COLTER CAMP – EARLY MORNING
Snow swept sideways across the worn timber cabins. The campfire flickered weakly against the biting wind as Arthur, Cam, and the others lingered in silence, their breath curling like ghosts in the air.
Pearson stood near the fire, rubbing his gloved hands together with exaggerated dramatics. His red nose twitched, his belly growled louder than anyone else's, and his tone was nothing short of pitiful.
"Listen, boys," he started, glancing at Arthur, then Cam. "We're runnin' real low on meat. The stew's lookin' more like hot water every day, and Dutch is expectin' miracles from a man with nothin' but beans and bone broth."
Arthur barely looked up. "So, go find some miracles yourself."
Pearson ignored him. "Come on now, Arthur. You too, Cam. You're both decent shots. If anyone can bring back a deer or two, it's you fellas. I'm beggin' here—man to man."
Cam exhaled, breath steaming as he looked out over the white wilderness beyond the camp. "Alright," he said. "But if we come back empty, you better get used to licking snow."
Pearson grinned. "Knew I could count on you. Charles'll show you the tracks. Man's half wolf, I swear."
The three rode through the silence of the wilderness, hooves crunching through thick snow, trees bowing under the weight of ice. Charles led the way, rifle strapped across his back, eyes sharp.
Arthur rode beside him, adjusting his hat against the wind. Cam followed, wrapped in his long coat, watching the treetops sway.
"Why'd you say yes?" Arthur asked Cam quietly as they passed a fallen tree. "Could've let Pearson squawk all day."
Cam's voice was low. "Because hungry men make desperate choices. And I don't want to kill one of our own over stew."
The sky was a dull sheet of gray, bleeding soft snow over the treetops. Charles stood beside his horse, tightening the strap on his bow. Arthur leaned against a tree, watching him with quiet curiosity. Cam was nearby, checking his own saddle, but keeping to himself for now—letting the two older outlaws have their moment.
Arthur lit a cigarette with gloved hands, the ember flaring briefly against the cold.
"You really think there's deer out there?" he asked, blowing out smoke.
Charles didn't look up. "There's always something out there. Question is whether we're patient enough to find it."
Arthur smirked. "Ain't patience one of the few things we don't got these days?"
Charles gave a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well… hunger teaches patience quick."
He finally stood, slinging the bow over his shoulder, his breath curling as he looked toward the snow-covered ridge ahead. His face was calm, but tight with quiet tension.
Arthur watched him for a beat, then asked, "How's your hand? Still healing?"
Charles flexed his bandaged fingers. "Getting there. I can hold a bow again. Just don't ask me to punch anyone."
Arthur gave a quiet "Hmph" of amusement. "Good. Hate to see you go down in a fistfight."
Charles looked over at him with a faint grin. "Wouldn't be the first time you've seen it."
Arthur nodded once, then grew a little more serious. "You sure about this? Hunting in this cold, your hand not at full strength…"
Charles turned toward him, tone steady. "I'm sure. Pearson wasn't lying—we need meat. And I'm not about to sit in that cabin while everyone starves."
Arthur studied him for a second. "Always said you had a good head on your shoulders."
Charles shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe I just can't stand doing nothing."
There was a pause between them. The kind of silence only old familiarity could hold.
Arthur eventually spoke, quieter now. "Thanks for helpin' Cam out, too. He's still figuring all this out."
Charles gave a nod. "He's got good instincts. Strong, quiet, sharp. I like him."
Arthur's eyes flicked toward Cam, who had mounted up, giving them both a small nod.
"Yeah," Arthur said. "Me too."
Charles slowed near a clearing. Kneeling over faint trails in the snow. "Here. Deer tracks. We're close."
Arthur and Cam followed suit. Charles handed them both bows.
"We don't want to scare them off. Keep low. And aim for the neck or the head. Clean. Respectful."
Cam nodded once. "Let's make it count."
They moved like shadows, creeping between frost-covered branches. Cam crouched low, his breath controlled, bow steady in his hand.
A deer emerged from the thicket—soft brown against white. It stepped cautiously, ears twitching.
Cam drew the bowstring slowly. No sound. No hesitation.
Thwip.
The arrow struck clean through the neck. The deer collapsed without a cry.
Arthur felled another moments later. Charles gave a nod of quiet approval.
