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Red Dead Redemption 2: At the Aberdeen's Pig Farm.	By : Nickamano Category: +M through R > Red Dead Redemption Views: 8719 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Red Dead Redemption 2 and any related materials are not owned by me. This was created for entertainment purposes only, and I am not profiting financially from the creation of this story.

Chapter List
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Part four.
Arthur spent a number of hours overnight quietly mulling over the strange day's events. Once the anger of betrayal and lust for Tammy Aberdeen had faded into memory, he made his campfire; saw to the mare and then his evening meal and coffee; then began mulling it over thinking about how close to death he had ventured. If they had shot him or cut his throat, instead of merely relying on the poisoned drink, it would have ended there on the floor of their dining room.
At the same time, his anger had lessened a lot. Tammy's tits had been a great pair and he had a great time spurting his cum all over them. But he now wondered how her pussy had been. Or how well she could suck dick. He had left a number of fun opportunities trussed up on that bed. Then again, she could easily have been diseased. It wouldn't have been in the least bit surprising if he'd have caught something off her had he fucked her properly.
As he stared into the dancing orange-yellow flames of the quickly gathered wood fire, cooking the stringy meat of a jackrabbit on the tip of his Bowie knife, he replayed the unbelievability of the day. The unbelievable ‘too-friendliness’ of the Aberdeen’s. He supposed Tammy had been his weakness. If it had just been the man-whale Bray, he probably would he ridden on, or just robbed the place at gun point and left Bray pistol whipped or dead on the floor of his house and robbed it. However, Tammy had appeared and she had turned his head; made his dick hard. It had almost been his undoing. And thinking about it had probably been the undoing of many of the others cast into that mass grave. He wondered if the brother and sister team had different methods for different victims, inducing sympathy in one, straight forward friendliness in another, lust for any single guys passing their farm, maybe.
It wasn't until he was lying on his bedroll, under the makeshift canvass tent and slipping off to sleep under the star-speckled cloudless night sky that the clue began to seep into his dog-tired mind.
Something Tammy said slowly dripped back into his memory. Something about putting cash behind Momma and almost at once he remembered the large portrait of who he deduced had been their mother. That portrait that hit you when you entered the house.
Sleep took him before his consciousness was able to grasp the implication; however; it stayed with him and he dreamed - Tammy, sweet sixteen and topless, huge glorious tits blessed with the up-thrust buoyancy of youth. She was smiling at him, standing at the front door of her house right in front of the portrait. Her face and tits were absolutely covered in spunk, so thick that it dripped off her in great heavy dollops the consistency of Ma Morgan's oatmeal. She grinned through the pearlescent veil and swung the portrait of her mother open. It was hinged like a door. Behind it was a safe, the same make and model as those from the robbery they had performed at the Valentine Bank. The ones he knew how to crack.
He went straight to it, stepping over the calmed but still struggling Tammy who was now hogtied on her back under the safe. He unhooked the wooden picture frame from the nail it was now hanging on; no longer a hinged door; and worked his magic on the numerical dial. the combination clicked home and the thick blackened steel door swung open with well-oiled silence.
Tammy coughed and he looked down at her; distracted; she stared up at him looking a little green around the gills and abruptly vomited up a gut full of curled spunk. Arthur laughed and then looked into the safe. It was full of gleaming gold bars, stacked perfectly like a wall of bricks; bright as the morning sun and glowing so much he had to squint to look at it.
He awoke to the golden bright glow of the morning sun, burning his retinas and making him squint. It illuminated the dream and the thing Tammy had said about putting cash behind momma.
Arthur darted to his feet, grabbing his gun belt and hat and then hurriedly saddling his horse. He chose to go without breakfast or even coffee and had the mare saddled in record time.
Then; kicking at the cold ashes of his campfire and leaving his bedroll and tent where it was; he launched himself into the saddle and raced off across the rolling grass back toward the Aberdeen's pig farm.
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Arthur spotted the farm house through the trees and hitched his mare to a low branch just out of sight and then; using the low undergrowth and the shadows of the surrounding trees; he advanced on the house.
The front door was open. He hadn't left it like that. If Tammy had managed to free herself would she stay put in her house or run out into the wilderness? Maybe try to use her curvy feminine wiles to get some help or ingratiate herself in another's household and maybe even; like a cuckoo; slowly take over?
Neither guess proved to be right; as at that moment five men emerged from the front door. They were all dishevelled and looking tired and dirty, and yet they had an easy contented sense to them. There were five of them in all, all bearing pistols and two of them carrying long guns as well. Their horses must be hitched around the far side of the house; out of Arthur's line of sight.
Lemoyne Raiders. He found himself concluding, had to be in this country. He thought of Tammy and what visiting criminal gang members might do to her finding her already hogtied on her bed. He felt simultaneously turned on and uncomfortable by the images that started to play through his mind's eye.
