Firefight

Mr. Mattili, his face a grim mask of malicious intent, slipped out of Saint Denis with his brutal detachment, a coiled serpent ready to strike. His objective: Dutch. Meanwhile, the Van der Linde Gang, a rolling caravan of newfound wealth and reluctant respectability, was already thundering toward Valentine aboard a stolen train.

"Dutch, the dynamite's secured in the last car," Arthur reported, striding into the bustling train car, his breath still catching from his dash. He wiped a smudge of grease from his cheek. "And Ms. Jones even sent three of her family's guards along."

Dutch, perched on a plush velvet seat at the center of their improvised bar, merely nodded, taking a slow, thoughtful drag from his cigar. A plume of smoke curled around his head. "Alright, Arthur. Stay sharp. Bronte's men could materialize out of thin air. And our ladies? Are they secure?"

"Miss O'Shea and the others are all tucked away in the last cargo car, Dutch," Arthur assured him, gesturing towards the rear of the train.

"Alright, Arthur. Have John ready the dynamite, and you, prepare some more dynamite arrows." Dutch's eyes, flint-hard and determined, met Hosea's. "The moment you spot a Maxim gun, blow it to hell. No hesitation."

Hosea chuckled, patting the stock of his bolt-action rifle. "Don't worry, Dutch. I won't die. Our lives have just gotten better, and I haven't enjoyed myself enough yet!"

"Alright, Arthur, John," Dutch barked, his voice suddenly sharp, "try to prevent our train from being stopped. Once this iron dragon halts, we're like turtles in a jar."

The train rolled like a beast of war, smoke pouring from its stack. Arthur positioned himself at the rear, eyes scanning the tracks. John took point at the front. Dutch and Hosea held the middle, the train's backbone.

Thunder cracked. The sky opened. Rain slashed down in sheets. Then, out of the curtain of grey, came movement.

Arthur spotted them first: horsemen galloping through the storm, their silhouettes flickering between trees. He grabbed his rifle and fired.

"CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!" The sharp report of his carbine echoed over the thunder. Raiders fell from their saddles, tumbling into the muck.

Screams followed. A dozen men gone before reaching the train. Arthur, his face a snarl of fury, worked the bolt with mechanical speed.

But more came. Thirty, maybe forty. They fanned out, rifles blazing.

"Clang! Clang!" Bullets ricocheted off the armored sides. One of the Jones guards was hit, blood spraying the steel wall.

"Shit!" Arthur growled, ducking. He reached for his bow, nocked a dynamite arrow, and let it fly.

"BOOM!" A wagon erupted in flame, its mounted Maxim gun reduced to molten debris. Horse and crew were obliterated.

In the train's midsection, Dutch was a blur. Both pistols barked in rhythm, cutting through the incoming wave. Blood misted the air. Shell casings littered the floor.

"COME ON THEN!" Dutch bellowed, standing in the open like a mad preacher of death.

Beside him, Hosea took precise shots. One round shattered a rider's knee. Another crippled a horse, flipping man and beast end over end.

"We're not stopping!" Dutch shouted over the din. "You hear me?!"

Forward, John held his own. Raiders boarded a side platform; he met them with cold steel and bullets. A man flew back from a shotgun blast, arms spread wide, like a ragdoll into yhe open field.

Rain mixed with blood, streaking the steel cars. One of the train's guards, panicked, fired blindly and was rewarded with a bullet through his neck.

Then came a new threat. A flatbed wagon roared alongside the train—another Maxim.

"Dynamite!" Arthur shouted. He leapt from the rear platform, landing on the train coupling. Soaked to the bone, he drew another explosive arrow.

The arrow struck true.

"KA-KRACK!" An explosion shattered the sky. The wagon somersaulted in the air, wheels and bodies flying.

The explosion sent ripples down the line. Dutch took advantage, pushing forward. He climbed onto the roof, pistols blazing, clearing more boarders.

Hosea followed, covering him. A bullet grazed his arm, but he didn't falter.

"You sons of bitches picked the wrong damn train!" he spat,he started blasting again.

At the front, John lit one of the dynamite bundles. When the next carriage of attackers pulled up beside them, he tossed it.

"BOOM!" Three riders vanished in a fireball, the carriage splintered into smoking fragments.

Inside the train, Miss O'Shea held a trembling guard's hand. "They're fighting for all of us," she whispered.

The battle stretched on, relentless. For every Raider who fell, two seemed to take his place. But slowly, the tide turned. Too many losses. Too much fire. The enemy began to break.

Dutch, panting atop the train, raised his smoking pistols.

"That's right! RUN! RUN YOU COWARDS"

The remaining Raiders scattered, their retreat a muddy, chaotic rout.

Arthur, bloodied and bruised, slumped against the rail. Hosea lowered his rifle.

John stepped out, breath fogging the rain-soaked air.

"We did it," he said.

Dutch, his face split by a savage grin, looked out into the grey. "We did more than survive. We sent a goddamn message."