Colter | Later that evening
The fire in the corner cabin cracked and hissed, trying to fight off the icy grip of the storm still howling outside. Cam Gallagher rubbed his gloves together, breath fogging up before him. The warmth inside barely touched the cold soaked into his bones.
John was resting—half-conscious and wrapped in every blanket they could find. Abigail hadn't left his side. Hosea and Strauss were huddled in the other corner with their maps and murmured plans, while Lenny tried not to fall asleep standing up.
Cam stepped outside the cabin, boots crunching against the hard-packed snow. The wind had died just a little, the night settling heavy and gray over Colter. He walked toward the stables, or what passed for them here—half-frozen planks leaning against rock.
There, waiting patiently, was Dusty.
"Hey, boy," Cam whispered as he approached, voice low and warm.
Dusty, a strong, steel-grey Missouri Fox Trotter with a white blaze across his nose, nickered in greeting and pushed his muzzle into Cam's chest.
Cam smiled and ran a gloved hand along the horse's mane. "You saved my hide back there... again. Can't count how many times now."
Dusty snorted, ears flicking back and forth.
"Remember when I pulled you from that mess in Strawberry? Dumb bastard tried sellin' you for glue," he said softly, his voice going almost hoarse with the memory. "But look at us now. Always lookin' after each other."
He rested his forehead against Dusty's.
"Don't know where I'd be without you, boy. Probably buried under a couple feet of snow, or worse."
Behind him, the crunch of footsteps.
He turned slightly, hand still resting on Dusty's neck.
Mary-Beth stood there, arms wrapped tight around her shawl, her cheeks pink from the cold. "Didn't mean to interrupt," she said with a small smile. "He's beautiful."
Cam smiled gently, nodding. "Ain't interruptin' nothin'. Just tellin' Dusty here how much he's stuck with me."
Mary-Beth walked closer, stopping beside him. "You've got a soft voice when you talk to him. Thought you were always the quiet type... but never knew you were gentle too."
Cam let out a low laugh, more air than sound. "Horses'll teach you that. You don't listen to 'em, you don't last long."
She ran a hand down Dusty's neck. "He trusts you. I can see it."
"Trust goes both ways," Cam said. "Been through fires, floods, and bullets with this one. Only living soul I've known longer than a year."
They stood in the cold, just listening to the wind howl beyond the cliffs. Cam stole a glance at her. She looked different in the snow. Softer. The usual sparkle in her eyes was still there, but it shimmered differently in the moonlight.
"You okay?" he asked gently. "Back there, when we brought John in… you looked a little shaken."
She nodded slowly. "It's just… I've known Abigail a long time. Seeing her break like that… it's hard, y'know? Makes all this feel real again. Like this life catches up, no matter how far we run."
Cam looked down at the snow, the firelight from the cabin windows flickering in her eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "I get that."
There was a silence, not awkward but... full. Like something unspoken rested between them.
"You ever write, Cam?" she asked suddenly.
He raised a brow. "Write?"
"Yeah. Stories. Thoughts. I don't know. I just… you carry yourself like someone who has a lot on his mind, but not always have a place to put it."
Cam looked out toward the dark ridge above Colter. For a moment, he thought about the letters he'd burned, the old notebook stashed in his saddlebag, the dreams that still haunted him some nights.
Cam looked out toward the dark ridge above Colter. For a moment, he thought about the letters he'd burned, the old notebook stashed in his saddlebag, the dreams that still haunted him some nights.
"Used to," he said. "Don't much anymore."
Mary-Beth smiled again, gently. "Well… maybe you should again. I'd read it."
Cam chuckled softly. "You say that now."
She shrugged. "Try me."
The wind picked up again, and she pulled her shawl tighter. "I should head back in before I freeze out here."
"Right," Cam said. "Don't want you turnin' into a Mary-Beth popsicle."
She gave him a playful nudge. "You're not as grumpy as you pretend to be, you know."
He watched her as she walked back toward the cabin, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Night, Cam."
"Night, Mary-Beth."
He turned back to Dusty, rubbing the horse behind the ear.
"Yeah," he murmured. "She's somethin', ain't she?"
Dusty let out a soft snort, and for a second, Cam felt a flicker of warmth in the cold.
Colter | The Next Morning
Cam woke to the smell of stale coffee and the far-off clatter of boots on frozen wood. The cabin he'd slept in was drafty, and his breath came out in slow, heavy clouds. The others were already stirring.
He sat up on his cot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Outside, the wind had died down, but the cold remained sharp and merciless. He pulled on his coat, holstered his sidearm, and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
The camp was quieter than usual.
Arthur stood near the fire pit, poking at embers with the butt of his rifle. His jaw worked like he was chewing over thoughts he didn't care to say out loud.
Cam joined him without a word, offering a silent nod. Arthur responded with one of his own.
"You sleep?" Arthur asked after a moment.
"Barely," Cam replied. "Storm's quieter, but the cold's killing me"
Arthur gave a low hum of agreement.
They stood like that for a while. No need for small talk. The fire popped.
