Red Dead Redemption 2: The Gunslinger

The green of the plains only ended where the blue of the sky began, vast and clear. Birds cut through the air in freedom, and a few white clouds drifted high above. At the top of a solitary hill, a scene of silent communion. A young man, sitting on a rock, bit into an apple while watching wild horses grazing in the distance.

They were magnificent. Tense, fast, made of muscle and instinct.

Chris tried to identify them in a quiet little game as he finished his meal.

"Black Rabicano…" he murmured, noticing the black coat with a white underbelly. "And that one's a Chestnut."

He looked like a kid in a toy store. Studying them, choosing a favorite. But here, it wasn't enough to point at the one you wanted and pay for it. You had to earn it.

They were wild. Untamed.

But desire breeds courage, and Chris had his fair share of experience with animals like these, courtesy of the work he did.

He stood up slowly. Took a deep breath. Dropped the apple core onto the dry earth. Then, from his belt, he pulled the rope Amos had given him.

He took uncertain steps toward the horses. Gradually, his movements became more assured. Quiet, calm, he approached like an old friend — no rush, no tension. He thought about the game. He always found this part... boring. He preferred chasing them at a gallop, lassoing, throwing himself over the one he caught.

If only it still worked that way...

The closer he got, the more horses he could identify. Mostly Tennessee Walkers. A mustang... and one...

'What's that one?' he wondered, narrowing his eyes.

A beautiful horse grazed undisturbed, even as some of the others were already backing away after noticing his presence. Its coat was such a deep brown it bordered on dark red, almost blood-colored. Its ankles were white, as was the stripe running down its face.

'Almost blood-colored... Blood Bay.' His eyes widened, surprised by the memory. "A Thoroughbred?"

He said it out loud without meaning to.

At the sound of his voice, the horse finally looked up. Lifted its head from the grass and locked eyes with him.

Chris, without even realizing it, was already walking toward it. The other horses had fled, and he hadn't even noticed.

He took another step, and the horse stirred. Chris stopped immediately, raising one hand.

"Easy now, boy… It's alright…" he said gently. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You know that."

He only moved again once the horse calmed. One step, then another, and another. Every time the animal showed the slightest sign of tension, Chris stopped and spoke to it. He bent his knees and lowered his torso, trying to appear harmless.

Little by little, they stood face to face.

Man and beast. Small and large.

With extreme care, Chris reached out and touched the horse's neck. Gave it a few gentle pats, scratched through the fur, and was rewarded with a light snort.

He circled carefully, moving to the horse's side. Placed a hand on its back.

Took a deep breath.

What he was about to do might be pure madness.

Chris mounted.

The horse reacted as if stung by a snake, bursting into motion. It neighed like it was under attack. Kicked into the air, tearing up grass and dirt with its hooves. Took off across the pasture.

Chris clung to its mane like his life depended on it. Shifted his weight with every jolt, trying not to be thrown. It was hard. Within seconds, his entire body screamed in exhaustion.

Sweat poured down his bare forehead. His hat? Long gone in the first few bucks.

But the Thoroughbred…

Not a hint of fatigue. It moved with endless vigor — the fury of something born to run.

Eventually, Chris couldn't hold on. One higher jump, and he was thrown hard against the ground.

He lay there for a while. Eyes fixed on the sky, body throbbing in waves. Dust still hung in the air where the horse had passed.

It didn't come back. It was gone, probably back with the herd.

Chris sat up slowly, muscles protesting. Spat dirt from his mouth, wiped sweat from his face.

He spotted his hat a few meters ahead, lying on its side just like he had been seconds before.

He limped over, picked it up with a dirty hand, and slapped it against his leg. Placed it back on his head like nothing had happened. But it had. And he felt the weight of it on his body, and his soul.

The Thoroughbred was gone.

He gathered what little pride he had left and began looking for a place to set up camp.

...

