The gunfire had stopped, but the ringing in Arthur's ears hadn't. Smoke still hung in the freezing air, mingling with the iron scent of blood and the faint trace of woodsmoke from inside the house. The three of them stood among the bodies, the wind starting to blow fresh snow over the bloodstained ground.
Dutch looked down at one of the corpses, shaking his head. "Goddamn O'Driscoll boys here. Why?"
Micah holstered his pistol with a casual spin and shrugged. "I don't know… maybe same reason as us."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. That wasn't much of an answer. But it was just like Micah to say it like he'd solved something when he hadn't done a damn thing but stir trouble.
Dutch turned, decisive as ever. "Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house. Arthur, let's go search the cabin."
Micah gave a lazy salute and wandered off toward the hitching post, whistling like he hadn't just been in a gunfight.
Arthur followed Dutch toward the cabin, revolver still drawn just in case. The porch creaked beneath their boots. Dutch gave the door a nudge with his shoulder, and it swung open with a long groan.
Inside, the warmth hit them like a slap. Not cozy—thick. The fire was still going in the hearth, and the smell of grease, tobacco, and liquor clung to every board. Blood trailed in from one of the bodies they'd shot through the doorway. A broken chair lay near the wall. A bottle of whiskey sat half-empty on a crooked table.
Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Smells like a party in here."
Dutch didn't smile. "Turn the place upside down. Grab as many supplies as you can. We need the essentials. Food. Medicine... whiskey."
Arthur nodded and began to move through the room, boots thudding against the planks. He opened cabinets, rifled through crates, found a few cans of peaches, some old bandages, dried meat. Nothing fancy—but it was more than they had up the hill.
He tore open a cupboard and found a sealed jar of ground coffee. His stomach growled loud enough to echo in the silence.
"I'm starving." He muttered.
Dutch looked over from a shelf stacked with jars. "You should eat something now. Get your strength up for the ride back."
Arthur grabbed a hunk of bread from the table—stale, but still edible—and bit into it. As he chewed, his eyes scanned the room again.
There was something strange about it all. The warmth, the fire, all the mess.
Dutch spoke again, pacing near the fireplace. "O'Driscolls. I don't believe it."
Arthur glanced toward him. "It's a strange one, alright. Maybe they're hidin' up here too. There's a big price on Colm O'Driscoll's head—nearly as big as the one on yours."
Dutch's jaw clenched, and he didn't look at Arthur when he replied. "Wanting Colm dead is about the only thing me and Uncle Sam agree on."
Arthur moved through a side room. More mess. A child's toy lay discarded under a stool, dusted with blood. His fingers brushed the edge of it as he passed. He didn't like it. Didn't like any of this.
He returned to the main room, where Dutch was stuffing some tins into a burlap sack.
"Place is dry, and warm," Arthur said. "We could maybe move the women and Jack down here."
Dutch didn't answer at first. He looked around the room slowly, like he was seeing it differently now. "Maybe. We'll see how they are when we get back. I don't really want us to split up."
That was fair. With O'Driscolls crawling around these hills like rats, the last thing they needed was to get scattered.
Dutch slung the sack over his shoulder and stepped toward the door.
"I'll start packin' this on the horses. Keep searchin' while I do. Meet me out here when you're done."
He pushed through the door and was gone, the wind slipping in behind him before it clicked shut.
Arthur stood still for a moment, the fire crackling behind him. He looked around once more.
This wasn't a home anymore. Just a ruin. Like everything the O'Driscolls touched.
He exhaled through his nose, turned back toward the cabinets, and resumed digging. A rusted tin of peaches, a moldy wedge of cheese, an old coat tossed over a chair. It was all just scraps, echoes of a life interrupted.
Then he heard it.
Thump!
And he froze himself on the place.
There it was again. A muffled rustling—soft, almost nothing—but enough to cut through the creak of wood and the whisper of wind outside.
So Arthur turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.
It came from the far end of the room, near the corner behind the stove. The floorboards were uneven there, just enough to draw the eye if you were already looking. He stepped carefully toward it, every instinct awake now.
Another sound—like fabric shifting against wood. There was something breathing down there.
Arthur crouched and ran a gloved hand over the floor. There, nearly hidden under a scatter of broken crates and a rug stained with soot, was a trapdoor. The iron ring on it was rusted, but loose. He grasped it, hesitated just a moment, then pulled it open with a low creeeeak.
A wall of darkness stared back up at him.
And then, two eyes.
