Rain’s been pounding the bayou like a drunk with a grudge. Was riding through the murk when I spotted a wagon—moonshine by the smell of it, twenty gallons sloshing in the back. Figured the owner wouldn’t miss it much; the wolves circling the crates looked hungrier than I felt.
Took the reins, kept the horses calm, and rolled it straight into Saint Denis without a soul raising a brow. Delivered the load to some odd duck calling himself Professor Andrew Bell the Third. Man’s got wild eyes and a tongue full of big words. Says the shine’s for a chair—electric, he calls it. Straps a sinner in, flips a switch, and poof—lights out, no rope, no drop, no crowd baying for blood. Claims it’s “humane.” I’ve seen what lightning does to cattle; didn’t have the heart to tell him “peaceful” ain’t the word I’d use.
He’s short a permit and shorter on sense. Sent me to twist the police chief’s arm for a public show. Guess progress has a price.
I keep thinking about that chair—how quick it’d be, how clean. Cleaner than a bullet, cleaner than a blade. Cleaner than the life I’m living. But clean don’t mean right, and I’ve got a feeling this professor’s invention is gonna burn more than corn liquor.
Still, a job’s a job. And the swamp keeps its secrets.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Comments on Arthur's motivation as curiosity about the invention ("I guess he's just curious to see how it works, right?").
Another bounty poster caught my eye today – Mark Johnson, wanted for God knows what from his old gang days. Rode out to some sorry little homestead south of Rhodes, and there he was, out in the yard, drilling his boy like a damn army sergeant. Kid couldn't get on that horse to save his life, poor thing crying and pleading, wife watching with her heart breaking. Johnson's barking orders – "My son ain't no quitter!" – pushing the boy to prove he's a man. Made my stomach turn. I ain't one for family matters, but this? Felt wrong.
Drew on 'em steady, kept my iron low since I was unarmed. Johnson didn't flinch – knew I was coming. Swore he's a changed man now, got a family to think of. Begged a moment to say his goodbyes. I let him. Watched him pull that boy close, tell him stern-like: "Don't look away. You're the man now. Be a man." Kid bawling, ma holding him after. Johnson's eyes hard, but I saw the regret flicker. Mounted up peaceful, no fight in him.
Ride back to Rhodes was quiet – too quiet. Most bounties yapping the whole way, begging or cursing fate. Not him. "Made my peace," he says. Then, out of nowhere, he bolts – hops off and runs like hell through the brush. Lassoed him quick, dragged him back gasping. Looted a bit off him – salt, some bass – but he was spent, no more tricks.
Should've known better. His old pals jumped us on the trail, thinking they'd free him. Dropped 'em all, no choice.
Rolled into Rhodes jail, sheriff grinning like he won a prize. Locked Johnson up tight. Man's cursing the law now, swearing he's gone straight for his boy. "Someone else woulda took me," he spits. Maybe. But that's the life.
Cut a prisoner loose from a sheriff’s wagon today. One clean shot to the chain, wagon never slowed. He spilled out like a sack of grain, eyes wide with thanks. Then the bastard leapt straight onto my horse, dug in his heels, and spat, “Keep clear, you little shit!” as he rode off with my saddle and my pride.
Tracked him two miles through scrub and mud. Lassoed the thief clean off the beast, hog-tied him tighter than a Sunday ham. He squirmed, swore the Valentine doctor’s got dirty money—offered it up like that’d buy mercy. Mercy ran out the second he touched my reins.
Laid predator bait in a circle, thick and stinking. Waited behind a rock. Nothing came—no wolves, no cats, not even buzzards. Time was burning and so was I. Pulled a bottle from the saddlebag, stuffed the rag, lit it. Flame caught quick. I walked back slow, looked him dead in the eye.
“Should’ve stayed grateful."
Hurled the Molotov. Fire blossomed, swallowed him whole. Screams cut short, replaced by the crackle of fat and cloth. Stood long enough to be sure the job was finished, then whistled my horse. He came back calm, like nothing happened.
Town was quiet till it wasn’t. Two brothers—Proetus and Acrisius, though you’d swear they were cut from different cloth—kicking up dust outside the saloon, yammering over a girl named Helen like she was the last drop of water in Lemoyne. One reeked of swamp rot, the other of cheap pride. Both loud as a busted calliope.
