Chapter 1: Chapter One
Chapter Text
It had been their last attempt to retrieve the money, and, ultimately, the one that finally convinced them to head north, even though not a single shot was fired.
They met on an overlook near Riggs station. When they rode up, Arthur Morgan was standing at the edge of the promontory, feet apart, one hand on the grip of the shotgun he held across his shoulders. John Martson was crouched down on his heels beside him, elbows on his thighs and his repeater laid across his knees, hat shadowing his eyes. They were a study in contrasts, Arthur big and broad, John narrow and lean, Arthur tan and blonde, John pale and dark-haired, Arthur's expression easy and calm, John's tense and suspicious. Really, it was a wonder anyone ever believed the two men were brothers.
"Mister Morgan, Mister Marston," Dutch greeted, with his usual expansiveness, as he and Javier dismounted, "I appreciate you sparing me some time."
"From what I've been hearing, thought it might be important," Arthur replied, tilting his hat up with one finger. "You don't look too worse for wear, considering."
Dutch waved off the comment. "Mister Marston, I must admit, I didn't expect to see you. I know how you feel about … this sort of thing."
Dutch sounded amused. John didn't. "Well, I could hardly let my boss ride out alone after two notorious outlaws, could I?"
Dutch guffawed, as if this was the best joke he'd ever heard, and Arthur's lips quirked up at the corner, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. He swung his shotgun down off his shoulder, taking his finger off the trigger guard, completely relaxed. "Don't flatter 'im, John. He'll start tellin' you 'bout the bounty he's got in Nevada."
John's expression didn't crack. "Reckon it's less than what he's got in West Elizabeth."
Dutch expression fell into seriousness, brows furrowed. "That bad, is it?"
Arthur's expression similarly soured. "Christ. Yes, Dutch, that bad."
John stood from his crouch, still lean as a colt despite being nearly thirty, and grasped his repeater in both hands. Unlike Arthur, his stance showed him to be ready to fire. "Dunn brothers told us that, if they got you, they was gonna retire."
Dutch nodded in acknowledgment, expression pinched. "We need to get back into Blackwater."
"No." Arthur's response was instantaneous and unwavering.
"I just need in and out, Arthur. We left some things behind." Dutch cajoled.
"If you want to die, Dutch, I can shoot you right here." Arthur replied, with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth.
Dutch took a step closer to the other two men—John tensed, Arthur didn't. "I cover my face and you ride me in like one of your bounties." Dutch said, his voice dropping into the lyrical rhythm of working a con. "You get me to our funds and back out, you can have—"
"Fuck your money, Dutch!" Arthur snapped. "I told you all them years ago, I ain't runnin' your cons anymore! You want help covering your tracks, losing your tail? Fine. Christ knows I'd'a been dead if not for you. But I ain't being your patsy."
"I dunno, sounds like a good idea to me, Arthur," John drawled, eyes half-lidded. "Bringing 'em in like one'a our bounties."
Javier's hand fell to the butt of one of his pistols. "Try it, compadre."
Almost in unison, Arthur and Dutch reached out, Arthur's hand on John's arm, Dutch's on Javier's. Dutch chuckled, raising one eyebrow at Arthur with a smile.
"Loyalty is a grand thing, isn't it?" He said lightly, and after a moment Arthur nodded, patting John's arm lightly before letting go.
"Let me paint you a picture, Dutch," Arthur said. "When John and I rode out here, there was an armed lawman at every intersection in Blackwater. The hotel was sold out with the number of Pinkertons come to town, some of them were camping out in the city park. When we were crossing the Montana? I counted at least five campfires along the shore, and I guarantee that every one of them was bounty hunters. You couldn't piss right now without hitting someone who wants you dead."
Dutch worked his jaw, digesting that information, his expression dark as a thundercloud. "There is a lot of money over there, Arthur."
"Can't spend it if you're dead, Dutch."
After a long moment, Dutch let out a sigh. "I take your point. I suppose we'll … figure out something else."
Arthur chuckled. "You always do."
Dutch took the hand that had been on Javier's arm and held it out to Arthur; John made an irritated noise when Arthur slung his shotgun over his shoulder by the strap and took the two steps forward to shake it, firm, like they were both honorable men.
"For what its worth, Dutch," Arthur said, "I actually prefer you alive."
"Sure," Dutch replied with a smile, clapping his other hand onto Arthur's elbow, "its an extra five hundred dollars that way, isn't it?"
Arthur laughed, but John fished briefly in his satchel and then threw down a bounty poster between them, creased from being folded, edges torn from being in the satchel.
"An extra two thousand, actually," he said with what could only be called a sneer, before turning his back on them and stalking back towards the station, where Dutch had seen their horses hitched.
The poster was an excellent likeness, with the notable exception of the expression. He had been depicted with downward arched eyebrows and a cruel sneer, no doubt an attempt to emphasize his villainy. At the bottom was the bounty:
"Dutch" Van der Linde
Wanted for Murder, Theft, Robbery, Assault
$8000 dead
$10000 alive
"Holy shit, Dutch," Javier whispered, wide-eyed, and even Dutch looked a little taken aback by the amount. Arthur grimaced as he took his hand back, shaking his head, but it wasn't because of the bounty.
"Pinkerton Agency pulled me in for 'questions' a few nights after you hit the riverboat. Ain't no secret we used to run together, after all." Arthur shrugged, seeming slightly embarrassed by the fact. "John's been a little extra sour about you since then."
"John has always struck me as a fine young man," Dutch replied magnanimously. "You should keep him away from silver-tongued conman types."
Arthur tipped his hat to both Dutch and Javier before he turned to leave, pausing after a few steps to look over his shoulder.
"Sean MacGuire. He's one of yours, ain't he?"
Javier tensed, but Dutch only look thoughtful. "What have you heard?"
"There's a prison boat, leaves Blackwater every Friday with federal prisoners," Arthur replied. "Heads up the upper Montana."
"And you're telling us this out of the goodness of your heart?" Javier snapped suspiciously. Dutch gave his companion another quelling gesture.
"Arthur has never steered me wrong, Javier. Not once in twenty years." Dutch assured him, and Arthur smiled slightly at the comment, a mere quirk of the lips.
"Give my regards to Hosea," Arthur said, then he and Dutch exchanged a final nod before Arthur turned to join John. Dutch and Javier turned back to their horses, outlaws and bounty hunters returning to their sides.
*
"That man is a snake," John said, as soon as Arthur was in earshot, "and you're a fool to trust him."
Arthur suppressed a sigh, instead just shaking his head as he mounted up. "How many years have we known each other, John? And in those years, how many times have we had this conversation that you're tryin' to start?"
"Obviously not enough," John replied.
It wasn't that John didn't understand. He understood only too well. Arthur had been fifteen when Dutch saved him from death; for John, he had been the same age when he'd met Arthur. Arthur had run with Dutch for nearly ten years before he left; John was still running with Arthur. John and Arthur's lives were mirror images of each other—the difference, as far as John was concerned, was that Arthur was a good man, worthy of devotion, and Dutch wasn't.
"Dutch ain't never done wrong by me," Arthur told him, the same response he always gave. "He took me in when he didn't have to and let me go when I went."
"And you've more than paid him back! You don't owe him nothing—"
"I'll always owe 'im," Arthur cut him off. "A debt like that don't go away."
John snapped his mouth shut. Given the givens, that would be a hard thing for him to argue against.
See, his bounty poster, the one Arthur had picked up more than ten years ago, hadn't said his age—why would it? Just a crude likeness and a list of all his sins. His bounty been something like fifty dollars, nothing compared to a true outlaw, but enough to make him worth the trouble. If any other bounty hunter had found him, he'd have probably been hung. It was dumb luck that it was Arthur who did—the ex-outlaw who still quietly believed that some laws deserved to be broken and some guilty folk deserved to go free.
John could still picture the expression on Arthur's face when he finally got his lantern lit and illuminated his quarry. It was a sort of outraged disbelief, his brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a scowl. At the time, John had thought it was the righteous anger of a lawman, but then Arthur had reached down and pulled him to his feet with one hand, demanding to known how long it had been since his last meal.
So sure, John understood a debt you couldn't repay. Or the feeling of having one, anyway.
The thing that Arthur always seemed to forget was that they were actually pretty goddamn well known. Not famous, not like they'd be recognized by a stranger on the street, but lawmen and other bounty hunters knew of the Morgan boys, knew their reputation for not always staying strictly within the confines of the law. When you hunted bounties or carried a badge there was always some leeway, so long as you were better than the folks you caught, but it was also a competitive business. The minute someone saw Arthur with Dutch, he was on the bounty poster instead of hunting it. They had already come close when those Pinkertons swooped down to question Arthur on his 'past associations'.
"You always tell me not to worry about you," John said, hours later, as they were crossing the Montana again. "This kinda shit? It makes me worry about you."
Arthur laughed at that, shaking his head like he was throwing off water. "And folk ask why I ain't married. Reckon I oughta tell 'em my wife rides with me."
He galloped off before John could box him 'round the ears.
*
John had been on the run from the law for four years when he met Arthur Morgan.
After Arthur had found him sleeping rough in the woods and told him, in his own words, 'I ain't sending no child to the gallows, what's wrong wit'u?' he had taken the boy to a house outside of Armadillo and left him in the care of a woman named Eliza, who had the exasperated patience of a sister but he introduced as his wife. There was also a small boy named Isaac, about five, who John was terrified to be around (he was so fucking small) but who could not have been less interested in John.
Before he left, Arthur had dropped a companionable hand on John's shoulder and told him that if anything went missing from his home, he'd cut John's balls off.
"Arthur is a good judge of character, surprisingly," Eliza told him, the first time she set a plate of food in front of him, unasked. "Reckon he's known enough bad men to know one when he sees one. And anyway," she added, breezily, "if you value your balls, you ain't gonna try nothing."
"He was a gunslinger, wasn't he?" John asked, because it was the only thing that seemed to make sense. "An outlaw."
Eliza sighed at that, shaking her head. "I suppose he still is. They want him up in Illinois, I hear. Five hundred dollars." At John's surprised breath, she gave him a sly look out of the corner of her eye. "Don't you go getting any ideas now, son. Arthur could be half-dead and he'd still be able to handle a skinny runt like you."
John had no doubt of that—the man had four inches and fifty pounds on him.
"How'd he stop?" John asked, because that was the important question. John had been on the run since he was eleven years old, one way or another—yes, that was only four years, but already it seemed like the weight of past sins would never allow him to stop committing new ones. How can you start fresh when folk won't quit chasing?
Eliza glanced meaningfully at Isaac, sitting by the fire with some sort of whittled wooden toy. "He had a good reason."
"Just like that?" John challenged, stunned, and Eliza snorted inelegantly.
"No, not just like that. First years of Isaac's life he'd roll in every couple of months, like a vagabond. Reckon I wasn't expecting much out of 'im but he said he wanted to do right by me. Then 'bout two, three years ago he shows up with a wedding ring and …" she looked down at her hand, a thin band of gold glinting on her left ring finger, "… well, I'm a practical woman. I'll take what I'm offered."
"And you married him, knowing what he was?" John had never understood women, but he gathered that outlaws attracted a certain type, and they weren't usually homesteaders.
Something flashed in Eliza's eyes at that, a defensiveness, but whether it was of her own decisions or of Arthur, John couldn't say. "What Arthur is, is the kind of person that finds out his bounty is a fifteen year old boy, so he takes him home to a clean, warm house and gives him something to eat."
And that was the end of that.
Arthur came back a week later with two hundred dollars, cash, which he gave to Eliza, and three sets of new clothes, which he gave to John. The entire week he was gone, Eliza had fed him as often as she did herself and Isaac, even laundered his (admittedly shabby) clothing. He hadn't been so well looked after since his mother had died.
"Why are you doing this?" He asked Arthur, because it was the obvious question. Arthur made an uninterested noise from where he was whittling by the fire.
"Eliza's done most of it," he said absently, which was true, but not the point. Eliza would never have seen his face if Arthur had turned him in.
"You don't know me from Adam," John pressed, and Arthur's eyes flashed up at him, glittering in the firelight, dangerous.
"Oh, I know you, son," he said, darkly. "I was you."
*
Blackwater's Pinkerton population hadn't diminished during their three day absence. Arthur was completely unconcerned about their unsubtle surveillance, but it made John's skin itch. He'd grown unused to the feeling of being hunted, and found that he resented the reminder. Not to mention, whatever arrangements Arthur had with the Pinkertons—and he did have them, nearly all of his bounties had been rescinded—were for past crimes, not fresh ones like rubbing shoulders with Dutch Van der Linde.
But it wasn't Arthur that Agent Milton approached outside the saloon, it was John.
"Ah, Mister Marston," Milton said, with an affectation of friendliness, "just who I was hoping to see." When John stared him down in silence, he continued, "It is Marston, isn't it? I know you use Morgan professionally, but you are John Marston."
John tried to channel some of Arthur's nonchalance. "Sounds like the name of a dead man."
Milton smiled, all teeth, like a alligator. "Oh, you will be, Mister Marston, if you don't reconsider some of your … alliances."
John knew what this was, of course, the moment that Milton caught him alone. "If you're asking me for dirt on Arthur Morgan, I'm going to laugh in your face."
The other man's demeanor immediately chilled, eyes narrowing. "Your friend is treading dangerous ground, Mister Marston. His past associations with Dutch Van der Linde are well known. His current associations with the man are going to get him in trouble."
John sneered. "You think I'd protect Dutch Van der Linde? Believe me, if I knew where he was, I'd tell you. Hell, I'd go get him myself. He's worth 10 large right now."
Milton sneered right back. "I am not a fool, Mister Marston, kindly do not treat me as one. You would do nothing without Arthur Morgan's say-so, and that will be what puts you on the gallows right beside him."
John stepped up into Milton's space. He was a slight man, but tall, and he used every inch of that advantage to tower over Milton, tried to put every man he'd ever killed into his eyes as he stared him down. "You leave Arthur and me out of your shit. You want Dutch Van der Linde? Go fuckin' find him. We don't work for him and we don't work for you, neither."
"Oh, that's where you're wrong, Mister Marston," Milton replied, unruffled. "The Pinkerton Detective Agency is responsible for managing a large number of the cash bounties issued and claimed in this … lawless cesspool. If you and Mister Morgan wish to continue earning your livelihood on bounties, it would do you well not to antagonize us. Of course," he took a step back from John and looked down, ostentatiously straitening his perfectly pressed, starch white cuffs, "maybe you could find another line of work. What other talents do you have, Mister Marston?"
"Well," Arthur drawled from behind him, making John jerk in surprise, "he's damn good at cheating at poker. Reckon he could support us in our old age off that."
Milton looked back up with a sour expression, perhaps at being discovered trying to divide and conquer. "Mister Morgan," he greeted, with a curt nod of his head.
Arthur squared up next to John. "Agent Millstone," Arthur replied. Milton didn't correct him, clearly knowing a jab when he heard one. "Have I thanked you for your hospitality the other day?"
"Just business, Mister Morgan." Milton replied lightly, tipping his hat. "Gentlemen."
Arthur put a cigarette between his lips as they both watch the man leave, lighting a match against the heel of his boot and cupping it to the end. He didn't speak until Milton rounded the corner, out of sight. "Reckon I don't need to ask what he wanted," he murmured, eyes narrowed, lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.
"Reckon you don't," John agreed, accepting the cigarette as Arthur passed it to him, the end moist from Arthur's lips.
*
John had wanted to fuck Arthur since he was sixteen. He'd known then that it was bad and wrong, but most of his life had been bad and wrong, so it was hard to work up a great deal of guilt over the matter.
The problem was that the first time he tried to fuck Arthur, he was fifteen.
Eliza slept like the dead, consequence of sleeping in a saloon backroom for many of her younger years, so she never stirred when Arthur came in after dark. John slept light, consequence of being on the run for so many years, and always woke, so when Arthur clomped in sometime after midnight one night in April, John was instantly, motionlessly awake in his bedroll in front of the fire. The house had two rooms, but Arthur didn't sleep in the bedroom with Eliza and Isaac—when he was home, he slept on a folding cot in the living area. That night he didn't seem like he was even going to bother with that, throwing a bedroll down onto the floor rather than retrieving the cot from the shed.
John hadn't decided anything until Arthur started stripping down in the middle of the room, tossing his his clothing to the foot of the bedroll, the items thumping wetly against the wood floor. There was no conscious thought of 'paying him back' or 'earning his keep'—John wasn't quite that perverse—but in the moment, it somehow seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to slip out of his bedroll and crawl across the floor to Arthur's feet. The man was so tired and the room was so dark that he didn't even notice until John's hands touched the fastenings on his union suit.
His response was to cuff John upside the head hard enough that it knocked him to his hands on the floor.
"Fucking Christ," Arthur hissed under his breath, as he lit the lantern on the table. "Marston? What the hell are you—"
"I'm sorry," John cut him off, abruptly in a panic, because honestly, what the hell had he been doing? "I just thought you'd want— I'm good at it, so I—" He cut himself off at Arthur's intense look, eyes shadowed in the flickering lantern light.
"You're good at it." Arthur repeated after a beat, his voice as dangerous as John had ever heard it. It made John want to curl up in a ball like child so he did, face buried in his knees, arms wrapped up over his head to ward off a blow. He'd miscalculated, he'd aimed and missed, and now Arthur was going to throw him out for the bounty hunters, or turn him in himself, or …
John heard a heavy sigh, and when he glanced up Arthur had dropped himself into one of the kitchen chairs, his elbows on the table and the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. "Goddamn it, we're going to have to talk," he muttered, scowling blindly, as if by talk he meant get shot.
"We don't," John said quickly, eyes wide, because suddenly being turned into the law didn't seem so bad, by comparison. "We really, really don't."
Arthur dropped his hands to the table in front of him. "I ain't mad, Marston. Just shuddup and siddown."
John dragged his feet like he was headed to the gallows, but he stood and lowered himself into the kitchen chair across from Arthur. The other man no longer looked deadly, just annoyed and uncomfortable. He tapped his fingers on the kitchen table for a long minute, working his jaw, before he spoke.
"Look, John … you ain't a whore, alright? Whatever you done before, I don't care. Right here, right now, you ain't."
Strangely, unexpectedly, the feeling that overtook John was outrage. He clenched his fists on the table and gritted his teeth so hard he could hear them creak. He'd never actually attached the word to himself, and to hear it come from Arthur's mouth was humiliating. "What kind of a thing to say is that? Of course I ain't a fuckin' whore."
If there was any comfort to be had, it was that Arthur seemed equally uncomfortable, on edge, desperate to escape this conversation. "Fine," he said tightly, "okay. Because you don't owe me anything, alright? Not a goddamn thing."
That was clearly untrue, but it was not an opportune time to argue it.
John stared down at the table, eyes unfocused, and unclenched his teeth. In a whisper, he admitted, "I wanted to do something nice for you."
Arthur grimaced, looking away. "Fine. You want to do something nice, in the morning you can get to work re-shingling the roof on the shed. Now go back to bed."
John felt a lingering dissatisfaction with the response, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Arthur?"
Arthur stood up from the table, turning his back to John. "I said, go to bed. We're done talking about this."
They weren't, of course, but the future conversations, years later, would have a very different tone.
***
They stayed in Blackwater for a two weeks, sweeping up a few mid-level members of the Del Lobo gang, before heading out towards Annesburg. Small towns were better for finding bounties, in general—cities like Blackwater or Saint Denis preferred to rely on their own lawmen or federal men, like the Pinkertons. They had stopped for the night in Valentine when John saw the newspaper headline, and he wasted no time in bringing it to slap down in front of Arthur at the saloon.
TRAIN ROBBED
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PITCHED BATTLE LEAVES MANY DEAD.
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OUTLAWS SEND TRAIN ON DRIVERLESS JOURNEY.
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OWNED BY LEVITICUS CORNWALL
The article was alongside another about the robbery in Blackwater, but whoever had written it had not made a connection between the two.
"Reckon your friend has been busy," John said, not bothering to hide his disapproval.
Arthur glanced over the article, his mouth going tight for moment, but in the end he simply flipped the paper face down and looked over at John with a tired expression. "I know what kind of people they is, John. You live outside the law, people die. Hell, we live inside the law these days, people still die."
"In theory, we're lawmen," John replied. "We ain't too different from the folk that they killed."
"Jesus Christ, John," Arthur snapped, "if this is a problem then fucking leave. I don't have a leash on ya."
The outburst was so unexpected that it hit John like a punch to the gut. "I don't want to leave," he forced out between gritted teeth. "I also don't want you to hang. Dutch is hot right now, that's all I'm saying."
"I seen the same bounty posters you have," Arthur replied, cross, "and I'm getting pretty damn tired of hearin' his name outta your mouth."
"I'd be happy if I never had to say it again," John replied, "believe me, I would, because that would mean you were done being his errand boy—"
Arthur stood so fast that his chair skidded back and grabbed John by the unfastened collar of his shirt. For a moment John thought he was going to get punched, but instead Arthur dragged him bodily out the side door of the saloon, into the muddy alley, and shoved him up against the exterior wall.
"John Marston," He growled into John's face, only inches away, "I swear to God, if you do not stop harping at me about Dutch like a jealous fishwife, I am going to knock your teeth down your goddamn throat."
John hadn't noticed his hands coming up to cover Arthur's where they were fisted in his shirt, but he let them go now, dropping his hands to his side, absolutely no threat. "l'm not doing it to rile you," he said, carefully, evenly, "but you've got a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to Dutch Van der Linde."
Arthur shoved John up against the wall one more time, a warning, before letting him go. "That's what you refuse to understand, John," he said, shaking his head, "I ain't blind about what Dutch is. I know exactly what he is, because I'm not any different." John was already shaking his head, but this was another argument they'd often had—Arthur only ever credited himself for his mistakes. "I'm just as much a killer as he is, and you know it," he insisted, eyes dark under the brim of his hat.
"You're not like him," John said gruffly.
Arthur looked down, his hat hiding his eyes, and shook his head again, hands on his hip. "I tried not to be," he said, under his breath, almost to himself. "Lord knows I tried."
*
John was 19 when Eliza and Isaac died. He preferred to think of it that way, that they just died, because the truth was—
They were bounty hunting, him and Arthur, up in West Elizabeth. Arthur had started taking him on safe, local bounties when he was seventeen, but only recently had he let John accompany him further afield. The thing that made his gut twist, afterward, was that John had been excited to go. He idolized Arthur, in the starry-eyed way of a teenager, and any time where he got Arthur to himself was worth its weight in gold. At home (and he had thought of it as home by then) it was a boring routine of him, Eliza and Isaac, doing the same things over and over, just waiting for Arthur.
(He'd never thought about it in those terms, but he had loved Eliza and Isaac. Not the way that Arthur loved them, probably, and definitely not the way he loved Arthur, but he had.)
They were gone nine days. It wasn't until they were practically at the front door of the house that they noticed it was only propped up against the frame, the hinges busted out. Something in John's mind had frozen then, refused to acknowledge what that could mean. Arthur, on the other hand … well, Arthur had lived as an outlaw a lot longer then John had.
"John," he said, in that dangerously even tone of his, standing utterly motionless on the porch steps, "go take the horses 'round back."
Arthur had already covered the bodies when John came in. He was crouched on his heels over the white sheet laid across the floor, left hand pressed over his mouth, gripping so tight that his knuckles were white, right hand still holding a corner of the sheet. The shape underneath it was small (he was so fucking small).
John cried. Arthur didn't. Arthur didn't say anything at all for what seemed like a long, long time.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two, Part One
Summary:
John liked to believe that it helped. A part of him thought that, now, he was all Arthur had.
But he was wrong—Arthur had more than John, he had a past, and it was a week after the burial when it came trotting up to the house.
Notes:
It occurred to me that, in some ways, I've made John into the Abigail of this story.
I feel like it needs to be said that, while this is in theory an established relationship fic, its still intended as a slow burn as the 'relationship' goes from deeply compartmentalized to actually functional. This will become clearer as it goes on, I hope.
Chapter Text
Most people with high bounties had been on the run for a long time, and bounty hunters could often list off the top most valued from memory, people like Dutch, Colm O'Driscoll, Flaco Hernandez and the like. That was why the bounty poster John picked up at Riggs Station was such a shock—$1500 dollars for a feller neither Arthur nor John had ever heard of before. Arthur reckoned they ought to ask the Sheriff about it, and when they got out to Strawberry to do so, the reason for the high bounty became clear.
The town looked like a battlefield.
John had only been to Strawberry a handful of times—its foppish mayor disliked issuing bounties, thought it hurt the town's reputation as a vacation resort to be seen as lawless—but it had always been a quiet, quaint, somewhat picturesque slice of Americana. This time, when they rode up, the streets were empty, windows were shuttered, and there were splintered bullet holes on nearly every wall, roof and fence. The sheriff's office, when they rode up, was empty, and missing half of the basement wall, besides.
"Holy shit," John muttered under his breath.
"Reckon we can guess why the Sheriff ain't the one going after him," Arthur agreed. "The Mayor holes up in the hotel here as I recall. Maybe he can point us in the right direction."
Nicholas Timmins was a smarmy, weaselly little man, but it was to their advantage that he was a coward. He was only to happy to welcome them when they mentioned the name from the poster.
"You're bounty hunters then?" He asked, stupidly. They both had pistols at each hip; Arthur had his shotgun across his back, John his repeater. They were both brown with trail dust, and neither had lately seen a razor. "You sure look the part."
John glanced sideways at Arthur and rolled his eyes.
"Arthur Morgan," Arthur said, and waved hand at John, "this here's my brother John. We're out of New Austin, saw your poster at Riggs station."
The mayor took the poster that John was still holding, staring at it like he'd seen a ghost. "Yes, it's … I was here, you know. In the hotel. During the shootout."
"Looks like it was a nasty business." John piped in, a note of curiosity in his voice, and the mayor nodded absently.
"Oh yes, terrible. Terrible. It was—" his throat worked as he swallowed, looking vaguely nauseated. "We lost nearly two dozen men, including the sheriff and both deputies. Five women and two children were hit by ricochets, one woman lost her eye."
Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, I can see why he's worth so much. Any idea where he might have gone?"
The mayor shrugged, still staring at the sketch with distant eyes. "The sheriff picked him up north of town, originally. He was with a colored boy, but that one got away. If they had a camp up there he might have gone back, I suppose." It wasn't much, but it sounded like it was best lead they were gonna get.
The hotel manager stopped them as they were walking out, his expression grim. "Gentlemen," he said, voice serious, "I wanted to say … this fella, I wouldn't try to take him alive."
Arthur and John exchanged a glance, but it was Arthur who spoke. "Why's that?"
"He was laughing," the man replied, sounding haunted. "He was shooting half the able men in this town, and when you could hear over the gunfire, he was laughing."
*
They hadn't even really started trying to track him when they spotted him—they were setting up their own camp in the hills east of town when they saw the firelight.
"It can't be," John said to Arthur, incredulous. "Man shoots two dozen people, gets a fifteen hundred dollar bounty, and a week later he's still camped less than a day away?"
"Yep, it's crazy," Arthur drawled, binoculars to his eyes, "then again, sounds like this feller is crazy."
"Maybe he's waiting on his partner?" John suggested, accepting the binoculars as Arthur passed them over. "That colored boy the mayor mentioned?"
Arthur shook his head. "Other one got away clean. No reason he wouldn't have come back already, if he were comin'. Naw, I think he's got some unfinished business 'round here."
They were far enough away that the figure at the campfire was hard to make out, even with binoculars, but John could see long blonde hair and a pale, wide-brimmed hat. Those matched the poster in his saddlebag. "Shit, I think it really is him." He lowered the binoculars, glancing back to Arthur. "How do you wanna play it?"
Arthur pursed his lips, considering. "We need to get a better look at his face. From this far away he could be William McKinley for all we know."
John cursed. He knew Arthur, so he knew exactly where this was going. "Do not say it, Arthur, do not—"
"I'm gonna go up there," he said. John cursed again, more vehemently—Arthur cuffed him gently on the back of the head in response, knocking his hat askew. "Don't moan at me, Marston. You're the better shot but I'm the quicker draw. I want you up on that ledge covering me in case things go pear-shaped."
John put the binoculars to his eyes again, this time eyeing the terrain. The feller had picked a well-sheltered campsite, only one way in or out, but he could see a few places on the ledge above that would give him a view of the entire clearing. "Yeah," he agreed after a moment, "all right. Reckon I'll have to ride with you. If I take Old Boy, he'll hear there's two of us."
They circled around the back of the camp to let John set up on the overhanging ledge—it gave him a perfect view of the small camp, while being dark enough that the man below was unlikely to see him unless he knew to look. Not a minute later he heard the hoofbeats of Boadicea, Arthur's horse, trotting down the narrow path into the camp.
No one did nonchalance like Arthur. He could walk into a room full of lawmen or a room full of outlaws with the same outward lack of concern. John had his theories about why this was, but the simplest explanation had always been that Arthur showed no fear because he had no fear—not of his own death, anyway. It was not something John was happy about—he certainly had plenty of fear of Arthur's death—but it fit everything he knew of the man. Arthur could stare into the barrel of a loaded gun as if he wasn't afraid to die because he wasn't.
(Put a gun to the head of a woman, or a child, or John, and it was a different matter entirely, of course.)
Arthur wasn't literally staring down a gun barrel as he approached Micah Bell's camp, but having seen what the man did in Strawberry, it felt like largely the same sort of situation to John.
Bell heard Arthur at the same time John did, but his reaction was minimal. His head jerked up to peer at the narrow fissure that led up the the top of the plateau, the only entrance to the camp site, but he didn't stand or draw either of the guns at his hips, just shifted so that the fire was between him and the entrance when Arthur emerged into the light of the fire, on foot, holding Boadicea's reins.
"This here is a private camp, stranger," Bell called out, before Arthur could speak. "I ain't lookin' for company."
"Well gee, I'm sorry, mister," Arthur called back, his tone bright and jovial. "I was only thinkin' that these woods is dangerous at night for a feller on his own. Thought you might take pity on me."
There was a pause, and through his scope, John could see Bell look Arthur up and down. "Yeah," he drawled, his tone sarcastic, "you look real unprepared. Who you think you're foolin', lawman?"
If it had been John down there he would have tensed, panicked, probably started spitting angry denials, but this was just another staring-down-the-barrel situation for Arthur, and he only cocked his head. "I ain't a lawman," he said calmly, "but I am a bounty hunter. And you're Micah Bell, if I'm not mistaken."
"Micah Bell the Third, actually," he replied, and then there was a flurry of motion as he and Arthur both went for their guns.
Arthur was right when he'd said that he was a faster draw than John. He likely would be faster draw than Bell, too, in a proper quickdraw contest, but the fraction of a second that he spent sending Boadicea back up the trail meant that Bell fired first, pistol in each hand, lurching to his feet beside the fire. Arthur fell to the dirt, but whether it was due to being hit or to avoid being hit, John couldn't tell. He cocked his repeater as soon as he saw Arthur go down and fired two quick shots—one between Bell's feet, the other into the crown of his hat, blowing it off his head.
Bell froze.
"The next one's going into your skull!" John yelled down from the ledge. "Drop your guns and put your hands in the air!"
Bell hesitated, but Arthur was staggering to his feet, pistol in hand, to cover him from the other side, and he finally seemed to resign himself, lowering his weapons.
"Two against one, lawman? That ain't fair odds," he sneered, even as he laid his guns on the ground by the fire.
"All's fair in love, war and bounties," Arthur replied, before he swept Bell's feet out from under him to tie him at the wrists and ankles.
John waited until Arthur had Bell secured before circling around to the pathway on foot. He brought Boadicea back with him, the paint mare snuffling at his jacket as they walked. Bell was propped up in a sitting position by the fire when he finally got down to the camp, and Arthur was on the other side of the fire with Bell's saddlebag across his lap. His jacket was off, and he was probing at a bloody rend in the fabric of his shirt.
"Double check my knots," he said, without looking up—it was a normal request; hunting bounties alive meant being damn sure they were trussed securely—but John instead edged around to Arthur's side of the fire.
"You're bleeding," John said, needlessly, grasping the button front of Arthur's shirt as if to pull it open. Arthur batted his hands away.
"It'll keep. Check the knots."
The wound on Arthur's side was high up on the left, it had scraped across his ribs almost by his armpit. It didn't look all that deep, but the thing that struck John was that the placement meant Bell had likely been aiming for the heart. Clearly the fella didn't screw around. John itched to fix it, to pin Arthur down and make him accept help, but he didn't. He went to Bell and checked the knots.
"You better kill me, cowboy," Bell sneered up at him, twisting to look over his shoulder as John tugged at the ropes on his wrist, tied perfect as always, "because when my friends come for me, I'm gonna kill you."
"Shut up, cowboy." John replied, shoving him face-first into the dirt. "We want you alive, but there's plenty of parts we can take off that won't kill you."
"You got no idea who you're messin' with, kid," Bell spat, twisting onto his back. "I run with Dutch Van der Linde,"
Bell had barely finished speaking before Arthur was on his feet over him, yanking the bound man up off the ground by his collar. "You're a goddamn liar," he snarled, right into Bell's face. "Dutch wouldn't wipe his boots on you, you piece of shit."
Bell laughed in his face. "Ooh, someone's a fan."
Arthur punched him, hard enough that the man went out like a light. He was panting as he dropped Bell, face white, and John didn't think it was due to the bullet gouge on his side, though that was still steadily dripping down his shirt. John didn't have it in him to be surprised by Bell's revelation—because of course he was one of Dutch's boys. Wasn't everything about Dutch these days?
*
John first met Dutch Van der Linde a week after Eliza and Isaac's funeral.
The night after they put them in the ground (one stone marker, but two names: Eliza Morgan. Isaac Morgan. Beloved Son. Beloved Wife and Mother.) John crawled into Arthur's bedroll and, in some ways, he never left. Arthur was a gruff, stoic man, not one to accept care, so John didn't offer it. He simply curled up against Arthur's chest, hands fisted into his union suit, and let Arthur believe that John was doing it to comfort himself. It wasn't entirely a lie.
Eliza had hugged him, on occasion. Isaac as well, more open with childlike affection. There was no comparing that to the way it felt when Arthur wrapped one enormous arm around John's back and sighed into his hair, the sound more resignation than contentment.
"You ain't a child, John," he had murmured, gently, but when John didn't reply he just sighed again and let it lie.
John liked to believe that it helped. A part of him thought that, now, he was all Arthur had.
But he was wrong—Arthur had more than John, he had a past, and it was a week after the burial when it came trotting up to the house.
John's first impression of Dutch was that he was too clean. He and Arthur were always coated in trail dust and smelling of tobacco and whiskey, but the man that rode up on his pure white horse was immaculate from head to toe, like dirt wouldn't dare touch him. John's pappy, when he was alive, had always told him that you couldn't trust a man with clean hands.
"Arthur, my boy," Dutch said, laying those clean hands on his shoulders, "I came as soon as I heard."
John had known nothing about Dutch then—Arthur never spoke of him, only rarely spoke of his past at all—but what he did know was that, when Arthur looked at Dutch, the expression of wounded gratitude on his has face made John's skin crawl. John had lived with Arthur for four years and this man, this too-clean popinjay was nowhere to be seen in all that time. Then he appeared out of nowhere, and Arthur looked at him like—
Well, he looked at him the way John tried not to look at Arthur.
"How did you hear—?" Arthur started to ask, shaking his head. Dutch patted his shoulder, comforting, paternal.
"What, you think I just forgot about you when you left?" He chided. "We're family, son. I keep eyes on my family."
John wondered if this man had ever even met Isaac and Eliza.
Arthur was still shaking his head, his expression disbelieving. "I just … it's been years."
"I know," Dutch said, sounding regretful, "and that's my fault. I … I didn't want you to go, you know that. I suppose I was punishing you, and it was cruel of me."
Arthur huffed out a breath and took a step back, looking down at the ground, hands on his hips. John had never before seen him look so young. "I can't say I would have done any different, in your shoes. But it's …" Arthur wiped his hand across his face, as is he could skim off the emotions, "… it's good to see you, Dutch."
When Arthur said the name, that was when it clicked. He'd been riding with Arthur for two years, and there were a few posters that they would see at every single sheriff office, no matter how far afield they went—people that were wanted in every state.
"Holy shit," he exclaimed, before he thought better of it, "you're Dutch Van der Linde."
Intellectually, John knew that Arthur was—had been—an outlaw. Arthur didn't talk about it, but he didn't try to hide it, either. And not an outlaw the way John had been, a dumb kid in over his head—Arthur had, at some point, had a five hundred dollar bounty. They'd brought in murderers who were worth only a tenth of that. And Dutch? At the time, his bounty had been something like a thousand dollars, dead or alive. A thousand dollar outlaw, standing there and speaking to Arthur like he was the prodigal son.
Dutch turned his eyes to John as if he'd only just noticed him. The gaze he cast felt heavy, assessing, a cool sort of calculation behind his eyes. "I see my reputation proceeds me," he said, lightly. "What stories have you been telling about me, Arthur?"
"Only the ones that won't get me arrested," Arthur replied, "so—none."
Dutch guffawed, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "Oh Arthur, I have missed you."
That night, Dutch asked Arthur to leave with him. He needed his family, Dutch said, never mind that John was right there, sleeping on the floor in front of the fire. Never mind that Eliza and Isaac had only been in the ground a week. No, what Arthur needed was to be with his family. John knows that his memories of Dutch are clouded by his own distrust of the man, and he was half asleep when it happened, but still, John would swear he saw the briefest flash of inhuman, incandescent rage on Dutch's face when Arthur said 'no'.
*
"He has to be lying," Arthur said, as John was stitching closed the bloody gouge in his side that Bell had given him. "There's no way Dutch would put up with one of his boys pulling shit like that."
John didn't voice his thoughts: that any true, intimate knowledge Arthur had of Dutch was at least fifteen years out of date. A lot could change in fifteen years. "Sure. He's lying. So there's no reason not to take him straight back to Strawberry."
John was concentrating on the stitches, so he couldn't see the narrow-eyed glare Arthur aimed at him, but he could feel it, hot on his skin like the glare of the sun. "You think he's telling the truth."
"Did I say that? Think I said the opposite," John said mildly.
"Don't be coy with me, John." Arthur snapped, knocking his hands away, and John sat back, resigned.
"You don't wanna know what I think, Arthur," he sighed, scrubbing his bloody fingers on the legs of his denims. "You done told me that you've heard about enough outta me about Dutch."
Arthur didn't have anything to say to that, so he just shoved himself to his feet and began pacing by the fire, shirtless, stitches only half finished. There were a million things that John thought of to say, none of which would help. Like that Bell had no reason to lie about knowing Dutch, since he couldn't have known it would mean anything to them. Or that Dutch had probably killed just about as many people in Blackwater as Bell did in Strawberry, if not more. Or that Bell was clearly a complete fucking nutjob, and whether he knew Dutch or not, they should still turn him in, if not put a bullet in him right there.
"Siddown," he finally said, "and let me finish those stitches."
"Fine," Arthur huffed, dropping himself down right back where he started, "but then get some sleep. We're riding out at first light."
"For Strawberry?" John asked hopefully, but Arthur shook his head, turning to glare at Bell's unconscious form, his expression intense and conflicted.
"No. We're gonna go see Dutch."
*
John wasn't sure how Dutch and Arthur traded messages, but that time, Arthur simply posted a letter at Riggs Station. John didn't know what it said, but by the time they arrived in the Heartlands, three days later, Dutch was waiting for them, Javier Escuella once again by his side.
Bell hadn't appreciated the trip. They kept him gagged, for the most part—not that it actually kept him quiet, but at least it rendered him unintelligible.
Dutch looked as unruffled as always, even in the hot glare of the midday sun. Both John and Arthur had sweat tracing trails through the dust on their skin, but Dutch looked as If he'd just stepped out of the bath, hair slicked back under his perfectly blocked hat, the chain of his pocket watch gleaming gold against his red vest. Dutch always looked as if he didn't even live in the same world as the rest of them.
Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder in greeting, as he always seemed to do. "You said you found something of mine?"
"Might'a done," Arthur replied, noncommittal, as John pulled Bell off the back of his horse, cutting the ropes around his ankles so that he could shove the man towards the other two outlaws.
"You left some of your trash in Strawberry," John said, pulling Bell's head back by his hair so that Dutch could see his face. "Or at least, he says he's yours. Arthur reckons he's not your type."
Bell was practically shouting through the gag, but it was unnecessary—John had seen the flash of recognition in Dutch's eyes the minute he saw Bell's face. Arthur couldn't have missed it, either—he was suddenly tense, on edge, the way he always should have been around Dutch but never was.
"Ah, Mister Bell," Dutch drawled in a disappointed, chiding tone. "I'm afraid he is, in fact, one of mine."
John could see the tension in the line of Arthur's jaw. If it had been anyone but Dutch across from them, he would have expected Arthur's next move to be for his gun. "This feller killed a lot of folk that didn't need killin'," he told Dutch, his tone grave.
"Well, Micah can be a bit of a hothead," Dutch replied dismissively, "but I can assure you he has a heart of gold."
"Hothead nothin'," Arthur snapped back, "Strawberry jail in on the outskirts, he coulda gone straight into the woods and been gone. 'Stead he wandered through town and shot two dozen men. It was a mess, Dutch."
Dutch gestured broadly. "Sometimes things simply get out of hand, Arthur. You know that. I'm not saying it's right," He added quickly, "but these things happen."
"These things—" Arthur started to repeat, tone disbelieving, before he cut himself off with a deep breath. "He ain't right, Dutch. I know you do what you gotta do, but I saw Strawberry. No one had to do that."
Dutch took his hand off Arthur's shoulder and placed it on Bell's. "I understand. Rest assured that Mister Bell and I will be having a long talk about this."
Several emotions flickered across Arthur's face, but the one that settled looked like resignation. "Right," he drawled, dryly, "you do that, Dutch. You talk."
John didn't take his hands off Bell until Arthur pulled him away by the elbow. John wasn't sure what expression was on his face, but whatever was there made Arthur shake his head with a warning look, pulling him bodily back to their horses.
"So we're just gonna let him go?" John hissed to him under his breath, turning over his shoulder to watch Javier sawing through the ropes at Bell's wrists. "Fifteen hundred dollars, two dozen dead men, and we're just gonna send him home to papa Dutch?"
"Yeah," Arthur sighed, and John found it hard to stay righteously indignant when Arthur sounded so defeated, "I guess we are."
Chapter 3: Chapter Two, Part Two
Summary:
John had never liked Dutch from the moment he met him, mostly because he didn't like the way Arthur acted around him, but it was their second meeting that pushed that dislike towards something more like hate.
Notes:
So this closes out the game's chapter two storylines. Parts of this chapter were a bit emotionally exhausting and perhaps a bit too introspective, I'm going to be trying to insert a bit more action in the next parts. As an aside, my goal to celebrate this chapter is to try and leave reviews on all my favorite complete fic (I had to limit myself somehow, so it'll only be complete ones) so if you see me in your inbox a ton, that is why.
Chapter Text
Dutch was everywhere, it seemed like. Not the man, but his influence—there was a distinct new air of lawlessness in New Hanover, people warier of strangers and quicker to put hands on their guns. Vicious brawls in the Valentine saloon, a train robbery in Scarlett Meadows, and the less said about Strawberry, the better. You'd think it would be booming business for bounty hunters, but you would be wrong—the tension meant that lawmen were extra suspicious of outsiders. In New Austin and West Elizabeth John and Arthur could leverage their reputation, but in New Hanover they didn't have the same kind of renown.
It wasn't that they were hurting for money, they lived cheaply and had few expenses, but Arthur was the type of man who needed something to do. He was not suited to leisure, he was a man designed by fate to live and die on horseback, a gun in his hand.
Not that John himself was all that different. He and Arthur were both destined to die with their boots on, he knew that. Hopefully it would be later rather than sooner, but New Hanover was dangerous just then. Leviticus Cornwall was hiring gunslingers left and right, all but flooding the state with armed hotheads, not to mention the ubiquitous Pinkerton detective agency. In theory they were on the same side of the law as the detectives and mercenaries, but they didn't seem to see it that way.
That being as it was, it was extra ironic when, upon seeing them at Smithfield's saloon in Valentine, Javier's chose to greet Arthur with a cheerful, "Hey, lawman!"
Arthur seemed extremely nonplussed, both by the greeting and the tone, and exchanged a perplexed glance with John, but he eventually tipped his hat to the other man an muttered something about not being a lawman.
"Close enough, eh, close enough!" Javier replied, clearly having been at the bar long enough that even someone like Arthur was his friend. "Dutch's pet lawman, that what Micah's been calling you. Thanks for that by the way," this last statement was dripping with sarcasm, "camp just wasn't the same with him gone."
"Keep your goddamn voice down!" Arthur hissed, stepping deep into Javier's space. "Are you telling me that Micah Bell has been running his mouth about me?"
"Only where Dutch can't hear him," Javier replied, and he must be drunker that John had first thought, because he seemed completely ignorant to the waves of danger coming off of Arthur. "Dutch thinks you're useful."
That description made John bristle, like Arthur was some tool Dutch could pull out when he needed, but Arthur seemed to let that part pass. "You and Bell better keep my name outta your mouths or I will shut them for you, Dutch be damned."
Javier held up his hands, one still holding a glass of whiskey, "Hey, settle down, lawman. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
"No, we ain't." Arthur immediately replied. "Don't think you got some kinda pass from me because of Dutch. You make trouble for me I'll make trouble for you."
John could see the other patrons picking up on the tension and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder to pull him back slightly. "Let's just get gone," he said under his breath, "we don't wanna be seen with this feller anyway."
"Reckon we don't," Arthur agreed after a beat, "but you think on what I said, Escuella."
"Sure," Javier said affably, toasting Arthur with his drink, "I'll think good and hard about why I would bother to be afraid of Dutch's little pet lawman."
John already had one hand on Arthur's shoulder, he was quick enough to grab the other to stop him from lunging for Javier's throat. "We don't need this kinda attention, Arthur," he hissed in the other man's ear.
Arthur had a temper but ultimately, he was a rational man. He shrugged off John's hands and straightened his jacket. "You ask Dutch," he said, ominously, before he turned to leave, "if you should be afraid of me."
*
John had never liked Dutch from the moment he met him, mostly because he didn't like the way Arthur acted around him, but it was their second meeting that pushed that dislike towards something more like hate.
Eliza and Isaac had been gone a month, it had been three weeks since Dutch came to bring Arthur back in. John had feigned sleep, but he'd heard the whole conversation, feeling at least somewhat vindicated that Arthur's refusal was swift and unequivocally.
"If it's about the boy," Dutch cajoled," he would be perfectly welcome—"
"I ain't dragging John into that kinda life, even if he wanted to," Arthur replied without hesitation. "He'd just end up like me."
"Would that be such a bad thing?" Dutch pressed, the only thing he'd said that far that John agreed with. He could think of worse fates than following in Arthur's footsteps.
"Yeah, it would be," Arthur sighed, "unless you somehow think that all that's happened has nothing to do with who I am."
Honestly, John hadn't thought they'd see him again, after that. Arthur seemed content to believe that Dutch's empathy was genuine, but it seemed pretty clear to John that Dutch simply thought Arthur would come back now that the things he'd left for were gone. That if Eliza and Isaac were dead then that part of Arthur's life was dead too, and Dutch was the crook that would guide his little lost sheep back into the fold. When it was clear that wasn't going to happen, John expected Dutch to write them off and go on about his business, as he had in the previous years.
John underestimated him.
No, he came back barely three weeks later, polished as always, a bound man slung across the back of his horse with a green bandana shoved in his mouth. This wasn't an uncommon sight in New Austin, a bound man on horseback, but Dutch wasn't a bounty hunter and they weren't the law.
"The hell?" Arthur muttered before Dutch was in earshot, shooting John a baffled glance, and then Dutch was dismounting and pulling the man off his horse, letting him fall face-first into the dirt.
Dutch dragged the struggling man by the back of his collar right to the bottom steps of their porch, dropping him at a bemused Arthur's feet.
"… Am I supposed to know this feller?" He asked Dutch, cocking his head.
Dutch looked up at Arthur with an unreadable, tight-lipped expression, and pulled off the gag. "You tell him what you told me."
"Fuck you!" The man screeched, a distinctive Irish lilt to his voice.
Dutch grasped him by the hair, yanked his head back, and put the glinting tip of his belt knife right against the corner of his eye. "You tell him or I will make this very unpleasant for you."
The man twisted for a moment, panicked, then looked up at Arthur and blurted out, "It was Colm's orders! I had to!"
Arthur went very, very still. It reminded John of that moment when they'd noticed the busted-down door, the moment where something unthinkable was being thought of.
"Dutch," Arthur said, in that same dangerously even tone he'd used that day, "who is this man?"
The terrified man was babbling now, even as Dutch released him to stand, as if words might somehow save him. "You took four of his top men, he couldn't just ignore it! I was only gonna do the woman, but the brat had a fucking gun! I didn't have a choice!"
Sickly, John thought of him, Arthur and Isaac out in the woods, showing Isaac how to shoot cans like it was the most normal thing in the world for an eight year old boy.
"You didn't have a choice?" Arthur repeated, and John had never heard his voice sound so utterly terrifying. "You didn't have a choice?"
"Colm would have killed me!"
"What do you think I'm going to do to you?"
Horrifyingly, the man—boy, maybe, around the same age as John himself—began to cry. "I'm sorry! I— when Colm tells you do do something you do it!"
"Jesus, Arthur," John breathed, his voice a mix of disgust and pity. The kid was bound hand and foot, utterly helpless, and despite his crimes, the whole scenario made John feel slightly sick.
"You always have a choice, son," Dutch said to the bound man, his boot grinding into the small of his back, and there seemed to John to be a sort of bloodthirstiness to his expression, an eagerness for the violence that Arthur was going to dish out. "Your choice was to run with Colm O'Driscoll."
Arthur drew his revolver, shaking off John's hand when he tried, halfheartedly, to stop him. "Tell you what, O'Driscoll," he said, as he crouched down over the boy and pressed the barrel of his gun into the soft part of his cheek, "I'll give you a choice. I can shoot you here, or we can take you down to the sheriff, where they'll probably hang you."
"The sheriff!" The boy shouted instantly, still sobbing. "I'll tell him everything, I swear, just turn me in—"
Arthur nodded thoughtfully, his green eyes dark as coal. "I lied," he said darkly, "you don't have a choice," and shot him twice in the face.
Then he stood, walked into the house, and closed the door behind him.
John and Dutch stood there over the bleeding corpse, silent, for a long moment, Dutch looking down at the body in disdain, before John finally exploded. He took two steps and grabbed Dutch by his silk vest, shoving him up against the side of his horse. "Is that what you wanted?" He demanded. "To watch Arthur kill a helpless, crying kid in cold blood?"
Dutch grabbed John at the wrists and shoved him off, stronger than he looked. "That 'kid' killed his wife and child."
"I knew his wife and child!" John snapped back. "Did you?"
"No," Dutch said, "but I know Arthur, and I knew that he would want to make sure that this animal was taken care of."
"You knew Arthur." John replied, incensed. "He ain't like you. He ain't a killer."
Dutch looked pointedly over John's shoulder at the disfigured corpse lying on the ground, blood still dripping into the dirt from the mess of its skull.
"Is that right?" He drawled.
*
They camped out the next few nights after their run in with Escuella, Valentine too crowded and too risky. John preferred sleeping rough, anyway. There were things that Arthur would let him get away with in the wilderness that he would never tolerate in town, things like John tucking his cold fingers into the back pockets of Arthur's trousers when they sat by the fire, John chuckling into his shoulder as Arthur grumbled. Arthur had a well-known allergy to affection, and getting him to accept anything like kindness was a bit like trying to pet a porcupine—if you didn't do it the exact right way, you were gonna get jabbed. Sometimes it literally came to holding on until he stopped fussin', which John did later that night, crawling into his bedroll and burying his nose into the collar of Arthur's shirt.
"Yer always fucking manhandling me," Arthur complained, even as he threw an arm around John's shoulders and drew his jacket tighter around them both.
"Your life is just fulla hardship," John muttered into his collarbone, already half asleep.
It was peaceful and boring, in a way their life hadn't been in weeks, months if he was honest, so it made perfect sense that when they finally stopped back in Valentine to look for bounties, they found a letter waiting at the hotel from Mary fuckin' Linton.
If there was one person that John could say he hated more than Dutch, it was Mary Linton. In a way it was worse, because he knew full well that she didn't really deserve it. Mary's only sin was not wanting to give up her family to marry an outlaw. Eliza had told John that Arthur left the life because of Isaac, and John was sure that was largely true, but it was also true that the the day he showed up at Eliza's with a wedding ring was only two weeks after Mary had given that ring back to him. Somehow, it seemed the biggest decision in Arthur's life was about proving something to Mary Linton.
