CHAPTER SIX
Bottom of the Barrel

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  BONNIE ELECTED WINONA AND Clementine as her accompaniment for the night, leaving their other sisters back at camp to wait with bated breath. They couldn't risk drawing attention with too many people, nor could they run the risk of causing a scene before the, er, fine people of Rhodes.

It's not a decision made through favouritism or anything; no, just simple problem solving. She believed that Brandy and Tallulah would be too hotheaded when faced with another gang, whereas Jolene and Dakota would be a fraction too timid — not to imply that they're anything other than strong and formidable, just that she knows exactly where their strengths lie.

   She sees Winona and Clementine as the common ground, the perfect indifference between two extremes on opposite ends of the scales. They're perfectly suited for something like this, level headed even with a few strong drinks in their systems.

After all, Bonnie isn't trying to get caught off guard tonight; she knows her cousin well enough to guess that this ordeal isn't as innocent as he's making it out to be. Her daddy used to tell her, "once a swindler, always a swindler" — she remembers how Dutch had always been irritatingly cunning as a child, and that trait of his has hardly ripened with age...

   Whatever the case, she won't let her sneaking suspicions disrupt a fine trip to the saloon. She's sure that it'll go off without a hitch.

   The evening breeze tousles their hair and stresses their hats, a fading warmth carrying in from the hot afternoon they had suffered through earlier that day. The clouds above are illustrated in the sweet raspberry tones of the summer sunset, sleepy constellations shaking sleep from their weary bones and sparkling like gossamer freckles around the faltering fringes of daylight. Rabbits zip across the road in front of the women and their horses spook at the occasional snake in the long grass, but before long the twinkling illumination of Rhodes has crested the horizon and they carry on at a steady trot as nature slims into bare civilisation.

They've been riding in comfortable silence for a few minutes now but with the dim chatter emanating from the saloon and shops in the distance, Clementine finally seems to be growing restless with their silence. She drums her fingertips along her saddle horn, unable to stifle a throwaway remark and the teasing whistle that accompanies it.

"Cousins, huh?"

Bonnie remains steely. "That's right."

Winona gently digs her spurs into Troy's brawny sides to urge him on a little further, falling into pace with Bonnie and craning her neck to glance down at her. They had bombarded her with too many questions last night when her nerves were hanging by a thread and the result wasn't pretty, so they're attempting to be a little more lenient with their curiosity this time.

   "How come I never knew?" Winona asks, her nosiness getting the better of her. "Thought we didn't keep no secrets between us."

"Well, I've got to maintain some of my—"

"—mystery," the girls finish her sentence by chorusing together, dissolving into raucous laughter. Winona continues, "we know. You keep reminding us. But, seriously, that's not a petty secret like the rest of the ones we've all heard before. Being related to an infamous gang leader ain't exactly the easiest thing to keep under your hat."

   Bonnie snorts. "Wasn't on purpose, it just slipped my mind." She wrestles with her next answer, testing the bluntness of her words in her mind before severing the stitches and letting the truth loose. "We stopped publicising it after Colm O'Driscoll made an attempt on my life a few years back."

Her humour slackens and her lips downturn. Winona and Clementine's snickering falls silent, their spines straightening as the severity of her tone sinks into their flesh like starved incisors to a bloody kill.

"Christ alive," Winona murmurs. They're all well aware of how inhumanely the O'Driscolls can treat the people they encounter, especially if they're unfortunate enough to be women. "Are y'alright?"

"Well, I'm still breathing, ain't I?" she snaps, a sudden lash of aggression that cools upon her tongue and melts down her throat like ice. Bonnie takes a breath to stabilise herself. "It don't matter. Happened well over a decade ago, and I made sure he wouldn't come for me again." Her eyes flutter and she pinches the bridge of her nose, taking another sharp inhale. "But that just meant he targeted someone... easier, instead."

Clementine frowns. "Whaddya mean?"

"My cousin lost his girl," she replies shortly. Her eyes grow wistful and distant, fingers curling tight around the reins 'til they're ivory at the knuckles. "I always liked her, you know. She was a little firecracker. Would've made for a good Widow if I could've convinced her to get rid of him." A joke, though it falls slightly flat without her usual humour to outline it. "I've always felt a little like it was my fault..."

