By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end. America was becoming a land of laws… Even the west had mostly been tamed. A few gangs still roamed but they were being hunted down and destroyed.
One of the last remaining gangs was Dutch Van der Linde's gang, also known as Dutch's Boys. Led by Dutch Van der Linde and Hosea Matthews, the gang was special for being one of the few still in existence that still had a certain code of honor.
One of its most prominent members was the legendary gunslinger and outlaw Arthur Morgan, who, unbeknownst to him, would set in motion a chain of events that would change his destiny forever.
---
A small caravan of wagons slowly creaked its way through the freezing mountains, their wooden frames groaning under the strain of snow and cargo. The wheels crunched over packed ice, some nearly sticking with each slow rotation. It was nighttime, but the darkness was made heavier by the storm—a dense wall of snow descending in relentless sheets. The sky was a swirling void of white and black, and the wind howled through the pines like a dying animal. Only a handful of dim lanterns swung at the edges of the wagons, casting faint golden glows that danced and flickered against the frostbitten gloom.
The people inside the wagons were wrapped in blankets and old coats, huddled close for warmth, their breaths forming pale clouds that vanished as fast as they came. Horses snorted and trudged forward with visible strain, their manes crusted with frost, hooves barely gripping the treacherous trail.
A man emerged from the snow—a solitary figure approaching the lead wagon. His clothes were crusted in white, his wide-brimmed hat nearly unrecognizable under the weight of the storm. He pulled up the scarf around his face and stumbled closer, boots sinking with every step. It was Orville Swanson—Reverend Swanson, to most—a man of cloth in name more than practice, and a ghost of his former self in this miserable cold.
"Abigail says he's dying, Dutch," he said, voice shaking more from desperation than the cold. "We'll have to stop some place."
Inside the lead wagon, half-buried in furs and weighed down by a thousand invisible burdens, Dutch Van der Linde looked up. His eyes were hollow, distant. In that moment, he seemed far removed from the fiery man of ideals who once lit up campfires with speeches of freedom. Tonight, he was just a man fleeing with the remnants of his gang. He stared out into the white abyss and wondered, not for the first time, if it would've been better to die on that boat in Blackwater—better than this slow, shameful crawl northward, hunted and freezing.
"Okay," he finally said, voice low but resolute. "Arthur's out looking, I sent him up ahead."
Reverend Swanson nodded, casting a glance behind at the other wagons. The children were shivering, and some of the older gang members looked near collapse.
"If we don't stop soon, we'll all be dying," Said a voice to his right. "This weather… it's May, Dutch. May. I'm just hoping the law got as lost as we did."
Dutch turned to the man beside him—older, but sharper than him, and just as tired. Hosea Matthews, his oldest friend, he still held some of the spark that had carried them through decades of heists and cons, but even he looked worn. His long coat was dusted white, and his face was more pale than usually.
Dutch said nothing at first. He simply nodded grimly, lips pressed into a tight line. It was clear the thought of capture wasn't what scared him—it was the idea of dying out here like some dumb animal, nameless and buried in snow.
Then, cutting through the wind like a ghost through the fog, a figure appeared ahead.
"There," Dutch said suddenly, leaning forward. "Arthur! Any luck?"
Arthur Morgan, who once was the Golden Boy of Dutch, now, those days seemed as they were centuries ago.
Arthur came into view, leading his horse alongside him. His coat was soaked, his hat low over his brow, but there was determination in his stride. He approached with the quiet confidence of a man who'd seen worse—and lived through it.
"I found a place where we can get some shelter," Arthur called out, voice hoarse from cold but steady. "Let Davey rest while he… you know." He hesitated just a moment before continuing. "An old mining town, abandoned. It ain't far. Come on."
Dutch didn't wait for more. He turned in his seat and called back to the others, "Come on! Move it out!"
The wagons creaked back to life, horses urged forward once again into the blizzard. Somewhere behind them, a faint groan echoed—a sign that one of the injured hadn't lasted. But the caravan moved on, chasing the hope of shelter, chasing survival.
