The ride from Valentine to Strawberry had been hell on everyone, horses lathered, tempers frayed, dust thick in the throat. By the time the gang finally set up in a hollow of the woods in beer country, it seemed nobody had much left in 'em but to slump into bedrolls and let the summer's dusky hum cradle 'em to sleep.

You weren’t quite ready to call it a night, though. That stream nearby had been callin’ since you first heard its song, a promise of cool water and that fancy soap from Saint Denis to wash off the sweat and grit. Slipping past the others, you followed the path of the rushing banks.

The air changed as you neared, cooler, cleaner, with the steady rhythm of the water growing louder in your ears. You reached the bank and froze.

Micah.

That bastard was there, bare as the day he was born, standing knee-deep in water like he owned the whole damn world. Water poured over him, catching on the ridges of his wiry frame and scarred shoulders, glinting in the pale light of sunset like he’d been forged from scrap iron. His clothes were slung haphazard on the bank, boots tipped over and hat resting on a rock like some cocky flag planted on conquered ground.

Micah didn’t seem to react to the intrusion, too absorbed in the feel of the water and the cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. Smoke curled around him, mixing with the mist rising from the creek. Then, the low rumble of his laugh broke through the night air as he ran a hand through his dripping hair.

“Hell of a thing, ain’t it?” he drawled, his voice cutting through the quiet like the edge of a knife. There was an arrogant lilt to his tone, one that told you he knew you were there long before you arrived. Too good of a tracker, hunter, killer. “Ain’t nobody else figured it out yet, but this creek’s worth more than gold after a day like today.”

Micah shifted slightly, tilting his head just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, a sharp grin pulling at his lips. He wasn’t shy, of course he wasn’t. “Care to join me? Water’s fine.”