Eliza knew that the ring had been Mary's—she was the one that told John the story. He'd never gotten the impression that she minded; Eliza was a practical woman. She took what she was offered, and anyway, she would have been the first to say that she and Arthur were not some great love story.
Arthur and Mary, they were a love story. John hadn't been there for it, obviously, but it was clear in the way that he talked about her, or, more truthfully, the way he didn't. It had become clear to John early on in their acquaintance that the things that were most important to Arthur were the ones he kept most closely guarded, and the things he knew about Mary Linton were all carefully inferred from what Arthur didn't say.
"You're not going, right?" John demanded, practically breathing down Arthur neck to read the letter over his shoulder. Arthur allowed it—he was a private man, but he didn't keep any secrets from John anymore.
"Of course I'm going," Arthur replied lightly. "She— well, it's not like we made any promises, but I don't forget about people. You know that."
Arthur Morgan and his goddamn loyalty, and always to people that didn't deserve it. "Then I'm coming with you."
"Fine, but you best be polite, boy," Arthur warned, sticking a finger in John's face like he was his mother. "Mary is a lady."
"If the lady spent time around you, reckon she won't be too put off by me."
Arthur grimaced, looking away. "Yeah, well, she weren't around me for all that long."
"She sure wants to be around you now," John muttered under his breath.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "It ain't like that, and if you think you're going to be some kind of chaperone, you can fuck off."
Of course, John couldn't admit that he wanted to come so that he could somehow protect him from Mary. As if that were a thing that was even in his power. He was pretty sure you could fight a broken heart with a gun. "Maybe I just want to meet the famous Mary Linton, woman who stole a gunslinger's heart."
"That was a long time ago." Arthur dismissed. "She married some rich feller and I had—" Eliza's name stuck in his throat and he shook his head, sharply. "We was kids and I ain't looking to turn back the clock."
"Good," John replied, "because I might have a thing or two to say about that."
That was getting very close to another of those things they Didn't Talk About, especially not in town around strangers, but Arthur had been letting him get away with a lot lately, and let the comment pass. Anyway, it wasn't like Mary was John's competition because it wasn't like John was Arthur's wife, and Mary was a married woman who'd had her chance and lost it.
Except she wasn't. She was a widow with soft eyes and soft hands who cooed to Arthur that only he could help her. Still, John found the reality of Mary pretty underwhelming.
She was pretty, sure, and had probably been stunning in her youth, but John found himself comparing her in his mind to Eliza and noting all the ways that she came up short. Eliza had been a sturdy, frontier woman who had accepted Arthur but didn't need him, and Mary was exactly the opposite—someone who needed Arthur but couldn't accept him. Or couldn't then, though she seemed awful accepting now that her rich husband was dead and she needed a man's help.
So John was still a little sour about the whole thing, probably.
"I know it's probably not my place to ask," Mary said, later, when she was boarding a train with her wayward brother, "but … why did you leave that all behind for her, when you wouldn't for me?"
And that showed how little Mary really knew him, because he clearly did leave it for her—or not for her, but because of her. Isaac and Eliza hadn't appeared out of nowhere, but it wasn't until Mary Ginnis told him that she would never marry an outlaw that he saw that life as unsustainable.
He hadn't tried to change her mind. He was too proud. But it was clearly because of her.
That wasn't what Arthur told her. All he told her was, "Tell me what answer you want and I'll say it, but it won't change anything."
John didn't want to change anything, anyway. Arthur left because of Mary, but he stayed out because of John.
*
They were actually fixing to leave Valentine, head out to Annesburg or Van Horn where the Pinkerton population might be diminished and the bounties more plentiful, when the gunfight broke out. They were on the opposite side of town, stocking up on provisions, and by the time they'd climbed up to the roof of the stable for a better view it already sounded like a war.
"It's gotta be Dutch," John growled, scanning the street through the scope of his rifle. "It's always fucking Dutch."
"Be fair," Arthur said mildly, peering down through his binoculars with his shotgun propped up beside him, "In Strawberry it was Bell."
"Right, because Dutch had nothing to do with that."
"I really love it when you bitch at me in the middle of a gunfight, John, it really—" He stopped abruptly, knuckles white from the grip he had on his binoculars, and huffed out a breath. John knew what he was going to say before he said it. "Shit. It is Dutch."
John aimed his scope up towards the center of town and there he was, him, Bell and Escuella, crouched behind a wagon that was being quickly eaten away by the gunfire. They were shielded from the sheriff but totally exposed from John's vantage, and John knew his own skills—he could make the shot.
"Arthur," he said, his tone urgent, wheedling, "just let me take care of this right here. No one else needs to die."
Almost before he finished speaking Arthur was tackling him to the roof, knocking John's head hard against the wood, and wrenching his rifle away to toss out of the way. John rolled onto his side, dazed from the hit to his head and the noise of the gunfight, and watched blearily as Arthur pressed his back up against the roof wall, legs sprawled out in front of him, and buried his face in his hands. They didn't move until the sound of gunfire finally trailed out of town, accompanied by the sound of hoofbeats.
John wondered if he would let half a town die if it meant keeping Arthur alive. He wasn't sure he wanted to be in a position to find out.
Chapter 4: Chapter Three, Part One
Notes:
This is a bit of a doozy, and I apologize in advance for the semi-cliffhanger, but it didn't feel right for the pacing I'm going for to break in a different place. I'll endeavor to get the next chapter out as quickly as possible, but I don't like to publish anything under about 3500 words, it feels too disjointed, to me.
On another note, I know in the first few chapters I was not great at responding to reviews. I've been out the writing game awhile and I'm sort of feeling my way back into fandom, but I'm trying to do better, so please do leave comments, [Arthur voice] It would mean a lot to me [/Arthur voice].
Chapter Text
They had to walk through Valentine to get back to their horses. It was that or stay, and they were not going to stay. They tried to avoid the townsfolk, women wailing in the streets over the bodies of their dead husbands, their sons, but they couldn't avoid Sheriff Malloy, who was on the porch of his office, right where they'd hitched their horses. He was bleeding from the temple and right arm, both minor wounds, and leaning over the body of one of his deputies, his fingers pressed against the fallen man's wrist. He looked up as they approached, his face grim.
"Morgans," he said, sounding slightly surprised despite the grimness of his tone. "I didn't know you were in town."
"Wish we weren't," John replied when Arthur said nothing, and it was true enough.
Malloy sighed, and set his deputy's limp wrist onto his chest. "Don't we all right now. This is—" he looked down the main street of Valentine and shuddered, reaching up to grip the wound on his arm. "You been in the war? No, nevermind, reckon you ain't old enough."
"Yeah," John said softly, "I guess it woulda been something like this."
"Man's inhumanity to man." Malloy sighed.
"Makes countless thousands mourn." Arthur finished, to John's surprise. "Robert Burns wrote that."
Malloy considered him for a long moment. "Never took you for a learned man, Mister Morgan."
"I ain't," Arthur acknowledged easily, "but the man who taught me to read—he was. Sort of. Poetry and literature and that."
"Must have been a Scotsman, if he had you reading Burns," Malloy said absently, and Arthur chuckled under his breath without any real humor.
"Nah, I think he was Dutch."
"Well," Malloy said after a pause, "you boys best get out of here. Nothing that you can do now."
It was strange to be given permission, but they weren't going to question it. They mounted up and rode out with all due speed, stopping only once daylight faded. Arthur was silent as they set camp—not unusual, but this silence was heavy, weighted with John's disapproval and Arthur's guilt. John wasn't sure how he expected it to end, but it certainly wasn't with Arthur saying, "I want to tell you a story. I'm not really sure where to start."
'At the beginning', John didn't say. It was too glib for the moment, too superficially true. "What's it about?" He asked instead, as though he didn't know the answer.
Arthur chuckled, the same humorless laugh he had given the sheriff, and shook his head. "Me."
A lie, obviously. It was clearly going to be about Dutch. Then again, maybe in this case they were one and the same.
"I'll listen to whatever you want to tell me," John said slowly, "but I ain't no priest to forgive you your sins."
"I don't think Christ himself could help me at this point. No, that's not what this is."
"All right, then," John said, cocking his head, "so tell me about you, Arthur Morgan."
Arthur cleared his throat and looked away, uncomfortable. "I ever tell you how my father died? He got into a shootout with the law. He was a dumb, petty thief and they weren't even gonna hang him, just lock him up again, but instead of just surrendering he tells them that if they don't let him go he's gonna shoot his kid. I was thirteen years old and my father put a gun to my head to save his own skin. But he was drunk—he was always drunk—so I got away from 'im and had a front row seat to Johnny Law fillin' him full of holes."
"Jesus," John breathed, and Arthur glanced back at him, eyes hard.
"Don't misunderstand me," he said, "the only thing I'm sorry about is that I didn't get to shoot him myself, the miserable bastard. This—" he took off his hat, holding it up for John to see, "was his. See here?" He stuck his finger through a bullet hole in the brim, near the crown, and wiggled it in illustration, "I reckon this was the one that killed him."
"That's pretty fucking morbid, Arthur." John said, slightly disturbed.
"Yeah, well," Arthur shrugged, putting the hat his father died in back on his head, Jesus. "Town wanted my father's brother to take me in, but he just sold my Mama's house and took himself and the money somewhere up north without even burying my Pa. That was my blood kin, that's what they did for me. State tried to put me in an orphanage so I ran, spent two years sleeping in haylofts and back alleys—reckon you know how it was—tryin' to steal enough to keep myself alive. Finally got caught and thrown into jail when I was fifteen, and you can guess who was in the cell across from me."
"Wait," John interrupted, "you met Dutch in jail?"
Arthur chuckled at that, genuinely. "Yeah, not the most heroic story, is it? So there I was, not even old enough to shave, skinny as a rat, nothing but the clothes on my back to my name, wonderin' if I was gonna hang over a couple'a chickens, and Dutch? He looks me over and asks me, through prison bars, mind, what I was planning to do with my life. Like I actually had any control over that. Well, I told him to mind his own fuckin' business, of course, because I thought I was tough. And then he just … he talked to me. You been on the run, John—how often did anyone ever talk to you like you was a human being?"
"Reckon you were the first in a long while," John agreed, thoughtful.
"Right. So … I don't know. Maybe I was just a captive audience, maybe he saw something in me. Maybe he was just bored. But the stuff he said, about civilization, about the law and society—it made sense to me. The world didn't want us—it certainly didn't want me—so why should we have to follow its rules? Dutch is … well, you've heard him talk. He makes you believe."
Dutch was a charismatic man, sure, but John thought it was less what Dutch had said than the fact that he had bothered to say it. John had been that scared kid desperate for connection. If Arthur had tried to sell him on some bullshit philosophy, he probably would've bought it, so long as it meant being a part of something.
"When Hosea came to bust him out he stood in front of the door to my cell and asked me again, what I was planning to do with my life. I said I was going to go with him. And I did. For ten years, I did. I sweated, fought and bled for that man, and he did the same for me. He's more my family than any of those fuckers that shared my blood, and that means something to me."
"You said this weren't about forgiveness," John replied, "but it sounds an awful lot like you want me to absolve you of Dutch's sins."
"I'm long past absolution," Arthur said, shaking his head. "I just … want you to understand."
John huffed, annoyed. This whole story, the life and times of Arthur Morgan, it wasn't about sharing something with John. It was about defending Dutch, and even though John had known it would be it still left him feeling disappointed. "I understand loyalty just fine, Arthur. But the Dutch you was just talking about and the man that just murdered half a town don't sound much to me like the same person."
To his surprise, Arthur didn't argue. "No, you're right about that. You know, sometimes I see my reflection and I don't recognize myself, neither."
There was silence for a long moment, both of them looking at the fire and not at each other, until John signed and shook his head. "What do you want me to say, Arthur? I'm not going to tell you that Dutch is a good man, because I don't believe it. I'd tell you that you ain't a bad man but I know you don't want to hear it."
Arthur's next words were gritted out between clenched teeth like they were being torn from him, like he was being gutted. "You are the only good thing I have left, so just don't—"
He didn't finish, but it clicked. Not, 'don't leave', because he had to know John wouldn't.
Don't make me choose.
*
With the Van der Lindes gone, the O'Driscolls all but took over New Hanover. Why wouldn't they? Strawberry and Valentine were doth decimated by Dutch's boys. Strawberry still had no sheriff, and Malloy in Valentine had no deputies. The state was properly lawless, bounty hunters like John and Arthur about the only stopgap measure available. Sure, The Pinkertons were still there, and numerous, but they were paid by Cornwall and therefore only addressed his concerns, and his concern was Dutch, not O'Driscoll. John lost track of the number of men in green bandanas he had slung across his horse in the following month, but somehow there never seemed to be less of them. Say what you would about Dutch (and John had plenty to say) but at least he didn't treat his folk like they were disposable.
Cockroaches, Arthur called them. He always claimed not to value revenge but he certainly held a righteous grudge against the O'Driscolls, and they held one right back at him. The older fellers they picked up knew him by name: Arthur Morgan. Van der Linde's lapdog. Gunslinger Gone Good, sneered as if it were an insult.
(How's your wife, one had asked. He'd barely made it back to the sheriff alive.)
Funnily enough, even with all that, it wasn't until he was being dragged out of their tent that it occurred to John that Colm wasn't above directly targeting the law.
They should have set a watch, of course, but both John and Arthur were light sleepers by necessity, and they were less than an hour from Valentine, besides. Arthur slept with his gunbelt beside his hand and John slept beside Arthur, and none of that changed the fact that half a dozen O'Driscolls caught them asleep before either could grab the guns.
They could have shot both John and Arthur in their sleep, they'd had the drop on them and were all armed, but instead John had woken to two men yanking him bodily out of the tent by his ankles, even as other hands toppled the canvas lean-to over top of a cursing Arthur. It only took him a second to flail himself free, but that was enough time for three O'Driscolls to have John pinned, snarling, against the rocky ground, a gun against the back of his head.
God, he hated needing to be saved.
Arthur had both his guns up and aimed, crouched in their collapsed tent, but he only had two hands and there were six men, one of which was kneeling with one knee between John's shoulder blades, the barrel of his revolver right up against the base of John's skull. "I would be very careful, Mister Morgan," the man over John drawled, "if you value the brains in your little cocksucker's head."
"Who you calling a cocksucker, cocksucker?" John grunted into the dirt, twisting away from the answering blow to his temple.
Arthur got a particular kind of way in a gunfight, still like a snake, coiled energy waiting to strike. He rose to his feet, slow and deliberate, pointing his guns towards the ground. "Well I ain't been shot," he said, nonchalant as always when staring down a loaded gun, "so I take it Colm wants something outta me other than my life."
"You're a smart man, Morgan," the same O'Driscoll smirked. "Now be a good boy and let my friends get you all trussed up for him."
"Yeah, reckon I'll decline," Arthur drawled in response, still with that misleading stillness. "Give Colm all my best, though."
The spokesman made a thoughtful hum, and then the O'Driscoll holding down John's left hand put a knee just below his elbow and snapped his arm like kindling.
He didn't remember screaming, but the ringing in his ears and the panic in Arthur's voice suggested that he had. "Christ, fuck, stop," Arthur hissed, and through vision pin-pricked with pain, John watched Arthur drop both guns right to the ground.
"Like I said," the spokesman crowed, "a smart man. Now you behave yourself and we'll leave your friend here to be picked up by the next do-gooder as happens by. You act up and we'll leave him for the vultures."
One couldn't call Arthur's surrender docile—every line of his body was visibly tense, now less a snake than a leashed cur at the end of its lead—but let himself be shoved to his knees, his hands and ankles bound tight. They secured John the same way, mindless of the arm they had just broken, but added for him a gag and a blindfold. Before his vision was obscured he saw Arthur being slung across the back of a horse, twisting against the ropes.
"Wait until we're out a ways," the spokesman murmured under his breath to the man on his right, "then shoot the horses and the other one."
Jerking violently against the ropes made John's vision white out with pain, the bones in his arm grinding together unnaturally, and he thought that perhaps he lost some time, because the sound of hoofbeats was already distant when he finished gasping. The first gunshot was accompanied by an immensely heavy thud and Boadicea's shrieks, and John twisted again against the ropes, gritting his teeth around the gag, because goddamn if he was going to die in the dirt while Colm O'Driscoll had Arthur—
There was a thick, wet noise, a softer thud, and then silence. When John finally worked the blindfold up onto his forehead he saw Old Boy dead on the ground, Boadicea nosing at him gently, and an O'Driscoll with his head mashed flat lying underneath Boadicea's front hooves.
Just for a moment, John let himself collapse limply against the dirt. "Good girl," John cooed, unintelligible through the gag, but he reckoned it was the thought that counted.
*
John wasn't sure how long it took work his way out of the bonds and pull himself, one-handed, onto Boadicea's back, but it was midday by the time he limped into the Sheriff's office in Valentine, wrists rubbed raw from the rope, left arm visible crooked, mouth bruised at the corners from the gag and face bloody from the rocky dirt.
Malloy was on his feet before John had finished stumbling through the door, catching him by the shoulders as if he might hit the ground. "Jesus Christ, Morgan, what the hell happened to you?"
"O'Driscolls," John grunted through gritted teeth. "They—"
"No, nevermind," Malloy cut him off, reaching for his hat as he guided John back towards the door, "you can tell me at the surgery."
"Wait, wait," John gripped back at the sheriff with his good arm, "it's Arthur. They took him."
"Took him?" Malloy repeated, confused. "What would the O'Driscolls want with your brother?"
There were dozens of potential answers to that, but which ones were true and which ones were even safe to tell the law, John wasn't sure. "The number of their boys we brought in ain't reason enough?"
"To kill you, sure." Malloy replied, brow furrowed.
"Who the hell cares why," John snapped, "we have to find him. You—you have to help me."
"You have to get that arm seen to, or you won't be any good to anyone," Malloy countered, guiding him back out onto the boardwalk. "Doc Calloway is the best in— well, he can set a broken bone just fine."
"Are you even fucking listening to me?"
"I'm listening to you, Morgan," Malloy replied calmly. "Do you have any idea where they took him?"
"… No," John admitted after a moment. Malloy shook his head with a sigh as he pushed John through the door of the doctor's office next door.
"Do you know which direction they rode?"
"No, they blindfolded me."
Malloy pushed him down into a chair and waved the doctor over, the sheriff's face grim. He stared down at John for long moment, hands on his hips, before he spoke in a gentle, almost apologetic tone. "Morgan, right now the only law in this town is me and two green as grass boys up from Blackwater. Respectfully, I don't have the men to spare to ride all over God's green earth for a man who's like as not already dead."
John snarled, "We done cleaned up a hell of a lotta trash from your town, you owe us."
"Valentine is grateful to you, but what you did, you did for money, and you were paid," Malloy responded calmly.
John almost lunged out of the chair, would have if the doctor hadn't grabbed his broken arm and pinned it to the arm of the chair, and his snarl turned into a pained moan. "You—you son of a—"
"Now just calm down, Morgan," Malloy placated, laying his hand on John's opposite shoulder in a way that made John think angrily of Dutch. "I can't send my men but there might be something else. Let me talk to some people."
Malloy came back just as the doctor was finishing the splint on John's arm, and through the door behind him walked Agent Andrew fucking Milton.
John froze, hands gripping the armrests of the doctor's chair hard enough that his knuckles were white, teeth gritted hard enough to creak. "What," he scraped out, "is he doing here?"
Malloy was not an idiot—he had to know that bounty hunters and Pinkertons were a sort of natural enemies, but he had no way to know the particular history John had with them. "There are more Pinkertons in New Hanover right now than there are lawmen, Morgan. This man can help you find your brother."
"This man wants Arthur on a gallows."
"Now now, Mister … Morgan," Milton drawled, his emphasis on the name filled with mean-spirited humor, "you know that isn't quite true. Gentlemen," he nodded to the doctor and sheriff as he took off his hat, "could you give us a bit of privacy? This is something of a business discussion."
Because Pinkertons didn't do anything for free any more than bounty hunters did. "I ain't got no business to discuss with you," John said, shoving himself to his feet as if to leave, but the doc and Malloy beat him to it. Milton waited until the door shut behind them turn his gaze back to John.
"Sheriff Malloy tells me that your 'brother' has had a run in with the O'Driscoll gang, that they spirited him off somewhere," he said, in that paced, almost mocking tone he always seemed to use. "Now that's a funny coincidence, because I've recently had an overture from Colm O'Driscoll. He wanted to know what the Pinkertons would give him in exchange for Dutch Van der Linde."
John knew he had to tread carefully here, but it was not his forte. "Arthur has nothing to do with Dutch anymore."
"Well, I don't believe that, and it seems like the O'Driscolls don't either. Now, I'm not being paid to worry about the well-being Arthur Morgan. I only want Dutch, and I'm willing to make a deal to get him. I don't much care if I get him from Morgan, from you, or from Colm O'Driscoll." Milton cocked his head at John and looked at him with the cold gaze of a predator. "Convince me, John, to make a deal with you instead of Colm O'Driscoll, and I will do everything I can to ensure that Arthur Morgan is returned to you in the best possible condition."
"I don't know where Dutch is," John said quickly, "but Arthur might, if you find him."
Milton tsked, shaking his head. "We both know that Arthur Morgan would never deal with me, John. He would never tell his secrets to a … what was it? Rich man's toy. This offer is for you. Your freedom, and Morgan's, in exchange for Dutch. I'll even give you your half of the deal in advance."
And god help him, he was tempted. What did he owe Dutch, after all? Nothing but a shitload of strife, what seemed like every real fight he and Arthur had ever had, and every bit of Arthur's fucked up headspace.
But then he thought of Arthur, teeth clenched, almost begging, "so just don't—" and he met Milton's gaze with a glare.
"Well I guess you called my bluff," he spat, "because Arthur wouldn't actually know where Dutch is anyway."
Boadicea was waiting for him outside the sheriff's office, John's saddlebags alongside Arthur's, and John thought for a long moment about Arthur knowing where to find Dutch, about Arthur posting a letter about Bell and Dutch being right where he was expected not three days later. He thought about them riding out of Blackwater months ago and finding Dutch right where they expected him at Riggs station.
When he dug into Arthur's saddlebag he found a letter sent only two weeks ago from Rhodes, talking about the wonderful fishing at Clemens Point, and signed Tacitus Kilgore.
It was an act of desperation, but Malloy had his obligations to his town, and Milton wanted a pound of flesh that wasn't John's to give. John swallowed down the humiliation, and the anger, and the outright hate, and got down on his metaphorical knees in front of Dutch fucking Van der Linde. Every eye and gun in Clemens Point was on him, and he bowed his head and said, "Arthur needs— … I … need your help."
Dutch gave him a long, level look, unreadable, and then—
Then he helped him.
Dutch Van der Linde, who sheltered murderers, who killed whole towns, who had twisted Arthur up in knots that John had spent years trying to undo, nodded, dropped a hand on John's shoulder in the same way he always did to Arthur, and said, completely sincere, "I would never allow for any harm to come to Arthur."
Chapter 5: Chapter Three, Part Two
Notes:
What to say about this chapter? It's pretty sedentary--I wanted to try to start establishing the kind of relationships that John is going to have with the camp, and his impressions of the some of the characters that he'd never met, but this really ended up mostly being about John and Dutch, and I'm okay with that.
I do want to remind everyone that John is an unreliable narrator, so some of his assessments of his and other's motives are not necessarily accurate. They reflect what John feels to be true, not necessarily what is.
Chapter Text
Dutch sent four riders out at first light, after showing them an uncannily accurate portrait of Arthur that Hosea had drawn beforehand. It was almost as if ... fuck, it was almost as if Dutch actually cared about Arthur, too. As if he wanted Arthur safe as much as John did.
After, Dutch introduced John around the camp like he was an invited guest. There were some grumblings among the remaining menfolk, but Dutch's blessing was apparently a trump card, and it wasn't until Dutch was gregariously re-introducing him to Micah Bell, using John's full, legal name, that he realized—he wasn't being introduced, he was being incriminated. Dutch wanted John to damn well know that the price for his help was every member of that camp knowing his name and face.
"Oh, the pet lawman's pet," Micah had smirked, and despite what Javier had told them months ago, he seemed perfectly comfortable to say it right in front of Dutch. "Hear you misplaced your master."
"Hear you misplaced your balls," John snapped back, completely without Bell's fake-jovial tone. "Maybe they fell off when I had you slung across the back of my horse like a sack of potatoes."
"Big talk from the little boy that had to run to Dutch to help him find his Daddy."
"Enough, Micah," Dutch intervened, before it could escalate further. "Young Mister Marston here did us a service in informing us of my dear friend's predicament. You will show him the civility of which I know you are capable."
"Of course, Dutch," Micah replied, and John was astonished that Dutch seemed completely oblivious to the patronizing undertone. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine."
As Micah walked away, John looked at Dutch out of the corner of his eyes and asked, dubiously, "A service?"
"Don't mistake me, son," Dutch replied, hand on John's shoulder, "I would bleed myself dry for Arthur, as he would for me. But you are not Arthur. When you ask something of me I will ask for something in return."
John had known that coming to Dutch was playing dice with the devil. He was prepared to pay the costs. "I pay my debts," he said, evenly, "and we both know that Arthur would never forgive me if I double crossed you."
"True enough!" Dutch agreed, patting John on the shoulder. "I'm glad we understand each other."
One of the camp women waved him down when Dutch released him—unlike the men, the camp women seemed more curious than wary, and had been whispering behind his back since he arrived.
"Miss Grimshaw said we're to give you a tent," the woman told him, holding out a bundle of fabric. She held onto it for a moment after he reached to take it, cocking her head. "The boys are saying that you're a lawman."
"Bounty hunter," John corrected tersely, "not lawman."
"Pretty much the same thing to a gang of outlaws. Just about every man here is worth something."
"I ain't here for that."
"So you ain't," she allowed, letting go of the bundled tent, "but your type done caused us a lotta grief over the years."
John was exhausted. He hadn't slept in something like two days, not since he was jerked awake by an O'Driscoll in the middle of the night. He'd spent nearly all of that time on horseback, Boadicea seeming to be pushing herself just as hard as John was. He ached everywhere, and his broken arm felt like it was on fire, not having appreciated the bumpy ride. He was surrounded by folk that would be happy to shoot him dead, protected only by the good will of a man he hated, and he was still barely closer to finding Arthur, if he was even still alive. He didn't know what this woman was getting at, but he knew he didn't have the energy for it.
"Why don't you just tell me what you want out of me?"
"All I want is to know that this ain't gonna turn around and bite us in the back. You can't trust lawmen."
He looked at her with bleary eyes, thinking about Malloy, and Milton, and how little of a shit either of them seemed to give about Arthur. "Yeah," he agreed lowly, "why do you think I'm here?"
*
Four nights later it was the same woman, Abigail, who shook him awake in his tent on the lake shore. "They found your friend. Dutch and Hosea have him by Strauss's wagon."
It was the middle of the night, and it took John a second or two of blinking at her blearily before the words registered. Then he was shoving his feet into his boots without bothering with trousers. "Strauss's—which is that?" It was a decently small camp, and he could probably have figured it out on his own, but the idea of delaying even a moment made John's gut churn.
"'S where we keep the medicines—c'mon, I'll show you."
At some point during the days he had been confined to the camp the womenfolk had decided that John was some sort of poor unfortunate, and taken to trying to comfort him. Abigail was the only one that treated him with a suspicious standoffishness, a well deserved wariness, and he by far preferred it. Abigail at least didn't look at him like he was a lost puppy that Dutch had taken in out of the goodness of his heart. Even now she just calmly pointed him towards the proper wagon, cinching her shawl closer around her shoulders, and told him, matter-of-fact, "He looked to be in a bad way."
That seemed to be something of an understatement.
John had seen Arthur injured on many occasions—it was a risk of the job—but they both kept kit in their saddlebags: needle and thread, cheap, strong moonshine, clean bandages. Arthur even kept a bottle of laudanum, though he was always hesitant to use it. The hole in Arthur's shoulder right then, increasingly more exposed as Hosea unwound the makeshift binding over it, had clearly seen no care at all. It had been allowed to fester, dark black-purple spreading out from the oozing wound like a starburst. When John got close enough he could smell it, foul and rotten like the grave.
Even with that, Arthur seemed to be weakly resisting Dutch and Hosea's efforts at medical care, pushing at Hosea's hands with his right hand even as Dutch pinned his left arm to the ground, hands framing the injury and holding it immobile.
John scrambled to his knees across from Hosea, grabbing Arthur's flailing right hand and pulling it away from his shoulder. Arthur's eyes were open but completely unfocused, bright with fever, and the hand John held felt like it was burning, hot and dry.
"What— where—" John wasn't sure what question he really wanted to ask, but Dutch answered anyway.
"Charles found him out by Twin Stack Pass, on horseback, if you can believe it," he huffed, sounding almost proud.
"Reckon he was looking for you, son," Hosea added, glancing up at John for the briefest of moments. "You were camped out that way, didn't you say?"
"Shoulda looked for a fucking doctor, Christ," John muttered under his breath, brushing his free hand across Arthur's forehead. The skin was much, much too hot. Dumbly, John repeated the obvious fact aloud, "He's really hot."
"We'll handle it," Dutch said distractedly, leaning down harder on Arthur's shoulder as Hosea started to pack the wound with some kind of yellow-green poultice. Arthur groaned, trying to wrest his right hand away from John's, left hand clawing at the bedroll under him, heels churning up the dirt. Between the pain and John babbling mindless, panicked platitudes he finally seemed to regain a little bit of focus, blinking up at the faces above him blearily.
"… J'hn?" He said after a long moment, slurring badly, and John barked out a laugh, quick and loud, because it was that or cry.
"Yeah. Yeah, I gotchu. We're safe, all right?" Not that John really believed that himself, but at least Dutch probably wouldn't harm Arthur.
It took Arthur a good few seconds to process that, staring at John through squinted eyes, looking almost suspicious. "You … yer arm," he said finally, and John wanted to shake him. He'd been held captive for something like a week, he was hot as a furnace, his shoulder was rotting off, and he was worried about John's stupid broken arm—
"You're a goddamn fool," John told him, vehemently, before cupping his face in both hands and kissing him. He could taste blood on Arthur's mouth, and the hand that settled on the back of his neck was weak and too-warm, and if Arthur was in his right mind he probably would have been shoved away by now (because it's private, Arthur would say, but John could translate that to shameful and secret), but at that moment it seemed like the perfect idea, because Arthur was alive and he could.
"Well now," Dutch drawled, and John jerked back, startled, scowling at his amused tone, "a number of things are suddenly becoming clearer to me."
*
John, when he was seventeen or so, had asked Eliza why she and Arthur didn't share a bed. The answer had been as unsatisfying as it was honest.
"Arthur … he ain't like that, I guess," she said, thoughtful. "Not … touchy. I been knowing him a while now, and I honest think no one ever showed him how."
"To … touch people?" John said dubiously, but Eliza nodded.
"I mean, folk have to learn it somewhere, right? Reckon that daddy of his wasn't so much patting him on the back as slapping him in the face. He ain't the type to do that but maybe he don't rightly know how to do anything else, neither."
John thought about that, but to him, it didn't quite fit. Arthur touched people plenty—clapping John on the shoulder, hoisting Isaac up onto his horse and ruffling his hair, even pecking Eliza on the cheek when he was feeling particularly effusive. He didn't kiss Eliza but he figured that was more to do with how they didn't sleep together either, their marriage bed chaste as a cloister, especially since Arthur was never in it. There was also the fact:
"But you have Isaac?"
Eliza gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Now I know you ain't askin' me how I got Arthur Morgan into bed."
"I ain't!" John yelped, instantly, even though he sort of was. "It just—you said 'touching', and ..."
Eliza gave him that narrow, suspicious look for another few seconds, then turned her gaze back to the mending in her lap. "Arthur is how he is, but its also the case that no man is an island. And," she added, almost as an afterthought, "we was young and really drunk. You wanna know more, reckon you can ask him."
That sounded like a great conversation to have. Hey Arthur, how come you never sleep with your wife?
He couldn't get it off his mind, though, and finally blurted out over a campfire several nights later, "You and Eliza don't much act like a married couple."
Arthur was eating beans straight out of the can and didn't even look up, just gave an uninterested grunt and muttered, "How do married folk act, then?"
"Well, I guess they share a bed."
"Yeah, well, those folk live under the same roof for more than a few days at a time," Arthur replied. "Ain't fair for me to go around disrupting everything when I'm on the trail more often than I'm there."
John cocked his head, some sort of vague suspicion, some insight, creeping up on him. "… don't you want to?"
"Don't matter what I want," Arthur replied without any real emotion, a simple statement of fact, and that, that was it. It wasn't that Eliza was wrong, but she was missing the crucial part—not knowing how to accept something wasn't the same as not wanting it. Arthur had clearly thought out what he thought was best for Eliza and Isaac, and his own wants featured nowhere.
It shouldn't have been a revelation, because John had already learned that Arthur was the sort that wouldn't bleed on other people, but he'd put it up to stoicism, independence. Arthur was a big, tough gunslinger, so of course when he got hurt he would just rub some dirt on it and act like it was nothing.
And apparently, if he wanted a lover's touch or a body in his bed at night, he would just rub some dirt on that, too.
*
If John hadn't already been in such a precarious position, he might have worried more about what Dutch knew, or thought he knew, about John and Arthur. As it was, Dutch already had John over a proverbial barrel, and whatever he decided to do with his new information wasn't going to change anything overmuch. Maybe Dutch watched him more closely, but it would have been hard to notice, considering how closely he'd been being watched already. Anyway, John had much more important things on his mind.
He spent the first day and night without leaving his spot by Arthur's right shoulder. Susan Grimshaw brought him stew at midday and clucked over Arthur maternally, calling him a 'dear boy'—apparently she had known him, too, back in the day. There was a part of him that wanted to ask about young Arthur, the part of Arthur's life that he knew so little about, but—well, the fact was that Arthur never talked about it, but John also never asked. If he did, it was entirely possible that Arthur would tell him whatever he wanted to know, because Arthur didn't keep secrets from John.
Or, John had thought he didn't. He thought back to the letter from Dutch in Arthur's saddlebag, keeping Arthur up to date on the gang's movements, and wondered if that rightly fell under 'secrets' or 'things we Don't Talk About'. Perhaps even having the categories separate in his head was strange.
Dutch stopped by a moment, not staying long since Arthur was still mostly incoherent. He did bring John a book by Evelyn Miller, asking, with overdone solicitousness, if he knew how to read.
"Of course I do," John snapped back, not taking the book, "Arthur taught me."
Dutch replied, with a smug-sounding hum, "And I taught him. Interesting how life repeats, isn't it?"
So Dutch might have won that one. (John wasn't going to pretend that it wasn't some kind of tug of war, with Arthur as the rope.)
The other menfolk mostly ignored them, although Javier did stumble over shortly after sundown to offer John a beer, and a painfully young colored boy called Lenny stopped to offer him the same Evelyn Miller book that Dutch had. (John accepted it from him, because he offered it so fucking sincerely.)
In contrast, the women kept coming by in regular intervals. There was something about their curiosity that made him think him and Arthur's novelty was the main draw. From what he had seen in the days he'd been there, being a woman outlaw wasn't all that different from being a woman homesteader. Laundry, mending, cooking—in other words, repetitive, boring shit. Now they had a half-dead ex-outlaw and his bounty hunting partner squatting in their camp, and they seemed determined to wring as much gossip out of it as possible.
Or, most of them did—Abigail mostly kept her distance, and John understood why when he realized that the little boy running around the camp belonged to her. There was also another woman, blonde, who wore trousers and carried a gun, that kept eyeing them keenly but never came close until after all the menfolk had turned in for the night.
"Heard Dutch say the O'Driscolls did this to your friend," she told him, not a question, when she crouched down across from him. The pistol in her holster was new but not unused, and there was a long scab along the line of her jaw that looked an awful lot like a healing bullet graze.
There was something in her tone that gave her away—John looked up from the compress he had pressed to Arthur's forehead, cocking his head. "You got a bone to pick with them?"
She pursed her lips a long moment, thoughtful. "They made me a widow," she said finally, "and forced me into the arms of this here band of degenerates."
John huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sounds like we got a lot in common." Her gaze turned keen in a flash, and John realized a moment too late what he'd said—she'd said 'widow', and there John was, tending to Arthur like a devoted wife. "Uh, I meant—his wife and son. O'Driscolls killed 'em, years back now."
"Jesus," she breathed, looking down at Arthur's feverish face with a sort of astonished empathy, before her eyes went hard again and she looked back to John. "Sadie Adler," she introduced, sticking out a hand for John to shake, her grip almost painfully firm. "Missus Adler, if you please."
"John Marston," reaching reflexively for the hat he wasn't wearing, still in nothing but a union suit and boots. "He's Arthur Morgan."
"I know," she said wryly, because Dutch had made sure that everyone knew. "Listen—if you decide to go after 'em when your man's better, you let me know." She put a hand on the butt of her pistol almost absently, her eyes fiery with promise. "I'll be after 'em either way, but many guns make light work."
John had never met a female gunslinger—even Annie Oakley wore a dress and shot targets, not men. Still, he never questioned for a second that she meant it. Somehow her being a woman made her more intimidating—how tough would you have to be to live that life while every man around you looked down their nose at you?
Still … "We ain't outlaws, ma'am. When we go after Colm O'Driscoll, it'll be to see him hanged proper by the law." John hoped that was the case, at least. He could still remembered the look on Arthur's face after Dutch had brought them Eliza's killer. Shooting that poor son of a bitch hadn't done anything good for Arthur.
Surprisingly, she seemed to accept that, nodding slightly as she stood. "Well, if you get him first, be sure to invite me," she said, tucking her thumbs into her gunbelt, the leather new and supple. "I want a front row seat."
*
Dutch brought John a cup of coffee in the morning and crouched down beside Arthur, brushing his hair back off his sweating brow like a concerned father. Dutch's hands on Arthur always riled John something fierce, but they were in his camp, surrounded by his men, so John just gritted his teeth and sipped his coffee.
"Did Arthur ever tell you how he and I met?" Dutch asked him after a long silence, his hand still in Arthur's hair, his gaze on John curious, assessing.
Arthur had, of course, right after they left Valentine. Right after Arthur had, completely unknown to Dutch, saved Dutch from John's bullet. A tale Arthur had said was about him but was actually about Dutch, because everything was about Dutch.
John didn't say that. He said, mildly, "Why don't you tell me?"
So he did—Dutch spun one of the most dramatic gunslinger stories John had ever heard. Arthur, up on a gallows, noose around his neck, ready to be hung. Dutch in the crowd, his heart going out to this helpless child, a victim of society's laws. A gunshot, severing the noose from the crossbeam at the last possible moment, Arthur falling straight through the trapdoor, shaken but unharmed. Dutch was just getting the part where he pulled off the hood and got his first look at the face of the boy he saved when John started laughing, helplessly, because honestly, who the fuck did Dutch think he was?
"Actually," John said, tamping down on his hiccoughs of laughter, "Arthur did tell me how you met. You was in jail, and you saw a fifteen year old kid across from you and knew you'd found a mark."
Dutch had often had occasion to look at John in annoyance, in impatience—this was perhaps the first time that John had seen real rage in his eyes, and considering the position John was in, it was a wonder it didn't frighten him more. "I very much doubt Arthur told you that," Dutch said, his tone deceptively calm, and John held his coffee cup up to him in a mocking toast.
"Arthur thinks you're a visionary," John agreed, his tone light, "but as you've kindly pointed out to me, I am not Arthur."
Chapter 6: Chapter Three, Part Three
Summary:
Arthur wasn't getting better. He was getting worse.
Notes:
Guess who's been researching 1890s wound care? (hint, its me!) This is a lovely 'lets torture our favorite character' chapter (Hi, oheart!) so there is some gore here. Also, about timelines: in the game its not really said what the camp was up to while Arthur was healing up, which sort of implies that nothing major did. In this fic, they're just going about their business, including canon events, while Arthur convalesces. Some canon events will therefore be happening while Arthur is still incapacitated, because he is not a main player at the camp anymore.
Chapter Text
Arthur wasn't getting better. He was getting worse.
He had moments of lucidity, where he would usually ask for painkillers or whiskey. The good Reverend had apparently limitless supply of the latter, and the camp kept a good stock of the former. The rest of the time he spent in fevered sleep, muttering incoherently, and clawing at the bindings that immobilized his shoulder.
"I had to tie him up to get him on my horse—I'm a stranger," Charles Smith told John, "I think he dreams he still is."
"Yeah, or tied up someplace else," John replied. Who knew what all that fucker Colm had done to him, after all.
Eventually Dutch and Hosea called a type of a powwow over his sickbed, his shoulder unbound and looking like rotten meat.
"We have to do something, he'll lose the arm at this rate," Dutch said, and whatever John thought about Dutch, there was clear, honest concern in his voice.
"We need to open the whole thing up and drain it," Hosea said, looking troubled. "Cut out the dead flesh and then pack it with something—honey, maybe, I've heard that works."
"Uh, no," John snapped, utterly agog. "What we need is a doctor."
"John," Dutch said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Hosea, "We have to think about the safety of everyone here. Bringing a doctor here to treat a gunshot is definitely going to get to the ears of the law."
"Fine, then I'll take him into town—"
Instant, unquestioning denial. "No."
"You just said he might lose his arm—"
"Mister Marston," and it was so much like Arthur's cold, dangerous tone that maybe it was where he'd learned it, "we do not trust you."
John gawped at that, stunned. "You think I'm going to hurt Arthur?"
"No," he replied, lowly, "I think you're going to set the law on us as soon as you have him away from here."
If wasn't, John suddenly realized, a tug of war that he and Dutch were engaged in. It was Solomon's choice, and John was the one unwilling to see Arthur cut in half. "Jesus. Jesus."
"John," Hosea said, his tone soothing, conciliatory, "I know I don't look like much, but I know what I'm about. It is going to be unpleasant, but we are going to take care of this."
Unpleasant didn't come close to covering it. It was quite probably the worst moment of his life.
They gave Arthur as much morphine as they thought they could, without killing him. It still took Charles and Bill Williamson both, the two largest men in camp aside from Arthur himself, to hold him down once Hosea started cutting into Arthur's shoulder with his thin-balded folding knife. They'd doused everything in moonshine beforehand, enough of it that Dutch, who was holding the lantern, took a few steps back during the process. The sound that Arthur made the when knife sliced in—it was indescribable, making John sick to his stomach. He sounded like they were killing him.
"I was my sister's midwife," Missus Adler said, standing beside John him with a bundle of clean bandages, a step back from the bedroll. "She hollered worse than that. He'll be fine."
"He's still got the goddamn bullet in him!" Hosea exclaimed, hunched over, fingers red with Arthur's blood. "Dutch, I need some more light here."
Instinctively, John took a step forward when Dutch did, eyes wide. Missus Adler stopped him, a hand on his elbow. "I was my sister's midwife," she said again, almost gently. "Right now you ain't gonna be anything but in the way."
"He ain't giving birth," John snapped, annoyed, shaking off the hand.
"And you ain't his worried husband, but trust me, you'll still be in the way."
Hosea was speaking quietly as he worked, telling Dutch where to direct the light, his slim fingers nearly two knuckles deep inside Arthur's shoulder. Arthur at least seemed to have passed out, hands laying limp and open beside him on the ground. John could heard the nauseating squelch of Hosea's fingers inside the bloody cavity, seeming impossibly loud, but after what could only have been a minute or two he finally retrieved his prize.
A lead bullet, mashed into a flat mushroom shape, no bigger than John's thumbnail.
"What a mess," Hosea said, sounding as exhausted as John felt. "Let's wash this out with some alcohol while he's still out and pack it. Missus Adler? Those bandages?"
Sadie Adler had some of the steadiest hands John'd ever seen, and he'd met plenty of gunslingers. She seemed completely unbothered by the gore, holding the quickly bloody bandages in place as Hosea bound the entire arm tight against Arthur's side from clavicle to elbow.
"Thank you, Mister Williamson, Mister Smith," Dutch said, magnanimously, as Hosea finished up, "you may have helped save this poor man's life."
'Wonderful," Williamson grumbled, clearly uninterested, and he knocked his shoulder into John's as he walked away towards the fire. Charles instead stopped a moment, giving John a long, unreadable look.
"Your friend is strong," he said, gravely. "He will survive."
"You can come over now, Mister Martson," Missus Adler called, before John could consider what to say to that, and he was by him in an instant, running his fingers appraisingly over the white bandages, already staining red in the center.
"You should watch 'im for a while," Hosea advised. "We gave him a lot of morphine."
"Yeah," John agreed absently, taking a corner of the bedroll to wipe the sweat and tears off of Arthur's face.
"John," he pressed, tone grave, "this is important. Morphine can stop you breathing."
John looked up at him, eye bloodshot from lack of sleep, from worry, and replied, "You think I been doing anything lately but watching him keep breathing?"
*
John wasn't sure how it happened, because he'd been asleep when it did—sleeping off three days of wiping fevered sweat from Arthur's face, holding him down while Sadie or Hosea changed his bandages, listening to him mutter deliriously under his breath, for Isaac, for Eliza, for John—even for fucking Dutch, far more often that John wanted to think about.
What woke him was a high, child's voice. "'Her sister, Miss Watson, a to-ler-a-ble slim old maid, with go— go-gillies—'"
"Goggles," Arthur said, voice like glass on gravel, but instantly familiar.
"—with goggles on," the child's voice corrected, "had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book."
John peeled his eyes open and, for a moment, felt as if he had gone back in time. Arthur had drug himself up to lean his shoulders against the wagon wheel, and Abigail's son was sitting cross-legged by his good arm, brow furrowed over a novel. The boy looked nothing like Isaac, really, but Isaac was the only other child John had known, and it felt like they looked alike. To see Abigail's son with his head tilted towards Arthur's over a book was utterly surreal.
"'She worked me mi-dd-ling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up—' Mister Arthur, what's a widow?"
"If a woman's husband dies, she's a widow."
"Oh." There was a long pause, while John lay motionless in his bedroll, not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming. "My ma doesn't have a husband. Is she a widow?"
Arthur hummed, thoughtful. "I don't know your ma, so I don't know. A woman don't have to have a husband to have a child, its … well, its a bit complicated."
There was a pause. "What's 'complicated'?"
"Oh Jesus," Arthur groaned, and John had heard that tone plenty himself. "Complicated is … it means it takes a lot of years to understand it. And you don't have enough years yet."
Arthur still looked terrible—he was only barely upright, both his eyes were black, and there was sweat beading on his forehead and hairline. His eyes were bloodshot and the bandage on his shoulder was stained yellow with lymph oozing from the wound beneath. But he was awake, his eyes focused and aware, and coherent enough to be reading Mark Twain with Abigail's son like it was something he did all the time. John kind of felt like pinching himself.
"… Arthur?"
Arthur glanced up at him, corner of his mouth twitching like he would smile if he had the energy. "Mornin', John. You seen my hat?"
John gawped for a moment, mouth hanging open. "Your hat? I am gonna wring your goddamn neck."
He didn't, obviously. Instead he scrambled over on his his hands and knees and kissed him, twisting one hand into Arthur's sweaty, greasy hair. He fully expected Arthur to shove him away but he didn't, just tilted his head and curled his right hand around John's neck, thumb slotting under his jawbone, like they did this every day.
"… you're gross." Abigail's son said after a few seconds, and Arthur did turn his head aside then, to laugh.
"We really are," he agreed, more for John's sake than Jack, who was standing up with his book to wander off. He shifted his hand to John's shoulder, pushing him back enough that Arthur could give him a narrow, appraising look. "This gonna be a habit now? You tryin' to kiss me in front'a outlaws?"
"Is you letting me gonna be a habit now?" John replied, slightly breathless, more from his own audacity than anything else.
"… probably not," he admitted. "Ain't really in a shape to object at the moment."
"Jesus, thanks for that ringing endorsement."
"John," he drawled, feverish eyes intent, "why are we in Dutch's camp?"
He thought how delirious Arthur had been—he supposed it was no surprise Arthur didn't fully remember. "I— Malloy in Valentine said he didn't have enough men to help. And the Pinkertons said they'd only look if I promised them Dutch. So I … I found your letters and I came here." Arthur groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes, and John snapped, "Well, what was I supposed to do? Dutch hates the O'Driscolls and you always say he cares about you, so—"
"I don't want you owin' favors to Dutch."
"I don't care. Jesus, Arthur, you could have died. You still—your shoulder—"
"That don't matter—"
"Of course it matters. You always—" John huffed out a breath after a moment trying to calm himself—he'd been driving himself crazy over Arthur for weeks, and he didn't need to start going at him over his self-sacrifice when he still looked half-dead. "I did what I did and its done. If you wanna have a go at me over that then maybe we'll discuss why you have a bunch of letters from Dutch in your saddlebags."
Arthur still had a hand over his eyes, blocking out the light, his voice thready. "You knew I talked to Dutch. Didja think I used smoke signals?"
"Right. So you have a friendly correspondence with the feller that you think its dangerous for me to owe favors to."
"I didn't say dangerous, it just— its a bad idea, is all."
"Hm," John said, because he honestly agreed—owning favors to Dutch was a bad idea. He just wanted Arthur to admit that it was because Dutch was a bad idea.
"Don't much matter now. You're right, its done." Arthur lowered himself back down onto the ground, grimacing, breathing hard, gripping at his bandaged shoulder with his good hand. "The, uh … the kid … what you know about him?"
John narrowed his eyes. "Belongs to one of the camp women. Abigail something."
Arthur was quiet a long time, staring off to the side, where the kid had gone earlier. "He … uh, you reckon he looks like Dutch?"
Christ, what a mess that would be. "Reckon he looks like a kid. I ain't seen him enough to say."
"Imagine bringing a child into all this." Arthur muttered under his breath.
But Dutch had already done that before—to Arthur. No matter how adult he had perceived himself, Arthur had been fifteen when he met Dutch, and if he'd been anything like John he'd looked younger. A lack of regular meals will do that. When Arthur had found John, he'd fed him. When Dutch had found Arthur, he'd recruited him. He hadn't asked him if he need help, or offered to take care of him, he had literally told him his manifesto.
He didn't say that—Arthur would just argue that he hadn't been a child and that Dutch had always done right by him. "Well, I guess some folk don't feel like they got a choice."
"You always got a choice," Arthur muttered, shifted to get comfortable on the bedroll, and closed his eyes.
*
A day or two later, Abigail Roberts came up to John as he was washing up a bit in the lake and stood over him, arms crossed, looking pinched around the eyes. "You, your friend. He's been reading with my son?"
Remembering the wariness with which she had been watching them, John kept his tone mild. "Just trying to help the boy. The able menfolk are too busy, I reckon."
"Yeah," she breathed, something aggrieved about it. "Too busy for a lot of things"
"If you don't want him to—"
"No, I—" she looked abashed suddenly, looking aside. "I'm asking you because I know he ain't well, your friend, so do think it'd be too much for me to sit with 'em, too? I ain't as good a reader as Jack but I've been tryin' to learn."
Arthur had taught John and Isaac to read around the round wooden table in Eliza's kitchen, Isaac five and John fifteen at the start. John had hated it—it made him feel stupid, and the five year old was much better at it than him, right from the start. He'd lived fifteen years without knowing how, so what was the point? On several occasions Arthur had physically pushed him back down into a chair at the table to copy letters. It wasn't until he got his first letter, Arthur letting them know that his trip would be taking longer than usual, that he saw the value.
"Can you read it aloud, John," Eliza said, looking chagrined. "You know I can't," which actually, he hadn't.
"If Arthur's so big on reading, why ain't he taught you?"
"Oh, he tried," she admitted. "Sat me and Isaac down next to each other and wrote out copy letters for both of us—and I couldn't stand it. I raised that boy all but alone for three years without reading a blessed word, so I sure didn't need it now. Told Arthur he could take his books and go hang. Now," she looked rueful, "my little boy can read a letter from his Pa and I can't."
Eliza had learned to read, eventually—swallowed her pride and worked next to John and Isaac, Arthur their unlikely schoolmarm.
"I'm sure Arthur wouldn't mind," John told Abigail, thinking of Eliza reading bible stories aloud by the fire, Isaac by her feet. He didn't know Abigail, but it felt like that was the sort of thing that every mother should get to have. "But if he ain't up to it, I can help you."
Her eyes turned sharp. "You can read?"
"That so surprising?"
She sniffed, looked at him suspiciously for a moment. "Don't much look the type I guess, but then, your friend don't neither."
John figured he should have been more insulted by that, but he was aware of how he and Arthur looked, particularly these days. "Then why ask us? I know Dutch can read. He taught Arthur."
She sniffed again, pursing her lips. "Well I reckon that's none of your business."
John shrugged. "You're the one coming to me."
"It's just cause of camp talk. Gossip. Molly didn't like him tutoring the women folk anymore, so he doesn't."
Molly, he thought, was the pretty redhead who slept in Dutch's test, nose constantly pressed against a compact mirror. "And the other men?"
