The bullet ripped through the air, a searing kiss of lead Knox barely registered before the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain. He hit the dirt, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils as the ambush began. His horse screamed and bolted, leaving him exposed in the clearing. Three men, maybe four, emerged from the treeline, their rifles trained.
Knox rolled, gritting his teeth against the burn in his shoulder. He came up firing, his Colt barking twice. One man crumpled, clutching his chest. The others scrambled for cover. Knox didn't wait. He dove behind a fallen log, reloading with practiced speed. Blood seeped through his shirt, warm and sticky.
"Come on, Wilder!" a voice called, thick with malice. Silas. "You ain't walkin' outta this."
Knox didn't answer. Words were wasted on men like Silas. He peered over the log, scanning the trees. Movement to his left. He fired, and another man dropped, clutching his leg. The rest hesitated. Knox used the pause to move, darting to a cluster of rocks. His breath came ragged, each inhale sharp with pain.
Silas wasn't done. "You think you're better than us? After what you've done?"
Knox's jaw tightened. He didn't think he was better. He just didn't want to die today. A shadow shifted behind the rocks. Knox spun, grabbing the man's wrist as the knife came down. They grappled, dirt and blood mingling. Knox twisted, driving the blade into the man's gut. He shoved the body aside, breathing hard.
Silas' voice echoed again, farther now. Retreating. Knox didn't chase. He couldn't. The wound in his shoulder screamed, and his vision blurred. He stumbled toward the treeline, clutching his side. The cabin was close. If he could make it, he might live.
The cabin was a ruin, its roof sagging and walls weathered. Knox pushed inside, collapsing onto the dusty floor. He fumbled with his kit, fingers trembling as he pulled out bandages and whiskey. The burn of the liquor made him hiss, but he cleaned the wound as best he could. His hands shook, and the room spun.
Memories clawed at the edges of his mind. Eliza's laugh, soft and warm. Her hands in his hair. The way she'd looked at him, like he was worth something. Then the betrayal, sharp and final. He'd trusted the wrong people, and she'd paid the price.
Knox reached into his satchel, pulling out the photograph. It was worn at the edges, her face faded but still beautiful. He traced the outline of her cheek, the ache in his chest sharper than the bullet wound. He'd promised her he'd leave the life behind. And he had. But it hadn't mattered in the end.
The cabin creaked in the wind, the sound like a ghost's whisper. Knox leaned back, closing his eyes. He'd survive. He always did. But survival wasn't living. And he wasn't sure he wanted either anymore.
The wind carried the sound of hooves before Knox saw the riders. He was on his feet instantly, revolver in hand, eyes scanning the treeline. Too many to be bounty hunters. Too deliberate. His jaw tightened. They weren't hiding, weren't sneaking. They wanted him to know they were coming.
Two figures emerged from the shadows, horses stepping cautiously over the uneven ground. The taller one had a hat tipped low, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. The other rode with a kind of swagger, like he owned the air he breathed. Knox didn't lower his gun.
"Easy there," the tall one said, holding up a hand. His voice was calm, steady, like he was used to talking men down from ledges. "We ain't here to cause trouble."
Knox didn't blink. "Then turn around."
The man smiled faintly, like Knox had said exactly what he expected. "Name's Arthur Morgan. This here's Dutch van der Linde. We heard about a man out here, good with a gun, keeps to himself. Thought we'd come see if he'd be interested in… joining a cause."
Knox's finger tightened on the trigger. "I'm not looking for a cause."
Dutch leaned forward in his saddle, his voice smooth as river stone. "Every man's looking for something, son. Even if he doesn't know it yet."
"I know what I'm not looking for," Knox said flatly. "And it's you."
Arthur chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Stubborn," he said, more to himself than to Knox. "I like that. But stubborn don't keep you alive out here. Not forever."
Knox's eyes flickered to the trees behind them. He didn't see anyone else, but that didn't mean they weren't there. "You're wasting your time."