The storm, relentless, swallowed them whole.
(An hour later…)
The old shed groaned as the wind slammed against its worn wooden frame. Inside, the air was frigid, thick with the scent of damp timber and despair. Hosea Matthews stepped cautiously through the doorway, a battered lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other. The flickering light cast dancing shadows against the walls as he scanned the corners, ever cautious, even now.
He paused near the center of the room, eyes sweeping across the space. Satisfied, he gave a subtle nod to those waiting behind.
"Bring him in here," Hosea called quietly, voice low but firm.
A group emerged from the blizzard outside—silhouettes shrouded in snow. Two men carried a makeshift stretcher between them, the form lying on it still and heavy beneath layers of rough blankets. Davey Callander. Or rather, what was left of him.
Susan Grimshaw pushed in behind them, one of the oldest members of Dutch's gang. As she entered the shed, she was already barking orders with practiced authority. Her breath plumed in the cold, but her voice carried clear and sharp. "Miss Gaskill, get that fire lit—now. Miss Jones, bring in every blanket we've got. Mr. Pearson, check the stores. Anything edible, I want it here."
Boots thudded against the floor as the group moved with urgency. Wet clothes dripped, and the heat from the hastily lit fire was still just a hope.
Abigail Marston stood near the doorway, her face pale beneath the layers of snow still melting on her shoulders. Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Davey's dead."
A silence fell like a hammer, just for a moment. The Reverend, standing off to the side, removed his hat slowly. His face was drawn and tired, the lines of recent guilt etched deep. "There was… nothing more you could've done," he murmured. It was unclear if he meant it for her, or for himself.
One of the older men stepped forward, knelt beside the body, and solemnly placed two coins over Davey's closed eyes. It was a quiet, time-worn gesture—respect for the dead, even out here in this godless storm.
Hosea exhaled sharply, stepping back to Dutch's side. His voice was low, worn. "What are we gonna do? We need supplies."
Dutch Van der Linde stood still for a long moment, staring into the flicker of the newborn fire. Then, with a breath that steadied more than just himself, he turned toward the others.
"First of all," he said, "you're gonna stay here. And you're gonna get yourself warm."
He looked to the faces around him—some young, some old, all exhausted.
"I sent John and Micah scouting ahead. Arthur and I… we're gonna ride out. See if we can find one of 'em."
Arthur, leaning against the far wall, lifted his head, disbelief flickering across his face. "In this?"
"Just for a short bit," Dutch replied, his tone resolute. "I don't see what other choice we have."
Then he raised his voice slightly, calling out to the room, trying to gather the frayed ends of hope and bind them together.
"Listen. Listen to me, all of you. We've had… a bad couple of days. I loved Davey. Jenny… Sean… Mac… they may still be out there, we don't know. But we lost some folks."
His eyes drifted to the stretcher again, just for a second.
"If I could throw myself in the ground in their stead… I would. Gladly."
The room remained still. Some nodded while others simply watched him, clinging to the calm in his voice.
"But we're gonna ride out," Dutch continued. "We are gonna find some food. And everybody—hear me—we're safe now. Ain't nobody following us through a storm like this. And by the time they do… we'll be long gone."
He let those words settle, then pressed on.
"We've been through worse than this. Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw—I need this place turned into a camp. We may be stuck here a few days."
He looked around, locking eyes with as many as he could.
"Now all of you—get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay-with-me. We ain't done yet."
He gave a final glance toward Arthur. "Come on."
Dutch turned, stepping back into the cold. Arthur followed without a word.
Behind them, Susan Grimshaw took over once more, her voice sharp and no-nonsense. "Alright. We've got some work to do."
The storm outside raged on, but inside the shed, the first ember of survival had been struck.
The heavy door creaked shut behind Arthur, groaning on its hinges before closing with a dull thud. A gust of wind slammed against it as soon as it latched, carrying with it a shriek of winter's fury. Outside, the world was white and violent, the blizzard swirling like a living thing—cold, unforgiving, and hungry.
