The sun rose pale and cold, brushing gold across the thinning snow. Camp was a flurry of movement—Grimshaw's sharp tongue echoing like a whip crack.
"Oh for Lord's sake, put that book away and go help. Oh… Mary-Beth!"
Mary-Beth sighed, slipping her notebook shut with a quiet click. She stood to lift a bundle of blankets toward one of the wagons but staggered slightly—half from the weight, half from the cold biting into her hands.
"Here," Cam said, stepping in without ceremony.
Mary-Beth blinked, caught off guard. "I had it."
"You were about to drop it."
"I was not."
Cam grinned faintly, already taking the bundle from her arms and setting it into the back of the wagon. "Sure. Next time you can drop it after I offer."
She shook her head, brushing snow from her skirt. "You always this charming in the morning?"
"Only before coffee."
Mary-Beth softened, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks though."
Cam glanced at her. "You okay?"
She looked down for a moment. "Cold. Tired. But… yeah. I'll be alright."
He nodded, respectful of the line. "We all will. This place's dead. Time we left it behind."
As he started walking back toward the lead wagon, she called after him, quieter this time. "Hey, Cam?"
He stopped, turning back.
"Be safe out there."
Cam gave a small nod. "You too, Mary-Beth."
Arthur rode in, dust still clinging to his coat from the morning scout. He reined in his horse by Dutch, who stood with Hosea, eyes to the thawing treeline.
Arthur dismounted, his boots crunching the melting frost. "So… we getting outta this hellhole?"
Dutch smiled faintly, rubbing his gloved hands together. "We're gonna try. Weather's holding. Time to move before Cornwall figures out who really hit his damn train."
Hosea gave a slow nod. "We've got money now. Not enough, but enough to disappear for a while."
Dutch clapped a hand on Hosea's shoulder, then looked to Cam, who was standing by the wagons helping secure crates. "Cam, you get that last wagon ready?"
Cam nodded, wiping his hands on his coat. "Ready to roll. Wagons're loaded. Horses just need water."
Arthur gave him a brief glance. "Ain't bad work for a city boy."
Cam half-smirked. "You think I've never moved a wagon in my life?"
"Not with a rifle slung on your shoulder, no."
Dutch cut in, amused. "Alright, alright. Save it for the ride. Hosea… you said something about Horseshoe Overlook?"
"I know the country a little," Hosea said, brushing snow off his sleeves. "It's quiet out that way. Near Valentine. Good sightlines, enough space for the wagons, and far enough from the Pinkertons."
Dutch took a moment, chewing on that. Then he looked over the whole camp. "Then that's where we're headed. Clean noses, clean guns… fresh start."
He turned to Arthur. "You take that one. Hosea with you."
Arthur gave a nod and looked over his shoulder. "Cam, you with me."
"Figured," Cam replied. He was already grabbing his satchel and climbing into the wagon's back.
Hosea climbed into the passenger side beside Arthur with a grunt. "Hope these old bones don't rattle loose before we make it down the damn hill."
Arthur snapped the reins, and the wagon groaned into motion.
Snow turned to slush as the caravan snaked down the mountain path. The mountains fell away behind them, cold and cruel as ever. The valley below was a promise—muddy, unfamiliar, but alive.
Arthur guided the lead wagon with steady hands. Hosea sat beside him, watching the trail, while Cam leaned against a crate in the back, rifle across his lap, eyes sweeping the treeline.
"You remember when we did this same kind of move back in '95?" Hosea said, his voice low.
Arthur grunted. "Which time?"
"The one where Dutch got us lost in the Dakota wilderness for a week."
Arthur chuckled under his breath. "We ate nothing but pine nuts and shot a raccoon on day four."
"That was your raccoon. I wouldn't have touched it."
Cam leaned forward, arms resting over the back of the wagon seat. "You two sure know how to sell this whole outlaw life."
Hosea turned slightly, smirking. "Don't tell me you're having regrets already."
"No regrets," Cam said. "But I'd rather not be chewing on raccoon again anytime soon."
Arthur glanced back, eyes narrowing slightly. "That's why we ride smart this time."
"We ride smart," Cam repeated. "And lay low."
Silence stretched for a moment, the wagon wheels rattling over the thawing trail.
"You think Dutch's right?" Cam asked. "That we'll be fine at Horseshoe?"
Arthur shrugged. "Dutch is Dutch. Says we'll be fine till we ain't."
Hosea sighed. "It'll give us breathing room. That's all we can ask for right now."
"Long as we keep our heads down," Cam muttered. "And our guns ready."
Arthur smirked. "Now you're starting to sound like me."
Cam leaned back again. "That's how I know I've been in this gang too long."
Fade out as the wagons continue forward into the valley, snow behind them, the promise of Horseshoe Overlook ahead.
The creak of wagon wheels rolled through the cold morning air as the caravan pushed slowly down the mountain trail. The sun was a soft smudge in the sky, just beginning to melt away the night's frost. Cam rode beside Lenny now, the two of them silent, watching the treeline as their horses trotted along packed snow and mud.
Up ahead, Dutch's voice cut through the wind.
"Lenny! Micah! Get over here!"
Cam exhaled quietly. He already knew what was coming. Micah sidled up on his horse with that familiar smug tilt to his shoulders.
"Yes, boss?" Micah said lazily, already annoyed.
"You two ride up ahead. Make sure there's no surprises," Dutch ordered. "We've had enough of those."
Micah scoffed. "Me? With the boy?"
Cam didn't look at him. Just nudged his horse forward and muttered, "If that's too much for you, I'll ride alone."
Micah gave him a sharp look but didn't rise to the bait. Dutch cut it off before it could escalate.
"Just go."
