Chapter Text
The sun was dipping low behind the pines when Arthur, Hosea, and Barry finally rode the trail back toward camp. The horses’ hooves thudded softly over the dirt, the air thick with late-afternoon gold and the smell of dust stirred by wagons long passed.
Arthur sat in front, reins loose in one hand, the other resting casually on his thigh. Barry rode behind him, steadying himself with a light grip on the saddle, the bundle of medical supplies he’d picked up in Valentine secured against his chest. Hosea kept an easy pace beside them, his old mare trotting along with practiced patience.
“Tell you what,” Hosea said with a chuckle, “next time we go to town, I’m assignin’ you two boys to carry my bags. I think that pile Barry’s holdin’ might break his spine.”
Barry smiled. “Ain’t that heavy, Mr. Matthews.”
Arthur snorted. “Boy’s been here three months and still ain’t got himself a horse. I swear Dutch’ll give the next mule we steal to Sean before he gives it to you.”
“Sean is halfway mule already,” Hosea replied, eyes twinkling.
Barry shook his head, amused, listening to the comfortable bickering. He still wasn’t used to the warmth of it—how the gang, for all its chaos, could feel like a home he never knew he’d missed.
He liked riding with Arthur. The man didn’t talk too much, but when he did, it had weight. And Hosea… Hosea had taken to him like a patient uncle, always asking what he’d learned, always insisting he rest at least some of the time.
Barry felt safe with them.
Safer than he’d felt in a long, long time.
They crested the last bend in the trail when—
BOOM.
A shotgun blast tore through the quiet.
Barry jolted so hard he nearly slipped off the saddle. Arthur cursed, hand flying to his revolver. Hosea’s mare sidestepped nervously.
“What the—?!” Arthur barked.
A voice—loud, rough, unmistakable—bellowed through the trees:
“WAIT UP! WHO’S COMIN’?!”
Arthur’s eyes widened in fury.
Hosea groaned.
Barry just stared, heart still racing.
From between the trunks emerged Bill Williamson, shotgun half-raised and face tense beneath his hat brim. He squinted at them—then froze.
Arthur’s voice cracked like a whip.
“It’s us, you damn fool!”
Hosea added sharply, “Bill! Why in the blazes did you shoot?”
Bill’s shoulders hunched a little—just a little—but he puffed himself up quick, as if hoping no one saw the embarrassment flash in his eyes.
“I—I couldn’t see who it was,” he grumbled, lowering the shotgun. “Saw horses movin’ through the trees. Thought maybe the O’Driscolls were creepin’ up on us.”
Hosea let out a long breath, patting his mare’s neck to soothe her.
“Well, thank heavens no one got hit. But do be careful next—”
Arthur cut in, fuming.
“There ain’t gonna be a next time! Dutch shouldn’t trust this idiot to guard the damn camp anyway!”
Bill stiffened, jaw clenching, but didn’t fire back. Not this time.
The trio rode past him, the tension thick as gun smoke.
Barry, feeling a tug of sympathy—Bill’s shame was written plain as day for anyone who bothered to look—offered a small, quiet:
“Uh… hey, Bill.”
It was meant kindly.
Bill snapped around, voice too loud, too sharp, fueled by embarrassment he didn’t know how to swallow.
“Sorry, alright?! You gonna start makin’ fun of me too?”
Barry blinked, startled.
“I—no, I wasn’t—”
Bill grumbled something low and incomprehensible, face red, turning away as if the pine trees were suddenly more interesting than eye contact.
Arthur leaned back in the saddle, lowering his voice so Barry alone heard.
“Don’t mind him, boy. He’s just like that.”
Barry didn’t answer.
He just glanced back once more at Bill—still standing stiff at the edge of camp, shotgun awkwardly in hand—feeling bad for the man, now alone in the woods again.
Camp was lively by the time Arthur rode in. Folks were scattered about—Pearson shouting about dinner and the soft clatter of pots and the hum of evening settling over the trees. Smoke curled from the campfire, carrying the smell of stew and wood sap.
Barry slid off Arthur’s horse with his bundle of supplies.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, giving Arthur a grateful smile.
Arthur waved him off. “Ain’t nothin’. Go on now—Dutch’ll want to hear we made it back safe.”
Barry nodded and headed for his little corner of camp—a modest canvas tent tucked between a rock outcrop and the river’s edge. It wasn’t much, but it was his. And he kept it clean, orderly… the way his father always had.
He knelt on the rug and opened the bundle.
Herbs wrapped in cloth.
Fresh bandages.
A vial of alcohol.
Thread, needles, salves, a few small bottles he’d been saving for special medicine.
He laid each item out carefully on his blanket, hands moving with practiced gentleness. His father’s voice echoed in his head as it always did:
“Order is the difference between savin’ a man and buryin’ him.”
A small, fond breath left him.
He missed him.
Every day.
As he was aligning his bottles—tinctures to the left, poultices to the right—someone cleared their throat.
When Barry looked up, Charles stood there, calm as ever, carrying a bundle of rabbit skins over one shoulder.
“You organizing again?” Charles asked, voice warm.
Barry smiled slightly. “Someone’s gotta keep things tidy around here.”
Charles chuckled. “Don’t let Pearson hear you say that.”
Barry huffed a soft laugh.
Charles nodded at the neat rows of supplies. “You do good work. Folks trust you. Dutch knew what he was doing bringin’ you in.”
Barry’s eyes flicked up, surprised. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Charles said simply. “Three months in, and you’ve saved half the camp from somethin’. Illness, cuts, snake bites… You’re part of us now.”
Barry felt warmth rise in his chest.
It still surprised him—to be seen so kindly, so plainly.
