The Heartlands, New Hanover – Weeks Later
Cam Gallagher had finally caught his breath.
The sharpness of Colter's cold had long faded, traded for the sun-warmed winds rolling through the open plains of the Heartlands. The tall grass swayed like waves across the hilltops, and the faint clatter of horse hooves echoed like distant thunder from the passing herds. Camp life had shifted with the seasons—no longer clinging for warmth, but moving with rhythm, sweat, and the weight of new responsibility.
Cam had kept himself busy. Mornings were often spent with Charles on hunting runs, learning the patterns of the wild game across the new land. Afternoons with Uncle, repairing fences, patching up broken crates, and keeping the wagons from falling apart. Evenings were quieter, filled with the smell of Pearson's stew, the sound of Javier's guitar, and soft talks by the fire with Mary-Beth.
He felt… settled. For the first time in a long while, his heart wasn't knotted with anxiety. The fields gave him room to breathe, the camp gave him purpose, and the gang—strangely—had become something like home. Cam still didn't trust easy, and he still slept with one eye open, but the restlessness in his bones had gone quiet for now.
And with the morning mist rising off the riverbanks and the faint scent of horses and tobacco in the air, Cam Gallagher stood by the edge of camp, squinting toward Valentine on the horizon—unaware that the easy days were already counting down.
The woods were greener here. Not like the dead white breath of Colter that gnawed at your bones even while you slept. Here, the earth felt alive. It breathed. The birds returned to their songs and the sun didn't feel like a cruel joke.
Cam Gallagher stood just outside camp, wiping the last streak of grime from the barrel of his repeater. His shirt, light linen now, clung to his back with the afternoon heat. The cold was behind them—so was the blood on the tracks. And now… this place.
Horseshoe Overlook.
Strauss hadn't changed. Still upright, still polite, still rotten beneath that soft Austrian accent. Cam had taken to riding with him into Valentine twice a week. His job wasn't in the numbers—Strauss didn't expect him to understand that. Cam's job was the silence. The knock at the door. The gloved hand on a shoulder. The quiet pressure of presence that made a man remember his dues.
Valentine was already full of folks who owed. Strauss handed Cam the names, and Cam knocked on doors with cold knuckles. He never said more than he needed to. Sometimes, a warning was enough. Other times… a little more.
The business didn't sit well with him. But it paid, in a way. Not in coin—but in trust. Dutch noticed. So did Hosea.
When he wasn't casting shadows for Strauss, Cam made himself useful. Charles took him hunting a few times—quiet mornings in the trees, fresh blood on the snowless ground, Cam learning to track with sharper eyes.
With Uncle, he fixed wagons. Or tried to. The old man mostly drank and pointed while Cam did the lifting.
He helped Pearson skin a deer once. Never again. The cook grinned wide, elbow-deep in red, while Cam nearly lost his breakfast.
He washed his hands and moved on.
Each night, he cleaned his weapons. Rebuilt the grips. Oiled the metal. Changed his shirt every few days—he had three now. He'd grown used to the rhythm. The people. The laughter. Even the damn singing.
He spoke more, too. Not much. But enough. Enough for folks to know Cam Gallagher wasn't just another gun. He was a man who had found something that didn't feel like running.
For now.
Late Afternoon, South Edge of Camp
The sun had started to hang lower now, dragging shadows across the tall grass in long sleepy strokes. The wind was warm, carrying the scent of lilacs and Pearson's stew. It was quiet—quiet in that rare, perfect kind of way where nothing needed to be said.
Cam sat near the edge of camp, one boot hooked on the lower rail, elbows resting on his thighs. He rolled a cigarette between his fingers but hadn't lit it. His thoughts were elsewhere. Down the trail to Valentine, maybe. Or back with a man who hadn't been able to pay his debt.
The creak of a step behind him made him glance over his shoulder.
Mary-Beth.
Hair tied loosely, a dog-eared dime novel cradled in her hands like it was made of glass. She smiled that sideways, easy smile that never asked too much from a man. Just enough.
"I figured I'd find you brooding out here," she said, hopping up on the fence beside him.
"I ain't brooding," Cam muttered.
"Oh, please," she laughed gently, flipping her book shut. "You've got that storm cloud look in your eye again. Like somebody took your last cup of coffee."
He smirked, shook his head. "Might be I just don't like the man I've been working for."
Mary-Beth turned toward him, resting her elbow on the top rail. "Strauss?"
"Yeah."
She didn't say anything at first. Let the breeze carry the silence a bit. Cam finally lit his cigarette, took a slow drag.
"He makes me feel like I'm buildin' something crooked," he said after a while. "Like every door I knock on, I'm bringin' bad luck. Some of 'em... they got kids. Families. Dirt poor. And I'm standin' there like death in a collar."
Mary-Beth studied him for a moment. "You ever think maybe you're not the kind of man he thinks you are?"
Cam looked down, the tip of his cigarette glowing softly. "Maybe. But I'm still doin' it."
"Because you want to?"
"Because I don't know what else I'm good at." He met her eyes, softer now. "Truth is, I don't know if I'm good at much at all."
Mary-Beth tilted her head, a subtle smile playing at her lips. "You're not so bad at talkin', when you want to be."
Cam chuckled. "Don't spread that around camp. I've got a reputation."
"Oh, I know," she teased. "The quiet, brooding cowboy with a mysterious past. Girls love that sort of thing."
He glanced at her, his voice dipping low, warm. "And you?"
She didn't answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes dancing like she was reading something between his words. Then she leaned a little closer, the space between them small now.
"I like a man who tries," she said, "even when it's hard. Even when he's still figuring himself out."
Cam held her gaze, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. The moment stretched, not heavy, just… quiet. Sweet.
He wanted to say something clever. Something to make her laugh again. But all he managed was a small, real smile.
"Thanks," he said softly. "Means more than you know."
