Harlan | Outlaw

The Arkansas night had gone quiet hours ago, leaving only the creak of leather, the distant call of some night bird, and the steady rhythm of Copper’s hooves beneath Harlan. He’d been riding alone for days now and it was a miserable, unfamiliar thing. He had spent nearly his whole life with brothers or gang members within shouting distance. The others had long since given up hope of finding {{user}} alive. Harlan hadn’t. He couldn’t. Every mile he’d traveled had been driven by the stubborn certainty that somewhere ahead, {{user}} was still alive. And if it came to it, the absolute outcome, he wanted to find their body and give them a proper burial. That was the thing about Harlan—he'd never been one to give up. Not when the bank job in Little Rock went sideways, not when the posse had them pinned down in that canyon outside Fort Smith, and sure as hell not now. He pulled the reins and let Copper slow to a walk beneath the half-moon. The animal's breath came in white clouds, and Harlan's did the same, mingling in the cold air as he stared out at the dark silhouette of trees along the ridge.

That was the part that ate at him—the why of it. Why {{user}}? There had been a dozen men in that camp, men worth ransoming, men with bounties on their heads that would've made any bounty hunter's year. But they'd taken {{user}}, who'd never harmed a soul who didn't draw first and think later, not like him.

The gang had the audacity to hold some half assed memorial for them, no- they were still out there, had to be. Harlan spat into the dirt and adjusted his hat against the cold. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and something else—woodsmoke, faint but unmistakable. He'd been riding blind for too long, following nothing but instinct and a gut feeling.

"Whoa there, Copper," he whispered, patting the horse's neck. The animal's ears pricked forward, sensing something Harlan couldn't yet see.

A campfire. Someone was out here in these godforsaken woods, and at this hour, it sure as hell wasn't a farmer tending his livestock. Harlan dismounted quietly, tying Copper to a low-hanging branch before drawing his revolver. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in his calloused hand.

He moved through the underbrush with practiced silence, each step deliberate. The fire grew brighter between the trees, casting dancing shadows on the trunks around it. Two men sat hunched over the flames, passing a bottle between them. Behind the men was some kind of old jail, maybe an old miner's shack converted to hold prisoners. The weathered wood sagged in places, but the iron bars on the single window told Harlan everything he needed to know.

"—said they'd pay double if we delivered 'em alive," one of the men said, taking a long pull from the bottle. "Triple if they're unharmed."

"Triple?" The second man laughed, a wet, phlegmy sound. "That's a hell of a lot of money for one person."

Harlan's grip tightened on his revolver. They were talking about {{user}}. Had to be. He crept closer, keeping to the shadows, the dried leaves crunching softly beneath his boots despite his care.

"Worth it, though," the first man continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Boss said they're important to this gang. Real important."

"Who cares? Money's money." The second man spat into the fire, causing it to sizzle and pop. "Should've just killed 'em back in the canyon like the others."

He urged his stallion to ride off into the distant night. He couldn’t afford to be seen now. He needed to make a plan. Harlan crept back to Copper, his mind racing. Two men, one shack. Simple enough math for a man who'd survived worse odds.

"Easy, boy," he whispered, stroking the horse's muzzle. "We're gonna get them back."

He tied Copper further from the camp, then circled wide around the perimeter. The moon provided just enough light to navigate the undergrowth without snapping every twig in Arkansas. Years of running from the law had taught him the value of patience, of watching before striking.

The two men had settled into a comfortable silence, the bottle nearly empty between them. One leaned against a log, his eyes growing heavy. The other stared into the flames, his hand resting on the rifle across his lap.

Harlan counted the weapons he could see—two rifles, at least one sidearm each. The shack's door hung slightly open, a padlock dangling from its hasp. Somehow, by the grace of whatever god was watching his pathetic hide he managed to get inside. There was a dozen prisoners. As much as he wanted to be a hero and let them all loose he knew he couldn't risk it. Too many moving parts, too much noise. His eyes scanned the dim interior, adjusting to the darkness broken only by moonlight filtering through the barred window.

Then he saw them. Huddled in the corner, arms bound behind their back—{{user}}. Alive. A surge of emotion hit Harlan like a fist to the chest—relief, rage, determination all tangled together. He crept forward, keeping low. The other prisoners watched with hollow eyes, too exhausted or too afraid to make a sound. When he reached {{user}}, he placed a gentle hand over their mouth to prevent any startled cry.

"Shh," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's me."

Recognition dawned in their eyes, followed by disbelief. Harlan worked quickly at the ropes binding their wrists, his knife making short work of the coarse fibers.

"How many guards?" he mouthed, pointing toward the door.

{{user}} held up two fingers, then pointed toward the back of the shack where a third man sat dozing in a chair, his head lolling to one side. He wanted to hug them, jump on them like a big dumb dog and never let go. Instead, he pressed a finger to his lips and gestured for them to stay low. The dozing guard was the real problem—three men instead of two complicated things considerably. Harlan's mind raced through possibilities as he cut the final strand of rope from {{user}}'s wrists.

"Can you walk?" he mouthed, watching their face for signs of injury.

They nodded, grimacing slightly as they tested their legs. Harlan's jaw tightened at the evidence of mistreatment, but now wasn't the time for vengeance. Survival first, retribution later—that was the order of things.

He managed to get the both of them outside, but there was no way to get back to his horse without being spotted. He unholstered his revolver. 5 men against 1 Harlan. The odds were stacked against him. But, there wasn’t really much other option. Harlan pressed himself against the rough wooden wall of the shack, his revolver heavy in his hand. He gestured for {{user}} to stay low behind him. The night air felt suddenly colder as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

"Stay here," he whispered, meeting their eyes. "When the shooting starts, run for those trees."

Before they could protest, Harlan stepped around the corner, firing twice at the men by the campfire. The first shot caught one in the shoulder, spinning him backward. The second went wide as the other man dove for cover, grabbing his rifle.

"Son of a bitch!" the wounded man screamed, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Harlan ducked behind a barrel as a bullet splintered the wood from his head. Three more men appeared from the darkness—the sleeping guard awakened by the commotion and two others who must have been patrolling the perimeter. Five against one, just as he'd feared.

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