He’d never been anyone important before.
Before he could answer, a familiar voice called across camp:
“Barry! Honey, you got a minute?”
Abigail.
With Jack tugging at her skirt.
Barry stood immediately.
“Of course.”
Jack hopped from foot to foot, face scrunched in pain but trying to be brave. “I fell off the log, Mister Barry.”
“Did ya now?” Barry knelt in front of him, eye level with the boy who always looked half mischief, half angel. “Let’s have a look at that knee, partner.”
Jack thrust out his leg proudly, despite the scrape bleeding down his shin. Abigail sighed but fondly.
Barry cleaned it with a wet cloth, gentle as a summer breeze.
Jack winced. “Ow!”
“Sorry, kiddo. I’ll be quick.” Barry dabbed carefully, speaking soft and steady. “You were playin’ pirates again, huh?”
Jack’s eyes lit up. “Yeah! I was Captain Jack!”
Barry smiled. “Well, Captain, even the bravest pirates get a scrape now and then.”
He wrapped the knee with a small bandage, tying it neatly.
“There.” He tapped it lightly. “Good as new.”
Jack beamed, the pain forgotten entirely.
Abigail’s face softened into something almost maternal toward Barry.
“You’re real good with him, you know,” she said. “I have to agree with Mr. Smith here, Dutch couldn’t’a found a better addition to this camp.”
Barry flushed slightly. “Thank you, Abigail. Really.”
As she walked Jack away, Charles gave Barry a small nod, then left to skin the rabbits.
Barry returned to his tent, settling down again to finish his organizing… but his mind wandered.
He had already been welcomed by Dutch, trusted by Hosea, teased by the girls, respected by Charles, constantly bantered with by Arthur. Even John—grumpy as he was—had once thanked him for patching his arm, albeit through gritted teeth.
Barry liked it here.
More than he expected to.
But as he placed the last bottle in its place, he glanced across the camp toward the trees.
Bill was still out there, pacing the perimeter, muttering to himself, shotgun propped over his shoulder.
He hadn’t looked their way since the… incident.
Barry watched him for a moment, wondering—
Why was he the only one Barry couldn’t seem to read?
Even Micah wasn’t a mystery to him. Barry didn’t like the man—hell, he avoided him whenever he could—but Micah was simple to understand: loud, mean-spirited, always looking for trouble and a reaction. Barry didn’t trust him, but at least he could see right through him.
Bill… Bill was a different story. A man built like a fortress, and just as impossible to get inside.
Barry didn’t have the answer.
But he had a feeling Bill wasn’t done looming in the edges of his awareness.
Not by a long shot.
The stew wasn’t great, but Pearson had put something in it tonight that made it almost pleasant — maybe extra salt, maybe just the comfort of everyone gathered around the fire after a long day. Lenny was laughing at one of Uncle’s stories, Sadie was sharpening her knife with silent intensity, and even Arthur looked relaxed as he tore a piece of bread in half and handed Barry the bigger piece without a word.
Barry soaked in the hum of voices, the clanking of bowls, the warmth. It still felt new, somehow — being part of a group again, having folks who nodded at him with familiarity, who trusted him.
John, settling down beside Abigail with a sigh, lifted his bowl and said, “Can’t believe Pearson didn’t burn it for once.”
Abigail elbowed him. “Hush. The man’s tryin’.”
“I am tryin’, thank you very much,” Pearson grunted from a few feet away.
Then John added, mouth half-full, “Reckon I should be up on watch right now. But Bill insisted on takin’ my shift.” He snorted. “Said he wasn’t tired.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Bill says a lotta things.”
Barry felt something tug in his chest — that flicker of embarrassment he’d seen on Bill’s face earlier, the way he tried to bury it under all that bluster. The guy had made a fool of himself, sure, but he didn’t deserve to stew in it all night.
Barry glanced around. Everyone was busy with their own meals, their own conversations. No one was about to take Bill a bowl.
So he quietly stood, filled an extra tin bowl with steaming stew, and slipped away from the firelight.
Bill was posted past the wagons, sitting on a crate with his shotgun resting across his lap. His hat was tipped low, and he looked one slow blink away from passing out. The fire behind Barry made him a silhouette — easy to miss if someone wasn’t paying attention.
Barry stepped carefully over the roots and pine needles. “Bill?”
Bill jerked upright so hard the crate creaked. “What—!?” His hand snapped toward the shotgun. Then his eyes focused. “...Oh. It’s you.”
Barry lifted the bowl slightly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I just thought… maybe you wanted somethin’ warm to eat. You look tired.”
Bill’s shoulders tensed, jaw clenching beneath his scruff. He scoffed, trying to pull his dignity back on like an ill-fitting coat.
“I’m fine,” he barked. “Don’t need nobody coddlin’ me. ’Specially not feelin’ sorry for me.”
Barry blinked, hurt but trying not to show it. “Wasn’t pity. Just… bein’ polite.”
“Yeah, well, keep your damn politeness. I said I ain’t hungry.”
The words stung sharper than they should have. Barry set the bowl down on the nearest stump, still steaming into the cold night air.
“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll… leave it here anyway. In case you change your mind.”
Bill didn’t respond — just scowled into the dark as Barry turned and trudged back toward camp, heart sinking a little with each step. He shouldn’t’ve tried. Should’ve let the man be.
At the edge of the firelight, Barry paused and looked back one last time.
Bill had glanced around, making sure no one was watching. Then he lowered himself slowly onto the stump, staring at the bowl like it might up and bite him.
After a few seconds, he picked up the spoon.
And ate.
Barry couldn’t help it — a small, warm smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he walked the rest of the way back to camp.