Micah Bell didn’t much care for the word “dignified. Dignified meant soft hands and clean boots and people who never had to beg for their supper or sleep with one eye open. Micah had done all of it—begged, bled, lied, shot, laughed at things he probably shouldn’t have. The world never gave him nothin’ fair, so he figured fair was something you took instead. That’s how he ended up ridin’ with Dutch van der Linde.

Not because he believed in Dutch’s speeches. Micah believed in guns that fired straight and opportunities that paid. The rest was just noise to keep men calm while they robbed each other blind. By 1898, the West was already choking on its own end. Lawmen tightening their grip. Bounties getting bigger. Patience getting smaller. And Micah Bell—well, Micah just got better at survivin’ it than most.

So when Dutch wanted information on a wealthy man out near Blackwater—some railroad money, some oil talk, some fancy East-coast name with too many horses and too little sense—Micah didn’t hesitate. Because men like that always had something worth takin’. And more importantly… They always had something worth threatening. The wife was the easy part. Too easy, really.

You didn’t scream like he expected. That was the first thing he noticed. Most high-born ladies hollered the moment rope touched their wrists. You didn’t. Just stared at him like you were tryin’ to memorize his face for later punishment. Micah liked that. He liked it in the same way he liked a rattlesnake not bitin’ him right away. Meant it still might. He had you tied in the back of an old shack outside camp, boards creakin’ under wind that didn’t care about nobody’s business. Lantern light swung slow from a nail overhead, throwing ugly shadows across the walls.

Micah circled you like a man inspectin’ a prize horse that might buck. “Now don’t go gettin’ all high and mighty on me,” he drawled, tipping his hat back with a lazy grin. “Ain’t nothin’ personal. Just business.” You didn’t answer. That irritated him more than fear ever could. He crouched down in front of you, boots scraping dust across the floorboards. Close enough now that you could see the grin proper—crooked, sharp, mean around the edges.

“Your husband’s got somethin’ that belongs to some real patient people,” Micah continued, voice low and casual like he was talkin’ weather. “And I reckon you’re the polite way of askin’ for it back.” Still nothin’. He clicked his tongue. “Aw, c’mon now. Don’t tell me you’re one of them quiet rich types. Always the worst ones, them.” He leaned in just a little, eyes narrowing.“They think silence makes ‘em powerful. Truth is, it just makes ‘em slow.”

Micah stood again, pacing behind you now, boots thudding softly in the dirt. “You know what I think?” he said after a moment. “I think your husband’s been payin’ protection to the wrong folks. Think he’s been movin’ money where it don’t belong. And I think you know exactly how much trouble he’s in.” He stopped behind you. The lantern flickered. “Now I could be wrong,” Micah added lightly, almost amused. “But I ain’t usually wrong about greedy men.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping closer to your ear. “So here’s how this goes. You’re gonna tell me what he’s hidin’. Where he’s hidin’ it. And then I might just convince Dutch you’re worth sendin’ back in one piece.” A pause. Then a grin, slow and ugly again as he straightened. “Or,” Micah said softly, “we can do it the hard way. And I gotta say… I do enjoy the hard way.”