Arthur pulled his collar higher and stepped into the deep snow, boots crunching under the frozen crust. Dutch stood a few paces ahead, silhouetted against the shifting curtain of snowflakes, his coat flapping slightly in the wind, his wide-brimmed hat already dusted white.
"Well," Dutch muttered, his breath a ghost in the air, "we ain't run into them yet. So... they both must've headed down the hill."
Arthur nodded, eyes squinting against the snow that stung like tiny needles. His voice was low, edged with the question he'd been carrying since the day everything fell apart. "Sure... Hey… I ain't had time to ask. What really went down back there? On that boat?"
Dutch turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.
"We missed you," Dutch finally said. "That's what happened."
He said no more. He just turned, started walking into the blizzard, his figure gradually swallowed by the storm.
Arthur followed, jaw tight and his eyes narrowed. That wasn't much of an answer—and it didn't sit right. But he knew now wasn't the time to question Dutch. The snow howled around them, and the cold sank deeper with every step.
"Hey!"
The voice cut through the wind, and both men turned. A figure approached through the swirling white, moving swiftly through the snow. It was Charles Smith, one of the newest members of the gang, his breath was steaming as he emerged from the storm, leading two horses by their reins.
"You need horses?" he called, snow clinging to his shoulders and eyebrows.
Dutch's face lit with faint relief. "Oh yeah…"
He stepped forward, taking the reins of one of the animals. Arthur did the same, running a gloved hand down the horse's neck, murmuring quietly to calm it.
Dutch looked Charles over with a frown, noting the way his right hand was bundled and stiff. "And Mr. Smith… get yourself indoors. You need to rest that hand."
Charles nodded, but there was no weakness in his voice. "I'll live."
Dutch fixed him with a firm stare, the wind tugging at his coat. "Get indoors, son. I… we need you strong."
There was a brief pause—something unspoken passing between them. Then Charles gave a short nod, turned, and disappeared back into the storm.
Arthur and Dutch mounted up, the horses shifting beneath them, hooves crunching through the snow. The saddle leather creaked, and the wind whistled through the trees ahead, barely visible through the white veil.
Arthur pulled the reins and turned his horse to face the slope, his eyes scanning the indistinct path ahead. Dutch clicked his tongue and leaned forward in the saddle.
"Come on. Let's go."
Together, the two men rode out into the blizzard—two dark shapes against an endless white. The storm swallowed them quickly, and the sound of hooves faded into the wind as they disappeared into the wilderness, in search of those still missing.
The storm was still raging, snow swirling around them in thick sheets as Dutch and Arthur rode cautiously down the mountain trail, their lanterns casting long, flickering beams into the white abyss.
Arthur's voice cut through the wind, low and edged with suspicion. "So… you think it was a trap? In Blackwater?"
Dutch kept his eyes forward, his horse trudging carefully through the deep snow. "That many men? Oh, they knew we were coming," he said grimly. "But there was money on that boat, alright. Lots of it. I stashed what we took with the rest, in town, just before we fled."
Arthur grunted. He'd suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed didn't make him feel any better. That job… that whole disaster… it still didn't sit right. Too many things went wrong, too fast.
Dutch suddenly stiffened in his saddle. His arm rose and pointed into the distance. "Hey. I think I see something up the path."
Arthur narrowed his eyes and raised his lantern. Through the veil of snow, a shape was moving toward them—slow, deliberate. They pulled up their horses, the lanterns glowing faintly against the whiteout.
Dutch called out, voice steady. "You up ahead! Who's there?"
The figure kept approaching until the storm peeled back just enough to reveal the face beneath the snow-covered hat.
Micah Bell.
Arthur's jaw tensed.
Micah gave a smug nod as he approached, the storm seeming to part just for him. "Gentlemen."
Arthur didn't respond. He just stared at him, his eyes were cold and unreadable.
Dutch nodded. "Micah."
"Found anything?" he asked, still studying the man's silhouette as if waiting for it to betray something.
