, then smirked. "Tryin'? I'll have you know, she laughed at my joke. That's practically a marriage proposal where I'm from."
Javier leaned in with a teasing grin. "She laughed because it was pitiful, hermano. You told her her eyes looked like the moon over a swamp."
"I said 'a warm bayou moon,' and it was poetic," Cam protested, hand over heart. "She blushed."
"She cringed," Charles corrected.
Cam shrugged and threw back another swig of whiskey. "Same muscles, different message."
The trio broke into laughter as the barmaid refilled their glasses. Cam offered her a wink that she ignored with practiced grace. He turned back to the bar, spinning his whiskey glass between his fingers.
Then he spotted the two working girls at the far end of the saloon—Anastasia and Lil. Anastasia had her arm looped around a bottle of gin and was laughing at something a cowboy whispered. Cam squinted, adjusted his collar, and smoothed his hair back.
"Watch this," he muttered to Charles and Javier. "I'm gonna go start a legend."
He sauntered over, the swagger in his step just a touch exaggerated by the drink.
"Ladies," he greeted, tipping his hat. "I hope y'all don't mind, but I've just about run out of people pretty enough to talk to."
Anastasia arched a brow. "You sure it's not the whiskey talking?"
"If it is," Cam said with a grin, "then I say we let it keep goin'. It's been doin' better than I ever could."
Lil giggled, sipping from her glass. "What are you, some kind of poet now?"
"Only when inspired," he said, hand over heart. "And darlin', I ain't seen a muse like you since I looked in the mirror this mornin'."
That earned him a groan from Anastasia, but she didn't walk away. Cam leaned in just enough to be playful without pushy, making them laugh with a few stories, a few exaggerated tales of bounties that may or may not have happened, and an invented affair with a governor's daughter that ended in a food fight and a duel.
When he stumbled back to the bar fifteen minutes later, flushed with victory, Javier gave him a slow clap.
"You're unbelievable," he said.
"I am," Cam agreed, throwing himself dramatically into a stool. "And also very thirsty."
Charles gave him a look. "You know they're workin', right?"
"I ain't paid 'em a cent," Cam replied. "Charm's still free last I checked."
"Just don't let Mary-Beth catch you," Javier teased.
Cam scoffed. "Mary-Beth ain't jealous. She's patient. Probably sittin' by the fire right now, wonderin' when her dashing rogue's comin' back to read her terrible poetry."
Charles choked on his drink laughing. "More like sittin' there thankful for the peace and quiet."
They were still laughing when the saloon doors creaked open.
The light from outside cut into the haze, and in walked Arthur Morgan, dust on his coat and a look that said he'd seen more than enough foolishness for one day.
Javier was the first to notice.
"Arthur! There he is!" he called, lifting his glass.
Cam perked up and turned, spreading his arms like he'd just seen a long-lost brother. "Speak of the outlaw!"
Arthur approached slowly, eyes sweeping across the drunken trio.
"You boys start drinkin' before noon again?"
"It's afternoon now," Cam said, raising his glass solemnly. "...Somewhere."
"Come meet some friends," Javier said, already turning back toward the girls.
Cam slapped the bar and stood. "C'mon, Arthur. Let's give these ladies the privilege of your charming company."
Arthur followed, resigned, into the next moment of trouble.
The saloon was alive now—the kind of loud that soaked into your bones. Glasses clinked, the piano man was hammering out a lively tune in the corner, and a few gamblers at the card table were either winning big or lying real well.
Cam leaned on the bar with a half-empty whiskey glass, still a little red in the cheeks from laughing too hard at one of his own jokes. He'd been swapping stories with Javier and Charles, teasing the girls, basking in his poker winnings, and generally being a charming nuisance to anyone within earshot. The girls had just wandered off after a particularly rough line from Arthur, and Cam watched them go with a slow whistle and a crooked grin.
"Guess you still got the magic touch, Morgan," Cam said, nudging Arthur with the back of his hand. "Like a hammer to the skull."
Arthur muttered under his breath, "Just bein' honest."
Javier leaned in, grinning. "That's your problem, hermano. You're too honest. Women want mystery."
Cam raised his glass. "And liquor. And compliments. And bad decisions. Luckily, I provide all three."
They clinked glasses. Cam downed the rest of his whiskey and exhaled hard, leaning back against the bar with the practiced grace of a man who'd done this dance too many times.
