Chapter Text
The first time Charles Smith meets Arthur Morgan, he’s less than impressed with him.
“All due respect, Dutch, but I have to ask; have you lost your goddamn mind?” The voice was a whip crack across camp, and it made everyone in the vicinity wince even as Dutch laughed.
“Mr Smith, I’d like to introduce you to our Mr Morgan. Please forgive his, ah, agitated state. Arthur usually has better manners, I swear,” Dutch chuckled, seemingly unbothered by the bear of a man that had muscled his way into the tent with a snarl and the stink of cigarette smoke. The man - Morgan - seemed to suddenly register that Charles was there and raked his eyes over him, checking for… Something.
Charles prepared himself the same way he always did when facing off with some Alpha male. Kept his stare blank, his hands in plain sight and his mouth shut. He’d spent enough time with outlaw cowboys to know that half of it was just avoiding a pissing contest. Hell, Bill had tried to shove him when he’d first gotten to camp. Big men liked to make other big men feel small. Charles was well versed in holding his own while blending into the background.
To his surprise, Morgan didn’t take the opportunity to puff his chest out, “Mr Smith, was it? If you could excuse us for a moment. I need to have a word with Dutch here, and find out why he’s trusting the information of a damned fool.” The smile slid off Dutch’s face quicker than rain on a canvas and he turned his full attention to the other man. Those in the vicinity seemed to understand that this was not a conversation that they should be a part of and mumbled their excuses to leave. Charles elected not to say a word as he ducked out of the tent.
“Been a while since I’ve seen Arthur that pissed,” Javier said with a low whistle as he fell into step beside Charles. He responded only with a nod and a glance, prompting for more information put not pushing. So far, Arthur Morgan wasn’t quite what he had expected. The way people in camp had spoken about him had set Charles up for expecting a swaggering legend. Some golden haired hero, riding in on a white horse, like in those awful stories people told their children. The sullen man he’d met hadn’t lined up with that idea.
“Been a while? I’ve seen Arthur that pissed over someone bumpin’ his shoulder!” Sean argued, his voice carrying - no doubt - back to the tent. In the week Charles had been there, it had become apparent that Sean didn’t care much for subtlety. Or quiet.
“Not like that,” Javier said, glancing back at the tent, which was closed from prying eyes now, “It isn’t often he chews Dutch out; even when he disagrees with him.” So that was what Dutch had meant about manners. Hosea marched past them with a nod, intent on heading to Dutch’s sleeping quarters and wearing a jovial expression that didn’t do much to settle the tension that had suddenly crept into camp.
Charles brushed off Javier’s offer to grab some food and made himself comfortable against a large fir tree in camp, settling down on a soft hide so that he could keep Dutch’s tent within his sights. He couldn’t deny that he was curious about what was about to happen. He had only been with the gang for a little over a week and Morgan, Hosea and Davey had been gone for most of that time, apparently scouting for some job close to Blackwater. In that time, he was pretty sure he hadn’t seen anyone argue back against Dutch, or even disagree with him. There’d been no reason to and from what he could tell, many thought the same. Not that he’d been there long enough to really gauge an opinion. All he knew - all he needed to know - was that Dutch was a good man who had saved his life.
In all honesty, it had been good luck that he’d ran into Dutch and some of the others when he had been in a bind. Some folk had decided that they didn’t like what he was selling, or just didn’t like him (probably the latter; he’d heard enough mumbling about his parentage to be sure of that) and had jumped him on the road to Tall Trees. It had been luck that meant Lenny was passing at the time and heard the shots. It had been luck that the young man hadn’t been shot when he’d rode in to take a look. It had not been luck when Dutch Van Der Linde drew his gun to help a stranger who owed him nothing. That had been a choice, and a seemingly easy one for him.
“Hell of a ruckus you just caused, young man,” Dutch had called to him after his attackers were dead and he had remained in cover behind a rock, nursing a bullet graze on his leg, “Perhaps you could come out from behind that rock. We can discuss this like gentlemen.” The gang leaders voice had been almost gentle, as though he was genuinely offering Charles a choice in all of this. Truth was, he was out of bullets and he could see that one of the men had Taima’s reigns in his hold, and his bow remained on her saddle. There was no choice for him. He had only hoped that luck would continue to assist him.
“Okay, I’m coming out,” He had shouted back, testing his weight on his injured leg as he rounded the boulder to get his first good look at Dutch. His first impression was one of confusion; why on earth would a person want to sparkle quite that much? He looked like the bottom of a gold panner’s sieve. But then again, gold meant money, and money meant power. He had assumed then that it was for this reason that men followed him. “They attacked me; I was just defending myself.”
“Well, considering there were 5 of them, and one of you, I should think so! Unless you’re the type who was just aiming to get his brains blown out of course,” Dutch had said, a smile accompanying his words now, in that same tone. The tone that one might use when settling down for lunch with a friend who they hadn’t seen for some time. There was familiarity in it that Charles hadn’t expected, “Mac, please pass the reigns back to Mr…?”
“... Smith.”