Micah grinned, snow crusting his mustache. "I think so. Found a little homestead down thataway."
Arthur glanced to Dutch, saying nothing, but his thoughts turned bitter.
Micah Bell. He was the lowest kind of man. The kind who would smile in your face while slipping a knife in your back. Always looking for trouble, and not the kind that finds glory—just chaos. He was scum, the worst type of scum, a crazy man who enjoyed the burn just to feel the heat.
Arthur knew he wasn't much better but that didn't say he killed for fun, and unlike the rest of the gang, Micah didn't seem to have some kind of filter on what he said or did, that made it dangerous, but above all, a giant pain in the ass.
Why did Dutch trusted him? That was something Arthur would never understand.
"Okay," Dutch said. "Anyone home?"
Micah nodded, eyes bright with that twisted energy he always carried. "Sure. Place is blazing with light and noise. Sounded like a party."
Dutch didn't hesitate. "Let's go see."
"Follow me," Micah said, spinning his horse around with a practiced motion and riding off into the white.
Arthur let his horse follow behind, he was silent but still watching.
Micah glanced back over his shoulder. "How's Davey doing?"
Dutch's voice carried softly through the storm. "Ah… he didn't make it. Nor did little Jenny."
Micah tilted his head. "That's too bad. Davey was a real fighter. Both of them Callander boys is—or… was."
"Yeah," Dutch muttered.
"And Mac and Sean?"
"We don't know."
Micah nodded slowly, feigning solemnity. "Quite a business."
Arthur frowned. The way he said it, it was too casual, too detached. Micah never seemed to care about the ones they lost, only the ones he could use.
Arthur was sure that if he was shot next to him, the fucker wouldn't bat an eye.
But Dutch, as always, gave him the benefit of the doubt. "I'm glad you're alright, Micah."
"Always," came the reply, slick as oil.
Arthur finally spoke, eyes fixed ahead. "Ask him if he's seen John."
Dutch turned slightly in his saddle. "Hey, have you seen John, Micah?"
Micah shook his head. "Didn't see much of anything once this storm came in."
"He hasn't seen him," Dutch confirmed.
Arthur gave a small nod, voice low. "He'll be fine. Things always turn out right for that boy."
Dutch didn't answer right away."I hope… Mac and Sean are still out there somewhere too."
The trail began to narrow, and Dutch slowed his horse, glancing at Arthur.
"Move up, Arthur. I'll cover the rear."
Arthur nodded and urged his horse forward, now directly behind Micah. The trail stretched on ahead, buried in white.
The snowstorm hadn't let up—if anything, it had gotten worse. The wind howled through the trees, whipping ice and snow against their faces. Arthur kept his head down, the brim of his hat doing little to shield him from the cold bite of winter. His horse trudged forward, steam rising from its muzzle with every breath. Ahead of him, Micah rode with that same damned cocky posture, like this was just another walk through the hills and not a goddamn fight for survival.
Arthur finally broke the silence. His voice came out rough, more from frustration than cold. "You run into anybody else?"
Micah turned slightly in the saddle, grinning despite the wind. "I—I reckon we're the only ones crazy enough to be out in this, Morgan."
Arthur scoffed, eyes narrowing behind the snowflakes. "Yeah, well… don't talk to me about crazy."
He didn't need to elaborate. Arthur knew that the man thrived in madness like a pig in mud.
Micah let out a chuckle, the kind that always made Arthur's jaw clench. "Oh, so no 'Glad you're alright, I was worried, Micah'?" he said, mocking sincerity. "Look, it's all gonna work out, Morgan. We lost a few folks, sure, but that's just how it goes sometimes."
Arthur's grip tightened on the reins.
So that's it? Just how it goes? Like Davey was just some name on a list, not a man who bled out gasping for air an hour ago? He didn't seem to care much about Davey and less about Jenny or where were Sean and Mac.
He didn't bother masking the disdain in his voice. "I'm glad you're feelin' so good about it."
Micah's grin twitched, but he didn't stop riding. "Where are all the others?"