Lenny caught up beside Cam with a low chuckle. "You always know just how to get under his skin."
Cam shrugged. "I'm not trying. He just walks around with it peeled open."
They rode ahead together, hooves crunching the frozen dirt. Cam's eyes scanned the landscape—bare branches, lingering snow patches, and the hush of wind moving between trees.
"You think we'll make it out of these hills clean?" Lenny asked.
Cam considered it. "Only if we stay alert. O'Driscolls could be out here, wolves too. But I'd rather be the one looking than getting caught sleepin'."
Lenny nodded. "Yeah. After everything in Colter… I just want some ground that ain't iced over."
Cam didn't say it, but he agreed. He was ready to feel warmth again—dirt instead of snow, real earth underfoot.
Later that day, Cam had drifted back near the wagons after scouting ahead. He was riding quietly behind Mary-Beth's cart when a loud crack echoed down the trail.
"Ah, shit!" Hosea cursed.
Cam looked up just as the back left wheel of Arthur's wagon buckled and snapped. Wooden spokes splintered and supplies rolled out across the rocky ground. Cam immediately kicked his horse into a trot.
Arthur was already climbing down, scowling.
"Wheel's busted," he said.
"No kidding," Cam muttered, dismounting.
Bill called from up ahead. "You alright back there?"
Arthur snapped back, "Does everything look alright?!"
Charles was already running over from the wagon ahead, boots thudding against the trail. Hosea motioned to the wheel.
"Alright, Charles—you and me lift it. Arthur, you get the wheel back on."
"I'll keep it steady," Cam added, stepping beside the broken axle. "Don't need it sliding and breaking someone's damn leg."
"Appreciate it," Arthur said, grabbing the tools. "Ain't keen on dyin' under a wagon, not after last night."
They worked quickly—Arthur grunted as he shouldered the wheel into place, Hosea and Charles holding the back end aloft. Cam kept his grip firm, watching the angle, his eyes flicking toward the treeline.
That's when Hosea stiffened.
Three riders. Quiet, distant, watching from the ridge.
Arthur noticed too. "What do you think?"
"If they wanted trouble," Charles murmured, "we wouldn't have seen them."
Cam squinted at the distant shapes. They sat their horses like statues—silent and still. Not bandits. Something else.
"They're watching," Cam said quietly. "Not hiding. That means they're trying to send a message."
Hosea raised a hand in peace.
"Poor bastards…" he muttered. "We really screwed them over down here."
They didn't linger. Arthur fixed the last of the wheel, Charles helped toss supplies back onto the cart, and Cam gave one last look at the ridge before mounting his horse again.
As they started moving once more, Arthur asked, "What happened?"
Hosea climbed back onto the wagon seat beside him, sighing as the wheels rolled forward.
"Well… get in, and I'll tell you."
Cam rode close behind them, eyes still lingering on the ridge, the image of the silent riders burned into his mind. Something about them haunted him. Like they were staring at a storm only they could see—and maybe, just maybe, it was coming straight for them all.
The trail dipped gently now, the snow fading into thick, frozen dirt as the wagons creaked onward. Cam sat his horse beside the wagon Arthur was steering, flanked on the other side by Charles. The air still carried a sting, but the sunlight filtered stronger through the bare trees—warm enough to be hopeful.
"Not too far now," Hosea said, adjusting his coat as he sat up front with Arthur. "Stay on this trail. We'll follow the river, then cut inland."
Cam let his gaze drift across the hills. The land opened up here—wide, raw country. Beautiful in a quiet, lonely way. Hosea's voice brought him back.
"So… yes, the Indians in these parts got sold a very raw deal," he said. "This is the Heartlands we're going to. Good farming and grazing country… They lost it all. Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass. Killed or herded up to reservations in the middle of nowhere."
Charles's voice was quiet but sharp. "And how's that different from anywhere else?"
Hosea gave a half-shrug. "Maybe it's not. I just heard the army out here was particularly, uh… unpleasant about it."
"Unpleasant?" Charles repeated, bitter. "How do you rob and kill people pleasantly? We don't, in spite of Dutch's talk."
Cam's eyes narrowed, watching the horizon. "Doesn't matter how sweet you dress it up—stealing's still stealing. Doesn't matter if it's land or a bank."
Hosea chuckled lightly. "Careful, Cam. You're starting to sound like me."
"I take that as a compliment, old man," Cam replied, though his voice lacked warmth.
Arthur smirked. "Don't go flattering him. Never forget, this here's a conman, Charles. Born and bred."
Hosea raised a brow, mock offense blooming across his face. "Now that's just rude."
"Just 'cause it sounds fancy don't mean he knows what the hell he's talkin' about," Arthur continued.
Charles glanced down for a moment, then looked back toward the trail ahead. "So… what happened to your tribe?"
Cam looked at Charles. The question lingered between them.
Charles answered evenly. "I don't even know if I have one. Least not that I can remember. My father was a colored man… lived with our people a while, but when we were forced to move from our land, we ran. Just the three of us. I was too young to remember much."
His voice was steady, but Cam could hear the weight underneath. The kind that doesn't fade.
"A couple years later… some soldiers captured my mother. Took her somewhere. We never saw her again. My father… he was a sad man. Drink got hold of him bad. Mean, too. I ran off around thirteen."
"Same age we found young Arthur here," Hosea added, lightening the tone. "Maybe a little older. A wilder delinquent you never did see. But he learned fast."
Arthur grunted. "Not as fast as Marston, apparently."
Charles raised a brow. "What's the problem between you two?"
"Arthur?" Hosea asked.
Cam turned slightly in his saddle to watch Arthur's face, curious to see how honest he'd be.
"It's a long story," Arthur said finally, brushing it off.
Cam didn't push it. Whatever was between Arthur and Marston, it wasn't his business—yet.
