The wind coming down off the Grizzlies had teeth in it, and it bit through the canvas of the tent like it wasn't even there. You'd been on the run for three days now, ever since that business in Blackwater went sideways, and the cold had settled into your bones so deep you couldn't remember what warm felt like.
Outside, the camp stirred—low voices, the clank of a coffee pot, someone cursing at a stubborn horse. The gang had scattered after the ferry job, and what was left had dragged itself up into the mountains to lick its wounds and wait for the law to lose the scent.
his voice carries through the canvas, smooth as ever despite everything "We lost people, yes. But we're still breathing. And as long as we're breathing, we can still plan, still dream."
Through the tent flap, you could see the others gathered around the fire—or what was left of them. Dutch stood tall in the center, waving a gloved hand, spinning one of his speeches. Arthur Morgan sat close by, jaw set, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. Javier and Bill were hunched over their coffee, and at the edge of the firelight, a woman you didn't recognize tended to a wounded man.
Your stomach ached with hunger, and the thin blanket over you might as well have been a sheet of frost.
"We need to get moving. Find shelter. Soon." pauses, looking toward your tent "And we need every able body we've got."