Arthur kept his eyes forward, the glow of a distant cabin just barely visible through the misty snow ahead. "Old mining camp, back up the hill. It ain't much, but it's shelter."
Micah nodded, seemingly unfazed by the news, then gestured vaguely ahead.
"So, this house… you speak to the people there already?" Asked Arthur with doubt in his voice.
Micah just gave him a sideways glance. "No. Like Dutch told us… look, but don't talk to no one. Just following orders. You know me." Micah grinned again. "I'm a good boy."
Arthur's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. The smirk, the smug tone, the fake charm—it was all there, like always. But he didn't say a word. Just a flat, quiet: "Right…"
They rode on in silence.
The snow crunched beneath the horses' hooves, trees groaning in the wind, the sky above gray and heavy. Dutch rode just behind them, eyes scanning the tree line as they neared their destination.
They'd come a fair distance by now, descending from the mountains into the lower valley where the trees thinned and the wind came through like blades. However he could see ahead, through the blizzard, he saw how lights flickered. The outline of a house began to emerge from the fog of snowfall.
Arthur adjusted his coat and shifted in the saddle, the weight of his revolver at his side a small comfort. Whatever lay ahead, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be simple nor nice. Not with Micah Bell leading the way.
He said nothing. Just clicked his tongue and nudged his horse forward, toward the glowing windows of the homestead.
But as the house came clearer through the snow, a familiar ache settled deep in his chest. It was the shape of the roof, the slope of the porch, the smoke curling up from the chimney—it reminded him of something. Of a place he never got to build.
Eliza.
She used to talk all the time about a house like that. Small, tucked away and quiet. Arhtur remembered it clearly, she said she didn't need much—just something cozy, where she could raise Isaac in peace. A patch of land, maybe some chickens, somewhere far from the saloons and the smoke of the towns.
On that moment, Arthur had nodded, said it sounded nice, but deep down he knew. He'd known even then that he was never gonna give her that. Not really.
But he didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't possible. That a life like that didn't fit a man like him. So he'd lied—maybe not with words, but with silence. That gave her hope that shouldn't have existed, but, she was a good girl, a good and dreamy girl.
And now, looking at that warm little house glowing in the cold, he felt it sharp in his ribs. Maybe if he'd bought that house… dragged himself out of the gang, out of Dutch's plans… maybe she and Isaac would still be alive. Maybe things could've been different.
But maybes didn't change anything.
He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought down as deep as it would go, and rode on through the snow.
The wind eased slightly as they reached the crest of the hill, but the cold still bit at Arthur's fingers even through his gloves. The glow of the homestead below was warm—too warm. Firelight danced behind the windows, and through the howl of wind, the sound of a fiddle drifted up to them. Laughter. Footsteps. Music. It felt wrong. Like a painting with the colors all in the wrong places.
"Okay, let's keep it down now, gentlemen," Micah said, his voice smug even when hushed. "It's just up ahead."
Dutch squinted at the lights, then nodded. "Snuff and stash those lanterns, boys. Best you two lie low on this."
Arthur did as told, twisting the cap on his lamp and letting the darkness take over. The snow seemed to absorb the sound around them as they moved down the ledge. Their horses stepped carefully, hooves crunching softly through the icy slope, until they reached the flat stretch just before the homestead.
"Let's hitch up here," Dutch said, gesturing to a small wooden post near a half-fallen fence.
They dismounted in silence, the horses snorting, stamping against the snow. Arthur gave his mount a quick pat on the neck, then turned toward the house.
"Let me do the talking," Dutch said. "We don't wanna scare these folks."
Micah grinned, nodding toward the windows. "Someone's havin' fun in there."
Arthur said nothing, his eyes fixed on the glowing windows. The music continued, fiddle rising and falling like someone dancing on a grave.
Dutch's tone shifted, firm now. "You two, get yourself outta sight. One lonely man is a lot less intimidating than three nasty-lookin' degenerates. Micah, behind that wagon. Arthur, that old shed on the left. And stay low, both of you."