"You still sure we're heading the right way?" Arthur asked.
"That depends," Hosea replied with a sly smile. "Are we still heading west in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests as we planned? No. Are we heading east, running from the law? Yes. So I'd say we're on track."
"Dutch'll call it progress," Cam muttered.
Charles leaned forward a bit. "You know this area?"
Hosea nodded. "A little. There's a livestock town not far from here. Valentine. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls… our kind of place."
"O'Driscolls?" Arthur asked.
"Probably them too," Hosea admitted.
"Pinkertons?"
"Let's hope not."
"And this place we're going… what's it called again?"
"Horseshoe Overlook."
Cam let the name roll around in his head. It sounded… peaceful. Probably too much to hope for.
"It's a good place to lie low?" Arthur asked.
"It'll do for now," Hosea replied. Then added, almost under his breath, "And how low do you think Dutch is really going to lie?"
Cam caught that. "You worried about him?"
Hosea paused. "Maybe it's me who's changed, not him. But… we kept telling him that ferry job didn't feel right. You and me had a real lead in Blackwater. Could've worked out."
"Maybe," Arthur muttered.
Cam glanced at Arthur, then back at the trail. "Dutch took a risk. But he doesn't take 'no' easy."
"No," Hosea agreed. "It just… isn't like him to lose his head like that."
"Things go wrong," Arthur said. "People die. That's the way it is. Always has been. But we've survived this long. Must've done more right than wrong."
Cam said nothing. Just listened, riding in the silence that followed.
A soft grinding sound came from the wagon. Arthur looked down.
"What are you working on there, anyway?" he asked.
Hosea held up a small mortar and pestle. "Just some yarrow and ginseng. Good for the health. Better than anything you buy from some quack in town. Here—you can have it. I'm at the point where I can do this in my sleep."
Arthur took the pouch with a nod. "Thanks."
The trail curved again. Ahead, a lone figure waited near the track—Javier, mounted and grinning.
"There you are, brother," he called. "Head in there, follow the track for a bit."
Arthur slowed the wagon. "Thanks."
"Hey, slow up! I'll jump on."
Cam reined in as Arthur came to a stop, watching as Javier leapt up onto the back with a grunt.
"Okay, let's go," Javier said.
Hosea clapped his hands together once. "Any trouble getting in here?"
"Nah," Javier said. "It went well. This is a good spot."
Hosea nodded, satisfied. "Excellent. I think this'll work for us, Arthur. For now, anyway."
Cam glanced toward the hills they were heading toward. Horseshoe Overlook wasn't much yet—just a curve in the trail and some trees—but it looked like a fresh start.
Or at least… another chance to keep running.
The wagons pulled into the clearing just as the golden sun peeked through the clouds above the Heartlands. The snow was long gone now—replaced by fresh soil, tall grass, and the soft scent of spring.
Cam Gallagher pulled the reins and slowed his horse, dust and tiredness clinging to his coat. It wasn't much—some trees, a rocky overlook, a stretch of open space—but damn if it didn't feel like something close to peace.
Hosea sat up straight in the front of the wagon and opened his arms.
"Here we are, gentlemen. Home sweet home."
Already, camp was coming to life. Bill hammered stakes into the ground, setting up a rough tent near Lenny and Hosea. Strauss meandered with a clipboard, eyes twitching over every logistical detail like it would fall apart without him. Grimshaw barked orders like a drill sergeant with no army. Abigail slipped into John's tent, fixing it up with quiet precision.
Cam dismounted slowly, boots hitting the soft earth. He rolled his shoulder, still sore from the ride, and took in the scene.
Charles was already changed into lighter clothes, axe in hand. He nodded to Cam in passing as he stepped toward a log to begin chopping wood.
Karen stood beside Pearson, both arguing about how to place the stove. Strauss was setting up a table and chair in the shadiest spot he could find, and Molly was stringing up Dutch's tent with practiced care. Even Uncle had managed to shuffle about with a bottle in hand, offering commentary no one asked for.
Dutch stood with his hands on his hips, surveying it all. "You weren't wrong, Hosea. This place is perfect."
Hosea offered a cautious nod. "I hope so."
Dutch turned toward the group. "Gentlemen… we have survived."
"For now," Hosea added.
"Now it is time to prosper."
Cam narrowed his eyes. That word again—prosper. It sounded too hopeful for how tired they all looked.
Hosea didn't let it slide. "Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater. We were on to something big… then Micah got you all excited about that ferry and here we are."
Cam didn't miss the flicker in Dutch's expression. He stepped closer, arms crossed, listening.
Dutch, smoothing the moment, lifted his voice. "We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea… every last one of us. But I kept us together… kept us alive… kept the nooses off our neck."
"I guess I'm just worried," Hosea murmured. "I ain't got that long, Dutch. I want folks safe before I go. And now we are stuck… east of the Grizzlies and out of money… and a long way from our dream of virgin land in the west."
"I know, my brother," Dutch said gently. "But we are safe. We make a bit of money here, then we move again… head out around them, be west of Uncle Sam… in a few months, buy some land."
Cam stepped beside Arthur, glancing out over the valley below. The words sounded like a plan—but plans and promises didn't keep bellies full or bullets out.
"I hope so," Hosea said, voice like wind brushing old parchment.
Dutch swept his arm out wide. "Would you just look around you. This world has its consolations."
Strauss cleared his throat from behind them. "Gentlemen, I'm going to head into the local town and, you know… see if I can strike up a little business."
Dutch offered a smile. "Of course, Herr Strauss. I prefer robbing banks to usury… seems more dignified somehow."
He clapped his hands. "Now, everyone, put your tools down for a moment. Gather round—quickly now!"
