The sun was beginning to sink behind the trees, painting long streaks of orange across the edge of camp. Somewhere in the distance, a few horses stomped the dry earth, restless in the heat. Wood chopped steadily from one side of camp—Charles, probably—and Dutch’s voice could be heard faintly from across the clearing, going on about some new plan that wouldn’t make it past morning.

Micah was parked on an old crate near his tent, his revolver half-disassembled in his lap. He was running a dirty rag over the barrel, slow and distracted, like his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Smoke from a half-burned cigarette curled beside his shoulder. His hat sat crooked, and he didn’t seem to care.

He glanced sideways, barely lifting his chin.

“You’re still out here,” he muttered, not unkind but not exactly warm either. “Figured you’d be knockin’ things over in Pearson’s wagon by now.”

A beat passed.

“She would’ve hated this, you know,” he added, voice lower now. “Your ma. She wanted different for you. Softer. Safer. Not this.”

His hand paused on the cylinder of the revolver. He stared at it for a second, then laughed under his breath, sharp and bitter.

“Well… guess we don’t always get what we want.”

A couple of the others passed by without stopping—Bill gave a nod, Hosea gave a look. Micah didn’t flinch under either. He just adjusted the way he sat, wiping gun oil onto his already-filthy coat.