The camp had settled. Days bled together in the cold but not from misery. Not anymore after the saloon brawl and the O'Driscoll raid things were tense for a bit everyone was on edge. But now… Life began to breath again.
I sat near the fire eyes flicking between the flicker of flames and the way Charles sharpened his arrow. For once there was no burden on my chest no constant weight that I have to push through to do anything. Just warmth and laughter from the others in the gang.
Even Javier had pulled out his guitar.
"You ever sing Wyatt?" He asked cocking an eyebrow with a grin
"Me no but I can try and sing you a sing or two if your up for it?" I smiled
"Well then let's hear it" Javier says as he starts to play
Javier started strumming a slow, steady rhythm, the melody carrying soft and low through the cold air. The kind of tune that matched the quiet hum of a long winter night, the smell of smoke and meat, the hush between distant wind gusts.
I cleared my throat, half-laughing at myself. "Alright, don't hold it against me."
And then, I began to sing.
"I hear the train a-comin', it's rollin' 'round the bend…"
The first few words came out low, cautious. My voice wasn't perfect — raw and a little rusty — but it carried something real in it, something that matched the tone of the fire and the life we were all barely clinging to.
"And I ain't seen the sunshine since… I don't know when…"
Charles paused mid-motion, looking up from his arrow.
Bill, leaning on a crate with a bottle in hand, tilted his head like he wasn't sure what he was hearing.
Even Micah, the bastard, quieted down and actually listened.
"I'm stuck in Folsom prison…"
The music picked up, Javier adjusting to my rhythm with ease. The others were drawn in now — something about the song felt familiar even if they'd never heard it. Like it belonged in this world, or maybe just in the lives of people like us.
Arthur smirked, tossing a chunk of meat into the pan above the flames. "Hmm. Didn't take you for the type to sing, Wyatt."
I grinned mid-verse, not stopping.
"And time keeps draggin' on…"
For a moment, I forgot the weight. The coin hummed faintly in my pocket, but distant… like a memory instead of a warning. Like a shadow I no longer feared.
The red hue in my eyes caught the firelight now and then, flickering just long enough to make someone pause — Javier's fingers briefly slowed, Hosea glanced my way — but no one said anything.
They didn't need to.
Everyone was starting to like me.
And I… reluctantly… was starting to let them.
The song came to a slow end, my voice thinning out over the last line, lost to the crackling wood and the low howl of the wind.
Silence followed — but the good kind.
Then Lenny clapped.
"Hell, that wasn't half bad."
"I'll say," Dutch called from near his tent, a cigar glowing between his fingers. "A little morbid, maybe, but fits us just fine."
Javier nodded, strumming a few lazy chords. "Got a voice for the damned, amigo. I like it."
I chuckled, sitting back as the warmth sank in deeper than just the fire.
I wasn't a ghost anymore.
Not tonight.
Days passed….
Wyatt helped Pearson haul supplies. He learned to sit back and listen to uncles Ridiculous stories, even if half of if em were lies. He sparred lightly with Charles, and fished with Hosea again. The cold became a companion not a cage
It wasn't perfect. But it was something close to peace.
Then one morning Hosea approached him with a gleam in his eye. "Arthur and I are going hunting. You up for a bit of sport?"
Wyatt glanced word the stable where he'd been brushing down a fussy horse. He was half covers in hay and not thrilled about it.
"What are we after?"
Arthur stepped in, leading his rifle "A giant snow while bison as big as a carriage."
Wyatt blinked "That sounds… suicidal."
"Exactly!" Hosea grinned
...…..
The ride out was quiet, save for the crunch of snow beneath hooves. Arthur was mostly quiet, brooding but Wyatt could sense the shift in him. Something was off. He didn't press it tho.
They set up near the river, baited the trap, and waited.
"You always been the quiet type?" Arthur asked as they sat watching the trail.
Wyatt shrugged. "Not always. Just learned that listening's safer than speaking."
Arthur gave a small nod. "You listen real good for someone your age."
There was a pause, and Wyatt dared a soft, almost joking response. "Says the guy who punched a bear once."
Arthur cracked a rare laugh.
The mood didn't last.
The bison came — massive, scarred, eyes wild — and tore through the clearing like a storm. Hosea cursed, diving out of the way. Arthur fired off a shot that barely nicked it.
Wyatt, frozen for a second, felt it again — the slow-motion pull. The coin in his coat flared warm. His vision narrowed, the bear's muscles twitched before they moved. He took aim.
Crack.
The bison staggered, then thundered off into the trees. It wasn't dead. But they were alive.
Arthur was bleeding. Wyatt helped wrap the wound. Hosea was wide-eyed but laughing through the adrenaline.
"We'll come back for it," Arthur muttered. "Damn thing nearly took my arm off."
Wyatt stayed quiet, heart still pounding. The power — the feeling of time bending — it shook him every time.
They rode back slowly, Arthur cradling his ribs. Hosea humming like it was all just another day.
I took out a old timey camera and snapped a picture. My new hobby and also to keep a memento of the memories we've shared
Back at camp, the snow was falling again. Warm lantern light cut through the dusk.
Wyatt sat at the edge of the fire, Mercy and Judgement resting at his sides. The others trickled in, sharing news, food, stories. Abigail fussed at Jack, and Lenny was already retelling the story of the bison with dramatic flair.
He didn't laugh this time, but he smiled.
The coin in his pocket hummed faintly — not with danger, but with something else.
Contentment.
For the first time in a long while, Wyatt didn't feel like a weapon.
He felt like a person.