Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning air of the southern American breeze brushed and gently tapped at the surface of the cotton tent that had been set the previous day as the blonde man stirred from his sleep. A knowing sensation of having to awaken rudely tapped at the forefront of his mind, dragging him out of his peaceful slumber as he came out of their hours-long atrophy. His carefully bitten fingernails scraped at the bedroll he had claimed for so many nights upon their trail, pulling his carefully groomed and managed body vertically once more.

‘Good morning’ was a kindness he didn’t grace himself with, for in his mind, there was no such thing as a ‘good’ morning. All of them were a process, consisting of three steps, which could be completed in any order. Begrudgingly getting out of whatever bed he had occupied for the night, grooming himself to look as sharp as a knife, and preparing for whatever amount of socializing he might be engaging in. It wasn’t all that, being as slick as he was with his words. It was an effort.
All of this travel, exhaustion, heat, and gruel that passed his lips would be worth it in the end, he reminded himself once more as he idly fetched his compact from his messenger bag. Unlatching it, he snatched the metal folding comb that was stored inside, curling his ghastly pale blonde locks in their elegant swoop once more. His hazel brown eyes stared carefully at each imperfection, getting it just neatly done enough before folding up the instrument and clicking the compact back into its shut position. It needed to be worth it. Either the man had his money, or he was going to raise hell to get him to fetch it for him. It wasn’t some cheap handout, after all. After the proper calculation of a slightly less-than-fair rate, his latest acquaintance owed him just around $10,000.

That was enough money to keep himself afloat for more than long enough to go back home, enjoy the finer things, buy himself a proper place in the city, and get his casino up and running. A legal business. Shady, yes, but something the government wouldn’t be looking through with a fine-tooth comb.

But now wasn’t the time for dreaming, Ace reminded himself once more as he properly buttoned up his charcoal blue tailcoat jacket, now staring into a mirror propped up against the center pole of his tent. Now was the time for action, for charms, and most importantly, for breakfast.

Adjusting the off-white jabot around his neck, the starkly pale man emerged from his tent, the obsidian-black stetson resting over his head preventing too much whiplash of light from entering his eyes, the Ace of Spades tucked neatly into the leather band around the brim. He still squinted as he approached the cooking fire that had been set up by his companion, “delighting” in the scent that invaded his nostrils. Poorly cooked meat. Sure, it was edible and wouldn’t give him some kind of disease or plague, but it had the familiar taste of lead that he simply “craved”.

“Good morning, Berry,” simply greeted the Northerner, a yawn pulled out of his throat by the now muffled exhaustion in his chest, “did you sleep well?”

“Mhm,” simply said the smaller man. Berry wasn’t the talker; he had learned very quickly. His scruffy, pushed-back back and rather short chocolate hair spoke to his lack of care for his appearance, framed by bottle-green eyes, mutton chops, and a (slightly) well-trimmed beard.

Ace wasn’t bothered by the lack of care on his companion’s part for his physical presentation; he was usually just standing in the background. He didn’t exactly need to be dolled up to punch a man so hard he gets sent to the next day. Berry did his job, and that was all that was required. He cleared his throat, ridding the congealed saliva that had gotten stuck in his throat into the nearby grass before he spoke once more.

“We’ll be heading into town today. Valentine, as I’ve heard. Our man should be there if I’m correct,” he noted, internally jumping as the cooking meat was firmly cut in half with a hunting knife, presented to him on that same instrument of violence. He had too much control over his muscles to allow himself to visibly flinch at such a menial thing. It wasn’t much of a choice if he wanted to starve, though. He’d force his stomach to make its nutrients if it were possible, but for now, he bore through it and simply ate the hunk of whatever the hell his companion had hunted during the night watch without further thought.

“...Like th’ Holiday?” Berry simply replied as he wolfed down his hunk of what tasted like Rabbit mixed with tar, not bothering to finish the mouthful he had in his teeth before he spoke.

“Yes, I do suppose,” Ace mustered back, finishing the makeshift ‘meal’ and offering the knife back to Berry, blade down. His calloused hand snatched it with a practiced ease, sliding it back into his sheath and rolling his shoulders idly. Ace’s brown glance traced from where the knife sat, before towards the fire, and then his tent. It's a simple setup for sleeping overnight and nothing more.

“Let’s not waste this precious daylight any more than we should, shall we?” the Northerner gestured towards the campsite with a chuckle, standing onto his feet and adjusting his hat with a memorized gesture he had picked up from the locals all over the bits of New Hanover they had passed through.

The usual packing up of their camp went as it always did. Ace took care of his tent, strapped it to the back of his horse, and looked to see that Berry had done the rest before he could get the chance to assist. He didn’t mind one bit, of course. It saved him the effort.

Straddling his dark mare, Ace gave her a gentle pat on the side of the neck and picked up the reins, leading the pair, using a pocket atlas he had purchased upstate that hadn’t done him wrong yet. By the time they had seen another human, it wasn’t quite pleasant. An O’Driscoll boy. The visible green bandana covered his face, giving it away with only a second or two of thought. It wasn’t a big shock; it wasn’t the first time they had seen them. Thankfully, it wasn’t he or Berry they were looking to rob. It seemed like another poor schmuck was getting stuck up. However, it didn’t seem to be going well for the man in green.

“G-Give me everythin’ ye got!” shouted the man in green as the ‘victim’ had hopped off of his horse, quick-drawing his pistol and with an almost magical shot, got the younger man right in the hand, forcing him to drop his weapon as he dropped to his knees in pain, clutching at the clean shot that had gone straight through his skin.

“...Now I’m gonna give you one chance to walk the hell away.”

“Back off!”

The O’Driscoll quickly lost his ground as the stout, well-built man stared him down, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and throwing the Irish boy to the ground. Dust was scattered amongst the sparse grass near the well-trodden trail as he collided with the earth below.

“You don’t scare me, boy.”

“I-”

“-And ye’d do best to scatter.”

His voice was intimidating in its own right, a tone more bitter than a lemon with a confidence that could only come from someone who stared death in the eyes many times before and defied it anyway.

The O’Driscoll boy, however, gave the impression of a man no older than 22 and wasn’t about to lose his life for some robbery. He’d already lost his good shooting hand, from what Ace could gauge. Scrambling to his feet, the smaller man got back onto the runty horse he had started the engagement on, digging his heel into the flesh and kicking up dust.

“Yer- Ye’ gonna regret that!”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure,” the hefty man rolled his eyes with a sour chuckle that arose from his chest as he mounted his horse once more. A sturdy, brown-coated-looking stallion, something that’d give the average man difficulty mounting, but from the way that the man mounted the animal, he could presume he had at least a scrap of military training. The way he slung the pistol back into its holster and the quick, sharp hop to get onto the animal gave it away. Ace had learned to recognize it, seeing as their latest acquaintance served for the United States Military. It was a given that he’d pick up the signs of a soldier.

Ace eyed the man from the side as they passed by, earning a slight nod from the stranger as he moved to the side of the trail, passing by and slightly picking up from the trot he had started on the further away he got.

“...That man,” Ace began with narrowed eyes as he yanked at the reins to turn his stallion around, now idly walking in the direction the other man had gone, slowly picking up speed. He didn’t bother to tell Berry to follow after, knowing that any more words would be unnecessary. He could follow his lead without much more direction, a trait the blonde respected in the smaller Bostonian man.

“Now that’s a decent man there,” Berry slipped in between breaths as his horse caught up to Ace’s, now picking up pace as they rode side by side.

“We can discuss his morals later, it’d be best not to make more sound than needed. I suspect he has a lead on our man,” commented Ace through his teeth as he picked up the pace, being sure not to go quick enough to have the man in visible range, but not slow enough to let the stout fellow’s tracks muddied up by another traveler across the dusty roads.

“We’s doin' a stakeout?” Whisper-shouted Berry with a cocked brow.

“Yes, now quit with your yammering,” Ace bitterly spat, before quickly collecting himself and focusing on the trail. They had a man to catch.

“Yammerin’,” Berry idly mumbled under his breath at the comment, rolling his eyes and following the Northerner’s lead. He had trusted in his decision-making before, and it hadn’t blown in his face quite yet to do so.

The trail wasn’t too hard to spot; the weight of the man and his horse combined on the dirt gave a visible imprint as to where he was traveling. Ace thanked whoever was listening that a rainstorm didn’t magically pick up just when he least needed it.
Further and further down the deeply imprinted hoofprint trail, Ace wasn’t too surprised to see the forest begin to build as the sun crested across the horizon, now fully across the sky. It’d be a waste of a whole day if the trip had only resulted in nothing but a family man going back to his wife and children. It was either going to be a hideout, a homestead, a farm, or a camp. Ace could reason that it was either the third or the fourth by then, given that the oil blockage was blocking the flow as it wound further towards the camp. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be an O’Driscoll hideout, seeing as the stout fellow had so easily put the fear of God into the young man earlier.

The trees grew denser before they cleared again, and then there it was.

The camp.

Ace pulled back gently on the reins, halting just short of the ridgeline. He motioned with a gloved hand, and Berry followed suit, his horse letting out a quiet snort as it slowed behind him. The two dismounted without a word, leading their horses a bit further down into a natural dip in the earth, shaded by underbrush and firs. From here, Ace crouched low and crawled up to a small outcropping of rock, just high enough to catch a glimpse of the figures below.

It was a ragtag setup, sprawling and yet somehow organized—wagons converted into living quarters, a clothesline strung between two trees, and a central fire pit already smoking with breakfast coals. There was laughter and conversation, the easy cadence of people who had grown accustomed to each other’s noise.

Ace pulled out a small spyglass from the inner lining of his jacket. Of course, he had one.

“...D’you think they’d string us up if we’re spotted?” Berry whispered low, lying on his stomach beside him, chewing on a thin twig. It bobbed with each word.

“I think they’d do far worse if we appeared uninvited,” Ace replied, adjusting the lens. “But thankfully, we’ve no plans to appear at all.”

“Not yet,” Berry muttered.

Ace hushed him with a gesture, focusing on the group. He scanned faces carefully.

Ace frowned, lowering his body slightly. “...That’s not a town camp,” he muttered.

“Too damn cozy,” Berry whispered back, squinting through a gap in the rock.

“Could be travelers, but that many guns on display? No. That’s an outfit of some kind.” He paused. “Possibly a gang.”

Berry grunted. “They don’t look like O’Driscolls.”

“No. These folks know how to hold themselves. That man—” Ace tilted his head toward a barrel-chested figure with a rifle laid lazily across his lap, “—he’s not just posturing. He’s waiting.”

Berry nodded. “He’s got that look. Like he’s been shot before.”

Ace lifted a small spyglass from the inside of his coat and adjusted it with care. The people came into clearer view. He watched the man with the rifle swig from a bottle, laughing far too loudly at something a woman said from behind a kettle.

“Possibly the loudmouth,” Ace muttered. “Not the leader. The leader doesn’t laugh that much. Not unless he's a fool, and this bunch doesn’t look foolish.”

His eyes scanned the group.

There, a man walked past the fire, tall, shoulders back, but not in the puffed-up way of someone trying to be bigger than he was. No, this one carried his weight like he meant it. He moved from one wagon to the next, carrying a bucket of water, but paused now and then to speak. People listened when he spoke. Not all of them answered.

Ace narrowed his eyes.

“...There’s your quiet man,” he said. “Right there. That’s someone people trust. Or fear.”

Berry followed the direction. “That him?”