Before he had even consciously determined the right course of action, he had drawn the Lancaster repeater from his saddle-mounted rifle scabbard and flicked off the hammer loop from his hip holster, readying the Schofield for a quick draw. Then working the repeater's loading lever, he started forward at a fast and low run, darting over roots and thorny bushes of blackberry until he was at the edge of the tree line; maybe twenty yards away from the gang of men.
The man who seemed to be the leader - a stocky; broad shouldered man with a noticeable beer gut, under which he had slung an old but quality double holster rig, holstering a pair of double action revolvers. He was counting through a handful of what looked like cash; both coins and notes.
Alongside the leader was the eldest of the group, a short and thin and grey-haired man, armed with a side-by-side coach-gun slung across his back, a Cattleman revolver holstered on one hip and a long knife on the other. He had a leather pouch and was fingering through the invisible contents. Arthur guessed valuables, jewellery and trinkets probably.
The other three, young men and very excitable, were walking in a line to the rear, all chattering to each other; frequently laughing; maybe reminiscing. One had both hands shoved down the seat of his loose pants. A single Volcanic pistol holstered in the off-hand style on his left hip.
The middle one had a beaten-up carbine repeater casually hooked across his shoulders and an old looking blued steel Schofield stuffed down the back of his pants. The last of the men; furthest on the right; had a nice-looking reverse holster rig; just the way Hosea carried his; reversed butts against his hips. Though unlike Hosea's well maintained ivory handled Cattleman pair; this guy was carrying a rusted double action revolver in one holster and a sawn-off and stock-less coach-gun stuffed harshly into the other.
Two of the gang wore trench coats, which often slowed down holster drawing when in a panic. One wore a thick jacket which wasn't much better, while the others were in just vests and shirtsleeves. Fortunately, only three of them had hats, so the glare of the morning sunlight could be a balancing factor too; if Arthur was careful in his positioning.
His only other advantage; beyond his skill with shooting irons; was the classic of surprise. He had no backup and it was one against five but if he could take say two down before they knew they were under-attack; then he might get lucky enough to force at least one of them to give up and run rather than fight. That would make it two against one rather than five. If he could kill two before they knew of his location.
He skirted the tree line, staying a little behind the men but using the long grass on the edge of the pig farm property line to get closer to them. Once in a reasonable position with the morning sun behind him; he waited. He wanted them in a neat row so he wouldn't have to shift the Lancaster's sight-line too far and he'd be able to get off two shots quickly. He propped his forward arm against his knee and then levelled the rifle barrel on target, took a long deep breath, released half of it and then...
...In that moment, Arthur Morgan inextricably slipped into the zone where everything; time itself; seemed to slow down. His reactions and aim seemed to perfect themselves, he could do no wrong. Dutch and Hosea both referred to it as 'the zone' but Arthur thought of it as his Dead Eye.
He squeezed the trigger, pulling the butt hard into his shoulder and accepting the bruise he would sport in a couple of hours as the rifle kicked with its recoil. Holding his forward hand steady and using his tight shoulder-grip to support the butt; allowed him to work the well-oiled lever action with only meagre shift in his aim. He blinked, halfway inhaled, while he re-sighted and then let the hot lead spit forth a second time while holding that half-inhale. Both shots hit their targets in less than a second.
The old man had been first, his old; battered Derby hat cocked forward; smoking from a hole as big around as a thumb and the man toppled after it. The shot had cut through the brim and slammed straight through his skull. The man collapsed like his legs had gone out from under him. There was a residual spray of crimson, a little momentary cloud against the morning sky.
The second shot took out the man in the middle of the rear line, who had also been wearing a hat. The shot was lower and took him through the side of the jaw; beneath his ear. The Carbine tumbled from his grip as he was slammed sideways by the impact and toppled into the grass. There was no way he was getting up again.
Arthur grunted and quickly racked the Repeater's lever a second time. The young man on the far left was the fastest to react, but also the dumbest, he spun on his heel toward Arthur's general position while he drew his Volcanic pistol and started to shoot wildly. He didn't even take cover.
The front man; probably the leader; threw himself to the ground before drawing his own gun. Smart but slow. Arthur ignored the Volcanic bullets zipping past him as they were a good yard too far to the left or right; or way to high. He took careful aim on the Volcanic youngster and fired.
The repeater jammed.
It was probably a loading issue, maybe the cartridge hadn't been picked up and shoved into the breech smoothly and had jammed somewhere along the way. Arthur cursed, dropped the rifle and drew his Schofield. It had more than enough effective range and the cartridge wasn't a huge drop in power from the Repeater, not at this close distance.
He shuffled in a fast crab-walk to the left as he saw the leader getting up and hustling to his right for the cover of a yard-high tree stump, almost slipping on the tails of his coat as he moved.