"Look, why does it matter?" She snapped. "They're busy, you ain't, and I want to learn."
There was something else at work there, something that made two outsiders she seemed awful leery of still safer to ask a favor of than her own camp. Still, he couldn't see a real reason to say no. They would be here a while, it seemed, until Dutch got whatever pound of flesh he wanted out of John. There was no harm in some reading lessons.
John had a niggling suspicion, though, about what he and Arthur had walked themselves into here. "So, I guess Jack looks an awful lot like his father."
Abigail gave him a sharp look, dangerous. "Well then you must be a fortune teller, since ain't no one know who Jack's father is."
So, fine. There was that, too.
He found Arthur where he left him, sitting up against the wheel by Strauss' wagon. He had his journal open in his lap, to one of the sketched pages, no writing, and Jack was leaning over to point at a cartoonish drawing Arthur had done of John flailing like a drowning man over the edge of a shallow bathtub.
"Does he hate baths too? They're always cold."
"No, he just can't swim. Although—" he looked up at John's approach, eyeing him critically, "—now that you mention is, maybe he does hate baths."
"Screw you, Morgan, I just washed."
"Yourself?" Arthur asked, looking dubious. It was actually sort of a relief—he would take an Arthur that was giving him shit over an Arthur in a delirious fever any day.
"You're hardly one to talk, right now." Arthur hadn't shaved in weeks, and was looking quite the mountain man. It was also the case that he'd been reduced to bathing out of a bucket, to protect his bandages from getting wet. Alone, mind, even though the other blonde woman at camp, Karen, had very solicitously offered to help.
(John had offered to help, too. Arthur had dryly said that he didn't trust John to be a gentleman.)
Jack was scratching his cheek, watching the exchange curiously. "You're weird. Do you have any more pictures, Mister Arthur?"
"Loads," Arthur said, closing the book, "and I'll show you tomorrow, but right now I need to talk to John."
John gave him a curious look, and only got more curious when Arthur made a gesture he understood to mean 'check for people listening'. When he was assured they were alone he asked, in a hushed whisper, "You been hearing what the gang is up to down here?"
John hadn't—even if they had felt free to talk around him, which they hadn't, he probably wouldn't have been paying much attention. "Robbin', I expect. Maybe some killin' and general mayhem."
"They're trying to play both sides with the Grays and the Braithwaites."
The Grays he knew—they both did—because the Sheriff was a Gray, and he loved bounty hunters. Had, in fact, tried to pin a tin star on both John and Arthur last time they'd brought someone into his jail; anything to keep from having to do his job himself. Come to think of it, hadn't he seen something flashy pinned to Dutch's vest?
"Wait, wait … did Sheriff Gray deputize Dutch?"
"Yes," Arthur hissed, "and Williamson and Escuella, the drunken bastard. All while the other half of the camp burned the Grays tobacco fields and half their farm. Its like they're dead set on restarting the damn Civil War, except this time both sides are the South, and this whole camp is right in the damn middle."
"And what do you reckon we can do about it?" John replied. "You wanna go to tell the law, I'm all for it, but I'm bettin' you don't."
Arthur grimaced, conflicted. "Dutch … he don't seem himself."
John wanted to point out, for the hundredth time, that Arthur hadn't been around Dutch for more than quick meetings (or apparently, letters) in fifteen years, but he wasn't sure he was ready to rehash that argument. Or that Arthur was up for it. "There's a lot of people after these folk. Reckon he's getting desperate, and desperate people do dumb things." Things like running to an outlaw camp and indenturing themselves to get their partner back, John thought, though he didn't say it. "I don't know that there's much we can do about it without sending Dutch to the Pinkertons."
Arthur's expression said that clearly was still not an option, damn it. "They'd hang him in a second."
Who gives a fuck, John didn't say. "Then we settle our debts and get gone. We can't be responsible for these folk, Arthur."
"They got a kid here." Arthur said, as if that changed anything else.
"Fine," John said, "then you tell me. What are we gonna do about it?"
Arthur was quiet for a long time, thoughtful. Arthur wasn't dumb but he wasn't a manipulator, he just didn't have the skill for convincing others around to his way of thinking. If he had an argument to make, he usually let his guns make it. They both knew that, so when Arthur said, "I'm gonna talk to Dutch," it mostly sounded to John like, we aren't going to do anything at all.
Chapter 7: Chapter Three, Part Four
Notes:
Things start getting really, really tense in this chapter, and that's mostly because, the slow build in the game? That's reliant on Arthur and John both having rose colored glasses, and here, only Arthur has them, so things snowball a little quicker. That said, I am committed to addressing at least the majority of the game's major storylines, and potentially some (reimagined) version of the epilogues.
A couple things get brushed over in this chapter, most notably the Braithwaite Manor assault. That was an amazing mission, but I could not possible do it justice in prose, and anyway, I couldn't really come up with a plausible reason for this version of John to go.
I hope you enjoy.
Chapter Text
Hosea finally pronounced Arthur well enough to stand, with help, and John wedged himself under Arthur's good arm the next morning to help him hobble to the fire. Arthur was red-faced and sweaty by the time they got there, but he swatted off John's fussing, clearly frustrated with his own infirmity.
Charles Smith came to collect John from there, carrying with him John's own rifle, which Dutch had confiscated on his first day at camp. "Come with me. We're going hunting."
John answered with a bewildered look. "Uh … no? I don't think Dutch even wants me leaving the camp."
"I'm your escort. And since you've been eating our food, you should do something about getting more in." He held out John's rifle, expression impassive.
That was true enough—Arthur hadn't been eating much of anything until recently, but they hadn't begrudged John his portions of their thick, flavorless stews. That said, "This really feels like an excuse to take me out into the woods and shoot me," John said dubiously.
"John," Arthur said into his coffee, "if Dutch wanted you shot he wouldn't feel any need to send you out into the woods to do it."
"He would if he didn't want you to know," John replied, with an arched brow. He could see from the way Arthur winced, that one struck home.
Charles shook John's rifle at him, still holding it out. "I promise not to shoot you or tie you up on the back of my horse, as long as you promise the same," he said, sounding perhaps slightly amused. He was very hard to read.
"… Go with 'im, John." Arthur said after a moment. "Find out if you can even still shoot with that bum arm."
John flexed his splinted left arm automatically. It still ached a bit up towards the elbow, but his wrist was fine, and the rifle didn't weigh enough that he thought the weight would be an issue. He fired with his right, anyway. "Broken arm an' all, I'm still a better shot than you, I guarantee."
"So go prove it," Arthur replied, tilting his head back. "Bring me a rabbit, and don't shoot it in the gut this time."
"One time," John grumbled, pushing himself to his feet and snatching his gun away from Charles, "one time you blow up a rabbit and you never hear the end of it."
John took Boadicea—it wasn't like Arthur was using her, and he'd obviously had no opportunity to find an suitable replacement for Old Boy. John waited until they were a few minutes out for camp to ask, casually, "So why is Dutch really having you get me out of the way? Or did he not even tell you?"
Charles looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Most of the camp men are doing something for the Grays in town. Dutch decided he didn't want you all but alone in the camp. Something about it being too much of a temptation to run off now that your friend is on the mend."
"What's to stop me running off on you?"
"Arthur," Charles replied calmly. "Anyone who's seen you fussing over him knows that you wouldn't leave him with Dutch."
Which was absolutely true, and John hadn't really tried to hide it, but it still took him aback a little to hear it said so plainly. "What has Dutch said to all of you about Arthur?"
Charles gave him a long, searching look, and then did not answer. John couldn't determine if that was out of loyalty to Dutch, or because Dutch hadn't actually told them anything at all.
Charles was an extremely competent horseman and and good shot with a gun. He was a better shot with a bow, taking down two turkeys not too far from the camp, but they were aiming for deer, so they went out another couple hours to Scarlett Meadows. John had read about a train robbery near there a few months back—it only just now occurred to him that it, too, had probably been Dutch's boys.
The sun was setting when they finally returned to the camp, loaded down—including two rabbits, both shot perfectly by John, thank you very much.
The first sign was that there was no lookout. Charles hadn't said anything for most of the ride, but somehow he seemed to become even quieter as they approached, brow furrowed. The second sign was the crowd, what looked like all the men in the camp gathered around the central awning, loading what looked like a truly impressive number of bandoleers.
The third sign was a woman's high, persistent sobbing.
John wasn't sure whether it was a sign or not, but it was also the case that when he finally caught sight of Arthur he was on his feet, though leaning back heavily against one of the wagons, left arm up in a sling, and he had both his pistols back at his hips, shotgun leaning against the wagon by his side.
John skirted the crowd once he dismounted—though of course Charles went right to them—and instead inched up beside Arthur. "The hell is going on?" He whispered.
Arthur's reply was terse, his eyes focused intensely on the preparations going on. "The Braithwaites kidnapped the kid."
That was when he saw Abigail on the other side of the menfolk, the women knotted around her, sobbing her heart out. "Jesus Christ. Who the fuck does that?"
"Someone who has underestimated our resolve," Dutch said, bombastic, striding over to John and Arthur. He held out a hand to John. "Your gun. Now," in a voice that brooked no argument. Arthur put his hand on John's arm when he instinctively started to do as he was told.
"I'd just give him one of mine as soon as you go," Arthur said, matter of fact.
Something passed between Arthur and Dutch just then that John couldn't read, the men behind Dutch falling silent, and John thought, incredulously, Holy shit, maybe Arthur did talk to him. "Arthur," Dutch said, terse, "this is not the time—"
"John's a good shot. You're going to want every able man left carrying a gun if the Grays or the Braithwaites show up," Arthur cut him off.
"He is a good shot," Charles agreed, mildly.
Arthur and Dutch stared each other down for along moment, and then Abigail was storming over, eyes wet, shoving Dutch back with both hands. "You all are waving your dicks at each other while those monsters are doing God-knows-what to my son! Let the man have his fucking gun, Dutch—what's he gonna do, shoot the lot of us? They're lawmen. Just find my goddamn son."
Dutch caught both of Abigail's narrow wrists—gently, carefully—and held them. "We are going to find him, Abigail."
Arthur grimaced a little, as if Abigail's diatribe chastened him, as well, and exchanged a look with Dutch over Abigail's shoulder. "You know me, Dutch," he said, gravely. "I ain't gonna let no harm come to these folk. From anyone."
The air between the two of them didn't become any less heavy, but Dutch nodded, and shouted for his boys to mount up.
*
It was anticlimactic, the waiting.
As soon as the men rode out John forced Arthur to sit, back against the wagon wheel, gun in easy reach. John trusted Arthur's aim, even in as sorry as a state as he was. Arthur wouldn't take a shot he wasn't sure of.
He took Arthur's offhand pistol and his shotgun, with the man's blessing, and went to set a watch by the treeline. The young'un—not the colored fella, he went with Dutch, but the other one—was already there, looking nervous and determined, holding a revolver with both hands. He jerked the gun up to point at John, wide eyed, when he approached.
"Y-you're not supposed to have guns," he said, voice trembling but hands steady.
John had heard the fella referred to as 'O'Driscoll', and reckoned he had an idea about his provenance. "And how long before they let you have a gun? Figure I earned it." When the boy furrowed his brow, looking conflicted, John elaborated. "Dutch gave me his blessing, all right? He wanted every gun he could get in case one'a the families turns up."
The boy seemed to accept that, lowering his gun, though he still eyed John with nervous suspicion. "Bill reckoned that they killed most of the Grays when they were in town. Definitely got the sheriff and the deputies. Not before they got Sean, though."
John didn't want to hear this. He hadn't liked Sheriff Gray, what he knew of him, but the man had been a harmless drunk. And here was another town blown to hell by Dutch and his boys—they were always leaving bodies behind them. The fact that they'd only lost one of their own was, frankly, a miracle. "Yeah, well, any they missed would have a powerful reason to come looking."
"And you'd shoot 'em if they did?" The boy asked, curious. "I mean, ain't you supposed to be a lawman?"
"Why do people keep saying that?" John muttered under his breath, annoyed. "We hunt bounties. Closest we get to being lawmen is having a writ from the US Marshalls what gives us permission for government bounties."
"Sounds a lot like being a lawman to me," the boy said, dubious.
"Reckon lawmen hang around fewer outlaws than I do," John replied dryly, arching an eyebrow at the boy, and the kid nodded, seeming to accept that logic.
"I'm Kieran, by the way," he said after a moment, oddly shy.
John gave him a look. "Not O'Driscoll?"
The boy scowled back at him. "I ain't an O'Driscoll," he huffed, in a manner that suggested that he'd said it a lot.
John opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a sudden outburst of raised voices from the camp, a cacophony of outraged yelling, though he couldn't make out the individual words. He waved at Kieran to stay as he stalked back towards the knot of people around the campfire.
"—off of me!" Abigail was yelling, faced flushed, at a sneering Micah Bell. Susan Grimshaw had a hand on Abigail's elbow but wasn't doing much to hold her back, scowling darkly at Bell.
"I was trying to be comforting," Bell sniped, "in this trying time—"
"Did you put hands on this woman?" John interrupted darkly, letting his hand fall to the butt of Arthur's pistol, tucked into the side of his denims. Micah glanced at him and just as quickly dismissed him, much to John's annoyance.
"I have been nothing but kind—" Micah was going on, his lips curled up in a sneer.
"You're a putrid little rat," Abigail spat back, shaking off Miss Grimshaw's hand. "You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you're hysterical," Micah replied, sneer morphing into a smirk. "Maybe you should lie down, close your eyes—I'll keep an eye on you."
Miss Grimshaw caught the hand that Abigail had raised to slap him before the blow could land. "You're supposed to be keeping watch, Mister Bell," Miss Grimshaw said primly, "so go keep watch, and leave us be."
Miss Grimshaw was a dour old bird, but she commanded respect. Micah sneered at her one more time, but he stalked off, sauntering bow-legged off towards the scout fire, and Abigail seemed to immediately deflate once he was out of earshot, hands trembling slightly before she tucked them into her skirts. "I wish you two had sent that man to the gallows," she said to John, expression grim.
John snorted. "Believe me, I tried," he muttered.
"If you wanna shoot him while Dutch is gone, we won't tell," the young colored girl said, not entirely sounding like she was joking. Miss Grimshaw clucked disapprovingly, but didn't actually reprimand her.
"Dutch trusts him," she said, sounding dubious. "Not saying I agree, but there you have it."
It hadn't been aimed at him, but John couldn't resist muttering under his breath, "Oh, well, if Dutch trusts him …" He probably wasn't really in a good position to bad-mouthing Dutch to the man's own followers, but the look on the women's faces told him that Dutch's judgment, at least in regards to Micah Bell, was generally accepted to be questionable.
"It's not your concern, Mister Marston," Miss Grimshaw replied, pointedly. "As far as the law is concerned, we're none of us any different from Mister Bell, and you'd turn in every man in this camp if Arthur weren't around to stop you. You ain't a friend to us."
"You don't need to—" Mary-Beth started to say, but Miss Grimshaw cut her off with a sharp gesture, face grim.
"No," she snapped. "Now you girls listen here, these men," and here she jabbed a finger at John, making him step back, "aren't here like some kinda fairytale prince to ride you outta this life. These men," another jab, "only care about money, and they will watch our men hang to get it."
John kept his face blank, but it stung, oddly. The women here had been kind to him, and to Arthur, but it also wasn't like she was exactly wrong. Every man in that camp was worth a pretty penny, and he'd turned in men who he knew would hang plenty of times, without any second thoughts. He mostly subscribed to the idea that what the law decided to do with them wasn't his problem.
Then again, if Arthur had thought that way, all them years ago, John wouldn't have lived to see sixteen.
"You know Arthur wouldn't let that happen," he said finally, because Susan Grimshaw had known Arthur, just as Dutch had, back in his wild youth.
She glared at him, hands on her hips, between John and the women like he was as much a threat as Micah had been. "You," she said, voice rough like gravel and hard as steel, "are not Arthur."
*
John was asleep when the men came back, curled up in the shade of one of the wagons, bedroll slotted a minimum respectable distance away from Arthur's. No one woke him when they trailed back into camp empty-handed. No one and no thing woke him in fact, until almost midday, when, drowsing, he heard a voice from far too close, "Just visitors, Mister Van der Linde," and he froze.
Arthur was still asleep, flat on his back like a body in a coffin, the same way he always slept. John clapped one hand over his mouth, startling him awake, and grabbed the back of his collar with the other to drag them both underneath the wagon behind them.
What the fuck were the goddamn Pinkertons doing here?
… right, so that was a stupid question. Still, it made all their talk about needing Arthur to find Dutch ring a little bit hollow. And if they hadn't really needed Arthur for that, what was their game in the first place?
Arthur wrestled John's hand off his mouth in annoyance, but had the good sense to recognize it as a sign to whisper. "The hell are you doing, boy?"
"Agent Milton is out there, talkin' to Dutch," John hissed back. Arthur cursed, rolled over onto his front like he was going to crawl back out, so John threw himself across his back, pinning him. "Are you crazy, Arthur? Milton's been looking for an excuse to take you in for months."
"He ain't takin' me anywhere if I shoot 'im first," Arthur said darkly.
"You ain't doin' any such thing," John whispered back. "Anyway, there's a dozen armed folk out there who might save you the trouble."
John concluded from Arthur's grumbling that he conceded the point, and so they crouched underneath the wagon as Dutch Van der Linde, notorious outlaw, spouted flowery prose at Andrew Milton, notorious government jackass, like it was somehow a battle that was going to be won by the person with the better credo. Jesus, Milton was as bad as Dutch, talking about society and law as if they were the perfect solution to everything.
It didn't end in blood, which was honestly the last thing that John had expected. Milton and his dogsbody left without a shot fired, and Dutch gave the order to tear down the camp.
Given John had expected bloodshed, he definitely should have expected what happened next.
He was crawling out from under the wagon, helping Arthur pull himself out, one-armed, behind him, when a pair of hands pulled him out from under in one yank, slamming him up against the wagon hard enough to stun him. Dutch stood flanked by Javier Escuella and Micah Bell as Bill Willamson quickly disarmed him, tossing his gun aside like trash, holding him pinned up against the wagon with one large hand in the center of his chest.
"Did you bring Pinkertons to my camp, John Marston?" Dutch said, a low, even tone that reminded John how fucking dangerous this man was.
"Who else coulda led 'em here?" Micah sneered, gun already drawn. "These fellers ain't been nothing but trouble, Dutch."
"You shot up three whole goddamn towns," Arthur argued, weakly, struggling to pull himself to his feet, knees in the dirt. "Didja think you was being subtle, Dutch?"
"What I think," Dutch said, lowly, "is that your boy here is trying to play us for fools."
"You told me yourself, he ain't been outta your sight except to hunt, and that was your idea." Arthur said, voice tight with pain as he pulled himself up against the wheel, leaning heavily against the wagon as he eyed the men around them. "And anyway, we got no love for the Pinkertons."
"It's awfully convenient, though, isn't it," Dutch said, in that deliberate cadence, every word carefully chosen. "The minute you start looking better, the law knows exactly where to find us."
"Ain't real convenient for me," John said, tightly.
"You burned down two whole goddamn plantations. Your boys shot the Sheriff of Rhodes. Of course the fucking law found you!" Arthur snapped.
Javier was fingering his guns; Micah was twitching with an eagerness to shoot. Neither of them looked like they needed much convincing to blame John for their current predicament. Dutch's eyes were narrow, calculating, darting once between Arthur and John, perhaps weighing the cost and benefit of taking John out of the picture right then. Dutch still believed that Arthur could be swayed, John could see that. He was trying to find the right words to have Arthur see John as a traitor.
There had always been a strange sort of energy between Dutch and Arthur. John had always felt it—it was part of the reason he disliked Dutch so strongly. Dutch had a hold on Arthur that even fifteen years years couldn't seem to shake, but something had changed, the last few months. What had once felt like admiration, even affection, now looked like guilt and habit, and those weren't nearly as powerful.
"I brought you into my camp," Dutch said, stepping up closer to John, "I fed and sheltered you. I did favors for you that you have yet to repay. So you tell me, son—was I wrong to do all that? Did I spend our resources on someone who'd stab us in the back?"
John licked his dry lips. He wasn't sure what answer he could give that Dutch would believe. "I told you when I came here," he said slowly, "that if I double-crossed you, Arthur would never forgive me."
Dutch glanced at Arthur, gaze narrow. "So you did," he agreed, thoughtful. Arthur looked back at him, levelly, and this was the moment—either Dutch trusted Arthur or he didn't, either he believed Arthur was still loyal or he didn't. Either he believed that Arthur controlled John the way that he had controlled Arthur, or he didn't.
Dutch stepped back, hands falling away from his pistols. "… let him go."
Javier and Bill didn't look defiant—more disappointed. They'd wanted blood. It was only Micah who tried to argue, stepping forward when Bill stepped back, "Dutch, come on. You've said yourself, you can't trust this one."
"And he's lucky I didn't," Dutch replied, meeting John's eyes evenly, "because if there had been even a moment of your days here that I didn't know about, Mister Marston, I would've shot you right here."
"Right, that's me," John muttered, rubbing at the new knot on the back of his head where Williamson had thrown him against the wagon, "I'm lucky."
Chapter 8: Chapter Three, Part Five
Notes:
I'm really excited about this chapter and I hope you will be too!
So I actually had to write this chapter twice--or at least the opening scene. See, I had this whole piece written where Dutch finds Arthur and John reading with Abigail and tries to encourage Arthur to make advances to her, while sending John out to clear Shady Belle alone (basically a suicide mission) and I kept rereading it and it didn't feel right and I couldn't figure out why, until finally Abigail popped in my head and was like "yeah hi its me, I'm what's off, kindly leave me out of these boys's shit I got shit of my own right now" so I wrote an entirely new section which I like way better.
Anyway, if you've read this far you know I'm more a character driven person than an action-driven one, and there is a lot of character in this bit. I hope you enjoy. As always, if you have any questions about what was going on in my head regarding any of this stuff, just ask! I'll talk meta until my fingers bleed. xo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
John was still shaky with adrenaline as Arthur pulled him around to the other side of the wagon. They weren't unnoticed—they were never totally unnoticed, not since they arrived—but they were at least no longer in anyone's sight line. He looked John over once, quickly, while John tried to breath more evenly, clenching his trembling hands in the front of his trousers.
"Well," John bit out through gritted teeth, "that was fun."
Arthur was always the unflappable one, the one who only became more still as things got more dangerous, but the hand he had on John's shoulder was gripping just a little too tight for comfort. "Okay," he said, deceptively calm, "this is what's gonna happen. You're gonna wait until dark, and then you're gonna take Boadicea and get the hell out of here."
John jerked like he'd been struck. "What?"
"Look," Arthur said, sounding unfairly reasonable given the circumstances, "Dutch I can reason with, but Bell? Williamson? They want you dead."
"Dutch wants me dead, you goddamn fool," John hissed. If he'd been less shaken up he would have kept the thought to himself, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.
"He don't want you dead," Arthur replied in that same reasonable tone. "If he did he woulda shot you when you first showed up here. He just wants you to be afraid of 'im."
That was the second time Arthur had casually thrown out something like that—the idea that if Dutch really wanted to kill John, he would just do it. Like Dutch just killed people as easy as that. Arthur seemed to have absolutely no idea how not reassuring that was. "I ain't really willing to bet my life on that lunatic's whims."
"Which is why you're going."
"Which is why I ain't, 'cause I ain't betting your life on 'em, neither!"
Arthur rolled his eyes, and John wanted to shake him. "No one is gonna do anything to me. You remember what that jackass Escuella said back before Valentine. Dutch thinks I'm useful."
"Yeah," John said, "that's exactly what I'm worried about. Dutch is going to try to make use of you, and you're gonna let him, and it's gonna run you right into a bullet or Agent goddamn Milton."
"That'd still be better than having you running off repaying his favors," Arthur finally snapped.
"Why?" John demanded. "Not like I wanna be running cons for Dutch, but why's it fine for you to do and the end of the goddamn world for me?"
"Because you aren't me," Arthur said, as if that oblivious statement should have some sort of deeper meaning. "You haven't done the things I have, John. If there's a hell I'm already damned. I'm old—"
"You're thirty-seven—"
"Which is ancient for folk who live like we do! You're young. You got a whole life ahead of you. You could still have a … a family, a home, and—"
"Of the two of us, you're the one who went and tried to have that kind of life! I—" the words stuck in his throat, Things We Don't Talk About, but he forced it out. "Look, I only ever wanted you."
Arthur immediately looked over his shoulder, like they were about to be caught. "Christ, John, you can't just say things like that!" He hissed.
"Well apparently if I don't, you get goddamn fool ideas, like that sending me off will turn me into some kinda homesteader," John snapped. "If you want shod of me—"
"You know that ain't it!"
"Do I know that? 'Cause half the time it seems like you don't even want me unless you're drunk or dyin'! Like you're fucking humoring me—"
Arthur's hand on John's shoulder was already pressing John back against the side of the wagon. It only took one step for him to pin John between himself and wood and kiss him.
John's arms immediately flew around his shoulders, grabbing handfuls of the back of Arthur's shirt as he pushed forward into him, anger making the kiss brutal, almost violent. He bit at Arthur's mouth until he tasted blood, until Arthur was fisting a hand in his hair just to hold him still, tilting his head to lick deep into the back of his mouth. Arthur kissed like he was making a statement, like it could make up for words he couldn't say, and the thing was—maybe it could, right now, because Arthur didn't do this, didn't kiss him out of the blue in broad daylight like it was something he didn't need to hide.
John was gasping when Arthur finally pulled away, the swiftly displaced anger making him feel shivery and wrong-footed. Arthur pressed his forehead against John's, eyes closed, his good hand still tangled in John's hair.
"Do you think this is easy for me?" He murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted across John's lips. "I've always fallen in with better people than I deserve. I want— I want the best for you, John, and that's not me. I'm a bad bet by anyone's measure."
"You've been a pretty safe bet for me," John replied, voice equally hushed. "You wanna tell me what I deserve? Reckon that's for me to decide."
When Arthur finally opened his eyes they were bright with emotion, uncertain and guilty. "It's ain't that I don't want you. Fuck, I want you more than is good for me, for either of us. But this—people don't do this, John, not forever. There's no future in it."
"You don't know that," John shot back. "And since when are you the kind of man that cares what other people do? We ain't other people."
Arthur chuckled at that, without much real humor. "No, we sure ain't." He slid his hand out of John's hair, taking a step back, unable to resist a quick glance around, ensuring they were still alone. "You can have anything you want outta me, John, you know that. But right now just … just let me keep you safe."
Because that was what this was about, of course. Arthur would lead John into a gun fight or a bar brawl without worrying for his well-being, but the one thing he seemed to need to keep John protected from was Arthur's own past. Arthur had said himself, long ago: the last thing he wanted was for John to be like him. Maybe that was what this dislike of owing Dutch was really about—about Arthur seeing himself in John, and hating it.
"You can't keep me safe," John said, almost gently. "What you can do is have my back when things go to shit, and let me do the same for you."
Arthur let out a long breath, looking down. "You've always been a better man than me, John Marston."
And you've always been a better man than you believe, John doesn't say. He wouldn't believe it right now, either.
*
When John turned eighteen, Arthur had taken him to a brothel.
He'd been a little stunned that Eliza hadn't seemed to care one jot, merely rolling her eyes when Arthur told her their destination—then again, Eliza had grown up in a saloon, she must have rubbed elbows with whores on the regular. He still couldn't help thinking that it was peculiar kind of a woman that, when her husband told her he was taking their ward to a whorehouse for his birthday, only said, primly, "Well, if you've got so much money to spend, you can pick up some new books for Isaac while you're in town."
That was the extent of her objections, such as they were: that it was a waste of money. Even when he heard Isaac ask her, as they were leaving, what a 'whore' was, Eliza sounded very unbothered and matter-of-fact when she told him it was a very friendly woman.
Arthur's whole family was kind of odd, John included.
Whores, of course, were plentiful in any given saloon in any given town, but apparently it was very important that they go to a proper brothel, like this was a bizarre right of passage, so they rode out to Tumbleweed, John feeling vaguely sick to his stomach the entire time. The premeditation of it didn't sit right with him—heading out specifically to pay for sex. Arthur could obviously tell, but seemed to think it was nerves, or maybe even excitement, and kept shooting him vaguely amused glances.
The thing was, it was just a bizarre thing for Arthur to suggest, to almost insist upon. Arthur never slept with Eliza, either in the literal or figurative sense, and when he took John on bounties, he'd never noticed Arthur show any interest in any of the other women they came across, those for sale or otherwise. He'd never tried to talk to John about sex, either, other than once when he was fifteen, and well … that conversation wasn't really about sex, anyway.
He desperately wanted to ask Arthur what this whole thing was really about, but he wasn't sure how to word the question. Arthur was treating taking a teenager to a whorehouse as a natural and self-explanatory thing, and John was a little worried that maybe he was the strange one, for not being keen to fuck a stranger who was in it for money.
The place was gaudy and tasteless, red velvet and gold-colored tassels, overstuffed couches and wingback chairs, but there was also a barely concealed shabbiness to it, patches visible on the underside of cushions and the corners of draperies. It was a poor man's image of wealth, and John, standing there in his worn riding gear and a layer of trail dust, felt like his skin was crawling. The women were, uncharitable as it felt to think, much like the décor, with rouge and powder covering dark circles and pallor, looking at John and Arthur with narrow, predatory eyes uniformly lined in kohl.
John had never even met a woman who wore cosmetics before. They didn't look quite real, like porcelain dolls with dead eyes. And he was supposed to pick one, like they were a new jacket. Try 'em on and see how they fit.
Arthur gave him over to the clutches of an aging madam who drug him from women to woman by his elbow, pointing out their features like a horse auction. "Lily here is the tallest we've ever had. Don't you love Iris's lovely blue eyes? Dahlia is from Mexico, just look at that tan."
She seemed to get impatient with him fairly quickly, her furrowed brow making the lines around her eyes deeper. "Oh come now, young man. I know you must feel spoilt for choice, but surely someone has caught your eye?"
Helpless, John glanced over to where Arthur had bellied up to the the bar in the corner, hat laid on the counter beside him, head tilted back as he downed a glass of whiskey.
"Hm," the old madam said, eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm sure we can find something to your taste."
She led him further into the house, the gas lights making the narrow hall dim and smokey, and through a curtained archway, the fabric violet this time, the fringe at the bottom faded with age.
It was men.
"Basil here is always a favorite," the woman was saying, still talking like a salesperson, and she held out a hand to a slender boy with curly dark hair falling over big, brown doe eyes. He had as much rouge on his mouth and cheeks as the woman had, and gave John a practiced, innocent look through long black eyelashes.
He looked about fourteen years old.
John nearly nearly knocked her off her feet when he pushed past her, bolting for the front door as fast as he could without running. The main room was a blur of bright colored dresses and tacky velvet which John hardly even saw—he needed out, he felt like he could barely breathe, like he was going to be sick. The door slammed against the outside wall when he shoved through it, glass rattling, his panting breath fogging the night air, drifting in front of his face like smoke. He didn't even realize that Arthur was chasing him until he spun John around in the middle of the courtyard, gripping him hard by the elbows to stop John's instinctive shove.
"The hell has gotten into you?" Arthur demanded in a low voice, giving him a gentle shake.
"Me? The hell has gotten into you, bringin' me to a place like this?" John shouted back, pulling violently out of Arthur's grip. "That—those people—goddamn it, Arthur!"
"Christ, calm down, Marston," Arthur hissed, reaching for him again, getting hold of the sleeve of John's shirt briefly before John knocked it off.
"Fuck you, that—there were children in there, Arthur!"
Arthur went very, very still.
John's words were tripping together, frantically. "That lady, she—there was another room, and—he was barely a fucking teenager—"
"I didn't know," Arthur said, earnestly. "Jesus Christ, John, of course I didn't know. Fuck." He looked over his shoulder at the door for a moment, expression uncertain.
"How could you come here and not know?" John demanded.
Arthur was silent for a moment, working his jaw, and then admitted, with a shrug, "Never actually been here before. Got the name from a feller in the saloon."
"Then why the fuck— what was the point of this?"
"'Cause this is what you do, John!" Arthur insisted, throwing his arms out to the sides. "When a boy gets old enough he's gotta— you have to learn."
These were someone else's words out of Arthur's mouth, John was sure of it. John had never heard the name Dutch, not then, but he didn't have to know whose words they were to know that they were definitely not Arthur's. "Learn what? That if you got the money, you can buy people?"
"To be a man," Arthur persisted, sounding slightly desperate.
"If paying to fuck someone makes you a man, I guess I made a lot of folk into men back in the day." John flung the words out between them like a challenge, and if he'd been less upset, less angry, he might have felt worse about the stunned horror that flashed over Arthur's face, as if he'd been slapped, as if he'd been shot.
"Jesus, John. Jesus."
"Don't act like you didn't know," John said, coldly. "I as good as told you once before."
Arthur scrubbed both his hands over his face, hard, but he still couldn't completely school his expression afterwards, looking unsettled and uncertain. "You … as I recall, you said the opposite. Got downright offended at the word." And damn, didn't that say something: that Arthur remembered that conversation as vividly as John did. That it was just as stuck in his memory.
"You're not dumb, Arthur," John replied. Because, yeah, at the time, fifteen years old, he'd liked to believe that his denial was convincing. Now, at eighteen, he knew that Arthur had seen right through him. That the truth was obvious.
"That's debatable," Arthur muttered back, chagrined.
John had told Arthur because he wanted, in that moment, to hurt him. He'd wanted to shame him, but now, having said it out loud, humiliation was curling in his own gut. "You don't … really believe that, do you? That this is what makes you a man?" Because if Arthur really believed it … well, John was still only eighteen, and Arthur was everything. If he told John that sleeping with whores was just one of those things men did, he would have to believe it.
"No! I mean— I don't know." He took off his hat and scrubbed a hand though his hair, not looking at John. "I never was the kinda man I was supposed to be."
John thought about Eliza and Arthur, sitting in front of the fire in Eliza's house, Isaac on the floor between them—Arthur smoking while Eliza read out parables from the bible by the glow of an oil lamp. "I think I'd rather be the kind of man you are than whatever this was supposed to make out of me."
Eliza didn't say anything when they got back, but somehow it was clear she knew, had known all along, that nothing would come of it.
"There's nothing wrong with being a romantic, you know," she said, airily, over breakfast the next morning. "Even men sometimes want a love story."
*
Abigail Roberts approached the two of them after the sun had set, looking oddly circumspect, carrying no light and ducking into the dark shadow of the wagon as soon as she was near enough. "I heard Dutch saying he's fixin' to cut you loose," she said, apropos of nothing, before either John or Arthur could open their mouth to ask her purpose. "He don't want you comin' to the new camp."
John looked over at Arthur, quirking an eyebrow. "That sound like good news?" He asked.
"It sounds queer, is what it sounds like," Arthur replied, brow furrowing. "He ain't got what he wanted outta you yet."
"I don't know about any of that," Abigail cut in quickly. "Dutch has his reasons for everything, dumb as they might sometimes be. That ain't why I came over here."
John and Arthur exchanged another glance, suspicious, but Arthur gestured broadly for her to go on.
"You two are bounty hunters. You— you find people. I mean, you find 'em to lock 'em up, but you find 'em."
"It's more that we know the kinda holes rats tend to crawl into," Arthur replied, but his tone was leading, curious. "You want someone found, is that—" and then it apparently clicked in his head at the same exact moment it did for John. "Oh," he breathed in surprise, looking slightly stunned.
"Dutch ain't even looking," she spat, eyes blazing. "He says we need to get gone, get safe, before we can search, but I don't give a shit about that. He can hang for all I care. I want my son."
"And I wish I could give him to you, but … we ain't really in the business of finding missing persons," Arthur said, sounding a bit lost. "We wouldn't even know where to start."
"I can tell you where to start," Abigail replied immediately. "The Braithwaite woman said they gave him to Angelo Bronte in Saint Denis."
John recognized the name. He and Arthur had captured two convicts in Bayou Nwa years back that had turned out to be deserters from Bronte's organization, and he'd insisted on thanking them personally for taking out his trash. "Bronte runs Saint Denis in all but name. He's not exactly the sort of man you want to get on the bad side of."
"He has my son," Abigail snarled. "Will you find him? When Dutch lets you go, will you find my son?"
They were so, so close to being done with all this, John thought. To being done with Dutch and his gang, done with taking supper with outlaws instead of turning them in. To being done with being tied to all the worst parts of Arthur's past. If Dutch really was going to let them go, they could walk away and not have to look back.
"Yeah," Arthur said, expression resolute, "we'll find him."
Notes:
The more I write this fic the more I want to write more about Eliza. I might write a companion piece about her and Arthur if I don't find a place in this fic for the story I have in mind.
As an aside, if anyone would like to suggest me a better summary for this fic, I would really appreciate it. I'm terrible at summaries and don't really like the one it has right now.
Chapter 9: Chapter Four, Part One
Notes:
I am deeply sorry for what I am about to do to you.
... no I'm not. YAY WE'RE GONNA EXAMINE ARTHUR'S RELATIONSHIP ISSUES SOME MORE
Sorry this is a bit shorter than other chapters, it took me so long to get it out, and I found a good stopping point, so I didn't want to keep holding onto it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"You and I," Dutch drawled, startling John out of half-sleep, "need to have a little chat."
It was full dark, a moonless night, and judging by the hush around them nearly everyone else was asleep. Dutch was stood over him, fully dressed as if he'd been up all evening, holding a lantern turned down to the lowest possible flame. He gestured sharply when John reached out for Arthur's arm, a clear warning.
"You needn't wake Arthur," his said, voice deceptively casual. "He needs his rest, and he isn't really a party to this, is he?" He turned slightly, not giving his back to John, not quite, but making it clear that he expected to be followed. "Why don't we take a walk?"
This was it, John thought wildly. This was where Dutch took him out to the woods and shot him. At least Arthur would be okay. Dutch had some bizarre possessive streak about him, and he didn't seem like the type to break his own toys.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Dutch heaved a put-upon sigh, like John was an unreasonable child, and gestured pointedly to his waistband, his heavy gunbelt absent. John briefly considered whether he could take Dutch Van der Linde in a fistfight.
"Really, this paranoia is very unbecoming," Dutch said, sounding amused. "I don't know how you came by this idea that I am the sort of man to kill someone without cause."
Dutch had threatened his life not even a day ago, backed by three armed men.
Still, he really had very little choice but to go along with it, pushing to his feet and trailing Dutch away from the main camp, towards the lake shore.
"You've put me in a bit of an untenable position, Mister Marston," Dutch said as the walked, his tone mild, conversational. John didn't actually know what 'untenable' meant, but he assumed from context it meant something like awkward. After all, Arthur had pushed back against Dutch for John's sake, in front of Dutch's boys, and Dutch had backed down. "Any task I give you I cannot trust you to complete, and even if I were inclined to send one of my boys to chaperone you, they'd be liable to kill you on principle. On the other hand, I'm not in the habit of discarding things that may yet be of use to me, or of releasing debts."
"I ain't done anything for you to think I'd double cross you," John argued. "That shit with the Pinkertons had nothing to do with me."
"Maybe not," Dutch allowed, "but that does not mean you haven't been making deals behind my back. I know that Miss Roberts has asked you to retrieve young Jack." John tried to school his expression, but something of his surprise must have shown, because Dutch smirked. "Oh come now," he drawled, condescension suffusing every word, "did you really think there could be secrets from me in my own camp?"
"She's worried about her son," John shot back, feeling oddly defensive of Abigail. "You can't fault her for that."
"Her devotion as a mother is admirable," Dutch agreed imperiously, "even if it has led her to a disappointing lack of faith. Obviously I would never dream of abandoning the boy, but it is true that our resources are currently needed elsewhere. So here is my proposal, Mister Marston: you will find Jack. You already intend to do so, and you know who is in possession of him. You will find him, you will return him to me in Saint Denis, and you will never set foot in our camp again."
And Dutch would ride back to camp with Jack like a conquering hero. There would be no risk to Dutch's boys. Abigail would think that John and Arthur had failed, or that they hadn't even tried, to find her son. Hell, Arthur might even see Dutch's personal interest, his blessing, as proof that Dutch cared about the boy, that he wanted him safe—Arthur had a persistent tendency to give Dutch the benefit of the doubt.
Really, considering how little effort it would cost Dutch, it was kind of brilliant.
"And then we're even?" John asked, suspicious.
"Then, Mister Marston, we are done," Dutch corrected, "and when I say done, I mean that I do not wish to see your face again."
"And Arthur?"
"Arthur's welcome has never been in question," Dutch replied pointedly. "I have never questioned his trustworthiness. It is only his judgment I have recent cause to doubt."
Like questioning Dutch or defending John were somehow lapses in judgment.
John didn't rise to the bait. "Fine. Like I said, I pay my debts. Where will you meet us?"
"The train station," Dutch said. "Midday, three days."
"Three days?" John exploded. "Arthur ain't in any condition for a hard ride, it'll take us a least a day just to get to Saint Denis!"
"Then I suggest you work fast," Dutch responded, utterly unmoved. "Unless you would like to renegotiate? Perhaps you would ride out faster if you were on your own."
Like hell he was leaving Arthur here. "Fine. Fine. Three days."
He found Arthur on his feet—barely—when he got back their bedrolls, trying clumsily to fasten his gunbelt with one hand. "The hell are you doing?" John immediately demanded in hushed whisper, pulling the belt away and letting it drop to the ground.
Arthur blinked at him, clearly only just awake, foggy with sleep. "It … I woke up. You weren't here," he said, sounding bleary and confused. In the moment he seemed oddly young, vulnerable, in a way that made John's gut twist. Arthur, he reminded himself. All this shit was for Arthur. After everything Arthur had done for him—
But no. That wasn't why he was doing any of this. Arthur wasn't Dutch, and John wasn't repaying any debts to him.
Arthur scrubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly. "I thought that Dutch— well, I don't know what I thought. Where were you?"
"With Dutch," John admitted with a shrug. "Abigail was right. He's cutting us loose in the morning."
Arthur's gaze was suddenly much more awake, narrow with suspicion. "Why?" He demanded. "He drug you off without me, so what's he asking you to do?"
John dropped down onto his bedroll with a sigh. "Nothing we weren't going to be doing anyway."
"That ain't an answer."
John sighed again. "He wants us to find Abigail's kid. Deliver him back to Dutch in three days. He already knew Abigail had asked us."
Arthur cocked his head. "That's it?"
"Well there was also some talk about how if he sees my face again after that it probably wouldn't go well for me, but yeah, basically."
Arthur seemed to mull that over for a moment, looking unconvinced, but he finally dropped back down onto his bedroll with a huff. "Thought for sure he'd want blood outta you," Arthur grumbled under his breath, and John laughed lowly, without real humor.
"Can't get blood from a stone, I guess."
*
As they were leaving, pre-dawn only just coming over the horizon, Hosea tried to give Arthur a sizable stack of bills.
"Hosea," Arthur groaned, sounding oddly put-upon, "I don't need this."
"No, and I'm sure Dutch wouldn't be overly pleased that I'm giving it to you," Hosea admitted, "but just—take it. Please. Buy your friend a new horse. See a proper doctor in town." He tried to force the money into a resistant Arthur's hand.
"I can't take—" Arthur started to protest again.
"Christ, son, just take what you're offered. I know we—Dutch, Susan and I—haven't been much family to you in a long while, but there was a time that was different. It wasn't your fault that it changed."
"Of course it was," Arthur replied, bewildered. "I'm the one that left."
"So did I, once," Hosea said, "and yes, I came back, but that was because of me, not because trying to have a real life was the wrong thing to do."
"I never said I thought it was wrong," Arthur immediately responded. "And seemed to me that you had a different opinion about it, back then. Fifteen years, Hosea. You knew where I was."
"Yes, I did," Hosea replied, flatly, "and I stayed away. All of this, Arthur?" He waved his hands at the packed up camp, all the worldly belongings of a couple dozen people in a handful of wagons, for the fourth time in as many months, "It's dying out. I'm old—I don't have much left in me anyway. So I reckon I'll stick around and see it through. But you? You got out. Don't go letting yourself get dragged back in. It isn't worth it. Take the money—consider it back pay—and don't look back anymore. There's nothing to see here."
Arthur looked unsettled, wrong-footed. "I ain't looking to come back," he said, glancing over at John, "and I don't need your money."
"I know you don't," Hosea shrugged. "Take it anyway."
John knew an act of penance when he saw it. He guessed Arthur did, too, because he finally nodded slowly, tucking the money away in his satchel. Hosea clasped him by both shoulders, delicate on the still-bandaged one, and looked him over, like he was memorizing him.
"You've made me proud, son," he said, calmly. "You didn't do it for me, but you have."
"Jesus, Hosea," Arthur grumbled, knocking his hands away in embarrassment. "You talk like you're dying."
Hosea easily allowed the gravity of the moment to disperse. "We're all dying," he replied, in a glib tone, before he turned his gaze to John, his expression shrewd. "You look after this one, you hear? He ain't got the sense God gave a goose when it comes to looking after himself."
"Reckon I know a thing or two about that," John muttered in reply, shooting Arthur a disapproving look, mostly teasing.
"Right, I'm reckless," Arthur replied. "Remind me how we ended up here in the first place?"
"Sure," John drawled. "It involved you getting kidnapped by O'Driscolls like a little storybook maiden."
And that pretty much ended any sort of serious conversation.
Hosea was the only one to really see them off, but John couldn't fail to notice Dutch watching them quite keenly from the center of the disassembled camp, hat low over his eyes, a cigar clenched in one hand.
*
Arthur's shoulder was bleeding again by the time the got to Saint Denis mid-afternoon, red spotting on his shirt, but he refused a doctor in favor of copious amounts of whiskey.
Arthur wasn't generally a heavy drinker, though he was a frequent one. He had always drunk beer when at home with Eliza (she didn't generally partake) and had let John do the same once he turned seventeen, but the first time he'd see Arthur actual, proper drunk, John had been nineteen.
Arthur had returned home from a long job, late enough that Isaac had already gone to bed, bringing with him a bottle of proper Kentucky Bourbon and, when John asked the occasion, he uncharacteristically pulled Eliza over next to him with a hand on her waist.
"It's our fifth wedding anniversary."
Eliza shoved him off, rolling her eyes. "That was two weeks ago. And it was our sixth."
"I knew that," Arthur said, grinning, a clear sign that he'd already had a few in town. "Ain't liquor traditional for that?"
"I think it's iron," Eliza said, but Arthur was rarely in such an jovial mood, and she couldn't fully hide her smile.
"Oh, well, lemme run back to town, I'll get you a horseshoe."
"What's got into you?" Eliza laughed, not resisting this time when Arthur pulled her up against his chest. "I mean, other than, clearly, 'bout ten gallons of beer?"
"It was whiskey," Arthur corrected seriously, "which I drank out of a glass in a saloon, because I am a gentleman these days."
"Oh are you?" Eliza said archly, but she was smiling. "And who was paying for all this whiskey?"
Arthur laughed, and reached into his satchel to show her a fat roll of bills. "My lady, you are now married to a wealthy man. Four of them O'Driscoll boys had a powerfully bad month, and we're two thousand dollars richer for it."
"Two thousand?" John repeated, agape, even as Eliza snatched up the roll of bills, looking equally astonished.
They were all fifties.
"I ain't never seen so much money in my life," Eliza whispered.
"Jesus, Arthur, what kinda folk did you go after?" John said, knocking up against Eliza's back as he peered over her shoulder, because Jesus, those were real fifty dollar bills. Forty of 'em.
Arthur had moved away to put the bourbon on Eliza's little round kitchen table and retrieve three mismatched glasses from the cabinet. "You're gonna find out," he said, pointed with the hand holding two of the glasses. "Tomorrow we're going into town and getting you some guns of your own—so you stop fucking with the sights on mine—"
"Some of us like to actually aim at the things we're shooting at—"
"—fuck you, my aim is implacable." John was pretty sure he meant 'impeccable'. Shit, he was really drunk. "Probably gonna need a horse, too," he mumbled to himself as he sloshed bourbon into the glasses, "maybe a pony for Isaac if we can get a proper stable built—"
"We could get a phonograph!" Eliza exclaimed, but John was still parsing Arthur's first statement—because guns, a horse?
"Wait, like we're gonna ride out together?" John said, gobsmacked. Sure, Arthur had brought him on bounties before, with John riding double and carrying some of Arthur's weapons, but Arthur rarely allowed John in any sort of position where John might actually have to use them, John more a spectator than an assistant or partner.
"Ain't that what you wanted?" Arthur asked, holding out a glass of bourbon to him. "For me to stop treatin' you as a child?"
And as if to prove that he meant it, that he wasn't going to treat John like a little kid, he proceed to allow John to get absolutely shit-faced on bourbon.
John didn't remember being put to bed—or well, he did, but it was mostly a vague impression of Eliza sloppily stroking his cheek and calling him a 'poor little lamb', which was so awkward it didn't bear thinking about—but he couldn't have been out for long, because Arthur and Eliza were still at the table when he blinked awake, the bottle of bourbon having only an inch or two remaining at the bottom, the lantern on the table turned low.
"—get a second bed, maybe John and Isaac could share?" Eliza was saying, her voice slurring slightly. "Hell, maybe a second bedroom, how much could that cost?"
"Whatever you want," Arthur agreed absently. He was leaning back in his chair, sounding half-asleep by this point, and John was fairly certain he hadn't heard a word she'd said.
"Whatever I want, hm?" She replied, and, somewhat unsteadily, stood and dropped herself down into Arthur's lap, still holding the glass of bourbon. John thought back to Eliza's matter-of-fact explanation of how Isaac came to be—we was young and really drunk—and could picture it for the first time, because Arthur let her, dropping his head back when she put her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. "You know, I always wanted a daughter."
Arthur chuckled, his voice low. "John's asleep not five feet away."
John knew he shouldn't be watching this, shouldn't be hearing it, but he was somehow loathe to break the moment, and desperate to see it—both of Arthur and Eliza so heartbreakingly out of character.
"He wouldn't mind," Eliza replied, "might give 'im a thrill. He's awful sweet on you, after all."
Arthur sat up straight so abruptly that Eliza nearly tumbled off his lap, would have if Arthur hadn't grabbed her at the last moment. "That … that ain't funny, 'Liza."
Eliza giggled drunkenly, clinging to Arthur's shoulders for balance, either not hearing or not caring about the sudden seriousness of Arthur's tone. "Oh, don't get all strange about it, Arthur. Everyone does it!"
"They don't," Arthur said firmly, but Eliza proceeded as if she hadn't even heard.
"Why, when I was sixteen I had the most powerful crush on a trick rider in a Wild West show. Dreamed about she and me living on a ranch and raising horses, riding every day until sunset."
She rested her head on Arthur's shoulder with a wistful sigh, fumbling the bourbon to her mouth and succeeding mostly at spilling it across Arthur's collarbone, until he gently took it out of her hand. "Why didn't you?" He asked quietly. "The … the ranch part, not—"
"Well," she drawled, sitting up again, "as it happens, I made some terrible decisions in the back room of a saloon with a notorious outlaw, and wound up in a family way."
Arthur let out a small, wounded noise. "Eliza—"
"Oh, don't," Eliza complained, twining her arm's around Arthur's neck, like the lovers they had once been. "You know what I thought the first time I saw you, Arthur Morgan? I thought, that man is going to ruin me, and I am going to let him."
Three weeks later, John and Arthur would come home to a door that was only propped up against the frame, the hinges busted out.
*
John only managed to drag Arthur up to their rented room once the bartender had cut him off. Arthur was stumbling drunk by then, leaning heavily against John just to get up the stairs. It was hard to begrudge him in this instance, the liquor almost medicinal, considering how much pain he had to have been in.
John laid him out on one of the two beds, careful of his shoulder. Arthur grabbed at his collar, clumsily, when John went to stand, and John sighed.
"We're in town, remember?" John reminded him, gently prying off his hand, because John remembered the rules, even if Arthur was too drunk too.
"Whatever," Arthur replied, grabbing at John's wrist, the only part in reach without having to sit up, and sounding remarkably clear for a man who could hardly walk, "door's got a lock, ain't it?"
John gave him a narrow glace, considering. Arthur drunk was always Arthur honest, in the most poignantly fundamental way.
"… Fine." John said after a moment. "Just let me go and lock it, then."
Notes:
FYI, when Eliza talks about being 'ruined' she's mostly talking about it in the sense of 'loss of virtue', a la The Ruined Maid by Thomas Hardy.
I hope no one is put off by how much Eliza is featured here ... it's really more to emphasize and explain Arthur's issues some more.