"That's awful, Bonnie. Can't imagine how hard that must've been for the both of you," Clementine sympathises, spurring Petal on faster so that she can ride alongside her two sisters. "Had you seen him since? Before we went to get Brandy back, I mean."

"Mm, no. We hadn't spoken since his Annabelle was killed." Her face scrunches in deep thought. "It all happened well before my first husband so... hm. Must've been fifteen, sixteen years ago by now."

"Jesus." Clementine breathes an incredulous laugh. "Fifteen years? No wonder it slipped your mind, boss."

"You can never be too careful." Bonnie clicks her tongue. "And, if there's one thing my cousin's good at, it's clinging to age-old resentment. He still hasn't forgotten what that greasy bastard did and I don't think he's planning on it anytime soon."

   Clementine sucks her teeth. "Well, my momma used to say that it don't take a very big person to carry a grudge."

She looks over her shoulder contemplatively, tilting her head and muttering dryly: "Did she, now?"

Clem doesn't have much to say to that. The three women simply allow for the words to sink in, vulture talons to festering carrion, as they slow to a socially acceptable trot.

They know better than to continue their conversation in the envenomed heart of Rhodes. The cataclysmic collision of nosy lawmen and prying housewives would sign their death warrant in loopy cursive lettering. Whilst in public, they were to hold their tongues and keep their more... unbecoming thoughts to themselves. People here didn't like that they'd preach progress or speak out crassly, untethered by the confines of a society they detest.

   Winona sucks in a breath. Readying herself for what may lie ahead, reinforcing her defences in preparation for the worst.

One drunken man whistles at them as they go past, another alleged gentleman curling his lip at Winona's trousers and narrowing his eyes at the three unaccompanied women on horseback. She bites her cheek to avoid sneering back. Though, the more pressing concern lies beyond the door of the Sheriff's office next door to these fools; a rickety little building infested with lazy lawmen and their lapdog deputies. They can feel all those scathing eyes pinned onto them as they go trotting past, narrowed in scrutiny as if the blood on their hands is still tangible.

Much to the Widows' annoyance, Sheriff Gray has been trying to convict them as outlaws for a few weeks now, seemingly determined to lock them up and throw away the key. He doesn't have any incriminating evidence against them quite yet, so Bonnie's instructed everyone to be on their very best behaviour whenever they're in town. It's tedious to be watched like a hawk when there's worse crimes being committed under the sheriff's nose, his ignorance to more violent gangs in the area amplified simply because they happen to be a gang full of women and he feels threatened by them.

Bonnie tilts her chin up, fixing her posture until her spine's as straight as a pin. The defiance has Gray's lips peeling back into a sneer beneath his jostling moustache, his glare boring holes into her back. She doesn't grace him with a reaction — Bonnie's always been too proud to bend to the will of the law, let alone the will of a man.

Dust kicks up behind her as she abruptly tugs on the reins to slow Adonis to a standstill. The other two follow her example, rearing up on their whinnying horses as Bonnie extends her arm in a grand sweeping motion.

"We're here," she sing-songs, her face bitter despite her tone sounding bright.

    The Rhodes saloon is refined and respectable where other parts of the tiny ghost town are not — a tall building with pearly white planks that are stacked up to act as walls, shining and eldritch beneath the falling darkness. Wildflowers entangled with creeping weeds have sprawled beneath the foundations and poke out through the sides, overflowing onto the ruddy dirt to add a splash of greenery to the dry landscape. Shadows lash across the golden light that coruscates within, evidence of a bustling crowd to fill the gaps when Winona squints up at the grimy windows. 

The atmosphere inside is tolerable, their liquor good and cheap, so Winona supposes she's got nothing to be complaining about. She swallows her whinging as she hitches Troy outside, offering him an oatcake before inevitably disappearing inside for the evening.

   They watch as patrons stumble out the front door, an unbalanced mixture of men that'll either fall down drunk or jeer at the girls as they stride past. Hell, maybe both if they're still running hot on the heels of adrenaline.

