The blade of Arthur's knife scraped against the rusted tin as he peeled back the lid. The smell hit Knox first—bitter herbs and something sharp beneath it, like whiskey gone bad. Arthur didn't ask before pressing the soaked rag to Knox's side.
Knox jerked back. "The hell—?"
"Easy now." Arthur's grip didn't budge. "Gotta clean the damn thing before it gets infected."
Knox gritted his teeth. The wound burned, but the sting of being handled burned worse. He could see Dutch leaning against the cabin's broken doorframe, watching like a man studying a horse before purchase.
"You ain't gotta do this," Knox muttered.
Arthur snorted. "Sure. And you'll stitch yourself up one-handed?"
Dutch pushed off the wall, stepping into the dim light. "We're not here to rob you, son. Just offering a hand."
Knox's laugh was dry as old bones. "Hands come with strings."
"Everything does," Dutch said, spreading his own like a showman. "But some strings pull you up instead of down."
Arthur tied off the bandage, knuckles brushing Knox's ribs. "Silas ain't done with you. You know that, right?"
Knox did. Silas wasn't the kind to let a debt go unpaid.
The memory hit like a fist—Ellie's laugh, bright as creek water over stones, then the gunshot that silenced it. The O'Driscoll colors on the man who pulled the trigger. The way they'd all looked at him after, like he was the fool for trusting any of them.
He'd buried her with his own hands. Dug the grave deep enough the coyotes wouldn't find her.
"You want my story?" Knox spat into the dirt. "Fine. I trusted once. Got a woman killed for it. Ain't making that mistake again."
Arthur wiped his hands on his pants, slow. "Man who don't trust can't be betrayed. But he can't be saved, either."
Dutch crouched, eye-level. "We could use a man who knows how to move quiet. Scout for us. You'd have your space."
Knox stared at the cracked floorboards. Ellie's ghost sat there, shaking her head.
The wind howled through the cabin's gaps, carrying the scent of coming rain.
And somewhere out there, Silas was still hunting.
The Winchester felt cold in Knox's hands, the weight of it familiar as breath. Outside, Arthur and Dutch stood framed by the cabin's broken doorway, their silhouettes sharp against the fading light.
"You're bleedin' through that bandage," Arthur said, nodding at Knox's shoulder. His voice was rough but not unkind. "We got a doc. Ain't no sense dyin' proud."
Knox spat near Arthur's boot. "I ain't dyin'. And I sure as hell ain't joinin' your circus."
Dutch chuckled, spreading his hands like a preacher. "Who said anything about joining? Think of it as… mutual benefit. You know these hills better than most. We could use a man who sees what others miss."
The offer hung there, slick as oil. Knox flexed his fingers around the rifle stock. A scout. Not a gun, not a dog on a leash. Just eyes in the dark.
Arthur shifted, glancing toward the tree line. "Silas ain't the type to let a grudge go cold."
Knox knew that better than anyone. The memory of Silas's knife glinting in firelight curled in his gut.
Dutch stepped closer, voice dropping. "Take the horse. The supplies. Ride out tonight if that's what you want. But if you stay—"
Hoofbeats.
Knox was moving before the others turned, rifle braced against his good shoulder. Arthur cursed, drawing his revolver. Dutch's hand went to his hip, smooth as always.
Through the trees, shadows moved—three, maybe four riders. Silas in the lead, his hat low, the glint of a shotgun across his lap.
"Get down," Arthur growled, but Knox was already pressing into the cabin's shadow, sighting down the barrel.
The first shot cracked the air, splintering wood near Dutch's head. Arthur returned fire, driving one rider back.
Silas's voice carried over the gunfire. "Come on out, Knox! We got business!"
Knox exhaled, finger resting on the trigger.
Arthur's shout cut through the smoke. "Knox—now or never!"
The bullet struck Arthur high in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around before he crashed into the dirt. Dutch cursed, firing blindly into the trees where Silas's men had them pinned.
Knox's fingers twitched against the Winchester stock. He could still run. The cabin's back window was shattered, the woods beyond dark enough to swallow a man whole.
Arthur groaned, trying to push himself up with his good arm. Blood darkened his shirt. "Goddammit—"
Dutch's voice cut through the gunfire, sharp as a whip crack. "You gonna die a coward, Wilder?"
Another bullet kicked dirt near Arthur's face. Knox exhaled through his teeth.
Then he moved.
Three shots in quick succession—a muzzle flash in the trees jerked sideways. A scream. Knox worked the lever, cheek pressed to the stock, and fired again. Someone shouted orders. The gunfire shifted toward the cabin.
Arthur dragged himself behind a fallen log. Dutch was grinning like a madman, firing with both Colts now. "There he is!"
Knox ignored them. He picked his shots—careful, methodical—each one finding flesh. Silas's men weren't soldiers. They broke fast when the bullets started flying both ways.
The Winchester clicked empty. Knox ducked as return fire splintered the doorframe beside him. He reloaded with practiced hands, counting the seconds between shots.
Arthur had made it to cover. Dutch was still yelling something, but Knox didn't hear the words. He was already stepping through the ruined doorway, rifle raised, eyes fixed on the treeline where Silas had to be watching.
The last light caught the grim set of his jaw. No hesitation left. Just the work.