Molly stood by the crackling campfire, her eyes darting around as if she were being hunted by a pack of O'Driscolls. She spotted Arthur leaning against his horse, looking as weary as a man who had seen too many bad ideas and been dragged into most of them. "Can I have a word, Arthur?" she called softly, though there was an edge of urgency in her voice, like she couldn’t wait for one more of Dutch’s philosophical monologues.
Arthur sighed—one of those deep, soul-weary sighs that come after a long day of chasing bounties, dodging bullets, and listening to Dutch talk about "the plan." His broad shoulders slumped for just a second, but he was never the type to turn someone away when they needed help. Grudgingly, he pushed off from his horse, slowly striding over to where Molly stood.
“What is it, Molly?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms like a man who already knew he was about to regret this conversation.
Molly shifted her weight nervously, her hands fumbling with the frayed edges of her dress. She avoided Arthur’s gaze like it was a wild animal that might bite. “I... I still love Dutch,” she finally confessed, her voice so soft it barely rose above the crackle of the fire. She took a deep breath before continuing, her words tinged with frustration. “But all he ever talks about is his plans. His damn schemes. I swear, Arthur, he doesn’t even see me anymore.”
Arthur squinted at her, wondering what he was supposed to do with that bit of information. His life was already complicated enough, with the law on his tail and Dutch spiraling deeper into his grand ideas. He opened his mouth to say something, probably to ask her to reconsider airing her grievances to the wrong outlaw, but then—as if summoned by bad timing itself—Uncle stumbled into view.
“Arthur!” Uncle’s voice boomed, slurred with whiskey and overconfidence. His grin was wider than the Mississippi, and Arthur could already smell the booze on his breath before the old man even got close. “I got a new plan for us—it’s foolproof this time!” Uncle swayed a little as he spoke, clearly proud of whatever half-cooked disaster he’d come up with in the bottom of a bottle.
Molly rolled her eyes so hard Arthur thought she might strain something. She didn’t need to say a word; her expression screamed that she’d seen more than enough of Uncle’s “foolproof” plans.
Arthur groaned internally but did his best to keep it together. He gave Molly a look that said, We’ll finish this later, before turning his attention to the grinning, stumbling mess that was Uncle.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” Arthur muttered to Molly over his shoulder. Reluctantly, he followed Uncle, who was already going on about some half-baked scheme to rob a house. Arthur’s boots felt heavy as he walked away, that familiar weight of unfinished business settling in his chest. He knew this conversation with Molly wasn’t over—not by a long shot—but for now, duty (or more accurately, Uncle's latest disaster) called.
The sun hung low in the sky the next day as Arthur strolled down to the lake, fishing rod slung over his shoulder. His plan? Look like a man with nothing more on his mind than catching dinner. In reality, though, his thoughts were tangled messier than his fishing line ever was. He had no idea why Molly wanted to talk to him again—but she had insisted, and now they had to be careful.
Molly arrived shortly after, keeping her distance at first. She stood on the shore, hands on her hips, watching Arthur cast his line with the grace of a drunken cow. Arthur barely had time to get comfortable before she opened her mouth.
“Can’t even catch a fish, Arthur?” Molly yelled, her voice loud enough to echo across the water. “How do you expect to survive out here when you can’t even catch a cold?” Her tone was biting, but Arthur knew better—this was all part of their act. Anyone passing by would think Molly was just having a bit of fun at Arthur’s expense. The teasing was their cover.
Arthur smirked to himself, tugging on the fishing line as if to prove her wrong. “Reckon I do just fine, Molly,” he shot back, playing along. But behind the casual banter, his mind was sharp, waiting for the real conversation to begin.
Molly edged a little closer, careful to keep her voice loud enough for any eavesdroppers. “Well, if you keep casting like that, you’re gonna scare away every fish in this damn lake!”
Arthur shook his head, hiding a small grin. They were good at this—this ridiculous act. But then, between the playful insults, Molly’s voice softened, like the wind just before a storm. She took a few steps closer, her eyes darting around camp, making sure no one was paying them too much mind.
