Hey guys, Jack here with the first chapter of my Red Dead Redemption revamp. I've been hinting at this for almost a year, and now it's finally ready. This first chapter isn't much, but it's better than nothing. So, let's get this show on the road.

The sound of a match being struck filled the air, followed by the hiss of the sulfur igniting. A soft orange glow filled the room as a shaky hand guided the match the wick on the oil lamp. The lamp lit up, illuminating more of the room as the hand shook the match to extinguish it. A glass chimney settled in on top of the lamp, bringing out it's full potential.

Sitting back in his chair, the man who had struck the match looked down at the small journal before him. Beside it sat a large stack of blank papers, along with a blue metal fountain pen. An uneasy feeling settled into his stomach, and he rested his hand on the journal's cover. He still wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to do this. A hand appeared on his shoulder, and the uneasy feeling disappeared.

"Take your time, you can do this," a soft voice said. He reached up with his free hand and grasped the hand on his shoulder.

"I know," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. The hand slipped away, and he picked up the pen. Outside, the sound of rain intensified on the window sill. As he began to write, he felt himself being drawn back, to a time that was so different, and yet so familiar…


Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed through the gray, predawn sky. The air had a thick scent of moisture, and drops of water dripped off of the leaves. Mud sloshed as a horse, a leopard blanket appaloosa, trotted up the road. It's rider was hunched over in the saddle, his right hand clutching his side.

"Come on, little brother. Not much further now," he muttered tiredly. It couldn't be said for sure if he was saying this directly to the horse, or to himself in an effort to keep going despite his condition. Yet, as he continued to ride, his posture continued to worsen. Finally, he fell from the saddle entirely, landing in the mud and grass beside the road.

The horse came to a halt and looked back before coming up to it's rider, letting out a snicker as it stood over him. He waved his hand in the air above his face, trying to grab the loose rein that was dangling down from the horse's bit.

"Hey! Who's there?" a voice called through the woods. From the underbrush around the road came a large, dark man with a carbine held at the ready. He wore a blue shirt, brown leather trousers, and had a sawed off shotgun resting in the holster on the large belt around his waist. His black hair hung down to his shoulders, and the stubble on his chin indicated that he hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

At sight of the man on the ground, the newcomer lowered his gun slightly, and gave a resigned sigh.

"On no," he muttered under his breath before approaching the man with his carbine at the ready. Finally, he loomed over the injured man, the barrel of his rifle aimed directly between his eyes.

"Make a move, you die," he said. The injured man's response was to fall fully onto his back and give up in his fight to remain awake.

He came too with a searing pain and a scream coming from his throat.

"Hold him, damnit! I can't get this wound clean with him thrashing about like that!" came a stern, older woman's voice. A strong pair of hands appeared on his shoulders, while another appeared on his arms, both pinning him down to keep him from thrashing about. His eyes flew open, and he was almost instantly blinded by the sudden change in light.

As his vision cleared, he realized that he was in a tent of some kind. A man, different from the first, was pinning him down. His skin tone was lighter and he wore a blue button down shirt and a black leather hat.

"Hey, hey! Quit fightin', Miss Grimshaw can't work with you kickin' like a mule!" the black hat man yelled. Despite the pain, he managed to calm himself to the point that he stopped struggling.

"That's better. You got a name, kid?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder for a brief moment to see what was going on behind him.

"Lonergan," he managed to croak out. His throat was so dry, it hurt to speak. That didn't matter much as another flare of pain came from his wound, causing him to scream again. His arms flew up and gripped the man holding him down, desperate for something to cling to in an effort to get through the pain.

"Damnit, this kid is gonna make me go deaf. Charles, get that strap there," he ordered. The man with the carbine from earlier appeared in Lonergan's view beside the black hat man, a leather strap grasped between his fists.

"Here, bite on this. It'll help with the pain," he said before sticking the strap in between Lonergan's teeth. The young man had no choice but to do as instructed when he felt another stab of pain. Finally, the pain died back down, and he felt back in exhaustion from what he had just gone through.

"We good, Miss Grimshaw?" black hat asked, still holding him down despite the fact that he was no longer struggling.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan. Let up off the boy before you strangle him and ruin my work," came the stern reply. Morgan let go of his grip and stood back, allowing an older woman to appear in his place as Lonergan pulled the strap from his mouth.

"Drink this, it'll help the pain," she said, offering him a dark green glass bottle. Lonergan took a long swig from the bottle, only to launch into a coughing fit when the strong, bitter liquid inside touched his dry throat. This earned an unimpressed grunt from Grimshaw.

"Hmmph, I said it would help the pain, I didn't say it'd taste good," she said, taking the bottle back from him. Turning on her heels, she muttered something only Charles and Morgan could hear before she disappeared from view. Exhaustion overcame him, and he happily let himself slip back into the realm of sleep.

When he came too again, it was noticeably darker in the tent. A single candle flickered on the table next to the cot that he was laying on. Sitting in a camp chair nearby was a young woman in a yellow dress. She was sewing on a set of pants and not really paying attention to him. He slowly turned his head, taking in the tent's interior and trying to figure out where he was.