Cam moved with the others toward the center of camp, watching the others fall in around Dutch—Arthur, Charles, Javier, Bill. He stayed back just a little, arms still crossed, one brow raised in thought.
Dutch spoke with the confidence of a preacher and the smile of a man who could sell you back your own coat.
"I know things have been tough… but we are safe now. And we are far too poor. So it is time for everyone to get to work."
Hosea added, "Get to work, but stay out of trouble. Remember, we are itinerant workers."
Dutch nodded. "Laid off when they shut down our factory to the north. Now—get out there and see what you can find. Uncle, Reverend Swanson… no more passengers. It's time for everyone to earn their keep."
Hosea motioned toward the trail. "There's a town a little ways down the track. Valentine. Livestock town. All mud and morons, if I remember right. Decent place to start."
Pearson, arms folded, chimed in. "And we need food. Real food. That means every day, one of you hunts."
Dutch strode to his tent, pulled out a small wooden lockbox, and placed it on a barrel. It gave a solid thunk when it landed.
"And remember—whatever it is that you find, the camp gets its slice. Now… be sensible out there."
Grimshaw turned with authority. "Now, the girls have your tent ready, Mr. Morgan. Come with me." She glanced to Dutch and Hosea. "You two will be ready shortly."
She motioned to Arthur. "We put you over here."
Arthur followed, boots scuffing against the dirt. "I'm sure everything will be fine, Miss Grimshaw."
"It should be. Most of your stuff from Blackwater got saved."
Arthur sighed. "Everything apart from my money."
"Don't remind me," Grimshaw said with a grimace.
Arthur shrugged. "Well… we can always make more money."
Grimshaw glanced over her shoulder. "We're going to have to."
As Arthur sat on his cot, Cam hung back by the wagon, pulling off his gloves and letting the air hit his skin. He watched Miss Grimshaw storm off toward Tilly, who'd balanced a wash bucket on a chair.
"Miss Jackson," Grimshaw barked, "I've seen shit with more common sense than you. Do it properly."
Cam exhaled slowly and took a match from his coat. Striking it against his boot, he lit a cigarette and leaned on the post by his own tent-in-the-making. Smoke curled from his lips as he looked out at this ragtag mess of people and tents and plans.
It wasn't much.
But for now… it was home.
And for Cam Gallagher—that was enough.
[Evening settles over Horseshoe Overlook]
The haze of day gave way to twilight. Crickets began their symphony in the brush, and a hush settled over the camp like an old blanket. The wind carried the scent of Pearson's stew—mostly beans, maybe rabbit. It wasn't much, but it filled the stomach and didn't taste like pine bark, which was an improvement.
Cam Gallagher sat near the edge of the fire circle, one knee drawn up, a tin bowl in hand. His rifle leaned against the log beside him. Sparks drifted up into the deepening blue above, fireflies blinking somewhere between sky and flame.
Arthur sat a few paces away, picking at his food with the end of a biscuit.
"You figure this place'll hold?" Cam asked him quietly.
Arthur looked over, squinting. "For a time. Depends how loud we are."
Cam gave a slow nod. "We ain't exactly quiet types."
"No, we ain't," Arthur smirked, "but sometimes we pretend real good."
Across the fire, Lenny laughed at something Hosea had said. Karen already had a flask in hand, swaying just a little with the music Javier was plucking out on his guitar. Tilly and Mary-Beth were curled up beside Molly, helping sew new curtains for Dutch's tent. Every now and then, Cam caught Mary-Beth looking over at him—soft, curious, quiet like she was still reading his pages.
He looked down at his bowl.
A moment later, he felt someone nudge him with a boot.
"Gallagher," said Charles, lowering himself beside him. "You settle in alright?"
Cam shrugged. "Best I've done in a while. You?"
Charles nodded. "It's quiet out here. Good air. My mother used to say the land can breathe easier when men aren't trampling it for coin."
Cam glanced over at him, then the trees. "Think we're trampling?"
"Not yet," Charles said. "But we're close."
It got him thinking. About what kind of mark they left behind—whether in mud or in people.
Suddenly, a loud burp cut through the camp. "Hot damn, Pearson," Uncle slurred, wobbling past with a spoon in his mouth. "That stew's got some fight in it."
"That's the rabbit," Pearson muttered. "I think."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "More likely one of your boots, Pearson."
"I will feed you boot leather if you keep complainin'," Pearson called back.
Cam couldn't help it—he chuckled.
Not a big laugh, just a flicker of something human. And Mary-Beth saw it.
She stood slowly, brushing off her skirt, and wandered over, arms folded.
"Hey," she said softly.
Cam looked up. "Hey."
She gestured toward the log beside him. "Mind if I join you?"
He shook his head, scooted a bit. "Nah. Not at all."
She sat, close enough that he caught the lavender soap she must've used. For a while, she said nothing. Just watched the fire, listened to the crackle and quiet.
"You've been real quiet since we got here," she said.
Cam shrugged. "Just taking it in. Ain't used to this many voices in one place."
"I get that." She tilted her head toward the others. "They're loud… but they mean well."
"I believe you," Cam said. "Still feels like I'm… standing on the porch of someone else's home."
Mary-Beth smiled gently. "Then we'll make a seat for you at the table."
He looked at her.
"I mean it," she said. "You're one of us now, Cam."
That stuck with him. Deep.
For a man who'd spent years being no one to anyone, the words felt like they weighed something. Like they carved a space in the world just for him.
And for the first time since they rode out of the snow, he felt it too.
Belonging.
Across the camp, Dutch stood near the edge of the overlook, watching the stars rise over the vast land ahead.
A new chapter was waiting.
But tonight, they just breathed. Ate. Smiled. Watched the fire.
Together.