Then came the voice of Uncle from behind the cabin. "Damn near froze my ass off takin' a piss!"
Cam glanced toward the sound. "He always that graceful?"
Arthur smirked. "That was graceful for him."
A door creaked open—Mary-Beth, bundled up and scribbling in a small notebook as she walked, nearly tripping on a patch of ice.
Cam chuckled and called out, "Careful there. I thought you were a writer, not a stunt performer."
She stuck out her tongue and made her way over. "Some stories are worth breaking your tailbone for."
She looked at Arthur. "Good morning, Arthur."
He tipped his hat politely. "Mornin', miss."
She turned to Cam. "I've got something for you."
He raised an eyebrow as she handed him a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?" he asked, unfolding it.
"Just a little sketch I made of you and Dusty. From memory."
Cam studied it. The lines were rough, but filled with life—the curve of Dusty's neck, the angle of Cam's shoulders. It was imperfect... and yet deeply true.
"You drew this?"
She smiled. "Don't act so surprised."
"I ain't," he said softly. "It's just… real nice. Thank you."
Arthur looked between them, then stepped away with a smirk. "I'll let y'all have your little art class."
Mary-Beth gave Cam a sideways glance. "He's not wrong. You've got a sketchable face."
Cam snorted. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She grinned, turning back toward her cabin. "You figure it out, cowboy."
Cam folded the drawing carefully and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
Then, as he turned to head toward the horses, he caught sight of Sadie Adler standing alone just beyond the treeline, rifle slung over her back. She hadn't said much since her rescue. The fire in her eyes was still raw, burning with something close to grief—and rage.
He approached quietly, giving her space but not leaving her alone.
"You alright?" he asked.
She didn't turn to face him. "Don't ask me that."
He nodded, understanding. "Fair."
They stood in silence for a bit, watching the wind blow snow across the pines.
"You were brave, back in that cabin," he offered.
Sadie snorted. "I wasn't brave. I was just... done bein' scared."
Cam respected that. Deeply.
"Still," he said. "You did good. We're glad you're here."
Sadie finally looked at him, eyes hard but not unkind. "Thanks, Gallagher."
He tipped his hat. "Anytime."
Later that Day
By midday, Cam found himself helping Javier gather firewood near the edge of the ridge. They worked mostly in silence, both men too worn to waste words.
"You ever seen snow like this back where you're from?" Javier asked finally.
Cam shook his head. "No. Dust storms, sure. Snow like this? Rarely."
Javier grinned. "You'll hate it by tomorrow."
"I already hate it," Cam muttered, hoisting another log.
They shared a laugh.
Evening Fireside
That night, the gang gathered near the largest firepit. Dutch was speaking to a few of them—talking about moving east, waiting out the storm, finding hope in the thaw.
Cam sat on a stump, Dusty resting nearby, chewing at hay.
Mary-Beth leaned against a barrel beside him, watching Dutch.
"Do you believe him?" she whispered.
Cam looked into the fire for a long moment.
"I want to," he said.
They said nothing else for a long time.
And in that silence—surrounded by outlaws, flickering flames, and snow as far as the eye could see—Cam felt the strange weight of something settling.
Family, maybe. Or something like it.
Colter | Nightfall
The wind outside howled low and mean, but inside the main cabin, things were softer. Quieter.
Cam sat near the fire, a tin cup of weak coffee in his gloved hands. The heat didn't do much, but he clung to it anyway. He hadn't said much since sundown—just sat, listened, and watched the people he now called gangmates shuffle about, each of them trying to survive the cold in their own way.
That's when Reverend Swanson plopped down beside him, reeking of tobacco and something sharper.
"You believe in redemption, Gallagher?" he asked without preamble, eyes bloodshot.
Cam gave him a sidelong glance. "That depends on what needs redeeming."
Swanson chuckled, hollow and sad. "Everything."
Cam didn't reply right away. The fire cracked. Swanson sighed, brushing frost from his shoulder.
"I used to preach real sermons," the Reverend muttered. "Pulpits. Choirs. All that. Now? I just try to keep warm and not drink myself into a grave."
Cam finally spoke. "Maybe you should start small. Just... try not to freeze tonight."
Swanson chuckled again, a little warmer this time. "Now that sounds like a sermon I can believe in."
The Kitchen Corner
Later, Cam wandered toward the back of the cabin, where Tilly Jackson and Karen Jones were sitting close, wrapped in blankets and whispering between bites of salted jerky.
"Tilly. Karen," Cam greeted them with a polite nod.
Karen looked up with a raised brow. "Well, look who's learned everyone's name."
Tilly smiled. "He's got a good memory. Or he's just listening."
Karen smirked. "Most of the men in this camp don't do either."
Cam leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "Guess I'm trying to break the pattern."
"Good," Tilly said simply, eyes meeting his. "We need more men who try."
Karen tilted her head at him. "So what's your story, Gallagher? You run from something or toward it?"
He gave her a crooked smile. "Little of both."
Karen raised her jerky like a toast. "That makes three of us."
