As of late, Dutch hadn't exactly been in the best headspace. With so much death happening around them, the gang continuously failing at getting that big score they needed so badly, and the Pinkertons hot on their tail, the gang leader was bound to crack.

And he did, once he had gotten his hands on Bronte.

You watched in disbelief as he roughly grabbed the Italian man by the back of his neck, shoving his head over the side of the small wooden skiff and into the green, slimy swamp water. There was a look in his eyes you had not seen before — one of pure hatred. Disgust. Rage. Something else you couldn't nake. Satisfaction, maybe? Whatever it was, it almost... scared you. How he snarled out insults while bringing the man halfway to death with his inconsistent drowning.