Chapter 10: Chapter Four, Part Two
Notes:
So, I have a bad habit of finishing a chapter in the middle of the night and then immediately publishing it to get it out of my head, then coming back for minor edits in the morning. And I'm doing it again, because as soon as I finish something I want to share it. It's a thing I have. So here, at 3:30 AM local time, is Saint Denis. And I don't really think it's what anyone was expecting because it's not what I was expecting, either. I hope it appeals.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saint Denis never sleeps. John remembered hearing that somewhere, and he supposed it must be true, because that racket outside their rented room never fucking stopped. Arthur was drunk—and exhausted—enough that he was out like a light, snoring softly in John's ear, but the raucousness below them wouldn't allow John to drop off. By around midnight John twisted out from under Arthur's enveloping arm, resolving to toss back a few himself. Seemed like the only way to sleep through the night in a town like this.
He bellied up to the bar between an old gray-haired drunk and a young blonde-haired drunk and ordered two shots of extremely overpriced whiskey with a beer chaser. Downed both shots with practiced ease and was starting to sip on the beer when the old man next to him started to tilt towards him.
"You seem awful flush, pal," the old man slurred. "You coming from a game around here?"
John spared him a glance—pot-belly, shabby clothes that had once been fine, broken blood vessels on his nose and cheeks. "Nah, got it from honest work," he replied, blandly. "Give it a try sometime."
"S'all well and good for you young'uns," the man slurred back with a sneer, "but when you're my age, you—" he hiccoughed, "—you deserve to do what you like."
"You look like you're doing plenty of that," John agreed.
"Wha, you think you're better than me, you—" he shoved at John's shoulder, weakly, but the move was unexpected enough that John stumbled slightly, "—you fuckin' cowboy?"
A few eyes were starting to turn towards them, folks always eager for a fight. John had no intention of giving it to them. "Go sleep it off, old man. You'll thank me in the morning."
The drunkard swayed on his feet, face bright red. "Jus' like my fuckin' daughter, lookin' down your nose at—"
"Daddy!"
And Jesus goddamn Christ, John thought, wincing, didn't it just fucking figure.
Missus Mary Linton pushed through the crowded saloon and wrapped both her arms around the old drunk's upper arm, clinging like a limpet. "Daddy, what on earth are you doing? You promised me—"
The old man—Mister Gillis, apparently—pawed her hands off with a scowl. "You lemme alone, girl."
"You promised me you'd stay in tonight! Just one night, Daddy, couldn't you just give me one—"
Snarling, Gillis raised one hand, his intentions clear; John grabbed his wrist before the slap could land, shoving the man back. Whatever his own thoughts on Mary Linton, there were certain things that were just unacceptable. "You're drunk," John said lowly, flatly, "so if you walk away right now, I'll forget that you tried to put hands on this woman."
"Don' you tell me how I c'n treat my own child," Gillis slurred, lurching back towards John with his fists raised.
John sighed inwardly, and laid him out flat with one punch.
The bar was only silent a moment, long enough to assess that Gillis was not getting back up and that the excitement, such as it was, had therefore passed. People were already turning back to their drinks when John felt a small hand on his elbow, and when he turned slightly he found he was looking right into Mary Linton's big brown eyes.
"… Mister Marston?" She asked, bewildered, and then peered around him, wide-eyed, as if he might be hiding Arthur behind his back.
"Just me, I'm afraid," John informed her coolly.
Mary darted her gaze back to him, sheepish. "Oh! I'm sorry, I just … I thought you and Arthur always worked together."
"We do," John said shortly. "He's asleep."
"Oh," Mary said again, softly, sounding forlorn. She looked down at her father's enormous body—the drunk now snoring loudly—and wrung her hands for a long moment, looking lost and utterly helpless.
John had a sudden flash of the look of disapproval Arthur would be giving him right then, and let out an irritated huff. "Where are you staying?" He asked grudgingly, as he bent and slung the unconscious sot over his shoulder.
It said something about Saint Denis that no one gave a well-dressed woman, accompanied by a filthy range-rider with a snoring drunk over his shoulder, a second look. Mary led them to the Hotel Grand, making a bizarre attempt at small talk along the way—where are your people from, how long have you and Arthur worked together, how long will you be in town (Scotland, long enough, and a while being the respective answers)—before she eventually cottoned on to the fact that John's clipped answers meant he had no interest in the conversation. They fell into an uneasy silence until they reached the hotel.
"I'd like to see Arthur … should I send a letter?" She asked John tentatively, after John had handed her still-snoring father over to the hotel porter.
"You do what you think is best," John replied, not able to completely hide the sour note in his voice.
"… you don't much like me, do you, Mister Marston?" Mary asked softly, looking unfairly wounded. She'd seemed fiercer with Arthur, but perhaps that was only because she thought she knew the measure of him. To John she seemed more like a hothouse flower, sheltered and delicate and quickly wilting in the face of hardship.
"I liked Eliza Morgan," John replied, feeling a shameful satisfaction in seeing her flinch, "and you ain't Eliza Morgan."
That certainly wasn't the only reason, but it was definitely the only one he was willing to share with Mary Linton.
He'd only been gone an hour, maybe a bit more, but Arthur was awake when he got back to the room, sitting on the side of the bed with his head resting in his good hand, other arm draped limply across his lap, sling discarded on the floor. His eyes shot up when the door creaked open, and the glare he shot John was hot enough to make him wince.
"You keeping secrets from me now, John?" He asked lowly. "'Cause this'll make two nights in a row I've woken up and found you gone off somewhere without me."
And okay, maybe it was a bit suspicious: John vanished without a word in the middle of the night, for the second time, right after Dutch had released them completely out of the blue, giving them a job that Arthur already thought was too easy to be true.
"I went for a drink," John explained. "The damn noise—I couldn't sleep. I shoulda woke you, I'm sorry."
If anything, Arthur's gaze only got darker. "Well, which bar did you go to?" He drawled, tone falsely casual, "Because you weren't in this one when I looked."
John felt utterly bewildered. "Are you accusing me of something?"
"I want to know where you were."
So John told him, though he'd had no intention of mentioning it before. "I ran into your Mary Linton. Got into a fistfight with her drunk father and carried him back to the hotel for her. You can ask her if you like, she said she was gonna send you a letter." When Arthur continued to look at him with that too-narrow gaze, he added, almost offended, "The hell are you getting at? You know damn well that the only secrets I keep are yours."
Arthur abruptly deflated, looking chagrined. "I wasn't—I didn't mean that," Arthur muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I just … you were gone. Again. And Dutch said—" Arthur shook his head, pressed a fist against his forehead like it was aching, "—he just got in my head. He always gets in my fucking head."
John knew that, of course. Dutch had gotten into Arthur's head before John had ever met him. He just hadn't thought that Dutch had managed to get into it about John.
"Well, I don't know what Dutch said to you, because you didn't tell me," John said after a moment, unable to suppress the undertone of anger, of hurt, "but maybe you could try to remember that he ain't exactly got our best interests at heart. Jesus."
John crawled into the other bed, pointedly turning his back on Arthur.
"Look, I said I was sorry," he hadn't, actually, "but why would you—sneak out like that?" John flipped back over so he could glare at the other man.
"I didn't 'sneak out', you asshole. You were dead to the world and I just wanted a drink. Should I've woke you up to hold my hand? Or maybe you wanted to escort me like I'm your sweetheart?"
"Well ain't you?" Arthur said, plainly, catching John completely off guard.
"That's— you don't get to do that," he accused, pushing himself back up to sit. "You don't get to say shit like that to throw me off. I'm mad at you."
"For wanting to know where you were?"
"For not trusting me! For letting to Dutch Van der Linde drip poison in your ear about me!"
Arthur looked away, scowling. "What Dutch said to me," he said lowly, evenly, "was that he had plans for you."
"Plans?" John snapped back, unmoved by the revelation. "I heard Dutch say he had a 'plan' half a dozen times while we was at his camp, and it was a goddamn lie every time. He can have plans for me all he likes, but I ain't gonna play along with 'em and you should know that."
Arthur was silent for a beat. "… but you're playing along right now, aren't you?" He said softly. "We both are."
John stuttered for a moment, taken aback. "I— that's different. This is a debt."
"Yeah, and for what?" Arthur challenged. "The thing is, John—I never actually needed rescued. I got myself outta that shit, and if you had stayed in Valentine where I goddamn left you, we wouldn't be here right now."
"So I shoulda just twiddled my thumbs while you were missing? Dutch, he— he saved your life." John argued, feeling abruptly lost by the turn this conversation had taken. Was he actually defending Dutch? Or just trying to defend his own choices?
"And if you really believe that," Arthur said, his expression rueful, "then he's as much in your head as mine."
That night, they both went to bed angry.
*
"So how long are you plannin' to be sore at me?" Arthur asked, conversationally, as they walked though the city park the next morning, Angelo Bronte's elaborate mansion looming on the other side.
Arthur was good at holding grudges. Something about his steady nature meant that he could let anger simmer under his skin for months, for years, and never let it out until he was damn well ready. John wasn't like that—all his emotions were on the surface. He burned hot and blew out fast, as Arthur was well aware, and right now it felt like he was trying to call John's bluff, to say that he knew John wouldn't stay cross with him.
He was probably right. Already John felt almost embarrassed about the fight, like he'd made a lot out of nothing; maybe he'd just taken his anger at Dutch, his annoyance with Mary, his frustration with the whole mess of a situation, and thrown it on Arthur because he was there.
Then again, hadn't Arthur turned around and done the same thing?
"Let's just—get this done," John muttered instead of answering. The question was disingenuous anyway, just a way to remind John that Arthur thought he was acting like a pouting child.
Bronte was the man Dutch probably dreamed himself to be—a man truly powerful enough to be above the law. Rich as Croesus and feared enough that it almost looked like respect. He had men in government, in the police force, and good old fashioned goons, all at his beck and call. Even for all that, the man himself was skinny, weaselly, dressed in as absurdly ostentatious smoking jacket and a ridiculous cap, even though it was already mid-morning.
They'd introduced themselves at the gate, but Bronte, jackass that he was, greeted them with, "Ah, the Morgans, wasn't it? I never forget a face," as if he hadn't just had their names and story whispered in his ear. "I do not usually take unexpected visitors, you know, but I have not forgotten your past service for me."
Jesus, the man reminded John so strongly of Dutch, it made his skin crawl.
"So," Bronte continued, taking a fat cigar from a box held open for him, "what brings you to me now?"
Arthur glanced at John, because in theory this errand was his, but John deferred to him with a nod, as he always did. Habits of near a decade were hard to break. "We're looking for someone," Arthur said, flatly. "A boy, 'bout four or five. He was snatched up in Rhodes by the Braithwaite family, you know 'em?"
Bronte's expression didn't change, except that his eyes narrowed slightly. "I do. And I also know from whom this boy was taken. So what is your interest in him, hm?"
"Our only interest is in getting him back to his mother," Arthur replied shortly. There were half a dozen men with guns around them, but things like that had never intimidated Arthur. "I'm sure you're not the kind of a man that would keep a child from his mother."
Bronte made a thoughtful noise, sucking on his cigar. "Oh, that would be a most unfortunate thing, a child deprived of his mother. On the other hand, it is also terrible for a man to be deprived of his livelihood, don't you agree?"
"I don't see as the two are similar," was Arthur's dry response.
"Ah, well, to me," Bronte gestured expansively, smoke drifting around him, "my business is my child. And," his voice went darker, more dangerous, "this child's family destroyed my business."
"I don't know anything about that." Arthur tone was curt, almost impatient. "Whatever happened to your business had nothing to do with that boy, and in any case," Arthur gestured mockingly to their lavish, almost gaudy surroundings, "doesn't seem to have set you back by much."
Bronte puffed again on his cigar, but there was something shrewd, calculating, in his expression now. "You certainly have balls, Mister Morgan," he said, lowly, dangerously, the sudden profanity obviously a conscious choice, "to come into my city and speak to me this way."
"I'm only having a conversation with an honest businessman, ain't I?" Arthur replied.
Bronte stared him down for a moment, with that same shrewd gaze.
And then he laughed.
"Look at you!" He exclaimed. "The fearless American! Not like these stronzi!" He gestured behind him to his own men, whose faces remained utterly impassive at what was clearly an insult. "Yes, perhaps I give you the boy. But if I do, you must do something for me."
Again, John thought of Dutch. Favors to pay for favors to pay for favors.
Maybe Arthur had the same thought, because his expression instantly went flat. "And what might that be?"
Bronte chuckled at Arthur's obvious suspicion, stubbing out his only half-finished cigar in an elaborate crystal ashtray. "I do not hold grudges, Mister Morgan—there is no money in it. The leader of this … gang," he rolled his eyes at the word, like it was absurd, "this 'Van der Linde', he is of interest to me. So I give you the boy—this child of his family—and you bring to him a letter from me. Something I am sure he will find most interesting."
John spoke up for the first time, disbelieving. "A letter?"
Bronte glanced at him, looking bored. "Should I ask you to kill someone for me? Killing is hardly an uncommon skill here. You? Are nothing. I want the man who burned the Braithwaites to the ground. The only unique thing about you Morgans is that you seem to know him, or you know people who do. "
The only unique thing about them was Dutch. Somehow, sickly, it rang true.
"I can't turn down an offer like that," Arthur said wryly. "Give us the letter, I'll personally make sure he gets it."
*
"Are we gonna read it?" John asked, hours later, after they had finally tucked an overly-excited Jack Roberts into one of the hotel beds for a nap.
"I bet I can tell you what it'll say," Arthur replied, from where he was dozing in a cushioned chair by the window, hat pulled down over his eyes. "He wants to use Dutch the way Dutch used us. I mean, it wouldn't say it like 'at, but that's the way men like that are."
*
They met Dutch at the train station the next day, midday, as promised.
"It was really fun," Jack was saying, tucked up against Arthur's hip like he weighed nothing at all, "but I missed Mama. We're going back to the camp now?"
"I think you've got a new camp," Arthur answered absently, "and me and John ain't going."
"Oh." The boy looked powerfully thoughtful for a four year old, brow furrowed. "Why not?"
"It's complicated."
"You said that before," Jack whined, "and I think it really means you just don't wanna tell me!"
John chuckled at that, quirking an eyebrow at Arthur. "He's a smart kid, ain't he?"
"Reckon he must get that from his mother," Arthur muttered.
"Anyway," Jack interrupted, his high little voice very pointed, "sometimes people at camp are mean to Mama. You're nice. So you should come back and marry her and then she won't be a widow anymore."
John laughed when Arthur stuttered, red-faced, over a meaningless reply. The world seemed very simple through the eyes of a child.
After an hour Arthur bought Jack a green apple from a street seller, and the boy was chewing on it happily, tucked between John and Arthur on a bench, when Dutch finally appeared on his Arabian, looking perhaps a little less polished than usual. He had no jacket—maybe that was just the Lemoyne heat—but his shirt looked threadbare at the elbows, the cuffs unbuttoned.
"Arthur, my boy," he called out as he dismounted, as if John weren't even there, as if Jack were a piece of luggage, "I knew you would not let me down."
"Sure," Arthur drawled, standing slowly, his tone ironic. "Sure, I did it for you, Dutch."
If Dutch recognized the tone he seemed unbothered by it, waving away the comment absently. "Oh Arthur, you know what I meant. And how are you, Jackie?"
Jack wiggled off the bench and went over to Dutch—no running hug, no overt excitement, not wary but not overly eager, either. "Hi, Uncle Dutch. I'm fine. Papa Bronte was very nice."
Dutch blinked, nonplussed. "Papa Bronte?"
"Yeah," John laughed, still sprawled out on the bench, "at least someone out there is willing to play father to the kid."
Dutch seemed utterly unaffected by the dig, bending to heft Jack up into his horse's saddle. "This concludes our business, Mister Marston," he said, without looking back at John, as if he'd meant it literally when he'd said he never wanted to see John's face again. "I think we're done here."
"One more thing, Dutch," Arthur said, holding out Bronte's letter. Dutch half-turned to take it, grasping the other end of the folded paper almost absently, but Arthur held on for a moment when Dutch tugged, pulling the other man's attention, face grave. "After you take this from me," he said calmly, "then we are done here."
The words were mundane but the tone was unquestionably final, enough to make Dutch peer at Arthur with narrowed eyes. "What are you saying, Arthur?"
"I'm saying that I been holding onto my old life, your old life, for too long, and it ain't brought me anything but strife. So I ain't doing it anymore."
John slowly sat up straight, eyes wide, because sure this wasn't—
"Life is conflict, Arthur." Dutch said paternally, condescendingly. "I know it must seem easy to blame me for everything that's happened, but—"
"But nothing," Arthur cut him off. "You killed half of Valentine. I know because I was there. You killed most of Rhodes, too—two whole families. And then you—" he gritted his teeth a moment, pained, "you threatened to kill John. To shoot him right in front of me for something you knew damn well he didn't do."
Dutch gaze, which had been fond to the point of patronizing, suddenly turned cold, shrewd, as he slowly turned it to John. "So that's what this is about." He said, tone deceptively light. "This is about John."
"Sure," Arthur agreed, his tone brittle, hot underneath the blandness, "because if something's about me, it's about John too."
"I had my suspicions, of course," Dutch continued, as if Arthur hadn't spoken, his voice taking on sympathetic tone, "but I had thought you had left that sort of foolishness behind in your youth. You know that there's no future in that, Arthur. Never has been."
Arthur crossed his arms, unmoved. "Not much future in what you're doing, either," he said, not denying the veiled accusation. "Reckon I'll take my chances."
Dutch sighed, his expression rueful. "Well, I can't save you from your own mistakes, son," he said, as he mounted up behind little Jack, who looked utterly bewildered by the whole interaction. "Your young Mister Marston seems the type to tell you what you want to hear. I can see why that would seem a lot more appealing than someone who tells you the truth, even when it hurts. When you realize the difference, you'll still be welcome in my camp."
"You don't know a single goddamn thing about John," Arthur replied fiercely, having to almost yell when Dutch turned to ride off before he was even done.
John stared at Arthur, a little wide-eyed when he dropped back down onto the bench beside him, sprawling out like he had just been in a fistfight, like he was exhausted.
"… I'm still kind of mad at you," John admitted after a moment, even as he dropped one hand onto Arthur's forearm, holding loosely.
Arthur snorted. "I didn't say it 'cause of that," he muttered, sounding almost embarrassed. "I just ... finally figured out it was true."
Notes:
Jack's comments, in case you don't recall (because it was a long time ago), relate to when he asked Arthur if his mother was a widow because she didn't have a husband, and Arthur told him it was 'complicated' (chapter six, second section)
I'm not really super happy with this chapter, particularly the Bronte parts, but I think it got across what I wanted to convey. I always thought that the Bronte task was absolute busy work, that he was playing them, even back then, so to me, him asking almost nothing of John and Arthur makes perfect sense, because he knows they don't really have anything he doesn't already have.
And if you think that Dutch gave up to easily, you're kind of right, but there's a bit more at play--Dutch can't really fully manipulate Arthur when John is right there, after all.
Anyway, that's enough meta for one note. If you want more, I'm always happy to discuss in the comments.
Chapter 11: Chapter Four, Part Three
Summary:
Please note the rating change. I imagine that, for most of y'all, this is a good thing. =D
Notes:
I've mentioned in comments that I mostly write inspirationally. That means that sometimes things happen that I didn't plan, and I just go with it. This chapter is kinda one of those things. *shrugs* but overall, I'm happy with it.
Incidentally, I started a new job a few weeks ago, which is why this chapter took a bit longer. Unfortunately future chapters will likely be a bit slower as well, but they will be coming, and this fic will be finished.
Chapter Text
Mary had threatened to send Arthur a letter. She hadn't stated it as a threat, but it was. John had resigned himself to that, to another fight, this one about whether or not Arthur should come when she called like an obedient dog, but that wasn't what happened.
What happened was Mary Linton herself waiting for them in the saloon, seated at a little round two-seater table, a petite sherry glass at her elbow, half-full.
Arthur froze in the entryway when he saw her, abruptly enough that John ran into the back of him. John saw her a second after Arthur must have, sitting primly, straight-backed, looking both completely out of place—Mary Linton did not pass time in bars—and at the same time more suited to the setting than they themselves were. After all, at least Mary was wearing modern, fashionable garments, not years-old patched and stained riding gear.
"Oh, for God's sake," Arthur muttered under his breath, swiping a hand over his face.
"We could just go?" John suggested, but by then it was too late—Mary had seen them and was standing, raising one dainty hand in an awkward greeting.
"What the hell," Arthur murmured finally, more to himself than to John, "why not make it two for two?"
Mary wore a peculiar sort of expression when she looked at Arthur. John had noticed it before, in Valentine, but now, seeing it again, he could judge it a pattern—a sort of aching fondness, a bittersweet sympathy. She looked at Arthur like an open wound.
"It's so good to see you again, Arthur," she told him warmly, resting a soft hand on his dusty sleeve. "I didn't expect— well, I mean, you don't usually come this far east, I thought."
Arthur blinked at that, nonplussed. "You been following my career, Missus Linton?"
"A little," Mary admitted, "at least since Valentine. You have a bit of a reputation, it seems." She darted a glance at John and amended, "The both of you, I mean. The 'Morgan boys', though I don't know why you tell folk that you're brothers."
"Well, John here used to stay at home alone with my wife and son while I was out working," Arthur said, a not-so-subtle reminder to Mary of the past she wasn't part of. "It's the kind of thing townsfolk look sideways at if he feller ain't blood."
"… oh," Mary replied softly. She didn't have Arthur's talent for looking unaffected—she visibly paled at the mention of Arthur's family. "Arthur, I never did say … I'm so sorry about—"
"Thank you," Arthur cut her off sharply. "Is there something I can do for you, Missus Linton?"
Mary looked a little taken aback. "Do I have to want something to want to see you, Arthur?"
"I don't know," Arthur replied," do you?"
John caught a flash of something like hurt on Mary's face. "Arthur, please be kind to me."
Why? John didn't say, though he thought it. What had had Mary Linton really done, in recent memory, to deserve Arthur's kindness?
"I seen you not three months ago," Arthur pointed out, "and you didn't seem to take any interest in anything but what I could do for you. So pardon me for assuming that you sought me out for what you could get outta me."
"Don't you have any fondness for me anymore?" Mary asked, wounded.
"Sure I do," Arthur said easily, "and that's what you're plannin' to trade on, clearly."
Mary was clearly taken aback but, in fairness, so was John. He still vividly recalled their last meeting with Mary, where Arthur had cautioned him to be polite, because Mary was a lady. Maybe it was having it out with Dutch that was making Arthur so uncharitable, but John couldn't deny that he kind of liked it.
"… it's my father," Mary finally admitted.
"Right," Arthur said, putting his hat back on. "Well, good luck with that."
"Arthur, please," Mary exclaimed, reaching out to grab him by the arm as he turned away. "You think I wanted to come to you with this? I don't have anybody else!"
Arthur tensed when she grabbed him, almost looked like he was going to shake her off, but he stopped himself. "I ain't sticking my neck out for Reginald Gillis and that's that. If he'd had his way it woulda been snapped on a gallows years ago."
"I ain't asking you to help him, I'm asking you to help me deal with him!" Mary exploded, looking on the verge of tears. "Ever since mama passed—well, he was never wonderful, but now he's drinking and whorin' every hour of the day. He's sold off nearly all of mama's things—my inheritance. He's been talking about taking the money for Jaime's schooling—he'll never afford college without it! Arthur I'm desperate. I don't know what to do."
John suddenly found himself in the uncomfortable position of feeling sorry for Mary Linton. Being a woman on your own, especially a woman like Mary Linton, who never seemed to have learned real self-reliance, was a hard life to lead.
Arthur worked his jaw a long moment. "You don't even know what you want outta me, do you? You want me to fix things, but you don't even know how."
"Ain't no laws against drinkin' or whorin'," John put in slowly, "but he said something to me the other night about looking for card games. Gamblin' is still illegal in Saint Denis, lest you're on a riverboat."
"I don't want him arrested," Mary said, appalled.
"Well you shouldn't have come to lawmen for help, then," Arthur replied, "unless you somehow forgot that I don't strong-arm folk no more."
"I don't want you to be a thug for me, my God! I— just want to confront him. Maybe to get back some of the things he ain't sold yet."
"And then what?" Arthur challenged. "Reginald's a grown man—he can do as he likes, no matter how you feel about it."
Mary deflated for a moment, and then took a long, hard breath. "If that's how it'll be that's how it'll be. I already spent too much of my life trying to change men into something they don't wanna be. I'm not doing it again—if daddy wants his whores and his liquor more than he wants his daughter, then that's his choice."
It was probably the most sensible thing John had heard out of her to date. He found himself, strangely, wanting to help her for that reason alone.
Arthur must have thought the same, because after another long pause, he took his hat off again and laid it down on the table. "Fine. Fine, we'll go start a fight with Reginald goddamn Gillis."
*
John didn't really know a lot about fathers. His own had died when he was eight, blind and drunk, and from hearing Arthur tell about his, well, good riddance to the sorry bastard. That said … Arthur had been a father. He'd spent a lot of it on the trail, but he'd done what he could for Isaac when he was home—taught him to read, taught him to ride, taught him to shoot. It wasn't jealousy that John felt over it, because he'd never looked to Arthur as a father figure, but he'd watched Arthur bent over a book with Isaac and wondered why Isaac got to have a father like Arthur and John wound up orphaned, starving in the streets.
Life wasn't fair, was the long and short of it.
Mary's father wasn't dead, which was about all that could be said for him. His left eye was black from John punching him, but he still had the audacity to refer to Arthur as Mary's 'outlaw', which really made John want to black the other one.
"You're living in the past, Mister Gillis," Arthur said, easily, in response. "I went legit a long time ago. Matter of fact, Police Chief Lambert is a dear friend of mine. Maybe I should go have a word with him about you takin' Missus Linton's inheritance and selling it off to pay your gamblin' debts."
"Mary'll have her inheritance when I die. Until then, its my property to do with as I like." Ginnis sneered.
"That was my mother's, you miserable—"
"John," Arthur interrupted, not taking his gaze off Ginnis, "would you mind terribly chasing down that feller and explaining to him the consequences of trading in stolen property?"
"Don't hurt anyone!" Mary yelled after him. John couldn't hear what Arthur said in response, but his tone was sharp.
John didn't hurt anyone. He was a little insulted that Mary assumed he would. Then again, he had punched out her father just a few nights ago.
Ginnis was gone when he got back, near half an hour later—it was just Arthur and Mary, sitting next to each other on a stone bench, Mary's arm wound through Arthur's familiarly. It put John's hackles up, because he knew that Mary was Arthur's real first love. That Arthur had tried to have a wife and family, like a proper man. John, and what he and Arthur had—that was nothing near proper. Nothing near normal. Nothing like what Mary Linton could offer him, if she could swallow her own pride enough to offer it.
"—to the theatre?" Mary was saying, as John came up behind them. "Or just … just have a walk together. Arthur—"
"I need to wait for John," Arthur said firmly, though he made no more to discourage her hold on his arm. "He'll have your mama's brooch, ain't we waiting for that?"
Mary was silent for a long moment, and John held back, shamefully curious to hear the conversation play out. "John is … well, I suppose I don't really know him, but he seems steady enough that he don't really need you holding his hand like you seem to be doing."
"Holding his hand," Arthur repeated, with a laugh. "You're right, Mary—you don't know 'im."
"No," Mary admitted. "I would have liked—really, Arthur, I would have liked to. Your wife and son, too. Isaac, wasn't it? Arthur, I—" She took a long breath, pressed herself up against Arthur's arm in a desperately fond way, "I ain't a fool. I know you don't want that life we used to dream of, not anymore. You have John, and I reckon he's a good friend to you. I want … can I be a friend to you, too? I'm not trying to reopen the past, I'm truly not, but I just don't have anyone else, Arthur."
"Her name was Elizabeth," Arthur said after a pause. "Eliza, she like to be called. And yes, Isaac. She weren't … really at all like you. Maybe that was for the best." He sighed, seemed to slump. "God, Mary, I … I loved you. I did. And you didn't love me, not as I was—and I guess that's fair enough, because I weren't on the good side of the law. But Eliza did. Isaac did. John did."
"I did love you—I do love you, Arthur, please don't say that!" Mary insisted, sounding on the verge of tears. "Everything I ever wanted for you, you've got. You've made. And you didn't do it for me, and that's amazing, because you did it for yourself."
Arthur coughed, looking away. "I didn't, really. I did it for them. Eliza and Isaac and John."
"They're part of you," Mary said firmly. "When you did it for them you were doing it for yourself, too. And I—I never did enough for myself. So I'm going to try to now, but I just … I'd like to have you as friend to me, Arthur. You changed your life, you made it better, and I'd like to do that, too."
That was when Arthur looked up and saw John, standing immediately, Mary's arm dropping from his. There was something like guilt on his face, something like shame, but with the conversation John had heard—well, he found himself still in the strange state of being sympathetic to Mary Linton.
"I've got your mama's jewelry," John said gently, holding it out to her. "Did your father … ?"
"He ran off," Mary replied, taking the brooch from his hand, "and really … good riddance to him now. He don't care a lick about me and Jamie so I reckon I don't care a lick about him." She looked between him and Arthur, thoughtful. "I was askin' Arthur if he might want to stop in and see a show at the theatre. We should all go. What a coup, the frumpy old widow escorted by two such handsome gentlemen."
"We don't—" Arthur immediately stared to decline.
"We'd love to," John cut him off. Because Mary really wasn't anything like Eliza, but somehow, now, she reminded John of her; of a woman Arthur had loved in a way John didn't resent, of a woman who had never really been a threat, because Arthur had loved Eliza, deeply, but he'd hardly ever wanted her, and he didn't want Mary, either, not anymore. Arthur needed, Arthur should have … he should have other people. People other than John and goddamn Dutch Van der Linde. Eliza had once told him that no man was an island, including Arthur, but Arthur was the only person John had ever known that you had to force much needed affection on. That you had to work to love, and if Mary Linton loved him—well, John reckoned Arthur needed all the love he could get.
He pulled Arthur into an alley after they left the theatre, shoved him up against the brick in the dark, the only light the dim street gaslights.
Arthur let him, his big hands settling on John's hips, his expression rueful. "Honestly, John, that shit was your idea—you don't got any right to be somethin' like jealous—"
"I ain't jealous of Mary Linton," John cut him off. "You don't want her, you want me. You done told me so."
He kissed him, pushing Arthur hard up against the brick wall, Arthur's hands snapping up to frame John's face—not, as John half expected, pushing him off, but pulling him close. "Jesus, John," Arthur hissed, when John pulled away for a breath, "you're gonna get us in trouble—"
"Trouble is my middle name," John grinned, kissing him again, pressing up against him with his whole body, grinding his dick into his hip because Jesus, when was the last time they had actually fucked? Since before Dutch and Blackwater, certainly—John didn't resent it, but shit, it had been a long time.
"We're in the middle of goddamn town," Arthur murmured against John's lips, his fingers still carding through John's hair. He was hard as a fucking rock, John could feel it, Arthur's dick twitching against him.
"So no one would take any notice of the noise," John replied.
"Jesus goddamn Christ," Arthur breathed, "you want me to fuck you in a city alley, is that it?"
"I just want you to fuck me," John replied, grinding his cock against Arthur's hip. "Do it in the town square for all I care, let 'em see."
"Pretty sure that would get us hung," Arthur muttered with a smirk. "All the killin' and robbin' I did back in the day, and in the end I get got for that—"
John kissed him again.
*
John had been in his twenties the first time he'd fucked Arthur. Twenty-one, specifically. They'd already shared a bed before that, for the two years since Eliza died, but it had been chaste, it had been, at least on Arthur's part, innocent. Arthur had— he'd told John that he wasn't a child, but there was a part of him that clearly still thought John was, that with Eliza gone, it was Arthur's job to raise him up, and Jesus, that was the last thing John wanted out of him.
The first time he'd kissed Arthur they'd both been drunk, because of course they had.
They'd been in Thieves' Landing, spending the hundred they'd got from their latest bounty on whiskey for Arthur and poker for John, had gotten in a fistfight when one of the players at the table had called John a cocksucker. It had been when Arthur was wiping the blood off his face behind the locked door of their cheap hotel that John had admitted it—"It ain't like they're wrong," and kissed him, foolishly, head swimming with liquor.
Arthur was the only man, the only person, John had ever kissed. Maybe that was sad, maybe it was pathetic, but as far as John was concerned, Arthur was the only person he'd ever wanted to kiss.
"This is a terrible idea," Arthur had said, that first time. He'd said it, and then he'd pressed John down onto the bed and sucked him off like he was being paid for it, scraping John's thighs red with burn from his stubble, bruising his hips with fingerprints because he'd had to hold him down, because every time John had imagined that (a lot) it had been him on his knees for Arthur, him serving Arthur, and the reverse was almost to much for him to bear.
In the morning, when they were both sober, Arthur had all but apologized. "It wasn't right for me to—"
"Arthur," John had cut him off, "I don't give a damn about what's right. I wanted it. If you didn't then ... then I don't know. Then I'm sorry. It ain't worth losing you over."
Arthur looked at him for a long moment after that, his eyes red and his face haggard. "John," he said finally, "you ain't ever gonna lose me. I promise."
*
"I don't know what's got into you—" Arthur started, when John shoved him down onto the bed of their cheap saloon room, the door already locked behind them.
"I'll tell you what I'd like to get into me," John replied with a smirk, as he unfastened his belt.
"You're a goddamn pervert," Arthur replied, but he was working his own belt as well, arching his hips to shove his trousers down around his thighs.
"Ain't I your fuckin' sweetheart?" John challenged as he straddled him, bare knees digging into the bed on either side of Arthur's hips, as he started on the buttons of Arthur's worn blue shirt. "I mean, I'm still waiting on a ring—"
"Oh, then we shouldn't—wouldn't want you to think my intentions are dishonorable—"
John pressed him back against the pillows and kissed him, twisting his fingers into his dark-blonde hair, skimming his other hand down his chest to wrap around his dick. Arthur groaned against his mouth, hand snapping down to grasp John's wrist. "This is— John, this really is a terrible idea— there's folk not ten feet away—"
"They done heard worse, I'm sure," John muttered against Arthur's cheek, twisting his hand against Arthur's grip. "C'mon, Arthur, please—"
It was the please that did it—John actually asking for something usually resulted in him getting it, because underneath everything Arthur really was that easy. He let go of John's wrist and instead wrapped his hand around both their cocks, twisting in a way that made John keen into his collar, muffling himself against Arthur's skin. He bit down on the curve of Arthur's neck, down where it'd be hidden by his kerchief, and rocked against him hard, Arthur's calloused hand dragging almost painfully against the delicate skin of his cock. It was almost too much, too hard and too dry, but God, he wanted it.
"C'mon, c'mon," John gasped into Arthur's throat, wrapping his own narrow hand around Arthur's broad one, pulling him to go faster, go harder. He wished he had the patience to pull back, to get down on his knees, to get Arthur to fuck him, but it had been so long—
He gasped out a curse when he came, wetness spilling between them, feeling like he was being turned inside out. Wrung out like a rag. Arthur twisted his other hand into John's hair and quieted him in a kiss, groaning his own release into John's mouth, belly jerking against John's soft dick when he came.
"… you're a terrible influence on me," Arthur muttered when John finally rolled off to the side, swiping a hand through the sticky mess on his stomach.
"You fucking love me for it," John replied with a laugh.
Arthur rolled up onto an elbow and looked down at him, green eyes hooded, thoughtful. "Jesus, I do. I fucking love you."
It shouldn't have felt like a declaration. Arthur told John that he loved him every day in every other way than with words. But the actual words, hearing them out of Arthur's mouth, his tone serious as the grave—John hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear it until he had.
"Goddamn it, Arthur," John breathed, stunned, and twisted his hands into Arthur's hair to kiss him.
Chapter 12: Chapter Four, Part Four
Notes:
So this chapter wrote itself real quick . I guess this weekend you get a two-fer!
Chapter is a tiny bit shorter, but hey, no waiting!
Chapter Text
Two days later, a well-dressed Italian tried to give Arthur a gilded invitation to Angelo Bronte's next salon. Tried, because Arthur wasn't having it, shoving the card right back into the man's chest.
"I don't think you understand," the man said, his accent strong. "Signore Bronte does not send invitations, he sends summonses. You will attend if he expects you."
"I don't think you understand," Arthur replied, "I got no interest in bowing and scraping to Signore Bronte, and you can damn well tell him I said so."
"People in Saint Denis who make an enemy of Signore Bronte do not tend to last long," the man said, pointedly. "This is his city."
From what John knew, that was absolutely true.
"The hell does he want someone like me at his fancy party, anyhow?" Arthur said to John, after he'd finally run the feller off, utterly unintimidated. "I got three sets'a clothes and not one of 'em is a fancy suit."
He actually only had two, John didn't point out—the clothes he'd been wearing when the O'Driscolls took him were never seen again. Although that wasn't quite accurate, either—Arthur had a whole wardrobe full of clothes in the house in Armadillo. John too, Eliza having made them, but they hadn't been back there in … Jesus, was it really six years? They were probably ruined, moth-eaten and musty. What a depressing thought.
"Bronte's smart," John mused. "He'd have to be to get where he is. Reckon he musta decided there was something else he wanted outta you after all."
"Like what?" Arthur said in disbelief. "He said the only unique thing about us was knowing Dutch."
Bronte's man was apparently right that he didn't take 'no' for an answer, because after they returned from the stables with John's new Thoroughbred in the early afternoon, there was a new invitation laid on one of the hotel beds, laid carefully on top of a full fucking tuxedo. Arthur and John both stared at it for a moment, until John picked up picked up the card and read aloud the handwritten note across the back.
"'Mister Morgan'—not Misters, and only one suit, so I guess only you're invited, Arthur—"
"Ain't I lucky," Arthur deadpanned.
"—'had very interesting meeting with your friend from Holland'—where the hell is Holland?"
"He's talking about Dutch," Arthur said tiredly, slumping back against the wall. "Jesus, of course it was."
"'He believes we three may have matters to discuss'—holy shit, the goddamn nerve—" John snapped, wide-eyed. "Dutch got Bronte to 'summon' you to one'a his parties. Just you."
"Yes, thank you John, I'd already figured that," Arthur sighed, "but I still ain't goin', so it don't much matter."
"But why would he ... you told him not a week ago—you said right to his face you were done—"
Arthur chuckled at that, without real humor, "—and Dutch don't see that as a problem. Dutch," Arthur's tone went lilting, ironic, "can talk me into or outta anything."
That had never been completely true—Arthur had always had his limits, but it had definitely once been more true than it was now. "He really think that little of you?" John asked, because that's what it was, wasn't it? Dutch thinking, still, that he knew Arthur's mind better than Arthur did. What had he said before he rode off? Something about someone who tells you the truth, even when it hurts, and John had thought it was just another of Dutch's transparent manipulations, but maybe he meant it. Maybe he really had swallowed so much of his own shit over the years that he truly believed he had Arthur's best interests at heart.
"I'm sure he would tell you he thinks that much of me," Arthur shrugged, "or why else would he try so hard?"
Dutch did seem to have a weird fixation on Arthur, it was true. All those folk in his camp worshiping at his feet, but he just had to have Arthur there, too. Maybe it was as simple as Arthur being the one who got away, the one who had seen all Dutch's pomp and glory up close and still chosen something else.
"Don't worry about it," Arthur dismissed with a wave of his hand. "You got a new horse now—reckon we can avoid this whole mess by just getting' outta town. I'm sick'a Lemoyne anyway—goddamn swamps."
John dropped the invitation back on top of the fancy suit, face-down. "Don't gotta ask me twice."
*
They rode out that same evening, Arthur's left arm bound tight against his side despite his protests that he was fine and John was a goddamn mother hen. He hadn't seen it when it was at its worst, and John wasn't taking any chances. It was probably just as well that he had, because John'd had to call for a break after only a few hours, sweat beading on Arthur's face despite the cool evening.
"I ain't that goddamn precious, John, I can ride," Arthur had protested, but he'd taken the whiskey John offered him with little more than an annoyed look.
They'd finished half the bottle between them, and John was considering just suggesting they set up camp, when they both saw the smoke.
"… s' probably nothing," John said, unconvincingly, because really, when had their luck been that good?
"Sure," Arthur agreed, even as he was pulling his shotgun off his saddle, "because plenty of normal, honest folk camp in the middle of an alligator-infested swamp."
"We've camped out here," John pointed out.
Arthur smiled back at him, teeth glinting like a knife-blade in the dark. "Well, we may be honest, John," he drawled, snapping a fresh magazine into his pump-action, "but we ain't exactly normal."
Arthur had been laid up for weeks now. John supposed it was no wonder that he was excited at the opportunity to get to work. Arthur, after all, was a simple man. He definitely preferred problems that you could tie up or shoot in the face.
"If you reopen your shoulder firing that," John told him gravely, retrieving his repeater from his brand-new saddle, "you and I are gonna have words."
Arthur was still grinning. "You know I brace with my right."
The night was dark enough that they were able to get decently close to the camp without risk of being seen—close enough to see the green bandanas even without binoculars. "Recognize any of 'em?" Arthur whispered, passing John the binoculars with a scowl. As nice as it would be to rush the camp based on the colors alone, wearing a green bandana was not yet illegal in the state of Lemoyne. Lest these folks were wanted specifically, it's be easier leave 'em be.
"No but—they got someone tied to a tree."
"One'a their own?"
"Can't tell. He's—" One of the O'Driscolls knocked the captive's head to the side with a punch, giving John a better view of his face for a moment, and something clicked. "Oh, hell. Arthur … I think I recognize 'im."
"We know 'im?"
John lowered the binoculars, eyes wide. "He's from Dutch's camp."
Arthur grimaced, pressing a fist to his forehead. "Ah, shit."
John was near sure of it—the boy tied to the tree, blood dripping down his face and chin in alarming amounts, was that same eighteen or nineteen year old ain't-an-O'Driscoll, Kevin or something—
"Kieran. He introduced himself to me. Barely looked old enough to shave, acted like he'd never held a pistol before. Used two hands."
"Shit," Arthur repeated. He took the binoculars from John and watched the camp for a long minute, scowling, rubbing at his shoulder with his right hand. Yeah, Arthur knew better than most the kind of things O'Driscolls were capable of. "Nothin' for it, then. We can't just leave 'im."
"When we die," John grumbled under his breath, "they are gonna write a goddamn book about our life, and no one will believe it."
"I'm living it and I don't believe it," Arthur muttered back. "I count four. Probably a lookout in the trees."
"We go in guns blazing they might just shoot 'im," John pointed out.
"They might just do that either way," Arthur replied. "We need to draw a few of 'em off. Get the lookout first, quiet-like, then get 'em to split up."
"We're gonna have to shoot some of 'em, no way to avoid it," John pointed out.
"I know Chief Lambert, and he ain't gonna hassle us for a couple dead O'Driscolls, not if we had cause. That said …" he glanced over at John, eyes glittering, "let's try to take a couple. Saint Denis loves a hangin', after all."
It went almost perfectly. John took the lookout with no trouble, a swift blow to the back of the head taking him down without a sound, and he at least managed to notice the alligator before it took a chunk of him. It worked out well enough—the O'Driscolls obviously assumed the shots were from their own lookout finding a 'gator, two of them sauntering over without any real concern, calling out casual jeers that made them easy to find. John waited long enough for them to suddenly have their attention diverted by the sound of Arthur's shotgun, then shot both men cleanly in the head.
There was one dead O'Driscoll and one live one by the campfire when John drug his one live quarry over, hands bound, starting to stir weakly. Arthur looking completely casual standing over his survivor, shotgun tucked up against his good shoulder. Kieran was curled up on the ground, Arthur's sheepskin jacket laid over him.
"You got any more rope on ya, John?" Arthur called out, when John got into the light of the fire.
"Gee," John replied, patting obnoxiously at his pockets with the hand that wasn't wrapped in the O'Driscoll's collar, "seems I'm plum out."
"Oh well, guess we'll have to shoot this one, too," Arthur shrugged, working the pump on his shotgun. Truthfully, this was probably the reason for what reputation they had—Arthur was a queer sort when he was working, fully aware of how intimidating he was, unphased by danger and violence, and if he said in that utterly bored voice he was gonna shoot you, you damn well believed him.
"You can shoot me, but Colm won't let this go," the feller under Arthur warned. "He wants that boy's head."
"What Colm O'Driscoll wants means less than nothing to me," Arthur replied, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, "but maybe if you tell me where he's holin' up these days I'll truss you up real pretty for the Saint Denis law instead'a feeding you to the 'gators."
"Oh ho, Arthur Morgan," John's catch grunted weakly, in a voice that seemed oddly familiar, "you know what Colm does to folk who piss him off."
Arthur glanced up, expression flat, but only for a moment. Then something flashed on his face, something so dangerous that John himself took a step back when Arthur kicked the man on the ground in the head and strode over to grasp the lookout by the throat. "Well, well," he drawled, voice black as smoke, "fancy meeting you here."
"… we know this feller, Arthur?" John asked, feeling caught off guard.
"I guess you might not recognize 'im," Arthur growled, "since when we met him he had your face in the dirt with a gun to the back of your head."
The voice clicked. This was the spokesman with the Irish lilt, the man who did all the talking when Colm's men had come for Arthur. John had never seen his face.
"I oughta gut you like a fuckin' pig," Arthur growled.
"Sure," the man said, woozily, head lolling against the grip Arthur had on his throat. "We're dead anyway. Rather be shot by you than flayed by Colm."
Behind them, Kieran made a weak, wounded noise, and Arthur's face wrestled with indecision for a moment, twisting, before he let go, the spokesman immediately dropping to the dirt. "Gag that son of a bitch," he told John shortly, as he grabbed some rope from the O'Driscoll's own tents and used it to tie up their other catch. "Tie his legs, too. Buddy, I am gonna enjoy watching you swing."
*
Kieran was … well, he was alive.
They'd gouged out one of his eyes, yellow fluid crusted around the socket. John had thought at first they'd cut out his tongue, as well, because of all the blood, but no—they'd forked it, sawing it in half as far back as a knife could reach. O'Driscolls liked their symbolism, it seemed. They'd beaten him, too, obviously, broken a couple of his fingers, some ribs, but the disfigurement—it was so much worse then mere violence, so much more hateful, it turned his stomach.
Whoever'd had Arthur hadn't touched his face except to beat it in. Like they respected him more.
Or maybe Colm just wanted to make sure Arthur was still able to talk.
Kieran couldn't talk, but he'd been aware, sitting up in the saddle behind John on their slow ride back to Saint Denis, face covered in nearly all the bandages Arthur had in his kit, one remaining eye peering out, bloodshot. He'd wept when he finally recognized them, moaning unintelligibly, old and new blood streaked across his mouth and chin. He shook the whole ride, fingers trembling even where the were clenched into a fist in John's shirt. He groaned occasionally, tried to speak with his mutilated tongue, and Arthur spent the whole ride with his knuckles bone-white from how hard he was gripping the reins, teeth clenched. John was hardly any better, feeling as shaky as Kieran, like there was ice down his spine.
"Oh, he'll live," the Doctor said, his tone odd, almost rueful, once he had Kieran in his chair. "If you want the truth—whoever did this wasn't trying to kill him. They wanted him alive for it," and John kinda wanted to be sick. "We'll sedate him and take out the rest of the eye—it'll fester otherwise. Tongue's already starting to scab over, but I may still be able to stitch it back. Set the fingers—the rest of it will just be time. Excuse me, I need to get my kit."
He left the both of them standing over the bloody, bleeding boy, Kieran's head lolling back against the chair, tears still dripping from his eye.
"Kid," Arthur said after a long moment, his voice as tight as John had heard it, "you need to get outta here and go East. Get on a train and don't get off 'til you're somewhere you never heard of. You hear me?" Kieran blinked up at him, eye cloudy, but he reached out, grasped weakly at the loose fabric of Arthur's trousers. Arthur reached into his satchel, and John was somehow not at all surprised when he pulled out the fat stack of bills that Hosea had given him. "You take this, and you go. And kid?" He put a hand on Kieran's shoulder, pushing him back against the chair, leaning down to meet his eyes, "Do not go back to Dutch. I don't care how safe he said he'd keep you. You know now he lied."
It weren't Dutch that did this, John didn't say. He and Arthur both knew what old bruises looked like. Kieran's oldest were at least a week. While Dutch had been playing games and finagling them invitations to fancy parties, one'a his supposed own had been being mutilated. Either he hadn't known or he hadn't cared, and frankly, either was too much to think about.
"They're all going to die," Arthur said bleakly, looking haunted, when they were finally out on the street. "Every single goddamn person at that camp is gonna die. You think Sean MacGuire was the first? Dutch lost two people up in the Grizzles, folk I never even met. Another'a his died in custody. They're all gonna fucking die."
John didn't say anything to that, because, honestly, he didn't even think Arthur was wrong. He just didn't know what the two of them could possibly do about it, or if it was even worth the risks to try.
Arthur sighed after a long moment, swiping a still-bloody hand over his face. "We— I need to write a letter."
John blinked. "Who the hell you need to be writing a letter to right now?"
"Hosea," Arthur said sharply. "To tell 'im we found Kieran dead in the Bayou and gave him a proper burial. To make sure they don't look for him." Arthur sighed again, "And then Dutch'll probably try an' write back, but who cares. He obviously knows where we are."
"What we need is Colm O'Driscoll," John pressed. "It's gonna get back to his ears that you're back. We might as well just go for him first—and we got two real, live O'Driscolls right now in the city jail. One of 'em apparently high up enough to do a lot of Colm's dirty work."
"I ain't afraid of Colm," Arthur muttered. "I just—don't want to deal with any of this!" He finally exploded. "What the hell has happened to our lives, John?"
"Dutch happened!" John exploded back, overly loud in the empty nighttime streets. "He happened to the whole goddamn state! You want this over? You want his camp not to die? Then he needs to be on a gallows and you know it."
"You went to him for help—"
"And I'd do it again, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong now."
Arthur breathed heavily for a long moment, fists clenched. "You ever been on a gallows, John?" He asked, lowly. "You ever had someone cinch a rope around your neck fixin' to punish you for your sins? Because if you tell me Dutch deserves that, why don't I? Ain't I been helping him this whole time?"
"Shut up," John snapped, instantly. "Just—stop. How would Eliza answer that question, huh? How would Isaac? How would Mary, for God's sake? Maybe there is no good and evil and we're all damned, but I'm not going to stand here and listen to you pretend you're the same as Dutch Van der Linde. You— you don't want him to hang. That's— it ain't fine, but I get it. But I don't see this endin' any other way, and you tryin' to climb up beside him ain't gonna stop it."
*
John had been on a gallows, once.
Not a proper one, not sent from a jail, because even the harshest jail around would probably have hesitated to hang a twelve-year-old. But the homestead had a tiny little construction, like a stage, under their tallest oak, and the three men (boys, really, one of them maybe one three years older than John himself) that tossed the rope over the branch, that held him still for the loop around his neck, hadn't much cared about his age. They'd only cared about the watch and pearl necklace they'd found in his pockets. Never mind he was filthy and clearly starving child. He was a thief, and thieves got hung.
It had been a preacher that stopped them, just as they were about to shove him off. John had never been one for religion, but he would say that it had done that much for him. He'd run them off with a bible, yelling about sin and stones, and lifted the noose from John's neck with bloodless hands.
Then he'd put a gun in John's hand and told him to be more careful the next time. Come to think of it, he might not have really been a preacher at all.
John had kept that gun for years, had used that gun to kill the man that got him his bounty, a back-alley drunk who wanted things not for sale. He'd dropped it, after, sick, and never found it—he was unarmed when Arthur found him, weeks later, cowering in the woods.
The next time he held a gun it would be one of Arthur's.
Chapter 13: Chapter Four, Part Five
Notes:
This is a lot of character and set-up and not a lot of action, I'm sorry, but then again--that's kind of how I am in this fic in general, and I hope to make up for it some when I get to some of the more exciting story missions in this chapter of the game (and I think you all know which ones I mean).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dear Hosea,
I write to inform you of the fate of a member of your camp. John tells me the boy's name was Kieran, though he did not know a family name. We found his body in an O'Driscoll camp in the Lemoyne swamps. I am informed that he was once associated with them, but I will tell you that it was clear from his condition that he had not been a welcome guest. I hope it gives you some comfort to hear that we provided him with as proper a burial as we could.
I will no longer be corresponding with Dutch, so perhaps you might impress upon him that a hole in the ground and a wood cross will likely be the future of the rest of the camp as well, if he does not change course.
You told me not to look back. I'm telling you to think about the goddamn future. For the rest, if not for yourself.
-A
*
"We don't actually have to deal with any of this, you know," John said, aiming for a light tone, after Arthur had left the letter at the post office. They were smoking by the pier, perched on a crate with their knees knocking together, looking out over the water. It was deceptively peaceful, a cool breeze over the harbor and the gentle susurration of the waves as the sun came up.
Arthur gave John a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. "How do you mean?"
"We could go back to West Elizabeth. Hell, we could go back to New Austin. Ain't none of this gonna follow us that far."