They cornered me with some fool notion of proving who’s the braver suitor. Bottle on the head. First shot rang true. Then smaller bottles. Then one-legged stands. Then the blue-shirt starts hopping like a jackrabbit on fire, begging me to “silence the beast” and put a round through his brother’s skull for good measure. Helen looked ready to bolt. I told them no woman’s worth this circus, but they just kept egging me on.
Last bottle. Hopping fool wobbled, but I held steady—shattered it clean. Both still breathing. The live one crowed like he’d won the derby; the other sulked off muttering about swamps and inadequacy. Helen thanked me quiet, then vanished with the pair trailing after her like stray dogs.
Walked away with a few dollars. Lord, what a waste of powder. Love turns men to damn fools faster than rotgut turns ‘em mean.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Highlighted the technical magic of motion capture and animation, noting how the brothers don't look identical (different actors) but appear as twins thanks to animators' work; appreciated how "the beauty of mo cap" allows for such illusions without needing visual twins.
Dutch had another one of his grand plans today, and like always, I followed. Him, Lenny, and me went to rob a trolley station in Saint Denis, supposing it was flush with cash. Bronte, that snake of a man, fed us the lead, and I should’ve known better than to trust a word from his mouth. The whole thing stank from the start, but Dutch was set on it, talking ‘bout boats to Tahiti, a new life, all that dreaming he’s been clinging to tighter every day.
We stormed in, masks up, guns drawn. Felt like old times, except the weight in my chest don’t lift like it used to. The place was near empty—no stacks of cash, just a few coins in a safe and some loose dollars. Bronte played us like fools. Before we could even curse his name, the law swarmed in like roaches, more cops than I ever seen in one place. Must’ve been waiting for us, tipped off by that greasy son of a bitch.
We bolted for a trolley to escape, Lenny at the reins, Dutch barking orders. I tried slowing that damn thing down, fiddled with the controls ‘til one snapped clean off in my hand. Ain’t no stopping it then. We barreled through Saint Denis, bullets flying, cops on our tail, and that trolley crashing through anything in its path. Dutch took a knock to the head—folks might say that’s when he started losing it, but I reckon his cheese been sliding off the cracker for a while now. Ain’t no single bump that done it; it’s the weight of all this chaos we been carrying.
Made it out by the skin of our teeth, hiding in alleys, shooting our way through. Lenny held his own, that kid’s tougher than he looks, but I could see the worry in his eyes. We got away with fifteen dollars and a quarter—fifteen damn dollars for all that trouble. Dutch was spitting mad, cursing Bronte, saying the bank’s our next bet. Hosea agrees, but I don’t know. Every job feels like we’re digging a deeper hole.
I keep thinking about what Dutch said—about Tahiti, about being reborn. Sounds nice, but I ain’t sure I believe in it no more. Loyalty’s kept me here, but it’s starting to feel like chains. We’re running out of time, and I’m running out of faith. All I know is, if we keep following Dutch’s dreams, we might not live long enough to see them.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Roger recounts a funny studio moment where he broke a prop control during the trolley scene, causing laughter.
Met a peculiar fella today, name of Evelyn Miller, at some fancy shindig in Saint Denis. Recognized him from that mayor’s ball a while back—same highfaluting air, talking big ideas like Dutch does, only with less fire and more book-learning. He’s got a way of looking at you, like he’s sizing up your soul. Turns out, he’s tangled up with Rains Fall, a chief of the Wapiti tribe. Fine man, Rains Fall. Carries a weight in his eyes, like he’s seen too much of this world’s cruelty but ain’t ready to give up yet. His son, Eagle Flies, was there too—young, hot-headed, itching to fight. Reminds me of a younger me, or maybe John, back when we thought we could outrun our troubles.
Miller and Rains Fall had a job for me, though I ain’t sure I like it. They want me to steal some papers from Leviticus Cornwall’s men—reports about oil under Wapiti land. Seems Cornwall’s planning to rip that land right out from under them, treaty or no treaty. Rains Fall spoke calm, but you could hear the pain in his voice, talking ‘bout how his people been pushed and pushed till there ain’t nowhere left to go. Eagle Flies looked ready to start a war right then and there. Miller, he just stood there, all nervous-like, saying he’s useless for this kinda work but desperate enough to ask a fella like me.
I told them I ain’t no do-gooder. Got my own problems, my own people to look after. But they offered to pay, and hell, with the law breathing down our necks and Dutch dreaming of Tahiti, money’s money. Still, something about Rains Fall’s words stuck with me. He said they’re running outta time, just like us. Ain’t that the truth? Feels like we’re all racing against a clock that’s ticking faster every day.