Arthur looked around. "Where's Bill?"
Charles blinked like he'd forgotten the man existed. "Last I saw him, he was takin' a piss outside."
Cam squinted toward the saloon doors. "Place is too nice to be leavin' puddles out front."
Javier chuckled, then pointed. "Hey hey hey, there he is."
The doors swung wide with a gust of daylight and dust, and Bill stumbled in like he'd just lost a wrestling match with the wind. His eyes were bloodshot, shirt halfway unbuttoned, and he looked about five seconds away from starting a fire just for warmth.
Cam turned to Arthur. "That look on his face? That's either the need to fight or a real bad itch."
Bill, already weaving through the crowd like a blunt instrument, bumped into a burly man near the middle of the floor.
"Hey, watch where you're going!" Bill barked, squaring up like a man who hadn't felt pain in a while.
The man held up his hands. "Take it easy, pal!"
Bill sneered. "'Take it easy,' huh?"
Arthur sighed into his drink. "He about to kiss that guy or punch him?"
Cam, still leaning against the bar, smirked. "If it's both, I'm buyin' the next round."
Before anyone could intervene, Bill grabbed the man by the vest and drove his forehead straight into the stranger's nose. The crack echoed through the saloon louder than the piano, and the poor bastard went crashing onto a table, shattering glass and pride.
There was a second of silence—just one heartbeat—and then all hell broke loose.
Javier, raising his glass like it was some toast. "Oh... and we have our answer."
Cam slammed his empty glass down and rolled his shoulders with a grin. "Guess it's time for my cardio."
This wasn't their first fight. And sure as hell wouldn't be their last.
The second Bill slammed his head into that poor bastard's nose, the whole saloon tipped over into madness.
Chairs scraped. Fists flew. Bottles cracked like gunshots. A woman screamed.
Cam Gallagher didn't hesitate—he pushed off the bar with a grunt and ducked a wild swing before it could catch him on the ear.
"Well, hell," he muttered, stepping into the fray like it was a poker hand he couldn't fold. "Knew that whiskey was too good to be true."
Charles was already tearing through men like he was born for it—controlled, efficient, all muscle and precision. Javier was grinning like a devil, swinging bottles and yelling in Spanish between punches. Arthur stood back at first, sighing through his nose, then waded in with a grim shake of his head, knuckles already cracking.
"Damn fools," Arthur muttered, clocking a man in the jaw. "Can't leave you boys alone for five damn minutes."
Cam was halfway through trading blows with a wiry ranch hand when a bottle missed his head by inches and exploded against the wall behind him. He turned, grabbed a barstool, and swung it sideways into the nearest man's gut.
"You call this a fight?" he barked over the chaos. "I've had rougher mornings after moonshine and heartbreak!"
The bartender's voice rang out in futility. "You're gonna wreck the place! For the love of God—stop!"
Cam ducked, punched, spun, cracked someone across the chin, all in a dance that made the fight look like some bastardized waltz. Arthur moved through like a bear—steady, deliberate, dropping folks with brutal, practiced swings.
Javier: "Cam, behind you!"
Too late. A brute grabbed Cam and slammed him against a support beam.
"You punch like a preacher on Sunday," Cam hissed, kneeing the man and breaking free.
Then the room shifted.
Boots pounded the stairs.
Tommy.
The saloon seemed to quiet just enough for the sound to carry—a heavy tread, slow and ominous. He stepped down, thick arms and a face like a thundercloud. The bartender went pale.
Bartender: "Tommy! No! Don't—"
Tommy's eyes scanned the wreckage and landed on Javier.
Tommy: "Come here, you little greaser."
Cam moved fast, stepping between them. "Easy, fella. Plenty of other bastards in here to hit."
Tommy didn't say a word. He just shoved Cam aside like a sack of potatoes.
Javier threw a punch—it landed—but Tommy barely blinked. He grabbed Javier by the collar and slammed him into the counter. The impact made glasses jump.
"Javi!" Cam grunted, spinning back. "Alright, enough of this bull—"
Cam charged. His fist landed hard against Tommy's ribs.
The big man grunted—and then grabbed Cam by the coatfront.
"Shit," Cam hissed.
Tommy turned and hurled him through the window.
Glass shattered. Cam hit the muddy street with a splat and a thud that knocked the wind clean out of him.