“No. It could be he’s just someone with sense. Could be he’s keeping our debtor out of sight.” Ace shifted his jaw. “I don’t recognize anyone down there. But this is the first proper lead we’ve had since Annesburg.”

“Think it’s local?”

“Likely. They’re too at ease to be new to the territory. We’ve wandered into someone’s operation, I just don’t know whose yet.”

Berry grunted. “Hope they’re the talkin’ sort. Don’t wanna end up in a ditch.”

Ace gave a half-smile. “If they’re the talking sort, I’ll do the talking. If not…” He tilted the spyglass again. “Well. That’s why I brought you.”

A kid ran past the fire pit chasing a dog. A man started yelling at someone to pick up their damn boots. An older man with a stovepipe hat poured himself a drink from a flask, even though it was still early morning. It was all very… ordinary. But too ordinary. Like theater.

Ace watched for a long while. He took mental notes—movements, habits, how often people reached for their guns or didn’t, who the others deferred to, who kept to the edges. The camp was a tapestry, and he traced the seams with narrowed eyes.
No sign of the debtor. Not yet. But something in his gut told him he was close.

Berry shifted beside him, tapping a finger against his knee. “Sun’s startin’ to creep. Shadows’ll be gone soon.”

“Right,” Ace murmured, still watching. “We move. Circle wide. Camp upstream. Tonight, we listen. Tomorrow… we plan.”

He gave one last glance through the spyglass, catching a glimpse of the quiet man now crouched at the fire, speaking low to the woman with the stitching hoop.

He had no name for any of them. No history. No context.

But they were someone.

And that made them dangerous.

Night came slowly, like molasses pouring over the hills. The forest changed with it—birds fading, insects rising, and the hush of twilight swallowed everything.

They made a dry camp upstream, just far enough not to be smelled or seen. Berry bedded down behind a fallen pine, his rifle loaded, eyes half-lidded but watchful. The Bostonian had taken the night post without being asked. Ace appreciated that, even if he didn’t say so. Words weren’t necessary with Berry, not most of the time. Trust didn’t come easily to Ace, but he gave it in pieces. Berry had a few.

Ace, meanwhile, dressed down. No hat. No coat. Just the soft gray of his shirt blending into the dark, sleeves rolled and cuffs damp from riverbank moss. His footsteps were careful, deliberate. He moved like ink bleeding through paper, quiet and slow, following the half-lit trail back toward the camp they’d spotted hours earlier.

He left his horse hobbled and out of sight, double-checking the tether before ghosting closer on foot.

The camp had shifted within the hour. No children now. No one is cooking. The fire was low, orange, and snapping, casting wide shadows that danced across canvas and leather.

Ace crept through the tree line until he found a low slope with thick brush—perfect cover. He settled there, belly to the earth again, elbows dug into the dirt. The wind was in his favor.

Three men sat close to the fire, speaking low.

The first had a voice like velvet left too long in the rain. Smooth, but worn. Older. Confidence. Not loud, not harsh, but theatrical enough to demand the air in front of him.

“...I’m just sayin’, Hosea, the longer we sit here with our hands under our asses, the more likely we get pinched by someone sniffing too close.”

Ace’s eyes flicked to the speaker. A man with slicked-back black hair, a fine coat, and the kind of posture that came from always being the center of the room. A peacock in a preacher’s clothing.

“Dutch,” said another voice—this one dry, like gravel with a wry smirk behind it. “You've been sayin’ that every night for two weeks. And yet, here we are. Hands under our asses and all.”

The speaker leaned forward into the firelight—older still, gray in the beard and eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing. He moved like someone who’d earned every year carved into his bones and wasn’t shy about it.

The third man hadn’t spoken yet. Just sat back, legs sprawled wide and arms resting on his thighs. His eyes were down, reflecting firelight from under the shadow of his hat. He gave the impression of someone who’d speak only when he had to, and when he did, it’d be something you’d regret not listening to.

Ace’s gaze lingered there.

He couldn’t quite explain why.

Dutch—so that was the peacock’s name. The leader, if Ace had to guess. The others weren’t deferring to him in every motion, but the rhythm of conversation made it clear: he was the sun, and the rest orbited.

“You saw what happened in Blackwater,” Dutch went on. “You know what they took from us. We can’t build anything in the shadow of that.”

Hosea leaned back on a crate, exhaling slowly. “You talk about building. You forget we’re just trying to keep what we got. Keep these folks fed. Keep ‘em warm. Keep ‘em alive.”

“They trust me, Hosea.”

“They trust us, Dutch.”

That earned a long pause.

Ace let the silence curl in the air, watching their faces. These weren’t common outlaws. He still didn’t know the name of their group, but they had shared history, long ties. He could hear it in every word, every interruption not made.

The third man finally spoke. Voice low. Measured.

“We’re runnin’ out of food. And bullets. I say we get through Valentine quietly, then we start lookin’ for real work. Any kind. Doesn’t gotta be pretty.”

Ace tilted his head. The voice belonged to the man with his hat down—the one Ace had clocked earlier that day. Still no name. But he was no mere lackey.

Dutch sat back with a sigh. “Always so pragmatic, Arthur.”

Arthur.

The name clicked somewhere behind Ace’s eyes. No context yet—just the sound of it, the weight. Arthur.

“I ain’t pragmatic. I just don’t like starvin’,” Arthur replied.

A small laugh from Hosea. “None of us do.”

Dutch rubbed a hand over his mouth and nodded, contemplative now. “Fine. We move carefully. But I want something big soon. We need it.”

Ace’s muscles twitched faintly, a slight shift in his legs as a root dug into his thigh. He stilled again. Not a whisper of sound. Just breathing, shallow and even.

This wasn’t just a camp.

This was a family, or the closest approximation criminals could afford themselves. And Ace had stumbled into something deeper than he’d expected.

He didn’t know what “Blackwater” meant. Possibly the name of a casino-boat, settlement, bank, or other further west. He didn’t know who they’d robbed, or what they’d lost. But the way Dutch said it—what they took from us—made Ace’s skin crawl. It sounded like they were still bleeding.

His debtor might be among them, yes. But it wouldn’t be simple. This wasn't the kind of group you just walked up to and made demands to. These people were dangerous.

Berry had been right to be cautious.

A coyote howled in the far distance, the lonely echo bouncing off the pine. The conversation by the fire moved on to smaller things—supplies, who’d keep watch, someone named “Sadie” who’d knocked the stew pot off the table again.

Ace backed away, inch by inch, heart steady, mind racing. He melted back into the woods like mist at sunrise, retracing steps until the scent of smoke was a memory on the breeze.

Berry was waiting where he’d left him, perched on a moss-covered rock with his rifle across his lap. He didn’t ask what Ace had heard.

But after a moment, Ace whispered, “They’re not just outlaws.”

Berry raised a brow.

“They’re... something else.”

Then he looked out into the woods again, eyes scanning the quiet black of the tree line.

“...And our man’s somewhere in the middle of it.”

Chapter Text

Ace crouched in the underbrush, the campfire’s glow a distant flicker through the trees, soft enough not to silhouette his figure but warm enough to tease the edges of his breath in the cooling night air. The scent of the fire drifted lazily toward them—woodsmoke, stale coffee, a hint of cooked meat—and voices carried with it like ghosts. He held his breath, listening to the final fragments of a conversation.

Dutch van der Linde was not a man Ace would forget. His voice clung to the air with the wet confidence of someone used to shaping the world with words. Arthur, the tall one with the calm stare and worn coat, said less. But when he did speak, people quieted. The old man with the silvered beard—Hosea, he’d caught—spoke like someone who was trying to steer a ship away from rocks with nothing but cleverness and stories.

Ace had memorized their faces, their names, and the way they carried themselves. He still didn’t know which of them—if any—was the man who owed him ten grand. But if the debtor was anywhere, it was here.

He slid back down the incline on his heels and returned to where Berry waited, leaning against a tree with a lazy kind of patience that came from a life of waiting. He’d carved a notch into the wood beside him with a knife he hadn’t even bothered to draw attention to.

“They’re a gang,” Ace said, brushing dirt off his jacket. “Or… close enough to one. Outlaws, if I had to guess. But there’s a structure. A chain. This Dutch fellow—he’s at the top of it.”

Berry nodded slowly, not looking up.

Ace sighed and looked toward the distant camp again. “I’ve decided on something.”

Berry looked up now. “Mhm?”

“I’m going in.”

Berry blinked. “…You’re what now?”

“Not like that,” Ace muttered, waving a hand. “Not with a badge or a gun. I’m going to play the part. A drifter. Unarmed. Injured. Lost, maybe. The kind they take pity on.”

Berry’s brow furrowed slightly, though his voice was steady. “That’s a hell of a thing to bet on.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Ace said, folding his arms. “They’re not just cutthroats. There’s order there. That sort of man—Dutch—he wants to feel like a leader. And leaders don’t just kill every fool who stumbles near their camp. Not unless they want to make a point.”

Berry stared at him. “They might still shoot ya.”

“I know.”

Berry exhaled through his nose and, after a long moment, nodded. “You want a whistle signal if they try to gut you?”

“Two chirps for backup. One long one for ‘don’t come, they’ve got guns on me’,” Ace said plainly. “You’ll keep high ground?”

Berry already had the rifle slung over his shoulder. “Always do.”

“…Good,” Ace said, then looked down at himself—and winced.

His tailcoat was pristine. His trousers were pressed, boots were well-oiled. He looked like a businessman who had wandered off the porch of a riverboat casino.

He muttered something rude and tugged off his jabot, stuffing it into his satchel.

“Here comes the real tragedy,” Berry murmured.

“I hate you,” Ace said dryly.

Berry smiled.

The next few minutes were a slow death of dignity.

Ace pulled off the jacket and tossed it to the ground. Berry kicked a pile of dirt over it. Ace growled something guttural and began rubbing his hands into the dust, then dragged them over his cheeks and down his neck.

“Your makeup’s smudgin’,” Berry said, helpful.

“I know.”

He tugged loose a few buttons of his shirt, scuffed his boots in the mud, and used spit and thumb to dull the shine of his belt buckle. Then he reached into a pouch and pulled out a small flask.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Berry said.

“I’m not,” Ace muttered. “I’m just dousing myself with rotgut to smell more believable.”

He uncorked it, dabbed a few generous drops on his collar, and took a swig—then immediately doubled over, coughing.

Berry clapped once, deadpan.

“I hate this,” Ace rasped. “I hate this so much.”

“You look pathetic.”

“Perfect. That’s the goal.”

He tousled his hair with both hands until it curled unevenly and let his body slouch forward into something looser, lazier. Practicing the limp took another few minutes. Berry made a few sarcastic suggestions.

Then, at last, Ace Dupont stood at the edge of the trees—no longer the pale, sharp-dressed northern collector. Just a scruffy, bruised-looking man with the air of someone who had been traveling too long and lost too much.

“I’ll be at the treeline,” Berry said. “If you get shot, try to fall in my direction.”

Ace rolled his eyes. “Comforting as always.”

And with that, he started down the slope, into the uncertain dark.

The campfire crackled louder the closer Ace drew, each step timed with the creak of frogs or the stir of wind. He moved half-stumbling, dragging his foot like it pained him, one arm cradled against his ribs like he’d taken a bad fall or a worse beating. He wasn’t close enough to be seen clearly, but close enough to be noticed. That was the balance.

He passed a wagon’s shadow and leaned against it, exhaling through his teeth like a man on his last breath.

Then, a voice behind him.

“Who the hell’s that?”

Ace froze.

Footsteps.

Two of them.

