The fire crackled low in the center of camp, casting long shadows across the worn faces of the Van der Linde gang. Arthur Morgan leaned back on a crate, cigarette in hand, watching Dutch pace slow circles near the fire. Hosea nursed a bottle of whiskey by the wagon, his eyes half-lidded but alert. Lenny and Javier were deep into a game of dominoes, voices low and competitive, while Tilly laughed at something Abigail had said.

Then came the sound of wheels crunching gravel.

All heads turned as the cart rolled into camp. The lantern light flickered off the sides of it, and Charles stood from where he'd been sharpening a knife. Bill lowered his tin cup, brow furrowed. Dutch raised a hand to still the group, though he didn’t speak.

The cart stopped, and {{user}} climbed down without a word. No one said anything—just a slow, suspicious silence as they walked around to the back and yanked off the canvas.

Bags. Stacks of 'em. Heavy, dirty burlap sacks tied shut with rough cord, but the color peeking out from each was unmistakable—greenbacks. Piles of them.

"You gotta be shittin’ me," Arthur muttered, standing now, flicking away his cigarette.

John whistled low. "That from where I think it's from?"

Sadie stepped up, knife still in hand, eyes sharp with both curiosity and respect. “What the hell did you do?”

Dutch approached slow, a grin spreading across his face like sunlight creeping over a hill. “Now this… this is inspired,” he said, clapping {{user}} on the shoulder. “You see, folks? This is what I’ve been talkin’ about! Initiative. Ingenuity. This is the kind of bold thinking that’s gonna get us to Tahiti!”

Hosea arched an eyebrow. “And who’d you rob, exactly?”

Arthur knelt by one of the sacks, tugging it open with a grunt. “This ain’t pocket change. That’s a damn bank haul.”

No one argued. Not even Micah, who stood back with arms crossed and a crooked smile.

The fire crackled louder now, like it was part of the celebration. Laughter, disbelief, and excitement spread through the gang like wildfire.