Arthur nodded once and moved toward the shed, the wood creaking under his boots as he ducked into position. From the dark, he had a clear line of sight to the porch. His breath came out in fog, the revolver felt more heavy in his holster now. The tension had crept in now, thick and solid in his gut.
Dutch approached the front door and knocked. "Hello?"
A muffled voice from inside barked something incoherent.
"Excuse me? Hello?" Dutch tried again.
The door creaked open. A man stepped out onto the porch—stringy hair, patchy beard, bad posture. Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"Oh well, hello, friend," Dutch said with that smooth charm of his.
"What you want?" the man snapped.
"I am very sorry to disturb you. Uh, my friends and I, well… we got into some trouble up the way. Lost in the storm."
Another man appeared at the door. Then another through the side. Arthur could hear boots hitting floorboards and the low rumble of voices behind them. Something was off. These men definitely weren't farmers.
Dutch kept talking. "Ah, gentlemen."
"We can't help you, mister," one of them spat.
Arthur tensed. His hand hovered just a little closer to his pistol.
"I got folks dyin' on the trail," Dutch said, raising his voice.
The men just laughed on a bitter and mean wat. Like they'd been waiting for an excuse. Something wasn't right.
From his cover, Micah suddenly called out.
"Arthur… Arthur, we got a problem."
Arthur turned slightly toward the wagon Micah was crouched behind. He watched as Micah pulled back a frost-covered tarp. Beneath it, stiff and pale, was a body. A frozen body. It must have been dead for days.
"There's a corpse right here," Micah hissed. "Arthur… there's a body in the wagon."
Arthur's mouth tightened. "Yeah, I hear you… just keep your eyes on Dutch."
He shifted, his finger brushing the trigger of his revolver.
Dutch kept at it. "Now, I just need some cans of food, or something. Gentlemen… please."
One of the men stepped forward. "I think you should go now, buddy."
Dutch held his ground. "Now, friend… I ain't askin' for much. Please, I am… kinda desperate."
Then the man on the porch looked closer. His eyes widened.
"Hey, I don't believe it. Come here, partner. Come here!"
Dutch hesitated, then stepped forward cautiously.
"It's goddamn Dutch van der Linde, you morons!" the man shouted. "Colm's gonna shit his pants! Put your hands up!"
Time seemed to slow for him while he draw his gun.
Arthur drew in a breath—and then the world exploded.
Gunfire erupted as Arthur drew and fired in one smooth motion. One of the O'Driscolls went down before he'd even cocked his rifle. Micah was already yelling, his own gun barking loud in the night.
And chaos erupted.
Wood shattered, glass flew, Arthur heared how someone screamed inside the house. Another O'Driscoll burst through the side door, fumbling with his shotgun—Arthur shot him center mass and watched him crumple in the snow.
Dutch was already moving, firing with calm and practiced ease.
A runner broke from the back door. Arthur didn't hesitate. He raised his revolver, lined up the shot—then stopped for a split second. The boy was barely older than Isaac could've been.
But he pulled the trigger anyway.
When it was over, the snow was painted red, and the music that came from the house had long stopped. The fiddle lay broken on the porch steps.
Arthur holstered his weapon slowly, his heart still pounding him adrenaline and smoke curling from the barrel of his revolver. Micah emerged from behind the wagon, brushing snow from his shoulder like it was nothing. Dutch stepped out from under the eaves of the house, his face was unreadable.
They regrouped at the center of the yard, their boots crunching on ice and their guns still hot.
Arthur looked around at the bodies. All that blood…so much for a warm welcome.
-------------------------------------------------
Hello there!! Some time has passed my dear readers, but I'm back to writing fanfics, this time I brought you one from my favorite games of all time, the same and only Red Dead Redemption 2. You will note that this chapter is almost identical to the events of the game, fortunately this is the only chapter that will be like this, I plan to make more changes while the story progresses, so pay attention to new updates because there will be!! That will be all for today, thanks for reading and remember to leave stones if you liked it