He didn’t turn around—just slumped further down, resting against a wheel like he might lose consciousness at any moment.

“Looks like he came outta the woods,” came a second voice—lower, calmer, firmer. More dangerous.

He heard the metallic sound of a gun being drawn but not cocked. Just the weight of it shifting from safety to caution.

A small voice in his head whispered: Now or never.

Ace let his chin loll downward. “S—Sorry,” he rasped. “Didn’t mean to—was just lookin’ for somewhere warm to die.”

A beat.

Then the first voice, a little closer now, a little less sure. “Die? Hells—he’s bleedin’, I think.”

Ace wasn’t, of course. But he'd artfully dabbed some wine on his shirt earlier—it darkened the fabric convincingly enough in the low firelight.

Boots crunched leaves. The calmer voice spoke again, closer now.

“You alone?”

Ace nodded once, slowly, like the movement hurt.

Another pause. Then, quiet murmuring. He couldn’t make it out—but the lower voice said something firm, decisive.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“We’re gonna get you up now, alright?”

Ace groaned faintly and let his weight sag, as if he were half-unconscious. The touch steadied into a grip—strong, controlled—and lifted him with an ease that belied the man’s strength.

Ace caught his first real look at them.

The man holding him upright was tall, sturdy, dark-skinned, with braids pulled back behind his ears and an intensity in his eyes that didn’t soften, even in concern. His shirt sleeves were rolled, forearms knotted with muscle. Not a man to underestimate. The other was smaller, wiry, nervous-looking—young, maybe—but with a rifle slung over one shoulder and a jittery kind of energy. Dirty-blonde hair, scruffy stubble, and a look like he’d half-expected Ace to be a wild animal.

“You with the O’Driscolls?” the wiry one asked, voice sharp.

Ace gave the smallest shake of his head. “Dunno what that is.”

“You better be tellin’ the truth,” the wiry one muttered.

The tall man cut him a glance. “If he were an O’Driscoll, he’d be yelling, not slumping over.”

Ace seized the moment. “Don’t want any trouble,” he muttered. “Was just headin’ to Valentine. Took a wrong turn. Lost my horse. Lost… everything.”

There was just enough truth in his tone to sell it.

The wiry one squinted. “Valentine’s miles west.”

“I noticed.”

The taller man looked down at him. “You armed?”

“Dropped my pistol in the creek two days ago,” Ace lied easily. “Ain’t had much use for it since.”

There was another long pause. Then:

“We’re bringin’ him in,” said the tall one.

The wiry one groaned. “Dutch ain’t gonna like that.”

“He can decide what to do. You want to leave him out here for wolves?”

“I said I didn’t—” He rubbed his forehead, then sighed. “Fine. But if he stabs someone in their sleep, I’m blaming you, Charles.”

Charles. So that was his name. The strong, quiet one.

Ace let himself sag against him again, as if in relief. The other one—the nervous one—muttered something under his breath but led the way through the trees.

They passed through the outer ring of wagons. Shapes shifted around the fire. A few heads turned. No alarms were raised, but the mood changed. Eyes sharpened. One woman narrowed her gaze and got up from a stool, hands on her hips. Another man reached slowly for the knife on his belt.

Ace felt all of it. Drank it in like wine.

He wasn’t just seeing a gang.

He was inside it now.

They brought him to a spot just off the main fire, near a wagon loaded with crates and covered in faded canvas. The nervous one—Kieran, he’d learned in passing—kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected Ace to bolt. Or explode. Or both.

Charles helped Ace sit down gently on a log, then crouched beside him and gestured toward his right foot.

“You said your ankle’s twisted?” he asked, voice low but even.

Ace nodded, already anticipating the dance.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

He gritted his teeth and lifted his leg stiffly, allowing Charles to ease off the boot. The man was surprisingly gentle, methodical in the way he moved—like someone used to patching wounds and handling pain that wasn’t his own.

Charles furrowed his brow.

“No swelling,” he said.

Ace gave a weak chuckle. “Guess I ain’t that lucky. Just feels like hell.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just gave a single, curt nod and laced the boot back up again, tight enough to make Ace wince for real this time. The man stood, towering slightly, and stepped back without a word.

A hush had fallen across the camp—casual conversation turning to murmurs, then silence.

Footsteps approached. Smooth ones. Measured.

And then him.

The man from the fire.

Dutch.

He walked like he expected the earth to move out of his way. Hands behind his back, shoulders squared, eyes lit with something half-mirth, half-command. His voice rolled through the camp like smoke—thick, sweet, and meant to linger.

“Well now,” Dutch said, smiling faintly. “What do we have here?”

Ace straightened just slightly, enough to look alert without seeming a threat. His limp hand rested palm-up on his knee in a gesture of passive surrender.

“Apologies,” he rasped. “Didn’t mean to stumble into anyone’s home. Wasn’t even sure it was a home ‘til I smelled the fire.”

Dutch let the smile stretch a little wider, though not warmer.

“No one just stumbles in here, friend. This here’s deep country. You’d have to be lost or lookin’ for trouble.”

“Bit of both, I think,” Ace replied. “Was headin’ west. Got separated from my horse. Took a spill down an incline a couple of days back. Been limpin’ ever since. Heard voices, saw light. Figured… better to be shot than starve.”

A few laughs rose from the edges of the fire, though none sounded truly amused.

Dutch crouched just a little, looking him dead-on now. His gaze was sharp, but his grin was still in place, as if he were weighing Ace’s life like a coin in his palm.

“You got a name, mister?”

“Algernon,” Ace lied smoothly. “Algernon Day.”

“Well, Mr. Day,” Dutch said, straightening again and brushing invisible dust off his lapel, “you picked a strange patch of woods to wander into. That said…”

He glanced around at the others, then back to Ace.

“…we’re not monsters here. You look like hell, and Charles says you ain’t got a weapon on you.”

“I wouldn’t know how to use one if I did,” Ace added, letting his voice crack just a little. “No soldier. No bounty hunter. Just dumb luck and stubborn legs.”

Dutch chuckled at that. “Stubborn legs’ll get you further than brains in this world.”

He stepped away, just a few paces, then turned back again, still smiling. “Now. See, here’s the problem. We’re a private community. We don’t like strangers much. Especially ones who sneak up on us in the middle of the night. So I have to ask…”

He leaned forward again, voice still friendly but tightening ever so slightly:

“…You ain’t been sent by anyone, have you?”

Ace let his shoulders slump.

“If someone did send me,” he said slowly, “they sure didn’t leave instructions for what to do when I got half-eaten by the woods.”

Dutch stared at him for a long beat, then nodded.

“Fair enough.”

A hand clapped Ace on the shoulder—Charles, returning silently.

“Charles’ll set you up for the night. You’ll get a plate, maybe a blanket, and in the morning we’ll figure out where to send you.”

Ace inclined his head, relieved—but not too relieved. He let a little gratitude show, just enough to sell the image of a half-broken man clinging to kindness.

“Thank you. Genuinely.”

Dutch winked. “Don’t thank me yet.”

He turned and walked back toward the fire, hands behind his back once more, whistling something tuneless as he went.

Ace let out a quiet breath.

He was in.

The fire had burned lower, embers pulsing beneath blackening logs, and the edges of camp folded into quiet. Most of the gang had drifted off to their tents or bedrolls, shadows stretching long under the early moon. Ace sat cross-legged on the crate Charles had gestured him toward, chewing slowly through a tin plate of beans and something that might’ve once been rabbit.

His eyes moved lazily. But his mind, as ever, did not.

He cataloged them all.

The red-haired woman who barked commands like she was born doing it—cook or quartermaster, maybe both. The wiry young man named Kieran, who lingered by the edge of the fire and stole glances over his shoulder every ten seconds. The older fellow with a book open on his lap, snoring gently under the awning of a wagon.

And him.

Across the fire, just far enough to seem casual, sat the one they called Arthur.

Hat still low, arms crossed, but his eyes never wandered far.

He was pretending not to watch Ace.

He was failing.

Ace didn’t look at him directly—just let his awareness graze the man’s presence like a shoulder against a coat rack. Arthur didn’t say a word, didn’t blink much, didn’t move. But there was something in his posture—tense, settled, coiled in a way that didn’t match the easy slouch of the others.

It wasn’t suspicion.

It was something stranger.

It felt… personal.

Ace kept his hands folded politely in his lap, ankles crossed, and let the moment pass.

He tried to trace it.

Had they met before? Impossible. Arthur’s face would have stuck with him, handsome in a tired, sun-worn way. A lawman, maybe, once. Or a prizefighter turned thoughtful. But no, there was no flicker of familiarity. No missing puzzle piece. Just that quiet stare and a bitterness in it that didn’t belong.

Arthur finally stood and made for the edge of camp, passing within a few feet of Ace. As he moved, he paused.

Just briefly.

Ace turned his head slightly, enough to acknowledge him without speaking.

Arthur stopped. Not fully—just a hitch in his step.

Then, low and flat, he said:

“You can play at bein’ broken all you want, but I’ve seen real hurt. So either you got a hell of a past, or you’re better at lyin’ than most.”

Ace blinked once, expression cool and unchanging.

“Both,” he replied evenly.

Arthur looked at him, long and hard. Then gave a half-snort—derisive, like a laugh he’d swallowed too late—and walked on.

Ace watched the silhouette retreat into the trees behind a tent flap, the bitterness in the man's posture sticking like sap.

That wasn’t just mistrust.

That was resentment.

Ace didn’t know why, and he didn’t like not knowing. It itched in his mind like a skipped word in a sentence. He turned back to his plate and forced another bite past his teeth.

Across the camp, the fire let out a crack like splitting bone.

Morning came with a veil of fog hanging low across the treetops. Ace awoke to the smell of smoke and damp leaves, blinking through the haze like a cat who had no intention of being awake just yet.

No one had told him what to do.

No one had told him anything.

But he’d lived long enough to know that in a place like this, doing nothing was more suspicious than doing something badly.

So he started slow.

He folded his blanket carefully and placed it back by the fire where he’d slept, then lingered near the wagons until someone barked a half-hearted curse about spilled water. Without a word, Ace took up the bucket.

By mid-morning, he’d helped carry two more and fetched firewood for a woman who thanked him without smiling. That was fine. He didn’t need thanks.

He just needed to stay.

He kept to the edges, asking only what was necessary, nodding at everyone without memorizing the weight of their names out loud. People noticed him less that way—an echo in the scenery, helpful but forgettable.

Arthur didn’t speak to him again.

Not directly.

But Ace felt the man’s eyes all the same—measured glances, especially when Ace was close to the women or the younger boys. He knew what it looked like. He’d spent years mastering the precise posture of harmlessness. But Arthur’s mistrust didn’t feel protective.

It felt personal.

Ace didn’t let it bother him.

Much.

By the third day, he was refilling canteens and sorting through a crate of dried goods when he heard small, fast footsteps behind him.

“Hi.”

Ace turned his head slowly.

The boy was maybe six or seven, brown hair sticking up like hay, eyes too big for his face and full of that particular kind of curiosity only children or drunks could get away with.

“Hello,” Ace said gently, setting down the can of salted beef.

“I’m Jack,” the boy declared. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but you look like a weird stranger, so I wanted to anyway.”

Ace gave a slow, theatrical blink. “I… see.”

Jack kicked at the dirt with one boot. “You walk funny.”

“I twisted my ankle,” Ace replied.

“Oh.” Jack tilted his head. “Can I see it?”

“You may not,” Ace said politely. “But I appreciate the medical enthusiasm.”