[Later that same evening, the fire's glow fading into amber coals]
Most of the camp had settled down. Distant laughter drifted up from the girls' wagon, and someone had pulled a blanket over Jack where he'd fallen asleep beside Abigail's tent.
Cam wandered toward the supply wagon, empty bowl in hand, brushing the crumbs of cornbread from his palm. As he rounded the side, he nearly bumped into Herr Leopold Strauss, who was hunched over a small ledger like it owed him a life debt.
"Ah, Gallagher," Strauss said without looking up. "You—yes, you—you've got strong hands, don't you?"
Cam blinked. "...I suppose."
"Good," Strauss said sharply. "You'll be accompanying me tomorrow. We have potential clients. People in need of… liquidity solutions."
Cam tilted his head. "So… collections."
"Call it what you like. Debts must be managed," Strauss said, finally looking up at him with a squint. "You strike me as someone who understands the value of… structure."
Cam crossed his arms, meeting the older man's eyes. "I understand desperation. But I ain't about to go cracking skulls for nickels."
Strauss gave a humorless smile. "No skulls, no violence. Just presence. Think of it as… persuasion."
"Hmm," Cam muttered. "We'll see."
"Excellent." Strauss snapped his book shut and disappeared into the dark like a crow folding into the night.
The fire cracked low, glowing softly across the field as tents were staked down and boots scraped across the dirt. Cam had wandered off toward the far edge of camp, where the shadows of the trees began to thicken.
A shape moved beneath one of them—a figure tied to the trunk, rope biting into the bark.
Kieran.
He was slouched awkwardly, hands bound in front of him now, not behind, but the rope was still tight around his middle. Sweat glistened at his temple despite the cool breeze, and his eyes flicked up when he heard footsteps.
Cam stopped a few paces away. "You eaten?"
Kieran blinked like he wasn't sure the question was real. "Wh—uh… no. Not really."
Cam glanced back toward the cook fire, then lowered himself into a crouch just out of reach. His arms rested across his knees. Quiet. Still.
"You got a name?" Cam asked finally.
Kieran looked surprised anyone cared enough to ask. "Kieran. Kieran Duffy."
"That right?" Cam said. "Well, Kieran… this the kinda life you signed up for?"
The boy hesitated. "I didn't sign up for nothin'... Not really. I just… it was them or nobody. And now—well—nobody sounds better."
Cam tilted his head, watching him. "You scared?"
Kieran gave a dry laugh. "Wouldn't you be?"
Cam didn't answer. He just looked at the rope around the kid's ribs, then met his eyes. "You want to live? Then start proving it."
Kieran nodded quickly, eyes wide.
Cam stood, but before he turned to leave, he reached into his coat, pulled out a small strip of leftover cornbread wrapped in cloth, and tossed it beside the boy's boot.
"I didn't see nothin'," Cam said quietly.
Kieran stared at the food like it was gold.
As Cam walked away, he didn't look back—but he felt the eyes on him. Not full of hate. Not even fear anymore.
Something like hope.
Cam sat on a stump near the edge of the main fire, coat unbuttoned, elbows on his knees. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember flickering every time he took a slow drag.
The camp was quieter now—only the distant rustle of canvas and the soft clang of Pearson cleaning up his pots.
"Look at you," a voice murmured. "Brooding like you've been here longer than any of us."
Cam didn't look up. "Just sittin'."
Karen Jones stepped into the firelight, her hands curled around a chipped mug. Bourbon, probably. She dropped onto the stump beside him with the kind of ease that said she wasn't going anywhere.
"You always this quiet?" she asked, side-eying him.
Cam took another drag. "Only when there's too many people talkin'."
Karen gave a soft, amused breath. "Huh. You and Arthur might get along just fine."
Cam cracked a faint grin but didn't reply.
For a moment they just sat, the sound of the wind brushing through the trees above them.
Karen swirled the liquid in her mug. "Saw you earlier. Over by the tree."
He glanced at her.
"You gave the kid some food," she said. "Even though he's an O'Driscoll."
"He's still breathin', ain't he?" Cam muttered. "Figure he might wanna keep it that way."
Karen studied him quietly, her smile gentler now, softer than the sharp, flirtatious smirks she gave the others.
Karen swirled the liquid in her mug. "You don't talk much," she said. "But you sure pay attention."
Cam shrugged slightly, flicking ash from his cigarette. "Pays to know the folks you're sleepin' near."
She grinned. "So? What've you figured out about me then, Mr. Gallagher?"
He exhaled through his nose. "You keep people at arm's length with a joke and a drink. Talk loud so no one looks too close. Always movin' around the camp like you're lookin' for somethin', or tryin' not to feel stuck."
Karen blinked, her smile faltering for the briefest second.
Cam didn't say it cruelly—just calm and matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on the weather.
"You're sharper than you let on," he added. "Got a good read on folks. Probably too good for your own peace of mind."
Karen tilted her head, studying him now with less play and more quiet interest. "You make a habit of pickin' people apart like that?"
"No," he said, glancing at the fire again. "Only the ones worth payin' attention to."
She looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then, with a faint huff, she stood up.
"Well… guess I'll have to start payin' attention back."
She walked off without another word, leaving Cam alone with the low crackle of the fire and the weight of what wasn't said.
A while after that Cam was shaving bark off a small branch with his knife—not for any real purpose, just something to do with his hands while the camp slowly stirred around him.
Across the way, he heard Miss Grimshaw's boots first. Sharp. Purposeful. Then came her voice—louder than the wind.
"Miss Jackson!" she barked. "You call that clean? I've seen piss buckets with more pride in them."
Tilly, bent over the washbasin, froze for half a second before turning to face her. "I just got started, Miss Grimshaw."