“He’s lost it, Arthur,” Molly finally said, her voice just loud enough to carry over the water but low enough for only Arthur to catch the shift in tone. “Dutch... he’s not the man he was. He doesn’t see me anymore. Doesn’t see anyone, really. Just his plans. His grand ideas.”
Arthur froze for a moment, his fishing rod forgotten in his hands. He had heard bits and pieces of Dutch’s unraveling, but hearing it from Molly’s mouth made it feel more real—like a knife twisted in a wound that hadn’t healed yet.
“And now... now he’s got Micah whisperin’ in his ear. I don’t trust that man. Arthur... I can’t stay here. It’s not safe. I want out,” Molly confessed, her voice trembling, but with a strength behind it that made Arthur’s heart twist in his chest.
Arthur blinked, taken aback by her words. “Take me away from here, Arthur,” she whispered, her eyes pleading, her hands clenching the folds of her dress. “I... I can’t do this anymore.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. Of all the things he expected from Molly, this wasn’t it. “Run away… with me?” he asked, scratching his head in bewilderment. “You sure you’ve thought this through?” He knew how wild this idea was—hell, he could hardly believe she was saying it.
Molly gave him a look, one that held a thousand unsaid words, and suddenly Arthur wasn’t so sure of anything. The world was changing around them, faster than a horse on the run, and for the first time, Arthur realized that Molly might be desperate enough to do just about anything—even trust him.
Arthur lay on his back in his tent, staring up at the stars through the small gap in the canvas. The night air was cool, but his mind was running hot, restless with thoughts that wouldn’t quit. Molly’s words kept turning over and over in his head, like tumbleweeds caught in a windstorm. She wanted to run off with him? Of all people? It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t the type to be chosen for anything other than doing the heavy lifting, cracking skulls, or putting food on the table.
An escape plan? Arthur shook his head slightly. It wasn’t that he minded the idea of running off—God knew he’d been thinking about it enough lately—but Molly? She’d always struck him as more of a “sit pretty and sip wine” type. Arthur figured she’d rather run off to some fancy place with some well-to-do gentleman, not go roughing it with a weather-beaten outlaw like him.
Why him? He wasn’t sophisticated, wasn’t charming like Dutch had been in the good ol' days. Hell, Arthur couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on good terms with a woman for longer than it took to rob a train. It made no sense, yet there she was, pleading with him, asking to be taken away from it all. He couldn’t help but wonder if she really understood what she was asking. You sure you’ve thought this through? he had asked, and now that same question was echoing in his own mind.
He sighed, rolling onto his side, trying to get comfortable, but the thoughts kept chasing him down like wolves after a wounded deer.
Then there was Dutch—once the only man Arthur trusted with his life. Now... Arthur could hardly look at him without feeling that gnawing unease deep in his gut. Dutch’s plans used to be about something—freedom, loyalty, a future. But lately, all Dutch could talk about was “the plan” like it was some kind of mythical beast that, once captured, would solve everything. The more Dutch talked, the less sense it all made. And Micah? Micah only made things worse. Arthur didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, which, given Micah’s smug grin and slippery ways, probably wasn’t far enough.
Arthur’s frustration grew. Dutch was losing his grip, and everyone could see it—even if they weren’t ready to say it out loud. Arthur had been thinking about it more and more lately: getting out while he still could, finding some quiet piece of land where he could breathe without feeling Dutch’s plans weighing down on his chest.
Running away with Molly could be that ticket out. Maybe. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. But Arthur wasn’t fool enough to believe it’d last. He knew Molly. She was all high spirits and restless ambition—running off with him was just her way of getting out of one mess and into another. And when the dust settled, she’d probably leave him in the rearview, just like everyone else eventually did.
Arthur sighed again, the sound heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made. He didn’t trust any of it—not Dutch’s schemes, not Micah’s influence, and certainly not his own chances with Molly. But still, the thought lingered: maybe this was his chance for a way out, even if it was only for a little while. He also wondered to himself: Is Molly even close to Arthur material? They hadn't even mentioned romance, after all. This wasn’t about love or anything soft like that—this was two people frustrated to their core, both desperate for an exit. This wasn’t a fling. This was teamwork.
And teamwork? Well, Arthur figured he could work with that.