“A pleasure, Mr Smith. Like I was saying Mac, please give Mr Smith his horse back.” Charles hadn’t been able to hide his furrowed brow when Taima’s reigns had been dropped and she’d trotted to him with a snort and stamp of her hooves. She really did not like other people handling her after all. “Mr Smith, are you hungry? We were just getting ready to make camp. Javier here caught some fine looking bass, if you would like to join us?”
That had been that really. Dutch had explained a little more later, (“We shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed ‘em as need feeding”) and Charles was not too proud to admit that he had needed saving that night.
“Feeding though… I’m a pretty good hunter. Never had a problem with feeding myself. Could probably feed a lot more too, if needed,” he’d said quietly. He didn’t like to be indebted and this was a big group. Surely they needed food. Dutch had been more than happy with that plan and in the days that followed he had begun to repay his debt to the Van Der Linde Gang. Or at least he thought he had. He’d stuck to the outskirts of the group, not expecting a welcome beyond the occasional nod in his direction. That was usually how things worked when he rode with a bunch of outlaws.
He hadn’t expected the camp girls to bring him coffee when he returned from hunting, for Uncle to attempt to strike up pithy conversations about his history, or for Javier to drag him to the fire on his second night for a rousing chorus of a song he’d never heard of, or for Mary Beth to shyly request to borrow a book that he’d picked up outside of Tumbleweed and hadn’t had a chance to read.
It was odd, to say the least. He had ridden with gangs before, usually as an extra gun for a big job or to do what he had thought he was doing here; to hunt and repay them for some favor. He’d been there a few days and well, he was already being treated like one of them. There was clearly a big job in the works but it was only in the planning stages, definitely not at the point where they needed to think about bringing men in.
He’d approached Dutch about it in the end, to clarify things. There had been a mild look of horror on his face when Charles had asked him about how long he was expecting this arrangement to continue. “My dear boy, you’re welcome as long as you like. If you’re not happy here, then you’re welcome to leave. You haven’t borrowed money, you’ve pulled your own weight, and even a little extra while you’ve been here. We don’t expect anything from you,” Dutch had assured him and Charles had believed him. Dutch had that ability, to make you believe whatever he said.
“Son,” he carried on, closing the book he had been reading and leaning forwards so that his voice didn’t carry, “We didn’t help you on that road so that you would be trapped here.”
“So why did you help? Why did you think I was someone who needed saving and they were the men that needed shooting?”
A pause. “The odds, for one. I’ve done some terrible things in my life, but 5 men against one? That’s just cowardly, and I have no patience or time for cowards. But you want to know why I asked you to join us if it wasn’t to pay us back for saving you,.” The silence was enough of an answer, apparently, “I saw you and I thought, there’s a man who can survive in this world without any help. A lone wolf that has a chance. That’s a very rare thing, but it doesn’t make it right. No-one should have to walk through the world alone.”
The honesty had floored Charles better than any right hook or bullet he’d ever faced. He searched Dutch’s face for any sign of a lie; he wasn’t the best poker player, but he knew every man had a tell. But there was nothing there to find.
“I’d like to stay.”
“Then welcome to the family, Mr Smith.”
Charles was sharpening his axe by the time the canvas lifted on Dutch’s tent and he heard Morgan’s quiet timbre before he saw him. The low voice was softer now, and his words were accompanied by a booming laugh. Dutch. The whole camp seemed to breathe easier after that. Except for Bell, who looked disappointed that the whole thing hadn’t ended in a fight. Bastard. He glanced up to see Dutch clap a hand against Morgan’s shoulder and whisper something that made them both smile fondly before they turned away from each other.
No real drama then. Morgan was clearly respected enough that his opinions mattered to Dutch, and they could talk it out without it ending in a brawl. Or worse, whispers of mutiny. It was a relief to know that he wasn't about to watch a power struggle. Those things never ended well. Charles had thought that would be the end of it, hadn’t expected Morgan to seek him out, loping over with an expression that was half resigned, half sheepish.
“Sorry about that back there. I’d say I usually make a better first impression, but it’d be a damn lie,” he admitted. His hat had been removed, along with the heavy duster coat he had been wearing, and for moment Charles could appreciate where the legend had come from. Even without the bulk and weaponry, Morgan cut an intimidating figure. “Arthur Morgan,” he added, holding out a hand.
“Charles Smith,” he responded, reaching out and grasping his hand in a firm shake. As before, Morgan didn’t take the opportunity to try and crush his fingers like a lot of men usually did. The shake was firm, but not a way to try and prove strength. The man really wasn’t what he had expected. He’d expected another loud mouth with more voice than brains, if he was being honest. A man who was high on the adoration of the camp and lorded it about. In reality, Morgan was almost subdued. Quiet.
The silence carried on for a beat, and he wondered what else there was to say. Charles wasn’t known for keeping conversations going and it seemed Morgan wasn’t either.
“Don’t let me keep you, just wanted to introduce myself properly,” he continued, nodding his head before turning and heading back to the weapons cache and taking a seat on the cot in the lean-to next to it. The next time Charles glanced up at him there was a journal in Morgan’s lap and his hand was moving across the page rapidly. They were both at the edges of the camp, removed from the noise and laughter.
No. Arthur Morgan wasn’t at all what he had expected.