"That's not startin'. That's loafin'. If I have to tell you twice, I'll assume you've gone soft."
Cam glanced up, eyes flicking between them.
Tilly squared her shoulders. "I ain't soft. And I ain't stupid either. But you bark at me like I'm some stray dog, I'm gonna bark back."
Grimshaw's face stiffened, but Cam could see it—beneath the iron, there was something else. Not quite anger. Not quite pride either. Maybe a pinch of both.
He stood, walking toward them slowly, wiping the knife on a cloth.
"You oughta ease up a bit, Miss Grimshaw," he said, tone level, respectful. "That girl works like hell. Always the first up, last to sit."
Grimshaw turned to him, hands on hips. "And who asked for your opinion, Mr. Gallagher?"
He shrugged. "No one. Just figured you seen so much dirt, you might've started mistakin' people for it."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—Grimshaw sniffed once, straightened her collar, and muttered, "Hmph. Maybe I did."
She marched off, grumbling something under her breath about "men who think too much."
Tilly gave Cam a look—half-grin, half-shock. "You got some stones, Gallagher."
Cam offered her the faintest smile. "She barks. But she listens. That's rarer than it sounds."
Tilly let out a short laugh and returned to scrubbing the basin with renewed purpose.
Cam stepped away, back to his branch and knife. Still listening. Still watchin'. Always payin' attention.
The sun was warm as the camp settled into its quieter rhythm, the hustle of earlier subsiding into a more subdued energy. The crackling of the campfire blended with the distant calls of birds, and the rustle of boots on dry earth filled the background. John Marston, his face still set in that mask of weariness, leaned back against a tree. He chewed slowly on a piece of jerky, watching Jack dart around the camp with an energy that felt too big for the confines of this world.
Abigail was nearby, busy setting up their corner of the camp. Her movements were quick, almost mechanical, but her eyes flicked toward Jack every now and then, a soft undercurrent of concern lingering in her gaze. She knew how much Jack needed something from John—needed him—but John wasn't giving. Not yet.
Cam Gallagher, seated near the fire, had noticed the family dynamic for a while now. He didn't need to know the full history to feel the tension in the air. There was something heavy about the way John didn't quite look at his son, the way Abigail watched from a distance, hoping, waiting. The quiet hurt was palpable, almost as if it was a third presence in the camp.
Cam shifted in his seat, letting the tension settle in his chest before breaking the silence. "You ever think about what happens next, John?"
John didn't look up, just kept chewing slowly, his tone dry and distant. "Next? We survive. That's all there is."
Abigail glanced at him over her shoulder, her voice quiet but cutting through the air. "It's more than just surviving, John. You know that."
John's jaw tightened at her words. The silence between them stretched, thick with things left unsaid. Finally, he tore his gaze from the horizon and muttered, "Survival's enough for me."
Abigail didn't respond right away. She straightened up from where she'd been arranging some of their things, her gaze lingering on Jack, who was now running circles around the campfire, pretending to be some wild animal. She sighed, her voice barely above a whisper as she said to Cam, "He needs you, John. More than you know."
John's face hardened again. His eyes flicked to Jack, and for a moment, Cam thought he might finally react. But John just exhaled, standing up abruptly as if to distance himself from the conversation. "He doesn't need me," he muttered, as though trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He turned away and started walking toward the edge of the camp, his movements deliberate, his back rigid with unresolved tension.
Jack, oblivious to the undercurrent of emotion, bounded over to John, his face lit with excitement. "Pa! Pa, look! I'm gonna catch the biggest fish!" His words were full of hope, as if his father's attention was the final ingredient needed to complete his joy.
John didn't stop, didn't even break his stride. "Yeah, yeah, get on with it," he muttered, his voice flat, dismissive.
Abigail stood, hands on her hips, her heart sinking as she watched John reject Jack once again. It was a kind of quiet agony—one she had endured for too long. Her eyes softened as she looked at Jack, his face still lit up with enthusiasm. "He's just trying to make something out of this, John," she said, her voice low but firm. "Something for himself. He needs you, whether you want it or not."
John froze for a moment, but didn't turn around. His shoulders stiffened as he looked down at the ground, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in her words.
Cam, sensing the rising tension, spoke up, his voice quiet but grounded. "Maybe one day, you'll see that he just wants you there," he said, meeting John's back with a steady gaze.
Abigail looked at Cam for a beat, the pain in her eyes not hidden. "I've been trying to make him see it for years," she said softly. "But John's a stubborn man. He's running from something. I just don't know if I can catch him."
John, still not turning around, heard her words, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had the look of a man ready to retreat, but Jack, ever the optimistic force, dashed straight toward him again, grinning ear-to-ear, arms flailing in wild excitement.
"Pa! Pa, look! I'm gonna catch the biggest fish!" Jack repeated, his joy uncontainable.
John, never looking down, sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "I ain't no damn fisherman, Jack," he muttered under his breath.
Abigail gave Cam a fleeting, almost imperceptible glance before her focus returned to Jack, her expression softening. She watched her son's desperate attempt to gain his father's approval, but the hurt in her eyes told a different story. Jack didn't just want a fishing lesson—he wanted his father, all of him, and John just wasn't ready to give that up.
Cam watched the scene, the weight of the tension hanging heavy in the air. He knew how it felt to distance yourself from the people who needed you, but this was different. This wasn't just survival. This was a broken connection that neither of them knew how to mend.
As the camp slowly settled into quiet again, the fire crackling softly, Abigail sat down, her shoulders slumped. Jack, still hopeful, continued his play, trying to get his father's attention, but John stayed distant, unwilling to face the distance he had built.