Miller mentioned I mighta robbed the mayor at that ball. Said the mayor liked me for it, which is a damn strange thing to hear. Makes me wonder what kinda world we’re living in, where a thief gets a nod for his troubles. Didn’t admit to nothing, mind you. Ain’t that foolish. Agreed to meet Eagle Flies in a couple days near Citadel Rock to see about them papers. Hope I ain’t walking into another mess. I got a bad feeling this oil business is gonna stir up more trouble than it’s worth.
Roger Clark Commentary:
He praises Jeremiah Bitsui (Eagle Flies) and Graham Green (Rains Fall), noting Green’s recent passing and their roles in Breaking Bad and Dances with Wolves.
He draws parallels between Red Dead Redemption 2 and Dances with Wolves, citing journal-keeping and thematic similarities.
Trelawny’s got a silver tongue, I’ll give him that. Dragged me into another one of his grand schemes tonight, this time on some fancy riverboat called the Grand Korrigan. Said we was to rob a fella named Desmond Blythe, some hosiery baron with a fat wallet and a fancier watch. A Roinger, Swiss-made, worth more than most folks’ houses. Sounded simple enough—play poker, win big, get led to the safe upstairs. But with Trelawny, nothing’s ever as clean as he paints it.
Got me all gussied up like some oil baron, three-piece suit and a fresh shave. Felt like a damn fool, strutting around like I belong with them high-society types. Trelawny, Strauss, and Javier were in on it, with the dealer rigged to slip me the right cards. I ain’t no cardsharp, but I played the part, puffing out my chest like Trelawny told me. Desmond Blythe didn’t suspect a thing, least not till I cleaned him out with an ace-high flush. Man looked like he’d swallowed a lemon when I asked about that watch.
Sure enough, they took me upstairs to the safe, but it went sideways quick. Some loudmouth guard started jawing about not trusting Javier—called him a “greaser” one too many times. Next thing I know, guns are drawn, and we’re clearing out the safe in a hurry. Few thousand dollars and that shiny Roinger watch in hand, but the whole damn boat turned into a hornet’s nest. We fought our way out, bullets flying, and ended up diving into the river to escape. Strauss, of all people, swam like a damn fish. Who’d have thought?
Trelawny’s plan was half-baked, as usual. Javier knew where to go, but I swear we was one wrong turn from dancing as showgirls to get out, like he joked. Got away clean, though, and that watch fetched a pretty penny at the fence. Still, I can’t shake the feeling this life’s getting heavier. Robbing folk in fancy suits don’t feel as innocent as it used to. Trelawny says we’re the authors of our own fortune, but I’m starting to wonder if I’m writing a story that ends with me in a noose.
Dutch keeps talking about Tahiti, a boat, a new life. But after Bronte’s setup with that trolley job, I ain’t so sure about his leads no more. This riverboat score worked out, but for how long? I’m loyal to the gang, always will be, but every job feels like we’re dancing closer to the edge. And Mary… hell, she asked me to run away with her tonight. I wanted to, more than anything, but I got folks to look after. Ain’t free till they are.
Maybe I’m just tired. That watch is nice, though. Real nice.
Some days, I reckon I ain’t cut out for this city life. Saint Denis is a whirlwind of noise, folks, and foolishness, and today proved it. Ran into that French painter, Charles Chatenay, at some fancy art gallery. Man’s got a knack for stirring up trouble with them paintbrushes of his. His exhibition was full of naked folks on canvas—men and women, bold as brass, no shame in them. Supposed to be “natural” or some such nonsense. Charles says it’s freedom, like we’re all just animals in paradise. I ain’t no scholar, but I reckon clothes ain’t the enemy he makes them out to be.
Crowd didn’t take kindly to it neither. Some lady was hollering about her husband’s backside being on display, and before I knew it, fists were flying. I tried to break it up, but damn if I didn’t swing at the wrong fella in the heat of it. Got myself a good licking for my trouble—rich folks hit harder than you’d think. Charles, he just laughed it off, calling it “provoking emotions.” Provoking a black eye, more like. He hightailed it out, saying he’s got a lady to hide with. Left me with a painting he claims’ll be worth something someday. Right now, it’s only good for getting me another kick in the pants.