"That should feed us for a few days," he said, hoisting the carcass.
Cam wiped snow off his gloves. "Then let's not waste daylight."
The snow had settled in thick drifts, pale as ash and cold enough to bite through wool and leather. The trail back to camp twisted through the trees like a faded scar. Their horses moved steady beneath them, breath steaming in the air with every exhale. The deers lay draped over the saddle, limp and heavy, its blood a dark smear against the white.
Nobody said a word at first.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it was just the way of things out here. Wind in the trees, hooves in the snow, breath in the cold. That was the rhythm.
Charles rode even with Arthur, his gaze sharp beneath the rim of his hat. Calm. Watchful. The kind of quiet that had depth to it. Cam rode a few paces behind, his bow slung across his shoulder, gloved hands tight on the reins. Still new to all this, but not out of place.
Not anymore.
After a while, Charles broke the silence.
"Good shot," he said, voice low like it didn't want to disturb the forest. "Clean."
Arthur gave a small nod, his jaw tight against the cold. "We all did our part."
Cam glanced up briefly, his voice barely more than breath. "Didn't think it'd be that big. Thought deer were... thinner up here."
Charles let out a soft grunt of a laugh. "Sometimes they are. But this one's been feeding well. Lucky we tracked it when we did."
Cam didn't say anything else. He just nodded, eyes drifting back to the snow-covered woods like he was still trying to see the animal out there, still walking.
Arthur's voice cut through the hush. "You ever hunt before?"
"Not like this," Cam said after a moment. "Back south, sure. Boars. Snared a few birds. But... snow this deep? Cold like this?" He shook his head. "Feels like the whole world's holdin' its breath."
Charles looked over at him, thoughtful. "That's not a bad way to describe it."
Arthur gave a small smirk, eyes forward. "Better than Pearson'd manage, that's for damn sure."
That drew a soft chuckle from Charles. Even Cam cracked a grin.
The cold crept in around them, but the conversation added a kind of warmth—quiet and unspoken, the kind built on shared effort. Trust came slow out here, like everything else, but it was coming.
They crested a low ridge and caught sight of Colter below. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, curling up into the gray sky. The cabins looked smaller from here, tucked in against the trees like secrets.
Arthur exhaled, long and steady. "Let's hope Pearson don't start squawkin' soon as we ride in."
Charles tilted his head slightly. "He's just nervous. Talks to keep his hands from shakin'."
Cam blinked. "So he's always talkin', then?"
Arthur laughed under his breath. "Only when he's awake."
That earned a real laugh from Charles, deep and short. Cam smiled again, small but genuine. The kind of smile you only wear when the worst of the cold's behind you and the trail's familiar again.
As they neared the outskirts of camp, Arthur glanced over. "We're gonna need more than this," he said, tone back to serious. "This deer's not gonna last long."
"I'll head out again tomorrow," Charles replied, already thinking it through. "Take Cam. He's steady."
Cam didn't hesitate. "Just tell me when."
Arthur looked back at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "You're doin' alright, kid. Keep it up, you'll find your place here."
Cam didn't answer right away. But something flickered in his eyes—quiet, maybe even grateful. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.
They rode the last stretch in silence, snow crunching beneath hooves, the sound of camp slowly rising to meet them.
And for the first time since this whole mess started... Cam Gallagher felt like he was finally riding home.
Snow clung to their coats as they rode back into camp. Pearson was already waddling toward them, apron flapping like a flag.
"Well, well, well! If it ain't our winter saviors!" he hollered. "That's what I'm talkin' about!"
Arthur dismounted and tossed down the deer.
"Don't get used to it," he said. "You still owe us for this one."
Pearson grinned, already hauling the carcass toward the kitchen. "You boys'll eat good tonight! Might even throw in a dash of spice if I can dig it up."
Cam looked down at the blood soaking into the snow, steam rising.
"Make it last," he muttered. "Next time, we might not find anything."
Pearson gave a mock salute. "Aye aye, Captain."
Charles smirked as they walked away. "Guess we bought ourselves another day."
Arthur adjusted his hat. "Barely."
Cam didn't speak. The cold was still everywhere—in his bones, in the air, in the way Dutch hadn't said a word since the fire started that morning.
But for tonight… they'd eat.