Jack frowned, then sat on an upturned crate beside him like he had every right to. “Mama says people who work hard get to stay. You’ve been carrying a lot of stuff. So I think that means you can stay.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Ace said. “Is your mother the one who keeps fixing that stew pot?”

“Yup. Her name’s Abigail. She yells a lot.”

Ace smiled softly. “Mothers tend to.”

Jack leaned closer. “Do you know any magic?”

Ace tilted his head. “Pardon?”

“Like card tricks. Or disappearing coins. You talk like someone who does magic.”

It was the most accurate thing anyone had said to him in months.

“…I might know a thing or two,” Ace admitted.

Jack’s face lit up.

Ace reached into his coat—slowly, carefully—and palmed a small silver dollar he’d tucked in the lining. A quick flip, a twist of his fingers, and then he “pulled” it from behind Jack’s ear.

The boy gasped.

“That’s so cool! Do it again!”

Ace only smirked. “A magician never repeats himself.”

Jack groaned dramatically, but he was already laughing.

That’s when Ace noticed the boots.

Heavy ones.

Arthur.

He was standing at a distance, arms folded, just watching them. His jaw was tight. He wasn’t smiling.

Ace gave a polite nod in his direction—one Jack didn’t see—and resumed stacking tins into the crate.

Arthur lingered a second longer, then turned and walked away.

Jack leaned in and whispered, “Uncle Arthur doesn’t like you.”

“I know,” Ace whispered back.

“Do you like him?”

Ace paused.

“…No opinion yet.”

The boy frowned, like that was the wrong answer, then hopped off the crate and scampered off toward the fire.

Ace exhaled and returned to work.

Slowly, gently, he was threading himself into the shape of the camp. The trick wasn’t to insert yourself loudly.

It was to become part of the background until you were needed.

And when the time came, when someone finally slipped and said something they shouldn’t, he’d be there.

Listening.

Smiling.

Waiting.

By the time a full week had passed, Ace Dupont—still going by Algernon Day—had been offered half a cup of coffee without asking, called “Algy” by a man who didn’t care to pronounce the full name, and assigned to haul a barrel of water after Javier threw out his back swearing at a mule.

It wasn’t trust. Not yet.

But it was routine.

He knew which women cooked when, who always asked for seconds, which children lied about their chores, and who never looked anyone in the eye. He learned that Dutch had a fondness for reciting half-poems he barely remembered and that the camp’s old dog only barked at thunder and strangers.

Every day, Ace worked. Silently. Cleanly. With just enough detachment not to become too familiar.

And every night, Arthur Morgan found new ways to be near him, without speaking a word.

The man had a presence like heat off a stove: quiet, intense, and impossible to ignore. And though he never confronted Ace directly, the glances were constant. Cold, bitter. Untrusting.

Maybe even jealous.

Ace still hadn’t figured out why.

But he had bigger concerns.

The morning of the seventh day, Ace rose before the others, stuffed a heel of bread into a rag, and slipped away into the trees while the fog was still thick enough to hide him. He moved fast and quietly along the ridgeline—past the broken tree with the strange twist in its bark, past the creek that hissed like it remembered him.

It took nearly an hour, but he found the little camp again.

Berry was there, exactly where he said he’d be.

He didn’t look up when Ace arrived. Just handed him a lukewarm tin cup and said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” Ace replied, sitting beside him with a wince. His back ached in ways it hadn’t since Pennsylvania. “They make you sleep on rocks.”

Berry looked him up and down. “You look like ‘em now.”

“I feel like a shovel.”

“Y’figure anything out?”

Ace didn’t answer immediately. He took a sip—burnt chicory and creek water. Then:

“Not yet. I’ve watched every one of them. None of them match the face or the name.”

Berry’s face didn’t change.

“That means the debtor ain’t there?”

Ace tilted his head.

“It means,” he said slowly, “either he’s dead… or he’s not with this group. Which means we may have lost the trail weeks ago.”

Berry spat into the fire. “Waste of time.”

“No. It’s not,” Ace said. “They may not be the goal, but they’re connected to something. These aren’t simple thieves. They’ve got people watching them. They move like prey and predators both. And they’re gonna get caught in something big.”

Berry grunted. “So what now?”

Ace looked into the fire.

“I stay in. And you… come in, too.”

Berry turned his head slowly.

“They don’t need two drifters.”

“No,” Ace agreed. “But they might take two brothers.”

Silence.

Then Berry’s face contorted into something like a sneer. “You serious?”

Ace gave him a sidelong glance. “You’ve done worse for less.”

“They’re gonna smell it a mile off.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You come in through a different trail. Maybe you’ve been looking for me. Estranged. Years apart. We had a falling out over something petty—gambling, women, pride. You've got your own story. You stick to it.”

Berry stared hard at him.

“I ain’t pretendin’ to be your brother.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Ace said smoothly. “Just act like someone who regrets the years we lost. You’re good at quiet. People trust quiet.”

“People don’t trust actors.”

Ace smiled faintly. “They don’t know I’m acting.”

Berry sighed and leaned back, staring into the trees. “This your new mark now? These folks?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ace said. “But I do know they’re dangerous. And I don’t like being the only one in a cage without backup.”

Berry was quiet for a long time.

Then he took a final drink from his cup, poured out the dregs, and stood.

“I’ll come in a day or two after you go back,” he said. “Make it look good. Like a bad reunion.”

Ace nodded.

Berry adjusted the rifle on his back and said, “If they try to hang me, you better cry.”

“I’ll weep openly,” Ace replied.

And with that, he turned, brushing pine needles from his lapels, and made the walk back down toward the camp—back into his borrowed name, his limp, and the eyes of the man who hated him for a reason he still couldn’t name.

As the camp came into view again through the thinning trees, Ace straightened his posture by an inch, let the weight return to his limp, and fixed his face into something unreadable. He could already see Arthur near the horses, watching him like a man waiting for a mistake. Let him wait. Let them all wait. Because for now, Ace Dupont was just a tired drifter named Algernon Day—harmless, helpful, forgettable. But soon, they’d see another piece of his story walking straight through the trees, wearing his blood and carrying a rifle. And by the time anyone thought to question it, they’d already be too used to him being there.

Chapter Text

The eighth morning broke slowly, the fog reluctant to lift, and the trees still heavy with the breath of dawn. Camp life shuffled into motion one clatter at a time—pots against iron grates, boots against dirt, sleepy curses muffled behind canvas.

Ace moved carefully through it all, already having refilled the kettle and stacked firewood with quiet precision. He didn’t rush. He never did. Each motion was part of the rhythm now—an echo of usefulness, just noticeable enough to feel natural.

He was passing the supply wagon when he saw it.

Dutch, alone in a camp chair with his legs crossed and a tin mug resting against his thigh, had a book open in one hand and a slow smile creeping across his mouth.

The title—faint and worn—stood out in elegant type.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Ace felt the shift immediately. His stride didn’t change, but something inside his chest fluttered like a card flicked too fast from the deck. Of all the books to find in a place like this, it wasn’t the title that caught him. It was the expression the Dutch wore while reading it.

Not indulgence. Not idle entertainment.

Interest.

Thoughtful, focused, active interest.

Ace adjusted the bundle of kindling in his arms and slowed, just enough not to seem deliberate. His voice, when it came, was soft and incidental, like the thought had only just occurred to him.

“Good read?”

Dutch glanced up from the page, one brow lifting over the rim of his gold-rimmed spectacles. He looked over Ace as if weighing the tone, then the question, then the man.

“A bit too clever for its own good,” Dutch said after a beat. “But damn if it doesn’t make you want to keep reading just to see how the bastard pulls it all together.”

Ace gave a small smile, quick, careful. “Not many writers get to make deduction feel like theatre.”

Dutch grinned wider now, folding the book closed with a soft whump.

“You read it?”

“Years ago,” Ace replied. “Once or twice. Always thought Holmes seemed more magician than man. Knew the trick before anyone else saw the cards.”

Dutch let out a small chuckle. “Magician, yes. But lonely, too. Always struck me as a man who sees too much and feels too little.”

Ace inclined his head. “Or maybe the opposite. Maybe it’s the ones who feel too much who pretend they don’t. Easier to be clever than vulnerable.”

That earned him a longer look—one Dutch didn’t hide.

“Interesting take,” Dutch said slowly.

“I’m just a fan of fiction,” Ace replied lightly, resuming his walk.

Dutch watched him go.

And though the fire still cracked behind him and the pages of the book still fluttered in the breeze, something in Dutch’s posture had changed.

He was watching now, too.

The conversation with Dutch lingered behind Ace like perfume on fabric—faint, but present. He didn’t need to look back to know he’d be remembered a little differently now. Not just a stranger with a limp and manners, but someone who reads books. Someone who thought.

It was a dangerous kind of attention.

Still, it had its uses.

By midday, he noticed the changes.

Javier passed him a knife to cut the rope without hesitation. Not trust, exactly, but a kind of acknowledgment. Sadie stopped calling him “the limping fella” and started calling him “Algy,” which somehow felt worse. Tilly offered him a folded rag when she saw him wipe sweat from his neck with his sleeve. No words. Just a soft toss and a nod.

Small things.

But things.

Even the dog—Old Boy, someone had called him—had stopped barking whenever Ace passed by. Now he just opened one lazy eye and grunted before going back to whatever muddy dream he was lost in.

And yet, some shadows hadn’t moved.

Kieran still side-eyed him like he expected Ace to pull a snake out of his sleeve. Bill barely acknowledged him, except to grunt when Ace brought over water buckets. And Arthur—Arthur didn’t speak, didn’t nod, didn’t even scowl anymore.

But he watched.

More than once, Ace turned just in time to catch him sharpening his knife or grooming his horse, head angled just enough to keep Ace in the corner of his vision. Not hostility anymore. Just… scrutiny.

The kind a man gives to a locked box he’s not sure he wants to open.

Ace bore it with patience. He'd learned to wait for the weather to break.

Later that afternoon, he sat on a rock by the river, boots off and rolled trousers soaking wet from hauling a half-sunken crate out of the shallows for Pearson. He let his fingers trail through the water lazily, just as Jack came running up again.

“Sadie says you read books.”

Ace tilted his head. “Sadie’s surprisingly well-informed.”

“She says you talk all fancy ‘cause you got secrets.”

“I do have secrets,” Ace replied without hesitation.

Jack blinked. “Are they scary?”

“Only to the people they belong to.”

The boy frowned, trying to work through that one. “You gonna stay?”

Ace leaned back on his palms, letting the wind move through the trees above.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I stay where I’m useful.”

Jack was about to respond when he was called away—Abigail’s sharp voice cutting across camp like a whip crack.

“Coming!” he shouted, already turning on his heel.

And then, just for a moment, Ace was alone again.

The sun warmed the rocks. The wind smelled faintly of sagebrush and ash.

And somewhere beyond the treeline—beyond the ridge—Berry was waiting.

He would arrive soon. Just another thread in the lie Ace was weaving, pulled taut between his teeth.

The longer he stayed, the more real the lie would have to become.

And the more it would cost to cut free.

The stew was too thin again.

Ace stirred the pot slowly, watching the cloudy broth swirl with limp strands of potato and a few questionable chunks of something that had once grazed on grass, maybe. Pearson was off arguing about spice ratios with Mary-Beth, so that left Ace, ladle in hand, standing by the fire with his sleeves rolled and ash on his knuckles.

He hadn’t asked to help.

But when Tilly said, “If you’ve got two hands, you’ve got a job,” he hadn’t argued either.