( Though, they've somewhat learned to hold their tongues after one of 'em got a little too handsy with Tallulah and immediately had their nose bludgeoned to a gory pulp. You can still see one of his molars in amongst the flowerbed if you look hard enough. )

   The townsfolk of Rhodes both fear and respect the False Widows; it depends on who you're asking, really. More than enough tall tales have been built up over the years and their names are no short of infamous, muddied with blood and guilt whilst also sparkling with the sweet combination of reverence and high praises.

The girls themselves have a mutual respect for the Suffragists that are dotted around the area, whilst trying to conceal their disdain for the area's lawmen whenever they come into contact. Their reputation is a double edged sword on most days, so they've been keeping their heads down as of late, eternally wary of the prying eyes that track their every move.

In the spirit of being an upstanding citizen, Bonnie tips her hat to a deputy who's lingering outside before sweeping through the batwing doors, the lace trim on her skirt swishing around her ankles as she walks. Her boots rasp against the polished floorboards with every step and her aureate spurs grate together menacingly. She lights up a cigarillo as she walks, the flame casting golden shadows across the sharp ridges of her face before she snubs the lit match with a flick of her wrist.

Winona and Clementine follow closely behind, trying to ignore all the leering glares that bullet after them. A raucous game of blackjack has broken out on the second floor and the clamouring trickles down to their level, outrage over a bad hand shouted down for all to hear. When night falls in saloons like this, people hide away behind grimy glasses of alcohol and veil themselves behind great big puffs of cigar smoke, all the typically reputable men out making bad decisions the second the sun goes down.

   Winona knows how it feels to have a husband come back from drinking with his friends: drunk, lying and twenty dollars poorer. She doesn't miss it one bit.

   Therefore, as she makes her way through the establishment, Winona can't help but keep a wary eye trained on the stairs. The men up on the second floor, crowded around the blackjack table, are an unhealthy mix of Raiders and daredevils that are too drunk to fear for their lives in the spur of the moment. She knows how hard the Raiders can take losses so she's equally as aware of how violent their wrath can become. Hopefully they can avoid a brawl tonight — she just soothed her bruises after two painstaking weeks of aches and arnica salves. It would be a shame to undo all of that hard work.

  She's snapped back to the present when Clementine whispers something lowly, her index finger pointing slyly to the boy behind the bar, who's stumbling around to wait on all the patrons like a foal that's just found its footing. He must've been around Jolene's age, perhaps a little younger, looking to be in his early twenties and waveringly determined to survive tonight's shift.

Clementine grins. "Easy target for you tonight, Miss Diamondback."

Winona shakes her head and dips her chin, hiding her amusement beneath the brim of her hat. "Oh, she'll eat him alive."

   Bonnie pauses to fluff up her hair and fix the strands that have stuck up after being trapped beneath her hat for so long, coasting her pinkie along the edge of her lip to refine the rouge dusted across her sneer. Her smile sparkles with an amalgamation of beauty and pure, undiluted cruelty.

"Well, how could I refuse?" she replies eventually, waving them both off as if they were no more than circling condors and making a beeline for the front of the saloon.

They watch from a short distance away as Bonnie leans across the bar, her glossy dark hair sweeping over a shoulder. She bats her long lashes and twists the golden cross around her neck, tipping her head to the side endearingly.

   "You got any bourbon, sugar?"

The boy tending the bar pauses to gape like a muskie before nodding so vigorously, Winona's sure that his head's going to twist right off, eyes wide at the intimidatingly beautiful woman trying to swindle free drinks out of him — not that he's aware of that. Winona has to turn to hide her grin behind her hand, sharing an amused side glance with Clementine as Bonnie begins to lay her charm on thick.

When the boy finishes with his spluttering, she flashes her dreamiest smile. "Three of your finest. Don't be shy, now."

He practically trips over himself trying to get the whisky out from under the bar, scrounging for three of the cleanest glasses he can find and sliding them over the mahogany bar top. Winona and Clementine have slowly ambled over to stand on either side of their leader, watching with poorly concealed mirth as he struggles. He tries to quell his shaky hands so that he can splash the drinks into the glasses, pushing them forward with great care when his work is complete.