Molly sat alone in her tent, the camp’s usual noise just a dull murmur outside. She let out a long sigh, her mind wandering back to the baffling decision she had made to confide in Arthur of all people. Out of all the gang members she could have turned to—why Arthur?
She folded her arms, thinking it over. “He’s strong, dependable,” she muttered to herself, “but hardly sophisticated.” A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she thought of Arthur’s blunt way of looking at the world. No, he wasn’t one for big words or grand gestures, but at least he was steady. He didn’t talk in circles like Dutch or swagger like Micah. Arthur just… was. And right now, that seemed to be the one thing she could rely on. Despite his rough edges, he was the only one in this camp who still seemed to have a shred of common sense left. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why she chose him.
Still, as she sat there, Molly couldn’t help but question how on earth she had ended up in this mess in the first place. Dutch, she thought with a heavy heart. When she first met him, his words had felt like a cool breeze on a sweltering day—so full of ideas, visions of freedom, and the promise of a better life. But now? Now, all she heard were half-baked speeches that sounded like something ripped from a dusty political pamphlet.
“Marxist rubbish,” she muttered in her most native sounding Irish accent, rolling her eyes. Dutch had once been so charismatic, but now his philosophies were nothing more than excuses to drag them into more danger. Every day it became clearer—she wasn’t the muse in Dutch’s grand vision anymore; she was just another piece in his endless game of schemes. His affection for her had faded like the setting sun, leaving her feeling like a ghost lingering in the shadows of a man who had long since lost his way.
Molly sighed, her shoulders slumping. She was tired. Tired of Dutch’s hollow promises, tired of being a prop in his half-baked revolutions. She was ready for something else, something real—even if that “something” was Arthur Morgan, as unpredictable and rough as he was. At least with Arthur, there were no grand illusions. Just a man trying to make it to the next day, same as her.
Arthur was minding his own business at the general store in Valentine, picking up a few essential supplies—some cartridges, a bit of coffee, and, with a hint of guilty pleasure, a packet of premium cigarettes. It wasn’t just for the smoke, of course—Arthur was on the lookout for one of those elusive American Presidents cards to add to his collection. He had more cards than common sense these days, but what could he say? Even an outlaw needed a hobby.
He wasn’t expecting much more than the usual day-to-day business when, out of nowhere, Molly O’Shea walked through the door. She wasn’t exactly subtle about it either, glancing around the store like she was casing the joint before bumping into Arthur with an exaggerated, “Oh! Fancy seeing you here, Arthur.”
Arthur glanced at her sideways, tucking the cigarette pack into his satchel with a small, knowing smirk. “Yeah, fancy that,” he replied, his voice as casual as ever, but the tension between them was thick enough to cut through with a dull knife. Anyone watching would think it was just an innocent run-in, but both of them knew better.
Molly stepped a little closer, her tone dropping to just above a whisper. “We need to start setting things aside. Supplies, mostly,” she muttered, glancing at the shopkeeper, who was busy sorting through tins of beans and barely paying them any mind.
Arthur scratched his chin, keeping his expression neutral as he replied, “Bounty hunters have been sniffin’ around. I reckon we could get ourselves some extra cash from them—won’t be hard to take what we need. Hell, they’re dumb enough to come lookin’ for me anyway.”
Molly raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “Robbing bounty hunters?” she whispered, her voice low but laced with amusement. “A bit poetic, isn’t it?”
“Just business,” Arthur replied with a shrug. “Easy targets, though.” He leaned against the counter casually, looking like he was talking about the weather. “We’ll need to stash it somewhere safe ‘til we’re ready. Can’t take any chances.”
They talked in circles, coded words filling in the gaps for anyone who might’ve been listening too close. To the outside world, it was a simple conversation about the goings-on in town, but beneath it, they were already weaving the threads of their escape plan. There was no love or sentiment behind their words—just the cold, hard practicality of two people looking to break free from their sinking ship.
As their conversation wound down, Molly grabbed a tin of peaches from the shelf, adding it to her basket. “Well, don’t stay out of trouble too long, Arthur,” she said with a forced smile.