This whole mess got me thinking. Charles, for all his lunacy, ain’t afraid to be what he is, even if it riles folks up. Me, I’m stuck hiding who I am, running from the law, the gang’s troubles, and my own damn head. Dutch keeps talking about Tahiti or some paradise, but I’m starting to wonder if we’re just chasing shadows. City’s full of folks like Charles, living free in their own way, while I’m tangled up in loyalty to a dream that’s fraying at the edges. Ain’t sure what’s worse—being a fraud like he says he was, or believing in one like I do.
Got to get outta this gallery stink before it drives me as mad as these paintings. Saint Denis is too loud for a man like me.
Another day in this damn city, and I’m still tangled up in Mary’s troubles. Got a letter from her, voice as sweet as ever, even through ink. She was desperate, said her daddy was in a bad way—drinking, gambling, selling off family heirlooms like they ain’t worth a damn. Guess I shoulda known better than to think I could stay clear of her. Always did have a way of pulling me back in, like a rope I can’t cut.
Rode into Saint Denis to meet her. Found her near the stables, eyes full of worry and something else—hope, maybe, that I’d fix things like I used to try. She said her old man was down by the warehouse district, up to no good. Followed him through the muck and the crowds, tailing him like some damn bounty hunter. Man’s a mess, stumbling drunk, puking in alleys, selling Mary’s mother’s brooch to some slick feller named Ashton. A family heirloom, gone for a handful of coins to feed his vices. Made my blood boil to see it.
Chased that Ashton down, damn near ran my horse ragged through the foggy streets. He was headed for a stagecoach, thought he could slip away. I ain’t no gentleman, but I got that brooch back—cost me some words and a few threats, but no blood, for Mary’s sake. She didn’t want nobody hurt, not even her fool of a father. Handed her the brooch, and her eyes lit up, but there was a sadness there too. Always is with us.
She asked me to take her to the theater after, some fancy show in the heart of Saint Denis. Felt out of place, all them lights and gaudy costumes, fire dancers and half-dressed ladies prancing about. The crowd ate it up, clapping like it was the second coming. Me and Mary sat close, and for a moment, I could almost pretend we was just folks, not an outlaw and a woman tied to a life I can’t have. Didn’t get no chance to make a move, though—probably for the best. Ain’t no future there, no matter how much I wish different.
Walked her to the trolley after. She asked if it was too late for us, and hell, I wanted to say it ain’t, to run off with her right then and there. But I got the gang, Dutch, John, little Jack—all them folks counting on me. Told her I gotta see them safe first, but the words felt hollow. She knows I won’t leave, and I know she can’t wait forever. Rode away feeling like I left a piece of myself behind.
Her daddy’s a lost cause, but Mary… she’s still the same girl I loved years ago. Maybe I’m the fool for thinking I could ever be more than what I am. This life don’t let go easy, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever break free.
Ain’t sure what I’m doing in this damn city sometimes. Saint Denis is all hustle and noise, folks running around like they got somewhere important to be, but half of them look like they’re just chasing their own tails. Got roped into helping Sister Calderon today, one of them church folks Brother Dorkins was going on about. Seems like a decent woman, trying to do some good in this mess of a world. She got her crucifix stole by some street kids—little bastards faster than a jackrabbit and twice as slippery. Chased one down through the alleys, dodging cops who seemed to know I was coming before I even got there. Got the cross back, though, and handed it to her. Said it was her mother’s, from when she was a novice. Meant something to her, I could tell.
She called me a “wonderful man,” which near made me laugh. Brother Dorkins must’ve filled her head with nonsense. Ain’t nothing wonderful about me, except maybe my aim on a good day. Still, it felt… nice, I guess, doing something that didn’t end in blood or bullets for once. Honor’s a funny thing—been doing plenty of questionable deeds lately, but somehow I ain’t sunk too low yet. Maybe there’s hope for me, or maybe I’m just fooling myself.
This city’s got a way of making you feel small, all its fancy lights and cobbled streets. Sister Calderon, though, she’s got a calmness to her, like she sees through all the noise. Makes me wonder what she’d say if she knew the half of what I’ve done. Probably still smile and hand me a pamphlet. Strange to think she’s out here trying to save souls while I’m out here losing mine.
I ain’t one for superstition, but today shook me in a way I can’t quite shake off. Was riding through the swamps north of Saint Denis, minding my own business, when the world turned strange. Sun was up, bright as you please, not a cloud to speak of. Figured I’d be safe from the usual terrors that creep in these parts come nightfall. But then, out of nowhere, they came for me—the Night Folk. In broad daylight, no less. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Night Folk, they call them, but seems they don’t much care for their own name.