"How much do I owe you, honey?"

"Uh, it's on the house," he squeaks.

Bonnie's eyes gleam with satisfaction, her heavily ringed palm coming up rest on her chest as though she were moved. "Oh, you sweet thing. Bless your heart."

He waves his hand bashfully, only to jump out his skin when his boss begins to bark orders at him. Snickering from across the bar top makes him meet their eyes bashfully, scratching the nape of his neck and the uneven scruff that rests there.

   "Best get back to your work," Clementine says, already cradling the glass in her palm. "Don't let us keep you any longer."

   He doesn't need to be told twice. He scurries off to the opposite end of the bar, whipping up various concoctions for the impatient customers that seem to come in waves. Winona's sure that she'd feel sympathetic if she still had it in her.

She raises her bourbon to her lips, tilting the glass toward her sisters. "Cheers, ladies."

They chorus it back, knocking back their drinks without wasting any time. It tastes watered down and a tad too bitter, making their lips twist in distaste as they appraise the contents of their glasses. 

"Not bad," Winona mutters dryly, setting her glass down and watching it sit there with distaste.

Clementine grimaces. "Not good, either."

   "You two are so cynical," Bonnie replies. "Just be glad we didn't have to pay."

   "Trust me," says Winona, "I am."

   They sit and watch the world go by for a while, the whisky growing increasingly bitter as the sky darkens further outside. The saloon is beginning to grow progressively busier, forgettable drunkards bumping shoulders with Winona every other minute. She briefly wonders how long it'll take before the finely strung thread of patience within her snaps and she's pushed toward hitting someone over the head with her barstool.

    She traces the chipped rim of her glass, her droopy eyes beginning to glaze over. Suddenly, with a rush of self awareness to jerk her upright, Winona straightens her spine when she realises that she's been watching the ice in her bourbon melt.

    "How much longer do have to wait?" she asks, fiddling with the hilt of her throwing knife. "Can feel the cobwebs growin' on me."

    Bonnie flicks open her pocket watch, thumb grazing the cracked glass thoughtfully. It had belonged to one of her ex-husbands — perhaps lucky man number five? Winona has a hard time keeping track of them all when the bodies just keep tallying up.

    "Almost eight o'clock now," Bonnie replies. "They've got a few minutes to spare. If they're any later, I won't be so forgiving."

    Those next few minutes tick by at a pace that stretches them to the likeness of years. Her fingertips drum along the gleaming wood of the bar top, nails scratching atop all the imperfect grooves and dips. Winona found that conversation doesn't quell the trepidation for the impending meeting, so she gave up trying to make small talk a long while ago. 

   Winona can see Bonnie studying the face of her pocket watch intensely. She opens her mouth to comment something about the time, only for the doors to swing open before she has the chance.

   Lo and behold: Dutch Van der Linde. He strides in with an air of composure and authority, the silver deputy badge pinned to his vest a stark contrast to the golden chains and adornments he drapes himself in. He's bracketed by two of his men; one of them wizened, grey and lanky whereas the other is tall, tawny and brawny. Winona watches through narrowed eyes as they come over to meet the three Widows next to the bar, slipping in next to Bonnie to fill the broad gap between herself and the other patrons.

  She drains the last of her bourbon pointedly, setting the lipstick stained glass back onto the bar with a slam. She splays her hands and her rings glint under the lamplight, eyebrows shooting up in incredulity. A deadly question masquerading as a perfectly imploring expression.

   "Sorry to keep you waiting, Bonnie," Dutch says in an even tone, leaning his arms on the bar top next to her. "Something came up."

   "Oh well, in that case, I absolve y'all of your sins," she says cheerfully. Her lip curls as she drops the pretence. "But, seriously, Dutch. Time is money. Don't let it happen again."

   Her tone is vaguely threatening. He decides to postpone his reply by ordering three beers and Winona has to stifle a laugh at his subdued glare when he's overcharged, hiding her smile behind the foggy rim of her glass.