Inside, Arthur ducked a punch and looked toward the busted window. "Ah, hell."
He cracked his opponent across the jaw, took one more swing to finish the job, then pushed toward Javier.
Javier: "Get off me!"
Arthur: "Hey, tough guy!" He landed a solid punch on Tommy's side, drawing his attention. Tommy turned and shoved Arthur back, but Arthur kept swinging.
Outside, Cam groaned. Rain hit his face, cold and sobering. He sat up in the mud, coughing and swearing under his breath.
Then the saloon doors creaked open.
Tommy stepped out.
Arthur was right behind him, shouting, "Cam, you good?!"
Cam pushed himself to his feet, face muddy, lip bleeding, hat gone.
"Yeah," he rasped, cracking his neck. "Just had the wind knocked outta my charm."
He met Tommy's eyes across the rain-slicked street, wiped his face, and grinned.
Tommy: Come on, pretty boy...
The street was soaked, rain slashing down in sheets as Tommy's heavy boots pounded the ground. He wasn't waiting around for an invitation—he was coming for me, and I wasn't about to run.
I wiped the mud from my lips, glaring up at him. Pretty boy? He'd made a mistake with that one. I wasn't here to look good. I was here to end it.
Cam: Pretty boy? You're kiddin' me...
Tommy cracked his knuckles, the sound sickening as it cut through the wet air. There was a crowd forming around us, a mix of curious townsfolk and the rest of the gang. But none of that mattered now. It was just me and him.
Tommy: Come on, I ain't even started. Let's see it.
My body tensed, ready. I wasn't as big as him, but I had speed on my side. My mind was already a few steps ahead—anticipating his every move.
Cam: You're the best Valentine has? Come on then, big boy.
The crowd started murmuring, clearly entertained by this show of blood and pride. But I wasn't playing for their amusement. Tommy's shoulders rolled as he grinned, ready for another go.
Barber: Knock his head off! Yeah, you got him now!
Tommy: What you scared of, huh?
I didn't flinch. I never did when it counted. This wasn't about fear. It was about outsmarting the big man who thought he could push me around.
Cam: Scared? Nah. Just waiting for you to make a damn move.
The next thing I knew, Tommy was charging. His fist came at me like a freight train. I dove to the side, feeling the wind of it brush my cheek. That's when I saw the opening.
Arthur (shouting from the sidelines): You got this, Cam! Don't let him push you around!
Tommy: You won't be so pretty when I'm done.
I sidestepped again, this time grabbing his arm and twisting it, sending him crashing to the wet ground. The sound was satisfying, but I wasn't done. I wasn't about to let him up just yet.
Cam: You must be the village idiot, huh? Try that again.
The crowd cheered, the energy between us growing like a living thing. Tommy scrambled to his feet, shaking off the mud and fury. He came at me again, faster this time, swinging wildly. But I was already one step ahead.
Bill (shouting): Put that ape down, come on! Kill that peabrain, Cam!
Charles: You okay there, Cam? Don't let him get the better of you!
Tommy: You got some fight, I'll give you that... But it ain't gonna be enough.
Cam: We'll see about that.
Tommy swung again, but this time I wasn't there. I ducked low, spun behind him, and landed an elbow right to his back. He let out a grunt but didn't fall. Not yet.
Cam: You're makin' a fool of yourself.
Javier (yelling from the window): Don't play with him, Cam! Finish this, already!
Bill's voice rang out through the chaos.
Bill: That's it, Cam! Put him down!
I wasn't playing around anymore. Tommy was bigger, but his strength was all he had. I had brains. And that's what would take him down.
He came for me again, fists flying, but I was already moving. I ducked under his swing and kicked him in the side, sending him into the mud with a hard crash. The crowd's roar drowned out the rain for a second, and I didn't give him a chance to breathe. I was on him in an instant, straddling him and throwing punch after punch.
Javier (yelling): That's it, Cam! Kick his teeth in!
His face was a bloody mess. Every punch felt like it landed harder than the last. His grunts of pain didn't stop me. I was going to finish this.
But then someone from the crowd shouted.
Stranger 3 (from the crowd): Hey, come on. Stop that.
I paused for a second, fists still raised, looking down at Tommy, who was barely conscious now. I wiped the rain from my face, listening to the stranger.
Stranger 3: Stop! Stop! Please! Please, I beg you. Stop.