It started with a rustle, too quiet for comfort, like the swamp itself was holding its breath. Then they were on me—silent as ghosts, eyes wild, knives flashing like they meant to carve me up for supper. I barely got my wits about me before I was firing back, heart pounding like a war drum. Got them down, but not before they left a chill in my bones. Found a note on a poor soul nearby, said the Night Folk haunted his dreams and now his waking hours too. Reckon I know what he meant now. Didn’t even sign his name, like he knew he was already gone.
I keep turning it over in my head—Night Folk in the day? Ain’t right. They’re supposed to be shadows, not strolling about under the sun like they own the place. Makes me wonder what else in this world don’t follow the rules we think it should. Swamps always been a bad place, full of things that’d rather see you dead than look at you. But this… this was something else. Got me thinking maybe the world’s getting crazier than Dutch’s plans, and that’s saying something.
I rode out quick, horse skittish as me. Can’t say I’ll be eager to cut through them marshes again anytime soon. Whatever those Night Folk are, they ain’t just stories to scare kids. They’re real, and they don’t give a damn what time of day it is. Makes a man question what he knows about this life—and what’s waiting for him in the shadows, day or night.
Micah came to me today with one of his grand schemes—robbing a BS Overland stagecoach crossing the river into the swamps. Said he had a man on the inside, not some O’Driscoll this time, and all we needed was three sticks of dynamite, a couple of pistols, and me and Bill to back him up. Sounded simple enough, but with Micah, nothing ever is. That man’s got a way of talking that grates on me, like a burr under a saddle. Kept going on about how we oughta cut loose half the camp—called the girls dead weight, even Abigail. I ain’t got no love for him, but his missions usually got some fire in them, so I went along.
We set up at the bridge, dynamite ready to blow the coach sky-high. Micah was all sneers and big talk, trying to stir up trouble about John, saying he’s disloyal, challenging Dutch at every turn. I shut that down quick—John’s been with me fifteen years, and I ain’t got doubts about him. Micah’s the one I don’t trust, always schemin’, always looking to cut corners or throats. Bill was there too, eager as ever, but I reckon this job was a death sentence waiting to happen with them two.
When the coach came, I lit the fuse, and damn if we didn’t overdo it. The blast tore that thing apart—money, horses, all of it. Felt sick seeing those poor animals caught in the mess. I didn’t mean for that. We scrambled for what was left, but the loot was half-ruined, barely enough to split. Micah got bossy, barking orders like he’s Dutch himself, and I had to bite my tongue not to knock him flat. We hightailed it out, leaving a trail of smoke and regret.
This whole thing felt off, like Micah’s leading us into deeper trouble. He’s got no care for the camp, just his own hide and whatever coin he can pocket. I’m starting to wonder if Dutch listens to him too much. We’re in Saint Denis now, surrounded by Pinkertons and O’Driscolls who know exactly where we are. Ain’t no hiding anymore. I keep thinking about what Micah said—about needing a tighter crew, about running off. Maybe he’s right that we’re carrying too much weight, but it ain’t the girls or the camp. It’s him, dragging us all down with his poison.
Christ, what a bloodbath. Woke to the crack of gunfire and screams tearing through the swamp like the devil himself had come calling. Them O'Driscoll bastards—Colm's ghosts, more like—swarmed the camp out of the mist, yellering and shooting wild. Must've been two dozen, maybe more, crashing through the trees like a storm from hell. We barely had time to grab our irons before they were on us.
I saw Kieran first, poor sod. Tied on a horse like a hog waiting for the knife, they took his head clean off, holding his own damn head. He weren't no fighter, just a scared kid with a horse's name and a heart too soft for this life. Saved me once, and now he's lying there headless, blood soaking the mud. Reminds me of them old pictures in Saint Denis, the ones of that French martyr fella, Denis, clutching his noggin after the chop. Martyr or fool, don't matter. Kieran's gone, and it feels like another piece of us got hacked away with him.
Sadie... Jesus, Sadie was a fury. That widow's got fire in her veins hotter than a branding iron. She charged out swinging a shotgun like it was her lost husband's ghost driving her, blasting them raiders left and right. Took down three, maybe four, before they even knew what hit them. Brave don't cover it—reckless, maybe, but the kind that keeps the rest of us breathing. I covered her as best I could, picking off the snakes hiding in the brush, but she didn't need saving. She's the one who dragged me back when I got pinned.