Mary-Beth smiled, stood, brushing off her skirt. "Come find me later. I'll read you something. If you behave."
Cam nodded. "I'll do my best."
She walked off without looking back, the dying sun casting her in gold.
And for the first time that day, the weight on his chest didn't feel quite so heavy.
The moment Mary-Beth disappeared behind the wagons, Cam sat back with a sigh—half dazed, half grinning to himself. The air still held the faint trace of her perfume, like wildflowers crushed between pages of a forgotten book.
He barely noticed the soft crunch of boots in the dirt until someone cleared their throat behind him.
"Whew," came Karen's voice, thick with mischief. "Didn't know I was sittin' front row for a romance novella."
Cam's eyes snapped toward her. Karen leaned against the side of Pearson's wagon, arms crossed, one brow raised like she'd just caught a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
"How long you been there?" Cam asked, tone dry but not unfriendly.
"Long enough to know Mary-Beth's got you twisted like a lasso around a fence post," Karen grinned. "Ain't never seen you blush before. It's adorable."
"I wasn't blushin'."
"Oh please, you looked like you was about to offer to knit her a sweater and read poetry by the fire."
Cam gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You always this nosy?"
"Only when it's fun," Karen winked. "Ain't nothin' wrong with it, cowboy. She's sweet. You? You're like coffee left out too long—quiet, bitter, and probably stronger than you should be."
"I'm flattered."
"Look, just don't mess it up, alright?" Karen added, softening just a little. "Girl like that? She's got a heart worth holdin'. And you… you might just need one of those."
Cam raised his brows. "That sounded dangerously close to sincere."
"Don't get used to it," Karen smirked, pushing off the wagon. "Now go do somethin' before I tell the whole camp you were out here makin' doe eyes."
He let out a low laugh, watching her stroll off with that confident swing in her step.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a golden haze across the camp. The shadows stretched long, dancing at the edges of canvas tents and wagons. Horses snorted in the distance, their silhouettes calm against the sway of prairie grass.
Cam knelt by a crate beside the campfire, sleeves rolled and shirt damp with sweat, elbow-deep in a tin basin. He'd been on potato duty for the better part of an hour, scrubbing and peeling what felt like an endless supply for Pearson's ever-demanding stew.
Across from him, Charles crouched low, deft fingers working through a mess of rabbits he'd brought back that morning. His motions were practiced—silent, efficient. The two had been at this for a while, trading quiet conversation between flicks of the knife and clatter of steel bowls.
Pearson's booming voice cut through the calm.
"Let's go, boys! The stew doesn't make itself, and if I gotta serve another bland meal, I'll throw myself in the pot!"
Cam snorted. "You said that yesterday."
"And the day before," Charles added flatly.
Pearson threw up his hands, exaggerated. "I say it 'cause I mean it!"
Charles gave Cam a knowing glance, and for a second, both men broke into quiet laughter.
"You're better at this than I figured," Cam said, nodding toward Charles' handiwork. "Skinning, preppin'… you ever think of teachin' Pearson a thing or two?"
Charles smirked faintly. "I hunt. He yells. We all have our roles."
"You say that like it's balance."
"It is," Charles said, tone cool but firm. "Even in chaos, there's structure."
Cam sat back on his heels, peeling knife resting across his knee. "That some warrior philosophy?"
Charles paused, then gave the faintest shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just tired of watching everyone get on each other's nerves over stew and bad coffee."
Cam chuckled. "Fair enough."
Pearson, still fussing with his spices and seasoning, didn't even glance their way. "If you two philosophers are done bonding, maybe one of you could check the salt. We're fresh out."
"I got it," Cam offered, rising from the crate and dusting off his hands. "Before he really does throw himself in."
Charles stood too, wiping his hands on a rag. "Careful. If he dies, we'll all have to learn to cook."
Cam looked back over his shoulder as he walked toward the wagon. "God forbid."
The sun dipped lower, casting firelight across the tops of their heads. Just another day, another chore—but there was something sacred in the rhythm. The grunt of labor. The banter shared. The steady presence of a man like Charles beside him.
Cam was just returning from Pearson's wagon, arms full of salt and dried herbs, when he caught the unmistakable cackle of Karen's voice from across camp. She was sitting with Tilly near the washing line, both of them working lazily at a bucket of soaked linens, hands busy but eyes full of mischief.
"Well if it ain't lover boy himself," Karen sang out, smirking.
Cam slowed mid-step, narrowing his eyes. "You've got a sharp tongue for someone who still owes me half a deck of cards."
Karen leaned back on her palms, one brow raised. "I didn't hear you complainin' last night when Mary-Beth was blushin' like a debutante talkin' to you. Real sweet nothings, weren't they, Tilly?"
Tilly glanced up with a soft laugh, glancing at Cam with her usual blend of warmth and amusement. "I thought it was sweet," she said. "She don't look at just anyone like that."
Karen made a swooning noise. "And Cam here's actin' like he didn't enjoy every second of it."
Cam chuckled under his breath and rolled his shoulders, pretending not to bite. "You two talk about everyone like this?"
"Only the interesting ones," Tilly replied, wringing out a rag.
"And don't get shy on us now," Karen added, standing and brushing off her skirt. She walked right up to him, finger pressed to the middle of his chest. "Ain't no shame in courtin' someone who actually likes you for more than your cheekbones and revolver."
Cam tilted his head, amused. "You like me for those things?"
"I like you for the dumb look you get when you're tryin' not to smile," Karen winked, then sauntered off toward the campfire. "Now go make yourself useful, Romeo."
Tilly shook her head, smiling faintly as Cam set the supplies by the cook's table. "Don't mind her. She means well—just likes stirring the pot."
"I can take it," Cam said, watching Karen disappear behind Pearson's wagon. He looked back at Tilly, his tone softening. "And I meant what I said to Mary-Beth… if she'll have me."