"Leave 'em to their fate, like," Arthur said pointedly, and John grimaced.
"I said this to you before, Arthur, but it ain't really our job or even our place to try'n save all those folk. If they even wanted saving, which I reckon they don't."
"This ain't about what our job is, John, Jesus Christ," Arthur said, annoyed.
"What is it about, then?" John asked, genuinely curious. "I'm serious, Arthur. There are poor unfortunates all over this city. You really feel you gotta play good Samaritan, there's plenty'a folk more deserving than a gang fulla outlaws. So let's go save those folk—"
"You know full well what this is about, even if I ain't good at sayin' it," Arthur cut him off. "Those folk in that camp, that's me. That's me if Dutch hadn't let me go, or if Eliza wouldn't'a had me. Maybe you, too, if someone like Dutch had picked you up instead'a someone like me." Arthur hurled his cigarette into the water with an unnecessary amount of force, scowling. "So, right, maybe I ain't good, if only wantin' to help those what deserve it what makes ya good. I ain't never deserved nothin' neither, but here I am."
"So what I'm hearing," John shot back, not angry but frustrated, "is that you want to save all these folk from Dutch, which they don't even want, and you want to do without Dutch getting killed or sent to the law. That about right?"
Arthur gritted his teeth, fisted his hands on top of his thighs. "I don't—when you put it that way. Makes me sound like some kinda idiot."
"Well maybe that's because you—"
"Mister Morgan," a voice interrupted from behind them, "I had thought that was you."
"Oh for—" Arthur snapped, shoving to his feet and turning on his heel. "The hell you want, Milton?"
Agents Milton and Ross stood behind them on the sidewalk, Milton raising his hands, palm-out, in a placating gesture. "Now now, Mister Morgan—on this occasion our meeting is a pure coincidence. We had business in town, and when I recognized you, I thought I might inquire after your health."
"My health?" Arthur repeated, incredulous. John took to his feet as well, settling a step behind Arthur's shoulder, expression wary.
"Well, the last time I encountered your friend," Milton tipped his head to John, "he seemed to believe you were in dire straits. Something about Colm O'Driscoll and a kidnapping." Milton looked Arthur up and down pointedly—there was nothing now that would tell someone at a glance that he had been injured at all. "You don't seem to have suffered too badly from his hospitality."
"Yeah, we had a grand old time," Arthur snapped. "You didn't stop to exchange pleasantries with me, Milton, so spit it out or move along."
Milton and Ross exchanged a brief glance. "Well, it may be the case that Dutch Van der Linde has been seen in town. Seems he might be planning something big."
"Dutch is always planning something big," Arthur replied shortly, dismissive. "From what I been reading in the papers, doesn't seem to have been working out so well for 'im. Anyway, it's nothing to do with John 'n me."
"And yet we constantly seem to find you right around where Dutch is working his latest angle. Why is that, Mister Morgan?"
"Golly gee, you're right!" Arthur exclaimed. "Why on earth would bounty hunters be where there's a buncha expensive criminals? Don't make a lick of sense, does it, John?"
"It's almost like we want to earn a living, or something," John agreed, right on cue.
"Hmm," Milton hummed, expression unimpressed. "That argument would be more persuasive if you'd ever brought in a member of the Van der Linde gang for their bounty. You haven't—I've looked. It's almost as if you're avoiding them, and again, I have to wonder—why is that, Mister Morgan?"
"All right," Arthur grunted, "I just ain't in the mood for this right now, so if you got somethin' on me, Agent Milton, arrest me." Arthur held his hands out to his sides. "Am I under arrest?"
"Mister Morgan, you misunderstand me," Milton replied, affecting surprise. "You and I are both on the side of law and order, are we not? I'm simply trying to utilize a resource. You rode with Dutch, after all. Surely you must have some insight into the man's mind."
Arthur gave Milton a long, narrow look. "What the hell," he said flatly, "makes you think I have insight into Dutch, a man I ain't run with since I was a kid? Hell of a lot changes in fifteen years, Agent Milton. The man I ran with ain't the man you're looking to catch."
"You really expect us to believe that you haven't spoken to Dutch in fifteen years?" Milton said, almost laughing. He glanced over to Ross with a raised eyebrow, and then nodded to where John and Arthur's horses were tied. "Your horse is a beautiful animal. I saw one just like it the other week at a camp at Clemens Point, outside of Rhodes."
John felt his blood run cold. Arthur went very still in front of him.
"That so?" Arthur said carefully.
"Oh yes," Milton said mildly, cocking his head. "The plaits in her mane are quite distinctive."
"If you got somethin' on me, Agent Milton," Arthur repeated slowly, voice cold, "arrest me," and for a second John worried that Milton actually might. Ross was fingering his pistol, looking bored, but Milton's expression was flat and calculating. He wanted something out of Arthur just as bad as Dutch did, both of the men somehow convinced that Arthur was the key or the weak link or something. It was exhausting, and John really wished Arthur would just follow his advice and leave, because otherwise they were going to just keep winding up in even deeper shit.
Maybe it was selfish, but John didn't have Arthur's connection to Dutch, and he didn't identify with Dutch's followers in the way Arthur did. He cared about them only to the extent that he knew that Arthur did, and frankly, he kind of wished he'd stop.
Except that was kind of like wishing Arthur would stop being Arthur.
"I could," Milton said finally, tone cool. "The US government has given our agency extensive police powers. I could have you in front of a judge in less than an hour. They'd be very interested in some of the evidence I have accumulated. On the other hand, I'm thoroughly convinced that throwing you in jail will not in fact encourage you to be any more forthcoming. You simply aren't the type. Perhaps we should aim our efforts at someone more reasonable."
Milton arched an eyebrow at John, and John bristled in response, baring his teeth in something more like a snarl than a smile. "Kiss my ass," he said, brightly.
"Charming," Milton drawled. "Dutch Van der Linde is going to hang, if he lives long enough to go to trial. That's inevitable now. Who goes with him remains to be seen. Think on that, gentlemen," Milton advised, tipping his hat cordially, and he and Ross turned their backs to them, heading back to the streetcar.
"I mean," John said, under his breath, once they were out of earshot, "I don't know that he's wrong on that, Arthur."
"Don't— I don't want to start this conversation back up again, alright?" Arthur ground out, shaking out a new cigarette almost violently. "I know what you think about it. You ain't exactly been subtle. Just—fucking follow him, then. Give Dutch up, Christ, give me up, just—put me outta my goddamn misery. Fuck."
John blinked, taken aback. "I didn't— I wasn't trying to—"
"I can't bring death on folk who saved my life," Arthur hissed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, "I just can't, don't matter how long it's been. What kinda gratitude is that, huh? Life for a life?"
"Arthur," John wheedled, and he really hated to trade on affection like this—it felt manipulative, like something Dutch would do, but it was also something John knew might actually hit Arthur, "what about my life? I was right there with you at Dutch's camp. You ready for me to be up on that gallows with you?"
"Jesus," Arthur cursed, face down-turned. "John, that— I would never let that happen."
"I don't know where you got this idea that you could stop it, that you can stop any of this shit," John pointed out.
"John," Arthur said, tone grave, "if it ever comes to that you better goddamn sell me out."
"I can't bring death on someone who saved my life," John repeated Arthur's words, crossing his arms. "What kinda gratitude is that?"
"Okay," Arthur breathed after a long moment, looking away. "Okay. Point taken."
*
John and Arthur rarely talked about Eliza. They never talked about Isaac.
Isaac was … Isaac had been a child. Children were very far outside of John's realm of experience, even when he'd been one himself. The first few nights he'd spent with Eliza he'd been terrified of little Isaac, like he might break him without even trying, until Eliza had picked the boy up and shoved him into John's arms one evening, telling him 'the boy won't break', even though John still wasn't quite sure that was true.
"Why's your hair like that?" Isaac asked after a long moment, frowning. John hadn't cut his hair since he was twelve, it was below his shoulders then. Something in him took offense, despite the fact that Isaac was literally four years old, and he scowled.
"Why's your face like that?" He replied.
Isaac slapped one of his chubby little hands against his cheek, expression grave, as if he were seriously considering the question. "Mama says I look like my Pa," he told John seriously. "She says he's got a sour face."
John thought back to the expression Arthur had worn when he'd rode them back to Eliza's house, and had to admit that was the case.
In all honesty, John had probably spent more time with Isaac in the years before he— before, than Arthur had. Arthur was on the trail at least five days out of ten, but when he was home—
When he was home, he was he center of attention for every single person in that house.
Eliza would fuss over him, demanding to see any injuries he'd sustained and to re-treat them, because apparently trail medicine was not sufficient for her. John would always want stories, like he was a child himself—he wanted to hear Arthur's exploits, about the gunfights he'd had and the folk he'd captured. John suspected that Arthur embellished things for his benefit, but that was fine.
Isaac—all Isaac ever seemed to want was affection. For all Arthur was a stoic, untouchable man, Isaac would crawl into his lap the moment he returned and Arthur would let him—carried the boy around on his hip nearly everywhere until he got too big for it. Brought him gifts every time he came home, whittled toys or books or something, because it seemed he could never come home empty-handed.
One time Arthur had forgotten his hat when he left on a trip. Isaac, all of six years old, had refused to take it off except to sleep. There was something about Arthur, some charm or charisma, that they all felt. He was a dour, serious man, but none of them, not John, not Eliza, and certainly not Isaac, ever doubted that he cared. He just had a very particular way about showing it.
Arthur had given up his entire old life to have them. John hadn't understood that back then but he thought Eliza might've—she'd always told Isaac how much his father loved him during Arthur's long absences.
John wasn't Arthur's son, and Eliza wasn't his mother, but after a few years she'd started including him in the reassurances, "Your Pa goes out because he needs to makes sure you and John have what you need. Everything he does, he does for you."
She never included herself in the list of people Arthur was looking out for. Eliza was— Arthur had loved her. John had loved her. But he sort of thought that she had never really loved herself.
Maybe that was why she and Arthur had worked—they were both so the same in some ways.
"If we didn't need as much," Isaac had replied to her, earnest in the way only a child could be, "would Pa be here more often?"
"That's not—Isaac. Baby. You love your father as much as you can when he's here, and you love him in your heart when he's not, all right? Don't he always come back to us? That's enough."
Eliza Morgan was a practical woman. She took what she was offered and didn't ask for more.
Isaac had sniffled at Eliza's reply, fighting back tears in a way that made John feel oddly panicky. "Can I go with him, when I'm older?"
"… of course you can, baby," Eliza said tightly, looking on the verge of tears herself at the thought. "I'll— I'll be here. I'll always be waiting for you. Ain't that what mothers are for?"
John had never had a mother. He'd never had someone who wouldn't want him to go.
"We just need to teach you to shoot," John said from where he was sat by the fire, "and you can come, too. The Morgan family bounty hunters."
"So you're a Morgan now, are you?" Eliza said after a pause, tone carefully even, though her eyes still looked wet. "You know, I had to get married to be a Morgan, and here you just stumbled into it."
"I was kidnapped into this family, madam," John shot back, only because he thought it would make her smile, and it did, Eliza rolling her eyes and turning back to the kitchen sink.
"Would you, though, Ma?" Isaac pressed, as though it had been a serious discussion. "Would you come with us? Then we could all be together all the time."
"Oh, you'd get sick of me soon enough—always telling you to comb your hair and wash your clothes. No," she shook her head slightly, dunking her hands into the wash-water, "you'll find yourself a wife someday, and you'll have her with you all the time—lest you're a wanderer like your father—and that's as it should be. I—" she shook her head again, and murmured, almost too low to hear, "mothers are made to have broken hearts."
"If my boy rides out with you and Arthur," Eliza had said to John that same evening, "and he dies out there, you best never show your face here again, or I will goddamn kill you, I swear to God. And I'd tell Arthur the same."
The irony, the tragedy, was that Eliza was wrong, and Isaac would never break her heart that way. Isaac would never ride with Arthur, or find a wife, or leave her. He wouldn't get the chance. And Arthur—John had no doubt in his mind that Arthur would have died to protect Isaac, but he'd never gotten that chance, either.
*
"Milton, he— if he wanted me, he would'a taken me," Arthur told John, as they walked their horses back to the saloon. "I ain't gonna worry 'bout him. I'm … look, John, this bullshit party of Bronte's … I think I'm going to go."
"What? Why?" John demanded. "To see Dutch one more goddamn time? You know that's what he will think."
"Yeah, well—I can't be worryin' about what Dutch will think, can I?" Arthur shot back, pointedly. "Look, we need information—"
"No we don't!" John argued back instantly. "What we need is to not get sucked back into Dutch's shit, and that's exactly what will happen if you show up where he is! Use your goddamn head Arthur!"
"I am," Arthur said firmly, not even angry. "I am not trying to get back in good with Dutch, that is not what I'm saying. But I'm not ready to write off all those other people. All those womenfolk, and dumb boys like that Kieran or the colored boy, they ain't real outlaws. And Jack Roberts, he ain't had no choice in bein' there. They could have a chance. And there ain't anyone else out there that gonna try to give it to them if I don't."
John gritted his teeth. Sometimes he really wished that Arthur was actually as mean as he sometimes acted. It had always been caring too much that got the man in trouble. "And what if I said that I was leaving with or without you?"
Arthur looked lost for a moment, conflicted, eyes searching John's face in silence as if trying to gauge if he meant it. "… are you saying that?"
John jerked his gaze away from Arthur's, mouth twisting in a grimace, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I … damn it, Arthur, we got Colm hanging over our heads, Milton breathing down our necks, who knows what Bronte could be up to, and Dutch ain't exactly a friend to us anymore, not that he ever was to me. The only thing that makes sense is to leave. Ain't you just told Kieran exactly that?"
"I know," Arthur said quietly, sounding almost guilty, "I know, all right, but I am who I am, I can't just turn my back on this and pretend its got nothing to do with me."
John huffed out an annoyed breath, hands clenching into fists on his sleeves. "I— goddamn it, you know I ain't gonna go without you, you asshole. But look, if you, if we're really gonna do this, if we're gonna at least try to give some'a these folks a way out, we need to be really goddamn careful. And that means we're going to make an actual plan and you are gonna fucking follow it." John scowled back at Arthur's bright, stunned expression, unclenching his fists to punch Arthur in the shoulder, hard. "I mean it, Arthur. We can't stumble our way through this, we'll end up shot or hung for sure."
"No! I mean, I know, you're right." Arthur replied quickly. John had followed Arthur's lead pretty much his whole life, but Arthur wasn't a planner, and … well, John wasn't really either, but at least he was a little more objective about Dutch and Dutch's shit.
"… so when am I gonna hear about this plan?" Arthur said after a pause, and John huffed, glowering.
"When I think it up, all right? Jesus," he muttered. "Though it'd help if we even knew where they were camped now."
"Shady Belle, its near Bolger Glade," Arthur replied easily, giving John an odd look when he appeared surprised. "John. Did you really think Dutch didn't tell me where they were going? You know how he is."
All right," John said, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose. "All right. So we know where they're camped, and we know where Dutch is going to be tomorrow night. Probably bring at least a couple'a his fellers with him too, right? I mean, man loves an audience. So we—while they're at the party, we go to the camp. We see how they're set up, and if we can, if it ain't likely to get us shot, we talk to one'a the women … Abigail, maybe, or that Adler woman. Neither of them seemed to keen on Dutch. We see if—if they even want our help, and if they don't they don't, all right?"
Arthur was nodding along until that last part, his lips suddenly turning up in distaste. "And if they don't we just move on, like? Leave that tiny little kid who already done been kidnapped once before—"
"Arthur," John said firmly, because he damn well knew why it kept coming back to the kid, "Jack ain't Isaac."
Arthur went very still. "Don't," he said lowly, but John ignored it.
"He ain't, Arthur. You ain't his father."
"He ain't got no father, that's what Abigail said, weren't it?" Arthur snapped. "Nevermind that a blind fool could tell that the boy's the spitting image of Dutch."
"He's got a mother, and if she wants our help we'll help 'er, and if she don't—then maybe she just don't trust us, and telling her what to do with her own kid don't seem likely to change that."
Truthfully, John did honestly believe that Abigail would want her son out. Everything he'd seen of her said that she had one foot out of the camp already, the women ambivalent to her and the menfolk suspicious, like they knew it too. He just wasn't sure that she'd want them to be the ones to make it happen. They were still virtual strangers, after all, and they were a sort of lawmen while she was a sort of an outlaw, and anyway, who knows what Dutch had said about them to his folk, once they were gone.
"Or did you just wanna kidnap him the way Bronte did?" John pressed, when Arthur's scowl didn't fade. "Maybe you could teach him to call you Papa Arthur."
John said it piss him off, because sometimes fighting with Arthur was the only way to get through to him, but Arthur just looked away with a rueful expression. "Yeah, well, I ain't never doing that again, that's for sure," he muttered.
"Yeah," John agreed, feeling utterly wrung out, because Jesus, sometimes the weight of all Arthur's history was exhausting, "yeah, I wouldn't, neither."
Notes:
On a meta note, this is John's response to things getting more difficult than he wants to deal with--he leaves. I wanted his insistence on getting out of dodge to evoke his year long absence, the difference here being that he's unwilling to do it without Arthur, since his motivation here isn't independence, it's simplicity and safety.
Chapter 14: Chapter Four, Part Six
Notes:
Jeez, Ch. 4 is taking forever for me to get through--I guess because so much of the setup for the rest of the game happened there.
And I did warn y'all that chapters are taking me longer because of my (shitty, underpaid) new job, but I am still working on this fic and am committed to finishing it.
This chapter is a bit saccharine in places, but I really kinda like it for that reason, so I hope you do to!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
John had still been nineteen, but on the cusp of twenty, the first time he'd had any part in Arthur doing 'favors' for Dutch.
At that point, John mostly remembered time as how long since, and it had probably been five months since Eliza and Isaac. Four months after Dutch had brought Arthur their O'Driscoll assassin, dropping him at their feet for Arthur to exact justice upon, as if there were any justice in a situation like that. Perhaps that gift had been why Arthur had agreed to help, perhaps it had been a desperate need to reconnect to family. John wouldn't know, because he hadn't even known it was a favor for Dutch until after.
All he'd known was that Arthur had got a tip on a big-name bounty out in Lemoyne. It was John's first time that far east, and he'd had a strange feeling about it, even then—Arthur had a strange determination when they rode out, something very different from the wandering apathy he'd displayed the past months. They'd caught the man totally by surprise, at his own mother's funeral, for God's sake, and turned him into Sheriff Gray.
Sheriff Gray, being the sort of man he was, insisted they celebrate the capture with liquor, and lots of it. Arthur had sat nursing a single glass with the lush for hours, filling the Sheriff's glass any time it got less than half full, and the Sheriff and his deputies had been well and truly drunk when the sound of gunshots rung through the town, right after sunset.
Gray and his boys managed to stumble to their feet only quickly enough to see three riders galloping out of town, but Arthur hadn't been watching the riders.
Arthur had been looking over to where a woman was wailing inconsolably over the body of a well-dressed man sprawled out on the steps of the bank, a pool of blood spreading underneath him. They'd seen plenty of death, the both of them, and so John hadn't understood why that dead man, in particular, had made Arthur look so haunted.
Not until they rode out to Mattock Pond and found Dutch Van der Linde: standing next to the water, casual as you please, his horse's reins in his hand.
"What the hell was that?" Arthur had demanded, before he even got off his horse. "No blood, you told me— clean and clear, you told me!"
"Arthur," Dutch wheedled, his tone almost disappointed, "I regret what happened in town. I didn't plan it to."
"A man died while I played lookout for you!" Arthur snapped back, and that was when John realized it—Arthur's tip had come from Dutch, and the drinking with Gray? That had been to keep him and his men off the streets, to slow them down when Dutch went for the bank. Jesus, John had suddenly thought, this whole time they had been working for Dutch.
"The hell did you drag us into, Arthur?" John growled to him, eyes narrow.
Dutch, abruptly, looked amused, almost smug, while Arthur looked away, jaw taught. "You mean he didn't tell you?" Dutch said, feigning shock. "Arthur, really, how duplicitous of you."
John hadn't known what that word meant—he suspected that was the point—but the teasing tone was clear, mean-spirited but somehow still affectionate. Like the whole affair was one big joke that only Arthur and Dutch were party to.
"Some bullshit I said I weren't gonna do no more," Arthur answered John's question, scowling. "I only did this because you swore to me—"
"Don't pretend that you think a promise like that can really be kept, Arthur," Dutch chided. "It isn't like we never ran jobs like this before. You know full well that everything goes perfectly until it doesn't."
The worst thing was that Dutch sounded so sincere, so conciliatory and regretful, even as he argued that it was Arthur's fault for taking him at his word.
"You know me, Arthur," Dutch cajoled, taking a step closer, and he kept doing that—using Arthur's name far too much, like he was trying to use Arthur's given name to remind him of the closeness, the intimacy they had once had. "We don't kill needlessly, senselessly. We're not criminals—we're outlaws. You have to believe that if there had been any way to avoid that man's death, I would have taken it."
John didn't believe that for even a second, but a glance at Arthur's face made it clear that he did, at least a little, his expression more regretful than angry, now.
"… Don't ask me for somethin' like this again," was what Arthur finally said, his tone far more neutral now, firm but not really angry, not like he should have been. "I ain't one'a your boys anymore. I can't be runnin' cons for you, it ain't safe."
Dutch was a very canny man, really. He clearly knew when Arthur could be pushed and when he needed to be pulled. "I only asked you because I trust you, Arthur. That can be hard to come by these days."
"Yeah, well," Arthur muttered, crossing his arms, "maybe you should look at the folk around you and think about why that might be."
Dutch smiled slightly, without real humor. "Fair enough. There are very few men left in the world like you and I, Arthur. Men who have larger dreams than their own profit. Men who understand loyalty."
Jesus, John remembered thinking, surely Arthur wasn't buying this shit?
"I owe you, I know that," Arthur admitted, in a frank tone that made John grit his teeth, "and I ain't about to forget it, but we," and John startled, because honestly, the other two men had been acting like they'd forgotten he was there, "keep on the good side'a the law these days, and I can't risk that changing."
Dutch glanced at John for the first time, his expression shrewd. John had never hidden his dislike of the man, and he didn't then, either, curling his lip up in a snarl. Dutch pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked back to Arthur, taking a step closer to clap a hand on his shoulder, the gesture as fond as it was possessive.
"Well, like I said, Arthur," Dutch drawled, his undertone ironic, "you're a man who understands loyalty."
*
"If after all'a this I die drowning trying to sneak into an outlaw camp," John hissed when Arthur showed him the boat, "I am going to haunt you for the rest of your life."
"What, you don't think it's romantic?" Arthur replied as he untied the small vessel. "A starlit cruise?"
"It's only romantic if I don't have to do the paddling," John muttered back, though he couldn't stop the flush that rose to his cheeks at Arthur's teasing.
"Well, you're constantly moaning at me about my shoulder, I couldn't possibly row all that way without hurting it, could I? Meanwhile you," he gestured to John's arm, from which they had removed the splint that morning, "are all hale and hearty."
And, well, it wasn't like Arthur was wrong, although he was a little annoyed that Arthur only seemed to look out for his health when it suited his own purposes. "Just admit it, it ain't about your shoulder—you're just getting old." John sniped back.
Arthur just rolled his eyes and held out a hand to help John off of the jetty. When the boat rolled as he stepped onto it, he immediately grabbed at Arthur's upper arms in an iron grip, eyes wide, pulling closer to the other man's steady frame.
"You been in gunfights," Arthur said, amused, even as he gripped John's hips to steady him. "I once saw you thrown off a cliff, and this is what scares you?"
"My pappy used to dunk my head in a bucket when I was a kid, when I got ornery," John said with gritted teeth. He would never forget that feeling—his father's huge hands tangled up in his hair, holding his face under the water until John stopped thrashing. Hell, for all Arthur teased him about it, that was the whole reason John hated washing his hair, the feeling of dunking his head in the water making his gut clench.
Arthur went very still where John was still pressed us against him, hands steady on John's sides. "To make you wash up, like," he said, tone leading, inviting John to correct his conclusions.
"To make me shut up, like," John replied, teeth still gritted, trying not to pant because it really was kind of pathetic, getting so worked up over a boat ride. "I'll be fine, all right, just—just lemme siddown."
The boat rocked as John lowered himself onto the bench, hands still clenched in Arthur's shirt, trying to suppress the skittery panic under his skin. He knew the fear was irrational—even if he went over the side, or the boat turned over, Arthur would be there, and wouldn't let him drown—but childhood fears were always the hardest to shake.
"Maybe I should row," Arthur said, uncertain. He wasn't really all that great at being comforting, and John hated coddling anyway, but the discomfort and worry on his face were clear, and he hadn't yet taken his hands off John's ribs.
John finally let go of Arthur's shirt to punch him in his good shoulder, scowling. "I said I'll be fine. I ain't some whimpering maiden, I just … need a minute."
Arthur leaned back after a moment, taking his hands away and sitting on the other bench so that they were facing each other. Arthur rested his elbows on his knees and watched with an unreadable expression as John slowly released his white-knuckled grip on the bench to tentatively grasp the oars.
"Your father was a piece of shit," Arthur said eventually, his tone conversational, as he lit a cigarette. It was funny, because to a different person, that would have been an insult, a challenge, but for the two of them, it was more a condolence.
John laughed under his breath, taking a drag from the cigarette when Arthur offered it to him, to settle his nerves, before he started to row. "Yeah, well," he drawled, as they finally moved away from the jetty, "so was yours."
He could have meant Lyle Morgan, or he could have meant Dutch Van der Linde—both would be true.
*
Shady Belle was surrounded by a swampy marsh and a series tiny, overgrown islands lousy with snakes and alligators. They found a good spot to pull beach the boat on one of the larger islands out behind the old plantation, behind the overgrown graveyard, and set up to watch the camp's movements. Dutch and his retinue hadn't even left, yet—there was a fancy, obviously stolen, carriage pulled up out front. The boy, Lenny, was dressed as a coachman, tending to the horses hitched up to it, and the cheeky blonde woman, Karen, was leaning up against it with a cigarette in her mouth, wearing probably the fanciest dress they could find on short notice.
The rest of the camp seemed to be packing in for the night. There were a few lights flickering inside the decrepit house, and a main campfire out in front if it, and John could just barely make out what he thought was Javier Escuella sitting by it with a guitar, a girl with brown ringlet curls—Marian or something, he couldn't quite recall her name—sitting on a log across from him. He reckoned that everyone else must have been bedded down, in the house or the tents.
Williamson, Hosea and Dutch finally emerged from the house, dressed to the nines—though Dutch was the only one wearing a top-hat and white gloves, the pretentious bastard—and loaded themselves and Karen into the coach, heading up the dirt path to the gate.
"So that accounts for Williamson, Dutch, Hosea, and the kid" Arthur muttered under his breath, "and Escuella's by the fire. So where's Bell and Smith?"
John peered closer at the path leading up to the gate, and saw a flash of a white hat. "Looks like Bell is on watch out front. Smith—" he tried to look closer at the dark edges of the water, at the decrepit shacks that were behind the building, but he couldn't see anything in the dimness, "—him I don't see. Nor any of the other womenfolk, but they're probably in the house."
Arthur made a thoughtful noise. "You went hunting with Smith, you tell me—he gonna shoot us if he sees us?"
"Probably not," John admitted after a minute. "I mean, Dutch said no one was gonna shoot you, anyway, but I don't think he'd shoot me, either."
They both fell silent when there was the sudden flash of a match being lit behind one of the sheds, not fifty yards from them, and when John brought the binoculars up again he saw Missus Sadie Adler leaning against the rotting building, wide-brimmed hat hiding her eyes, lighting a cigarette, other hand tucked into her gunbelt.
"Missus Adler," John whispered to Arthur. "She's alone, looks like."
"Is she gonna shoot us?" Arthur asked, and John hedged a bit more at that, because even in the one time he'd met her, Missus Adler had struck him as a stick of dynamite just in search of a match.
"She called the gang a bunch of degenerates," John said uncertainly, "but then again, she's still with 'em."
Arthur made a thoughtful noise, then motioned for John to duck down. "Like you say, Dutch said no one was gonna shoot me. Wait here."
"Arthur—!" John hissed, but Arthur was already wading through the swamp to opposite shore, making no attempt to hide the noise.
Missus Adler looked up instantly, hand jerking to her pistol, peering out into the dark. "Who goes there?"
Arthur had taken the lantern from the boat when they beached it, hooked onto his belt—he lit it now, holding it up to illuminate his face, and Missus Adler actually relaxed when she saw him, shoulders dropping loose, cocking her head curiously.
"Mister Morgan. Fancy meeting you here."
Arthur tipped his hat to her, politely, as he walked closer. "Missus Adler."
She peered behind him briefly, gaze shrewd. "Where's that boy of yours? Don't seem like him to let you come here on you lonesome."
Arthur seemed to bristle a little at that, the idea that John had to let him do things, but Sadie had seen then together at the camp, and she was a shrewd woman. She had clearly sussed out what the balance of power was. "We weren't real sure of his welcome," Arthur said after a moment, "nor mine, truthfully."
"Pretty poor in general, I'd imagine, least with the fellas" she said, sounding disinterested, "but I ain't gonna shoot ya. You got business here?"
"Of a sort," Arthur said, gesturing for John to join them, and after a moment he did, Sadie's gaze somewhat amused when John entered the circle of lantern light.
"There now, see: I knew you wouldn't be on your own," she said, slightly smug. "So, Mister Morgan, Mister Marston—there something I can do for you? Please tell me you're here because you all got Colm O'Driscoll."
"'Fraid not," Arthur replied, "but O'Driscoll did get one'a yours, seems like. Boy named Kieran?"
Sadie's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "That boy ain't been seen 'round here since the night little Jack came back. You sayin' he ran back to the O'Driscolls?"
"What I'm saying is that we found his corpse in Bayou Nwa with his eyes gouged out, and kinda wondered what Dutch was doing about it," Arthur said, plainly, and Sadie's face went flat. She put her cigarette back to her lips, sucking aggressively.
"… dumb fucking kid," she muttered, looking away, "all he ever want to do was play around with horses, never even saw him use his gun. It was O'Driscolls? You're sure?"
"We brought two of 'em in alive," Arthur replied. "One of them was part of the same group that took me."
"Dumb fucking kid," she repeated, sadly, as she tossed her cigarette to the ground, grinding it under the toe of her boot. "That why you're here? To tell us 'bout Kieran?"
"You think you're gonna end up any different, you keep following Dutch?" Arthur challenged, abruptly, and Sadie's eyes flashed up at that, hot and dangerous, her expression hard.
"I can look after myself," she sneered.
"And Abigail? Jack? Susan and the girls? You looking after them, too, or are you really trusting Dutch to do it?" Arthur shot back, and Sadie worked her jaw, looking thunderous, looking as dangerous as any man they'd ever faced down.
"… what are you two really here for?" She asked after a long moment, as she rested her hand once again on her pistol without real intent, more a reminder that she, too, was dangerous. That they didn't scare her. "Why you asking about those folk? They ain't your concern. Your boy," she nodded at John, eyes hard, "made it pretty clear that you all wanted no part of our way of doing things."
"We don't," John put in, "when your way involves kids winding up dead in swamps, or shot in the head in Rhodes, or God knows what else! Christ, don't you get that we want to help you?"
"Help us?" Sadie spat back, incredulous. "Right, you tell me then—how you gonna help us, lawman? How are you gonna keep them safer between the two'a you that all the men we got?"
"By getting them outta this, for Christ's sake!" Arthur said, and there was something in his tone that was equally incredulous. "Dutch can't protect you, we done seen that now! Every last one'a you is gonna die while Dutch hies off after whatever big dream he's after this time!"
"Tahiti," Sadie muttered under her breath, sounding irritated. "Tell me this then, lawmen, you got—" she stopped a moment to laugh under her breath, shaking her head, perhaps realizing the irony of what she was about to say, "—you got a plan?" When Arthur hesitated, glancing over to John, she snorted. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Sadie pushed herself off the wall of the decrepit cabin, arms crossed over her chest. "You said that this ain't safe. But a whole buncha people running blind to nowhere ain't safe, either. So tell you what, boys—I'll talk to some of the women around here, and you come find me again when you got a place to go and a way to get there."
"And we find that for you," Arthur said slowly, "you and the others—you'll go?"
"I only speak for me, Mister Morgan, but—let's just say that some of us here understand the reality of this situation more than others." There was an ironic twist to her mouth, but her gaze was unwavering, and Arthur nodded.
"Then I'll trust you, Missus Adler—if you'll trust me," he said, holding out a hand.
"Trust is a hard thing to come by 'round here," Sadie said, but she clasped Arthur's hand, firm as any man, and shook it, like a promise.
*
They saw the fireworks from the boat on the trip back—brightly colored cloudbursts above the glowing lights of Saint Denis, reflecting across the still water. It was eerily beautiful, like nothing John had seen before, and he'd almost forgotten about the vastness of the water beneath them when Arthur grasped John's wrist and pulled him over to sit on the same bench as Arthur, shoulder to shoulder, to watch.
Arthur didn't take his hand off John's wrist while they sat, the boat swaying only slightly, Arthur's thumb sweeping across the inside of John's wrist almost absently. Arthur had been right, before—when he wasn't worrying about the water under them or the destination in front of them, it was kind of romantic.
"This is gonna work out," Arthur murmured after a moment, still watching the fireworks.
John, feeling weirdly sentimental, dropped his head onto Arthur's shoulder. In the middle of the Lannahechee, in the middle of the night, it wasn't like there was anyone there to see them. "How you know that, then?" John asked, mildly.
Arthur huffed out a laugh, turning so that his cheek pressed against the top of John's head. "I guess I have faith."
Notes:
A lovely reader has done an illustration of one of the scene from this chapter: you can find it here. The artist is @_KalesBug and the art is just lovely. <3
Chapter 15: Chapter Four, Part Seven
Notes:
This is what I have been building towards. I think there are one or two things towards the end of this chapter that might shock you. Please be assured that they happen for a reason. If you want to know what the reason is, I am happy to discuss in the comments. And yes, this chapter is significantly longer, because I didn't want to split it. This is what I have been waiting to get to for the past few chapters, and I hope it lives up to expectations.
Incidentally, this closes out Chapter Four storylines.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was only one real option for any of Dutch's folk they could get out, and that was to head west.
West was where the law was looking for Dutch and his boys, but they weren't looking for women and children, and Arthur and John had connections there. They knew the land and they knew the lawmen. Even with a troop of people behind them, it was likely they could avoid unfriendly attention—at least from the law—and make it back as far as New Austin, where it would be suicide for Dutch to follow.
But that wasn't a plan. Dutch's camp followers were not gunslingers, but they were thieves, whores, and undesirables. The kind of group that decent folk might want run out of town on a rail. Arthur had made a (mostly) honest life for himself, but he'd done it by marrying an honest woman and becoming part of her life. Eliza had already lived in Armadillo for years when Arthur married her, and being Eliza's husband had been enough for the town to accept him. Years later, Arthur and Eliza taking John in, calling John Arthur's brother, had been enough for the town to accept him. But what would make any town accept a motley crew of penniless, outlaw-adjacent nobodies?
"Right now, everyone at the camp at least has an idea who's gonna protect 'em, and where their next meal is comin' from," John pointed out to Arthur, as they rode slowly back into town. "I mean, that's what Missus Adler was getting at, I reckon. Stayin' is better than beggin' in the streets, or whorin', or thievin', or whatever they were doing before. I mean, that's why they ended up with Dutch to start with, right?"
"I— maybe," Arthur said, but his tone was slightly dubious. "I mean … that ain't how it was for me. I weren't really looking for someone to feed me or protect me or any'a that."
John thought back about Arthur's story of how he had met Dutch, a charismatic man in the jail cell across from him, and asked, "What was it then? For you?"
Arthur sighed. "Hell, I don't know, John. I was young. Maybe I just liked that idea that someone in the world might actually care if I lived or died."
John's gut clenched, because Jesus, did he know what that was like. "You think that's it, really? You think those folk believe Dutch cares about them?"
"They'd be fools if they did," Arthur replied, without hesitation, and John actually startled at the fervor in his voice. Arthur must have surprised himself, too, because he immediately winced, as if struck by his own words. "No, that's not what I— of course Dutch cared about them. He used to care about a lot of things. Now it's just … I don't know. Money. Ownership."
Himself, John thought, though he didn't say it. It was clear that Arthur already knew, even if he wouldn't say it. What Dutch cared about now was himself.
"Never mind, it don't matter," Arthur said eventually. "In the mornin' I'll send a wire to a few people I knew back in Armadillo. Herbert Moon might still be there, and Drew MacFarlane had that big ol' ranch, maybe he'd have some work for some folk down on their luck."
It was the first time in a long time that John had heard Arthur talk about their life in Armadillo, the first time in a long time he'd even acknowledged they'd had one.
John had only met Drew MacFarlane once, though he knew Eliza had nannied for some of his younger children before she married Arthur. He'd seemed to like Eliza well enough, but what he had thought of Arthur, John couldn't say. "We that's something, at least," John replied, trying to sound encouraging.
"Yeah," Arthur agreed, sounding much more certain than John, "we'll find something."
*
Three days later there was a telegram waiting for them at the saloon bar, the smeared handwriting of the telegraph operator predictably terrible.
Mister Morgan,
Know of man looking for literate nanny.
Will find places for others willing to work.
Do not bring trouble to my family.
Drew MacFarlane
"Do not bring trouble to my family," John repeated, as he read over Arthur's shoulder, feeling a guilty little twist in his stomach. "I mean, that's kind of exactly what we'd be doing."
"No, we wouldn't," Arthur immediately insisted, "because there's no way that Dutch could follow us into New Austin, and I doubt the law is looking too hard for some thieves and whores that may have run with him."
John thought back to the first time he had met Dutch, and something he'd said to Arthur—I always keep eyes on my family. Dutch not being able to follow them right away … that didn't necessarily mean that he couldn't find out where they were through other means. John didn't really owe anything to Drew MacFarlane himself, but he knew that the man had a whole passel of children, and surely they should worry about their safety as much as that of the gang?
"You said it yourself, it's about ownership now, right?" John said finally. "I'm only worried Dutch'll do something mad to get his property back."
Arthur gave him a dark look from under the brim of his hat. "You said you'd help with this, John. Hell, you said you'd make a plan and I'd follow it, and I agreed. But it's sounding like your plan is to keep tryin' to tell me why we can't until I give it up."
John scowled back, stung. "That ain't fair. I'm trying to be realistic."
"No, you're tryin' to be fatalistic!" Arthur shot back. "Why can't you just have a little bit of fuckin' faith?"
That was the second time Arthur had used that word in John's recent memory. The two of them, they weren't much for God or church, though Eliza had been, a bit. Faith to John had always meant trying to believe in what you knew weren't so, and he couldn't help but feel that was what Arthur was trying to ask of him.
"I ain't risking your life, or mine, or any of those folks', on faith." John said, quietly, firmly. "You can have all the faith you want, Arthur, and I hope it does you good, but that ain't enough for me. I'm not saying give up," he added quickly, at Arthur's dark look, "I'm saying be sure."
Arthur seemed to mull that over, working his jaw, for a long moment. "I ain't trying to run off half-cocked or nothing, John," he said finally, "but the longer we wait the more difficult things are going to be. Who knows what Dutch is planning to pull next."
"Then give it another week," John pressed. "Let's get some money together, at least, keep our heads down for a minute. Any luck, Dutch will get so caught up in whatever he's cooking up with Bronte, we can slip out on the quiet."
That turned out to be a very bad call.
*
There were two armed police guards outside of Angelo Bronte's manor when they rode past there. They hadn't even been gone ten days, on a few jobs for Chief Lambert, but apparently that was long enough for Dutch to put the entire city of Saint Denis on edge.
There were armed police at every intersection as they rode back towards the police station, no streetcars in the road, and a conspicuous lack of foot traffic on the usually crowded Saint Denis streets. It reminded John eerily of Blackwater, right after Dutch had hit there. Neither of them said it aloud, but John was certain they were both thinking the same thing: that Dutch had been busy.
Not that that they knew it was Dutch, but … well, they knew it was Dutch.
Lambert jumped to his feet when they walked through the door, Lindsey Wofford squirming over Arthur's shoulder, and his expression was strangely … apologetic. "Morgan, I want you to know this is out of my hands," he said, before they had even said a word.
John and Arthur exchanged a wary glance, as Arthur sat Wofford, struggling, on one of the benches. "You're making me nervous, Chief," Arthur said mildly.
"These are federal men," Lambert stated, enigmatically, but he'd said enough that John knew what to expect when the door creaked open behind them. Andrew Milton and Edgar Ross, spiffed and starched in their pretentious uniforms, blocking the doorway.
"Hello, gentlemen," Milton said, his tone brittle, doffing his hat.
Arthur gritted his teeth, glaring, and took half a step in front of John, his stance aggressive. "I thought we'd said just about all was had to say to each other, Agents," he growled.
"You and I have," Milton replied shortly, "which is why we're here to speak to your 'brother'."
They separated him and Arthur immediately. John could hear Arthur's raised voice when Ross took him back, but Arthur didn't follow. Ross dragged him to a dim, brick-walled room with a hand clenched around his upper arm. John couldn't recall having ever, during their brief acquaintance, seen Ross do much more than loom behind Milton, and a small part of him was actually kind of curious what sort of man Milton's dogsbody actually was.
The answer was: not that different from Milton himself.
"I'm going to say some names," Ross said, looming over John from the opposite side of a narrow wooden table, "and you are going to tell me what you know about them."
"Really?" John replied, incredulous. "That's how we're doing this? Shouldn't you be chaining me up in a basement somewhere?"
Ross gave him a look of utter disdain. "We are representatives of the United States government, Mister Marston. We're a bit more civilized than that."
John thought about the two black eyes Arthur had when he returned from questioning by the Pinkertons, right after Dutch hit Blackwater. "Yeah, 'course you are."
"Do not misunderstand me," Ross added, "we will get the information we want from you, one way or another. But there's no reason it has to be unpleasant, as long as you cooperate. So: Dutch Van der Linde."
John actually scoffed. "You probably know more about him than I do. He was Arthur's old boss, but he don't talk about him much. Think there's some bad blood there, if I'm honest."
Ross didn't react. "Hosea Matthews."
"'Nother one'a Arthur's old friends. Never met 'im."
"Bill Williamson."
"One'a Dutch's boys. Only know him from bounty posters."
"Javier Escuella."
"You know, these are really questions you should be asking Arthur," John said pointedly.
Ross paused in a calculated way. "What about the name, 'Jack Roberts'?"
John froze before he could control it, his mind filling with white noise. "That's— I've never heard that name. Who is he?"
Ross didn't smile, but there was some strange, smug twisting of his expression, his gaze deeply satisfied. "We have reason to believe that Jack Roberts is the name of Dutch Van der Linde's illegitimate son. Whelped by one of the whores from his camp."
"Why would I know about that—or care?" John snapped, sounding far too defensive, even to his own ears.
"You tell me," Ross replied, "because from what we've heard, you and your brother picked up a boy of his description from Angelo Bronte's mansion not all that long ago. Perhaps you never got the child's name?"
"We were paid to find a missing child," John replied instantly. "If he was Dutch's, well, that's news to me."
Ross slammed both his hands down on the table, hard enough that it rattled against the floor. "You cannot possibly believe that we are that stupid, Mister Marston."
"You'd be surprised how stupid I think you are," John replied dryly, without a hint of humor.
Ross reached across the table and wrapped his hands in the collar of John's shirt, yanking him half across the table. John's hands weren't bound, but he didn't grab back, just pressed his palms flat against the table while Ross snarled in his face. "You are not the noble savage here, Mister Marston! This is the United States of America. Dutch Van der Linde and his ilk are not waging a holy war against the oppression of their freedom, they are trying to destroy the very fabric of society to benefit themselves."
"You're giving the wrong speech to the wrong man," John said lowly, evenly. "I think Dutch Van der Linde is a snake and a murderer. I think he deserves to be hung by the neck until he is dead. Truthfully? This ain't about me somehow tryin' to protect Dutch, this is about me not liking you."
With a disgusted noise, Ross slammed John's head down against the table.
John actually laughed, blood immediately running from his nose down his upper lip, dripping onto the table. "Oh, now I'm scared. Please don't hurt me, Mister Government Man, I'll tell you whatever you want to know!"
Ross grunted, stepping to the other side of the table so he could press John's face down against the wood. "You know, Andrew was right. There is no point in trying to negotiate with your sort. I suppose our only choice it to go ahead and sign that warrant for Arthur Morgan's arrest on suspicion of conspiracy. Maybe once they hand down his death sentence, you'll both be a bit more cooperative."
"You ain't got a lick of proof," John spat out.
"You'd be surprised how little proof a federal agent needs to kill a man, Mister Marston," Ross hissed back.
"So fucking do it, you coward," John grunted. "You and Milton keep popping up and telling us all the shit you're going to do to us, and you ain't never done it. You need us. I don't know why, but you do."
Ross lifted John's head off the table to slam it back down again. "Where. Is. Dutch. Van der Linde?"
"Ol' Leviticus must be getting powerful angry, huh?" John replied, breathlessly, blood pooling under his cheek from his bloody nose and lip. "Ain't seen his streetcars runnin' when we rode in."
Ross sneered. "You think you're very clever, don't you, Mister Marston,"
"We went over this part already," John laughed hoarsely. "I just think you are stupid."
Ross didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he changed his tack, letting go of John and moving to sit down on the other side of the table. His voice took on a cajoling, leading tone. "You could be making allies instead of enemies, here, Mister Marston. You give us what we want, and we could make life a lot easier for you and your friend. How would you like a commission for the US Marshalls, hm? Or perhaps a government post?"
"I look like a Fed to you?" John replied incredulously.
"Money, then. You're bounty hunters—money is all you're interested in."
John wiped his arm under his nose, smearing blood and shot across the blue sleeve of his shirt. "You don't get it, Agent. Arthur and I—we don't want money, or influence, or whatever you're about to offer me next, we just want to be left the fuck alone."
"You tell us what we want to know," Ross immediately replied, "and I can guarantee you will be left alone."
John scoffed. "I'll pass."
Ross' clicked his tongue like a disapproving parent. "There is only one way this is going to end, Mister Marston, and that is with Dutch Van der Linde in our custody. This isn't the Old West anymore. Men like Van der Linde are a threat to the very fabric of society, and we will root them out."
"Yeah, all right," John sneered back, "but you aren't doing this for society, you're doing it for Leviticus Cornwall's oil money. You're just more bounty hunters, except you somehow got the government's blessing to break the law while you do it."
"Exactly so," Ross agreed, easily. "We are privileged to use whatever means necessary to achieve our goals. Do you really think that you two alone can stand up against the full force of the US Government and the influence of one of the richest men in the country?"
Even if Ross hadn't bashed his head against the table, this conversation would be giving John a headache. "Jesus Christ, we ain't done nothing to you or your fucking patron. You done found Dutch once before, I know you did, you don't need us for that. So what the hell is your angle?"
Ross looked at his for a moment, considering, and then finally admitted, "Cornwall wants Dutch alive. There's fully double the money on the table if he's able to able to see Dutch hang. We possibly could find where he's camped, and even assault it, but it's practically a guarantee that he and everyone else would die."
And Jesus, of course that was it. John didn't know Cornwall, but he knew his type. Man like that wouldn't be content seeing his enemy taken out—he'd want to see him suffer, to witness his end for his own sick satisfaction. It explained why they needed Arthur, too—they needed an in to Dutch's camp, and they had no access to Dutch's other boys. Arthur, though—he lived in the world. He walked down the street where they could find him, and he had things, legal, honest things, that they assumed they could threaten to get him to cooperate.
Things like John.
Like every other goddamn thing to date, even this farce of an interrogation wasn't really about him.
"You never really expected to get anything out of me, did you?" John said darkly.
Ross' mouth slowly curled into a smirk, and he stood from his chair, picking his hat up off the table and angling it down over his eyes. "Well, it was an entertaining exercise either way," he replied lightly. "I think we're done here. Be a good little hostage and—"
They both startled when they heard the explosion.
"Stay here," Ross said, tersely, as if John had a choice, and then left him in that dim lit room. At a loss, John did just that for a few minutes, before he came to his sense and tried the door—it was locked. He tried the window next, pulling himself up to peer out of the narrow, barred aperture. It looked out onto an alley, where he could see nothing interesting, but he could hear some kind of commotion out on the street, the first explosion followed by a second, somewhat more distant, and the sound of screaming.
He was still peering out of the window, trying to figure out the direction of the noise, when the door splintered inwards, hit with one hard kick right by the lock. It was Arthur, of course, who strode in without a pause and grabbed John by the wrist to pull him out behind him.
"Arthur— Jesus, wait a second!" John exclaimed, planting his feet. "What about Milton and Ross—?"
"They've got bigger problems. C'mon," Arthur replied shortly, tugging on John's arm again.
"The hell is going on?" John demanded, even as he allowed Arthur to pull him out towards the front.
"Right this second, or in the week we been gone?" Arthur replied, harried. "Apparently Saint Denis' gone to hell. Bronte's vanished, probably dead, Dutch and his boys wrecked a fuckin' streetcar, and now apparently someone is blowin' up the garment district."
"Someone?" John repeated, and Arthur grimaced.
"It doesn't matter," Arthur dismissed, tone still short.
"Just wait a goddamn second, Arthur, Christ. Where the hell are we going? What the hell is going on?" John demanded, planting his feet once the got out of the station, and twisting his arm free of Arthur's grasp. "Is it Dutch? Are we sure?"
"Of course it's goddamn Dutch," Arthur snapped back. "It's Dutch to a fuckin' tee, make a buncha noise and sneak around while everyone's looking the other way. We— we need to get our heads down."
Another explosion erupted in the distance, making them both flinch, shooting dark black smoke up into the sky, and two policemen on horseback nearly ran them down as they galloped towards the noise. "Yeah," John agreed, breathless with adrenaline, "yeah, all right. Where?"
Arthur glanced around them for a moment, eyes narrow, then jerked his gaze up. "Streets are too dangerous. We need to get to the roofs."
Saint Denis was a dense city. You could get nearly anywhere from the rooftops. "Okay," John agreed, following Arthur's gaze to the roof of a nearby government building. "Let me grab my rifle first." He caught the sharp look Arthur shot him, and held it. "I might need to shoot someone," he said carefully, meaningfully, and after a moment Arthur nodded, though his expression was sour, mouth pursed.
"You do what you have to," he replied, pulling his own pistol from its holster, "but be quick about it."
*
From the roof, it was easier to see the extent of the damage. There were three columns of smoke rising form the northeast, and the bells of the fire brigade carriages could be heard across the entire city. It was an absolute cacophony of sound—horses snorting and squealing, carriage wheels traveling far too fast across cobblestones, shrieks and yells of terror and alarm. It rather reminded John of their last day in Valentine, crouched on the roof of the livery stable while the town around them collapsed, all the same right down to the scoped rifle in his hand.
Right down to the people he could see through the scope.
The road east of the Saint Denis police lockup was the home of the Lemoyne National Bank. It hadn't been the first thing that John thought of, but it should have, especially when Arthur talked about Dutch's preferred strategy of distraction. The view was obstructed, but he could just barely see through the farthest picture window into the interior of the bank, to see patrons down on the floor, hands clasped over their heads, while an armed man milled between them. John couldn't see his face, but the build and the beard made him think it was Bill Williamson.
"Arthur," John hissed in a whisper, as if they might somehow hear him from that distance, "I think Dutch's boys are in the bank."
Arthur shouldered up next to him at the edge of the roof, taking John's rifle to peer through the scope. He cursed after a moment, lowly, lowering the gun. "That's Williamson, all right. Don't look like the law knows they're there, yet."
"We're smack-dab in the middle of Saint Denis," John pointed out. "How are they possibly planning to get out?"
Arthur shook his head. "Jesus, I don't know, but listen—" he gestured towards the dwindling smoke from the northeast, "the fire brigade bells have stopped. Reckon they're already figuring it was a decoy." It had already been maybe ten, fifteen minutes since the first explosion. They town had gone from a over-loud din to an eerie quiet, the only sound that of hoof-beats and wagon wheels.
John watched through his scope for another moment—if the men in the bank were aware that their time was running short, there was no outward indication of it.
"We can't do anything here, Arthur," John pointed out, which was painfully true. At best, John and Arthur were spectators, here. They couldn't protect Dutch from the law, and John knew full well that Arthur wasn't about to help them be captured.
And then they heard Milton's voice, distant but strident, yelling from the street, Dutch, get out here, and Arthur was moving before John could grab for him.
John cursed and followed, Arthur jumping between the rooftops with dangerous speed, until they had a clear view of the road, of the law set up right across from the bank's enormous picture windows, hunkered down in force, with goddamn Andrew Milton standing square at the front, holding a man at gunpoint.