"Maybe," Arthur said. He dismounted slowly, keeping his hands visible. "But you're holed up here like a cornered animal. You're running. From what? Who?"
"None of your damn business."
Arthur stepped closer, his boots crunching in the dirt. "You've got skills. I can see it in the way you hold that gun. But skills don't mean much if you're dead. We've got a camp. People who look out for each other. You could use that."
Knox's grip on the revolver didn't waver. "People who look out for each other end up dead just the same. Faster, sometimes."
Arthur's gaze hardened, but there was something else there too. A flicker of understanding, maybe. "You've been burned. I get that. But not everyone's out to screw you over."
"You don't know me," Knox said, his voice low and rough.
"I know enough," Arthur said. "I've been where you are. Alone. Angry. Thinking it's better that way. But it ain't. Trust me."
Knox's jaw tightened. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to believe it. But something in Arthur's voice—something in the way he stood, like he carried the weight of the world but refused to let it break him—stirred something Knox hadn't felt in a long time. Not hope. Not trust. Just… curiosity.
Before he could respond, the crack of a rifle split the air. Knox ducked instinctively, the bullet hitting the wall behind him. He spun, seeing the flash of movement in the trees. Silas. Damn it.
Arthur was already moving, yanking his rifle from his saddle. "Guess we're doing this the hard way," he muttered.
Knox didn't argue. He fired toward the trees, his shots precise, his movements quick. Silas's men were closing in, their shadows darting between the trees. Knox cursed under his breath. He didn't need this. Not now.
Arthur was beside him suddenly, his presence solid, unshakable. "You're good," he said, firing off a shot. "But you're gonna need more than that to get out of this."
Knox didn't answer. He didn't have the words. He just fired again, his focus sharp, his movements smooth. But even as he fought, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something he wasn't ready for.
The bullet hit Knox like a sledgehammer to the ribs, knocking him flat onto his back. The sky above was a merciless blue, too bright for the blood pooling beneath him. He tried to raise his revolver, but his arm wouldn't obey.
Arthur's voice cut through the ringing in his ears. "Goddammit, Knox—stay down!"
Then Dutch's shotgun roared, and Silas screamed. Knox turned his head just enough to see Silas crumple, half his face gone. Dutch stood over him, smoke curling from the barrel.
Knox gritted his teeth. "Told you… I didn't need savin'."
Arthur crouched beside him, pressing a hand to the wound. Knox hissed, vision swimming. "You're bleedin' bad," Arthur muttered. "We ain't leavin' you here."
"Like hell—" Knox tried to shove him away, but his strength was gone. The world tilted.
Then Silas moved.
Knox saw it first—the glint of a knife in the dying man's hand. He tried to shout, but all that came out was a wet cough. Dutch turned just as Silas lunged.
The gunshot was deafening. Silas jerked, then dropped. Dutch lowered his revolver, breathing hard.
Knox's vision darkened at the edges. He felt Arthur's grip tighten on his shoulder. "You stubborn son of a bitch," Arthur growled. "You're comin' with us."
Knox wanted to argue. Wanted to spit in his face and crawl off to die alone like a proper outlaw. But the blood was warm where it soaked his shirt, and the ground felt too damn cold.
Dutch holstered his gun. "Get him on the horse."
Arthur hauled Knox up, ignoring his weak snarl. The pain was a white-hot brand searing through his side. He blacked out for a second, then came to slung over Taima's back like a sack of grain.
"Ain't… your charity case," Knox slurred.
Arthur swung up behind him. "Shut up and live, you idiot."
Then, just as they turned toward camp, Arthur stiffened. Knox felt it too—the prickle on the back of his neck.
A rider. Watching from the ridge.
Too far to make out who. Too close for comfort.
Dutch's hand hovered near his holster. "Well now," he murmured. "That's interestin'."
Knox's fingers twitched toward his empty gun belt.
Too late.
Again.