Tilly gave a knowing nod, eyes kind. "She's got a good heart. Just don't mess with it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Another chuckle passed between them before Cam turned back toward his next chore, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun and the quiet, chaotic peace of a camp beginning to feel like something close to family.
Later that evening, with the camp quieting beneath the pink and burnt gold haze of a dying sun, Cam found Dutch by the fire, seated on one of the crates outside his tent with a cigar in hand and a faraway look in his eyes. A bottle of brandy sat unopened beside his boot. The quiet hum of the insects in the grass, the crackle of the fire—everything seemed still for a moment.
"Cam," Dutch greeted, not looking over. "Take a seat."
Cam hesitated, then stepped closer and sank down on the crate opposite. Dutch finally turned his head, eyes sharp, but not unkind. "How're you settling in?"
Cam rubbed the back of his neck. "Better than I figured. Camp's got its own rhythm now."
Dutch nodded slowly, puffing once on his cigar. "And what about Strauss?"
"He's a calculating bastard," Cam admitted, "but effective. I've been doin' the rounds, helping with collections. Not sure it sits right, the way he puts people in debt just to dig deeper."
Dutch's lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. "You got a conscience on you. That's a dangerous thing in times like these."
"I reckon I'd rather it be dangerous than lost."
There was a beat of silence, the firelight dancing across Dutch's face. He leaned forward, voice low and firm.
"I brought you in because you were smart, steady. You've got a way of reading people, Cam. Don't think I haven't noticed how the others trust you. But understand this—out here, you don't always get to pick the clean path. Sometimes survival looks a lot like sin."
Cam met his gaze evenly. "And sometimes sin looks a lot like survival."
Dutch laughed, genuinely, clapping his hands once. "Now that's a line I can use."
He leaned back again, glancing toward the tents where the others were already settling in. "This life we live… it ain't for the faint of heart. We make our own rules because the world's rules weren't built for folks like us. But I promise you, we'll find our way through this—together."
Cam nodded, but stayed quiet, letting the words hang.
Dutch stubbed out his cigar in the dirt. "Just don't forget why you're here. Loyalty's all we got in the end."
"I ain't forgotten," Cam said softly.
Dutch rose to his feet and rested a hand on Cam's shoulder for just a second—brief, but firm. "Good man."
As the older outlaw disappeared into his tent, Cam stayed behind by the fire, staring into the embers, wondering what the price of loyalty might look like in the end—and if he was ready to pay it.
Cam spotted Hosea by the edge of camp, sitting near the low-burning fire with a small lantern and a notepad. The older man was scribbling something down, his reading glasses slipping toward the end of his nose.
Cam walked up with slow steps, hands in his coat pockets. "You got a minute?"
Hosea glanced up, then moved his chair slightly without saying a word. Cam sat beside him, the fire crackling between them.
"I talked to Dutch earlier," Cam started.
"That right?" Hosea murmured, still writing. "How'd that go?"
Cam shrugged. "He's talkin' like everything's gonna fall into place soon. Land, money, peace. Same dream, just further out."
Hosea let out a quiet sigh, finally setting down his pencil. "It's a good dream. That's the danger."
Cam nodded slowly. "He makes it sound like it's just over the next ridge. Just need a few more scores, a little more patience."
Hosea leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Dutch always sees the horizon. Sometimes forgets there's still a road under his feet."
Cam scratched at his jaw. "Told him I'd help however I can. But… I'm not blind to what's ahead."
"Good," Hosea said, glancing at him. "You don't need to agree with everything he says. You just need to think for yourself. That's the kind of loyalty we need."
They sat in silence for a moment, fire popping.
"I've been working with Strauss," Cam added. "Helping collect."
Hosea gave him a long look. "Not work I envy."
"No," Cam admitted. "Feels like I'm just leaning on folks already trying to stay upright."
Hosea nodded. "I told Dutch years ago that business would come back to bite us. But it keeps the ledger afloat, and Dutch lets it be."
He rubbed his temple with a tired hand. "If you're gonna keep doing that work, you'd better remember who you are outside of it. Otherwise, that kind of job will start to shape you."
"I know," Cam muttered. "I'm trying."
Hosea looked at him again, more firmly this time. "Then that's enough. Just don't forget—when you push people down for a living, even for a reason, it's easy to forget how to lift 'em back up."
Cam stood after a moment, nodding once.
"I'll see you in the morning," he said.
"Get some sleep," Hosea replied. "Strauss'll have you out the gate at first light, I'm sure."
Cam gave a faint smirk and walked off toward his tent, the stars above faint behind drifting clouds, his boots kicking dry dirt as camp settled quiet for the night.
Morning, Horseshoe Overlook]
The light came in slow, golden through the trees, dappling the horses, wagons, and canvas tents. Cam stepped out from his tent with a slow stretch, his shirt half-buttoned, suspenders hanging at his sides. He moved quiet, careful not to wake the others still sleeping off the cold night.
Near the fire, Arthur was already up, crouched low with a tin cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He didn't say anything as Cam approached—just gave a small nod and shifted slightly to the side.
Cam crouched too, grabbing a cup off the tin rack and pouring himself some coffee from the old percolator. He sipped, let the bitterness sit on his tongue.
"Didn't hear you come in last night," Arthur said eventually.
"Didn't want to stir up the roosters," Cam muttered. "Sat with Hosea for a bit."
Arthur gave a small grunt. "He tell you all the ways we're screwed, or just some?"
Cam smirked. "Mostly the part where we should keep thinking for ourselves."
Arthur exhaled smoke through his nose, watching it curl. "That's the best advice he gives. Problem is, thinking don't always get you far in this life."
Cam ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the camp. "Yeah. Feels like the more I think, the harder it is to sleep."
Arthur chuckled low. "Ain't that the truth."