His eyes settled on the tin cup sitting on small table next to the candle. Despite the fact that his arm felt like it was made from solid lead, he slowly raised it and reached for the cup. He was weak, much too weak for his liking, and it showed as he struggled to reach the cup in order to sooth his dry throat.

"You're awake," came a relieved voice. Lonergan glanced back toward the young woman to find that she had put her sewing project aside and had crossed the tent to him. Her dark skin had freckles which covered her nose, cheeks, and forehead, her eyes were a bright brown, and her coal dark hair was pulled back into a fancy braid. The look on her face showed some worry, along with some relief.

"Water," he rasped out, trying to reach the cup again. The young woman picked the cup up before sitting on the edge of the cot and tilting it toward his lips. He greedily drank, quenching his thirst.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as she took the cup away, allowing him a chance to catch his breath.

"Like crap," he answered honestly.

"I'm not surprised. Ms. Grimshaw said you had a grazing bullet wound that got infected. You're lucky we found you when we did," she said.

"Who's we?" he asked, his face scrunching up in confusion. He assumed she was referring to the others who had been in the tent earlier.

"The gang. You're in our camp right now, Mr..." she trailed off, clearly expecting an answer.

"Lonergan. Court Lonergan," he said as he began to try and sit up. A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"You rest, Mr. Lonergan. You're in no shape to go anywhere," she said. Court did as he was told and laid back.

"Can I at least know my nurse's name?" he asked.

"Tilly. Tilly Jackson," she answered, giving him a sweet smile in the process. At that moment, a tall, well dressed man entered the tent behind Tilly. He had a lit cigar intertwined in the fingers of his left hand, and a smooth, confident smile on his face.

"How's our patient doing?" the man asked.

"Much better, Dutch, as you can see," Tilly replied as she stood and moved out of the man's way, heading back to her chair in the corner. Dutch crossed the tent and extended his free hand to shake.

"That I can. You're a strong one, young man. For a while there you were touch and go. My name is Dutch Van der Linde."

"Court Lonergan," Court said, shaking the man's hand.

"I'm guessing that you were riding away from some trouble when you wound up on our proverbial doorstep, given your condition," Dutch said as he took a step back. Court winced as his hand brushed his side where his wound still was.

"Yeah, something like that."

"You wouldn't happen to have brought some of that trouble with you, young man?" Dutch asked, his tone becoming a little colder. Court slowly and stiffly shook his head.

"No. I left that a state away, in Leymore," he answered. Dutch's face seemed to regain that charm that had vanished in an instant.

"Well good, I'd hate to expect unwanted visitors. You rest up and get back on your feet now, Mr. Lonergan. Ms. Jackson here will keep an eye on you. You're safe here," he said before turning and ducking out of the tent again. Tired from his efforts, Court lulled himself back to sleep again.


It was a little over a week before Court was able to move around on his own again. He moved slow, with Tilly's help. Most of the camp he was in seemed to greet him with a warm welcome, or something that passed as polite anyway in some cases. Strauss, some spectacled guy from central Europe, simply told him that he owed a total of five dollars for the medicine used to help his recovery.

By the time a second week had rolled by, Court was able to help out with some chores around the campsite, such as chopping firewood or helping prepare the daily stew. It was a start, but it would be a lie if he said he wasn't eager to get back out there on the road with his horse. Still, the idea of laying around and not earning his keep didn't sit well with Court. So it was either swing an axe or peel potatoes.

The morning finally came when he couldn't take it anymore. He had to get out of camp. Get out there and shake off the somewhat case of cabin fever that had come over him. Slipping on his worn roping boots, Court walked out of his borrowed tent and headed toward the spot where the horses were kept. He was wearing a pair of walnut colored trousers and a maroon colored button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Two things he lacked were his hat and his gunbelt, both of which had been missing since he'd woken up.

When he reached the horses, Court came to a halt and looked around. His horse was hitched a short distance away from the others, happy munching on a bale of hay.

"You lookin for these?" came Tilly's voice from behind him. Turning, Court found the young woman standing a short distance away with a tan leather gunbelt and a dark colored worn gambler hat.

"Yeah, thanks. You wouldn't happen to know where everyone ran off to, would you?" he asked as he took the hat and placed it on his head.

"I think Charles said something about them heading into town," Tilly answered. Court tightened the gunbelt before drawing the gun stored there, giving it a test. It was a Schofield, with a blue metal frame and walnut colored grips. Satisfied, he gave the gun a short twirl before returning it to it's holster.

"Well then, I guess I'm heading into town, aren't I?" he said. Tilly gave him a warm smile before she set off to do her morning chores.

"Pick me up something pretty while you're there," she called over her shoulder. Court gave a half smile before making his way over to his horse. The beast turned it's head and looked at him with one eye as he patted it on the side of the neck.

"How you doin', little brother?" he asked. The horse snorted once and shook it's head. Court simply rolled his eyes as he took the reigns up in his hands and climbed up into the saddle.

"You and me both."

