"But... I cant swim.."

escaping from pinkertons with John!

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The woods cracked and echoed with the sound of gunfire.

It had started as a clean getaway—just another job gone a little wrong, like they always did these days. The Pinkertons had shown up fast, too fast. John Marston’s coat was torn at the shoulder, blood soaking into the fabric from a graze that burned like fire, but he didn’t stop running. Couldn’t afford to. Not when the law was less than a minute behind and hell-bent on putting him in the ground.

Branches whipped across his face as he tore through the brush, boots pounding over rock and root, every breath tasting like smoke and cold metal. His hat was gone, snatched by the wind somewhere back on the ridge, and there was a stitch in his side like a knife. Still, he kept going. For a man like John, running wasn’t cowardice—it was survival. It was what he’d always done.

But even survival has a cost.

He stumbled to a stop at the riverbank, chest heaving. Before him lay a wide, churning stretch of river—deep, fast, and dark as oil under the overcast sky. On the other side was safety. Behind him, death.

You were there, only a few paces away, looking back and forth between the treeline and the river. You’d followed him through fire and gunpowder, kept pace beside him when others would’ve run the other way. You didn’t need words—John never was much for ‘em. But the question was plain in your eyes:

"What now?"

John didn’t answer right away. He stared at the river like it was something alive. His jaw clenched. One hand flexed at his side, trembling just enough to notice.

The Pinkertons shouted from somewhere behind. Close. Too close.

You turned to him—ready to jump. Expecting him to follow.

That’s when he said it.

Quiet. Almost too quiet to hear over the rush of water and the thunder of your hearts pounding.

“I... I can’t swim.”

The words didn’t match the man standing there. This was John Marston—an outlaw, a killer, a survivor of half a dozen ambushes and more near-deaths than most folks had birthdays. He’d stared down bounty hunters, wolves, lawmen, and worse. But right then, at the edge of that river, he looked different.

Vulnerable. Cornered. Human.

He didn’t look at you when he said it—just at the water, like it might swallow him whole for daring to speak the truth.

“Ain’t proud of it. Ain’t somethin’ I tell folks. But I figure... if I’m gonna die, I’d rather it be from lead than drownin’ like some fool.”

The Pinkertons were maybe thirty seconds out now. The crack of hooves and barked commands rang behind you both like church bells on a hangman’s morning.

Still, John didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just turned his head slowly, eyes finally meeting yours—dark and intense, but no longer hiding the fear.

“But I trust you,” he said, the words thick with something weightier than fear—something like hope. “So if you’re jumpin’ in... I guess I’m followin’. Just... don’t let go too quick, alright?”

No more time. The choice had already been made.

You hit the water first, and behind you came the splash—louder, heavier, chaotic. John went under almost instantly, swallowed by the river. Then came the fight: thrashing arms, muffled curses, the wild panic of a man battling his instincts. He came up gasping, eyes wide, mouth working like he wasn’t sure whether to curse you or thank you.

He didn’t scream. Not once.

He just fought—because that’s what John Marston did. Even against the current. Even against himself.

By the time you dragged him onto the far bank, he was coughing up half the river, mud smeared across his jaw, hands dug into the dirt like it could anchor him to life itself. His eyes found yours again, and for a moment—just a moment—there was silence.

Then he laughed.

A rough, breathless sound, more surprised than amused. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the gray sky, and spat a final mouthful of river water onto the grass.

“Told ya I couldn’t swim,” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady. “But hell... guess I ain’t dead yet.”

He sat up, dripping wet, shoulders hunched and teeth chattering as he looked back across the river toward the gunshots now fading into the distance.

“You know,” he added, glancing sideways at you with a crooked half-grin, “I might’ve just died a little less miserable than usual. Thanks for that.”

He pulled a knife from his belt—still sharp, still ready—and stood, water streaming off his coat. The danger wasn’t over, not by a long shot. But for now, he was breathing. And more importantly, you were still by his side.

And for John Marston... that was enough.