They sipped in silence for a moment, morning birds chirping in the trees above. Cam eyed Arthur from the corner of his vision.
"You ever have doubts about this?"
Arthur gave a slight tilt of his head. "About the gang? About Dutch? Or about us ever making it out of this alive?"
"Pick one," Cam said.
Arthur rubbed his jaw. "Every damn day. But I figure it's like this—you pick a direction, you walk it. Maybe you run into trouble, maybe you don't. But standing still? That'll kill you faster."
Cam nodded slowly, staring into the fire. "That's what Hosea said, in his own way."
Arthur flicked his cigarette into the ashes. "He's a smart man. Doesn't mean he's always right."
Cam glanced toward the horses. "You heading into town today?"
"Thinking about it," Arthur said. "Might stop by the saloon, check the post. You?"
"Helping Strauss again," Cam muttered. "Can't say I'm looking forward to it."
Arthur gave him a knowing look. "Don't let that work eat you, Cam. It has a way of making a man forget what his hands used to feel like when they weren't balled into fists."
Cam cracked a small grin. "Noted."
Arthur stood, stretched his back with a groan. "Come on. Let's get to it. If we're lucky, Dutch won't be hollering for another hour."
Cam finished the last of his coffee, poured out the dregs, and followed. The day had begun—quiet and steady—and for a moment, under that sunlit haze, things almost felt normal.
The camp was a little quieter than usual as the afternoon sun bathed the camp in a soft, golden light. The usual bustle of chores was winding down, and the fire crackled quietly at the center of it all. Cam had been busy all day, but now, as the sun began its slow descent, he found himself wandering toward the edge of camp where Mary-Beth sat, her journal open in her lap.
He noticed her there, just as she had been the day before—lost in thought as she scribbled away in the pages of her journal. There was something comforting about her presence, something grounding in the way she always seemed so at ease in her own company.
Cam walked over, taking a seat beside her without a word. He didn't have to say much; he knew she'd look up when she was ready. She glanced up from her journal and smiled, a quiet recognition in her eyes.
"Figured you'd be busy with Strauss again," she said, voice light but warm.
Cam let out a small laugh and leaned back on his elbows. "Not today. Thought I'd give the ol' loan business a rest."
Mary-Beth smirked. "Well, I'm sure Strauss will survive without you for one day."
"Yeah, and I'll survive without him." Cam stretched his arms out, letting the muscles in his shoulders relax. "I've been feeling like I'm chasing my tail lately. Just trying to catch up to something, but nothing ever sticks."
Mary-Beth's expression softened, and she set her journal aside. She looked at him for a long moment, then spoke gently. "You know, I offered you something yesterday." Her voice was quiet but filled with that same gentle sincerity he had come to appreciate.
Cam raised an eyebrow. "Offered me something?"
She nodded. "A chance to take a break. To read. I know it's not exactly something you'd normally do, but… sometimes, it's the little things that help. Clears the mind."
He hesitated for a moment, then looked down at her journal. "You sure I won't just fall asleep halfway through?"
Mary-Beth smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I'll let you decide that. But it might help you see things from a different angle."
Cam glanced at the journal again, then picked it up, flipping it open to a random page. He scanned the words, not really knowing what he was looking for but somehow drawn to the idea of escaping the noise for just a little while.
"I've never really been the reading type," he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. "But… maybe I could give it a shot."
"Maybe you just need a reason to," she said, her voice soft, almost like a whisper as she leaned back, letting the moment stretch between them.
He gave her a small, appreciative smile and started to read the first few lines on the page, letting the words settle in. The quiet of the camp, the crackling fire, and Mary-Beth's presence beside him gave the words a new weight. They weren't just words on a page anymore—they felt like a moment of peace, a chance to just breathe for once.
After a few minutes, he closed the journal, handing it back to her. "I see why you like it," he said with a half-smile. "Not bad."
Mary-Beth took the journal from him and tucked it back into her bag. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment, her smile softening. "Good. Maybe next time, you'll pick one out for yourself."
He nodded, the idea not feeling as foreign as it did before. "Maybe I will."
She stood up then, offering him her hand to help him up. "I think you're starting to understand the value of a little quiet time," she teased gently. "Just don't forget it next time you're rushing off to save the world."
Cam grinned, taking her hand. As he stood, he felt a lightness that hadn't been there before, the weight of his usual worries momentarily eased. There was something about the way Mary-Beth offered him that simple moment of peace, of calm, that made everything else feel a little less urgent.
"Maybe I won't," he said, with a grin that felt genuine this time.
"Good," she replied with a wink. "Don't forget—sometimes, it's the small things that keep us from losing our minds."
Just as the last words settled between them, the quiet comfort was shattered by the sharp sound of Susan Grimshaw's voice, cutting through the air like a knife.
"Mary-Beth! What are you doing wasting time, sitting around with him when there's work to be done?"
Mary-Beth sighed and stood, a slight roll of her eyes betraying her irritation. "I'm not just sitting around, Susan. I was—"
"I know exactly what you were doing." Grimshaw's eyes flicked between Cam and Mary-Beth with a disapproving look. "Ain't no time for that, not when there's a camp to keep running. You can flirt and talk all you want later, but right now, I need you working."
Cam felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but he kept quiet, not wanting to fuel the fire. He had seen this happen before with Grimshaw, and there was no use in arguing. He just glanced at Mary-Beth, trying to offer a little reassurance with a quiet look.
Mary-Beth, however, wasn't the one to let it slide. "I wasn't just talking, Susan. I was—"
"I don't care what you were doing," Grimshaw snapped, her voice growing colder. "It's about time someone in this camp stopped daydreaming and started pulling their weight." She gave Cam a pointed look before turning back to Mary-Beth. "You need to help with those pots, not gossip with every man who walks by."