Before he could react, the figure moved fast—too fast—and Arthur instinctively reached for his revolver. But the shape in the shadows didn't lunge. Instead, it cowered back, retreating into the corner like a wounded animal. So he tried to take a better look on the figure and then his eyes opened wide.
It was a woman.
She was thin, disheveled, wrapped in a torn blanket that looked more like burlap than cloth. Her face was pale beneath layers of grime, streaked with tears, red from the cold. Blond hair matted against her cheeks, knotted and wild. Her breathing was ragged—quick and shallow—and her whole body trembled like if it couldn't decide whether to scream or collapse.
Arthur's grip loosened on the revolver. He dropped to one knee near the opening and lowered his voice.
"Hey… hey now," he said softly, like he was talking to a spooked horse. "Ain't no one gonna hurt you. It's alright. You're safe now."
She didn't move. Just stared at him like he was another ghost, another nightmare come too late.
Arthur took a breath and set his pistol gently on the floor beside him.
"I ain't one of them," he added. "The men who did this—they're gone. We took care of 'em."
Her lip trembled. Her hands were wrapped tightly around her knees, knuckles white. The dirt under her nails looked weeks old. Arthur didn't want to imagine how long she'd been down there.
And he had a strong clue about why.
Even despite her emaciated and malnourished appearance, it was obvious, even for him, a brute, that the woman had attractive features, her face had very refined features like a pretty doll and her hair, although somewhat dry, was a shiny, straight blonde.
So no doubt, that once they killed the man, they did whatever they wanted with her for who knows how long.
Only the thought of it, disgusted and revolted him to no end.
He reached out a hand, palm up, still not entering the cellar. "Come on up. You don't gotta stay down there no more."
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then, slowly, she shifted forward, crawling like she half-expected him to vanish if she blinked. When she reached the edge, Arthur gently took her arm and helped her up. She was light—far too light—and as soon as she was upright, she wobbled.
Arthur steadied her, his voice quiet. "Easy. I got you."
She didn't say a word, but she leaned against him, whether from exhaustion or the need to feel something solid. Her fingers clutched his coat.
He guided her toward the chair near the fire and helped her sit. She stared at the flames like she hadn't seen light in days. Maybe she hadn't.
Arthur stepped back, keeping his voice soft. "What's your name?"
Nothing.
Then, barely above a whisper: "Sadie."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Alright, Sadie. You're gonna be okay now. I promise."
He tossed another log on the fire, then grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and gently wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn't look at him. Just kept her eyes on the flames, like she was afraid they might go out and leave her in the dark again.
Arthur stood, gave her one last look and then turned toward the door.
"My partner is outside. We'll get you outta here soon."
And for the first time since he'd opened the cellar, Sadie nodded.
Arthur took a quiet breath, then stepped toward the door, boots heavy on the wood. He glanced back once more—Sadie still sat there, small and still against the chair, her blanket-draped shoulders barely rising as she breathed. She hadn't taken her eyes off the fire.
He opened the door and stepped outside. The cold punched him in the face like a hammer after the warmth inside. Snow whipped around the porch in a frenzy, and the wind carried that deep mountain silence—sharp, endless, empty.
Dutch was tying up sacks on one of the horses, the snow clinging to his coat. He turned at the sound of the door.
Arthur raised a hand. "Dutch!"
Dutch looked up immediately, alert. "What is it?"
"I found someone," Arthur said, voice just loud enough to carry over the wind. He walked down the porch and met Dutch by the horses. "Down in the cellar. There is a woman. She was hidin'. Looks like she's been through hell."
Dutch frowned, brow furrowed. "She is alive?"
"Barely. She ain't wounded, far as I can tell, but she's shaken bad. Looks like the O'Driscolls came through here, took her man. Maybe more."
Dutch let out a low whistle and looked back at the cabin. "Goddamn savages."
Arthur nodded. "Name's Sadie. Ain't said much, but… she's strong. The fact she's still breathin' in there says somethin'."
Dutch took a step toward the door, thoughtful. "We'll bring her back with us.
Can't leave someone out here, not after that."
"She's scared," Arthur said. "Real scared. Like she's waitin' for more of 'em to show up."
Dutch's jaw tightened. "Well, they won't. You tell her that. Anyone touches a hair on her head, I'll bury 'em myself."
Arthur gave a faint nod. "Alright."
He looked back toward the cabin. The glow of the fire danced behind the windows.
Dutch turned to finish tying the bags to the saddles. "Get her bundled up. We'll ride back soon. She can go on with me on the horse if she has to."