As the day grew deeper, the crackling of the fire seemed to echo louder in the stillness of the air. The camp had settled into its rhythm—some were still busy with chores, while others, like Cam Gallagher, sat by the fire, his back against a tree, lost in thought. His eyes were flickering between the flames and the shadowed landscape beyond. Despite the momentary peace, his mind was restless, always analyzing, always looking for the next move.
But his thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice breaking through the quiet.
Mary-Beth, carrying a small basket filled with some of leftovers, approached the fire where Cam was sitting. Her steps were light, almost hesitant, but the familiar warmth in her smile was always there when she looked at him.
"You know, you're about as good at sitting still as a restless horse, Cam," she teased lightly, lowering herself down to sit next to him, her basket resting in her lap.
Cam chuckled softly, looking at her, his expression softening. "Guess I'm still getting used to the whole 'camp life' thing. Feels… slow."
Mary-Beth let out a small laugh, her voice carrying a note of understanding. "It's not for everyone, that's for sure. But it's not all bad. There's a peace to it once you stop running from it."
Cam shifted slightly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, peace... I'm still waiting for that part," he said with a trace of cynicism, though his eyes never left the fire.
Mary-Beth studied him quietly for a moment, sensing the underlying tension in his words. She had always had a knack for reading people, and there was something in Cam's posture that spoke volumes to her. He wasn't quite where he needed to be, wasn't quite sure what to do with the quiet, with the space he'd been given.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, you know?" she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. She tilted her head, her eyes meeting his for the first time directly. "You can stop running. You don't have to be that guy all the time."
Cam looked at her then, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm not sure I know how to be anything else, Mary-Beth."
She nodded, as if she understood all too well. "Sometimes, all you need is someone to remind you that you can stop. You don't have to fight the world by yourself."
Cam was quiet, the weight of her words sinking into him. He had heard such things before—everyone in the camp had their own stories, their own ways of dealing with their pasts. But there was something about the way Mary-Beth said it, her voice almost like a balm to a wound he hadn't realized was still raw.
"I don't know about that," he replied, the edges of his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. "I've been running for a long time. Ain't easy to just… stop."
Mary-Beth smiled softly, her expression full of kindness. "No, it isn't. But you don't have to stop alone. We all have our own battles. Sometimes, you just need someone beside you. That's what family is for."
Cam's gaze softened at that, and for a moment, he didn't know what to say. It was as if he was hearing the words for the first time—real family, the kind that didn't expect anything but to simply be there, to stand beside him when everything else felt uncertain.
"You ever stop running, Mary-Beth?" Cam asked quietly, his eyes searching hers for an answer.
She met his gaze, the smile fading slightly as she considered the question. She looked down for a moment, gathering her thoughts before speaking again. "I think I stopped when I found the camp. Or maybe when I found Dutch and the others. They're all different, but they make me feel like I can breathe, like I can finally just… be."
Cam nodded slowly, taking in her words. "Maybe that's what I need," he said, the weight of the unspoken truth hanging in the air between them. "Maybe I need to find something worth stopping for."
Mary-Beth didn't say anything immediately. She didn't have to. Her presence beside him, the quiet understanding in her eyes, said everything.
For a while, they both just sat there in silence, the fire crackling between them, the camp settling around them as the stars above began to twinkle more brightly in the vast sky. Cam wasn't sure what he was looking for, but in this moment, with Mary-Beth beside him, he felt like he might be getting closer to it.
As the firelight flickered behind him, Cam Gallagher stood up from his spot beside Mary-Beth, the warmth of her words still lingering in his chest.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the camp. The heat of the day was beginning to ebb, but the air was still warm with the smell of the earth and the lingering aroma of the fire. Cam Gallagher stepped away from the camp's bustle, taking a moment to stretch his legs. He looked around at the camp, his gaze lingering on the faces of the men and women he had come to trust in this dangerous, unpredictable world. But it was time to focus on what mattered now: preparation.
He walked toward his small crate, where his weapons lay in their usual disarray. His hand reached for the rifle first, the cold metal feeling familiar in his grip. He inspected it with practiced eyes, wiping down the barrel and checking the trigger mechanism. His movements were fluid, efficient—there was no rush, no unnecessary movements. It wasn't just about maintenance; it was about control. His life had often depended on this rifle, and he knew it would again.
The revolvers came next. He reached for one, then the other, checking the balance and smoothness of the barrels. He twirled them once in each hand, testing their weight and motion before cleaning them thoroughly. The barrels gleamed under the fading sunlight as he oiled them, wiping away any dust or grime. His hands were steady, the work routine, the sensation of the metal against his fingers almost meditative.
Lastly, his knife. He ran a rag along the blade, ensuring there was no residue left on the sharp edge. The weight of it in his hand felt good—comforting. The knife was a tool, but more than that, it was a symbol of last resort. He trusted it in moments when everything else fell apart. It had been with him for years, and he knew it like the back of his own hand.
With the weapons cleaned and ready, Cam stepped back, surveying the work with a nod of satisfaction. He adjusted the holsters, making sure each weapon was securely in place. Cam wasn't one to leave anything to chance, not with the world he lived in.
Next, it was time to change.
The clothes he had worn through the morning had grown sticky with sweat and dust, and he was ready to feel something a little lighter. He unstrapped his worn, weathered coat, hanging it carefully on a post, before slipping off his boots, one at a time. Underneath, he wore a simple shirt—plain and well-worn from use, but it was comfortable. He replaced it with a fresh, darker shirt, pulling it over his head and smoothing it down.
He also swapped out his trousers for a pair that felt cooler, more suited to the warmer afternoon ahead. His boots got a quick wipe-down before he fastened them back on, now feeling more at ease in the new, fresh clothes. A moment of simple comfort before the next ride, the next challenge.