We barricaded the house like rats in a trap—bookcases against the doors, tables for cover, the whole damn parlor turned into a fort. Dutch barking orders, John and Charles holding the windows, Bill reloading like a man possessed. Bullets whizzing past, tearing chunks out of the walls, and that humid stink of powder and blood hanging thick as fog. Felt like it lasted hours, but it was over quick enough. We drove them back into the bayou, leaving a trail of their dead. They scattered like roaches when the light hits.
Camp's a ruin now—bodies everywhere, our boys nursing wounds, the women shaking but standing tall. Abigail clutched Jack close, eyes hard as flint. Miss Grimshaw's already fussing over the mess, but even she looks rattled. Dutch says it's a sign, that we gotta think bigger, move on from this swamp hole. "Vastness of our problems," he calls it, pacing like a caged wolf. Maybe he's right. This ain't home no more. Just a graveyard for fools like Kieran.
I keep seeing his face, that dumb, earnest grin he had when he wasn't twitching like a cornered rabbit. Tortured him, they did—probably squeezed every secret outta him 'til he broke. Can't blame the boy if he sung; I'd crack too under that. But it stings, knowing we might've fed them our trail. Sadie wants blood, and hell, so do I. Colm's got a reckoning comin', and I'll see it through if it kills me. For Kieran. For all of us slipping away one head at a time.
What a damn farce tonight was. Dressed up like some prissy peacock in a stiff collar and tails that pinched worse than a bear trap, me and Bill shuffling into that mayor's ball like a pair of stray dogs at a wedding feast. Hosea, bless his scheming heart, thought it'd be the perfect way to rub elbows with the high and mighty—make "real contact," he says, not just lift a few purses. And Dutch? He ate it up, strutting in like he owned the place, eyes gleaming with that old fire about climbing society's ladder. Social climbing, my ass. More like scraping the bottom of a gilded boot.
We handed over our irons at the door—Luca, that slick Italian snake, grinning like he knew we'd come crawling back bloody-handed. No guns at official functions, after last year's "incident." Wonder what fool sparked that one. The house itself? A palace of polished marble and crystal chandeliers, all lit up like a whorehouse on payday. Fireworks cracking overhead, painting the sky red and gold—felt like the Fourth of July. Thunder rumbling in the distance, like the Lord Himself was laughing at us.
Angelo Bronte, the guest of honor, slithered through the crowd like a cottonmouth in silk. Invited us in, then spent the evening spitting venom. Pointed out the rot in every face: Mayor Lemieux, that spineless toad, who'd sell his own mama for a dollar; Alberto Fussar, the sugar baron from them islands, fat and foul with debauchery; old Major Hart Crowley, Confederate hero turned lecher, pawing at his young bride like she was a trophy from the war he lost. And that newspaper hack, Hector Feliciano—Bronte half-joked I'd kill him someday. "These vulgar people, they hate me," he says, like he ain't the worst of the lot. Hates us too, called us "shysters and traitors," longing for the days we'd "shoot each other and screw cows out on the open range." Damn near laughed at that. Man's got a tongue sharper than my knife, I'll give him that.
Mingled as best I could—awkward as a three-legged horse in a china shop. Bill looked ridiculous, pants hiked up like floods waiting to burst, fumbling for excuses to slug someone. Drunk fools brawling in corners, Evelyn Miller holding court like some prophet in a tailcoat, preaching about the Indians' land and the poison of progress. Spoke to him myself—quiet words about the chief we met, lobbying these fat cats for scraps of justice. Dutch would lose his mind if he knew; Miller's his saint, after all. Me? I just nodded, felt the weight of it all pressing down. Picked a few pockets, nicked some papers from the study—top secret, confidential, all about bonds and banks. Could be our ticket out, or another grave.
Bronte slipped us a tip at the end: cash at the trolley station, ripe for the taking. "As my guest," he says, washing his hands of it. Sly bastard. We slipped out the back, fireworks fading like a bad dream. Hosea's already scouting the bank, Abigail playing distraction. Irish is sniffing around that riverboat for a high-stakes game. One big score, Dutch says, and we're gone. Home. Wherever the hell that is.
But walking those halls, hearing the laughter echo off the walls... it ain't joy. It's a cage, dressed in finery. All these fine folks, dancing and scheming, blind to the blood on their ledgers. Makes the open range feel like freedom, even if it's just wind and regret. I ain't cut for this civilization. Give me the dirt under my nails and a clear shot any day.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Reflects 1890s New Orleans elite: "Politics is a foul business," blending post-Civil War "Lost Cause" nostalgia with robber-baron greed. Accurate to real "staging post" for exploitative labor (e.g., islands like Guarma echo abolished-but-lingering slavery).