The pot hissed as the fire cracked under it. Ace shifted the lid, letting the steam roll out, and leaned back slightly to avoid fogging his face.

From just behind the supply wagon, low voices drifted toward him.

He didn’t turn. Just listened.

Arthur and Sean.

The Irishman’s voice was hard to miss—always a few notes too loud, too eager to fill a space even when it didn’t ask for it.

But not now.

Now, his tone was quieter. Muted. Maybe they didn’t think anyone was nearby.

“—I’m just sayin’, he ain’t like the rest of us,” Sean murmured.

Arthur’s voice followed. Steady. Low. “You mean he talks proper.”

“I mean he ain’t got the same stink. You know what I mean.”

A beat.

Then Arthur said, “You think he’s law?”

Sean scoffed. “No. Too clean for that. Too... what’s the word? Combed. Like a man who wants you to trust him for a reason.”

Another pause.

Ace stirred the pot once more, careful not to let the metal scrape the sides.

Arthur muttered, “Dutch likes him.”

“Dutch likes talkers.”

Arthur didn’t respond immediately. Then, after a moment, “I don’t.”

Sean laughed—short and sharp. “No kidding.”

“He’s too careful,” Arthur went on. “Smiles at the right time. Looks away at the right time. Always just quiet enough not to cause trouble.”

“And yet here we are, feeding him stew.”

“I didn’t say I’d shoot him,” Arthur replied. “Just… I don’t like the shape he casts.”

Sean let out a long breath. “You think he’s hiding somethin’?”

Arthur’s voice was quieter now, nearly lost beneath the bubbling of the pot.

“I think he’s hiding everything.”

There was silence after that. Footsteps shifting away.

Ace kept his face even, eyes on the fire. The stew hissed gently as he ladled a bit into a tin bowl.

Arthur didn’t trust him.

Good.

Distrust was honest. Distrust was predictable.

It was the smiles he didn’t trust—the kind Dutch wore too easily, and Sean used to laugh off his nerves. No, Ace preferred people who showed their teeth and meant it.

He lifted the bowl and carried it to Tilly without a word, then went back to the pot, one hand brushing ash from his sleeve, eyes flicking once—just once—toward the edge of the wagons where Arthur had been.

Let them talk.

Let them wonder.

Because soon, they’d have even more to wonder about.

And his “brother” would be arriving any day now.

The camp quieted after supper, the kind of quiet that only came when bellies were full and fires had dulled to embers. Laughter had dwindled to murmurs. The trees whispered more than the people did.

Ace lingered near the edge of the firelight, a half-empty tin cup of weak coffee cradled in both hands, watching the smoke curl into the night like it was trying to escape something. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t gone to his bedroll yet. Or maybe he was.

He saw Hosea sitting alone just beyond the wagons, perched on an overturned crate with a worn book in one hand and a lantern at his feet, its flickering glow barely holding back the dark. The old man’s eyes skimmed the page lazily, like someone more familiar with stories than surprised by them.

Ace stood still for a moment.

Then moved.

He approached without speaking until his shadow cut the lantern’s light.

Hosea glanced up.

“Well, now. Evening, Mr. Day.”

“Evening,” Ace replied. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Always room in the dark for company.” Hosea closed the book gently, slipping a card in between the pages. “A bit quieter than usual for you tonight.”

Ace gave a half-smile. “Didn’t realize I had a usual.”

“You’ve got the kind of silence that still makes noise. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

Ace sat on the crate across from him, placing his tin down beside the lantern. “You strike me as a man who’s spent a lot of time listening.”

“Longer than I’d like to admit.” Hosea studied him a moment, not unkindly. “Got something on your mind?”

Ace didn’t answer right away.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers clasped together like a man unsure if he wanted to open a door or just rest his head against it.

“Can I ask you something personal?” he said softly.

Hosea chuckled. “You can try.”

“Have you ever had family…” Ace hesitated, working the sentence like a tooth, “someone close… who just stopped being close? Not because of a fight, necessarily. Just… time. Distance. Things unsaid.”

Hosea leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose.

“Family that drifts?” he said. “Sure. Most folks have. Blood’s just a kind of ink. Doesn’t stop it from fading if you don’t write to each other.”

Ace looked down at his hands.

“And if you get the chance to see them again?” he asked. “After years. What then?”

“Then you ask yourself two things,” Hosea said. “What are you hoping they’ll say? And what are you afraid they might?”

Ace was quiet.

Too quiet.

Hosea studied him again. Not prying, not pressing. Just present.

“Who is it?” he asked finally. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Ace didn’t look up.

“My brother.”

That was all he gave.

It was enough.

Hosea nodded slowly. “Well. If he’s still breathing, that means there’s still a chance.”

Ace finally looked at him. “You believe in second chances, Mr. Matthews?”

“I believe in last chances. Sometimes they look the same. Sometimes they don’t.” Hosea’s gaze softened. “But you only know the difference once you’ve already spoken.”

Ace gave a small nod and stood.

“Thank you,” he said, brushing the dirt from his coat.

“You're welcome,” Hosea replied. “If your brother’s anything like you, tell him to bring strong coffee. We’re all out.”

Ace smiled—genuinely, if briefly—then turned into the dark, walking slowly.

He let himself disappear past the lantern’s reach, the shadows swallowing his pale figure one step at a time.

And behind his calm stride, his mind was already rehearsing.

Because tomorrow, he’d have a brother again.

Night had fully taken root by the time Ace found himself alone at the edge of the stream, tucked away behind the rear wagons where the firelight thinned and the crickets held dominion.

He stood in the dark with his reflection faint in the slow-moving water, murmuring under his breath.

“Didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

Beat.

“You’ve changed.”

Beat.

“...That scar wasn’t there last time.”

Too dramatic.

He shook his head and tried again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven me already.”

“No—that’s too cold,” he muttered, adjusting his tone. “Lighter. Warmer. Maybe—Maybe a little wary. Not too close. Not right away.”

The words played on his tongue like a cigarette rolled but unlit.

It had to sound real.

No one in the Van der Linde camp questioned pain. They knew the shapes of broken families, betrayed kin. If he sold it just right, Berry would be one of them before nightfall. A grudge turned into a reunion was the kind of story Dutch adored.

But the moment to rehearse was—

“—WHERE IS HE?!”

The shout shattered the woods like a snapped branch.

Ace froze.

Another voice—Berry’s, unmistakably—and louder now.

“I KNOW he’s here! You tell that snake-bastard to stop hiding!”

The camp was already stirring. Boots hitting dirt. Men shouting. Dogs barking. Horses snorting and yanking at their reins.

Ace surged forward through the trees, heart lurching up into his throat.

Too soon.

He broke through the treeline in time to see torches swinging toward the path, rifles lifted in half-drawn arcs, and Berry—dirty, breathing heavy, his shirt torn at the shoulder—storming into the clearing like he’d been chasing ghosts for days.

“Where is he?” Berry barked again, eyes blazing. “Algernon Day! That bastard owes me a goddamn explanation!”

Pearson drew his revolver.

Sean, already grinning, reached for his.

Dutch stepped out from behind a tent flap, his voice cutting through the mess like a conductor’s baton.

“Now, hold on,” he said coolly. “What in the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Berry’s eyes scanned the crowd, still heaving from breathless fury, until they found Ace, just emerging from the brush, dust on his coat, eyes wide and posture frozen.

The look Berry gave him was electric.

Wounded.

Furious.

Too real.

“You son of a bitch,” he growled.

Ace blinked.

It was… better than they rehearsed.

Berry’s glare cut through the camp like a blade, shoulders squared, boots planted like he was ready to start swinging.

“You son of a bitch,” he snarled again, louder this time.

Ace stepped forward from the trees, breath sharp in his chest, boots crunching dry pine needles underfoot. All eyes turned to him—Sean, grinning like it was showtime; Javier with his hand hovering over his revolver; Charles watching with quiet readiness. Arthur stood near the horses, arms folded tight across his chest, saying nothing.

Ace didn’t flinch.

Instead, he squared his shoulders, locked eyes with Berry, and raised his voice just enough to carry.

“Don’t you dare talk about our mother like that.”

A few people audibly gasped.

Dutch let out a surprised little laugh.

Berry’s snarl twisted into something else—shock? Amusement? Either way, he leaned into it.

“Oh, now you care about her?” he spat. “You weren’t so concerned when you took her brooch and pawned it for whiskey!”

Ace’s eyes narrowed. “That brooch paid for your train fare when you ran off to Saint Denis and wrote me crying letters a week later.”

The camp broke into soft murmurs. Sadie whispered something to Tilly. Sean nudged Javier like it was the best show he’d seen in months.

Dutch stepped forward slowly, rubbing a hand over his beard, clearly enjoying himself.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “You two know each other.”

Berry didn’t take his eyes off Ace. “You left. You always leave.”

“And you always show up when it’s least convenient,” Ace replied coolly, but his jaw was tight. “What are you even doing here?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Berry shot back. “Didn’t think you’d be hiding in a gang full of—”

“Careful,” Ace snapped, stepping in closer.

The tension snapped like a rope stretched too tight. Even Arthur shifted a little at that, his arms falling to his sides. The whole camp now hung in the silence like held breath.

Berry finally looked away first.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he muttered, voice lower now. “But you owe me more than explanations.”

Ace sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and turned to Dutch—measured, weary, but dignified.

“This is my brother,” he said. “We… haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

Dutch looked between them, eyes bright. “I gathered as much.”

“He’s not here to cause trouble,” Ace added quickly. “He’s just… lost. Like I was.”

Berry didn’t respond. But his scowl softened just enough to sell the line.

Dutch crossed his arms, still smiling faintly.

“Well, far be it from me to keep family apart.” He looked to Hosea, who gave a slow nod. Then to Arthur, who didn’t move. “We’ve got space, if you’ve got manners.”

Berry gave a nod, stiff and quiet.

Dutch turned to the rest of the gang. “Everyone—calm the hell down. Show’s over.”

Gradually, they started to disperse. Rifles lowered. Conversations resumed, though now with more glances and whispers than before.

Ace stood rooted in place, his back still straight, his hands shaking ever so slightly behind his coat.

Berry stepped beside him, close enough that only he could hear.

“That brooch line?” he muttered. “Nice touch.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t say you sold the family cow for morphine,” Ace replied under his breath.

Berry smirked.

“Still might.”

The camp buzzed for the rest of the evening, low and pulsing like static. Even though the Dutch had dismissed it, the so-called reunion had cast a long shadow. People kept glancing at Ace and Berry like they might start throwing punches or hugging any minute.

Ace took a bottle of watered-down whiskey from Pearson’s table, gave Berry a look, and the two slipped off into the quieter edge of camp, near the edge of the woods but still in view enough not to rouse suspicion. A small fire burned there, dying but not out. Just enough to cast their silhouettes across the grass.

They sat on two split logs, the bottle between them.

“Cheers,” Berry muttered, taking a swig and handing it over.

“To long-lost blood and questionable acting,” Ace said under his breath, giving the rim of the bottle a whiff.

He winced. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Berry agreed. “Pearson’s aging it in old boots, I think.”

For a while, they just sat.

The performance had been exhausting. Ace could still feel the heat in his chest from when he’d snapped about their “mother”—a fictional woman, sharp-tongued and poor, who probably wore long skirts and hated cigarettes. They hadn’t planned a single detail about her, but now she existed, real as any memory.

“So,” Berry said, loud enough for the fire to catch his voice. “You really were gonna let me think you died in Saint Denis?”