Satisfied with his new attire, Cam moved toward Dusty, his chest still warm from the afternoon sun, but now more at ease with his movements.
Dusty stood by the edge of camp, her coat a mixture of grey and white, almost glowing under the afternoon sun. Cam walked over, his boots making little noise on the dry ground. The horse nickered softly as he approached, flicking her ears in his direction. He smiled, running his hand along her neck, the familiar touch settling his mind for a moment.
"Hey, girl," Cam murmured, his voice gentle as he checked her for any signs of discomfort. He noticed the sheen of sweat on her coat from the day's journey and knew he'd need to give her some attention. He started by removing the saddle, carefully unstrapping the leather and lifting it off her back. His hands moved quickly, but with the kind of care that came with long familiarity.
Dusty gave a quiet snort, shifting as Cam began brushing her down. He ran the brush along her coat, taking care to clean off the dirt and debris from the road. She stood still, occasionally flicking her tail at a fly or shaking her head, but otherwise seemed content to let him work.
Once satisfied with the brushing, Cam knelt down to check her hooves. Each one was lifted carefully, cleaned of any muck, and checked for rocks or stones that might have gotten stuck. His attention was focused and precise, his hands steady as he worked. He wasn't just taking care of her for the sake of appearance—he relied on this horse. Dusty had carried him through thick and thin, and he needed her in the best shape possible.
When that was done, Cam stepped back and surveyed the work. Dusty was well-tended, ready for whatever came next.
The camp began to settle as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. Cam Gallagher adjusted the rifle on his back and wiped the last of the dust off his boots. The day was coming to a close, but there was still work to do. He couldn't let the weariness get to him—not now.
He moved toward Dusty, standing ready by the post where he'd tied her up earlier. She snorted as he approached, lifting her head slightly. Cam smiled softly, giving her a quick pat on the neck. "Let's get you ready for the ride, girl."
As he saddled up, Strauss approached from behind, carrying a satchel filled with paperwork and a few small bundles of cash—an unmistakable sign of the work ahead.
"Ah, Mr. Gallagher," Strauss said, his usual air of superiority intact. "I trust you're ready for a productive afternoon in Valentine."
Cam didn't respond immediately, focusing on securing the saddle. "Ain't much different from any other day. But sure, let's get this over with."
Strauss gave him an odd look, the kind that always seemed a bit too self-satisfied. "Well, you're a good man to help out, regardless of how you feel about it." He adjusted his coat and smoothed out the wrinkles. "You see, I'm setting up a small loaning business in Valentine. There's a lot of desperate folk there, and they won't know better than to come to me for... well, assistance." He said it with the same mix of smugness and genuine business-like intent.
Cam finished tightening the straps, giving Dusty one last pat. "Right. You're looking for suckers."
Strauss cleared his throat. "I prefer to think of it as... capitalizing on opportunity. But yes, there are certainly those who would call it that. In any case, your help is invaluable. You've dealt with folk like this before. You can make sure the rough ones don't get... too aggressive with me."
Cam raised an eyebrow as he swung himself up onto Dusty's back. "So, what, you want me to stand there while you take advantage of the desperate? Ain't you got some kind of moral compass to guide you?"
Strauss adjusted his glasses, looking up at him with a raised brow, almost in mock surprise. "Moral compass? In business? You're asking the wrong man, my friend. It's just numbers, at the end of the day."
"Numbers, huh?" Cam said, with a dry chuckle. "Sounds like a fancy way of saying you've got no conscience."
"Conscience," Strauss scoffed. "The way I see it, Mr. Gallagher, the world does not run on conscience. It runs on power—and the ability to manage that power. People need money, and they'll do anything to get it. I simply provide a service."
Cam stayed silent for a moment, considering the words. He wasn't a stranger to tough decisions—hell, he'd done his share of questionable things to survive. But working with Strauss? It didn't sit right with him. Still, it wasn't like he had much choice. If Strauss wanted help, then he'd have to deal with him, whether he liked it or not.
"Alright," Cam said after a long pause, guiding Dusty in the direction of Valentine. "I'll help. But don't expect me to clean up your mess if things go sideways."
Strauss adjusted the strap on his satchel and followed, his gait slower and more deliberate, like a man who always had a plan. "Mess? I don't foresee any mess, Mr. Gallagher. I'm very... methodical in my dealings. But having a strong arm like yours certainly adds an extra layer of... assurance."
Strauss hoisted himself clumsily onto his own horse, adjusting his satchel so it didn't bump against the horn. He didn't carry a weapon—not his style. That part? That was all Cam
"Mr. Gallagher," he said, offering a cordial nod. "I trust you're ready. The people of Valentine await."
Cam eyed him, a touch of dry amusement in his voice. "Yeah. The desperate, the drunk, and the dead broke. Real welcome committee."
Strauss, either unbothered or pretending not to notice, smiled thinly. "It's business. And we must seize opportunities where they lie."
"Long as they don't try to seize you first. Come on."
They rode slowly, the wind brushing through the trees like a whispered farewell.
Behind them, the last chill of Colter faded into memory—the frozen silence, the hunger, the blood. In its place, sunlight spilled golden across the Heartlands, warm and wide and full of stories yet to be written.
Cam Gallagher didn't look back.
He rode alongside Strauss, the man already dreaming in numbers and names, while Cam's hand rested near his holster, eyes scanning the road ahead. Not just as a guard. But as a man who knew how fragile peace could be.
The snow was gone. But the weight? The weight rode with him still.
The gang was scattered behind them, still unpacking grief and hope in equal measure. A family bound not by blood—but by survival.
Cam glanced up at the sky, where the sun burned clean and fierce above the trail.
For the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe they had a shot. Not at paradise. But at something worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 2
HORSESHOE OVERLOOK