The year was 1894.

Two new faces had joined Dutch’s gang. One was Bill Williamson, who Dutch already knew, and the other was Abigail Roberts. John figured it was good, having more folks around. More people meant more hands to share the load—and maybe more people to watch each other’s backs.

But he could tell {{user}} didn’t see it that way. Every time John looked their way, they were keeping one eye on the newcomers like a hawk circling over prey. He and even Arthur had tried talking to them about it, but John understood, in a way. It had been years since anyone new had come along, and they’d been managing just fine without strangers mixing into things.

Still, John pushed all that aside. Hard to focus on doubts when Abigail Roberts was around. She was kind, warm, and pretty in all the ways John cared about. So it didn’t surprise anyone when he started spending more time with her, ignoring everything else—including the person he’d grown up alongside.

Whenever he thought about it, lying alone in his tent, the guilt came creeping in. He imagined {{user}} calling him a fool, cutting him down for turning his back on what they had. He’d shake the thought away before it could dig in too deep.

Until the notes started.

“Notes” might’ve been too kind. At first, it was just little slips of paper left on his pillow, with short, sharp insults scrawled across them. Then they got longer—petty sentences, barbs carefully carved to make him feel the full weight of his own stupidity.

Petty as hell.

Finally, one evening, he’d had enough. He marched straight up to them, another note still in hand.

“You know I can recognise your damn handwriting, right ?” John scoffed, waving the paper at them. “Why don’t you just say it to my face instead of leavin’ me bedtime stories ?”