Ace blinked, then smiled slowly. “I sent a telegram.”

“You sent half a telegram. ‘Stop looking. I’m not dead. –A.’ That ain’t communication. That’s just bad manners.”

Ace chuckled. “I didn’t know how to explain myself.”

“You never do.”

“That’s not fair.”

Berry leaned in, voice a little louder now, half-performative and half-sincere. “What is fair is I wasted two years wondering if you'd been shanked in a riverboat casino because you couldn’t keep your hands off someone’s husband.”

“That happened once,” Ace shot back. “And he wasn’t married. Technically.”

Somewhere behind the corner of the wagon, a quiet snort gave them away.

Ace didn’t turn, but his voice dropped slightly. “We have an audience.”

“Three, I think,” Berry said. “One of ‘em’s that Irish prick. I’d bet a week’s rations.”

Sure enough, behind a nearby crate, Sean crouched in the worst hiding position Ace had ever seen, flanked by Mary-Beth and Tilly, both pretending to look interested in sewing while not sewing anything at all.

“You ever think I’d come back?” Berry asked, not lowering his voice.

Ace gave it a beat. Then shook his head.

“No.”

Berry nodded, like that was the only answer that made sense.

Ace looked into the fire. “Did you ever think I’d be somewhere like this?”

Berry smirked. “You? Out here in dirt and boots, hauling water for a living? Nah. I figured if you survived, you’d be back in Saint Denis with some rich idiot’s wallet and a silk robe.”

Ace glanced down at his worn-out shirt, smeared with soot and broth stains. “I miss robes.”

That pulled a laugh out of Berry—genuine, warm—the kind of laugh you couldn’t fake.

Behind the wagon, another giggle slipped out from Mary-Beth, and Sean stage-whispered, “He misses robes, what a fookin’ prince.”

Ace sighed dramatically. “Shall we let them stew in their eavesdropping?”

Berry grinned. “Let 'em. I like giving ‘em a show.”

“You’re worse than me.”

“Doubt it,” Berry replied. “You’ve been building this lie like it’s a house. I just kicked in the door.”

Ace smiled, watching the fire.

Fake or not, it was nice to sit beside someone who knew the real shape of him.

Even if the name they used was borrowed.

It took less than an hour for Ace to get Berry situated.

A spare canvas bedroll was pulled from beneath Pearson’s grumbling disapproval. Javier pointed them toward an unused corner of camp, under a lean birch tree where the roots broke the ground just enough to make a man sleep crooked. Berry didn’t complain. He dropped his pack—already dusty—and stretched out like he owned the dirt.

Ace set the small things in order: folded a blanket, offered a canteen, reminded Berry to “act like you belong, but not too much.” They talked in shorthand, half-gestures, and phrases that could pass for brothers catching up if overheard.

It was going well.

Maybe too well.

As twilight rolled in, Ace found his quiet again.

He sat a little way off from the fire, on a flat rock near the edge of the horses, legs crossed, the air still warm against his coat. In his lap sat a slim book with cracked leather and a spine just beginning to flake—The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Dutch had given it to him two nights ago with a glint in his eye and a casual, “It’s not for everyone, but you strike me as the thoughtful sort.”

Ace had smiled and pretended he hadn’t already read it three times.

Now he flipped the pages slowly, not reading but re-reading, his thumb brushing the corner of each one like it might change this time.

The story was halfway through The Final Problem when the footsteps came.

He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Arthur’s tread was unmistakable—measured, heavy, but with the kind of natural quiet you didn’t learn without needing to sneak up on people for a living.

Ace kept his eyes on the page.

“You always read that slow?” came Arthur’s voice, rough and edged.

Ace turned the page delicately. “Only when I want to look thoughtful.”

Arthur gave a dry snort.

Ace closed the book, marking his place with a thin pine needle.

“If you’ve come to ask how my brother’s settling in,” Ace said softly, “he’s fine. Eating, sulking, pretending to be mad at me. Practically tradition.”

Arthur didn’t laugh. Didn’t even sit.

“You’re not the same.”

Ace raised an eyebrow. “No siblings are.”

“You don’t talk the same. Don’t move the same. Don’t look the same. You don’t even have the same damn accent.”

Ace didn’t flinch. “Neither do the Marstons.”

Arthur folded his arms.

“You got a comeback for everything, huh?”

Ace leaned back slightly, holding the book in his lap like a shield. “Only when I'm being interrogated.”

Arthur’s jaw shifted, teeth clenched tight behind a grimace he didn’t fully show.

Then, after a beat:

“He shows up angry, throws words like knives, and you don’t even blink. Either you’re the calmest son of a bitch I’ve ever met—or you knew he was comin’.”

Ace’s fingers stilled on the spine of the book.

“I knew he’d find me,” he said at last, voice low and even. “Didn’t know when. Didn’t know how mad he’d be. But people like him don’t stay gone forever.”

Arthur took a step closer, boots crunching dry leaves. His voice dropped.

“You’re a liar.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Not really. It sounded more like a confession said by someone else.

Ace looked up at him, meeting his eyes fully for the first time that evening. There was something raw behind Arthur’s stare—tight-lipped resentment, yes, but something more jagged under it. Something that hadn’t been said yet.

Ace spoke quietly. “I’m what I need to be.”

Arthur lingered. Breathing through his nose. Looking like a man chewing glass.

Then, with a final glance at the book in Ace’s lap, he muttered, “He dies, y’know. Holmes.”

Ace tilted his head. “That’s what they want you to think.”

Arthur walked away without answering.

Ace didn’t move for a long time.

Just stared at the book, thumb resting on the edge of the page he hadn’t turned.

Arthur didn’t say much the next morning.

Not that anyone expected him to.

He was up early, saddle already on his horse before most of the camp had rubbed sleep from their eyes. The sun had barely touched the tops of the trees when he rode out, not far, just to the edge of the nearest ridge where he could breathe in open air and not feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on his back.

There was always something to do.

He looped the trail for signs of game, found none, and gathered firewood instead. By the time his horse was straining under the bundle of branches, his shirt clung to him from sweat, and his thoughts had gone bone-deep quiet.

But they crept back in, slow and steady.

First, the image of Ace—too clean for camp, too quiet to trust. The way he stirred the stew without ever tasting it. The way he didn’t ask questions but still knew people’s names. The way he had watched Dutch read and waited until just the right moment to mention Holmes.

Then the brother—Berry.

Showed up angry. Big voice. Bigger posture. Not subtle.

But the anger was too good.

Too specific. Too sharp around the edges. Like a man aiming his words, not just throwing them.

It didn’t add up.

Arthur dropped the wood beside Pearson’s wagon with a grunt. The cook nodded vaguely in thanks.

He moved on to the horses, checked hooves, and brushed coats. The repetitive work soothed him, but not enough.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe brothers could fight.

It was that he didn’t believe brothers who fought like that made up that quickly.

This wasn’t like John and Dutch screaming at each other. This was something rehearsed. Contained.

Controlled.

And that’s what stuck in Arthur’s gut like a half-swallowed bullet.

Ace controlled everything—his words, his tone, his goddamn posture. Even the way he limped had an elegance to it. If he was lying, he was doing it better than most folks told the truth.

Arthur ran a hand down the flank of his gelding and sighed through his nose.

People like that didn’t come out here for fresh air and hard work.

They came for something else.

And the worst part?

Arthur couldn’t decide if he wanted to prove the man was lying—or if he just wanted him to stop pretending.

Either way, something was coming.

He could feel it.

And when it came, he didn’t want to be the last one holding the truth.

Chapter Text

The morning started with Dutch’s voice.

That was never a good sign.

“Boys,” he said, loud enough to cut through breakfast and bickering, “we got an opportunity.”

Ace was midway through folding his sleeves, a tin cup of bitter coffee resting on his knee. He didn’t flinch, but he did glance up as Dutch stood by the campfire like a man about to sell a miracle.

“There’s a train movin’ down from Cumberland,” Dutch said, pacing like a preacher with a holy plan. “Low guard, high value. Private cargo car, silver bullion, bank paper, maybe more. They’re keepin’ it quiet—quiet enough to mean somethin’.”

He turned his head, eyes gleaming.

“I want Arthur ridin’ lead. Sean for dynamite. John for the safe. And our two new additions—” he grinned, teeth bright in the sun, “—Algernon and his kin, for the rest.”

Ace didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, not immediately.

He met Dutch’s gaze and gave a crisp nod.

Beside him, Berry was already grinning like he’d won something. Arthur, by contrast, looked like someone had just handed him a snake and told him to kiss it.

Sean let out a delighted, “Finally!”

John grunted something that might’ve been agreement or protest—it was always hard to tell.

“Five men, two horses on each side,” Dutch continued. “You board her fast, clean, and with enough force to keep ‘em from thinking. If they get the chance to think, they get the chance to shoot. You know the drill.”

He turned, his voice dropping just slightly.

“I trust you boys to get it done. Quiet where you can, loud where you must.”

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder as he walked past, and then disappeared back toward his tent, already humming something under his breath.

Ace stood.

Beside him, Berry murmured, “You ever robbed a train before?”

Ace gave a humorless smile. “No. But I’ve sat in the first-class car and watched it happen.”

Arthur passed by on the way to his saddle, barely looking at them.

Sean was already asking if he could please be the one to light the fuse.

And John just muttered, “Hope none of you are squeamish,” before checking his repeater.

Ace turned to Berry.

“Stay close. Don’t improvise.”

Berry smirked. “You’re the actor, not me.”

And just like that, they rode.

Five men. Two horses per flank. One job.

And only one chance to play their parts just right.

Because in the heart of a moving train, there’s no room for lies to breathe.

They rode out just past noon, when the sun had begun its lazy descent westward and the dust kicked up from hooves hung in the air like dry ghosts.

Ace brought up the rear, mounted atop a dappled black mare with a sleek gait and a braided mane. The kind of horse too proud for hard labor, but smart enough to survive it.

No one had seen him bring her into camp.

John had looked once and muttered, “That new?”

Ace had only smiled and replied, “She found me.”

But it wasn’t the horse that caught their attention.

It was him.

Gone were the slouching shoulders and sweat-wrinkled shirts. In their place: a midnight-blue tailcoat, freshly brushed and neatly fitted, the lapels pressed sharply against his chest. His once-muddied jabot had returned, now tied just so beneath the collar like it belonged at a poker table on a steamboat. His boots gleamed. Even his hair had regained its sculpted wave, not a strand out of place.

He rode like a man who didn’t just plan on surviving a train robbery—he planned on looking damn good doing it.

Sean let out a low whistle as they crested a ridge.

“Well, ain’t you the parlor prince now?”

Ace glanced sideways, eyes shaded beneath the brim of a clean black hat with a silver band.

“Figure if I die today,” he said, “I may as well do it dressed.”

Berry, riding beside him, snorted. “That coat’s gonna get ruined when you fall off that fancy horse.”

“You assume I’ll fall.”

“I’ve seen you shoot. You’ll fall.”

Arthur, ahead of them, was silent—but his shoulders were stiff, and he kept turning just enough to keep Ace in view.

The man he’d watched sweating over firewood, carrying buckets, eating bad stew with his sleeves rolled up—that man was gone. In his place now was something sleeker. More dangerous.

John pulled up alongside Arthur.

“Don’t like this.”

Arthur didn’t look at him. “Don’t like what?”

“Him. Or his brother. They don’t look like the kind of men who’ve done this before.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed. “They look like the kind of men who’ve watched it before.”

John grunted. “Same thing?”

“No,” Arthur muttered. “Worse.”