The Volcanic kid was still blasting hot lead all over the place and a couple had whistled past Arthur a little too close for comfort. At this rate the kid could drop him out of sheer luck.
He cocked the Schofield's smooth oiled hammer took careful aim, still mostly hidden by the long grass and took away the Volcanic kid's rage together with his fear-twisted face. There was another momentary spray of blood and another instant collapse of a body.
The third youngster started screaming, his hands filled with pistols. He had apparently already fired both barrels of the pistol-sized shotgun but Arthur had no memory of the buckshot coming anywhere near him. The thick bulky weapon was now just swinging inertly at the end of the boy's arm. The old Cattleman, death-gripped in his other hand was pointed about five yards to Arthur's right and the kid was gripping the curved butt so tightly and jerking the trigger that he was closer to taking leaves from the nearby tree tops than he was hitting Arthur.
The outlaw aimed his Schofield and put a .45 slug straight through the kid's heart. The kid just stood there however, both hands loosely flopping at his sides while he stared down at the hole in his chest. He looked up; staring blindly into the morning sunlight, looking like he was going to cry. Though he too then collapsed onto the packed earth of the Aberdeen's yard. The flapping length of the duster coat like bat-wings following him to the earth.
The boss man was much more careful, and much more of a challenge. He kept to his cover, screaming curses at Arthur promising any number of degrees of Hellfire were coming to rain down on the back-shooting-coward-bastard-piece-of-shit.
He also only seemed to be firing blindly but with more care and educated guesswork than the others had and the .38 slugs were bursting and slamming surprisingly close to where Arthur was kneeling. The outlaw was also of the opinion (due to the pause in Raider fire following every sixth shot) that he was only using one of his pistols, probably keeping the other in fully-loaded reserve should the attacker attempt to rush his position.
Arthur had three options. He could stay put and wait for an opportunity, which he didn't like as this Raider's shots were close to him and it was probably only a matter of time before he got lucky. He could retreat back to the trees and either wait him out or let him leave. Or he could try and find a better position.
A second gun hand would be ideal right now, one person to keep the Raider pinned while the other moved into a better position. But Arthur was alone and he had to make a decision before he got shot himself.
He noticed there was a small wooden tool crate on top of the tree stump the Raider was hiding behind and he took careful aim, even as the man swung his gun arm blindly around the side of his cover and launched a couple of slugs Arthur's way. The outlaw's heavy lead bullet burned through the morning air at over 850 feet-per-second and slammed into the corner of the crate, the kinetic energy shoved the crate off its shelf and it toppled onto the concealed man's head.
The man reacted automatically, stumbling sideways and reaching up to rub at the fresh cut in his scalp which was already throbbing dully.
Arthur had already re-cocked the single action revolver and he sent another lead slug straight through the man's now exposed skull. His head fell apart with the impact, like an overripe peach dropped from its branch.
With a grunt of satisfaction at the successful and admittedly fortunate outcome of the gun battle, Arthur went over to each Lemoyne Raider in turn; making sure they were dead; taking their weapons away and salvaging whatever ammunition he could find use for from each of their guns. Next; he went through their belongings. Satchels if they had them; pockets; hat rims; boots; anywhere valuables could be stashed. He also collected whatever extra ammunition they had in their gun belts. It all helped and all went to resupply Dutch's camp.
They had almost sixty dollars in all and a couple of items of silver and gold jewellery he procured from their cooling corpses. It all went into Arthur's satchel.
Finally, Arthur remembered why he had come back to the Aberdeen's pig farm in the first place and hurried back to the wide-open front door.

The portrait he had come to search behind was already smashed, stomped to ruins and scattered just inside the threshold. Behind it was a pair of battered-in brass plate doors, hanging loose from their hinges. The compartment behind was empty. So much for that. Arthur assumed the sixty dollars and the jewellery must have been taken from there.
Bray Aberdeen lay flat on his back between the stairs and the dining table. His clothing had been hacked apart and peeled down to his knees, he resembled a bloodless pin cushion, pretty much of all the kitchen's utensils had been stabbed into his body, mostly his huge stomach but also his chest and cheeks.
Arthur knew he should just ride away now. He was already overdue for showing his face in camp and handing over its share of his takings. However, the mystery of the fate of Tammy Aberdeen lassoed him and took him deeper into the house. His heavy boots loud on the bare floorboards.
The raiders seemed to have had a bit of a destructive hootenanny in the house. Most of the furniture was broken; drapes torn down; crockery smashed; pieces of detritus cast around the downstairs rooms. The old sewing machine had been toppled and smashed through the floorboards in the living room. A few of the bannister's spindles were missing from the stair case, torn off or broken.
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Red Dead Redemption 2: At the Aberdeen's Pig Farm.