Chris climbed down the hill with difficulty, crossing what remained of an old riverbed. Dewberry Creek. Crossing it meant crossing a border, leaving the Heartlands and New Hanover behind, and entering Lemoyne.

He climbed up the opposite bank and searched for thicker woods. Somewhere out of sight. More hidden. Safer.

There, he made a simple camp. An improvised tent with branches and the old blanket Amos had given him. In front of it, a small fire of dry twigs already starting to crackle.

And night fell...

Chris sat near the fire, eyes fixed on the flames. The crackle of burning wood mixed with the soft rustle of the forest.

He thought about the horse. The flames danced in his eyes as if mimicking his mind, his restless thoughts.

His body ached, yes. But luckily, there were no cuts. No broken bones. And, certainly, no discouragement.

The next day, he'd try again. That was the horse he wanted.

Before lying down, he fed the fire one last time. The revolver stayed within reach.

Sleep came quickly.

But that night, it wouldn't last long.

...

It was discomfort that woke Chris.

Maybe the itch of grass scraping his skin, maybe the cold seeping in after the fire finally died. He didn't know what it was, but something felt off. The forest's silence was too thick.

No crickets. No birds… Nothing.

Chris opened his eyes. His body remained still, but his senses were on alert.

Something was wrong.

His hand slid silently to the Cattleman beside him, and he gripped the handle tight.

Crack.

A broken branch. Not far, he guessed.

Someone tried to be sneaky... and failed.

Chris slowly turned to the side, heart pounding louder than the forest itself. He peeked through the edge of the tent: only darkness and shadows.

But by focusing, he could hear better. Another step, from a different direction. It wasn't just one...

Then, a muffled whisper.

"There, look... I told you I saw something."

He followed the sound with his eyes, barely making out a figure in the woods. He crouched slowly, aiming his revolver through a slit in the blanket. One shot. No more. If he missed, he might as well be dead.

BANG!

Bullseye.

The muzzle flash revealed an armed man falling backward with a thud, leaves and branches trembling all around him.

And then, the forest was silent no more.

Chris jumped out of the tent. Ran to the nearest tree that offered cover. The moment he reached it, it was peppered with gunfire.

He dove to the ground, rolled, cocked his revolver again.

"Son of a—!" yelled a second man, zigzagging toward him.

BANG.

Missed.

BANG!

Chris hit the next shot.

The bullet struck the man's shoulder, sending his revolver flying into the brush—but he didn't fall. He kept coming, pulling a knife from his belt.

Chris tried to fire once more — Click. Empty.

A frustrated grunt was all he managed before tossing the gun aside and pushing himself up, just in time to clash with the man like wild beasts. The attacker shoved him against a tree, trying to plunge the blade into his chest.

Chris held the man's wrist with both hands. Strength against strength, but he was losing.

The knife inched closer, despite his efforts. Cruelly. Painfully. Inch by inch, it began to pierce his skin. The man grinned wickedly when the blood started to run.

With a poorly aimed knee, Chris created an opening. He smashed his forehead into the man's face, making him stumble back. With a roar, Chris tore the blade from his own chest and gripped it tight.

He lunged at the enemy.

Stabbed sloppily. Again. And again. Not caring where he hit, just pouring out every ounce of strength he had left.

When he finally stopped, what lay beneath him was an unrecognizable mass of flesh and blood. Hard to say it had even been a man.

Before he could catch his breath, a shadow darted through the woods, fleeing in the opposite direction from where the others had come. Chris got to his feet with difficulty. The bloody knife in one hand. With the other, he grabbed the dead man's revolver.

And ran.

He burst out of the trees just in time to see the last one on horseback.

The horse neighed nervously. The man was mounted on one and leading two others by the reins. He spurred the animal, rushing off into the open plain.

Chris aimed and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He hit something, but not the man. One of the horses collapsed.

His tired and battered body could no longer aim. Out of strength, he let the man go.