I froze, my fist halfway to Tommy's face. I glanced down at the stranger, eyes narrowed.
Cam (breathing heavily): What business is it of yours?
The stranger backed off, his hands raised in surrender.
Stranger 3: No business. No business, sir. But, please... I beg you.
I stood up slowly, looking down at Tommy, who was now just a bloody heap on the ground. I wiped my knuckles, my body aching from the fight, but I wasn't about to show it.
Cam (to the stranger): You better back up. This ain't your fight.
The evening was certainty eventful. It painted the muddy street silver, mixed with the blood and bruises we'd earned in that goddamn saloon. I leaned against the porch post, catching my breath, shirt clinging to my ribs and fists still stinging.
Arthur stumbled up beside me, slow and quiet, spitting red into the dirt.
"Hell of a night," he muttered, one hand cradling his ribs.
I gave him a lopsided grin, even as my jaw ached. "We makin' friends or enemies in this town? I'm losin' track."
Before Arthur could answer, a voice cut through the haze—slick as an oil snake and twice as smug.
"Making new friends again, I see, Arthur."
I turned just as Arthur did. Josiah Trelawny stood there like he hadn't just walked into a damn warzone, calm as ever beneath his umbrella. Dutch stepped out behind him, and suddenly the whole world shifted back into place.
Dutch smirked. "Look who we found sniffin' around."
Trelawny gave a little bow. "Josiah Trelawny, gentlemen. A pleasure as always."
Arthur wiped the back of his hand across his busted lip. "Well, well… Thought you'd gone off to New York."
"And miss all this glamour?" Trelawny gave a wink. "You must be joking."
I pushed off the post and stood straighter, still feeling the bruises bloom across my side. "Guess even a city man can't stay away from the mud too long."
Arthur chuckled beside me, low and rough. "How've you been?"
Trelawny gave a shrug, brushing nonexistent dirt from his lapel. "Quite well indeed. I went looking for you gentlemen in Blackwater. Though, it seems you ain't exactly welcome back."
Arthur grunted. "Ain't exactly news."
The rain fell quiet between us. Then the others came into view—Javier walking stiffly, Charles checking a scrape on his hand, and Bill, somehow still puffed up like a rooster in a rainstorm.
Trelawny lit up like a damn candle. "Ah, Javier and Charles. I've missed you boys. And Bill… well, you're looking as well as ever."
Dutch crossed his arms, voice turning colder. "We ain't too popular in Blackwater. He's right."
Arthur looked at the dirt, brow furrowing. "We left a lot of money there."
Trelawny's tone dipped. "And young Sean, it seems."
That name stopped us cold. I stood up straighter.
Dutch turned to him, sharp. "Sean? You found him?"
"I have," Trelawny nodded. "Bounty hunters. Got him stashed somewhere near Blackwater. Trying to see how much the government'll pay. But there's talk of moving him soon."
Arthur shook his head slowly, jaw tight. "We step foot in Blackwater…"
"…we're dead men," I finished quietly, already seeing the weight of it in Arthur's eyes.
He winced then, hand pressed to his temple. I stepped closer, steady in case he stumbled, but he caught himself.
Dutch nodded. "There'll be Pinkertons all over the place. But if Sean's alive, we ain't leavin' him."
I looked toward the horizon, rain dripping from the brim of my hat. "Then we need to move fast. Before they disappear with him."
Arthur grunted. "Yeah. Course."
Trelawny's gaze landed on Dutch. "It's you they're after. Always is."
Dutch didn't even blink. "Charles, find out what you can—quietly. Josiah, take Javier."
The three nodded and slipped off into the storm.
Dutch turned back to us. "Arthur, go get yourself cleaned up. Join them when you're ready."
Bill, of course, had to pipe up. "Well… what about me?"
I exchanged a look with Arthur. Here we go.
Dutch barely glanced at him. "Exactly. What about you?"
Bill stammered. "W-What does that mean?!"
Dutch waved it off. "Ah, Bill. Come on."
Arthur groaned and headed around the side of the saloon. I followed, shoulders sore, every step heavy with bruises.
We found a water barrel near the corner. He dunked his head first, then came up with a gasp, wiping water from his eyes.
"My turn," I muttered, dunking my face in the icy water. It hit like a slap, but it was better than the mud caked to my skin. I came up, blinking.