Further back, Sean leaned toward Berry.

“So what’s the story with you two, then? You the muscle? He’s the mouth?”

Berry shrugged. “That’s one way to put it.”

“He always wears that coat when he’s lyin’?”

“Only when he’s tellin’ the truth real loud.”

They all shared a quiet laugh, small, tense. The kind of laugh that doesn’t last when you’re riding toward gunfire.

They passed through tall grass, hooves cutting tracks into the dry earth as they neared the stretch of track Dutch had circled in charcoal on the map.

The train would be there in twenty minutes.

Ace sat his horse with perfect posture, one hand on the reins, the other resting on the grip of a revolver that hadn’t seen much dust.

He looked like a man ready for a card trick, not a gunfight.

But as the sound of distant rails began to hum through the wind, no one laughed anymore.

And Arthur kept glancing back.

Not at Berry.

Not at the train.

At him.

The sound of the rails was growing now, soft and rhythmic, a whisper in the spine. The group slowed at the ridge just above the bend in the tracks where the trees thinned, allowing for a clean descent to the line.

The horses pawed nervously at the dirt. The scent of iron and grease hung faintly on the wind.

Arthur raised a hand and pulled them to a halt, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Maybe less.”

The others adjusted weapons, checked saddlebags. Sean pulled the satchel of dynamite from his back and muttered a prayer to absolutely no one. John leaned over his horse’s neck, stretching out his shoulders with a quiet groan.

Ace did nothing.

He just watched.

His horse stood still beneath him, reins slack in his hand. His eyes—sharp, unreadable—rested on Arthur Morgan, not with admiration or warmth, but with the cold focus of a man watching someone flip over cards at a table where something valuable was at stake.

Arthur wasn’t putting on a show. That was what made it interesting.

He didn’t puff his chest or bark orders. He didn’t look to John or Sean for affirmation. When he spoke, it was flat, direct.

“No shootin’ unless we need it. We go in clean. Sean, you get the latch when I give the signal. John, cover the back car. Big guy, you ride point with me. Algernon, you stay with the passengers. Calm ‘em down. Make ‘em listen.”

John scoffed. “They ain’t gonna listen to a man with a coat like that.”

Ace smiled faintly but said nothing.

Arthur turned his head slightly—not fully, not directly—but just enough that Ace could read the tension in his jaw, the weight behind his brow. There was always a pause before Arthur said Ace’s name. Like he was trying to remember not to call him something else. Or nothing at all.

Ace watched him speak to John next, voice low.

“You cover the brakeman. No mistakes.”

John grunted. “You think I want to get shot today?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I think you’ll get distracted.”

John snorted, but didn’t argue.

Ace shifted slightly in his saddle, watching the way the two of them moved around each other—blunt, masculine familiarity, weighted by history. There was irritation in their exchanges, but it was lived-in. Trusted, in its rough-hewn way.

Ace noted it. Tucked it away.

Arthur was most himself when he spoke to John.

That mattered.

He had a way of pulling his voice in, dropping it into his chest. A tone that warned, but didn’t rise. A leader’s voice, but not the kind that wanted to lead. Just the kind that had learned when not to follow.

Ace didn’t admire it.

But he recognized it.

And he knew men like Arthur Morgan didn’t speak that way unless they’d earned the right to be heard. Or had lost too many chances not to.

“Alright,” Arthur said, adjusting the strap across his shoulder. “We ride on my mark. No noise. No names.”

The wind picked up.

The sound of the train was louder now—metal on metal, wheels grinding distance into rhythm.

Ace glanced once more at Arthur.

Still a riddle.

Still unsolved.

But one worth studying.

Even if just for the shape of the silence he carried.

The train burst into view with a rush of steam and thunder, its engine howling like a beast chained to iron.

Arthur dropped his hand. “Now.”

They kicked into motion.

Hooves tore through dirt and brush as five riders swept down the incline like a wave of black powder and velocity. The sun flashed off barrels and brass, wind whipping coats and bandannas into harsh lines. Dust exploded behind them.

Ace’s mare stayed smooth beneath him, fast and sure-footed, gliding alongside Berry’s mount with perfect rhythm. He didn’t shout. Didn’t lean forward like Sean or dig in like John. He rode with poise, one hand on the reins, the other slipping a pistol free from the holster at his hip with practiced grace.

The weapon was as polished as he was: black metal, sleek and clean, with an ivory-white grip carved in the curl of a spade. The insignia gleamed in gold at the pommel, identical to the one pinned at his lapel, the same as the cufflinks he hadn’t bothered to remove. The Ace of Spades was still tucked in the band of his hat, fluttering slightly with each gallop.

A black bandanna was tied over the lower half of his face now, shadowing his features, giving him a silhouette less man than a playing card brought to life.

This wasn’t a man who enjoyed violence.

But he understood its language.

He wasn’t built for wrestling men off horses or knocking heads into steel. He wouldn’t be breaking noses like Sean or battering doors like John. But he could shoot when it counted. And he could survive.

That was enough.

The train roared beside them. Arthur reached first, boot slamming against the side rail of the cargo car, hands finding grip. He hoisted himself up with no wasted movement.

Then Sean.

Then Berry, with a grunt.

John took the rear ladder, rifle already raised.

Ace waited half a second longer—measured, precise—and caught the rung with one gloved hand. He moved like someone used to stairs, not trains, but his foot placement was sure, and his pistol stayed level as he climbed.

He reached the top of the car just in time to hear a shot ring out—then two, quick and close. Sean swore, ducking low as a guard fired from the far side of the roof. Arthur returned fire without hesitation, dropping to one knee as another bullet whistled past.

Ace didn’t duck.

He stepped sideways—graceful, lean, outwardly unfazed—and aimed.

One breath.

One shot.

The guard collapsed back with a yell, his weapon clattering from the roof into the trees below.

Sean blinked. “Holy hell, fancy boy!”

Ace said nothing.

He just kept walking.

The train bucked underfoot, steam screaming from the engine, metal rattling like bones in a coffin. But Ace moved like the chaos was incidental. Like it wasn’t his first time.

He dropped to one knee by the ladder hatch, covering Berry and Arthur as they breached the cargo car. More shouting inside—guards, passengers, boots scrambling.

He wasn’t fast, but he was exact.

That’s what mattered.

He waited, eyes fixed on the open hatch, revolver raised, ready not to strike first, but to strike true.

He didn’t need to win.

He just needed to last long enough to walk off the train alive.

Ace dropped into the passenger car like he was stepping onto a stage.

Boots hit the aisle with a soft thud, revolver held low but visible, bandanna still tied over his face. His hat stayed firm on his head, tilted just enough to shadow his eyes but not so much that they couldn’t be seen.

There were screams. Gasps. Hands raised.

Twenty or so passengers—men and women, dusted in wealth or clinging to the pretense of it—sat frozen in the wood-paneled car. A boy clutched his father’s coat. A woman reached instinctively for her pearls. One man had already begun the early stages of defiance, lips curled and fists twitching.

Ace raised his free hand—not the one holding the pistol—and spoke.

“Good afternoon.”

The stillness was immediate. Not silence—there were still sobs and huffs and ragged breathing—but attention. They were listening now.

He walked slowly down the aisle, the black and ivory of his pistol catching the flickering lantern light as the train rumbled beneath their feet.

“Let me assure you,” he continued, voice clear, warm, practiced, “we have no interest in hurting anyone. This isn’t personal. This is financial. You understand.”

A few heads nodded cautiously.

“You’ll place your valuables—jewelry, cash, watches—into the nearest satchel or gloved hand,” he said, gesturing to Berry, who followed three paces behind like a loyal, stone-faced shadow. “Cooperate, and this ends as politely as it began.”

Berry moved down the row with wordless efficiency.

The first few passengers complied with trembling fingers.

The fourth—a man in a frilled collar and ivory vest—clutched a velvet satchel and shook his head.

“No,” he said, breath tight. “No, I won’t—this is—this is theft. You can’t just—”

Ace didn’t stop walking. He stepped in close, eyes narrowed just enough to be felt, not seen.

“Sir,” he said softly. “You’re bleeding time.”

The man hesitated.

Berry stepped forward, reached out, and tore the satchel from the man’s lap without ceremony.

The passenger gasped. “Th-that’s heirloom—”

“And you’ll inherit the rest of your face intact if you sit still,” Ace said coldly.

The man paled, and Berry moved on.

The rest of the passengers were quicker to comply.

As Berry worked his way down the car, Ace kept his posture loose, his pistol lowered, his voice in the air like smoke: calming, warning, seducing fear into stillness.

In the distance, from the cargo cars ahead, he could hear Sean’s delighted shouting—probably something about blowin’ the safe in the name of love. A second later, the thud of a blast echoed down the tracks. Dust filtered through the ceiling slats.

Closer, in the next car, Arthur barked a command. One shot rang out. No return fire.

Clean.

Disciplined.

John, he assumed, was keeping the rear. Quiet, brutal. Not a man of excess words.

Berry reached the final row of passengers, now his satchel visibly heavy with gold, watches, and tear-soaked trinkets.

“We’re good,” he muttered to Ace, giving a subtle nod toward the rear door.

Ace stepped toward the center of the aisle and let his voice rise just enough to fill the car one last time.

“We thank you for your generosity,” he said, tone almost cheerful. “You’ve all been excellent. Your valuables are appreciated, your silence expected.”

He turned, holstered his pistol with a clean movement, and gave Berry the faintest look.

Berry didn’t need the signal.

He nodded once and slipped out the rear door toward his next assignment—rejoining Arthur and John at the safe while Sean handled the blast.

Ace remained alone in the car for just a moment longer, adjusting his cuffs, casting one last sweeping glance across the cabin.

Then he tipped his hat.

And left without a sound.

The train had stopped.

Steam hissed gently from the engine, the blast from Sean’s dynamite long since faded into a fog of scorched metal and satisfaction. The safe car had been cracked open like a tin of beans—its silver contents already bundled and bagged, stashed for hauling off the tracks and into Van der Linde pockets.

Arthur stood near the open cargo door, checking his revolver with half a glance and listening to John mutter about “gettin’ too damn old for this.”

He hadn’t said much since they’d pulled off the job.

It had gone clean—real clean.

Too clean.

And he’d been watching.

Not the guards. Not the passengers.

“Algernon”.

He’d seen it all through the window of the passenger car—Ace dropping down with the smooth, careful ease of someone trained not for war but for presence. Moving like a man who’d studied rooms his whole life. A black silhouette with sharp lines, gold glinting at every corner: his pistol, his cufflinks, that damned Ace of Spades still tucked into his hatband.

Arthur had seen the pistol, too. Real nice. Black finish, white grip, silver inlaid. Fancy. Cared for.

That man didn’t pull it out often, but when he did, it probably meant something.

Arthur had watched him walk the aisle slowly, talking calmly and softly like he was reading a bedtime story, but when that one passenger started mouthing off, Arthur saw the switch flip.

No raising his voice. No screaming threats. Just a drop in tone. A look that cut like wire. Enough to shut a man up cold.

Then, just like that, gone.

Replaced with warmth. Gratitude. That thank you for your cooperation voice that sounded so damn natural, it made Arthur’s stomach twist.

And now here Ace was, stepping down from the passenger car with his pistol holstered and his cuffs straightened, linking back up with the group like he’d just come from shaking hands in a drawing room.

Arthur watched him.

Watched the way his shoulders moved. Watched the way he gave Sean a faint nod. How he asked John a quiet question—“Did the rear guard put up a fight?”—with the polite rhythm of someone discussing the weather.