Before Mary-Beth could retort, Grimshaw's gaze shifted. "And as for you, Gallagher —Dutch wants to see you. Reverend Swanson's gone off again, and you need to bring him back. You're good with people—go find him and get him back here. Make sure he's in one piece this time."
Cam's lips tightened at the mention of the Reverend. It wasn't the first time he had heard about the Reverend's tendency to disappear for days, drowning his problems in liquor, but this was the first time he'd been asked to go after him. The memory of his earlier conversation with Mary-Beth felt distant now, replaced by the all-too-familiar pull of responsibility.
"Alright, Grimshaw," Cam said, standing up. "I'll get him."
Grimshaw gave a sharp nod. "Good. And no excuses this time. Don't let him cause more trouble than he already has."
Cam felt the weight of the task settle on his shoulders, but he forced a steady breath. "I'll bring him back," he said, his tone firm. "One piece or two."
Grimshaw huffed as she turned away, satisfied with the response. As she walked off, Cam turned back to Mary-Beth, who was now frowning slightly, her mood visibly dampened by Grimshaw's interruption.
"You good?" Cam asked softly.
Mary-Beth didn't answer immediately, her eyes following Grimshaw's retreating figure before turning back to Cam. "Yeah, I'll be fine. I'm used to her by now," she said, her tone light but with an edge of frustration.
He gave her a sympathetic look. "I know."
Then, Cam turned toward the camp's edge where he'd seen the Reverend last, his mind already shifting gears from their quiet moment to the task ahead. He wasn't sure what kind of trouble Reverend Swanson had found this time, but he knew the man could be difficult when he was drunk. Still, it was his job, and he wasn't about to back down.
Cam glanced over his shoulder, meeting Mary-Beth's eyes one last time. "Don't let her get to you."
She gave him a small smile, one that barely touched her eyes. "I won't."
Cam gave a small nod before heading out in the direction Grimshaw had pointed him. As he made his way through the camp, his thoughts drifted to the task ahead. Swanson wasn't a bad man, but he had his demons, just like the rest of them. And maybe that's what made him so hard to help—he wasn't just running from his own problems, he was running from the world.
The sooner he found Swanson, the sooner he could get back to the people he didn't have to chase after. The ones who mattered. But for now, he'd do what he always did—track down the Reverend and hope to bring him back without incident.
He was a man of few words, but maybe, just maybe, he could convince Swanson to come back, without him throwing another fit. Or not.
As Cam made his way toward Dutch, the atmosphere of the camp seemed to shift slightly. The usual chatter of campmates at work faded into the background as he approached Dutch, who was standing near a barrel with a few maps scattered on it. His sharp eyes were already scanning the horizon, his thoughts no doubt a million miles away.
"Dutch," Cam said, stepping up to him.
Dutch looked up with a small but appreciative nod. "Cam, there you are. I'm assuming you've heard the news. Reverend's gone off again."
Cam leaned against a barrel, his brow furrowed as he replayed the details in his mind. The Reverend had been missing for a while now, but there were patterns in his behavior that weren't hard to pick apart. Dutch stood nearby, waiting for Cam to speak, though he knew something was coming. Cam had that look—eyes narrowed, mind ticking away.
"Alright," Cam said, straightening up. "I've got a good guess where Swanson is."
Dutch raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh, do you now? Go on, then. I'm listening."
Cam took a slow breath. "You know how the Reverend gets when things go sideways. I've seen it before. He's not just running off because he's upset, Dutch. He's running off because he's drowning in his own vices. His drinking's gotten worse lately, and you know it. You catch him slipping away for a drink, then he's gone for hours. But that's not all of it."
Dutch tilted his head, a look of skepticism in his eyes. "What else do you know?"
"His Bible," Cam continued, a touch of seriousness in his voice. "The last time I checked, there was more than just holy words hidden inside that book. I found a stash of morphine wrapped up in the pages—just enough to keep him coming back for more, but not enough for anyone to notice right away. I've seen men do worse to themselves with less. The Reverend's been using it to numb everything. His guilt, his fear... it all comes from what he's been hiding in that damn Bible."
Dutch's eyes darkened. "Hell. That's one thing. But what else do you think is going on?"
"I've seen him gamble before," Cam said, the words careful. "He's a poker player, and not in the good way. Not for fun. He's been betting away money we don't have to spare, and it's only getting worse. I saw him down at a game in town a few weeks ago—stacking chips with that faraway look in his eyes. He was in deep. That's when I knew he was really slipping. That's not the man I knew when I first met him."
Dutch grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Goddamn it."
"Here's the thing," Cam said, his tone firm. "He's probably at Flatneck Station. That place has everything he craves—a dark corner to hide in, drink and morphine, and no one asking too many questions. It's a haven for people looking to escape, and with his luck and addiction, it makes sense. If you know where he's hiding, you can get lost there and no one's the wiser."
"Flatneck Station?" Dutch asked, narrowing his eyes. "How sure are you?"
"I'm certain," Cam replied with conviction. "I know how Swanson works. He's not going to go too far off the beaten path. He's hiding in plain sight, where no one knows his face and no one's looking out for him. It's a small, forgotten place, and perfect for a man like him to disappear."
Dutch was quiet for a moment, studying Cam. There was something in the younger man's expression, a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before. Cam had always been good at reading people, but this felt different. The way he pieced everything together—it wasn't just luck or a hunch.
"I'll tell you what," Dutch said slowly, his voice laced with thought. "You've got a damned good head on your shoulders, Cam. I'd be a fool not to listen to you."
Cam nodded, looking Dutch square in the eye. "Flatneck Station's where he's at. And if we want to pull him out before it's too late, we need to go now."
Dutch looked at him for a long beat, then finally sighed, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the decision. "Alright, Cam. Let's get him back. And if you're right, you've earned my respect. Hell, you already had it."