Arthur nodded, tipping his hat slightly. “Don’t reckon I will,” he muttered, before glancing at the cigarette pack in his bag, wondering if he'd get lucky with a rare card this time.
Just as they were about to part ways, Arthur caught sight of a figure stepping out of the saloon across the street. Micah. Of course. He was clutching a bottle of whiskey, looking far too pleased with himself, as usual. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Micah gave Arthur one of those slimy, knowing smirks that made Arthur’s stomach churn.
Arthur cursed silently under his breath as Micah tipped his hat with mock respect. Damn it, Arthur thought. Micah was always watching, always lurking like some overfed vulture waiting to pick apart the remains of whatever was left behind.
Arthur turned back to Molly, giving her a quick nod before heading out the door. He had no time for Micah’s games—not today. But one thing was for sure: they were going to have to be a hell of a lot more careful from here on out.
Arthur sat at the weathered table in Dutch’s tent, the faint scent of tobacco and whiskey hanging in the air. Dutch was in his element, eyes gleaming with the wild spark that always lit up when he started talking about "the plan." Josiah Trelawny sat nearby, looking calm and collected as usual, nodding along as Dutch began sketching out the details for their big bank job in Valentine.
“We’re gonna hit ‘em hard, boys,” Dutch said, his hands sweeping through the air as if he were conducting an orchestra. “The town won’t know what hit ‘em. We’ll be in and out before the sheriff even knows we were there. It’s all about speed, precision, and a touch of that Van der Linde flair.”
Arthur nodded along, but his mind was miles away. As Dutch rattled on about escape routes, lookout positions, and timing, Arthur was taking mental notes for an entirely different purpose—his and Molly’s escape. He knew the layout of Valentine better than most, and the heist would give him and Molly the perfect cover. While Dutch focused on robbing the bank, Arthur would be planning their departure.
“Arthur, you’ll take lead on the bank itself,” Dutch continued, his voice brimming with confidence. “Nobody gets in or out without your say. We’re gonna do this clean, boys. No messes, no shootouts.”
Arthur nodded again, a low grunt of agreement leaving his lips. “I reckon I can handle that,” he said, playing his part. But deep down, he wasn’t thinking about the money in the bank. He was thinking about how this chaos would give him and Molly a chance to slip away unnoticed. This was all part of their escape plan now—whether Dutch knew it or not.
After the meeting, Arthur made his way back to camp, where the gang was busy with their usual bickering and banter. He spotted Molly sitting by the campfire, seemingly uninterested in everything around her. Arthur strolled over casually, picking up a half-empty can of beans and pretending to inspect it.
“You ever gonna learn to keep quiet, Arthur?” Molly called out loudly, loud enough for the nearby gang members to hear. It was the same old routine—playful bickering that no one paid much mind to, except the two of them knew better.
Arthur smirked and shot back just as loudly, “You ever gonna quit complainin’, Molly?” He tossed the can back onto the table, leaning in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “We need to move soon,” he said quietly. “Bank job’s in motion. While everyone’s distracted, we’ll make our move.”
Molly leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes for the camp’s benefit, but her words were for Arthur alone. “I’ve been ready,” she replied softly. “Just don’t keep me waitin’.”
Arthur nodded, keeping his face neutral as he responded. “Don’t worry. It’ll all go smooth. You just stick to the plan, and we’ll be long gone before Dutch even knows what happened.”
Molly scoffed loudly for show. “Plan? You and your damn plans,” she said with a smirk, turning back to the fire. But the look they exchanged was all business.
As Arthur walked away, he caught Micah watching him from the edge of camp again. The man had a way of creeping around like a stray dog, always sniffing for something. Arthur shook his head, muttering under his breath. He was going to have to keep his eyes peeled—their escape was coming, and the last thing they needed was Micah sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
Arthur stood by the lake, line cast out into the water, doing his best to look like a man with nothing on his mind but fish. The sun glinted off the surface, and the air was thick with that familiar scent of the outdoors—pine, water, and freedom. Molly arrived soon after, strolling up with her usual attitude, hands on her hips, a smirk already forming on her lips.
“Well, if it isn’t the master fisherman himself,” Molly called out, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “You’re really going to catch something with those amateur skills?” she teased, her tone playful but with that sharp edge that they both used to cover their tracks.
