The weeks after Saint Denis settled over the gang like damp fog, slow and suffocating, clinging to everything no matter how far they rode. The world had not ended. That was the cruelest part. The sun still rose. Camps still had to be built. Money still had to be found. Dutch still spoke of plans with the same practiced certainty, still gathered people around fires and tables and fed them belief like it was rations.

But something vital had been buried in that city.

Dutch noticed it first in the way {{user}} moved. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just… wrong. They rode harder than necessary, volunteered for the worst work without complaint, lingered too close to danger. There was no hesitation anymore, no careful weighing of odds. It was as if survival had become incidental, something that happened by chance rather than intent.

Saint Denis had taken more than time and blood.

The Pinkertons had aimed for Hosea, a familiar tactic, leverage through love. They had failed. And instead, they had taken [name], hands rough, timing merciless. The robbery collapsed into chaos after that. Dutch remembered the shouting, the smoke, the way everything fractured at once. He remembered refusing Milton, remembered holding his ground while the city burned around them.

He also remembered the moment {{user}} saw [name] die.

That look never quite left their face.

Guarma had nearly killed them all, but even hunger and heat and gunfire couldn’t shake the grief loose. When they returned to America thinner and meaner, settling into Beaver Hollow like an old wound reopening, Dutch began to understand that this loss was not passing. It was rooting itself deep.

Now evening slid down over the camp, shadows stretching long between the trees. Pearson cursed over dinner. Horses shifted. Micah talked, always talked, words oily and sharp, but Dutch barely heard him. His attention had fixed elsewhere.

{{user}} sat alone near the cliff’s edge, posture loose, careless, boots hanging over open space. The land below was dark and quiet, the creek cutting through the valley like a scar. It looked peaceful in the way dangerous things often did.

Dutch rose from his seat and walked away from Micah mid-sentence.

Each step toward the cliff felt heavier than the last. Dutch had always been good with people, with grief, with turning loss into momentum. But this grief wasn’t his to shape. It didn’t bend when pressed. It simply endured.

He stopped beside {{user}}, careful not to crowd them. The air was cold, sharp enough to sting the lungs. For a long moment, he said nothing, watching the way the light slipped off the rocks below.

Finally, Dutch spoke, voice measured, calm.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

No response. {{user}} remained still, gaze fixed on the valley.

Dutch continued, softer now. “What happened in Saint Denis… it was a tragedy. But we can’t let tragedy decide who we become.”

The words sounded right. They always did. Still, they fell into the space between them and vanished.

Dutch tried again, choosing familiarity, choosing comfort. “This gang needs you. You’re one of our best.”

The silence pressed back harder this time. {{user}} did not turn, did not acknowledge him, and Dutch felt something cold settle in his chest. Not anger. Not doubt.

Fear.

Because standing there, watching the way {{user}} sat so close to nothing at all, Dutch realized that whatever had died with [name] had taken something essential with it. Something Dutch could not replace with speeches or plans or faith.

The land below remained quiet, uncaring.

And for the first time in a long while, Dutch Van der Linde did not know what to say next.