Bronte as mafia kingpin is "not accurate." Real 1890s Sicilians were poor stevedores/fruit vendors, victims of anti-immigrant hostility like the 1891 New Orleans lynching of 11 innocents. Italians were ~90% of city's southern European immigrants but targets, not perpetrators.
Escorting Evelyn Miller was "hard to mo-cap"—required multiple takes for every interaction path (drunk brawls, greetings). Actor Jim Piddock (Miller) was a "good sport."
Spent the afternoon knee-deep in the muck of the bayou, chasing shadows and dodging gators, only to end up playing nursemaid to some Eastern European crackpot with a head full of lightning and a mouth full of curses. Professor Marko Dragic, he calls himself – though from the way he spat "genius" like it was gospel, you'd think he invented the sun itself. Found him out by the water's edge, fiddling with these little toy boats, no bigger than a man's boot, bobbing around in a kiddie pond like they had minds of their own.
He was in a right state, hollering about "shysters" and "traitors" – reckoned the silver-tongued Yankee who'd promised him funding had stiffed him cold. Looked like a scarecrow in a top hat, eyes wild as a cornered coon, waving this contraption at me and a couple of wide-eyed old biddies who'd wandered over for the show. "Not toys!" he barked. "Demonstrations of the infinite!" Some hogwash about powering them with waves you can't see – electricity, he said, zipping through the air like God's own whisper. No wires, no pulleys, just invisible fingers steering the damn things.
Well, they handed me the controls – a pair of levers and a trigger for these pint-sized torpedoes – and told me to blow up a fleet of toy battleships. Felt like a fool, hunkered there with the wind off the swamp stinking of rot, but I'll be damned if it didn't work. The boats darted left and right, dodging magnetic mines that pulled the blasts wide, and I sank every last one with a satisfying pop. Dragic whooped like a Comanche on the warpath, crowing about immortality and "the source of life." The old ladies clapped, and that Yankee feller – Marcel, the investor – mumbled something about lunch and funding, but his eyes were dollar signs, not stars.
Dragic's got that fire, the kind that burns a man up from the inside. Invited me up to his lab at Doverhill, says he's got miracles that'll make steam engines look like ox carts. Miracles that need coin, of course. Always does. The world's changing faster than a prairie fire – toys that think, waves that command the seas. Makes a fella wonder: what's left for men like me when even the lightning bends to a madman's will? Sinking those little ships felt good. Like I had the reins on something bigger than my own sorry hide.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Dragic embodies Nikola Tesla's real 1890s struggles – wireless power demos (e.g., Tesla's 1893 Chicago World's Fair experiments) dismissed as parlor tricks by rivals like Edison/J.P. Morgan. Tori Olsson ties this to RDR2's theme of "progress" clashing with Gilded Age greed: "Inventors like Tesla were visionaries, but funding dried up for 'impractical' ideas."
Remote control via "waves in the air" nods to early radio/electromagnetism (Marconi's 1895 patents). Olsson praises Rockstar's subtlety: "It's not just whimsy – it's showing how 1899 America viewed electricity as 'magic' or fraud, like Dragic's 'stuff of life' pitch for immortality."
Olsson notes the mission glosses over immigrant inventor biases (Tesla was Serbian-American, facing xenophobia like the game's Sicilians).
Clark recalls set antics – the remote-control sequence was "tricky to film" with props; actors improvised Dragic's rants for authenticity. "We had these little toy boats in a tank – half the takes ended in splashes."
The bayou's got a way of swallowing secrets, but today I dragged one out kicking and screaming. Lindsey Wofford—some half-mad general of the Lemoyne Raiders, decked out in that faded gray like the war never ended. Thirty-four years since Appomattox, and these fools are still playing soldier, flying the rebel flag over tobacco fields that ain't seen a fair day's work since emancipation. Rode north to fetch him in, bounty poster crumpled in my saddlebag. Dollars for his head, or alive if I could manage it. Alive means questions, though, and I ain't one for chit-chat with ghosts of Dixie.