As Cam adjusted Dusty's saddle, the urgency to track down Reverend Swanson weighed on him. The clues had clicked into place quickly—gambling, morphine, and the Reverend's increasing distance from the camp. Cam knew Flatneck Station was where he needed to be, and he couldn't afford to waste any time.
Just as he was about to swing into the saddle, Strauss approached, clipboard in hand and an air of calm professionalism about him. "Mr. Gallagher," he began with his usual formal tone. "I hope you're not planning to head out just yet. There are matters to attend to here. I'm in need of some assistance with my business endeavors. I believe you're the man for the job."
Cam paused for a moment, his hand still on the reins, then looked at Strauss with a measured gaze. "I'm afraid I've got other plans, Strauss," he said, his voice firm. "I've got a lead on where Reverend Swanson's gone. I can't afford to be tied up with anything else right now."
Strauss raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the sudden shift in focus. "The Reverend, you say? I was unaware he had gone missing. What's this about?"
Cam didn't want to go into the full details of Swanson's morphine habit or his recent behavior, so he kept it brief. "He's been gambling again, Strauss, and I've seen signs of his morphine addiction. He's been drifting from the camp more often, and now he's gone. I'm heading to Flatneck Station to track him down."
Strauss nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I see. Well, I can certainly appreciate your dedication to the Reverend's welfare, but I must admit, this is inconvenient for me. There's work to be done here, Mr. Gallagher."
Cam gave a short nod of acknowledgment but remained resolute. "I understand that, Strauss. But this can't wait. If I don't act fast, Swanson could be in real trouble."
Strauss straightened his posture, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered Cam's words. "Very well, Mr. Gallagher. I will handle the business here myself. But do be quick about it. I trust you'll return as soon as possible. The camp needs you."
Cam mounted Dusty, giving Strauss a quick look as he prepared to ride off. "I'll be back soon enough, Strauss. Don't worry about that. But the Reverend's my responsibility right now."
Strauss didn't press further, though the concern in his gaze was evident. "Understood. I'll hold down the fort in your absence. Just... be careful out there."
With a nod, Cam spurred Dusty forward, heading toward Flatneck Station. His mind was already focused on the task ahead—finding the Reverend before it was too late. The camp would have to manage without him for now.
The warm hum of midday light cut through the filth-stained windows of Flatneck Station, washing the worn wooden floors. Cam pushed the door open with a measured hand, boots thudding softly as he stepped inside. The air hit him like a wave—liquor, sweat, the sting of cigarette smoke. He knew this smell. Sin in slow decay.
There, at a crooked poker table near the corner, sat Reverend Swanson—head lolling, glassy eyes wide with conviction, surrounded by two men deep in their game. Cards and chips cluttered the table, but all Cam could see was the mess of a man he'd been sent to retrieve.
"Reverend Swanson."
Swanson perked up at the name, bleary-eyed and smiling like a boy caught sneaking pie. "Mr. Gallagher!" he slurred. "I took your advice, sir. I took your advice!"
Cam didn't answer. He didn't have to. He just stepped closer, the weight of his boots enough to draw attention. The Reverend stumbled up from his chair with a dramatic wobble and clapped his hands to Cam's shoulders.
"I have removed myself from Morpheus' embrace! No more, sir! I am free—I am free!" he announced to the room like a street preacher.
Cam frowned, steadying the man as he swayed. "You don't look free, Reverend. You look barely standing."
One of the gamblers scoffed, flicking his cards lazily. "Sit down, Reverend. We ain't finished."
Cam turned toward him slowly, a single brow raised. "You think this is what he looks like when he's ready to gamble?"
The man shrugged, holding his hands up. "Ain't none of us forced liquor down his throat. I just want him to finish the damn game."
Cam's hand landed lightly on the table—no threat, not yet, just a presence. His voice was low and steady. "He ain't finishing nothin'. Look at him. Can't see straight, can't think straight."
He gave the man a long, level stare. "You wanna play cards, pick someone who ain't seeing ghosts."
The gambler looked at him, eyes twitching nervously. Cam didn't need to raise his voice. He just stood there, broad frame casting a quiet shadow over the table.
Behind him, Swanson let out a chuckle. "These are good men, Mr. Gallagher… children of God, I tell you!"
And with that declaration, the Reverend collapsed in a heap on the floor.
The gambler glanced at the unconscious form. Then at Cam. "Fine," he muttered. "Take your preacher."
Cam crouched down with a quiet grunt, pulling the Reverend's arm over his shoulder and lifting him up with practiced ease. Swanson mumbled something incoherent—something about salvation and red sevens—and sagged against him like a rag doll.
Outside, the light was blinding. Cam blinked as he stepped onto the porch, the Reverend limp and murmuring against his side. He led him toward his horse, tied up just beyond the station.
He muttered under his breath, "God really pick you for all this, huh?"
The Reverend groaned in response, drooling slightly onto Cam's vest.
Cam sighed, eyeing the distant hills beyond the tracks. "Let's get you home, preacher. Before your demons catch up again."
The wind had picked up by the time Cam rode back into Horseshoe Overlook, the sun dipping low behind the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing. Dusty's hooves clapped against the dry earth, her breath steady, her pace careful—carrying both Cam and the slumped form of Reverend Swanson draped across the saddle like a sack of flour with a collar.
Camp life stirred around them—Bill grumbling while chopping wood, Mary-Beth laughing gently with Tilly over a book, Pearson shouting about salted beef again. All of it slowed to a hush as they saw what Cam was hauling in.
He pulled Dusty up near the center, dismounted with ease, and quickly moved around to lift Swanson off the saddle, gripping him under the arms.
"Help—would be real nice about now," he muttered.
Susan Grimshaw was already storming up before he could even take another step, skirts swishing, lips pressed tight. Her eyes flared like kindling at the sight of the Reverend.
"Lord above," she snapped, hands on her hips. "What did that fool do now?"