Arthur shook his head slightly, a faint smirk creeping onto his face. “Ain’t about catchin’ much today, Molly,” he responded, playing along as he gave the rod a lazy tug. But beneath the jokes, they were solidifying their plans—each insult was just a cover for what really needed to be said.
Molly tossed a small stone into the water, watching it skip before sinking. “Still on schedule?” she asked, her voice dropping just a touch so only Arthur could hear.
Arthur nodded, not taking his eyes off the water. “Dutch is still planning the heist, but it’s a ways off. We got time.” He paused, giving the line a good tug. “We’ll head south along Flat Iron Lake once everything’s in place. Get a decent head start before anyone figures out we’re gone.”
Molly leaned against a nearby tree, her smirk softening into something more serious. “And if anything goes wrong?”
Arthur shrugged. “We’ll be ready. No point in worryin’ about what we can’t control.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the water lapping gently against the shore. Molly glanced around, making sure no one was too close before stepping in a little closer. “Just make sure your catch doesn’t slip through your fingers, Arthur,” she quipped with a wink, loud enough for anyone passing by to think they were just having another one of their playful arguments.
Arthur gave her a nod, quietly appreciating her ability to stay sharp even in moments like this. He reeled in the line, a small fish flopping at the end of it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for show.
As Arthur made his way back to camp, handing the fish off to Pearson, he couldn’t shake that familiar feeling of being watched. He turned his head just in time to catch Micah lounging nearby, a whiskey bottle in his hand, but his eyes were sharp, focused.
Micah’s gaze lingered too long, and Arthur kept his cool, nodding casually in Micah’s direction. But something about the way Micah grinned told Arthur that the man wasn’t just enjoying the sunshine.
“You know, Arthur,” Micah called out, his voice carrying that slippery drawl he used when he was trying to be clever, “I get the idea those little smallmouth bass ain’t the only fish you’re tryin’ to catch these days.”
Arthur’s expression didn’t waver. “What’re you gettin’ at, Micah?”
Micah leaned forward, his grin widening. “Just sayin’—looks like you’ve got more on your plate than what you’re pullin’ out of that lake.”
Arthur stayed calm, forcing a smirk. “Well, I reckon you’d know all about fishin’ for trouble, wouldn’t ya?” He tipped his hat and walked off, his mind racing. Micah was snooping, and Arthur didn’t know just how much he had pieced together. But one thing was clear: he needed to keep his guard up. Micah was getting too close for comfort, and with everything at stake, one wrong move could bring the whole plan crashing down.
It was late afternoon, and the camp was alive with its usual noise—Pearson grumbling about supplies, Dutch holed up in his tent talking “plans,” and the rest of the gang busy with their own business. Sadie Adler, however, was far from in the mood to deal with anyone’s nonsense, especially not Micah’s.
She was checking her rifle by the wagon when Micah sauntered over, his usual smirk plastered on his face, and a whiskey bottle in hand. “Well, if it ain’t the Widow Adler,” Micah drawled, his voice oozing with that smug, mocking tone he liked to use when he was feeling bold. “Still playin’ cowboy, huh? Reckon it’s about time you hung that up, don’t ya think?”
Sadie’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word, focusing on her rifle. Micah, taking her silence as an invitation to push harder, stepped closer.
“Gotta say, Sadie, it’s real cute how you think you're going to avenge what's-his-toes,” Micah sneered. “But let’s be honest—you could never hold up in a real gun fight.”
That was it. Sadie snapped.
Before Micah could even react, Sadie swung her fist and connected square with his jaw, knocking him flat on his back. Micah hit the ground hard, his whiskey bottle rolling away as he groaned in pain, clutching his face.
The camp went silent, eyes turning toward the scene as Sadie stood over Micah, fire in her eyes. “You ever talk to me like that again, Micah, and I swear I’ll do more than knock you down,” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.
Micah scrambled to his feet, his face red with a mix of anger and embarrassment. He opened his mouth to spit out some retort, but before he could get a word out, Arthur stepped in, his presence calm but commanding.