  While he's preoccupied handling their drinks, the older man with silver hair takes it upon himself to do introductions and get the ball rolling. He shakes Bonnie's hand out of respect and eyes the sharp rings upon her knuckles with a wavering caution, blood encrusted on the golden edges where she hadn't quite scrubbed hard enough.

  "Hosea Matthews," he introduces himself with an easy smile, nodding to Winona and Clementine who return the sentiment. He gestures over his shoulder at the taller man. "This here is Arthur Morgan."

  "I recall," Bonnie replies shortly. "Though it certainly has been awhile. How's your wife these days, Mister Matthews?"

   His smile tightens at the corners, not quite reaching his eyes. "Ah, I'm afraid my Bessie passed a few years ago."

  "Oh, Christ. I'm sorry for your loss," she says genuinely, eyebrows knitting. "I still remember Bessie. She was a good woman."

   He nods slowly. "That she was."

   Winona shares a cautionary side glance with Clementine. Leave it to their boss to kill the mood before they've even breached the five minute mark.

   Bottles of beer are doled to the three men, the glass discoloured and the labels peeling. The room flickers as the overhead lamps swing on their rusting chains, rocking beneath the thundering chaos of that damned poker match. Winona's beginning to get restless from the ruckus upstairs, rapping her fist against the bar top for a refill that immediately she knocks back to relish in the wane embers of intoxication. Thankfully, her worrying isn't lost on either of her sisters.

   "So, gentlemen," Bonnie begins with a hearty sigh, "I can't imagine that this is just a social call and I don't have much time for chit chat. Make your point before I get bored, or at least endeavour to threaten my life quickly."

   Dutch's lips twist. "You've not changed."

   Bonnie crooks her head to the side. "Not sure I can say the same about you, partner."

   His arms grow heavy against the bar, tiredness glinting in his eyes. "I've got a proposition for you."

   That gets her attention. "Go on."

   "We've been... bargaining with those families, the Grays and the Braithwaites," Dutch murmurs. "Doing work for both of them under their noses 'n robbing them blind. Tomorrow, we're gonna fence the Braithwaites' prize horses for the Gray family." His chest rumbles with a gravelly laugh. "They won't even know what's hit them by the time we've sold the horseflesh for thousands."

   Bonnie whistles, laughing into her glass. "Why, you're a man of mighty patience if you're tryna negotiate with them crazies." She raises it in faux salute. "I wish you all the best on your endeavours."

   "Well, that's precisely what I was gonna ask you," he says. "You've been in these parts far longer than us. Surely you know your way around these families by now?"

  "Listen, honey," Bonnie says, hand on her hip. "They're territorial like you've never seen and you'd do well not to underestimate them, 'cause I know you think you've got the upper hand since they're all inbred trash. And don't get me wrong, they are, but you've gotta have some nerve to try and double cross them."

   "So, what? You won't help us?"

   "Well, hold your horses. I didn't say no." Bonnie rolls her eyes. "Night's still young and you ain't even bought me a drink yet. Thought you was supposed to be a somethin' of a gentleman, cousin?"

    Hesitation etches on his expression, though it melts with the weight of his next sigh. Dutch shakes his head at her in disbelief but gestures to the barman nonetheless, tossing his cash atop the mahogany with a bitter twist to his lips. She receives the glass of whisky with a wide grin and brings it up to her curved mouth, draining half before settling back on her stool.

"Tell me more 'bout them Braithwaites," Bonnie demands, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "What're you needing help with?"

Here, Hosea jumps at the opportunity to speak, leaning forward to clap Dutch on the shoulder. "Well, as my friend over here said earlier, you're more familiar with the area than we are. Your... experience with the land and the people would help us to carry out our plans."

Winona scoffs, setting down her beer. "Right. So, we're used as pawns in your plans and reap no rewards?" Clementine and Bonnie hum in assent, looking to the men for an explanation.

"Of course not," Hosea replies. "You'd be given your share of whatever earnings we make."

"We better," Bonnie says tersely. "I'm a firm believer in there being consequences to actions, Mister Matthews, even if it's something simple like forgetting."

He glances at Dutch. "Duly noted."

"What's the goal here, gentleman? I send a few of my girls into this blind and just have to trust you?" She chuckled at the idea.