Arthur leaned on the wall beside me, face dripping.
"That ape hit like a freight train."
I smirked. "You should've seen him after I got him in the ribs. Thought he was gonna cough up his lunch."
Arthur gave a short laugh, then spat into the dirt. "Thanks for stepping in when you did."
I glanced at him. "You'd've done the same for me."
He nodded.
And for a second, we just stood there in the cold rain—two battered men in a dying world, already thinking about the next fight.
The bath in the hotel was worth every cent—even if my ribs still felt like they'd been kicked in by a mule.
Hot water had done what it could. The bruises were still there, sore and angry under my skin, but at least I didn't look like I'd crawled out of a grave anymore.
By the time I rode back into camp, dusk had crept over the trees. A few lanterns flickered to life. Someone was singing off-key near the fire. The usual noise, the usual quiet.
Steam still clung to my skin from the bath, and my ribs still throbbed with every step. But I felt better. Lighter, even. Least until I rode back into camp.
That peace lasted about five seconds.
Mary-Beth was already standing there, near her wagon, arms crossed so tight it looked painful. She wasn't smiling. Wasn't blinking. Just staring like she'd been waiting all day for me to show my face.
I barely got my foot out of the stirrup before she started.
"You got anything to say for yourself?"
I blinked, confused. "What?"
"No apology? No explanation?" Her tone was sharp. She wasn't yelling—yet—but it was that quiet kind of mad. The kind that meant you were already in deep.
I frowned. "Didn't know I was supposed to prepare a speech."
She scoffed. "You look fine. Which is a goddamn miracle, considering you got thrown through a window!"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah, well… I've had worse."
"Oh, you've had worse." She laughed, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "So I guess that makes it all fine, huh?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you think it."
I moved past her, hoping she'd cool off, but she followed right behind.
"You think I don't hear things around camp? You think I didn't hear about Bill staggering in, blood on his shirt? Charles barely able to move his arm? Arthur getting slugged and you flying through glass like a ragdoll?"
I turned back to face her. "I handled it."
"No, Cam. You survived it. There's a difference."
I shrugged. "Did what I had to do."
"No, you jumped into a bar fight with a man twice your size and acted like it was just another day at work."
"You're acting like I started it."
"I'm acting like I care that you almost didn't walk away from it!"
That stopped me cold. For a second, we just stared at each other.
"You weren't even there," I muttered.
"I didn't have to be," she snapped. "I was here. Waiting. Wondering if someone was gonna ride in and say you weren't coming back. You ever think about that?"
"I didn't ask you to worry."
Her face changed. Like I slapped her.
"No. You didn't. Because you never do."
She stepped back, but her voice got quieter, rougher.
"You never ask anyone for anything. You'd rather bleed out in a ditch than admit you need help. And maybe that worked for you before, but you're not out there on your own anymore. There are people who give a damn if you get killed."
"I didn't mean to drag anyone into it."
"Yes, you did," she said, pointing at my chest. "Every time you throw yourself into a fight like that, you're dragging all of us into it. We have to sit with the not knowing. The what-ifs. The empty seat by the fire."
I stared at her, heart beating too loud in my ears. "You think I don't know that?"
"Do you?" she asked. "Because all I see is a man who'd rather pretend none of this matters. That he doesn't matter."
I clenched my jaw. "I never asked for this life."
"Neither did I," she said, voice cracking. "But we're in it. And I'm not gonna stand here and watch someone I—" She stopped herself, swallowing hard. "Someone I care about throw himself away like he's nothing."
I looked away. "I'm not your responsibility."
"I know that," she whispered. "But maybe I wanted to be part of something that felt like it could last."
I shook my head. "Nothing lasts in this world."
Her eyes flashed. "No. But that doesn't mean you have to destroy it before it even has a chance."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't. Everything in me felt twisted up.
She stared at me for a moment longer. "You keep doing this, Cam… pushing people back, pretending you're made of stone. One day, there won't be anyone left to push."
She turned to walk away, then stopped and looked back, voice low.
"I hope whatever you're trying to prove out there is worth it."
And just like that, she was gone—back toward her wagon, shoulders hunched like she'd folded herself in half to keep from breaking.
I stood there, I feel like a storm hit me that had already passed, heart pounding like I'd just gone a second round with Tommy.
Except this time, I didn't land a single punch.
To be continued