"It's Hosea," Arthur hissed, before John had even a second to take it all in, "he's got Hosea."
John gut clenched, but he put a firm hand on Arthur's shoulder, holding him in place. "Don't do anything stupid, Arthur."
Arthur shook the hand off without a thought. "I won't. Just stay here."
"Arthur—" John reached, out, grabbed Arthur's arm only to be shaken off again. "If I get a line of sight on Dutch, Arthur—" he spat, more a threat than anything else. Stay here if you want to stop me.
Arthur didn't even turn around, didn't pause. "You do what you have to, John," he said, shortly, before he was sliding down a ladder to the street.
John cursed, putting his rifle scope back up to his eye. He couldn't see into the bank from this angle, but he could see Milton, red-faced and yelling, a gun against Hosea's shoulder blade. Hosea looked … frail, oddly cowed … diminished. He stumbled when Milton shoved him into the street, nearly falling to his hands before he caught himself. John couldn't hear what was said, but it must have been something, because Hosea and Milton both jerked their eyes to Arthur, storming down the center of the street, sidearm drawn. Goddamn it, John had just told him not to do anything stupid.
Hosea was still looking at Arthur, expression unreadable through John's scope, when Milton shot him in the chest.
"Jesus fuck," John breathed, watching, frozen, as Hosea crumpled like a ragdoll. Hosea's hands had been empty, he hadn't even had a gunbelt on.
He saw Arthur break into a run when Hosea fell, the only motion in what was, for a moment, a frozen tableau. Milton stood with a square stance, gun smoking. The bank was silent. Hosea lay motionless, a pool of red spreading underneath him far too quickly. It was only Arthur, skidding to his knees beside Hosea, that broke the moment, and it was just as he was bending over Hosea that gunfire broke out.
Neither the law nor Dutch's boys seemed to be particularly aiming for Arthur, but that didn't stop John's heart from leaping into his throat as Arthur drug Hosea across to the relative safety of the storefronts, a wide streak of red drawing out behind them. Milton had already ducked into cover, the coward, letting the Saint Denis law do the shooting. Once he saw Arthur drag Hosea around the side of the building, out of the line of fire, John turned his scope to the front of the bank, the windows now all blown out.
The explosion from the bank building was large enough that the street shook, that John ducked back behind the barrier of the roof for a moment, breathless.
When he finally popped his head back up there was a sniper on the roof of the bank. A glance through is scope showed the it was Escuella with a scoped Springfield, popping his head up only long enough to fire, to keep the lawmen's heads down while others climbed up behind him. The whole group of them crawled up the ladder after him—Williamson, Bell, Smith, Summers, and finally Dutch himself, huddling back from the edge of the roof, protected from the gunmen on the ground.
But John had a clean line of sight.
He hesitated. He shouldn't have. He had Dutch square in his sights, the man crouched on the roof opposite, gun in hand, bandana pulled down around his neck, hat gone. For a moment he looked pitiable, his expression desperate, baffled, a man desperately out of his depth. For a moment, John almost felt pity.
Then he pulled the trigger.
And the boy behind Dutch's left shoulder jerked backwards and fell.
"Shit, shit, shit," John cursed, working the bolt on his rifle, but the rest of the men had already pulled further back by the time his new round was chambered, ducking around the back of the building, out of sight. The only thing left on the roof was Lenny's motionless body, blood pooling, sprawled where he had fallen.
"Goddamn it," John muttered again, thinking only about Dutch managing to slip away, as he shouldered his rifle. He slid down same ladder Arthur had used, having half a mind to follow them, but when he rounded the corner he nearly stumbled over Arthur, sitting against the side of the building with his legs sprawled out in front of him, Hosea's upper body draped across them.
Hosea's shirt, Arthur's trousers, and the pavement underneath them were all absolutely coated in blood.
"Shit," John hissed, in a very different tone, dropping down beside Arthur. Arthur's eyes were open but unseeing, as if in a trance, and John finally slapped him across the face when shaking him by the shoulder didn't make a difference.
Arthur hadn't cried when Eliza and Isaac had died. He didn't cry now. He just turned his bleary gaze to John, as if just having noticed him, and said, flatly, "He's dead."
John grasped Arthur's shoulders firmly, pressing him back against the wall. "Are you hit?"
Arthur blinked once, as if he hadn't understood the question, before he reached one hand up to curl around John's wrist. "… no. I ain't hit. Not a scratch on me."
"I think Dutch got away," John told him, and a some strange, small part of John thought that might make Arthur happy, that it might actually be some kind of comfort to him. Instead, Arthur just slowly moved his hand to close Hosea's eyes, his hands, already soaked in blood, leaving smears of red on Hosea's eyelids when he touched.
After a moment he sighed. "None of us ever got away."
Notes:
I would like to point out that I never billed this as a everyone lives/nothing hurts fic. But I hope it hurts in a good way.
Chapter 16: Chapter Five, Part One
Notes:
I think this is going to be where things start to verge a lot farther from canon. I've tried to stick to the main plot so far, but the more I think about coming chapters, the more AU it's going to become. I'm not planning to suddenly ignore canon, but I think I've differentiated this John and Arthur to the extent that things simply have to be different.
The fandom is slowing, or maybe this fic is getting to be a bit of a slog for some, and that's okay. Interests change. But I am going to finish this, and I hope those of you still reading trust me to take you there.
Chapter Text
The law took Hosea's lifeless body right out of Arthur's arms.
He had to let them—Hosea was a criminal involved in a criminal conspiracy, shot by an officer of the law, and that meant an inquiry. Not that there was much doubt as to how he died, or who caused it.
Milton and Ross had vanished in the firefight, probably chasing after Dutch. Dutch, who had left near a dozen bodies behind him, sprawled in the street like a battlefield.
Though John supposed they should be used to that by now. Seemed to happen everywhere Dutch was, these days.
"Arthur," John said after the coroner took Hosea, "we should … you need to get cleaned up." Arthur was standing in the middle of Saint Denis absolutely coated in blood, drying in flakes on his trousers and smeared up his arms almost to the elbows. He looked like he'd skinned a deer, like he'd just finished butchering something.
Hosea's face had been absolutely white when they took him, no lingering color to it, like every drop of his blood had wound up on Arthur.
"Arthur," John pressed again, when the other man didn't move, didn't acknowledge him at all—just stood staring, sightless, at the blood pooling in the cobblestones. "We can't—Arthur, we need to get out of the street."
"He was right there," Arthur said, instead of replying. "He was not ten feet away from me, and I couldn't stop it."
John swallowed hard, hands hovering by Arthur's elbow without touching. Arthur was blood-soaked. John had not a drop on him. But John was the only one of them who had killed a man that day. "It was Milton that shot him, there weren't anything you coulda done. You think an arrogant sonumbitch like Milton was going to stand down for us? Couple'a bounty hunters? We're lucky he didn't shoot you, too."
"Lucky," Arthur repeated, toneless. "Hosea didn't even have a gun."
"Arthur," John said, a third time, curling a hand around Arthur's wrist. The dried blood flaked off under his fingers. "We need to not be here if Milton comes back. We need to go."
Arthur looked down at John's hand on his wrist, expression tired, eyes dim. "Where we gonna go, John?"
They tried the saloon, and the Hotel Grand, but every shopfront in town had barred their doors when the shooting started, the streets empty except for corpses and the occasional lawman, meandering aimlessly, seemingly just as lost as John and Arthur.
They wound up back at the police lockup, ironically the only place with unlocked doors. Benjamin Lambert met them in the atrium, eyes going wide at the blood on Arthur.
"You boys get caught up in that mess?" He asked, inanely, as he waved them into the back. "Maybe you should have stayed where those agents put you."
"Blood ain't mine," Arthur said shortly.
Something about the tone of his voice, the amount of blood, told Lambert what he needed to know. "… I see," he said slowly, looking Arthur over again in more detail. "Think one of my boys said we got a body headed to the coroner that might account for it. You want to tell me about that?"
John expected Arthur deflect, was prepared to back up whatever lie Arthur told, but Arthur looked at Lambert with a haggard expression and said, flatly, "I ran with Dutch Van der Linde when I was a kid."
"Arthur—" John immediately interjected, alarmed, but Arthur waved him off.
"It ain't been a real secret in a long while, John," he said tiredly. "Dutch and Hosea Matthews, the man goin' to your coroner, damn near raised me for almost ten years." He swiped a heavy hand across his face, eyes distant. "I went straight near fifteen years ago, but … someone does that for you, you don't really forget it."
"… I see," Lambert said again, eyes narrowing in an expression that was more curiosity than suspicion. "That's … an unenviable position to be in, being on the opposite side of the law from the folk who raised you."
"They made their choices and I made mine," Arthur said lowly, looking down at his bloody hands.
"Right," Lambert said, curiously. "Well … look, son, we got a washroom in the back where you can clean up. I had your horses put up in our stable when the shooting started, weren't sure when you were coming back. I'll, uh … try to give you a heads up if the agents show back up."
"Thank you," John said, absently, as he followed Arthur past the cells.
*
Hosea's blood swirled down the drain in long pink ribbons.
Arthur stood with his hands braced on the sink for a long time, watching the water run until every speck of red was gone from the basin. John usually had a very clear idea what was going on in Arthur's head—the man wasn't dumb, but he was uncomplicated, both in his drives and desires—but right now his own head was absolutely filled with white noise and he had no idea what was happening in Arthur's.
He kept seeing Lenny Summers jerk backwards on the roof of the bank, his eyes wide and white, mouth open. Seeing him sprawled where he fell. John had killed people for far less money than Summers was probably worth, had sent men to hang for as little as fifty bucks and thought nothing of it, but somehow …
The fact that it was one of Dutch's boys, someone he had spoken amicable words with, made it feel different. Made his gut clench at the thought of Arthur knowing.
He still had the Evelyn Miller novel Lenny had given him in his saddlebag.
He was so in his own head that it took him a second to follow when Arthur shoved away from the sink, almost violently, and turned to stride back out through the station with a purpose. John had to jog to catch up to him, trying to catch at the still red-flecked sleeve of his shirt. "Hey, whoa, where are we goin'?"
"Shady Belle," Arthur said, not breaking stride.
John's mouth fell open. "What? Now? The roads are going to be—"
"Come or don't," Arthur said shortly, shaking off his hand, "that's where I'm going."
"Arthur—" John tried to press, and Arthur spun around with an aggravated noise.
"No! All you've wanted to do is wait and now more people are dead. If I had pressed a little harder weeks ago, maybe Hosea would be alive right now!"
John opened his mouth to reply—saying what, he wasn't sure, but that had never stopped him running his mouth before—when a lilting voice interjected, "Matthews is dead?"
John and Arthur both slowly turned to see their old friend, Colm O'Driscoll's spokesman, leaning up against the bars of the cell next to them, forearm braced up above his head, peering out at them with a hint of smirk.
"That's a damn shame," he said lightly, "Colm always said he was the smart one."
Arthur had him in an instant, right hand fisted in his striped prison shirt, yanking him forward so that his cheek pressed against the bars. "You stick your nose in our business you're gonna be going to the gallows with it broken," he growled.
"Why ain't they hung you yet?" John demanded.
"'Cause I been talking up a storm," he answered, bracing his hands against the bars to push back against Arthur's grip. "They hung Niall a week ago, but me? They've had questions for me. Colm's me blood cousin, y'see. Told them all about when we took you, too," he added to Arthur. "Some Pinkerton feller had me tell him the story twice. Think he was getting something out of it!"
Arthur growled, pushing the man back a moment so he could slam his face against the bars. Fresh blood spurted onto Arthur's face from the newly split lip. "I'd be careful, O'Driscoll. You are finding me on a very bad day."
"You're finding me days away from a gallows that you put me on!" the man spat back. "Oh boo hoo, poor ol' Hosea bit it—even our boys knew the old bastard was already dyin'."
Arthur slammed him against the bars again, now gripping his shirt with both hands, "I'm gonna tear that disrespectful tongue right outta your goddamn mouth, you son of a bitch—"
The man laughed in Arthur's face, mouth and nose bloody. "Like we near did to wee little Kieran, right? Guess you Van der Lindes aren't so much above us after all, eh? What would your pappy Hosea say, if he weren't worm food—?"
It took John, Lambert, and two uniformed officers to drag Arthur off the man, the O'Driscoll's face an absolute wreck by the time they did, Arthur's hands newly bloody, blood droplets smearing on the floor under their boots when they wrestled him to the ground, John not even hearing the panicked words coming out of his own mouth.
"Throw him in with the drunks to cool off," Lambert snapped shortly, when the two officers had finally hauled Arthur back up between them, panting, face flecked with blood.
"Do you really need to—" John started to wheedle as the men drug Arthur off, but Lambert cut him off with a sharp motion.
"Look, Mister Morgan, this isn't the Old West," Lambert said firmly. "In Saint Denis you can't go around assaulting people, not even prisoners. That said—" he added, when John opened his mouth to argue, "I am not going to arrest your brother. I am … sympathetic to your current situation. He's going to spend a few hours in with the drunks and then I'm going to have an officer escort the both of you out of town."
"Are you saying we ain't welcome in Saint Denis anymore?" John asked slowly.
Lambert gave him that narrow-eyed, curious look he had previously aimed at Arthur. "You haven't been charged with any crimes I know of, Mister Morgan, and I haven't seen any posters with your face on them. But trouble seems to follow the both of you, so you'll pardon me if I'd like to allow things to calm down for a while."
John couldn't really blame him, there. "Right. Fair enough. Think we were fixing to leave, anyhow."
He was just about to follow Lambert back up to the front of the station when the O'Driscoll spoke up again, from where he was crumpled in the corner of his cell. "Hey. Hey, John Marston," he slurred, one eye already swelling shut, "you wanna—you wanna know where you can find Colm O'Driscoll?"
John, who'd been about to ignore the loudmouth again, paused, turning slightly.
"Why would I believe a goddamn word you had to say?" He asked lowly.
"Colm, me own blood, left me here to rot," he spat wetly. "Far as I'm concerned, he shouldn't get any better'n I do."
"What about loyalty?" John challenged, his tone ironic.
"Ha, that and a nickel will get you a cup of coffee," the O'Driscoll replied. "You—" he moaned as he shifted, grimacing, "—you don't have to listen to me. But I don't got much reason left to lie."
"… all right," John said after a moment, stepping closer. "Tell me."
*
John took himself down to the docks to buy some provisions after an hour or two, as it seemed likely they would be camping out for a while, and it was something to do other than sit and wait for Arthur, sitting locked in a jail cell like a common criminal. There he found Abigail Roberts, crouched behind a crate.
It was surreal, the moment they recognized each other, both of them freezing, unsure of the balance of power here. The only explanation for her presence in Saint Denis, as far as John was concerned, was that she had been involved, somehow, with the bank job. That would make her not a camp hanger-on, but an actual outlaw. And for her part, for all she had been cordial with John at the camp, he was still mostly a strange lawman to her, an unknown in a place where the unknown could get you killed. She had a child to think about, one who, if she was gone, might only have Dutch Van der Linde to rely on.
That being the case, he wasn't entirely surprised when she pulled a gun on him.
John didn't so much as twitch towards his own guns. He'd been lighting a cigarette when they spotted each other, and he very slowly shook out the match, telegraphing every movement while Abigail rigidly aimed the pistol right at the center of his chest.
"… you won't be needing that, Miss," he said finally, when it was clear she wasn't going to speak first, holding his hands out to the sides, palms open. "I ain't gonna do nothin'."
"I remember the first time a man ever said that to me," Abigail replied, her aim not wavering. "I didn't believe it then, neither."
"I ain't never shot a woman in my life, Miss Roberts. I ain't lookin' to start now."
"Good, because you'd have to," Abigail said darkly. "I ain't the type to go quiet."
John's mouth quirked a bit at the corner. "I rather got that impression of you."
She hesitated another moment, then lowered the gun, tucking it into her skirt. "Do you know what happened to the others?"
John hesitated as well, licking his lips. "Most of 'em got away. Matthews, and that boy, Lenny, they, uh … they didn't"
"They're in jail?"
"They're dead."
He could certainly have been more delicate about the revelation, but in his experience bad news was better given fast. He could see the information strike her like a physical blow, her head jerking back and eyes going wide. "That's—goddamn it," Abigail hissed under her breath, voice wet, hands clenching into fists. "I knew, I goddamn knew this whole thing was going to go to hell."
John glanced over his shoulder towards the train station, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind. "Are they looking for you? Can you get out of town?"
"They're looking for me," she said darkly. "Why else would I be hiding here like a roach? Look," she reached into her skirt and pulled out a few bills, "would you go buy me a hat and a shawl? Anything I can put over my clothes. If I do that and do something different with my hair, I might be able to slip out." She narrowed her eyes when he hesitated, looking over to the train station just as John had, moments before. "… unless you'd rather forget you saw me. I don't actually need your help, lawman."
It would have been so, so easy to take her up on her offer, to turn his back and go about his day. He had enough problems, and Abigail Roberts was a hard woman, she would probably be fine. As she'd said herself, she didn't need his help.
"With respect, Miss Roberts," John said, tipping his hat, "I think that might not be true."
Abigail scowled at that. "I ain't some fairy tale maiden in need of saving, Mister Marston."
"And I ain't no Prince Charming, as I'm sure you noticed," John replied dryly, turning away.
"Where are you going?" Abigail hissed suspiciously.
John looked back over his shoulder at her, quirking an eyebrow. "To buy you a hat and a shawl. Ain't that what you said you wanted?"
"What I want is to never have been part of this mess." She snapped suddenly. "I knew I shoulda said no, but I'm on thin ice with Dutch as it is, and there was the chance for so much money—" She scowled, shaking her head. "But what do you care. We're all just more thieves to you lawmen types, I reckon."
It was a clear challenge, but that wasn't an argument John was particularly interested in having, right that minute. "And I guess we're just more lawmen to you outlaw types," he replied dryly, and then continued back to the little general store.
"Do you have a horse?" John asked when he got back, handing her a striped cotton shawl and wide-brimmed hat. None of her clothes matched each other, but that wasn't really the point.
"I look like I got a horse?" Abigail replied shortly, unpicking her hair from its chignon and shaking it out before pulling the hat down over her eyes. "Dunno what happened to the wagon horses. Reckon if they didn't get killed in the crossfire, the police have 'em."
"Then Arthur and I will take you back. You not gonna make it to Shady Belle on foot."
Abigail paused in setting the shawl around her shoulders. "That sounds like a powerfully bad idea," she said slowly, which was not a refusal.
"Yeah, well," John sighed, taking a last drag on his cigarette and throwing it into the water, "bad ideas are sorta gettin' to be our specialty."
*
Arthur was leaned up against the atrium wall when John got back to the station, arms crossed over his chest and hat blocking his eyes, closed off. Even so, he seemed subdued, almost chastened, nodding absently to whatever Lambert was telling him, mouth pressed into a thin line. His hands were wrapped in white gauze, spotting red at the knuckles, and he was wearing a clean shirt and trousers, his alternate set from his saddlebags. John thought, inanely, that they'd need to go shopping at some point—the other set was likely no longer salvageable.
"—speaking of family, here's your brother to collect you," Lambert said, more loudly, when he noticed John in the entryway. He nodded a greeting, patted Arthur on the arm in a way that immediately made John think of Dutch, and disappeared back into the station proper.
"What did he mean, about family?" John asked as he walked over to Arthur, crossing his arms reflexively, matching Arthur's body language.
Arthur looked back at his as if he hadn't heard him for a moment, something strange going on behind his eyes, before sighing and breaking away from John's gaze.
"He gave me a— a note. A 'writ' or something. Saying the State of Lemoyne will recognize me as Hosea's next of kin, so I can bury 'im."
"Oh," John replied, lowly. "That's …" He didn't know what that was. Of course Arthur would want to bury Hosea. But he also couldn't help but think that one of the last things Hosea had said to Arthur was to not look back.
"The last time I buried someone …" he didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Eliza and Isaac had a proper Christian burial. A sermon read by the local preacher, who had barely known them. Church women dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs and rubbing at John and Arthur's arms, calling them both 'poor dears' and promising to do whatever they could to help.
As if anything would help.
They'd both hated it. It felt selfish to think that, but all of it, the pity, the attention, had clearly made Arthur's skin crawl. John honestly believed that, if he hadn't been there, there would have been a fistfight at the funeral.
In some ways, Arthur hadn't changed much, since then.
"I oughta just let Dutch's folk do it," Arthur said finally. "He belonged to them more'n he belonged to me. John, when I die—"
John immediately cut him off. "When you die I'm gonna be right there with you, so you best give your last wishes to someone else," he said crossly. "Now come on, we got places to be."
"We do?" Arthur asked, somewhere between curious and suspicious, and then blew out a sudden breath when they pushed through the door and he saw Abigail, standing between their two horses, casually looking away from the uniformed lawman—their promised escort out of town—mounted up right behind her.
"A fine time to be in Saint Denis, ain't it, cousin?" She called up to them, voice light, posture easy. "Reckon its about time you took me home."
"Family," Arthur said under breath, tone ironic, and then rolled his shoulders, like he was settling into his own skin, before striding down the stairs.
"Reckon you knew what you were in for when you came to spend time with a couple reprobates like us," he called back, and anyone who didn't know Arthur would likely have missed the brittle, dark undertone.
Chapter 17: Chapter Five, Part Two
Notes:
Hello lovelies! I live!
I'm not going to make excuses for how long this chapter took--just know that I started a new job, moved to a new city, and generally uprooted my whole life, so those things took precedence. But I always said I would finish this fic, and I meant it! I just hope I manage to finish it with the drama and skill that I started it.
Anyway, here's the new chapter, enjoy!
Chapter Text
They got out of Saint Denis without any trouble, being, as they were, escorted by a uniformed lawman. Abigail rode behind Arthur, her tiny little hands on his waist, the entire way to Shady Belle. There was something surreal about it—all this talk of family made John think about Eliza, about Eliza posted up behind Arthur on the few occasions they'd ridden into town without the wagon.
Or maybe he was doing exactly what he had accused Arthur of: turning Abigail and Jack into Eliza and Isaac in his head. It wasn't as if they were really similar, anyway, because for all Eliza had been a sturdy, frontier woman, self-sufficient and competent, she had also been soft in a way Abigail didn't seem to be. Eliza hadn't had an easy life, but she hadn't had a cruel one, either. Abigail … well, her past wasn't for him to pry at, but John reckoned her youth was probably about as unpleasant as his and Arthur's.
They didn't talk once they left Saint Denis—Abigail had kept up a cheerful discourse until they parted ways with their escort, an unsettlingly skilled actress, but they all immediately dropped into heavy silence once they crossed the bridge. Arthur was still obviously disturbed by Hosea's death, and Abigail looked no better, her eyes distant as she seemed to linger in her own head.
It was only when they caught sight of the decrepit front gates of the once-grand plantation house that she spoke up. "We should stop here. I'll go ahead and see if any of the menfolk made it back—if they did, they're liable to shoot you on sight."
Arthur got down to help Abigail off the horse—though she clearly didn't need the assistance. "We both know," he said gravely, as he set her on her feet, hands on her narrow waist, "that none'a them made it back."
"Yeah, well," Abigail sighed, sweeping her loose hair out of her face, "that might end up being for the best, if I'm honest."
Arthur cocked his head thoughtfully, as if surprised by her admission. "It just might, at that," he agreed flatly, and then stepped back to watch her walk down the long wagon path to Shady Belle. John got down off his thoroughbred as she put her back to them, edging shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur.
"She didn't say anything about what we talked to Missus Adler about," he said lowly.
"Yes, she did," Arthur replied flatly, lighting a cigarette, "or what did you think that 'might end up being for the best' comment was about?"
"Huh," John said, taking that in. "Then … se's for it. She wants to go."
"They all want to go, John—away from this, at least." Arthur said, passing him the cigarette. "Even when I ran with Dutch, the dream was always to steal and con enough money that we wouldn't have to steal and con no more. Ain't nobody in the word that really wants to live a life on the run. You just fall into it, and then you can't get out."
"You did." John pointed out, as he passed the cigarette back.
"Sure I did," Arthur agreed in a drawl, gesturing around him with the cigarette in his hand, mouth quirking up at the corner in something that was not at all a smile. "I'm obviously miles away from it right now."
But you didn't 'fall into it' this time, John didn't say, you jumped in with both feet.
It was two cigarettes later when Missus Adler came to wave them on down the road to the camp, riding a gold dapple Turkoman with a rifle across her back. She nodded shortly to them when they trotted up, her face grim. "Well," she drawled, "fancy meeting you boys here."
Arthur tipped his hat to her, ever the gentleman when it suited him. "We're here to bring news, Missus Adler. And to be of service, however we can be."
"News," Sadie repeated, her tone ironic. "Abigail says you don't think the men are coming back."
Arthur didn't say anything to that, because there was nothing to say.
"We have to plan that they're not, I reckon," Sadie continued after a beat. "Grimshaw's against leaving right away—she wants to wait for Dutch—but Pearson's already packing up the chuck wagon, and the girls are tearing down all the tents. You reckon the law is on the way, or do we have time?"
"I spent a good four hours with the chief of the Saint Denis police," Arthur said, "and I can tell you with confidence that they have no idea you're out here. That said," he gestured behind her, to the sprawling camp, "it won't take 'em long to find you once they actually start looking."
"Right," Sadie agreed tiredly. "So we need to be gone by then."
"And you will be," Arthur assured her easily. "You told me before to come back and see you when I had somewhere for you to go. It ain't exactly the ideal time, but I do. I have somewhere."
Sadie gave him a shrewd look, eyes narrow. "Back west?"
"New Austin."
"We'd never make it through West Elizabeth."
"Without Dutch, with us as an escort—you will."
"You're all talk," she snapped abruptly. "It's all well and good for you to say you can get us through, but you ain't the ones what'll hang if you're wrong."
"Ain't we?" John put in, leaning forward over the neck of his horse. "The Pinkerton Detective Agency has been hot to put a noose on Arthur for months. You think we ain't risking anything? You don't want our help, tell us and we'll get gone. Be easier for us in the long run anyway."
"John …" Arthur chided, expression pinched.
"It would be," John said, defensively.
"That's not— look." Arthur turned his attention back to Sadie. "I ain't here to drag you kickin' and screamin' behind us. I also ain't gonna leave anyone here who's willing to take the chance, so lemme talk to 'em."
Sadie looked churlish for a moment—stressed and scared, and, like a true frontierswoman, only showing it in anger. She jerked her head behind her towards the courtyard. "Well, come on, then."
*
"We've gone farther in worse ways," Abigail said bullishly. "And they ain't really after our necks, is they?"
"They are now," Sadie replied. "I ain't saying we stay here, I'm saying that things need to cool off before we try to head out across the goddamn country. Besides, a trip that long needs plannin', supplies. We been barely scraping by for too long—we'd starve on the trail, 'specially with so few of us as can hunt. You know how much food a camp this size eats?"
"Considering I ran with a gang, this gang, for ten years, yeah, I have something of an idea," Arthur said shortly, "and I ain't saying it'll be easy, but what lately has been?"
"And you'd think those ten years would mean a little more to you," Miss Grimshaw put in, arms crossed under her ample chest. "You really think we'll just leave our men behind?"
"Susan," Arthur replied, his tone both familiar and tired, "you loved Dutch. I loved Dutch. But look around us, right now. Dutch ain't loving anything but money."
"You haven't been here," Miss Grimshaw immediately shot back, "you haven't seen—"
"I been here enough. I seen enough."
"He saved your life, young man!" She snapped. "When you was young, and again when those O'Driscolls took you—"
"No," Arthur replied firmly, his eyes dark. "Hosea saved me when I was young, and John saved me when the O'Driscolls took me. And Dutch took credit for both, just like he probably took credit for getting Abigail's son back, even tough it was John and I what went and got him from Bronte."
Miss Grimshaw worked her jaw, looking sour. "You're a bitter man, Arthur Morgan," she accused, darkly, and John couldn't help but think of how much she was projecting—Arthur had got out. She hadn't. She had spent her youth and beauty on Dutch, and gotten nothing for it.
"Maybe I am," Arthur said, tilting his head. "And maybe not being here, I'm able to see what this gang has become with clear eyes. Which is why we ain't offering to take the gang away from Lemoyne. We're offering to take whoever wants to go away from the gang. If that's ain't something you can go along with, then I reckon we're going to have a problem."
"Now that is just about enough!" Susan Grimshaw snapped. "No one is leaving this gang! This gang has done everything for you!"
"Sure," Abigail replied, "just like it did everything for Jenny, Mac, Davey, Sean, Kieran," she ticked them off on her fingers, one by one. She had to switch hands, not having enough fingers on one, "Lenny, Hosea," her voice choked a little on the last one, and John could see the rest of the camp flinch as well, Arthur included. "Can't do any more for the dead, so I reckon it did do just about everything for 'em!"
"Where would you be without this gang, Miss Roberts?" She challenged.
"A whorehouse, maybe. Or dead. But that would still be better than watching my son grow up to be a killer!"
"He ain't just your son!" Miss Grimshaw shot back, and the entire camp suddenly fell deathly, ominously silent. Even John held his breath a moment. They hadn't spent that long in the camp, but it hadn't taken long to notice that Jack's obvious parentage was treated as a total mystery. That Jack was the camp's own Thing We Don't Talk About.
Abigail stared back at her for a long moment, face frozen with something hotter than rage, but her voice was icy when she spoke. "Mister Morgan," she said, still glaring at Grimshaw, her voice dangerously even, "how soon can we leave?"
"Guess that depends," Arthur said slowly, his eyeing Susan, eyeing Sadie, "on how many people are coming. And whether anyone tries to stop us."
*
Susan gave in, in the end.
John had misgivings about it—having someone along who didn't truly want to be there felt like a security risk, felt like asking for trouble, but he could tell right away that Arthur wasn't going to cut her out. Not when every other member of the camp was coming with them.
Arthur stalked off to smoke by the water once the decision was reached, hat pulled low over his eyes, while the camp returned to packing away all their worldly possessions—what little there was. A few wagons' worth for a couple dozen people. John and Arthur lived out of their saddlebags themselves, of course, but they had chosen that. They'd had the option for something else, and turned it down. These folk … John didn't think most of them had truly chosen to live this way, not the way he and Arthur had.
Arthur wanted to save them, whether they wanted saved or not. John, on the other hand, understood the importance of choice.
Arthur glanced at him briefly when John joined him on the pier, and passed him the cigarette he'd been smoking, still wet from his lips. John puffed on it slowly, trying to read the closed off expression on Arthur's face.
"You must be real pleased," John said slowly. "This is exactly how you wanted this to go, isn't it?"
Arthur's grimaced, shoving a fresh cigarette between his lips. "Reckon so."
"You got an idea how we're gonna get all these folk to New Austin?"
"Yeah, I got a few," Arthur replied shortly, lighting a match against the bottom of his boot.
"Arthur," John chided, once the silence got heavy, "you plan on sharing any of those ideas with me?"
Arthur was quiet for a long moment, puffing on his cigarette, gaze distant.
"You know, John … I probably woulda ate a bullet years ago if it weren't for you."
John nearly dropped his cigarette in shock. "Jesus, Arthur, what the fuck?"
"I'm trying to tell you something," Arthur said, still looking out at the water, rather than at John. "I'm thinking … I'm thinkin' when we get to New Austin with these folk … maybe we stay there. Maybe even go back to Armadillo."
"You … you wanna go back to the house?" John said in slight disbelief. It had been six years since they'd even set eyes on Eliza's house.
"I been thinkin', the life we're trying to give these folk … maybe I want that kinda life, too." He sighed, rubbing absently at the short stubble on his cheek. "If I'm honest, I'm getting' a little old for all this runnin' around. When I was younger, I always assumed I'd die bloody before I got a chance to get old, and I was fine with that. Even with 'Liza, I knew … I knew the way I was, it weren't going to end pretty for me. But right now, I'm thinkin' … I wanna get old. I wanna see you get old. 'Stead'a dying in the street like Hosea."
Arthur's hands were shaking slightly when he went to take another drag on his cigarette, the cherry end trembling.
"I know I got no right to ask you, to expect you, to want—especially with how I been lately, I been acting a fool—"
"Just—shut up a second," John cut him off, mind spinning. "You— you have never—in all the years I been knowing you, Arthur, even when you had a wife and a kid, you have never stayed in one place more than a week. Now you're saying—" John shook his head. "Is … is this about Abigail and Jack? You wantin' to keep eyes on them?"
Arthur let out a long breath, and finally turned to look at John, something painful, almost guilty in his eyes. "Is it so impossible that this is about you and me?"
The thing was, Arthur always gave in to John. He would give John anything he asked for, sacrifice himself in a second to keep John safe, but he would never take anything from John, from anyone, for himself. Getting Arthur to accept anything he thought he didn't deserve was always a struggle, and Arthur had never thought he deserved much. The idea that Arthur was really suggesting this because he wanted it was honestly hard to swallow. "We—we coulda done that any time. Hell, two weeks ago, before Saint Denis blew up, I all but begged you to leave!"
"And I said I couldn't turn my back on these folk, and I ain't. But once we get them safe—"
"Jesus," John hissed, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. "I really don't know what to make of you lately, Arthur. First you decide you wanna be some kinda outlaw Moses and now you're talking about being, what, a homesteader or sumthin'?"
"You know," Arthur said lowly, "when I asked Mary to marry me, she didn't believe I meant it, neither."
John froze.
"She told me that oughta take that ring and give it to Dutch Van der Linde, because he was clearly who I really wanted to spend my life with. Told me she weren't going to sit at home like a war bride, waiting to hear that I'd been killed runnin' cons with my boys."
"You saying you and I are like you and Mary?" John asked, quietly.
"I'm saying, I know I'm a bad bet. But that ain't never stopped you before."
"Arthur," John pressed, still stuck on his previous words, "you said … when you asked Mary to marry you."
Arthur was silent a long moment, smoking aggressively, before he replied, "You heard what I said. I ain't gonna get down on one knee or nothin'." His tone was surly, scowling down at the water in front of them. "You— I—"
"Jesus," John hissed again, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Arthur, you— is this you trying to … to bribe me into staying with you or sumthin? Because that's the dumbest—I ain't going anywhere, not without you. If this is about you actually wanted to retire, then fine, we'll do that. But I ain't askin' you to."
Arthur was still scowling at the water, but his expression seemed more chagrined than irritated. "I'm trying—I'm trying to be different, John. I always said there was no future in it, but … well, maybe that don't have to be true."
It was a terrible idea, but most of John's ideas were terrible, so that didn't stop him from cupping a hand around the side of Arthur's neck and kissing him.
It was still daylight, and they were right out in the open on the end of the pier, but Arthur didn't stop him, didn't even try. If anything he gripped back at John almost painfully hard, kissing back open-mouthed.
Behind them, someone cleared their throat.
Arthur didn't even let go, just pulled back a few inches to glare over John's shoulder. "What?" He snapped, even as John buried his face in his shoulder, cheeks flaming with humiliation.
"Charles Smith just came back to camp," Sadie Adler said. There was a certain mildness to her voice that acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation. "If you two can tear yourselves away."
She gave John a knowing look when he walked past her, his cheeks still red, following Arthur's strident pace. "It takes all kinds in this world, Marston," she said, meaningfully, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Plenty of folk think a woman like me is just as strange."
"I would really, really appreciate not having this little talk." John muttered, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes.
"Then maybe you should keep things a little more private, in future," she replied, not unkindly. "Don't know if everyone else here would be as bland about it."
John rubbed at the back of his neck, chastened. "Noted."
*
Smith was probably the only one of the gang's remaining gunslingers that would not be inclined to shoot them on sight. They were lucky in that respect, at least, but it would have been a lie to say he was trusting when he saw them. None of the gang were really trusting them, they were just desperate.
"—but Dutch was dangling a lot of lines," Charles was saying to Swanson as John and Arthur entered the house, Sadie behind them. The clergyman was wrapping a bullet wound in Charles' thigh.
"Seems like he tripped over one," Arthur said, tucking his thumbs into his belt, a picture of nonchalance.
There was a long, heavy silence at they eyes each other, ominously still, before Smith nodded in greeting. "… Mister Morgan, Mister Marston," He said calmly, but both John and Arthur saw the way that his eyes darted to his gunbelt, lying on a crate in the corner.
"Mister Smith," Arthur replied, in the same deceptively cordial tone.
"And I'm Missus Adler," Sadie said from behind Arthur, her tone dry. "Now that we've all established that we know each other's names, and," said added, meaningfully, "that none'a us are gonna shoot each other, maybe we can get to the point."
"Which point is that?" Arthur said, with no change to his tone.
"Right," Sadie sighed. "Charles, where are the others?"
Charles looked around at the other faces around them—Reverend Swanson, still bandaging Charles' thigh without meeting his eyes. Susan Grimshaw, in the corner of the room, scowling, arms crossed under her ample chest. Pearson, lolling on the ruined sofa with his elbows one his knees, head hanging. Abigail at the table with Jack in her lap, looking away, expression unhappy but mouth set in a determined line. And of course there was Arthur and John, both armed to the teeth, standing shoulder to shoulder, Arthur's arms crossed over his chest, John's right hand resting lightly on the grip of his revolver.
"What, exactly," he said slowly, carefully, "is going on here?"
"That's what we just asked you," Arthur replied with a deceptively mild tone.
Charles turned his gaze to Missus Adler. "Sadie?"
"We're leaving, Charles," she said, sounding tired. "We're heading to—"
"He don't need to know that. Not 'til we're sure of 'im." Arthur cut her off.
Sadie shot him a glare at that, setting her jaw, but she didn't argue the point. "Where are the others, Charles? Are they following you?"
"You're starting to make me nervous, Sadie."
"We're leaving," Abigail finally snapped, Jack clutched against her chest. "We can't do this anymore, Charles. We want to have real lives. Hell, I have a child. So we're leaving, and we ain't coming back."
Charles looked around the room again, at Abigail's determined glare and Pearson's listless apathy, Grimshaw's aggressive scowl and Swanson's apologetic frown.
"What about Dutch? And the money?"
"You can't spend it if you're dead," Arthur said, the exact same thing he'd said to Dutch, all them months ago. "Mister Smith, I understand that you may feel some obligation to Dutch, to maintain his family, but if his family wants to go, what right does he—or you—have to stop them?"
Charles was silent again for a long time. He was a stoic, unreadable man, and it was hard to tell from looking exactly what might be going on in his head, but after while he nodded, seemingly to himself, and looked up, not to Arthur, but to Missus Adler.
"I owe a lot to Dutch. But those are my debts, and I'm not going to try to use you all to pay them." He then turned to Arthur. "Dutch and the others were trying to get on a boat. The plan was to lay low for a few weeks at least, before even trying to return. I don't think you need to worry about them for a while. Now," he stood, favoring his wounded leg, "if you all are leaving, then I need to be on my way, too."
"You could come with us," Abigail said softly, almost hopefully, but Charles was shaking his head even before she finished.
"No," he said shortly, "I couldn't."
Sadie sent Charles off with a week's worth of supplies—far more than they could really spare, but neither John nor Arthur argued it—and as many bullets as he could fit in the saddlebags of his stolen horse. It was the only decision that made sense—Charles would have put the whole group at risk by coming along, his face the most recognizable by far. Even still, looking at the faces of the camp as they watched him ride off, John couldn't quite tamp down the sick twist of guilt in his belly.
"He'll be fine," Arthur muttered, perhaps as much to himself as John. "Man like that can run it alone, no problem."
"He was the one that brought you back when Colm took you, you know," John said, because he wasn't sure how much of that Arthur actually remembered. "Found you out by Twin Stack Pass and rode you back to Clemens Point on the back of his horse."
Arthur squinted up the path at Charles' back, nearly out of sight. "Huh. That was him?" He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, expression thoughtful. "Think I might have kicked him in the face."
John couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, and it was worth the odd gazes from the camp to see Arthur's mouth twitch up into a playful smirk.
Chapter 18: Chapter Five, Part Three
Notes:
This is an ... odd chapter. I say that not as an excuse, but only because it seems it got away from me in some way. There are some complicated things going on that I don't fully flesh out here, because its the kind of thing neither John nor Arthur would be able to talk about. I'm happy to elaborate on the comments if desired--I don't want to do it here because I don't want to seem like I'm underestimating my reader.
As always, thanks for reading.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was only one more loose end to tie up, before they could get the hell out of Lemoyne.
The Saint Denis coroner was only too happy to release Hosea's body to them. "Even one cent spent burying a degenerate like that is too much. You wanna take the colored one, too? He'll go in a pauper's grave, otherwise."
They left the city with two nailed-shut coffins in the back of their wagon, Arthur's face white and his eyes haunted.
They'd been given all the property that both dead men had been carrying. Summers had an old, yellowed letter that they didn't read, out of respect, and a photograph of a pretty young woman with 'Jenny' written on the back, the corner stained brown with blood. Hosea had—
Arthur had only glanced at it for a moment before his face turned white, and he shoved the entire envelope into John's hands. There was a money clip, a handkerchief, a few notes and scraps of paper, and …
And a photo. Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur, recognizable, but younger than John had ever known him. Fresh, smooth-faced, but somehow harder and more wild, as well. He looked like a criminal, a degenerate, the type that a man wouldn't let his daughter step out with it. Despite that, or maybe because of it, he was immediately, viscerally attractive, in a way that made John's gut clench, that reminded him of being sixteen and thinking about, for the first time in his life, what it would be like to have Arthur over top of him.
Arthur had been in his mid-twenties the first time John could remember being attracted to him. The Arthur in that photo must have been around nineteen. He was young, pretty, soft in the face but hard in the eyes. He could see the bones of the Arthur he knew, the construction of him, but that didn't change the fact that, for John, the man in that photo was ultimately a stranger.
This was the Arthur that Dutch and Hosea had known, but John hadn't. He slipped the photo into his satchel when Arthur wasn't paying attention, feeling slightly guilty but, well … how many photos did he have of Arthur, after all, at any age? And what good would it do to bury it with Hosea?
"Bessie, his wife … she's buried in Missouri," Arthur told him, as they were leaving town. "In a fair world, that's where we'd be taking 'im. To lie with his wife."
"It ain't a fair world," John replied, needlessly. They both knew that already.
Arthur was silent for a long moment, the only sound the grind of the wagon wheels. "Do you ever think about … about where Eliza is? Or where we might be? I know it don't really matter, but—"
"You wanna be buried next to Eliza and Isaac?"
Arthur shrugged. "You'll be the one burying me, John."
"Fuck you, no I won't!" John snapped, instantly. He wasn't having this argument again.
Arthur actually laughed under his breath at that. "John … even if we retire, I'm near a decade older'n you. I mean … if you decide to throw me in a ditch instead'a burying me, I guess it won't much matter to me, but I'm gonna die before you do."
"Shut up. Stop." John insisted, hands fisted in his own trousers, painfully hard. "I don't want to think about this. Why the hell are you making me—"
"All right, all right, I'm sorry," Arthur placated. "I guess … Hosea was a father to me. More than Dutch, a lot of the time. You don't think about folk like that dying. When you're young, they seem immortal."
"Where you gonna bury Dutch," John said after a pause, eye narrow, "when he dies?"
"I ain't." Arthur said, instantly. "One'a his boys can see to it. Or he can rot where he falls."
"You sure about that?"
Arthur's expression twisted a moment, something complicated flashing across his face, before he sighed, looking away as he admitted, "No, I guess I ain't."
*
The whole camp wanted to be there, of course, but that was asking for trouble—it was only Susan, Pearson, Abigail, Uncle and Sadie who met them outside the city.
Despite the fact that he was a worthless piece of shit, Uncle had known Hosea for years. Same for the others. They were the old timers, the ones who'd paid in the longest. Sadie … well, she was different. She hadn't been there long, but she was important. Powerful, reliable. She wouldn't mourn Hosea the way the rest of them would, but she was a leader. She had to be there.
It was painful. Of course it was.
Arthur and Pearson took the coffins down from the wagon. John had offered to help, but Susan Grimshaw's glare had stayed him—and that was fair enough. Arthur had the right to carry Hosea's body. John didn't. John was nothing to Hosea.
"We made the markers already," Sadie had whispered, as Arthur and Pearson were digging. "They won't last like a stone headstone, but … well, we did what we could."
Hosea Matthews. Lenny Summers. The last piece of these human beings that anyone would ever know.
John could still picture Lenny jerking backwards and falling. John hadn't been aiming for him, but he'd hit him. He'd killed him. And none of these people, standing around as John helped to bury him, had the slightest idea.
"Do you want to say something?" Sadie asked Arthur, once they'd lowered the coffins into the dirt, before they went to work covering them back up.
"What's there to say?" Arthur replied lowly, leaning against his shovel.
Susan cleared her throat, made the sign of the cross. "Hosea Matthews was a good man in a bad world. He loved with his whole heart, and he wanted nothing but the best for those around him. Lenny Summers was only a child, who never had the chance for the kind of life he deserved. He was a victim of circumstance, and, given the chance, he could have been a great man. Instead, he died too young. May the good Lord," her voice cracked at that, and she pressed a hand over her eyes, "may he see fit to grant them a place in heaven."
"Jesus," Arthur hissed, his voice wet. He ducked his head down, hat brim hiding his eyes, and shoveled the first lot of dirt onto the top of Lenny's coffin. After a moment, John moved to help.
"Hosea always done right by me, by all'a us. Even when we didn't deserve it," Uncle mused, starring down into the grave as they filled it in. "I just wish I'd said so when he was alive."
"Wish I'd said a lotta things while he was alive," Arthur grunted, eyes still hidden.
"He'd be happy, though," Uncle said after a moment, "to think about the women getting out. Would probably be helping you."
"That what you think?" Grimshaw said coldly. "Dutch is Hosea's oldest, dearest friend. I can't imagine he would just run out on him, the way we're doing."
"There's a lot of things I couldn't imagine six months ago, that seem awful plausible now," Pearson muttered, taking a swig from the flask in his hand.
"If I may speak outta turn," Sadie put in, "I think I learned enough about Hosea to know that, what he would really want, is for the folk he cared about not to be startin' a quarrel standing over his grave."
Arthur grunted, letting another shovel-full of dirt fall over the wooden box. "Wise woman."
Grimshaw scowled for a moment, but then seemed to collect herself. She came over beside Arthur and John, and bent over to pick up a handful of the loose dirt in one bare hand.
"Ashes to ashes," she said calmly, as she dropped the dirt onto Hosea's coffin, "and dust to dust. There but for the grace of God go we all."
John wasn't really sure how much 'God' had to do with any of this.
*
The camp was all packed by the time they made it back to Shady Belle, ready to leave at first light. The others went right to bed, but Arthur lingered by the fire, smoking pensively. Mary-Beth was the last retire for the evening, sitting across the fire from Arthur and eyeing him unsubtly or a long while before finally speaking
"Was it pretty?" She asked, looking wistful. "Where … where you buried 'em?"
For a moment it seemed like Arthur wasn't going to answer, staring into the fire as if he hadn't heard, but he finally sighed and looked up at her.
"I don't know much about pretty, Miss. There was a big tree there, old, must'a been growing there for decades. We buried 'em right in its shade. Susan said a few words."
"Maybe when everything calms down, we can go see them." She replied sadly. "Pay our respects properly. Kieran too, I … I was told that you buried him. Did you … is there a marker?"
Arthur winced, looking away. "I'm sorry."
Mary-Beth sniffled at that, looking down into her lap. She thought that he was apologizing for not marking Kieran's grave. When the truth was, there was no grave to mark. "I'm sure you did what you could," she said weakly, sounding on the verge of tears. "He was … a sweet boy. He deserved better."
"They all deserved better," Arthur responded, softly, lighting another cigarette. "This world rarely gives folk what they deserve."
"At least you're trying," Mary-Beth said, sincerely. "I don't know you at all, Mister Morgan, but what you're doing for us, here … it means a lot. That someone thinks we deserve a chance. You're a good man."
"Well," Arthur said, pushing himself to his feet, "I'm trying to be, at least."
"That's all anyone can ask," Mary-Beth called after him, painfully sincere.
"She likes you," John said, mildly, when Arthur stalked over to where he was slouching on the porch.
"She's some kinda romantic, and she don't know me," Arthur replied shortly. "Why you eavesdropping, anyway, when you should be sleeping? We're gonna have a long couple weeks ahead of us."
"Not much appeal to an empty bed," John said, dropping his voice low. "You gonna come with me?"
"… You're walkin' a fine line, kid," Arthur grumbled, but there was quirk to his lips that said he wasn't too off-put by John's come-on.
"Ain't failed me yet," John replied. He reached out and snagged one of Arthur's suspenders, yanking the older man up against him in the shadow of one of the pillars.
"This isn't really the time, John," Arthur murmured, even as he pressed his hands to the pillar on either side of John's shoulders, boxing him in.
"What other time is there?" John replied, brashly, running his hand down Arthur's suspender and tucking his fingers into his waistband. "Like you said, we're about to have a long couple'a weeks ahead of us."
"The house is full'a people," Arthur pointed out, but he was clearly considering it. He wouldn't bother pointing out the problems if the answer was going to be no.
"I can be quiet," John countered, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"No, you can't," Arthur laughed.
Arthur wasn't wrong—it was a terrible time. They were surrounded by folk who were only barely their allies, and they had just buried the closest person to a decent father Arthur had even known. Even still, their conversation on the pier was still fresh in John's mind, and, frankly, burying Hosea was a stark reminder that they were still alive.
"Don't tell me no," John whispered, cocking his head coyly, looking up at Arthur through half-closed eyes as he ran his thumb over the brass button on Arthur's trousers. It was shamelessly manipulative, because John knew full well that telling him 'no' was one of the things that Arthur was worst at.
"You're gonna be the death'a me," Arthur muttered under his breath, heaving a much put-upon sigh. Then he pushed him around the corner of the building, and kissed him up against the crumbling clapboard.
John had still half expected to be brushed off, turned down, and he felt almost dazed when Arthur shoved him up against the wall by his shoulders, almost jarringly hard.
A lot of the time he felt like he was cajoling Arthur into sex. He'd thought that was what was happening here, too—that he was going to poke at Arthur until he 'gave in', until he grudgingly admitted that he wanted this as much as John did.
Instead, Arthur had John pinned up against the wall with his bulk, as if John was the one who might run off.
I'm trying to be different Arthur had said. But John hadn't thought that he was talking about something like this.
"Christ," John groaned, sounding incredulous even to his own ears, when Arthur moved to suck a bruise into the skin below John's right ear. He clutched at Arthur's biceps, dropping his head back against the wall with a thud.
"You said you could be quiet, John," Arthur murmured, right into his ear. John shuddered.
"I am being quiet," John argued back breathlessly, "you ain't done anything yet to make me noisy."
Arthur pulled back a bit and peered at him, his eyes, about the only part of his face John could see in the dimness, narrowing slightly. "Hmm."
John pawed at him desperately when he started to pull away—"No, wait, c'mon,"—but Arthur only moved far enough to drag John further into the dark, tucking them in a corner beside a crumbling brick chimney. Pushed John up into the corner and kissed him again, wedging a thigh in between John's legs.
What's gotten into you? John didn't ask. He just fisted a hand in Arthur's hair, another in the back of his shirt, and gave back as good as he got, biting at Arthur's mouth like a feral thing, rutting against Arthur's thigh like a teenager. He'd started this, but it seemed, surprisingly, like Arthur was going to finish it.
"If we get caught," Arthur murmured in John's ear, "I want you to remember that this was your idea."
Then he dropped to his knees.
"Fuck," John groaned, dropping his head back against the wall.
"Quiet, John," Arthur whispered back, hands on John's fly.
"Fuck," John repeated, much softer, and shoved the corner of his collar between his teeth, biting down hard enough that they creaked. Arthur had his flies unlaced in a moment, pulling his trousers down only enough to get him out of them, licking up to the head and swallowing him down in an instant.
John had to shove the heel of his hand over his mouth the stop the pathetic noise he made.
John didn't know anything about Arthur's history, not with men. He knew there was something there, had to have been, but there had always been Mary, and then Eliza, and John knew Arthur well enough to know he would never have done anything while he was with either of them. So it would have had to be earlier—when Arthur was young. When he was still with the gang.
No one was so good, so nonchalant, about sucking cock as Arthur had been, if that was the first time they'd done it.
John certainly hadn't been.
But then, John's first time had probably been under very different circumstances than Arthur's. At least, he could hope so.
Arthur had John pinned by hips against the wall, fingers bruisingly tight, as he drank him down, John fingers buried in his hair, flexing involuntarily against Arthur's scalp. Arthur was right—John was noisy, always had trouble keeping his mouth shut. He found himself holding his breath to keep the sounds in, until black spots danced in his eyes, until the only thing he was aware of was the feeling of Arthur's wet mouth on his prick, Arthur's hands on his bony hips, Arthur—
He gasped breathless when he came, clawing welts into the back of Arthur's neck until Arthur reached up and pulled John's hands away, pinning them against the wall beside John's shoulders when he stood back up and kissed him.