The three of them sat in companionable silence for a moment. Karen eventually leaned her head against Tilly's shoulder. Tilly glanced up at Cam.
"You miss home?" she asked softly.
Cam thought about it. The sun-blasted plains. Dusty's hoofbeats echoing against the canyon walls. His brother's laugh.
"Every damn day," he said.
Tilly just nodded. "Me too."
Cam later found himself outside, checking Dusty's reins when Abigail Roberts approached, bundled in her thick coat, her hair tied back, eyes sharp and tired.
"Gallagher," she greeted. "Thanks for helping bring John back."
Cam nodded. "Didn't do it alone."
"No," she said. "But you did something, and that's more than a lot of folks."
She crossed her arms, looking toward the mountains.
"I thought I lost him," she said. "Again. I keep thinking about Jack… growing up without his father."
Cam hesitated, unsure what to say. Then he spoke gently.
"My mother and father raised me. Despite their flaws they both did their best. It was enough."
Abigail looked at him, softer now. "Yeah? Where are they now?"
Cam's eyes darkened just a little. "Gone. Long time now."
"I'm sorry," she said, the words honest.
He gave her a small smile. "So am I."
Abigail looked back toward the cabin. "You know... Dutch is full of big ideas. But if this gang's gonna survive, it'll be because of the ones who stay steady. The ones who don't talk so damn much."
She looked back at him. "That might be you."
Cam blinked, surprised. "That's a hell of a compliment."
"It's not a compliment," she said. "It's a warning."
Then she turned and walked back into the warmth, leaving Cam with only the wind and the quiet breath of Dusty at his side.
Night falls. The wind never really stops in Colter.
The fire burned low in the corner of the cabin. Sparks drifted upward like tired ghosts. Cam sat close to the heat, coat still on, boots stiff with frozen mud. He wasn't sure if the chill was outside or under his skin.
Lenny leaned against the opposite wall, knees tucked close, reading some old pamphlet he must've picked up off a busted shelf. Not that he was really reading—it was just something to look at.
Across from them, Hosea cleaned a rusted old trap, the kind meant for foxes or hares. His movements were methodical, calm. Cam had been watching him out of the corner of his eye. Hosea moved like a man who'd done too much running in his time and finally learned how to wait.
"You ever trap before?" Hosea asked, not looking up.
Cam shook his head. "My old man did. Back in Tennessee. I watched, but I never had the patience."
"Ah," Hosea said, smiling faintly. "That's all it is—patience. The world doesn't hand you meat. You sit, you wait, you get lucky."
Lenny glanced up. "That why you stuck with Dutch this long?"
Cam gave him a look. Lenny shrugged.
"Fair question," Hosea said. "But no. I didn't stick with Dutch because of luck. I stuck with him because he knew how to keep people believing. That used to be enough."
"Used to be," Cam echoed softly.
Lenny tucked the pamphlet into his coat. "You both been at this a while. Me, I just fell into it after everything in Saint Denis went sideways."
"You're not the only one," Cam said. "I didn't grow up wanting to be an outlaw. Just ended up too far down the wrong road to turn around."
"Feels like we all did," Lenny said.
The wind picked up again outside, brushing ice crystals across the windows. Hosea finally set the trap down and looked at the two younger men.
"You boys ever figure the world out," he said, "be sure to write it down before it kills you."
Cam let out a breath through his nose, amused but tired. "You always talk in riddles?"
"No," Hosea said. "Only when the truth would hurt more."
The door creaked open, and Dutch stepped in, brushing snow from his hat. He looked over the cabin like he was expecting an argument, but instead found the three of them just... being.
"Evenin'," he said.
Hosea nodded. Lenny sat up straighter. Cam stayed where he was, silent.
Dutch took a few steps forward, hat in hand, letting the fire touch his face.
"Sometimes," he began, voice low, "I think about the first time I met Hosea. We were young. Loud. Didn't know what we were doing, just that we didn't want to follow someone else's rules."
He looked at Cam and Lenny.
"You two remind me of us. Not because you're reckless. But because you're still holding onto something... even if you don't know what it is."
Cam met his gaze. "And what happens when that something fades?"
Dutch smiled faintly, like he'd heard the question before in another voice. "Then we find something new. Or we become ghosts."
No one spoke for a while. The fire crackled. A kettle hissed near the edge of the coals.
Eventually, Lenny said, "Feels like the world's got less room for men like us."
Dutch looked at him for a long moment. "Then we carve out our own."
He turned to Hosea. "We'll head out again soon. Get off this mountain. Make good on what we lost."
Hosea gave a quiet nod. "East?"
"East," Dutch said, then walked back out into the storm without waiting for another word.
Lenny exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "Man talks like he's always got a plan."
"He does," Hosea murmured. "Whether it works... that's another matter."
Cam leaned forward, tossing a bit of wood into the fire. "If we're gonna keep following him, we better figure out what we're walking into."
Lenny met his eyes. "Whatever it is, we're in it together now."
Cam gave a small nod. Not in agreement, not in commitment—just... understanding.