"Would I lie to you, cousin?" Dutch asks.

"Yes."

He ignores her. "We'd only need one or two of you to help," he continues. "Three of my men will be outside the Braithwaite Manor 'round about noon tomorrow. They'll be waiting, even if you decide against sending your me— women. The offer's still on the table."

Bonnie hums noncommittally. "You said this was paying thousands?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mm. I'll think about it."

Winona leans back on the bar, flicking a match to life against her spurs and lighting up a cigarette. She focuses after the first drag, her eyes feeling sharper and her worries seeming insignificant as she traces her eagle all around the saloon, taking a minute to gauge her surroundings in more depth.

There's a breach of silence in Bonnie's back and forth with her cousin where Winona catches Clementine side eyeing the lumbering outlaw who's yet to say anything, a look of pure perplexity worn upon her face. Winona goes to ask her what the matter is when she's beaten to it by the woman in question.

   Clementine squints in recognition. "Have we met before, Mister Morgan?" She tests the name upon her tongue as if it'll unfurl the connection in her mind.

    The man, Arthur, scoffs dismissively into his beer bottle. "I don't know, Miss. I've got an unfortunate face."

    "Oh, wait!" She clicks her fingers, elbowing Winona in the ribs. "Was he not the feller that Ms Calhoun had driving the wagon? During that demonstration by the bank?"

    Winona takes a contemplative drag of her cigarette, grinning through the smoke. "Well, I'll be damned. I reckon he is." Her head tilts with interest. "You often engage in Suffrage protests, Mister Morgan?"

   "Cannot say that I do, Miss Bennet."

    "Ah, well. There's always room for improvement," Clementine teases, taking custody of her cigarette for a long drag.

   Winona opens her mouth to reply when a man lodges himself in between her and Clementine, elbowing them apart to slam a palm down on the bar, demanding another drink. Not that he needs it — he can barely stand as it is, swaying on the spot with his yellow scarf unravelling around his neck and a wild look glinting in his amber eyes.

Winona scoffs. Lemoyne Raiders.

   Clementine rolls her shoulder and cracks her knuckles to relieve the crescendoing tension within them, her jaw ground tight enough to crack a molar. When she tries to get him to move, the Raider looks down his nose at her and slurs something hurtful that makes her tense up. He looks at her as if she's inferior, yammering under his breath about the war and wrongful victories as he gulps down his liquor.

   She doesn't react. She knows better than to engage in their hate.

   Winona, however, does not.

   She turns to size up the Lemoyne Raider, unwinding from her seat to stand at about a head taller than him. Her arms tighten across her chest, rippling with a strength that the weaselly man before her lacks.

   "War was over and done with 'bout thirty years ago, grandpa," she murmurs, thumbs grazing over the throwing knives that are hidden up her shirtsleeves. "Think you can run along and let us enjoy our drinks, now?"

    "Don't tell me what to do, woman."

   Her face scrunches in distaste at his slurring. When he dares to raise his hand to her, she promptly turns around and smashes her empty glass over his head.

   Bonnie shrieks. "Aw, shit, Winona!"

   "Sorry, boss. He was testin' my patience."

   "Hell's teeth. You gotta learn some self-control, girl! Now we have to clean up your mess."

   Winona would've withered under the admonishment if it weren't for the Raider coming her way, which instead causes her to hastily duck under his arm when he swings and sweep his feet out from under him. She relishes in the way he gasps when the air's knocked out of him, getting in a few punches before he's out cold on the sticky saloon floorboards.

   The next few minutes dissolve into a bloody mess of shattered glass and thrown punches. Winona feels an ache building where her jaw is flowering with fresh violet bruises, her knuckles split beyond repair. The stinging sensation ebbs with the rush of adrenaline and she triumphs through the bloody ache coating her fists, wrestling with her own pain in order to inflict it on the men barrelling towards her.

When she throws a trigger happy drunk off of her, she catches sight of the others scattered around the wide scope of the saloon, all of them brawling with the same vigour. She notices that there's a Raider rounding on Van der Linde's blindside, only for Bonnie to knock his temple with the butt of her pistol and incapacitate him on the cold hard ground. Winona barely has time to see Dutch thanking her before she's getting a punch thrown at her nose and she's back in the throes of the bar fight.