Cam adjusted Swanson's weight against his side and jerked his head toward the sleeping tent area. "Same thing he always does, I'm guessin'. Booze, morphine, poker. Found him in a station looking more dead than alive."
Swanson groaned incoherently, head lolling against Cam's shoulder.
Miss Grimshaw didn't flinch. "He's a damn disgrace. You bring him to my tent. I'll get him cleaned up. Again."
Cam handed him off slowly, his arms aching from the ride. "Didn't know what else to do with him. If he'd stayed out there any longer, he'd've either choked on his own spit or wound up on a train track."
Grimshaw softened just slightly, just enough to be noticed. "You did right, Mr. Gallagher. Not many men take the time."
Cam gave a small shrug, brushing off the dust on his vest. "Didn't feel like a choice."
Grimshaw nodded once, then with a grunt of effort and more strength than anyone gave her credit for, hauled the Reverend toward her tent, barking over her shoulder, "And someone boil some damn water!"
Cam watched them go for a moment, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Behind him, Tilly whistled from her chair near the fire.
"Guess you're the camp savior now, huh?" she teased, smiling behind her mug.
The camp slowly returned to its usual rhythm after the Grimshaw storm passed. Somewhere, Pearson was banging on pots again. The soft pluck of a guitar drifted from near Javier's wagon. Cam lingered near the fire pit, rolling his sleeves back down, brushing the dirt from his palms when he heard a chair creak beside him.
Tilly slid into view with that sly, knowing grin of hers.
"Well now," she said, leaning her elbow on the table like they were old friends back at some saloon. "That's one hell of a way to make an entrance, Cam."
He glanced at her with a raised brow. "What, riding in with a half-dead preacher on my horse?"
She snorted. "Exactly. You'll have the old women whisperin' you're a white knight by sunrise."
Cam smirked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Don't get used to it. Man damn near pissed himself halfway home. Took everything in me not to dump him by the roadside."
Tilly chuckled, sipping from her tin mug. "Still. Not many men in this camp would've gone out lookin'. Hell, half of them didn't even realize he was gone."
"He was outta his mind. I've seen men drunk before. This was… a different beast." Cam paused, jaw tightening. "You ever seen morphine hollow a man out from the inside?"
She sobered a little, nodded. "Yeah. Ain't pretty. He's lucky you found him."
Cam gave her a small glance, thoughtful. "You really think that?"
"Mm-hmm. And so will Dutch," she said with a wink, then stood, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Go on, cowboy. Go tell the bossman."
Cam found Dutch standing at the edge of camp, watching the last sliver of daylight melt into the hills. He looked regal in a quiet way, hands tucked behind his back, pipe trailing faint smoke.
Cam approached, boots crunching softly over dry grass. "Dutch."
Dutch turned, nodding. "Mr. Gallagher. You're back."
"Reverend's in one piece," Cam said simply. "Mostly. Found him at Flatneck Station. Half drunk, half high, three-quarters dead. He's in Susan's hands now."
Dutch let out a long breath, turning back toward the view. "Well now. That is good news indeed. Grimshaw will whip him back to shape or whip him out of it. Either way…"
Cam folded his arms. "I thought you'd want to know."
Dutch looked over his shoulder, giving a small, pleased smile. "You're proving yourself, son. Quietly. Thoughtfully. I like that."
Cam tilted his head. "Figured someone had to do the dirty work."
Dutch nodded again, contemplative. "Keep that up, and this gang'll owe you more than just gratitude."
Cam didn't say anything to that. Just nodded and let the quiet settle.
Dutch turned back to the view, and Cam slowly stepped away, back toward campfires and voices.
He wasn't here to make a name. But hell… it sure felt like he was making a mark.
The campfire burned low, just enough flame left to cast soft shadows against the wagon wheels and tree trunks. Most of the camp had turned in for the night. Even Pearson's kitchen clatter had gone quiet. The air was still, save for the occasional crackle of the firewood.
Cam spotted Mary-Beth outside her wagon, blanket draped over her knees, a half-read book resting in her lap. Her boots were off and tucked beside her, and her hair had slipped loose from the usual tidy knot. She looked up as he approached.
"Evenin'," Cam said, settling into a low step across from her.
"Hey yourself," she smiled, tucking the book's ribbon between the pages. "You look like you've had one hell of a day."
Cam gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "If you count chasin' a half-dead reverend outta a train station while he mumbled sermons between shots of whiskey… then yeah, somethin' like that."
Mary-Beth leaned forward, her eyes wide with playful disbelief. "You found Reverend Swanson?"
"Found him drunk, drugged, and near losin' his last dollar in a poker game." He scratched the back of his neck. "Dragged him out before he did any more damage. Susan's got him cleaned up now."
Mary-Beth winced. "He's lucky it was you that went lookin'. Grimshaw would've fed him to the coyotes."
"Not sure I didn't think about it for a minute."
She laughed softly at that, warm and knowing. "You ever get tired of lookin' after all of us?"
Cam shrugged, looking down for a moment. "Don't mind it… most days. Just wish some of these folks would try a little harder to meet halfway."
Mary-Beth tilted her head. "You're one of the good ones, Cam. Even if you don't like admit it."
He looked up, her words sitting heavy—but not unwelcome. "Maybe I just like hearin' it from you."
She raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Careful now. You're starting to sound like you mean it."
"Maybe I do."
She smirked, amused and maybe a little flattered. "Well then… maybe I'll have to start recommendin' better books. Help sharpen your lines a bit."
"Could use it," Cam replied. "Long as you keep sittin' here when I come by."
Mary-Beth let her eyes linger a second longer before looking down at her closed book. "Anytime, Cam."
The fire popped quietly between them. Neither felt the need to say much more. There was something steady in the quiet—comfort in the stillness, like the two of them were the only ones awake in the whole world.
