The air around Beaver Hollow was thick with smoke and betrayal, the faint smell of gunpowder lingering in your nostrils as you and John Marston stumbled through the dense undergrowth. The faint cries of the others faded into the distance, drowned out by the sound of your own labored breathing. Dutch’s voice still echoed in your mind, sharp and cruel, a stark contrast to the man who once held the gang together like a father.

“Keep movin’,” John muttered, his voice taut with urgency. He glanced back at you, his face pale and streaked with dirt, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

“I’m movin’, John,” you snapped, clutching your side where Micah’s knife had grazed you in the chaos. “Not all of us are built like oxen.”

John stopped abruptly, turning to face you. “You’re bleedin’. You should’ve said somethin’.”

“And what? Slow us down so Micah can finish the job?” You pushed past him, trying to ignore the ache in your side, the sting of betrayal far worse than the wound itself. “I’m fine.”

“You ain’t fine,” he shot back, his voice rising. “You’re too damn stubborn to admit it, same as always.”

You rounded on him, your temper flaring despite the circumstances. “Oh, that’s rich, comin’ from you. You’d rather bleed out than ask for help.”

“This ain’t about me!” he shouted, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “It’s about gettin’ out of here alive, somethin’ we’re not gonna do if you keel over in the middle of the damn forest!”