"C'mon, lemme go," John whined, twisting against the grip. "I wanna—"
"Later," Arthur replied, bafflingly, pressing John up against the wall, chest to chest, to kiss him again.
It wasn't until Arthur finally let go of John's hands, allowing him to pull the older man against him by the hips, that John realized Arthur wasn't even hard.
John pulled back slightly, incredulous. "What's—is something wrong?"
"Leave it," Arthur replied shortly, leaning in like he was about to kiss John again.
"Leave it—are, are you fucking humoring me?"
"Fuck off," Arthur replied instantly, shoving away from the wall, and Jesus, how had this gone escalated so quickly? John grabbed Arthur by the sleeve before he could storm off, pulling him back.
"Wait, don't— I just don't understand. I thought you wanted—"
"What I really want is not to talk about this," Arthur grumbled, but he didn't pull away again when John wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, just dropped his face down against John's neck. Jesus, John thought guiltily. He'd made a pass at Arthur, cajoled him into sex like he always did, and what he probably should have done in the first place was just given him a fucking hug.
He wanted to be sweet to him, give him something like comfort, but the truth was, he wasn't sure he really knew how to do that much better than Arthur did.
"What do you want, Arthur? Just tell me," he said after a long moment, tucking his fingers into the hair at Arthur's nape, the way he'd once seen Eliza do.
"Christ, John … if it was anything you could give me, I'd tell you," Arthur muttered, mouth almost brushing against his collarbone.
"Okay," John said, softly, settling his shoulders back against the wall. If this was all he could do for Arthur right now then, well, that's what he would do. "You know I'd do anything for you, Arthur."
"Yeah?" Arthur replied, pulling back slightly so he could look John in the eye. "How about you promise not to die for me? That if it comes to it, you get yourself out?"
John blinked back at him for a minute. "I ain't gonna do that. Guess you'll just have to work real hard at keeping both of us outta the line of fire."
Arthur huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh. "Yeah. Guess I will."
*
Molly O'Shea caught them going back into the house—or, well not 'caught', because they weren't doing anything inappropriate at that point, except perhaps walking a bit to close together, the backs of their hands brushing.
Molly O'Shea was a bit of a mystery. She hadn't voted yeah or nay when the camp had decided to leave, just sat in the corner of the room with her arms crossed, looking out the window with a bored expression. When Arthur had been recovering in the camp she had spent nearly all of her time in Dutch's tent, fixing her cosmetics, looking haughty, or standing by the water, shawl around her shoulders, looking wistful, like she was trying to see something that was just beyond the horizon.
She was closer to the haughty mood now, leaned back against one of the columns, fanning herself with a folding fan in one hand, smoking a cigarette with the other.
"You boys are out late," he commented, in a lilting Irish accent that, unfortunately, mostly made John think of the O'Driscolls.
"As are you, Miss," Arthur pointed out, tipping his hat. "Not for much longer, though, on our part. If you'll excuse us."
"If I'll excuse you," Molly repeated, drawing out the words, tone ironic. "As if I mattered one jot around here."
"You should head in to bed as well, Miss," John suggested, uncertain how to respond to that. "We'll need to be heading out early."
"I don't sleep much anymore," she replied, looking away. "Can't seem to quiet my mind. Don't you gents worry about me," she added after a moment, blowing smoke out over her shoulder. "No one else seems to."
"I'm sure that's not true," Arthur said awkwardly.
"And I'm sure I don't want your pity, Mister Morgan," she clapped back instantly, before stalking off into the night.
"That's what Dutch does to people, you know," Arthur said, when he and John bedded down, fully clothed, on the threadbare couch. "It's like clay in a furnace. It either turns hard, or it shatters."
Notes:
#hugsnotthugs #Arthurneedsmorehugs
Chapter 19: Chapter Five, Part Four
Summary:
As you all know, I haven't really been naming these chapters. If I were, this one would be called 'the sin of pride'. Enjoy!
PS as always, I will probably be going back and adjusting grammar and typos.
Chapter Text
Then
John had once run away from Eliza's house, from Arthur. Just once, very, very early on.
John had done a lot of stupid things in his life, and many of them had been during his first year under Eliza's roof. You see, you would think that being offered sanctuary, care, would be a relief, would inspire gratitude, but you would be stunningly wrong. Because living on the run, being alone, required an greatly inflated sense of pride. Pride was all that sustained you, in a life like that. When you're sleeping in a barn stinking of hay and cows, one hand on a gun; when you're eating slop out of a pig trough with your bare hands, kneeling in the pig shit; when you're sucking cock out behind a saloon for two bucks in the hopes of having enough money to buy a coat before winter, but end up spending it on whiskey again because nothing else gets the taste out of your mouth—
Well. The only thing that gets you through things like that is the thought you're better than what everyone else has. That your suffering and struggle is noble and strong. That the world is your enemy, and you're the hero of the story.
Heroes don't need to be rescued.
Three weeks into his stay was when he tried it. Arthur had just left from his third visit back since he'd brought John there, stayed two nights working around the house—repairing the groaning spigot in the backyard, sanding down the door to the bedroom so it wouldn't stick, building up the woodpile on the porch so it would last until his next visit.
He didn't ask John to help, and John didn't offer.
Right before he left, he hugged Eliza, put a big hand on the top of Isaac's dark little head, and then, after he'd mounted but before he rode off, he turned his gaze to John, sulking churlishly on the porch, and said, "You be good now, son."
John remembered thinking, who did this man think he was, to tell John how to be?
He took fifteen dollars from the box Eliza kept under the counter, a warm coat that was far too big for him, big enough to double as a blanket, as many cans of tinned meat and beans as would fit in his satchel, and a five-shot revolver he found while pawing through the cupboards for food.
He snuck out in the dead of night and headed north.
John had not chosen to lay low in New Austin. New Austin had simply been where he had been driven. He knew very little about it, had no special knowledge of the best direction to run or the best places to hide. He chose north because he knew that the river was south, and that was the only reason.
He was forced to turn east when he got to the cliffs.
It was two weeks before Arthur caught up.
It was night when Arthur came to his camp. John hadn't even heard him approach, didn't wake up until Arthur kicked at his feet, startling him awake. It was very much like the first time Arthur had found him, actually, except this time, Arthur didn't even pull his gun. This time, once Arthur had seen he was awake, he stalked over to the other side of John's dwindling fire, sat himself down on the ground, and lit a cigarette.
"Well," he sighed with his exhale, smoke ringing his face, firelight dancing his shadowed eyes, "what am I going to do about you, boy?"
John vividly remembered what Arthur had threatened to do if John stole from him.
"You here to take my balls, then?" John replied, trying to sound unintimidated. From the dark chuckle Arthur replied with, he had failed.
"Well, here's the thing," Arthur said, as he pulled a silver flask from his hip pocket. "I am a man of my word. But sometimes a threat is just a threat." He took a long draw from the flask, not even keeping his eyes on John while he did it.
"… what are you going to do to me, then?" John asked, even as he twitched his hand closer to the pistol he had stashed in his satchel.
Arthur hummed thoughtfully. He screwed the camp back onto the flask and tossed across the fire to John who, reflexively, caught it with both hands. "Guess right now I'm gonna have a drink wit'cha," he said, leaning back on his hands in a way that would make it very difficult to draw his guns, "while we puzzle that out between the two'a us."
*
1899
Arthur and John set up their own camp, just within sight of the main one, the first night after they left Shady Belle.
Mary-Beth had some kind of girlish fascination with them both, Arthur in particular, and Sadie at least respected them, but the only one who could be said to actually like them was Abigail, and they had noticed early on that her influence in the gang was extremely limited.
Hosea would have made sure they were welcomed. But Hosea wasn't there. Besides, as much stress as everyone was under … well, it seemed cruel of them to add more. Even if that 'more' was simply their presence.
"How long will this take, you reckon?" John asked Arthur, as he passed him a beer.
"Well," Arthur sighed, taking a swig from the bottle as John cracked open his own, "been awhile since I traveled with a caravan. Depending on how often we have to stop for supplies or hunting, and whether or not we end up having to change our route, I reckon we could be out of Lemoyne in a week and a half. Then, maybe another week and a half to make over the Montana. We'll have to avoid Blackwater, a'course."
"So, what? A full month to Armadilo?"
"Probably more," Arthur admitted. "Something always sets you back."
"Christ," John muttered. "More'n a month with this lot,"
Arthur laughed under his breath. "You already spent near a month with 'em once before. And that time, Dutch was there, too."
"I know, I just …" John worked his jaw for a moment, then glanced out of the corner of his eye at Arthur. "Are you gonna think less of me if I say I'll be glad to be shod of 'em? For it to be just the two of us again?"
Arthur took another swig of his beer. "It'll definitely be easier," he admitted. "Fewer people to look after … fewer people to look at us." The later he said in a slightly rueful tone, quirking a smirk at John.
As if on cue, they heard footsteps approaching from the camp. Both men looked over to see Abigail and little Jack walking over from the main camp, each carrying a stew bowl.
"Though you boys might be hungry," Abigail called out, when she got a little closer. "I got the worst stew in the state, right here."
"Well, with an endorsement like that, how can we refuse?" Arthur drawled, waving them closer.
"That's right hospitable of you, Miss Roberts," John agreed awkwardly, accepting the bowl from Jack.
"Hospitality ain't got nothing to do with it," she said, flatly but not unkindly. "We got a lot riding on you boys. We don't gotta be happy about, but it's true."
"Unhappy and alive is better'n smug and dead any day," Arthur pointed out, and Abigail snorted.
"Don't know that Dutch would agree," Abigail replied, a hint of humor in her voice. "You take the smug outta him, not sure how much would be left."
"Mama," Jack said suddenly, peering up from where he'd sat himself by John and Arthur's fire, "when are Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea coming back?"
All humor vanished from the group, and they stood in awkward silence for a long, heavy moment, before Abigail herded Jack back to the main camp.
*
Then
John suspiciously eyed the flask Arthur had tossed him, making the other man laugh.
"'s just whiskey, kid. Ain't you never had it before?"
John had only known Arthur for a handful of days, at that point. His ultimate motivations were a complete mystery. John's understanding of bounty hunters was, essentially, that they only cared about money. On the other hand, the few times Arthur had come back to the house while John was there, he'd given practically all his money to Eliza. He also knew that Arthur had been a gunslinger, and what John knew of gunslingers was that they were ruthless, immoral ruffians who would kill anyone who got in their way. On the other hand, Arthur had the opportunity to kill John while he was sleeping, both now and when he'd first caught him, and he hadn't taken it.
What John had actually seen of Arthur firsthand was that he seemed an honest, upstanding sort.
"So I guess you're going to turn me in this time?" John said, because that is what an honest, upstanding man would do.
"I done told you I ain't sending a child to the gallows," Arthur replied.
"I ain't a child!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "You really wanna argue me on that point, considering?"
John's face settled into a mulish expression, and he glared into the fire. "So what else is there? You sure ain't about to let me go, else you wouldn't'a come all this way after me!"
Arthur cocked his head and looked at John for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I'm here for my gun, John," he said, finally, his tone matter-of-fact. "The coat, the food, the money—you can keep 'em. But the gun has … sentimental value."
John jerked his gaze back up to the other man, dumbfounded, and then slowly pulled the revolver out from his satchel. "You chased me out into the middle of the desert, not to turn me in but … for this?"
"That's the one," Arthur said, expression brightening. "Toss it here and I'll be on my way."
John did as instructed, tossing the worn gun over to land in the dirt near Arthur's feet. It never occurred to him to worry about disarming himself in front of the other man.
Arthur immediately scooped up the gun and checked it over with quick, efficient movements, before tucking it into his own satchel with a sharp nod. "Well, it's been a pleasure knowing you, John Marston. I wish you luck."
Arthur lumbered to his feet, absently brushing the dirt off his trousers, paying John absolutely no mind. It was so baffling that John just watched for a long moment, until Arthur actually turned his back to him, fixing to walk away.
"So that's it?" John demanded, incredulous. "You're just going to let me go?"
Arthur hesitated a moment at that, and John could actually see his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. "Yeah, I am," Arthur responded, sounding tired. "I ain't got it in me to drag you to the hangman, and if I brought you home with me, you'd just run off again. You ever heard, 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink'?"
"So you really, honestly, tracked me two weeks into to desert, not to turn me in, but for an old five-shot pistol?"
Arthur turned and gave him another long, unreadable look, and then he stalked across the fire and crouched down next to John, holding the pistol out—not for John to take, but for him to see. "You see this carving on the grip?" He did—it was a relatively crude carving of a buck's head, the antlers tangled above it like vines. "I did that when I weren't much younger'n you are. I took it off my father's dead body, and I carved into it so that it'd be mine instead'a his. Used to be, I never put this gun down, not even to sleep. You remember the first thing you ever had, kid, that ever really, truly felt like it was yours?"
John thought of the gun that preacher had given him, after saving him from hanging. The one he'd lost after the murder Arthur original chased him for.
What did it say about him, about Arthur, that for both of them, the first thing they ever truly owned was a gun?
"Yeah," Arthur said when John did reply, his expression knowing. "So to answer you, yes, I tracked you four days—I didn't get home until four days ago—into the desert for an old five-shot pistol. 'Cause here's the thing, kid—when you ain't on the run, you get to keep your past, instead'a throwing it away every time you move, or running away from it."
"My past ain't worth keeping," John snapped back hotly.
Arthur pushed himself back to his feet, tucking the gun away again. "Your future ain't gonna be, either. But I reckon that's none'a my business." He tipped his hat to John, like he was a gentleman. "Well, like I said—good luck to you. Try to to kill anyone around my patch again."
John stomach rolled with something between nausea and anxiety as he watched Arthur stalk out of the light of the campfire, but he didn't follow him, didn't call him back.
He had his pride.
*
1899
Being on the road with that many people was exhausting.
John a wanderer for a good portion of his life—on the run, before he met Arthur, and then on the trail, after they left Armadillo—but unlike Arthur, he'd never moved with a gang. He'd never be even partially responsible for something as needy as a group this large.
He and Arthur could live on the trail for weeks with nothing but dried meat, canned beans, and the occasional rabbit or turkey. This camp would nearly starved if someone didn't hunt up fresh game every single night.
He and Arthur had maybe five sets of clothes between them, two bedrolls, a two-man tent, and maybe a couple dozen trinkets and such; small, easy-to-transport charms with sentimental value. Anything more they'd once had was collecting dust at the house in Armadillo, if it still existed at all. This camp had cots and card tables and a goddamn phonograph, and they brought all of it with them.
He and Arthur could go days in silence at times, because there was nothing that needed said. They knew each other well enough to move around each other without discussion. This camp—
"Dutch ain't here to baby you anymore, Miss O'Shea. You need to learn how to work on your feet instead'a on your back."
"Who are you to judge me, you drunken harlot? Go crawl back inside your bottle."
"At least I ain't a useless, tarted-up hole only good for sticking things in—"
"You reckon this'll go on much longer?" John asked Arthur, tiredly. In the week or so they'd been on the road already, tempers had been wearing thin. Screaming fights had become not at all uncommon, but Miss Jones and Miss O'Shea were definitely the biggest problem.
"Susan'll knock their head together eventually," Arthur said, looking utterly unbothered by the ruckus, carving what was probably another little wooden animal for Jack.
"And then it'll just start up again another night," John grumbled.
"Folk are tired, and hungry, and scared. Surely you remember what that was like," Arthur replied. John made an unimpressed grunt, and Arthur sighed. "Look, John, if you want to scout out ahead, get away from this a couple days—"
"Why're you always offering me to leave?" John demanded, sounding slightly offended.
Arthur gave him a quelling look. "Because I know you, John. Just like you know me."
After a moment John had to admit, at least to himself, that was fair enough. "Well, I ain't going. The minute I turn my back you'd be off riskin' your neck on another fool's errand. Like you said, I know you too."
Arthur opened him mouth to reply, but just then they heard the shuffling sound of someone coming through the long grass from the main camp. It was Tilly Jackson, a half-asleep little Jack on he hip, looking just as tired as any of them.
"May we join you for a while?" She asked softly, nearly a whisper. "Abigail … she don't want Jack around all that."
"And rightly so," Arthur replied instantly, and he stood to take Jack from her arms, cradling the boy easily. "You sit yourself down, Miss Tilly. You both can stay as long as you like."
*
Then
Arthur found him again, two week later, in a cell in the Blackwater city jail.
John had rented a bunk in a lodging house in Blackwater, paid three dollars of his stolen money to stay for the first week, and fifty cents per night after that. Every morning he told himself that this would be the day, he would get on a boat or a train and get out of town. And every evening, he went to the nearest saloon and picked enough pockets to pay for his drinks, before heading back to the lodging house to pay for another night.
No one seemed bothered by a fifteen-year-old drinking in the saloon and sleeping in prostitue-filled boarding houses. No one seemed to notice he existed at all.
But nothing good lasts forever, and even shitty things come to an end, eventually, so it was only a matter for time until he was caught with his hand in the wrong pocket.
"You know," Arthur drawled, leaning up against the cell bars, startling John out of a doze, "feller up front told me your name was John Morgan."
John blinked up at him, still half-asleep. "Couldn't exactly tell 'em the other name."
"Hm," Arthur said, his expression unreadable. "Well, suppose it works out. Chief of police agreed to release you to my custody. Told 'im we was brothers. And that was before I knew you gave my name, so he bought it."
John blinked, still asleep enough that his mind was having a hard time parsing that. "Were you watching me?"
"Don't be stupid. I'm in Blackwater all the time, and the jail is where I do my business. It'd be hard to miss you."
John rubbed at his eyes. "What'd it cost you?"
Arthur grunted. "Enough."
"Well, go get it back. I don't need your help."
"Yes," Arthur replied immediately, pushing himself away from the bars, "you do."
"Why do you care, anyway?" John finally exploded. "Sure, you say you was like me, but you don't act like it! Your wife says you was a gunslinger, but I ain't never known a gunslinger what went off to join the law. I think you're a fuckin' liar!"
It was intentionally spoken to provoke, to make Arthur leave, but, as always seemed to be the case so far, John had underestimated him.
"I am," Arthur said, cocking his head. "I'm a liar, and an thief, and a murderer. The shit I done, John, you wouldn't believe. The stuff people want me for, that's only the things I got caught for. I was good at not getting caught. It helps if anyone who's seen your face is dead."
For the first time since he'd met the man, John actually felt afraid, of Arthur, felt a chill run through him.
"And if you're waiting for me to say that I changed because I found God, or a conscience, well, that ain't why. The things I did, I did 'cause I felt I had to, felt I had a right to." He stepped up to the bars again, leaning with his forearm above his head. "The world treated me like shit, so I treated the world like shit."
"And then you stopped because you had a kid, I heard that from your wife," John shot back.
"I had a kid for years before I stopped, John," Arthur replied lowly. "You wanna know why I really stopped?"
"Sure," John drawled, trying to sound disinterested, "tell me."
Arthur leaned close like he was about to tell John a secret. "Because I decided to. And no one and nothin' decides my life but me."
John would later discover that this statement was largely false. Arthur allowed a lot of other things and people to decide his life, including, later, John himself. But maybe the issue was that Arthur didn't fully realize that, himself.
"And it's just that easy?" John challenged. "You just decide to be different?"
"Guess you'll never know until you try," Arthur replied, deceptively casual. "I'll meet you outside."
*
They'd been on the road three weeks or so when fate caught up to them.
John and Arthur's camp had been moving progressively closer as the days passed. Now, near the shore of the upper Montana, they were sleeping just outside the circle of wagons, close enough to hear all the goings-on but far enough away to exclude themselves if they chose. It was barely sun-up when the ruckus started, and John almost rolled over and went back to sleep, thinking it was more infighting. It was Abigail's voice that changed his mind; high-pitched and strident, though he hadn't heard the words. He shook Arthur awake, and they shouldered their way through the crowd of people to find—
To find Dutch Van der Linde and his boys, standing in the middle of the wagons, looking like a week of hard riding.
"Arthur, my boy," Dutch said when he saw them, his tone a threat, "fancy meeting you here."
Chapter 20: Chapter Six, Part One
Summary:
The shit really hits the fan.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They were so close to being safe. If they had made it across the river, it was doubtful Dutch would have pursued them. Blackwater was still too dangerous for the gunslingers of the group, and even setting foot on the other side of the Montana would have been near a death sentence.
Arthur shouldered in front of John, protectively, resting a hand on the grip of his pistol. "I see rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated," he said, glibly. "How'd you find us so quick?"
"Oh, I got the letter Miss Grimshaw so kindly left for me at Shady Belle. Gave me all the relevant information."
John glared across the group at Susan Grimshaw, but she looked not at all cowed. "We don't leave folk behind. I told you that."
"No one was being left behind," Arthur said carefully, "but no one knew if they were even coming back. Everyone agreed to this."
"Agreed to what," Dutch asked, "exactly?"
"Oh young Mister Morgan here fancies himself our salvation," Grimshaw replied, not hesitating to go over to Dutch and the other boys. It was clear she'd chosen her side long before this, if sides were to be taken. "Talked all these women into running off to join society."
"I didn't talk anyone into anything," Arthur replied immediately, keeping his tone mild. "As you well know, Susan, I ain't the persuasive sort. Maybe these folk are just tired of being dragged from disaster to disaster with the promise that the next disaster will finally be the last one."
"That's always been your problem, Arthur," Dutch said, sounding very sincerely disappointed. "You can't see the forest for the trees. Times have been tough, I grant you," he said, not to Arthur but to the camp around him, "but night is always darkest before the sunrise. Now, I have a plan—"
"Oh, this'll be good," Arthur muttered, mostly to John, though not especially trying to be quiet. Dutch's short glare made it clear he, at least, had heard it.
"I had a lot of time to reflect, while we were fighting genocidal tyrants in the jungles of Guarma," Dutch said, his voice dropping into that lyrical, storyteller tone, like he was working a con. "You've never seen anything like it. Beautiful, lush jungle, fragrant flowers as tall as a man, and death. Death everywhere. We washed ashore with the corpses, and the first other living things we saw were slaves, chained at the ankles, on a death march across the beach to sugar plantation. If hell had palm trees, well, it could've passed for hell. And I thought, there, but for the grace of God, goes this whole goddamn country. Then I remembered," his voice went low at this, not so much dangerous as ominous, "that God abandoned this country a long time ago. Crawling around that jungle, we remembered that the only people we can truly count on, are each other."
"That's your line?" Abigail put in, from where she stood, just a few steps behind John and Arthur. "We have been counting on each other, Dutch! What we ain't been counting on is you!"
"So you'd rather count on these fellows, hm?" Dutch replied, arching one dark eyebrow as he gestured expansively towards Arthur and John. "Oh do not mistake me," he added quickly, giving Arthur a long, considering glace, "Arthur Morgan was a man I was proud to call my brother. Even after he bowed to society's laws, he was always a man who understood loyalty."
"Was," Arthur echoed, but he didn't sound to bothered by the past tense.
"Yes, Arthur—was." Dutch replied. "Now you seem to have mistaken unnatural perversions for love and honor."
"You're gonna do this? Here? Now?" Arthur said, lowly. There was no shame in his voice—more disbelief.
"Don't these fine folks deserve to understand who they've decided to trust?" Dutch replied, loftily. "Don't they deserve to know that the man they're asking to rescue them spends his free time engaging in acts of sodomy with the very man that shot Lenny Summers?"
John's blood went cold. The women around them seemed to take a collective intake of breath, and a half step back away from them.
"Lenny Summers was an armed man, shot robbing a bank," Arthur said, without noticeable hesitation, seeming to ignore the other part of the accusation, for now. "That you want to pin that on John—"
"You really didn't know," Dutch cut him off, sounding openly incredulous. "He shot one'a my boys plain as day while you were in the street with Hosea, and he didn't even tell you." Dutch turned his gaze to John, his expression an odd mix of threat and pleasure. "Didn't think to mention it. Susan's note said you buried them. Was John with you?" Something in John's face must have given away that he was, because Dutch's next words had an oddly satisfied undertone. "Tell me, Arthur—did he stand over the grave of the man he murdered while you put him in the ground?"
God, Dutch was loving this. He'd found it, the thing that might actually get Arthur to look at John differently. That might let him win.
"I was aiming for you," John finally snapped, fists clenched. "I was aiming for you, Dutch, not for Summers. I had no gripe with Summers. Seemed a fine kid, 'cept for who he decided to follow, and I'm sorry he died—but if you want me to feel bad over trying to kill you, you're going to be disappointed."
"… well, there you have it," Dutch said finally, hand closing around the grip of his pistol. "How does that sit with you, Arthur—your little catamite trying to take off my head?"
Arthur looked over a John a moment, a long, hard glance, his expression carved from stone. Then he looked back to Dutch and said, his voice utterly sincere, "I told him to do it. I told him if he had a shot on you, to take it."
John looked over to Arthur, eyes wide.
"They only person to blame for Summers' death is you, Dutch. It weren't John or I that put him up on that roof."
"But it was you who put him in the ground," Dutch replied shortly, hand closing on the grip of his pistol.
"That's enough!" Sadie Adler finally roared. "You fellers—tuck your dicks back into your pants and calm the hell down. Ain't no one need to get shot here!"
Dutch and his boys, Arthur and John, stared each other down in ominous silence for another few seconds, before Dutch suddenly relaxed his stance, rolling his shoulders under his jacket, and gestured vaguely to the men behind his to lower their weapons.
"Missus Adler," Dutch acknowledged tilting his head. "Do you stand with these men?"
"We stand with no one else gettin' dead!" Abigail shouted, shoving her way through, Jack on her hip. "Goddamn it, Dutch, just let us go!" Her voice cracked at the end.
Dutch turned his gaze to Abigail, expression thoughtful, and then to Jack, hiding his face against her shoulder.
"Just 'let you go'?" Dutch repeated, calmly. "With my son?"
Behind them, someone gasped.
"I— if you have a son, its news to me," Abigail fumbled, clutching Jack closer to her chest.
Dutch sighed. "Abigail, hasn't this farce gone on long enough? Every person here knows that boy is mine. Perhaps I didn't treat the matter as seriously as you would have liked, but on the other hand, you seemed fairly determined to play the fool about his parentage. And, well …" he gestured over at Molly O'Shea, standing at the back of the group, her faced turned away but glaring out of the corner of her eye, "… leaving him to you did make my life a lot simpler."
"I decided the minute I knew I carrying, that no child of mine would be have an outlaw for a father," Abigail snapped, "and he don't. He ain't never had a father before and he don't have one now!"
"That child," Dutch said, sounding dangerously reasonable, "is my legacy. Do you really expect me to let that go?"
"Can't take a man's child from him," Micah put in, his finger on the trigger of his pistol. "Ain't right."
"You gonna take a child out of his mother's arms now, Dutch?" Arthur asked. "Is that where you're at?"
"No one's saying anything of the sort. Everyone is welcome back with us, Miss Roberts included," Dutch replied. "I would never expect a woman to abandon her child—any more than I would abandon mine." He swept his gaze across the group, lingering on Abigail. "You all know how I feel about protecting my family."
The guns were up again, on both sides. "You call this protection?" John sneered.
"I call this inevitable," Dutch replied, pulling back the hammer on his pistol.
And right then, right when it seemed like things could not possibly get any worse—
"This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency! Throw down your weapons—"
"Behind the goddamn wagons!" Arthur yelled. "Now!"
*
It could have been a bloodbath. Then again, it was shaping up to be a blood bath before the Pinkertons even got involved. Ironically, their appearance might have saved some lives, since the appearance of a new enemy sent Dutch and his boys scrambling as well, ducking for cover.
They were in a defensible spot, since the camp spot had been chosen by Arthur and Sadie—an abandoned military compound, walled off, only two ways in or out. Dutch and his boys were between them and the Pinkertons, and Arthur intended to keep it that way.
"What do you want to do?" Sadie asked shortly, pistol in hand and she crouched next to him behind the wagon. John glanced to Arthur, but the older man was just shaking his head, hand on his pistol where it was still in his holster.
"Nothing," he said after a moment, looking down. "Keep our heads down and let it play out. They're here for Dutch. They get him, and it solves a lot of problems for us, don't it?"
"Does it?" Sadie shot back. "You really think they ain't gonna run right over us, too?"
"We been on the move for weeks, and we ain't had a whiff of the law until Dutch found us. They're here for him. They ain't gonna do nothin' to us so long as we keep our heads down—"
Before he'd finished speaking, Molly O'Shea let out a soft noise, nothing more than an exhalation of breath, as blood bloomed on her white blouse. She wavered on her feet a moment before falling to the ground.
"—fuck !" Arthur snapped, even as John darted out to drag her over behind the wagon.
"Either you're on the side of the government, or you're on the side of the folk here, Morgan," Sadie snapped, cocking her shotgun. "There ain't no in between right now."
Arthur hissed under his breath, and then slung his shotgun over his shoulder. "Goddamn— John. Give me your rifle."
John's grip tightened reflexively on the grip of his repeater. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. "I'm a better shot than you."
"Yeah, and if you shot at the feds, you'd probably hit 'em. Which is why you ain't. Now give it here and put your head down."
"You really think it'd matter to the feds which of us was shooting? Any of 'em live to tell, we'll both hang."
Arthur scowled, swiping a hand over his face. "Just— shut the hell up, John, and give me your goddamn gun."
John met Arthur's scowl for a long moment, and then, jaw set, he tossed the repeater at Arthur's chest, hard enough that Arthur had to fumble to catch it. "I ain't a child, Arthur. I sure as hell ain't your child. I don't need no protection. If there's risks to take, I can choose for myself if I want to take 'em."
"Not the time, John," was Arthur's short reply, as he poked his head up over the wagon.
"What other time is there?"
"Stop your fuckin' bickering and shoot!" Sadie Adler finally shouted, and Arthur, still scowling, did exactly that.
They both agreed on it—John was the better shot, of the two of them. But that was a relative thing—Arthur could still out-shoot just about anyone. Hell, half the reason John was so good was likely because it had been Arthur who taught him.
Arthur emptied the magazine—eight bullets. Every single one of them hit.
It wasn't as if Arthur single-handedly turned the tide. Sadie was shooting, too, and Dutch and his boys might not have been sharpshooters, but they sent enough bullets at the Pinkertons that as least some of them hit. But Arthur was— well, John had always suspected that reason Dutch never totally let Arthur go was because he was just too goddamn valuable.
It could have been a bloodbath. Instead, in the end, the only bodies on the ground were law and Molly O'Shea, who was still gasping shallowly, blood soaking her fancy clothes.
"Dutch!" Arthur yelled out as he stepped out from behind the wagons. "You take your boys and you go back to Lemoyne—or wherever the hell you're squatting these days! These folk ain't goin' with you!"
The smile Dutch wore when he emerged from the shelter of a broken-down wagon was bone-chilling.
"That is a wonderful idea, Arthur. I'll take my boys," and then Micah stepped out as well, a squirming Jack Roberts in his arms, "and head home."
John had to catch Abigail around the waist to keep her from darting right across the clearing.
"You fuckin' snake," Arthur snarled. "While lawmen was shootin' at your people, you sent this rat to steal a boy from his mother? You're no better than Angelo Bronte."
Dutch's vicious smile immediately dropped into a scowl. "Angelo Bronte wasn't the boy's father."
"Until an hour ago, neither were you!"
Escuella and Williamson had come to flank the other two men—to his credit, Javier at least looked a little dyspeptic about the situation, his gun pointed towards the sky, rather than at John and Arthur. "A boy needs his father, Morgan," Micah drawled, his hand over Jack's mouth. John gritted his teeth and drew his revolver, his repeater still being in Arthur's hands.
Maybe this would be a bloodbath, after all.
"Maybe a boy needs a father," Arthur replied, evenly, "but I grew up with you, Dutch, and I can safely say—no boy needs you."
"Well then," Dutch said, gesturing expansively, pistols in both hands, "come and take him from me."
"Wait, wait," Abigail said, frantic. She looked over her shoulder a moment, dragging her eyes over women behind her, over the loaded wagons containing their whole lives. She shared a long, hard glance with Sadie, and John couldn't see what exactly passed between them, but Abigail nodded to her once, sharply, and then stepped away from John and Arthur, her face grimly set. "Take me and Jack with you, and leave the rest of these people go."
"Ain't happenin'," Arthur snapped.
"It ain't your goddamn decision," Abigail snapped back over her shoulder. Then, to Dutch, "Well?"
Dutch looked over the group behind her—Molly, gasping on the ground, bleeding to death. Tilly Jackson, her expression pinched, worried, where she crouched next to her. Pearson, a shotgun in his hands, looking away. Uncle, atypically blank-faced, holding a rifle in his hands. Mary-Beth Gaskill, her arm around the shoulders of a shaky Karen Jones, both wide-eyed. Swanson, blank-faced, his hands pressed tightly over the oozing wound in Molly's chest, red up to the wrists. Sadie Adler, lips pressed into a thin line, a pistol in each hand. And Arthur and John, hands on their guns, ready to respond in kind to whatever he offered, Arthur's face thunderous, John's dangerously blank. He looked back over his shoulder a moment, at Bill Williamson, looking more surly than determined, Javier, looking right back him raptly, waiting for guidance, Susan Grimshaw, mouth eyebrows drawn down, looking pained, and Micah, one hand clasped over Jack's mouth, gripping hard enough that his knuckles were white.
Micah, the only one, the only one, on his side, that looked willing, even eager, for violence.
Something passed across Dutch's face, something thoughtful, calculating.
He lowered his guns.
"My friends," he said, boldly, expansively, "I have I have sweated, and bled and killed—for you. For all of you. As you have done for me. But I am neither your jailer, nor your master. If this is the end of our journey together—well, all I can say is: I have been honored to share each of your company for the time we had, and I will always have a place for each one of you."
Damn it, John thought—this wasn't Dutch giving up, this was Dutch saving face. John could hear the menace under the conciliatory tone, and he was sure that these folk, who knew him way better, could hear it, too.
Then Dutch turned his gaze to Arthur and John. "As for you—Arthur, my son … the next time we meet, I will kill you."
Arthur ignored him. "Abigail, you don't have to do this. We can protect you."
Abigail's expression was resigned, almost regretful, as she turned away from him. "No, Mister Morgan—it turns out you can't."
"Goddamn it," Sadie muttered under her breath, as they watched her cross the divide to Dutch's side. After a moment she holstered her guns, turning back towards the horses. "I'm going, too."
"While I appreciate the thought, Missus Adler," Dutch drawled, as he signaled to the men behind him to mount up, "you are far too dangerous a woman to have at my back when your loyalties are suddenly … questionable. Micah, Jack will ride with me. Would you be so kind as to share your horse with Miss Roberts."
Micah aimed a smile at Abigail that he might have thought was charming. It looked more like and alligator, showing its teeth. "It would be my absolute pleasure, Dutch."
Arthur turned to Sadie, hands clenched around John's repeater. "We just gonna stand here and—"
"Yes," Sadie said shortly, watching with narrowed eyes as Abigail was pulled up onto the back of Micah's horse, "we are, right now, because if we start another gunfight, Jack and Abigail are both gonna die."
Arthur looked, for just a moment, like he was about to argue. Then he turned to John. "Once it's safe to follow—"
"Then I'll go to look for her, get her back outta there," Sadie cut him off. "These folk still need to get to New Austin, and you're the only ones here who know shit about it." She leaned a bit closer, lowering her voice. "Abigail ain't stupid. She knows what she's doing, and so do I, I promise you. Take the time she's buying you and get these folk gone." She added, even more quietly.
"Dutch'll kill you," Arthur warned, and Sadie snorted.
"Well, he'd definitely kill you."
"Not to interrupt or nothin'," Tilly Jackson said from behind them, her voice strained, "but Molly is still bleeding to death over here!"
*
It took John ten hours to get Molly to the surgery in Blackwater, in a hastily emptied wagon pulled by their two fastest horses, Swanson crouching in the back trying to keep the poor girl breathing.
She only woke once, gasping out, "I'm dying, Dia, I'm dying—" before dropping off again.
"Is she dying?" John asked Swanson tensely, not looking away from the reins. He didn't feel much one way or the other about Molly, and no one seemed to like her, but …
"We're all dying, Mister Marston," Swanson replied, almost meditatively, "she's just doing it a little bit faster."
John scowled, thinking that he actually preferred the man when he was stumbling drunk. "That ain't real helpful, Reverend. I'm asking if I need to be be heading for the doctor of the undertaker when we get into Blackwater."
"If it get to the point where we need an undertaker," Swanson replied dryly, "I will be certain to let you know."
They didn't. Molly was still breathing when they left her in the surgery in Blackwater, and she was still breathing when they returned the next morning to check on her, now wearing a shapeless white gown, only a shade or two lighter than her skin.
Swanson said a prayer at her bedside. John stood by awkwardly, hand folded behind his back like a guard.
It was another full day before the wagons made it to the grasslands outside of town, Pearson and Tilly at the reins. Sadie was nowhere to be seen, which was to be expected, but—
"Where's Arthur?" John demanded immediately of the group as a whole, rooted where h stood.
"Where do you think?" Karen Jones finally answered him, after a long, pregnant pause. "He went with Sadie, after Dutch. Christ, you'd think that kid was his, the way he wouldn't let it go."
"He left you a letter, where to meet him," Mary-Beth quickly put in, digging into her pockets. It took everything in John to take the letter from her gently, instead of slapping it out of her hands.
John,
Be in Valentine in two weeks. I will send a letter if I cannot meet you.
I'm sorry. I had to.
-Arthur
Notes:
This chapter has been a little hard for me, because I'm not really working from the story arc anymore, except in the broadest sense. That said, there are some events and themes that are callbacks to canon, so hopefully it will still hit home.
To those of you still reading, thanks! Hey, maybe the PC release will reinvigorate the fandom--a girl can hope.
Chapter 21: Chapter Six, Part Two
Notes:
You know how I said last chapter that the shit really his the fan? The shit fan is still spinning. Hope you like tension and angst! We'll get the touching reunion next chapter.
Also everyone's kinda shitty to each other in this chapter. I mean, in fairness, they're under a lotta stress. *shrugs*
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In shameful truth, John was ready to ride back east that very moment, and to hell with the lot of them. Karen Jones was the one that stopped him.
"Look here, ya goddamn fruit, we need you," She snapped, hands on her ample hips, even as she swayed on her feet. "Ain't none of us know a thing about New Austin. We will fucking die."
"Karen …" Tilly chided, brows furrowed.
"What?" She snapped back. "Am I not supposed to say it? This ain't a wagon train, we don't know where we're going, and Morgan was the one who knew the person we're supposed to be going to. Even if we manage to get there, we show up with no Morgan, no Marston, just us? They won't know us from Adam!"
"She's right," Pearson said after a moment. "Mister Marston, without you to vouch for us, we're just vagabonds."
John gritted his teeth. How dare Arthur do this to him? This was his fucking quest, not John's, and here he was, leaving John holding the bag.
"Mister Morgan said," Mary-Beth put in, meekly, "he said … well, he said you'd be mad, but that you'd still help us. Mister Marston, we do need help."
John clenched his fist around Rachel's reins. Usually, in these situations, John would ask himself, what would Arthur Morgan do? Except, apparently, what Arthur would do is make it John's problem.
"… I shot Lenny Summers." John said after a moment. "I weren't aiming to, but I did. That don't bother you?"
"Yes, it fuckin' bothers us!" Karen snapped. "But we ain't got the luxury of walking away from the only real chance we got!"
John closed his eyes a moment. This wasn't—even John's own thoughts sounded petulant, but this wasn't fair. Arthur had been the one pushing this from the start, and John had been the one wanting to turn Dutch in and be done with all of them. Even if they had to split up, it should have been the other way around—Arthur should have been the one leading these folk, leveraging what connections he still had in New Austin to people who had known him as Eliza Morgan's husband. For all the time he'd lived there, John's name would never carry the same kind of weight.
This wasn't his goddamn job. He'd never wanted to play hero the way Arthur seemed to, lately.
"Fine," he bit out. "Goddamn it, fine! I can get you through West Elizabeth. There's a ranch just over the border, owned by a man named MacFarlane. Arthur already sent him a telegram, the man said he'd help anyone willin' to work. That don't suit you, reckon you can figure out your own way from there."
The look of goddamn relief on Mary-Beth's face, on Tilly's, made him feel sick to his stomach.
At least Karen Jones still looked at him like she thought he was a piece of shit.
"We'll head out in the morning," he said finally, and instead of mounting up, as he'd half planned to, he pulled his bedroll off his saddle. "First light. So maybe you should switch to water, Miss Jones."
"Don't talk to me," Karen replied shortly. "Just do what you promised us."
He and Arthur had been setting up closer and closer to the wagons throughout the weeks, but that night, John could barely see their fire from where he laid out his bedroll.
*
The first time Arthur had—
No. He isn't going to think about that. Not now.
*
It was a painful, awkward, tense week's journey to get to the MacFarlane's Ranch. Looking over the company with him, John couldn't help but think of the telegram Arthur had shown him from Drew MacFarlane, what seemed like ages ago. Do not bring trouble on my family.
The only thing John and Arthur brought these days was trouble. To others, and to themselves.
It went faster with five. They had left Swanson in Blackwater, with Molly, and could keep a faster pace with the smaller company. Their provisions had dwindled, too, taking off some of the weight. There was no dawdling anymore, either, no pointing out sights or asking for rest—none of them really wanted to be here, anymore.
"Is it true?" Mary-Beth asked him the third night, once the others had gone to bed, but before John had stalked away from their fire. It was about the first words anyone had said to him since Karen's rant. "What Dutch said about you and Mister Morgan?"
For a moment, John wasn't even sure what she was asking. "Dutch talked a lot of shit about us."
It was when her cheeks colored faintly in a blush that John realized what she was getting at, and he suddenly felt like his skin was crawling, even before she clarified, "I meant about … how you are, with each other."
"That's— you can't—" John didn't stutter so much as choke, some odd mix of anger and shame coiling in his belly. He'd heard his share of back- and fore-handed comments about him and Arthur, but never had someone actually come out and asked him.
"I don't mean—it just seems so romantic!" She exclaimed, and the anger in John's stomach fell right out of the bottom.
"Romantic?" John repeated in disbelief.
"Oh, you know—'the love that dare not speak its name'? They can't stop talking about it in Europe. Have you heard of Oscar Wilde?"
Of course John hadn't heard of whoever that was, if he was from goddamn Europe. What did she take him for?
"Well, anyway, he went to prison for it—indecency, they said, but how can love be indecent? The world's got just about enough problems in it without making more—"
"Stop talking," John cut her off, probably more harshly than he needed to, but he literally, honestly felt like he was about to be sick.
"I had one, too," she replied instead, almost a challenge. "A forbidden love. Or the start of one, anyway. Someone I weren't supposed to care about. And now … well, now he's dead."
John didn't have the words to explain to her all the ways that wasn't even remotely the same. That a woman loving a feller she weren't supposed to wasn't likely to get her run out of town, or shot in a back alley, or hung. That her story maybe was sort of romantic, even with her feller dying, but theirs was—
Wait.
Her feller dying. Someone she weren't supposed to care about.
"You … talking about that O'Driscoll? Kieran?"
"His name was Kieran Duffy, and he—"
"He's not dead."
Mary-Beth froze.
"At least, he weren't the last time we saw him. Which was in the surgery in Saint Denis." When Mary-Beth's response was a baffled, lost expression, John sighed. "It was a lie, Miss. Arthur 'n I found Kieran in an O'Driscoll camp, but he was alive. And, well, he didn't seem liable to stay that way if we sent him back, so we gave him some money and told him to get on a train. Then we wrote Hosea that he was dead so you all wouldn't look for him. But he ain't dead."
"But …" Mary-Beth's hands fluttered uncertainly, her eyes wide. "Why would you do that? I … I had asked Mister Morgan about Kieran. About where he was buried," Mary-Beth said, voice wet. "He didn't tell me. He let me think—why would you let us think—"
"I've just told you why," John replied. "Duffy was soft. It ain't always a bad thing. But he would be dead right now if Dutch had got him back. So there's your romance, Miss. Your 'forbidden love' ain't dead."
Mary-Beth looked back at him for a long moment, expression conflicted. "You … you killed Lenny Summers, but you saved Kieran Duffy. And then you lied about both of 'em."
John's answering expression was exasperated. "Would the truth have helped anything?"
Mary-Beth opened her mouth, as if to snap back at him, but after a moment she closed it again, brow furrowed. "You can't lie to someone and expect them to trust you."
"I don't expect you trust me," John immediately replied. "That's Arthur's thing. I'm doing this 'causa'a him."
Mary-Beth huffed. "Yeah. I guess you are."
*
The last time, before now, that Arthur had—
No. He isn't going to think about that. Not yet.
*
Their arrival at the MacFarlane Ranch in Hennigan's Stead was profoundly underwhelming.
It was near dusk when they arrived, and the ranch was all but silent. They pulled the wagons up outside the enormous main house, and John left the others there to walk up the dirt path.
Before he knocked on the door, John reflexively dusted his hands across the thighs of his trousers, as if that was enough to remove the trail dust. As if cattle ranchers were likely to care much about that sort of thing, anyway.
MacFarlane had a whole passel of children. John didn't know their names, but by his estimation the young man who answered the door must have been the eldest, in his late teens or early twenties.
"We aren't hirin' ranch hands," he said shortly, "but you can probably sleep in the barn tonight, if you don't have anywhere to go."
"I'm here for Mister Drew MacFarlane? I … he's supposed to be expecting me. I'm John Morgan."
The young man gave him an assessing look. "Its late. But I'll see if he'll see you."
John glanced over his shoulder to the wagons, where the others were watching him with tense suspicion. God, he really hoped MacFarlane hadn't changed his mind, because he couldn't wait to be shod of them.
The same young man finally came back to the door, looking deeply suspicious, and ushered John into the front sitting room, where Drew MacFarlane was sitting with a glass tumbler of amber liquid.
"Mister Morgan," He said, gesturing for John to sit, "I was expecting your brother. Is he well?"
"I believe so, sir," John replied, sitting awkwardly on the very edge of the plush sofa. "I'm meeting him in New Hanover in about a week."
"Hmm. You know, I never liked your brother," MacFarlane offered, without preamble. "He left poor Miss Tobias on her own with that child for years. And even after he made her a Missus, he was hardly ever around. Mister Morgan," MacFarlane leaned forward in his chair, "I'm the type of man that believes a man with children needs to put down roots. Not just run around seekin' adventure."
"With respect, sir," John said tightly, "I don't think you much knew my brother, if you think he didn't do everything he could for his family."
MacFarlane hummed again. "Let me tell you about family, Mister Morgan. I used to have six sons. Four months ago, I had four. Today, I have three. So when I speak of how I feel about you brother, what I'm saying is, I don't need any more trouble for my family."
Johns stomach clenched. "I understand perfectly, sir. These are just folk lookin' for a new start."
"And we'll be happy to help them, so long as they are decent and honest," MacFarlane replied.
John hesitated. "They're decent," he said, "but sometimes honest is hard for even the best of us."
"Meaning 'ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies'," MacFarlane replied wryly. "Knowing what I do about you and your brother, I suppose I'm not surprised."
John didn't ask what MacFarlane knew. Ultimately, it didn't seem to matter.
"So you'll help them?"
"We'll help them," he agreed.
"Good," John said, shoving to his feet. "Good. We've two wagons and four people. Three young women, literate, and a man. A cook. None'a them are afraid of hard work. I'll stay to get 'em settled tonight, but I need to head out in the morning."
"You in that much of a rush, Mister Morgan?"
"Yeah, well," John replied, as he shoved his hat back onto his head, "I need to get back to my brother."
*
The last time Arthur had left for this long without John, he had nearly died.
Arthur, not John.
It wasn't common—hell, it was near unheard of—for John and Arthur to split up. Anyone who knew them, knew them as 'the Morgan boys', and it had been that way for years.
There had been a time, right after Eliza and Isaac, when that wasn't so. When Arthur was still used to working alone, and John was still to hesitant to insist, to demand, to do anything but try his best to go along with whatever Arthur wanted. John had lost Eliza and Isaac, too, but he didn't know how to ask for comfort, and Arthur had none to give him.
They hadn't had a word for what was wrong with Arthur, back then. Still didn't, really. Most men either moved along in life, forever changed, or they crawled deep into a bottle and drowned there. Arthur, though … Arthur just stopped caring. About money, about himself, and even, so it seemed to him at the time, about John.
When John offered to come with him, Arthur had said, flatly, without looking at him, "I don't want you to."
And at the time, what Arthur wanted seemed like the most important thing.
(The distance between what Arthur wanted and what he needed was endless, especially then.)
Arthur was gone two weeks. Two weeks John spent in an empty house, bloodstains still on the bedroom floor, Eliza's shawl still hanging on a peg by the door, Isaac's carved wooden animals arranged on the mantel, but nothing of Arthur. Nothing of Arthur, at all.
He could have ridden into town. He had a horse, and the people there knew him. But he didn't. He shot rabbits from the porch for dinner, slept in a bedroll by the fire, and spent the rest of the time reading Eliza's dog-eared bible. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
The bible, John found, was full of well-meaning lies.
The thing was, Arthur never actually came back. Possibly never meant to. Instead, Dickory from the local telegraph office rode out to the house two weeks after Arthur left with a message from the sheriff of Tumbleweed. Found your brother. Request you come.
He had to be dead, John thought, immediately. Why else would the sheriff say nothing of his well-being? Why else would Arthur not have sent the message himself? Why else—
Why else would Arthur not have come back home?
It took a full day and night of riding to get to Tumbleweed, Old Boy lathered and exhausted by the time they got there. Boadicea was hitched out in front of the jail, and she nickered happily when John hitched Old Boy up next to her.
There was blood dried into her coat.
"Arthur Morgan," John demanded when he burst in the door. "You told me—someone sent me telegram, saying you found him. You—his horse is hitched out front."
The look Sheriff Freeman gave John was powerfully bored. "His horse being here don't mean he is," he replied. "I left him at the surgery right before I sent the telegram. Haven't been back to check on 'im, but they probably would have told me if he died."
The doctor was almost as cavalier as the sheriff. "Oh. You're the brother. Freeman mentioned he was going to write you. I assume you'll be able to settle your brother's accounts? I put a lot of morphine into him."
John was about ready to burn Tumbleweed to the fucking ground. "I'll pay you, ya vulture. Where's my brother?"
Arthur was motionless, pale as milk, and only the rise and fall of the blanket over him let John know that hew as breathing. When he finally woke, a day after John arrived, he looked down at the bandages wrapped around his chest, covering two bullet wounds and a knife wound, and said, blearily, "Dunno why they bothered."
If Arthur had been in better shape, John would have punched him. "Fuck you, Arthur! Were you trying to die?"
Arthur didn't even meet his eyes, turning his face to the wall. "What do you think?"
Arthur had never been good at looking out for himself. It was why he had to be tricked into thinking he was looking out for other people. "What am I gonna do if you die, Arthur? You think I can run it alone?"
Arthur turned back to him, brow furrowed. "John …"
"No, this is it, Arthur. You 'n me. You pulled me off the goddamn street and gave me a family. Family means something. It means even if you want to die alone, I ain't gonna let you."
Arthur blinked at him blankly for a long, heavy moment, his bloodshot green eyes distant.
"Okay," he said finally, closing his eyes. "Okay."
*
John left Pearson, Tilly, Mary-Beth and Karen in a stretch of open plains just outside the ranch proper.
"You sure about these people?" Karen asked him, eyes hard, when John went to help them unload the wagons. He snorted in response.
"No, I ain't," he replied shortly. "What other choice you folk got?"
"Fair enough," she grumbled. "You're a real piece of shit, John Marston. But … well, you got us this far. So I guess I'm grateful."
"I'm hard pressed to think of anything that matters less to me, Miss Jones, than your gratitude." John grumbled back, and Karen snorted, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Like I said," Karen muttered, "a real piece of shit."
John didn't linger for goodbyes, and the camp didn't seem inclined to give them. They didn't even watch him ride off.
It took a week to ride from Blackwater to Hennigan's Stead, but only twelve hours by train to get back. An attack of conscience made him stop in at the surgery before riding out to Riggs, to check on Molly O'Shea, and well …
Well, no good deed goes unpunished.
Standing right outside the surgery as he left was Edgar goddamn Ross.
"Oh, hell no," John groaned, swiping a hand over his face. "I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare."
"Quite possibly," the man replied, is an falsely jovial tone. "I have some questions for you, Mister Marston, you and your … 'brother', about the eight Pinkerton agents shot to death north of the Montana last week. Right around the time you rode into town with this young lady, as it happens."
"Arthur ain't here," John said immediately. "He's in New Hanover, has been for weeks."
"One of the survivors of the massacre seemed to think otherwise," Ross replied.
Survivors, John thought. Someone had rabbited before they could get shot. Damn it all to hell. "Well they're wrong. I think I know where my own brother is. And I don't know anything about any dead Pinkertons."
