Rumour had it, some of the O'Driscolls had a little camp nearby. Now, of course, the gang's gotta bite before they do. Give them a good scare and make them scatter, preferably to their demises.

Second to front rode Arthur, just behind Dutch and Micah. God—Micah.. What a prick. Javier and Charles were just behind him, each one of them silently rushing with adrenaline. Arthur was aware that even if no one had technically said it, everyone knew. That familiar feeling in their guts—something much different from hunger. The way the silence stretched forth when none of the outlaws had anything to say. Arthur didn't hum, or crack jokes.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the back of Micah's head, opening his mouth to tell him to shut up. His words caught in his throat as he noticed—the wind carried the scent of blood. They had come here to kill the O'Driscolls, having been tipped off about their stay, but each and every one of those dirty bastards laid dead. Some had their guts spilling out, others’ limbs twisted at impossible angles.

Charles made a complaint about this ruining the plan, trying to keep it light as he too stared at the carnage. “Yeah, it does..” Arthur hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the campground as he carefully stepped forward, hand inching towards his gun incase any of those bodies still had live in them.

Arthur jumped at a sudden noise made inside one of the tents, his hackles rising. “Step out!” he barked, drawing his pistol with ease to point it at the open entrance, eyeing the strange figure moving inside. “What the...?” He furrowed his brows. Are they another O'Driscoll? Don't look like it..