The Morning After Cam Found Reverend Swanson
The camp was stirring again under the soft, golden haze of early sunlight. Horseshoe Overlook had a certain calm to it in the morning, when the fire pits were just embers and the laughter hadn't yet started rising. Cam Gallagher stepped out of his tent, stretching the weight off his shoulders and brushing dust from his sleeves. The firelight from last night was long gone, replaced now with the light rustling of the trees and the distant echo of Pearson already banging pots near the campfire.
He paused mid-step when he saw Dutch van der Linde standing just by the bluff, his figure silhouetted against the Heartlands. Cam narrowed his eyes slightly.
Dutch wasn't alone.
Molly O'Shea stood beside him, arms folded, gaze cast somewhere far beyond the horizon. She said nothing for a long stretch of time. Dutch was talking—quietly, slowly, and as usual, charismatically. But Cam had watched men talk all his life. He could read between gestures. This wasn't a performance for the gang or a command veiled in poetry. This was something different.
"Still dreaming about that house in Tahiti?" Molly asked, a faint Irish lilt undercutting her tone.
Dutch chuckled, but there was a tiredness in it. "Always. That dream keeps me breathing, sweetheart."
Cam leaned up against the fencepost near the corral, not close enough to be noticed, but close enough to listen. He didn't intend to eavesdrop—not exactly—but in a camp full of outlaws, information moved quietly, and understanding Dutch was vital.
"Sometimes I wonder if you're dreaming so much you don't see where we actually are," Molly said softly, her voice just above the wind.
Dutch didn't answer right away.
He reached for her hand. She let him, but her eyes didn't meet his.
"Molly…" Dutch finally said, "I know this ain't easy. It never has been. But the storm's almost past. We just need a little more time."
Molly exhaled, something between a sigh and resignation.
"I don't need time, Dutch," she said. "I need to feel like I matter."
Cam's jaw tensed slightly.
It wasn't like watching a fight. It wasn't dramatic. It was two people clinging to a rope that was fraying thread by thread. Cam knew the feeling. He'd lived it more than once.
Molly turned and walked off first, chin up, face composed. Dutch lingered a moment longer before lighting a cigar and letting the smoke drift upward into the morning sky.
Cam straightened up and quietly walked toward the main camp, the sound of Tilly and Karen laughing somewhere off to the left. He had his own part to play, his own wounds to mind. But still, as he passed Dutch, he offered a quiet, respectful nod.
Dutch met his eyes and nodded back. "Good morning, Mr. Gallagher."
Cam held his gaze for a moment.
"Morning, sir," he replied, calm and composed. "Seems like it'll be a long one."
Dutch chuckled through a puff of smoke. "Ain't they all?"
Cam didn't answer. He just kept walking, the picture of calm as the morning sun climbed higher above the trees.
As the firelight flickered and the camp settled into the sunlight, Cam's thoughts kept drifting back to Reverend Swanson. He had tried to clear his mind, to focus on the tasks at hand, but the memory of the man's state at Flatneck Station gnawed at him. It wasn't just about the drinking or the morphine—it was the way he'd looked when he collapsed, the hollow look in his eyes.
Cam couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the Reverend's troubles than he was letting on.
He stood up from where he'd been sitting near the fire, excusing himself from the others with a nod. As he made his way across camp, he spotted the Reverend sitting alone by his tent, staring into the distance.
The man had a worn-out look, his hair tangled and his clothes creased, as though he hadn't bothered to change since his last outburst. His hands trembled slightly as he fumbled with a crumpled letter he'd clearly been writing.
Cam approached him cautiously, trying not to startle him.
"Reverend," he said quietly.
Swanson looked up, blinking in confusion before his bleary eyes focused on Cam. He gave a shaky smile, but there was something lost in it.
"Mr. Gallagher," the Reverend slurred, his voice hoarse. "You've come to drag me back into the fold, haven't you?"
Cam crouched down in front of him, looking into the man's eyes with a steady gaze. "I'm not here to drag you anywhere, Reverend. I'm here because we need to talk."
Swanson shook his head slightly, almost as if in disbelief. "Talk? About what? I'm just... I'm just a fool, Mr. Gallagher. A damned fool."
Cam sat down next to him, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "No, Reverend. You're just a man. And I can see you're struggling, but that doesn't mean it's over."
The Reverend's face twisted in pain, and he tried to focus on Cam's words. "I've tried to fight it, you know... I've tried to... but it's hard. Harder than you can imagine. The guilt... it's unbearable."
"I get it," Cam said, his voice low. "But running from it won't fix anything. I'm not saying it's easy—I'm saying you've got a choice."
Swanson's eyes flickered with a brief flash of clarity, and for the first time in days, he seemed to see Cam properly. "You... you still think I can make it right?"
"I think you're still breathing, Reverend. And that means there's time to fix things," Cam replied, his words solid, but compassionate. "But it won't be easy. And you'll need more than just God's guidance this time. You'll need to be honest with yourself."
The Reverend's hands clenched tightly around the letter in his hand. "I've never been good at honesty."
"Well," Cam said, standing up, "there's no better time than now. The gang's gonna need you, and if you're willing, I'll help you get back on track. We're all in this together."
Swanson stood slowly, a conflicted look on his face. He finally gave a weak nod, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't need to say anything," Cam responded with a shrug. "But you'll have to show up. It starts with that."
The Reverend looked up at Cam, his face torn between gratitude and uncertainty. "Thank you, Mr. Gallagher."
Cam nodded, turning back toward the campfire. He couldn't promise Swanson that things would be easy, but he'd done what he could for now.
As he walked back to camp, the evening quiet around him, Cam's mind already shifted toward Valentine. He had to be ready for whatever came next. But for now, he'd done the right thing—he had gotten through to the Reverend, at least for today.
He wasn't sure if it was enough to fix the man's fractured soul, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.
To be continued