Arthur moved back up the porch and stepped inside again.
Sadie was still there, hands out to the fire now. She was shaking but still remained quiet.
Arthur knelt beside her again, voice steady.
"Dutch says we'll take you back with us. Got a warm place. Folks who'll help you. You don't gotta say nothin' now, alright? Just… we ain't gonna leave you here."
Her eyes flicked to him, wide and red-rimmed. There was something in them—raw pain, but beneath it, a flicker. Like maybe she believed him.
Arthur gave her the gentlest smile he could manage. "Come on. Let's get you outta here."
He held out his hand again and this time, she took it.
Arthur eased her up carefully. Her legs trembled as she took her first unsteady step. "That's it," he murmured, steadying her by the elbow. "Take your time. Ain't no rush."
The fire popped once behind them as they crossed the cabin floor together. Outside, the wind rushed in the moment Arthur pushed the door open, stinging his face with ice. Sadie flinched against the cold but kept moving, leaning into him as they made their way down the steps toward the horses.
Dutch was waiting by his mare, hands clasped around the reins, his broad hat casting a dark shadow over his face. When Arthur led Sadie into the light spilling from the lantern at Dutch's saddle, Dutch took one look at her and his brow softened.
"Lord," he muttered, voice low. "You poor thing…"
Sadie held the blanket tight around herself and stared at the ground, her breathing quick and uneven. She didn't speak, and Dutch didn't press. Instead, he stepped closer, hands held out in a slow, deliberate gesture.
"You're safe with us," Dutch told her gently. "My name's Dutch van der Linde. Arthur here is one of my best men. You ain't gotta worry anymore. Let's get you warm."
Sadie looked up then, eyes glassy but alert, and gave the slightest nod.
"They came three days ago... and my husband, they..." she said making Dutch and Arthur see her with pity.
"It's okay, miss. You are safe now...and you can't stay here. You come with us, we have a camp with some folk on the minin' town, you are gonna be okay."
She nodded.
"What's your name, Miss? Miss?" Asked Dutch to which Sadie answered quickly.
"Adler."
"Adler?"
"Sadie Adler. Mrs... I... he....he was my husband." She said with pain on her voice.
Before Dutch could say more, there was the sound of boots in the snow behind them.
Micah.
He sauntered toward them, brushing powder off his shoulders like they weren't standing in the middle of a graveyard. His grin was sharp as a knife.
"Hey, fellers," Micah drawled, hands stuffed into his pockets. "You ain't gonna believe what I dug up back at the barn. One of them O'Driscolls was still kickin'. Gave him a little encouragement and—"
He paused, his pale eyes flicking to Sadie, and that grin widened. "Well, well, well," he crooned, voice slick with amusement. "What do we got here?"
Arthur shifted his stance instinctively, half-stepping between Micah and Sadie.
"She's comin' back with us, so get lost." Arthur said, tone flat, hands resting near his belt.
Micah chuckled. "That so? Mighty generous of you." His gaze lingered too long, too hungry. "Ain't she a pretty little thing. What's your name, darlin'?"
Sadie stiffened, hands trembling as she clutched the blanket like it was armor. Dutch's jaw tensed, stepping up to close the distance.
"That'll do, Micah," Dutch cut in, his voice carrying a warning edge. "We ain't gonna harass the lady. She's been through enough tonight."
Micah raised his hands as if in mock surrender. "Sorry, Dutch. Just tryin' to be polite is all."
Arthur felt the familiar knot of dislike tighten in his gut. Micah was a goddamn vulture, always circling for scraps. But they had bigger problems right now.
Micah shifted gears, rubbing his chin like he'd just remembered the important part. "Anyways, like I was sayin'—I learned somethin' real interestin' from that O'Driscoll before he bled out. Said there's a train loaded with valuables headed through the Grizzlies in a few days. If we move fast enough, we might just catch it."
Dutch's eyes lit up despite the cold and exhaustion, brow lifting. "Is that so?"
Micah nodded. "That's what he told me. Could be our ticket outta this hellhole."
Dutch gave a measured smile, then glanced at Arthur and Sadie, his expression softening just a fraction. "Alright. Good work, Micah. But that can wait. Right now, we gotta look after our own." He reached out a hand to help Sadie onto his horse. "Arthur, give me a hand. Let's get this girl back to camp."
Arthur nodded, already moving to help Sadie into the saddle as Micah hung back, watching with that same predatory gleam in his eye.
