Gunpowder and music {Javier}

Chapter 1

Alma looked up from where she was cleaning her Springfield rifle when she heard the loud sound of hooves coming into camp. They had only been there a week but the stifling heat was getting to her.

"Dutch pick up another stray?" she asked the man besides her. He was Dutch's second adopted son and while not the tallest of the group nor the brightest or strongest, he was loyal and good. With shoulder-length brown, greasy hair, brown eyes and a small face with light stubble he was quite attractive in his own way, she supposed.

John Marston shrugged, shot one glance at the newcomer before going back to cleaning his own rifle. "Don't know. Suppose we'll find out soon enough."

Alma nodded and placed her rifle on the wooden table that had seen almost as many camps as she had.

As soon as Dutch walked into view she eagerly stood up and strode over to him. Easily the second tallest, only losing to Bill Williamson, with broad shoulders he was unmistakable. The charismatic leader of their group of outlaws had dark hair that curled at the ends, kind eyes, a thick black mustache and a soul patch. He often dressed in fancy clothes with the theme black and red, and he always wore his custom made twin Schofield revolvers on his gun belt.

At his side stood Hosea Matthews, an old man who had formed the gang together with Dutch Van der Linde. He was cunning and had the best silver tongue she has ever seen. He was tall and thin but had the kindest and most empathetic face she had ever seen. With grey hair and thick clothes he made up the group's father figure.

"Dutch!" She called out, waving a hand. "Did you pick up a new one?" her eyes sparkled at the possibility and she was practically vibrating as she waited with a bated breath.

Dutch chuckled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, my dear girl. Found this one when I was gonna steal chickens for Pearson. Ran into him there, knee deep in mud. None of us got the chickens and the poor feller fell in the dirt when we ran away. Of course I offered him a spot in our family, well... you know how it goes, " he explained to her with a deep chuckle ringing through his words.

Dutch barely finished speaking before Alma launched herself forward with a" can I meet him?"

He gave her a grin but grabbed her before she could run off to the new addition." Now, now, Alma. We don't want to overwhelm him. So why don't you go back to cleaning that gun and I'm sure he'll come by later. When he's ready."

She pouted but nodded and went back over to her seat at the table, grabbing her rifle and resuming her cleaning. Wasn't her fault she gets all excited whenever Dutch brings in a new one and he's never stopped her from going over to meet 'em either.

John snorted from his seat, "maybe he's just shy."

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the man. "Not funny."

"It kinda is."

"It really isn't." Alma argued, loudly.

"Who do you think it is anyways? Anyone we know?" He asked her curiously as they both tried to spot the man that was hiding somewhere behind Dutch's tent.

Alma shook her head. "Nah, if it was he'd have let me greet him. Reckon it's a young one, unknown."

"Fresh blood to corrupt." John bitterly commented and placed his rifle on the table, mindful of the many splinters sticking up from their games of five-finger fillet.

"Don't be like that, John. Go find Abigail or something. You're no fun to be around when you're like this."

He shot a dark glare at her and stood up, making his chair scrape against the ground, digging into the soft ground underneath. "Why would I? The baby's not even mine." He muttered darkly with a shadow of doubt washing over his face.