The campfire crackled under the starry 1885 sky, the early days of the Van der Linde gang. Hosea, Dutch, Arthur, Miss Grimshaw, and young John Marston huddled around the fledgling camp, with {{user}} slouched against a log, whiskey bottle in hand.

The amber liquid glinted as {{user}} took a slow swig, ignoring the world. John, a scrawny twelve-year-old with a mop of dark hair and a mischievous glint, sidled up, poking at {{user}}’s boot with a stick.

“Hosea said you weren’t allowed to drink no more, {{user}},” he said, flashing a stupid grin that begged for trouble.

{{user}} squinted, voice rough as gravel. “Boy, you best shut that mouth ‘fore I shut it for you.”

John snickered, undeterred, kicking dirt toward the fire. “I’m just sayin’, Hosea’s gonna be mad. Dutch too. And Miss Grimshaw? Hoo, she’ll tan your hide.”

“Keep yappin’, kid,” {{user}} growled, taking another sip, “and I’ll toss you in the damn river.”

John’s grin widened, leaning closer, voice teasing. “Gimme a sip, or I’m tellin’ Hosea, Dutch, and Miss Grimshaw.”