Rode up quiet as I could, the air thick with humidity and the stink of swamp rot. Spotted their camp from the ridge. Dynamite bundles scattered careless, begging for a spark. Tied off the horse, crept low through the underbrush, heart thumping steady against my ribs. These raiders ain't O'Driscolls, but they're kin enough—mean, ragged, clinging to grudges older than me. Wofford's lot, they whisper about the "War of Northern Aggression" like it's fresh ink, monuments to traitors gleaming new in Saint Denis while the real scars fester in the dirt.
First shot from the shadows—dropped two before they knew I was there. Chaos erupted like a hornet's nest kicked over. Bullets whizzed past, splintering cypress knees, but I had the high ground. Switched to the Gatling, that devil's chatterbox spitting lead like it had a grudge of its own. Mowed them down in arcs, the barrel hot enough to fry eggs. Wofford himself—mustache like a broom swept wrong—charged out roaring, pistol blazing. Caught him square in the chest with a dead-eye pull. He crumpled, eyes wide, mumbling something about "the Cause" before the light went out. No time for mercy; these boys don't deserve it, and the law don't pay extra for confessions.
Looted what was left: a Civil War knife, still sharp with ghosts of bayonets; gold nuggets glinting like fool's promises; a hat that might've fit Bill in another life. Even a cigarette card, some faded lady with eyes like Mary's—damn near tossed it in the muck. Dragged Wofford's carcass over my saddle, the weight pulling at me like sin. On the ride back to Saint Denis, his boys tried an ambush—bushwhackers popping from the reeds like boils. Put them down quick, no honor lost in the killing. These raiders, they're poison, same as the Klan hoods lurking in the hollows.
Tossed him at the sheriff's feet like yesterday's catch. "Federal warrant," I growled, pocketing the payout. Walked out into the jazz haze of the city, feeling the noose of progress tightening. Bronte's shadow looms larger now, and Dutch is scheming something grander than bounties. But as I scratched this down by lantern light, ink smudging under my thumb, I can't shake Wofford's last gasp. The war's over, but it ain't. It's in the blood, the fields, the fools who still wear gray. One less today, but how many more tomorrows?
Roger Clark Commentary:
Capturing Wofford alive unlocks extra dialogue about the gang, but Clark kills him, regretting the missed intel
Tori Olsson explains the raiders' gray Confederate uniforms reflect real 1890s Southerners clinging to Civil War memory, akin to KKK groups. Rockstar draws from post-war "Lost Cause" mythology, where defeated Confederates were romanticized. Real raiders didn't exist as a unified gang, but fragmented militias persisted.
Rode out from Shady Belle today, the air thick as molasses with that Southern rot. Dutch is scheming on big scores in Saint Denis, but a man needs space to think, away from Micah's sneers and Bill's bellyaching. Found myself wandering an old battlefield, one of them Civil War graves. Grass choked with weeds, but you can still feel it – the ghosts hollering over the mud. Cannon craters like pox scars on the earth, trees splintered and twisted like they caught the devil's own lead. Been thirty-four years since Appomattox, and here it is, clawing up from the dirt like it never ended.
Picked up a rusted Minie ball off the ground, rolled it in my palm. Heavy as regret. Wonder how many boys like me – farmhands, drifters, fools with dreams bigger than their britches – charged into that meat grinder for some flag they barely understood. Union blue, Rebel gray... all turned the same shade of red in the end. Saw a monument once in Rhodes, some Confederate general on a horse, rearing up like he owned the sky. Graffiti scrawled on the base: Coward. Made me chuckle, dark-like. Folks down here still fighting that war in their heads, building statues to losers like it's gospel. White sheets and gray uniforms, all the same poison.
Makes me think of the gang. We're our own kinda rebels, scraping against the tide of trains and telegraphs, but what's the cause? Freedom? Ha. Or just surviving one more sunset without a noose? The scars here run deep – in the land, in the people. Black sharecroppers bent double in them tobacco fields, white ones too, all chained to the same dirt lords like Cornwall. History don't heal; it festers. Touched one of them craters with my boot, felt the echo of screams. If this is what "progress" leaves behind, maybe the open range wasn't so bad after all.
Roger Clark Commentary:
Tori Olsson praises the battlefield as a "super interesting" narrative device, showing how past violence (e.g., Union-Confederate clashes) informs 1899's tensions like sharecropping and racial divides. He ties it to his book Red Dead's History, where such sites symbolize unhealed "scars."
Olsson corrects a subtle inaccuracy—real Confederate monuments peaked in the 1890s "Lost Cause" era, often "glittering new" to rewrite history (e.g., heroizing the "War of Northern Aggression").