“That’s enough, Micah,” Arthur said firmly, standing between him and Sadie. “You heard her. Time for you to move along.”
Micah glared at Arthur, clearly itching for a fight, but he wasn’t stupid enough to take on both Sadie and Arthur at once. He wiped the blood from his lip and sneered, “You’re gonna regret that, Adler.”
Sadie just smirked, unfazed. “Anytime, Micah. Anytime.”
Arthur stood his ground, arms crossed, staring Micah down until the man finally turned and slunk off into the shadows of the camp, muttering under his breath. Once Micah was out of sight, Arthur turned to Sadie, giving her a nod of approval.
“You alright?” Arthur asked, his tone softer.
Sadie grinned, still fired up. “Never better.”
Arthur shook his head slightly, a small smile forming. “Well, I reckon Micah’s gonna think twice before he runs his mouth around you again.”
Sadie holstered her rifle with a satisfied smirk. “Damn right he will.”
The gang gathered around Dutch's table under the shade of the camp’s largest tree. Dutch, as always, was in high spirits, arms waving dramatically as he outlined the grand plan to rob the bank in Valentine. His voice boomed with excitement, his vision clear—at least to him. The women, according to Dutch, would charm the locals, keeping everyone distracted, while the men stormed the bank like a thunderclap rolling through town.
“Ladies, your charm and beauty will keep those folks occupied,” Dutch said with a flourish, a grin stretching across his face. “They’ll be so distracted by your smiles, they won’t even notice us storming in the front.”
The women, including Mary-Beth and Karen, exchanged glances but didn’t say much. They’d been down this road before and knew their roles well enough. Still, it wasn’t the charming part that bothered Arthur—it was what came next.
Dutch turned his gaze to Arthur. “Arthur, I want you to lead the charge. You’re the only one I trust to keep things moving smoothly.” Dutch spoke with confidence, but Arthur could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him. Leading the robbery was one thing, but with all that was at stake—his own plan with Molly in motion—Arthur knew the pressure was mounting.
Arthur gave Dutch a nod, his expression unreadable. “Reckon I’ll get us in and out clean,” he said simply, but beneath his calm demeanor, his mind was racing. He needed to make sure the heist went smoothly enough that he could use the chaos as cover for his escape with Molly. It had to be seamless. One slip-up, and everything they had been planning could fall apart.
As Dutch continued laying out the finer points of the plan, Arthur’s thoughts were already working out his own moves. Timing was everything. Dutch’s obsession with theatrics would provide enough of a distraction—Arthur just had to make sure they were ready when it hit.
But low and behold, Micah decided to speak up. “You know what’d really throw ‘em off?” Micah’s voice cut through the conversation, slick and grating. “Blow the front off the bank. Big bang, folks runnin’ scared… they’ll be too busy coverin’ their ears to even see what’s goin’ on.”
Arthur shot Micah a sideways glance, already feeling the frustration boiling up. Dutch’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, as if Micah had just proposed the most brilliant idea in the history of bank robberies.
“That’s a fine idea, Micah!” Dutch said, his excitement palpable. “A little chaos never hurt anyone.”
Arthur bit back his irritation. He could already see how this would play out—Dutch, eager for a spectacle, throwing caution to the wind. Micah’s reckless ideas always had a way of spiraling out of control, and now here Dutch was, ready to toss a stick of dynamite into the middle of their careful planning.
“Dutch,” Arthur said evenly, “we need to keep this quiet. Blowin’ up the front of the bank’ll just bring the law down on us faster.”
But Dutch waved him off with a grin. “That’s the beauty of it, Arthur. They won’t know what hit ‘em until we’re long gone.”
Arthur took a breath, keeping his frustration in check. He knew better than to argue when Dutch got his mind set on something. But deep down, Arthur could feel the familiar pit of doubt growing in his gut. Micah’s plans had a way of complicating things, and Arthur had a sinking feeling that this time would be no different.
As Dutch wrapped up the meeting, Arthur stood up and made his way to the edge of camp. He needed space to think, to plot, to prepare for whatever chaos was coming. Leading the robbery wasn’t just about getting the money—it was about making sure he and Molly had their chance to break free. But with Micah stirring the pot, Arthur knew one thing for certain: things were about to get messy.