Arthur steadied Sadie as she settled into Dutch's saddle, her hands trembling as they gripped the worn leather. Dutch gave her an encouraging nod and pulled his coat a little tighter against the wind.
Meanwhile, Micah was still standing too close, his pale eyes fixed on Sadie with that smug, hungry look of his.
And Arthur felt his jaw tighten.
He took a slow step toward Micah and held his gaze, voice low enough that the wind nearly swallowed it. "That's enough, Micah. Eyes up. Or you'll regret it."
There was nothing loud in Arthur's words, but they carried the weight of a loaded gun. Micah's grin twitched at the edges as he met Arthur's stare — then, with an exaggerated shrug, he finally looked away.
"Aw, don't get so riled up, Morgan," Micah drawled. "I was just passin' the time."
Arthur held the stare a second longer before turning back toward the horses.
Dutch gave him a brief, approving glance, then swung up into the saddle in front of Sadie, hands on the reins. "Alright, let's move," Dutch called, voice sharp in the cold. "Camp's waitin'."
Arthur mounted his own horse as Micah climbed up onto his, muttering something under his breath. The wind had picked up, sending fresh sheets of snow swirling around them as they guided their horses away from the ruined homestead.
The trail back was slow going. Sadie was silent behind Dutch, wrapped tight in the blanket, her eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. Arthur kept close to her flank, one hand on his pistol grip, his gaze sweeping the trees as they made their way up the hill.
By the time they crested the ridge and the faint light of campfires glimmered through the storm, Arthur could feel the weariness settling into his bones.
Colter.
Even from a distance, the abandoned mining town looked as battered as they felt. A few lanterns glowed through cracked windows, shadows moving inside as their people prepared whatever meager warmth they could. The icy wind moaned through the empty street as the faint crunch of boots on snow reached their ears.
"Hey, somebody's coming!" Lenny called, his hands tightening around his Carbine Repeater. Squinting into the dark, he relaxed as a familiar shape emerged from the gloom. "Looks like it's Dutch," he shouted to the others in the cabin. "Hey everybody, Dutch is back!"
Figures began to shuffle outside, hoods pulled tight, shoulders hunched against the cold. Hosea was the first to step forward, his breath white in the freezing air. "How'd you get on?"
Dutch handed Lenny his lantern and nodded toward the road. "Micah found a homestead, but… we weren't the first. Colm O'Driscoll and his scum, they beat us to it." He paused as Hosea reached up to help a woman slide wearily off the horse. Lantern light illuminated Sadie's face, pale and tired, as a few more of the gang pressed in around them.
"We found some of them there," Dutch went on, rubbing his hands together, "but there's more about, apparently — scouting a train." Lenny took the lead rope while Dutch swung stiffly to the ground. "Thank you," Dutch muttered as the younger man led the horse toward a nearby hitching post.
"That's the last thing we need right now," Hosea replied, rubbing his chin.
Dutch gave a tired shrug. "Well, it is what it is. But we found some supplies, some blankets, a little bit of food — and this poor soul, Mrs. Adler." Turning toward the crowd, he gestured to two of the women. "Miss Tilly, Miss Karen, would you warm her up… give her a drink of something." Then, to Sadie in a gentler voice, "And Mrs. Adler, it's gonna be okay. You're safe now."
All this while Arthur observed her silently how she was taken kindly by the girls to her new room. He didn't know why, but he already started to care about Sadie, like he wanted to protect her from all the horrors of the world, maybe because of what she passed through or maybe because she reminded him of Eliza, he didn't know.
He let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging. "They turned her into a widow… these animals." He said while walking alongside Hosea. "I need some rest. I haven't slept in three days."
"You're over here," Susan offered, pointing toward one of the cabins. "Miss O'Shea will show you the way." Then she gestured toward another building. "Mr. Morgan, we put you in a room over here."
"Thank you, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur replied, pulling his collar up against the cold.
"Mr. Bell," Susan continued, pointing across the street to another dimly lit doorway, "you're with the fellers over there."
"How come Arthur gets a room," Micah snapped, face twisted in disbelief, "and I get a bunk bed next to Bill Williamson and a bunch of darkies?"
"Get yourself to bed," Hosea cut him off firmly.
Arthur followed Susan into one of the cabins while ignoring Micah's remark.
Once he entered and the door swung shut behind him, while he still felt the wind outside still howling, he thought it would be a good idea to write down in his diary everything that had happened in the last few days.
Especially since he hadn't been able to write in it since the ferry incident and the quick escape from Blackwater.