I jumped a little starteld I hadn't noticed this guy right behind me
Another stranger with sharp eyes and an older calm. Dutch called him Hosea, and when he spoke, Dutch listened. That meant something.
I climbed up onto the saddle, clumsy but a little better than before.
"He's got a name?" Arthur asked, squinting at the horse.
I thought for a second. "Polaris."
Arthur snorted….
....
The ride was long, slow, and mostly quiet. Woods stretched into hills. Hills into flatlands. And after the hell I'd just crawled through, even the silence felt like a mercy.
We camped when the sun dipped low. They moved like clockwork—setting up, feeding the horses, lighting a fire. I did what I could without looking useless.
.....
By the third day, I stopped feeling like dead weight.
We took shifts riding side by side. Arthur opened up a little more each day not a lot, but enough. Mostly jabs, but not cruel ones.
"You always this quiet Wyatt"
"Only when I'm thinking"
Arthur grunted "that sounds dangerous"
"Maybe for you" I snickerd
Later, when we were riding past a small creek, he asked, "Where'd you get that horse anyway?"
I shrugged. "He found me."
"Hope he don't regret it."
Hosea laughed at that.
...…
Dutch sometimes broke the quiet with little speeches. About freedom. Brotherhood. "Building something that lasts." He talked about people like they were tools and treasures at the same time.
Part of me liked it.
The other part remembered trailers and cutscenes and the weight of where this all ends.
....
On the fourth day, Dutch called me over while Arthur and Hosea argued over a busted can opener.
"You're not bad on that horse," he said.
"Still feels like I'm gonna fall off most of the time," I admitted.
"You will," Dutch said with a grin. "That's how you learn."
Then he leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. "We got a rule, son. If you ride with us, you learn how to survive. Not just eat and shoot. I mean live."
He gestured toward the woods.
"You know how to fish?"
I shook my head.
"Build a fire?"
I hesitated. "Sort of."
He nodded like that was enough. "Arthur'll teach you how to ride proper. Hosea'll show you how to track. I'll teach you to shoot."
He paused.
"And we'll show you how to use the eye."
That stopped me.
"The what?"
Hosea looked up from where he was poking the fire. "Everyone's got it," he said. "Just most folks go their whole lives never learning to use it."
Arthur tapped the side of his head. "It's in here. And here." He pointed to his chest. "You ever notice time slow down when you're scared?"
I nodded. I'd felt it. When the horse reared. When the gun went off in town. Time had bent.
"That's the eye," Dutch said. "It's part instinct. Part focus. You train it, it'll save your life."
Hosea added, "And it ain't just shootin'. It's seein' things—tracks, signs. Ghosts in the trees."
I wasn't sure if he was joking.
But that night, I sat up near the fire and stared at the shadows, trying to feel it. That strange edge of magic—quiet, hidden, but real.
And for a second, I swear the trees shimmered.
By the end of the week, I could build a fire without choking on the smoke. I could cast a line without hooking my ear. And I could stay on Polaris when he bolted—usually.
At night, Arthur would toss me scraps and say things like "Try not to burn the whole forest down" and "Next time, gut the fish before you cook it."
He was a pain in the ass.
But he watched my back.
And he hadn't called me dead weight in two days.
That had to count for something.
One night, Dutch handed me an old revolver. "It's time."
I turned it over in my hands. It felt heavier than it looked.
"Don't shoot your foot off," Arthur called.
I raised it. Took a breath.
And for a moment, time slowed.
Just like they said.
I fired.
The bottle on the fencepost shattered.
And when Dutch smiled at me really smiled—I realized something.
I was starting to feel at home maybe life won't be so bad here after all. ZB