Arthur sat tall on his horse as he approached Emerald Ranch. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the land. The ranch was quiet at this hour, the perfect place for a secret meeting. Molly had taken the train, slipping away from camp unnoticed, while Arthur had made his way here by horse, careful not to draw any attention.
He found Molly waiting near the station, hidden just out of sight behind the old barn. She looked tense but determined. Arthur dismounted and walked over to her, keeping his voice low. “We ready?”
Molly nodded. “Everything’s packed. Supplies are stashed down by Flat Iron Lake, just like we planned.”
Arthur glanced around, making sure they were alone. “Good. Now listen,” he said, his voice steady but serious, “I know Dutch likes to think every plan’s a masterpiece, but we’ve seen what happens when things go wrong. Blackwater? That was a mess—still has every Pinkerton in the country lookin’ for us. And now, with Micah wantin’ to blow the front off that bank, you can bet that’s only gonna slow things down. Gonna draw more eyes than we need.”
Molly looked at him, worry creeping into her expression. “And you’re sure we can still pull this off? Escape and get away clean?”
Arthur nodded, reassuring her with a firm tone. “We can. Here’s how it goes: they’ll pull off the heist, chaos will hit, and they’ll get caught up in it like always. We’ll make our way back to camp, and once the gang’s there, anxiety’s gonna be high. Everyone’ll be wound up, runnin’ their mouths, thinkin’ on what went wrong.”
Arthur leaned in a little closer, his voice soft but clear. “That’s when we move. Once their nerves settle, I’ll set off the gunpowder. It’ll feel like an ambush, throwin’ them into a panic. They’ll think we’re under attack. And while they’re too busy dealin’ with the noise, we’ll slip out quiet and ride hard down to Shady Belle. Once we’re there, we can rest and figure out the next move. But we don’t move ‘til the time’s right.”
Molly took a breath, her hand brushing her hair out of her face. “I trust you, Arthur. Let’s just hope it all plays out the way we need it to.”
Arthur gave a small nod, his expression steady. “Stick to the plan, and we’ll be alright.”
They exchanged a few more words, finalizing the last details of their escape, before parting ways. Molly slipped back to the train station, blending in with the shadows, while Arthur mounted his horse and made his way back to camp. The supplies were hidden, the plan was set, and all that was left was to put it in motion.
Later that night...
The camp was unusually quiet. Everyone was preparing for the big heist in the morning, tension lingering in the air like a storm waiting to break. Arthur moved carefully through the camp, planting small gunpowder charges just outside the perimeter. They were hidden in the brush, perfectly placed to create a convincing illusion of gunfire when the time came.
As he worked, his mind drifted back to Blackwater—the memory of that botched robbery still fresh in his mind. They had barely made it out alive, and ever since, the Pinkertons had been breathing down their necks. Now, with Micah’s half-cocked plan to blow up the bank, Arthur knew the timing was critical. They had to get clear before things fell apart again.
Arthur finished planting the last of the charges, wiping his hands on his pants. His plan was simple: after the robbery, once the gang had made it back to camp and the anxiety had settled just enough for folks to let their guard down, he’d ignite the gunpowder. The blasts would simulate gunfire coming from outside the camp, throwing everything into disarray. The gang would scatter, thinking they were under attack.
In that moment of confusion, Arthur and Molly would slip away, heading south along Flat Iron Lake. They had a plan to ride hard until they reached Shady Belle, where they could rest and regroup before deciding their next move. Arthur had no illusions about what lay ahead—running from the gang wouldn’t be easy—but this was their best shot at freedom.
As Arthur returned to his tent, he caught a glimpse of Dutch pacing by the fire, muttering to himself about the glory of their upcoming heist. Arthur couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the man Dutch used to be. But that was long gone now. This Dutch was different—obsessed, reckless, and blinded by his own ego.
Arthur sat down, staring into the darkness. Tomorrow, everything would change. If all went according to plan, by this time tomorrow, he and Molly would be far from here, leaving Dutch and his broken dreams behind.
And with that final thought, Arthur closed his eyes, ready for the storm that was coming.
TO BE CONTINUED...