Valentine, New Hanover was a livestock town that sat at the base of the Grizzlies. It seemed to be doing well for itself, despite the fact that every street was a quagmire of mud. Court eyed the town as he rode around the west side of the main auction yard. It wasn't the largest town he'd ever been in, and it certainly wasn't the smallest, but it was decently sized for the purpose it served.

Before him was an open air butcher shop, across the street from the local stables. Turning right was the town's main street. A straight line of mud with a hotel, bank, and gun shop on the right, while a general store, saloon, doctor's office, and sheriff's office sat on the left. At the far end of the street, perched above everything else on a small tree covered hill was a church.

Court rode up the street slowly, studying both the faces and the horses around him in the bustling town. His hope was to find either a mount or a person that he recognized. Tilly said that they were headed into town, and Valentine was the closest town to the camp. If they weren't here, he'd slink back to the camp in silent embarrassment. As he reached the turn in front of the church, he let out a sigh of relief. Several of the gang's horses were hitched in front of the town's smaller saloon.

Keane's Saloon, as it was called, was a small, two story wooden structure roughly a stones throw from the front door of the town church, a fact which Court was sure annoyed the local temperance movement to no end. It wasn't as flashy as the much bigger saloon that sat just around the corner, but it was enough to get the job done for those who wanted to avoid a crowd. Or, in the gang's case, a place for people to drink who had been kicked out of the other establishment.

Court dismounted from his horse and tied him off to the hitching post before heading into the saloon. Despite the fact that it was almost midday, the place was mostly deserted. Arthur, John, Hosea, and Charles all occupied a table in the corner and quietly conversed amongst themselves while nursing their drinks. The only other patron aside from the bartender was a bearded man wearing an old blue soldier's uniform who was current passed out with his face in a bowl of oatmeal.

Crossing to the bar, Court quietly ordered a beer before setting a fifty cent piece down. The bartender scooped up the coin, filled a glass mug with beer, and slid it to him. Picking up the drink, Court turned and made his way across the small barroom to the only other people he knew in town.

"You gentlemen mind if I join you?" he asked. The others looked up and seemed surprised to see him standing there.

"Ah, Mr. Lonergan, you're out and about I see. Please, sit," Hosea said, motioning to an open place between John and Charles.

"Thank you," Court replied before sitting. He took a sip of beer and instantly made a face at it.

"This stuff is flat," he muttered, earning a chuckle from Arthur.

"It's not the best, I'll admit, but it's better than nothing in a pinch," he said before taking a sip of his own beer.

"So tell me, what are your plans, now that you are up and moving?" Hosea asked.

"I'm heading west, toward New Austin," Court answered as he sat his mug on the table.

"New Austin? Why in the hell would you want to go there? There's nothing but sand and cactus down there from what I hear," John said.

"Maybe. But it's sparsely populated and it's far away from Lemoyne."

"I've been meanin' to ask you about that. Dutch said you left some trouble behind in Lemoyne. What kind of trouble?" Arthur asked. Court remained silent for a moment as he stared down into the amber liquid. Keeping secrets was all part of his line of work. But, these guys were outlaws, or at least they operated like outlaws and had an extreme distrust of the government in general. If there was anyone he could trust to tell, it would be these men. Plus if they decided to turn on him, he'd already be long gone.

"I was helping run a moonshine operation out of the swamp, alongside Maggie Fike," he said. Recognition flashed across Hosea's face.

"'Lightning' Maggie Fike? She had the largest shine operation in the whole state!" he exclaimed.

"You know her?" Court asked.

"Of her. It was big news in the papers when she got taken down," Hosea explained.

"Yeah, well, our whole operation got torched. I barely made it out with the parting gift the revenue agents gave me," Court explained, patting his side where he'd been grazed.

"So, what's your plan? Restart the business down in New Austin?" John asked. Court shook his head.

"No. I start producing liquor again, and some really nasty people are gonna know right where to find me. It's best I lay low and out of sight for a while," he said.

"You could tag along with us. We always seem to be a net for all kinds of outcasts," Charles said. Court shook his head again, only this time he had a smile on his face.

"Thank you, no. I don't think adding my bounty to the pot would help things," he said.

"So when are you leaving?" Hosea asked.

"Today. I figure the sooner I can get down there, the sooner I can get set up and settled in," he answered.

"Well, if you ever decide to write us, or send us a big ole chuck of money when you strike it rich, send it to Tacitus Kilgore. It'll get to us eventually," Arthur said.

"Thank you. And hey, I know I owe you guys for patching me up. I'm pretty good with a gun and a decent rider. You ever need me, send a telegram to Armadillo and I'll come as quick as I can," Court replied.

"Looks like everyone's fortune is starting to look up as this new century approaches. Gentlemen, to the future!" Hosea said, raising his glass in a toast. The others joined him, and all downed their drinks in one go.

And cut. As you can see, this story will contain elements from both Redemption games as well as Online. This chapter will be apart of a string of firsts of which I hope I can keep the momentum up. With winter coming and my health still being on the fritz, I just can't make any guarantees. As always, please review or PM, let me know what you liked or didn't like, and I'll see you all next time.