Not a hair out of place.

Not a speck of dust on that damn coat.

Arthur didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

But something tightened in his chest.

Because he knew killers. He knew talkers. He knew swindlers.

And Algernon Day—if that was even his name—was a little too good at being all three at once.

Night fell with celebration in its bones.

The fire at the center of camp roared tall and wild, its flames licking upward like they’d caught Dutch’s energy. He was holding court, arms wide, voice louder than it had been in days, reliving the train job like it was already a legend.

“And just like that,” Dutch exclaimed, “our dear Mr. Day drops down into that passenger car and calms the whole damn crowd with nothing but his voice! Not a shot fired, not a scream—hell, I wish I could’ve seen it myself!”

“Like a magician,” Sean added, half-drunk and full of admiration, “but with better hair!”

Cheers erupted. A bottle was passed. Somewhere behind the wagons, a fiddle started up.

Ace smiled.

Not wide. Not falsely. Just enough.

Berry—Henry now, officially—sat beside him on an overturned crate, laughing too loud and shoving Sean half off his seat as if they’d been raised in the same muddy corner of the world.

Ace leaned against the wagon wheel, jabot loosened just enough to seem human. His coat still bore the faint marks of the train job, a crease here, a brush of soot there, but he wore them like medals rather than stains.

A bottle was offered to him.

He took it with practiced ease, tilted it just enough to let it glint in the firelight, then passed it on.

Nobody noticed.

Or rather, most didn’t.

Dutch, across the fire, caught his eye for a fraction too long.

And Arthur—sitting back in the shadows, legs stretched, whiskey resting on his knee—saw it too.

Ace didn’t sip.

He never sipped.

But he didn’t refuse either. He danced around it. Sleight of hand, social illusion, the same way he handled a crowd: don’t look too close, don’t ask too much.

He laughed when it was time to laugh.

Raised his voice when the stories grew wild.

Even nudged Berry into telling a clearly exaggerated tale about a fake childhood fight they never had, egging him on like a real older brother might.

But still, he never drank.

Dutch’s eyes twinkled, his smile as warm as the fire.

But there was something behind it. A kind of knowing.

Arthur didn’t smile at all.

He just watched. One hand loosely around his glass, the other tapping rhythmically on the wood beside him.

He didn’t say it aloud.

But he knew a man hiding something when he saw one.

And Ace—Algernon Day—was still playing his part.

Even here, even now, when everything was supposed to be honest.

The campfire burned lower as the night wore on.

Voices grew slower, thicker with drink and tired bones. Someone was still picking at the fiddle, but the tune had lost its edge and wandered into the background like a ghost of its earlier self.

Ace stood from his crate beside Berry with a quiet, graceful stretch.

“I’ll go speak to Dutch,” he murmured. “Make sure our… family contribution doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Berry raised a brow, but didn’t argue. He knew the look. The tone. Ace wasn’t going to talk about the cut. Not yet. Not unless he had to.

The real business was quieter than that.

Ace slipped into the dark edge of camp, boots light on the grass. He moved like a man accustomed to disappearing—without crouching, without creeping. Just silent, fluid footsteps and practiced timing.

Dutch’s voice carried, even low. Always did.

Ace stopped just behind the storage wagon, half-shadowed by the canvas, close enough to listen but far enough not to be caught in a casual glance.

Arthur was speaking.

“...don’t like how smooth he is.”

Dutch chuckled—a warm, worn-out thing. “You never like the smooth ones.”

“I don’t like the ones who hide, Dutch.”

“He hasn’t hidden,” Dutch replied, too easily. “He’s told us everything that matters. Family, survival, a bit of clever talk… Does that sound familiar to you?”

Arthur didn’t answer right away.

Ace leaned against the wagon’s wooden edge, barely breathing.

“He didn’t drink,” Arthur finally said. “Not once. Handled that bottle like he was raised by illusionists.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like to lose control,” Dutch said.

That made Ace flinch—just slightly. A bit too close to the truth for his liking.

Dutch’s voice continued, slow and deliberate.

“Which, in case you’ve forgotten, is not a sin in our line of work. Especially for men who’ve had to pretend their whole lives just to make it to the next fire.”

Arthur scoffed. “That's what you think he’s doing? Pretending?”

“I think he’s trying,” Dutch replied. “And I think you’ve made up your mind not to like him before you ever gave him the chance.”

Silence.

Then Arthur, lower now: “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” Dutch said, “it never is.”

Footsteps shifted.

Ace straightened up, took two quiet steps forward, and emerged from the shadows just in time to make it look like he was only just approaching.

“Dutch,” he called, smooth as velvet, tone polite, timing perfect.

Both men turned.

Arthur’s mouth pulled tight. Dutch looked pleased.

“I was wondering,” Ace said with a faint smile, “if now might be a good time to discuss Henry’s and my cut from the train.”

Dutch gestured toward the logs near the wagon. “Of course. Come. Sit. Let’s talk brass tax.”

Ace kept his eyes on Arthur just long enough to feel the tension tighten between them again—no threat, no confrontation.

Just a war of eyes.

Then he smiled, cool and unreadable, and sat beside Dutch.

Business, after all, waited for no man.

Ace settled beside Dutch, crossing one leg over the other with a neat motion, the coattails of his midnight-blue jacket folding just right. The firelight caught in his cufflinks and the polished steel of his holster, flickering like gold teeth in a smooth smile.

Arthur remained standing for a beat longer, jaw tight, before muttering something about patrol and turning into the dark.

“Don’t mind him,” Dutch said easily, watching Arthur vanish into the shadows. “He’s always been protective. Suspicious. Of new blood, especially.”

“I don’t mind,” Ace replied, his voice calm, unbothered. “A man who lives long enough to be suspicious tends to have a reason for it.”

Dutch chuckled, reaching into his coat for a cigar. “You’ve got a good head for reading people.”

“I make a habit of it.”

A pause. The fire popped between them.

“Let’s talk shares,” Dutch said, striking a match. “You and your brother pulled weight. Calm under pressure. Quick on the draw. I respect that. Now, typically, new folk earn smaller cuts on their first few outings… but you two handled yourselves better than most greenbloods.”

Ace gave a modest nod, the kind that agreed without overreaching. “We appreciate the opportunity.”

Dutch took a long drag from his cigar and leaned back against the crate behind him, the smoke curling over his shoulder.

“But if you’ll indulge me, Algernon,” he said, voice still pleasant, “I like to know the men I’m feeding.”

Ace didn’t flinch. “Of course.”

Dutch’s eyes gleamed through the firelight. “You and Henry… don’t favor much.”

“No, sir.”

“Accent’s different. Manner, too.”

“We’re half-brothers,” Ace said without pause. “Same father. Different mothers. Henry’s was Boston Irish. Mine—French Creole.”

Dutch lifted a brow. “Creole?”

“New Orleans,” Ace answered. “Or near enough. Didn’t grow up together at first. His mother kept him in the north for a few years. My mother died when I was young, and I was raised in a boarding house. Eventually, the old man came back around and decided family meant something again.”

Dutch gave a soft hum. “And that brought you two together?”

“Not right away. There was resentment. You saw a piece of it when he showed up barking. I was always the one who got the suit and the table knife. He got the fists and the floorboards.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Suppose I’ve always tried to make it up to him,” Ace added, tone lower now. “In my own way.”

Dutch exhaled slowly, nodding. “A man trying to put his family back together. I understand that.”

Ace let the flicker of something genuine cross his eyes—something near shame, like a memory too long lived in.

“That's why you don’t drink?” Dutch asked the question casually but precisely.

Ace’s smile didn’t falter, but it did cool.

“I find that too many men excuse what they say when drunk. I’d rather own my words.”

Dutch chuckled, deep in his chest. “Well, now that’s a damn fine answer.”

“I’ve rehearsed it,” Ace replied smoothly.

They both laughed.

Dutch leaned forward again, cigar burning low. “You want to stay here, Algernon—really stay—you keep showing up like you did today. Not just with the pistol. With poise. We need men who know when to shoot… and when to smile.”

Ace inclined his head slightly, eyes unreadable. “I can manage that.”

Dutch stood, patting him once on the shoulder. “Good. We’ll sort your cut tomorrow. Get some sleep, Mr. Day.”

As the older man walked off, Ace remained seated for a few moments longer, letting the weight of the fire soak into his coat.

That had gone well.

He hadn’t lied.

Not exactly.

He’d just spoken carefully.

And Dutch, ever the idealist, ever the man who wanted to believe, had heard what he wanted to hear.

The fire crackled behind him as Ace slipped away from the main camp and toward the far edge, where his newly claimed tent stood half in shadow beneath the trees. It was modest by the gang’s standards, but tidy. Deliberate. A wool blanket folded once at the corner. A lantern hanging just so.

He ducked beneath the flap, the fabric parting like a curtain, and sat cross-legged on the bedroll with the same fluid grace he used to step onto a train car. The pistol was already holstered again, the bandanna removed and tucked away.

Not thirty seconds later, Berry pushed through the flap with a low grunt and dropped to the ground beside him.

He looked exhausted.

But satisfied.

Ace leaned back against a small crate, unlatching it absently and pulling out a small ledger and a stub of pencil.

Berry gave a small laugh. “Already back to it, huh?”

“If I don’t keep the numbers straight now,” Ace murmured, “I’ll forget which lie bought us what tomorrow.”

Berry grunted his agreement and let the silence settle between them for a beat before speaking.

“That backstory’s getting longer.”

“It has to,” Ace replied without looking up. “Dutch asks questions like he’s your friend. Arthur asks questions like he already knows you’re lying.”

“You think he’s got a scent?”

“I think he’s had it since the start. But he doesn’t have the teeth for a bite yet.”

Berry stretched out his legs, shifting the rolled coat he used for a pillow.

“Good job back there. With the passengers.”

“They were easy,” Ace said, voice low. “All people like that want is to be told what to do in a voice that sounds more expensive than theirs.”

Berry huffed. “I don’t like how close John stands to me.”

“I don’t like how close Dutch stands to me.”

They shared a look—flat, tired, and oddly amused.

Then Berry leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“So. How long we stayin’?”

Ace folded the ledger shut and tapped the edge of the pencil against it.

“A while,” he said. “We need to earn more trust. Not just theirs, but the gang’s as a whole. Sean, Javier, Hosea… We can’t fool Dutch alone.”

Berry scratched at his jaw. “Means more jobs.”

“It means more pretending,” Ace corrected. “And you need to stop calling me Ace when no one’s listening.”

Berry smirked. “Hard habit to break.”

Ace didn’t smile back. “We can’t slip.”

Berry nodded slowly. “Right.”

Another pause.

Then Berry added, quieter: “You think the debtor’s even here?”

Ace’s expression didn’t move. But the way his pencil stopped tapping said enough.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And that truth hung between them like a wire pulled tight.

Berry leaned back again, settling in.

“You still sure this is the way in?”

Ace closed his eyes, just for a moment.

“I’m sure this is the only way we’ll get close enough to know.”

Berry didn’t reply.

The lantern flickered as wind curled against the canvas.

Outside, the firelight danced, the laughter long gone quiet.

Inside the tent, Ace leaned his head back and let the stillness take him. Just for now.

Tomorrow, they’d keep lying.

But tonight, he could just be quiet.

And as the camp settled into restless sleep, and the fire burned low to coals, Algernon Day—who was not Algernon, nor a Day—closed his eyes beneath a borrowed sky, and began dreaming of names that didn’t belong to him.