  Soon, she's wrenched off the Lemoyne Raider that she's beaten to a pulp, two strong hands encircling her biceps and beginning to tug her towards the swaying doors.

   "C'mon," Clementine urges. "We gotta go!"

   Winona steps over battered bodies as she follows on after her sisters, mainly consisting Raiders with the odd drunkard muddled in the mix. Most of the men had the sense within them to bolt after the first punch was thrown.

   She whistles for Troy the second her boots meet gravel and she's tossing herself against the evening breeze before she can register her movements, taking off down the road. She rides in tandem with Clementine atop Petal, the two of them riding like hell after their leader and the three men who accompany her.

"I don't need you standin' up for me, Win," Clementine shouts over the whistling wind. "You know better than to stoop to their level. I can handle myself, anyways."

"I'm not saying you can't," Winona grunts. "It just got out of hand."

Clem cackles. "That's an understatement."

   The bare bones of civilisation whittle down to thinly stretched meadows and deserted farmland. Thankfully, the only heads they manage to turn out here are that of the cattle.

   The night has cooled to a more reasonable temperature now, the chilling breeze soothing the rosiness that has risen within her cheeks. Cicadas chirp in the tall grass around them as they wade further into the fields atop their horses, the drum of hoof beats the only thing to rupture that stark silence. Troy tosses his head in complaint as he tries to catch his breath and Winona leans forward to tangle her fingers in his flaxen mane, scratching her nails along his neck comfortingly.

   The six outlaws and their horses stand amidst the tall grass in silence that's only ever ruptured by their heavy breathing.

   Bonnie thwacks Winona upside the head, shifting her hat down over her eyes.

   "Hey!" she guffaws, straightening it back up.

   "That," Bonnie begins, "could've gone a whole lot better."

   "Come now, Bonnie," Dutch huffs. "Nothing like a bar fight to bring old friends together."

   The laceration on Winona's arm smarts and she grimaces, rolling her shoulder. "Ole Sheriff Gray ain't gonna be too happy about all that."

Bonnie shoots her a glare. She can tell that she'll be getting an earful on the ride back.

   Using the heel of her palm, Clementine suddenly smashes her battered nose back in place. Winona winces at the sickening crunch, whereas Arthur seems to be watching her operate with an even mix of bewilderment and awe. She reaches over to pat her sister on the shoulder, her arm aching from the strain.

  Bonnie clears her throat, watching the display through narrowed eyes. "We oughta get back to camp," she announces, brushing imperfections from her skirt. Her eyes slice through the three men. "I'll send two of my girls your way tomorrow to help with them Braithwaite horses. If you try anything, so help me God, you can kiss your gold and your life goodbye. Got it?" 

   "I can assure you that they'll be in safe hands," Dutch replies. "We're all family here, cousin."

    "Family or not, don't go thinking they need your protection," Bonnie replies. "My girls can handle themselves. I know just how fickle your plans can be sometimes."

    "Oh, Bonnie," he replies, palms outstretched. "Have some faith."

    Bonnie raises her brows incredulously. She hums as she studies him, scrutinising every minute detail and dip in his expression. The hereditary cruelty of his smile that she, with a shudder of realisation, can recognise herself in.

Suddenly, her whistle rings out across the pasture as she spurs Adonis into a gallop, kicking a dust cloud over the men in her haste to get away. Winona shares a cautionary look with Clementine before taking off after her, her jaw set as they thunder toward the main road.

And, on that note, Dutch Van der Linde has to watch as the three False Widows ride off without granting him a reply.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

it has been a hot minute but i'm back!!!! i haven't forgotten about this fic i pinkie promise

these past few chapters have been a tad chaotic and very all over the place but hopefully when i start following canon missions there'll be some semblance of a plot 💀💀 buckle ur seatbelts everyone, it's gonna be horseflesh for dinner in the next one

tysm for reading, make sure to vote &
comment!! i love hearing your thoughts <3