"The woman you brought here—Miss O'Shea?" Ross continued, as if John hadn't spoken, "is the well-known paramour of Dutch Van der Linde. Arthur Morgan's old, dear friend."
John actually huffed out something like a laugh at that. "If you think Arthur and Dutch are friends—"
"Associates, then. We know," Ross said, ominously, "that your and Arthur Morgan have been in contact with Van der Linde. We have tried to negotiate a moderately peaceful resolution with you. Now?" Ross stepped closer, hat shading his eyes. "Eight of our agents are dead. You bring us Dutch, and we'll say he killed them. If you don't? Maybe I think that Arthur Morgan did."
John gritted his teeth. "Look, I don't have 'im to give you."
"Then find him, Mister Marston. If you value the life of your invert friend, you will get us Van der Linde."
God, John would like nothing more that to lay Dutch right at this asshole's feet. "If I do—if I can find him—that's it, right? You leave Arthur and me alone."
Ross stepped back, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "Once we have Van der Linde, what else would we need you for?"
*
Arthur didn't meet John in Valentine.
Charles Smith did.
The man looked wildly different, hair shaved to skin on either side of his head, the remaining sections woven into a tight plait. His eyes seemed harder, too, when John met them, and he didn't even flinch when John drew on him.
"I'm not here to fight," he said calmly. "Arthur Morgan asked me to meet you."
"Why ain't he here himself?" John demanded and Charles slowly, telegraphing every moved, pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket.
"Funnily enough, between the two of us," he replied, "I'm the less recognizable, right now."
There was no dollar amount on the poster, because it wasn't a bounty. But it was a sketch of Arthur, with his full name, and the words, in bold, WANTED FOR QUESTIONING.
John stared at it for a long moment, mind blank, before he crumpled the sheet in his hand. "God fucking damnit."
Notes:
For the record, its unlikely, but not impossible, for Mary-Beth to have actually heard of Oscar Wilde's indecency trial in canon, as it was in 1895 and kinda a big deal. And Mary-Beth is a literature type.
Chapter 22: Chapter Six, Part Three
Notes:
So ... the thing is, in story, you really do need to have some interpersonal conflict. In the game, that was clearly between Arthur and Dutch. In this fic, there's going to be a bit between John and Arthur to create the same tension. The difference here, of course, is that unlike Dutch and Arthur, John and Arthur both actually love each other.
Not a lot is happening in this chapter, action-wise--just a lot of set-up and drama. But hey, at least I got it out pretty fast (for me).
In the next chapter, if all goes as planned: COLM.
Chapter Text
The first thing John did, when he saw Arthur for the first time in nearly two weeks, was punch him in the face.
Arthur must have seen it coming—he didn't try to stop it. Took it on the chin like he deserved it, which he absolutely did. He caught the second one, using the grip to reel John into an embrace that was more about immobilizing him than showing affection.
"You son of a bitch," John growled, wriggling in Arthur's hold. "I am going to murder you in your goddamn sleep, see if I don't!"
"Will you at least cry at my funeral?" Arthur asked lightly.
"I'm throwing you in a ditch."
"And here you said you wouldn't be the one buryin' me."
John jerked back far enough to glare. "Not. Funny."
"Well this is real heartwarming," Sadie Adler drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Charles, why don't we give these boys a moment, hm?"
Arthur let him go once Charles and Sadie went down to the river, taking a step back and giving him a slightly wary look. "You gonna punch me again?"
"I hate you so much right now," John growled back. "And whaddaya even got to show for it? I don't see Abigail and Jack here."
Arthur frowned. "We're working on it."
"We? You mean you, Sadie Adler, and Charles Smith? Because what I been workin' on is keeping your promises!"
Arthur didn't yell back, didn't defend himself. "Did MacFarlane take them?"
"Yes," John hissed, "and he's welcome to 'em!"
"And Molly O'Shea? She make it?"
"Yes."
Arthur closed his eyes a minute, nodded seemingly to himself. "Then it all worked out for the best, didn't it?"
"For the best? What do you call this, Arthur?" John demanded, shoving the poster Charles had given him at the other man's chest. "We was seen. Edgar Ross found me in Blackwater, told me that if we don't get him Dutch, he's gonna hang all them dead Pinkertons on you."
"Well," Arthur said calmly, "it isn't like he'd be totally wrong."
Arthur's unexpected serenity was slowly forcing John to realize that the clenching in his gut wasn't really anger, so much as panic. "This ain't a joke, Arthur! What are we gonna do?"
"What you've wanted to do from the start," Arthur replied. "We're gonna get Dutch."
It slowly dawned on John that what he was seeing out of Arthur wasn't so much tranquility as the same stillness that always seemed to overcome him when he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. There were moments when they were really, truly in danger that time would almost seem to stop for Arthur, where he could stand and line up shots like bullets couldn't touch him, empty every chamber in his pistol and get a hit with every one.
Arthur was lining up his shots.
"… and Abigail? And Jack?" John said slowly. "They're why you ran off on me, after all."
"Yeah, well, and you lied to me for weeks. If you wanna have this out right now, we can do that," Arthur replied. He didn't even sound mad, more tired, but John still felt his stomach clench.
"That's—I didn't lie to you, I just didn't—" Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, and John cut himself off. He'd spent the entire time they were separated being righteously angry at Arthur, but … he hadn't considered that Arthur actually had some reason to be doing the same. "Fine, I'm sorry, okay? But that didn't give you the right—"
"You said to me once, John," Arthur interrupted, turning his head down slightly so that his hat hid his eyes, "that the only secrets you kept were mine."
John paused, reassessed. Chose his words carefully, because clearly this was—clearly he had misjudged something. "I would have told you about Summers. Eventually. But we were still with the gang and it didn't really seem like a good time."
"Is that another lie?" Arthur asked, rhetorically, the slightest but of emotion, of anger, finally creeping into his voice. "You should have told me right then—"
"I should have told you when you were sittin' in the street covered in Hosea Matthews' blood, half outta your mind?! Funnily enough, I suddenly had other things on my mind 'right then'!" John snapped back, and part of him was real annoyed that he was having to defend himself to Arthur right now, when Arthur was the one who had abandoned him in New Austin.
And part of him was desperately trying not to think of the original reason he hid this—that this might actually be the thing that made Arthur look at him different.
"If I had told you, you would have told the gang. You woulda apologized for it, Arthur, I know you. And then not a one of them woulda come with us. Your whole little rescue woulda been over before it started."
That hadn't really been why John hid it. But thinking on it now, it was absolutely true.
And when Arthur looked back up at him, eyes hard as flint, he realized it had been the exact wrong thing to say.
"Well gee," Arthur drawled, uncrossing his arms, "thank you as always, Dutch, for savin' me from myself. I know you always got my best interests at heart."
John was struck so speechless he didn't even think to stop Arthur when he shouldered past in the direction Charles and Sadie had gone.
"—might be our best chance right now," Charles was saying when John finally caught up to them.
"I have to agree," Sadie replied. "Look, we came here to get your boy, and now we got 'im. So let's get back to it, all right?"
"You'll get no complaints from me," Arthur agreed, looking up and seeing John coming. "Maybe you should ask John, though. He's the clever one, after all."
Sadie and Charles obviously didn't know what had just passed between the two men, but they would have had to be dumb and blind to miss the tension rolling off Arthur, the clench of his jaw and the narrowness of his eyes. John should have felt cowed, but that wasn't the men either of them were. Instead he annoyed, because he hadn't been ready to have this confrontation turned around on him—Arthur was supposed to be the one hanging his head and being repentant, so John could be cross with him for a day or so before letting it go, like he always did.
John's temper was a firecracker, bright and brief. Arthur's was a campfire, slow to build, but the heat lingering for ages.
"Well, if I knew anything that was going on," John said darkly, "maybe I'd have an opinion on it."
Charles and Sadie exchanged a glance. "This is going to be an interesting trip," Charles murmured to her, mouth pursed.
*
Apparently, they were bound for the Wapiti Nation in the East Grizzlies. Charles said 'Nation' with a certain challenge, but Sadie and Arthur both said 'Reservation', and John thought that, sadly, that was likely more accurate.
"What does Dutch have to do with the Wapiti?" John asked, when they were going up through Cotorra Springs. Arthur didn't answer—Charles did, tone grave.
"Dutch has been … well, I'm sure he'd say that he's been helping the Wapiti fight back against an oppressive nation, but the truth of it is, he's been using them to make trouble for the US Army, hoping it will make them less likely to go looking for him."
John chewed on that for a moment. "So … they know where he is?"
"Its a little more complicated than that," Charles replied. "The younger braves, they … they're buying what Dutch is selling. They might know. I just don't know if they'd tell us."
"And we've been hangin' around too much." Sadie put in. "The chief—Rains Fall—he's a … well, a sort of pacifist, I suppose. Arthur, Charles and I been seen with him. But you, John …" she glanced at the other men, cocking her head, "if he can sell himself as a hothead to the young'uns, they might take 'im."
"Well, John is an excellent liar," Arthur replied without looking at him, and John had to bite back the vitriolic retort that bubbled up in his throat, "but we ain't … we ain't talked about this. John can't be a spy, because Dutch knows 'im. We're better off trying to get it outta Eagle Flies, like we planned—"
"Eagle Flies trusts Dutch more than us, at this point," Charles replied. "But he might not even know where they're staying. Dutch has been playing things awful close the vest. You know …" Charles gave John a narrow glance out of the corner of his eyes, "Dutch does know you. Hates you, in fact. If he though he had a chance to get rid of you it might get him to poke his head out."
"Like bait," Sadie said thoughtfully.
"That ain't happening," Arthur immediately responded.
"I can speak for myself, Arthur," John shot back. "But I don't think it'd work, anyway. Dutch'd shoot me if I was stood in front'a him, but I doubt he'd bother to chase me down."
"… you're probably right. You don't matter enough to him." Charles agreed.
"You know who he would care about?" Sadie mused. "Colm O'Driscoll."
A memory suddenly surfaced in John's mind. "… Arthur. You remember that O'Driscoll we saw in the jail right before Saint Denis blew up? The one that broke my arm, said he was Colm's cousin?"
Arthur gave him a narrow look. "What of 'im?"
"He told me a couple'a places Colm holes up—said if Colm wasn't going to protect him, he wasn't going to protect Colm. With everything that happened I'd forgotten about it, but … it'd be something to start with."
"I ain't got no love lost for Colm O'Driscoll, but his boys might be more trouble than the four'a us can handle."
"We're already on our way to the Wapiti," Charles said finally. "We'll talk to Rains Fall, and if we can't get any information from him, then … we'll consider our options."
John glanced at Arthur, who's expression was oddly conflicted. Colm had been the one to order Eliza and Isaac's deaths. Colm had kidnapped and tortured Arthur, purely as a way to get to Dutch. Colm was a consummate piece of shit, but a dangerous one.
"Do you want to go after Colm?" John asked, under his breath, for Arthur's ears alone. "For what he did?"
"Yes," Arthur hissed, instantly. "But … it ain't worth dyin' over. Colm'll get his eventually. It don't have to be us what gives it to 'im. And if it weren't for this whole Pinkerton mess, I'd say the same of Dutch."
John let out a slow breath. "Well then, you're a better man than I am," he murmured, and Arthur's mouth quirked up at the corner in a mirthless smile.
"Normally I might argue that with you," he said, "but right now I feel you might be right."
*
Rains Fall had nothing for them. He seemed to have nothing for himself, either. The reservation smelled of sickness and the natives there were haggard and exhausted.
"If I knew where this man was, I would tell you," Rains Fall told them, sounding almost apologetic. "No matter what my son believes, he does not hold the best interests of my people in his heart."
"If Dutch ever had a heart," Arthur muttered under his breath, tone dark, "it's stone now."
"So," Sadie said, when they mounted back up, "Colm O'Driscoll?"
"I don't know that that's—" Arthur started to replied, but she cut him off.
"Look here, do you know what the O'Driscolls did to me?" She asked darkly, and when Arthur didn't immediately reply, John did it for him.
"Do you know what Colm did to us? Dumb question, actually, because I done told you. You ain't cornered the market on grief, Missus Adler."
For a moment, Sadie looked shamed. "That's … I weren't thinkin'. I know you both got just about as much reason to hate him as I do."
"Here's the thing," Arthur said, his tone painfully even, "I don't believe for a second that you really wanna go after him because it might find us Dutch. This ain't about Dutch, for you. But Missus Adler—this ain't never been about Dutch, anyway. This is about Abigail and Jack Roberts. Ain't it?"
Sadie looked down at her hands, white-knuckled on the reins of her horse. "Can't it be about both?"
"No," Arthur replied, decisively, "it can't. Either this is about saving folk or it's about revenge. It can't be both."
You're a better man than I am, John thought again, because truthfully, he wanted Colm almost as bad as Sadie did.
Sadie worked her jaw a long moment, her eyes dark. "… then its about saving folk," she said, finally. "My … my grievance with Colm, I'll have time for that. Abigail and Jack, though, they might not have time."
"Right," Arthur said. "So if we're gonna do this, we're gonna be smart about it."
Sadie blinked. "Wait … what? You still wanna go after him? Then what was the point of that whole—"
"Because the why matters," Arthur replied abruptly. "You go out aiming for revenge, you ain't even gonna try to live through it. We don't need that. What we need is for all'a us to get out alive. Including Colm."
"You want Colm alive?" John said dubiously, and Arthur shrugged.
"Well, you can't have a public hanging for a man that's already dead."
*
"Really?" John demanded, annoyed, when for the third night in a row, Arthur put his bedroll on the opposite side of their fire from John's. Sadie and Charles elected to set up further down towards the river, which John had thought would allow them a little bit of privacy. Arthur glanced up at John's exclamation for a moment with raised eyebrow, then went back to smoothing the fabric. "C'mon Arthur, you really gonna—"
"I don't wanna fight with you, John," Arthur said tiredly. "You wanna talk at me some more about how you were protecting me from myself, I guess I'll have to listen, but—"
"I shouldn't have said that. That wasn't really why. Jesus, Arthur—you'd been talking for weeks about 'saving' those people, and I shot one of 'em. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to find out!"
Arthur blinked at him. "You think that's better?" He asked, disbelieving.
"I think it's honest," John replied.
Arthur was silent for what felt like a very long time. "What exactly did you think I'd do, if I knew?"
"… Pretty much this," John admitted.
"Wow," he drawled sarcastically, "wonderful plan you had then, clearly."
"I ain't never claimed to be clever," John replied, "but look—I shot a criminal who was robbing a bank during a shootout. Do I usually report even man I shoot to you?"
"Don't pretend this is the same thing. We don't usually bury the men you shoot, either."
"Is that really why you're sore at me—because Summers is dead?" John shot back, almost a challenge. "Or is it because Dutch knew and you didn't?"
Arthur hesitated a moment at that, brow furrowed.
"Cause I didn't like it either, you know. Dutch having that against me. Especially when you didn't know. I knew right then I shoulda told you, but what could I do about it then? And then before I could even say anything to you about it, you went off after Dutch without me! I had to ride a week, alone with a buncha folk that knew I had killed their friend—how do you think that was? The whole thing was fucked and I'm still mad at you, too, for leaving, but you can't just—" John shoved his hands back through his hair, roughly, frustrated. "You've always said revenge is foolish, ain't worth it. Is this worth it? Is it worth holding a grudge over a stupid lie with everything that's going on? Like you said yourself, it all worked out for the best didn't it?"
"So you wanna just pretend it didn't happen, is that it?" Arthur asked.
"No, I—well, yes, maybe! I just want—" God, John felt petulant even thinking it, let alone saying it, but he admitted, "I want you to stop being mad at me."
"… yeah," Arthur sighed after a moment, curling up with his back to John, the fire crackling between them, "I'd like that, too."
The thing was … and if was really probably a terrible thing, but Arthur was all John had. Arthur wasn't Dutch, John was sure that he hadn't aimed to make himself the only person in John's life, but that was how it had happened. John remembered thinking, last time they saw Mary, that Arthur ought to have other people. He'd just never had that thought about himself.
With that thought in the back of his head, get got up from the fire and walked down to the river. Down to Sadie and Charles' camp. Arthur didn't call after him, didn't even open his eyes.
They both looked up when John came into the firelight, Sadie raising an eyebrow at him curiously. "Whatchu doin' down here, then? We were trying to give you some time alone with your man." The tone was mostly playful, not judging, but John winced anyway, because when had this become a thing that people just felt comfortable talking to him about? Dutch, and Mary-Beth, and Sadie, and hell, even Edgar fuckin' Ross had jabbed at him about it.
When had he and Arthur gotten so obvious?
"You got any whiskey?" John said, instead of answering, and Charles tossed him a bottle with a searching expression.
"Ah, I see," Sadie said knowingly, glancing at Charles. "Lover's quarrel."
John winced again. "Stop sayin' stuff like that."
"Why?" She asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "We're all criminals here, ain't we? At least yours seems to be a crime of passion."
*
John came back to his and Arthur's campfire a few hours later, drunk. Sadie and Charles … well, they weren't really the kind of people that he would have chosen to ally himself with, necessarily, but they were decent folk. People you could trust. He could start to understood why Arthur did.
When he finally got back to the light of the fire, he found Arthur's bedroll tucked up beside his own, on the same side the fire, Arthur laying flat on his back like he usually slept, arms crossed over his chest, hat tucked over his eyes. He stirred when John knelt down next to him, blinking a moment.
"Are you—" John started to ask, hesitantly, and he wasn't even really sure how he planned to finish; Are you sleeping here? Are you still mad? Are you going to forgive me?
Arthur grunted, put upon, and swiped a hand over his face. "John. Lie down and go to sleep."
It didn't really fell like anything was solved. But John was drunk and Arthur was warm and God, he'd hated those nights sleeping on his own, both in New Austin and once he got back, so John just did as he was told. Toed off his boot, set aside his hat, and tucked himself up next to Arthur, close enough to see him breath, but not touching.
Arthur sighed after a moment and stretched one arm around John's back, tucking the slighter man up against his side like they normally slept, when they were alone.
"I'm still mad," Arthur muttered, mostly into John's hair, and John took a deep breath against Arthur's collar, cordite and trail dirt, sweat and gun oil.
"Yeah," he replied against the side of Arthur's neck, already half-asleep, "me too."
Chapter 23: Chapter Six, Part Four
Notes:
So like ... this is my attempt as action. Let me know how I did. (Featuring crazy Sadie and voice-of-reason Charles)
(There's also plenty of dialogue too because I'm still me.)
Chapter Text
John and Arthur didn't talk in the morning. They didn't exactly not talk, either, just broke up their camp with the familiar silence of two people who had done that sort of thing often, who could move around each other without instruction. Sadie and Charles rode up from their camp by the river to meet them, and Sadie glanced between them with a knowing look that made John wince and Arthur scowl.
All she said, though, was "All good?"
"Good as it's gonna get right now," Arthur grunted. "You about ready for this?"
"To get Colm O'Driscoll?" Sadie scoffed. "I been ready for months. The real question is, is he ready for me?"
"I don't know if the world is ready for you, Missus Adler," Arthur replied sincerely.
Colm's cousin had told John of several places that Colm might hang his hat, but the likeliest—Hanging Dog Ranch—was north of Big Valley. They bribed the train conductor at Bacchus Station to let all four of them on one of the flatbeds cars—horses too—and from Wallace Station it was less than a day's ride.
They stopped and circled off the trail when they started seeing a lot of horse tracks—and they finally caught sight of the ranch from the shore of the Little Creek River.
"Lot of men," Charles said, his tone unreadable, when he passed the binoculars over to Arthur.
"I never known Colm to travel with less'n a dozen," Arthur responded, taking his own look. "Shit, that looks like a lot more'n that, though. He must'a called back all his men from New Hanover."
It was true that John has seen a noticeable lack of green, both when they were coming through with the wagons, as well as when he was coming back. "He must know folk are after 'im. He's tryin' to go to ground."
"Oh, he'll go to the ground, all right," Sadie said, ominously, shoving bullets into the loops of her gunbelt with unnecessary force.
The ranch consisted of a house, smoke coming from the chimney, a large barn, a tall watchtower, and one small shed. There were people milling around in the central open space, and some tents visible behind the main house. This wasn't a camp, it was a stronghold, and they were going to have to be really damn careful if they wanted to get out of this alive.
"… so here's what I'm thinking." Arthur sad, after a long perusal. "Colm is probably in the house. He ain't the type to rough it. So, we hit the barn and the tents with fire. Get everyone out into the open and pick 'em off. Then we take the house."
"Teams then," Charles agreed. "You and Mister Marston up high, while Sadie and I go in close."
"You sure?" Arthur replied. "You get surrounded, you're dead."
"I agree with Charles," Sadie said. "We ain't snipers, it don't make sense to split up any other way. 'Sides—" her eyes glinted up at them from under the brim of her broad hat, dangerous, "when I kill an O'Driscoll, I wanna be close enough to see the light go outta his eyes."
Sadie Adler was … well, John didn't remember Arthur being quite that bloodthirsty, even after Eliza and Isaac.
Then again, Arthur had still had John. Sadie had no one but the people she'd picked up since.
"Just don't get yourself killed," Arthur grunted. "Remember, we're only after Colm as bait. This ain't revenge, it's a job."
"Sure. Just a job," Sadie agreed, dismissively. "We'll see you boys on the other side."
*
There wasn't much high ground to be had near Hanging Dog, but John managed to get set up on a rise just northwest of the barn, while Arthur went a little further around the side, for a better angle on the tents. They loaded Charles and Sade down with fire bottles, wrapped in scraps of fabric to keep the glass from clinking together, and the two of them crept up from east, the the long dusk shadows concealing them from sight.
Sniper work was rarely called for in their profession. Anything more accurate than a repeater was often overkill. That said, Arthur had a scoped Springfield that could take the wings off a fly at a hundred yards, and John's bolt action made up for it's slightly lower precision by having John behind the scope.
He was the better shot, after all.
John lost sight of Sadie and Charles once they got closer to the buildings, and couldn't figure their location again until the first fire bottle shattered against the side of the barn.
From there, it was chaos.
Arthur had been right—the fire sent everyone right out into the open, and there was a moment at first where the O'Driscolls had not realized they were under attack—scrambling for buckets of water instead of for cover, running to the well instead of the house.
That ended when Arthur took his first shot. There was man in the courtyard waving the others around like he was in charge, shouting orders. His head snapped back in a spray of blood, and he wobbled a moment, mouth open, before the collapsed into the dirt.
Another fire bottle exploded in the middle of the group of tents, and John heard but didn't see one hit the opposite side of the barn from the first. Either Charles or Sadie had circled around to flank them. John picked his shots, trying to keep anyone from doubling back to the ranch house, or from advancing too far from the center yard. He could hear the crack of Arthur's rifle to his far left, and the fainer sound of revolver fire below him, but his world had narrowed to the scope of his rifle, just watching men pop their heads out from behind cover, for him to blow them off.
The barn was engulfed now, the roof groaning, the flames high enough that they blocked some of John's view of the yard. It was so hot that he could feel the radiant heat even from the rise, and he pulled away from his rifle a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, before it could drip into his eyes.
A bullet slammed into the forestock of his rifle, sending it spinning out of this hands.
"Jesus Christ," John exclaimed, reflexively, immediately dropping to his belly and shimmying back away from the edge.
"Sniper in the watchtower!" He heard Arthur yell, though whether it was addressed to John, or to Charles and Sadie, John couldn't say. He crawled on his belly in the direction his rifle had been flung, but when he finally found it, moments later, the bullet had completely splintered the forestock.
"My rifle's done!" He yelled over to Arthur, not sure if he would be heard over the roaring of the flames.
"What else you got?" Arthur yelled back after a moment.
"Pistols!"
"Then just keep your head down!"
Fuck that, John thought. He poked his head up long enough to to see that whoever had been up in the watchtower no longer was, then shimmied over to the edge of the rise and dropped himself down over the side. The blazing barn was right in front of him, roof sagging ominously, so he circled right, around to the horse stalls, just in time for it to fully collapse, smoke belching out from every opening as it fell into itself. The fire was creeping along the fence line as well, but he locked eyes with Missus Adler, crouched behind a wagon in the yard, long enough for them to recognize each other.
"Move, I'll cover you!" She yelled, and John did—made a dash for the wagon as Sadie fired towards the house. The yard seemed clear by now, the remaining gunfire coming from the upper window of the ranch house. John slid into cover just as Sadie crouched to reload, and when she looked over at him, her eyes were bright with adrenaline.
"One in the upper window," she told him. "Can't seem to hit 'im."
"Got it," John said shortly. He took a deep breath, just like Arthur had taught him, then stood and lined up his sight to the open window on the second floor. He had a bullet through the man's forehead before he could even level his rifle.
And then, for the first time in what felt like hours, but had probably only been a few minutes, it was quiet. Near silent except for the crackling for the still-burning barn and the sound of hoofbeats circling down from where Arthur had been perched.
"My ears are ringin'," Sade said breathlessly, rubbing at the right one with the heel of her hand.
"That'll happen," John replied, holstering his pistol. "Welcome to bounty hunting, Missus Adler."
Charles emerged from around the corner of the house, his face expressionless even as he stepped over half a dozen corpses, and Arthur appeared next, on horseback, Rachel trotting behind him. His face flashed with something like relief for a moment when he saw John, but then it immediately darkened, and he slid off Boadicea with a scowl.
"The hell was that, John Marston?" He snapped, stalking across the short distance between them, not even acknowledging Charles and Sadie. "I said keep your head down!"
"It all worked out for the best, didn't it?" John shot back, and he wasn't intentionally echoing Arthur's words from when they were reunited, but Arthur's flinch indicated that he certainly heard them that way.
"In a gunfight, you follow my lead. Those are the rules, John—"
"Fight about this later," Sadie cut him off. "We ain't got Colm yet."
Even as she was saying it, a horse and rider bolted out of the shed, making for the gate of the ranch.
Arthur cursed, and was back on Boadicea in an instant. "John, with me!" he ordered, but didn't wait, launching himself after the escaping rider.
"Is it Colm?" Charles was shouting as John raced to haul himself up onto Rachel's back, but John didn't have the answer to that. He hadn't gotten a look.
"Search the house!" he yelled back, as he bolted after Arthur. "Whoever it is, we'll get them!"
Boadicea and Rachel were both thoroughbreds, but John and Rachel didn't have the kind of rapport that Arthur and Boadicea had. Chasing them would have been near impossible, under normal circumstances, but in this case John was able to take a shortcut through the trees by following the sound of gunfire.
When he burst through the treeline he could clearly see Arthur and the mystery rider on the other side of the meadow. The O'Driscoll's horse was clearly not the kind of athlete that Boadicea was, and whatever lead he'd had was quickly closing. John spurred Rachel hard towards them, holding the reins in his left so that he could draw with his right. He could see Arthur bent low over Boadicea's neck as he slowly gained on the O'Driscoll, could see the glint of light off the pistol in Arthur's hand.
He had almost caught up when Boadicea reared suddenly, and Arthur tumbled out of the saddle.
John pulled back on the reins, instinctively pulling to Rachel to a halt. "Arthur!"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Arthur yelled back, his voice slightly tight with pain but still strong. "Don't let that bastard get away!"
John hesitated a moment—torn between the knowledge that 'fine' rarely meant 'fine' when Arthur was the one saying it, and the fact that Colm O'Driscoll was their current best shot at getting Dutch and, thus, their own freedom.
Then he spurred Rachel after the fleeing rider.
The man's horse was not the specimen that Rachel was, picked out by Arthur's keen eye and experience, and besides, the skinny Saddler was clearly already lathered, sides visibly heaving beneath the rider. That worked in John's favor in more ways than one, since the rider was so concentrated one trying to spur the slowing nag that his aim was terrible, his bullets not coming anywhere near John.
John, on the other hand, could have hit him easily, at the quickly closing distance. Only Arthur's admonition that they needed Colm alive kept John's pistol in it's holster in favor of his lasso.
John's first toss missed by a mile. John cursed and spurred Rachel harder, trying to narrow the distance further. The rider fired blind over his shoulder, and John felt the heat as the bullet whizzed past his cheek. John ducked closer to Rachel's neck and threw his lasso a second time.
The loop fell right over the rider's head and yanked him backwards off the horse in a second.
John pulled the loop tight with a hard tug, even as he was sliding off his still-running horse. The man on the ground was twisting against the rope, cursing wildly, but John was on his back in an instant, looping the rest of the rope around his wrists and knotting it firmly.
It was only then that he rolled the man onto his back, and saw his face.
It was Colm O'Driscoll.
For one brief, tense moment, John considered killing him. He could feel in his bones how satisfying it would be to hear Colm O'Driscoll gasp out his last breaths, and Arthur wasn't here, would never have to know—John could tell him Colm had broken his neck when he was pulled from the horse, and Arthur would believe him, because—
Because John had already lied to him, and Arthur wouldn't think he'd do it again.
It was that thought, more than practicality, that stopped him. The thought that he could lie to Arthur and get away with it abruptly made his stomach churn.
Instead, he put a foot right in the center of Colm's chest and pressed him down into the bright green grass, the indigo flowers. "You know who I am, Colm O'Driscoll?" He asked, because, for all the impact Colm had had on his life, John and Colm had actually never met face-to-face.
Colm squinted up at him a moment, sun in his eyes. "I know you're a dead man," he replied, "when my boys come for me."
John leaned over him, blocking out the sun. "Ain't no one comin' for you but the grim reaper."
"Ah," Colm said after a moment, "I do know you. Where's your master, little pup? Everyone know you take your orders from Arthur Morgan."
John shoved a handkerchief between Colm's teeth and tied it behind his head. "I do take my orders from Arthur. And he wants you alive. So you're gonna stay that way—for now."
*
Arthur was still sitting on the ground, looking slightly dazed, when John returned to where he was thrown. There was blood on his shirt, blood on Boadicea's flank, and a trickle of blood on his face, running down from his hairline. "Jesus," John snapped immediately, dropping off his horse before she'd even stopped moving, "you said you were fine!"
"I am fine," Arthur replied, somewhat weakly, pushing John's hands away half-heartedly when he went to try to find the source of the blood in his hair. "You got 'im? It's Colm?"
"It's Colm," John confirmed, almost absently, all his attention now on the blood. "Where're you hit?"
Arthur grunted, sounding annoyed, but finally admitted, "Same fuckin' shoulder. Hit my head in the fall. And he got Boadicea, too, winged her right across—"
'Boadicea will be fine," John muttered. Already the horse was grazing calmly, utterly unbothered by the shallow furrow across her side. John shoved Arthur's shirt down over his shoulder to get a better look at the wound. There was a neat, round bullet hole in Arthur's shoulder, almost right in the center of that starburst of still angry-looking scar tissue, bleeding sluggishly.
"It ain't bad. Scars don't bleed like muscle." Arthur said blandly.
"The bullet is still in there," John pointed out.
"Yeah. Leave it," Arthur replied. "Thing's probably cleaner'n your dirty fingers."
John scowled. "Arthur—"
"Ain't nothing you can do here, John," Arthur sighed. "Once we set camp I'll let you fuss over me as much as you please, I promise. Right now we need to get back to Charles and Sadie."
John scowled harder, but Arthur had a point. "Fine. Can you even get on your horse with that arm?"
Arthur's answering scowl was almost as dark as John's, but he did manage to heave himself into Boadicea's saddle one-armed, and they turned back towards the ranch.
*
"This is him?" Sadie Adler asked, sounding unimpressed, when John and Arthur returned to the corpse-filled ranch yard. Like John, she had never actually met the man face-to-face.
"That's him," Arthur confirmed. "Anyone else in the house?"
"Not anymore," Sadie replied darkly. She gave Arthur's bloody shirt and face a skeptical look. "What happened to you?"
"Risks of the job," Arthur grunted. "We oughta head outta here. Who know when more boys might show up."
"Surely we can take a moment for introductions," Sadie drawled, grabbing a handful of Colm's lank, grey hair and yanking his head back. "Do you know who I am, Mister O'Driscoll?"
Colm grunted something through the gag that sounded uncomplimentary. Sadie answered by putting the blade of her belt knife right up against his cheek.
"We do want him alive, Missus Adler," Arthur said lightly.
"Oh, he can live without his eyes, can't he?" She replied, equally light. "And really, ten fingers is just frivolously too many, he won't be needing those where he's going. Probably won't need that tongue, neither. Heck, there's plenty of parts we can take off, and still leave enough behind to hang."
"I don't see why we should treat him any finer than his boys did to Kieran Duffy," John agreed.
"You a torturer now?" Charles said lightly. "Things like that'll will damage you as much as him."
"He ended my life as sure as if he shot me hisself," Sadie growled. "I ain't gonna shed any tears for what I do to him."
"Do it later," Arthur put in. "We need to get moving."
*
They ended up spending the night in a mining tunnel on Mount Shann. The cold made that decision for them. After John wrapped Arthur's arm tight against his side, again, they ate lukewarm tinned beans and peaches for supper, and bedded down around the low fire, John and Arthur side by side while Sadie took first watch over Colm.
"Are all his bits and pieces still gonna be attached when I wake up?" Arthur asked her dubiously, and her answer was a brief flash of teeth in something that was not at all a smile.
"She ain't gonna kill 'im, is she?" John whispered when Arthur dropped down next to him. "'Cause I'm really looking forward to seeing him hang."
"Ain't we all," Arthur sighed. "If she starts cutting anything off, I reckon the hollering'll wake us."
John folded his arms under his chin to peer at Arthur, who was settling flat on his back with his hat over his eyes. "You still sore at me?"
"Little bit," Arthur replied, without opening his eyes. "You still sore at me?"
"Little bit," John echoed.
Arthur hummed at that. "I still been thinking, you know, about going back to Armadillo when all this is sorted. Might be a bit harder if the Pinkertons decide they want me."
"They said, if we get 'em Dutch, we're clear."
"And you believe 'em?" And well, when Arthur put it that plainly, John had to admit that he didn't.
"… guess we don't have much choice."
"Guess we don't," Arthur agreed with a sigh.
"Sounds nice, though," John put in, "retiring, or whatever you wanna call it. Wouldn't mind having a proper bed to sleep in. Food cooked on a stove instead'a a campfire."
Arthur tipped his hat up off his eyes to give John a dry look. "You gonna be cooking me dinner, John? Have the table all set nice when I get in from the fields?"
John kicked him in the shin. "You're a prick."
"Yeah, well," Arthur replied, settling his hat back over his eyes, "you love me anyway."
If Sadie hadn't been five feet away, John might have kissed him. "Yeah, for all my sins, I do."
"You boys are makin' me sick," Sadie grunted. "If you're gonna start neckin', let me know so I can avert my eyes."
"You fuckin' wish," Arthur shot back, crossing his arms over his chest again. "Go to sleep, John. I'll wake you when it's your watch."
"If there's anything left of him by then," John muttered, but obligingly closed his eyes.
Chapter 24: Chapter Six, Part Five
Notes:
This is another one of the introspection-heavy chapters, but with no (or almost no flashbacks. Truthfully, there robably wont be that many more flashbacks in general, since I think the background has been pretty well established by this point. (however, if there are certain events that you all have questions about, ask, and I will consider writing them!)
This meandered a bit, and I'm not sure I"m quite happy with it, but I want to get on with Colm's hanging and the plot-driven parts, so I didn't want to dwell on it any more. I hope it appeals.
Chapter Text
Arthur shook John awake at some ungodly hour of the night to take over watch. To spend some quality one-on-one time with Colm O'Driscoll.
"Don't kill him," Arthur said, tiredly. "Other than that … whatever."
"If Sadie didn't, I sure ain't gonna," John replied, almost laughing.
They had Colm trussed up a short distance from the fire, far enough that he wasn't lying next to them; close enough that he wouldn't freeze to death during the night. John checked the ropes first, out of habit, even as Colm twisted and grunted something through his gag.
John was drowsing, bored, when the weaselly voice snapped him awake. "You really think you're gonna bring me in?"
Colm had worked the gag down around his neck. He was peering at John with an uncanny smirk, rolled over onto his side. He looked not at all bothered to be trussed up by four heavily armed folk.
"You know, the reason we gagged you was because we weren't interested in what you had to say," John replied, getting to his feet with the intention of shoving that gag back between his teeth.
"You know I got connections. I heard y'all talking—you want Dutch. I can get 'im for you."
"You will," John assured him, crouching over him, "because when you're dangling from your neck until you're dead, I'm sure he'll be in the front row."
Colm laughed hoarsely at that. "That's it? That's your plan? Just hope he shows to see me swing?"
"He'll show," John said flatly. "I would."
"Oh yeah?" Colm replied. "You know, you should be thankin' me, from what I can see. You think if Morgan was a married man with a child, he'd still be fucking you? I did you a favor."
It was, shamefully, a thought that John had had a version of himself. What would have happened, for him and Arthur, if Eliza didn't die? "You ain't got a clue what the fuck you're talking about," he snarled back, and shoved the gag back into Colm's mouth, pressing it back until he gagged, before John could be provoked into anything stupid.
When he stalked back over to the other side of the fire, jittery with anger, he saw Arthur's eyes cracked open, just a sliver, watching him with a thoughtful, complicated expression. "Fuck," John muttered, dropping back down beside him, "you hear that?"
"Yeah," Arthur murmured, closing his eyes again. "Done heard worse. Getting a little bit tired of folk thinking they know everything 'bout us."
Arthur had noticed it too, then. How the whole world suddenly seemed to know how they were. "Guess we really ain't got no secrets no more," John mused.
"I don't, anyway," Arthur replied, meaningfully, and dropped his hat back over his eyes.
*
Blackwater was closer, but Dutch wouldn't be able to set foot there, and since Dutch's presence was the goal … they loaded Colm, a sack over his head, onto a train for Saint Denis.
They, in this case, was Sadie and Charles.
"The problem is," Arthur had mused, as they had ridden to the train station, "we want everyone to hear about this. But everyone includes his boys, and they've snatched him off a gallows before. So first, we gotta make sure this news gets out, and then we gotta make sure he don't."
"I had some thoughts on that, myself," Sadie replied. "We want a big ruckus about this, bigger'n Colm on his own would bring?" She shrugged. "What if he was brought in by a woman? I mean, you and John can't be showing your faces too much right now, but me? I'm clean and clear. Ain't no one looking for me. And, it would mean that no one would know that you boys were even in town."
"It would also mean that Colm's boys might end up gunning for you, and only you," Arthur pointed out.
"Let 'em," she replied darkly. "I ain't afraid of O'Driscolls."
So it was decided—Charles would travel with Sadie to Saint Denis, as an extra gun, but Sadie would turn Colm into the law all by herself. Meanwhile, John and Arthur would take the same journey on horseback, stopping in at every haunt they could to spread gossip about the woman who had finally nabbed Colm O'Driscoll. Bounty hunters could be a gossipy bunch, after all, and even with their current troubles, John and Arthur were more well known than most.
"Should work fine," John had said, when he agreed, "Arthur gossips like an old fishwife, anyway."
It was worth the cuff to the back of his head to see the affronted expression on Arthur's face.
"Be careful, Missus Adler," Arthur had cautioned, when they saw them off. "Don't forget that there's more at stake here than Colm and Dutch."
"I ain't forgotten," Sadie had replied, instantly. "Abigail Roberts was about the only decent thing to come outta that camp, for me. I ain't gonna forget her."
And then, it was just John and Arthur for … well, for what felt like the first time in a long time. Thinking back, John realized they'd been with the camp wagons for a month, and then separated for two weeks past that. Before this, before six or seven months ago, it had only ever been John and Arthur on their own. Going back to that now, even with the knowledge that it was only for a short while … it was kind of surreal.
"Valentine is gonna be a little hot. I think we oughta aim to spend tomorrow night in Rhodes," Arthur mused.
"That'll be a lot of riding, and you with a bullet in you," John pointed out.
Arthur shrugged with his good shoulder. "I ridden farther with worse."
John thought a moment. It wasn't like he was going to be able to convince Arthur to slow down—they were committed to this, now, but ... "You know, if we catch a train to Annesburg, we can take our time all down Lannahechee—there, in Van Horn, maybe Bayou Nwa. I heard talk in Valentine that Dutch has been seen up north. Roanoke Ridge."
Arthur made a face. "I don't like trains," he pointed out, which of course John knew, but his tone was considering. It was a fairly weak protest, because they rode trains plenty—Arthur just bitched about it every time.
"Where's Dutch more likely to get the news from? From Rhodes, which they already burned to the ground and ran off from, or from Annesburg or Van Horn?" John pointed out, and Arthur conceded the point, shrugging with his good shoulder.
"Fine, go see when the next train with a stock car that'll take the horses comes through. But I ain't happy 'bout it."
Arthur hadn't been real happy about much of anything in a while. Hopefully, once they got some of this sorted, that might change.
*
"You hear about Colm O'Driscoll?" John asked the bartender in the dining car that same evening. "Me an' my brother been trying to get him for years, and then I hear in Valentine that some woman no one's even heard of got him out in Great Plains and is bringing him in."
I mean, one could not say that John was overly subtle. But bounty hunters talking about big-name gets was also not completely out of the ordinary.
"O'Driscoll, huh?" The bartender replied. "They been having a lot of problems with them Irish in West Elizabeth. Them and some other gang, a Dutch one, I think." He looked down at the glass he was polishing with a largely bored expression. "Don't much think of the Dutch as being gangsters."
Arthur coughed awkwardly into his sleeve. "Yeah … takes all kinds, I suppose."
"It wasn't a Dutch gang, it was a fellow named Dutch," a well dressed man at the other end of the bar said. "You know, that criminal that shot Leviticus Cornwall up in Annesburg?"
Arthur's head jerked up. "What?"
The man blinked. "You haven't read the papers?" and offered him a copy of the Saint Denis Times.
"Holy shit," Arthur said under his breath, too soft for the train's more genteel patrons to hear. "John, you need to read this."
The Saint Denis times was a scandal rag, like most of the cheap papers you could find in the new west, but the facts there were, were chilling. Leviticus Cornwall, shot dead on a pier in broad daylight, surrounded by lawmen, and the shooters still got away. Dutch was not called out by name—the suspects were listed as 'unknown'—but it seemed pretty clear it was him.
"That's nuts even for Dutch," John whispered back. Then, aiming weakly for a lighter tone, "but hey, I was right. He is up near Annesburg."
"Yeah," Arthur agreed weakly, mostly sounding shocked, "you were right. I … I need to think."
He was out the door of the dining car while John was still returning the paper. He wasn't in the either of the sleeper cars when John looked, but really, John hadn't expected him to be. He knew full well why Arthur hated trains.
He took a quick look around for porters, then pulled himself up the ladder onto the top of the baggage car. Arthur was sitting on the roof of the next car, hat tucked under his leg, a glowing cigarette in his mouth. John took off his own hat, before it could blow off, and tucked it under his arm, walking over in a crouch to drop down beside him.
"I ain't jumping after you if you get knocked off," John said idly, and Arthur rolled his eyes, passing him the cigarette.
"You say the sweetest things to me, John."
"Why you so upset for, anyway? You knew Dutch was crazy."
"I ain't upset," Arthur replied, "I just don't understand it. What does Dutch get outta shooting Cornwall? It weren't no robbery, it was an execution. Dutch don't do things that way, he's always got a reason, even if that reason is kinda backhanded."
"He always had a excuse, that ain't the same as a reason. And I bet, if you asked him, he'd have an excuse for this, too," John replied.
"That's not—you didn't know him back then, John, he was— look," Arthur dug his journal out of his satchel, and fished a sepia news clipping out of the back, passing it over to John.
April 15th 1887
---------------------------------------
BRAZEN BANK ROBBERY
---------------------------------------
THREE MEN SOUGHT
"When I was still a kid, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, I robbed a bank with Dutch and Hosea, first one I ever did. We got something like five thousand in gold outta it, and no one even got hurt. And you know what we did after?"
"According to this," John replied, looking at the clipping, his tone mild, "you gave some of it to poor people and orphans."
"You're damn right we did," Arthur replied forcefully.
John thought about that for a moment, and thought about what he knew of Dutch, of the stories he'd heard from Arthur, and the things he'd witnessed himself.
"Did you leave it on their doorsteps," John asked slowly, cocking his head as he handed the clipping back, "or did Dutch hand it to them personally with some kinda long-winded speech?"
Arthur blinked at John blankly for a long moment, and then he looked down at the news scrap with a furrowed brow. "I … come to think of it, Hosea wanted to just leave it for 'em. Said there was no point in more folk seeing our face. But that weren't what we did."
John hummed. "And how much of it went to the poor, how much of it went to you and Hosea, and how much of it did Dutch keep?"
John didn't say anything further. It was clear from the vaguely unsettled look on Arthur's face that he didn't need to.
*
One of the only times John could remember hearing Arthur and Eliza quarrel, the words he'd overheard, half-asleep, were, "You made a choice, Arthur. You chose to be here with us, I didn't make you. But that means you can't just do whatever you like and damn the consequences, not anymore!"
"That was never how I lived!" Arthur had snapped, hotly. "You don't know anything about it!"
Eliza had snapped back, as cross as John had ever heard her, "Maybe you don't know as much about what you did to people as you think you do! I remember how those folk you rode with were, Arthur—even if you don't!"
*
Arthur slept the night in the stock car with Boadicea. John tried to do the same next to Rachel, but he and Rachel didn't have the relationship that Arthur and Boadicea had, so he wound up with them, Rachel watching them impassively from further down the car.
You can't make a horse trust you. Arthur had taught him that.
They made it to Annesburg shortly after dawn. Annesburg was a dingy, unimpressive sort of town, dominated only by the mine. The Sheriff there, Jones, was not much interested in law and order, more in keeping the miners in check, so John and Arthur new little of him, and he knew little of them. That was likely for the best. They spent the evening in town, John gossiping over a poker game while Arthur quietly nursed a long string of beers in a dim corner, before heading down the coast to camp out for the night.
"You been awful quiet tonight," John pointed out on the ride. "Thought we was supposed to be spreading the word."
"I got a lot on my mind." Arthur replied shortly, almost defensively.
"… this still about Dutch?"
Arthur grunted, and John thought to a moment he wasn't going to answer, but then he said, looking away, "I … the kinda man I am, it's because of Dutch, and what he taught me. How he taught be to be. 'We shoot fellers as need shooting, save fellers as need saving, and feed 'em as need feeding.' That was what 'honor' meant to me."
"Dutch didn't make you who you are," John replied, almost dismissively.
"Yeah, John, he did," Arthur replied instantly. "Weren't like I had a mother and father to do it."
"What about Hosea?" John shot back. "He just ignored you, and everything you learned was cause'a Dutch, is that it? You said to Susan Grimshaw—you told her that Hosea saved you as a kid, not Dutch. Was that not true?"
Arthur was quiet a long moment at that. "He … Hosea's different. He was never the one trying to teach me how to be a man, he was just … looking after me."
"So Hosea treated you as a son," John replied, "and Dutch treated you as a disciple. Like he was a prophet and you was part of his flock."
Arthur looked a little taken aback. "That's not—"
"Dutch didn't make you who you are," John repeated. "Hosea didn't, either, not really. You know who did? Eliza and Isaac."
Arthur looked down for a long moment, eyes hidden. "I'm a thief and a murderer who's been lucky enough so far not to get got for it. Eliza sure as hell didn't make me that way."
"Don't start with that shit," John replied hotly. "You did those things, they ain't who you are."
Arthur looked over at him with a terribly defeated expression. "Then you tell me—who am I, John?"
Their horses were side-by-side, close enough that it wasn't that hard for John to grab Arthur's collar and yank him close for a bruising kiss. He felt angry, somehow—incensed that Arthur couldn't see himself through John's eyes, couldn't value himself at all. That, even now, Dutch was somehow still in Arthur's head.
"You're mine, okay?" He snapped when he finally pulled back. "Even if Dutch did make you the way you are, that don't make you his."
"Yeah, all right," Arthur said after a moment, looking away. "I'm yours. Who else would have me?"
*
They made it to Saint Denis five days after they arrived in Annesburg, in the middle of the night.
"I ever mention to you," Arthur muttered, as they crossed from dirt roads to cobblestones, their horses' stepped suddenly loud as gunshots, "how much I hate this city?"
"What's there to like about any city?" John replied. "Too many people, all on top'a each other, knowin' everyone else's business, but not givin' a shit about anyone them," Arthur raised an eyebrow at John's vehemence and, after a moment he admitted, "I grew up in a city like this."
Arthur blinked at John in disbelief. "What, really?"
"Where else they got orphanages?" John replied. "My Da was dead by the time I was eight or so, don't rightly remember quite how old, and my ma never even made it off the boat. So yeah, they shipped me off to a city orphanage." He added after a moment, darkly, "Nuns."
"Nuns?" Arthur repeated, sounding bemused.
"Yeah. Place was lousy with nuns. … I ain't even Catholic."
Arthur actually chuckled at that. "Well, I wasn't exactly picturing you as an altar boy, anyway."
"You know what the worst part was?" John mused after a moment. "Just day in, day out, being told what a hopeless sinner you are. As a fuckin' kid. You ever been made to unburden your soul, Arthur?"
"Only by you," Arthur replied dryly, without hesitation.
John scoffed. "Right, like I can make you do anything."
John said it off the cuff, without thinking, more of a joke, but Arthur pulled Boadicea to a stop right there in the middle of the street and gave John a hard, meaningful look.
"Yeah, John, you could make me do anything. Just like Mary could, just like Dutch could. I guess that's really who I am."
And yeah, John thought suddenly, that was who Arthur was—a man who gave far to much of himself to anyone he really cared about. Who wanted so desperately to be loved that he just gave himself away to anyone who offered it. Dutch had used him, Mary had tried to change him and John—
Well, Eliza probably could have made Arthur do anything, too, but she wasn't on his list because she'd never tried to.
"It's not about could I," John said slowly, "but would I. And I wouldn't."
Arthur laughed without real humor. "You talk me into shit all the time."
"Maybe," John said, because he couldn't really deny it, "but not like how you mean. Not like Dutch did."
"Yeah, well," Arthur looked away, "you don't know anything about that, really, John. You got these ideas, got me thinkin' 'em too, that Dutch was always some … some kinda monster, but the thing is, he wasn't." John opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't quite sure, but Arthur cut him off. "He wasn't, John. He weren't no angel, neither, none of us was, and I ain't gonna defend him now, but he was better then. Why can't you just let me have that, have the man he was before he went rotten?"
John closed his mouth, his mind utterly blank, because what could he really say to argue that? That Arthur didn't know his own past? That he didn't understand it, and John did?
"All right, okay," John said finally. "Have that Dutch, the one that raised you, so long as we get this one."
"O'course," Arthur said, without hesitation, and he finally spurred Boadicea back into motion. "Ain't that what all this trouble is about?"
Chapter 25: Chapter Six, Part Six
Notes:
This has been getting heavy, so I threw in a nice little surprise at he end for those of you still reading! Hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They hung Colm O'Driscoll on a Sunday.
Sadie was to ride next to the prison wagon, the guest of honor, while Arthur, John and Charles cased the streets. John and Arthur had set up on a rooftop with a good—though distant—view of the gallows, to remain out of sight. "If I was gonna disrupt a hanging," John mused, as he peered through the binoculars at the hangman carefully knotting the rope, "I'd shoot the executioner. Or try to—a gunshot would probably break up the whole thing even if it didn't hit."
"Normally that might work," Arthur replied, taking the binoculars from him, "but with Missus Adler down there, he's definitely dying one way or another."
"Probably so," John agreed. "You see Charles?"
"If I do, he ain't doin' his job," Arthur muttered, taking his own look at the open park. "Only person they're supposed to see is Sadie."
"… you see Dutch?"
"Not yet," Arthur murmured, "but Colm isn't on the gallows yet. He'll show—"
They were interrupted by the sound of a gun cocking behind them.
"Well how about this?" An Irish-accented voice said, as John and Arthur slowly turned. "I come to set up and there's already birds in my nest."
The man standing behind then was scrawny, dirty, and ginger, with a high-powered scoped rifle across his back and a pistol in his hand.
"O'Driscoll, I take it," Arthur said calmly, holding his hands out to the side, empty. "Here to save your boss? He worth that? I seen how he treats his boys. Why don't you run off while you got the chance?"
The skinny redhead looked them over, and his eyes went wide. "You're the Morgan boys. Colm's been wanting your heads for a while."
"Feeling's mutual," John sneered. "Run off, O'Driscoll. Two'a us, one'a you. Time it takes you to shoot one'a us, the other'll have you."
"He can't shoot us," Arthur said calmly, hands still open and empty, "because if he fires off before Colm's up on the gallows, the police'll run him back to the jail and his boys won't be able to get to him. And they don't want that."
"And neither do you," the feller challenged, and Arthur laughed.
"Boy, you got no idea what we want."
"Oh yeah, I do," he said, eyes bright. "I heard you. You want Dutch Van der Linde, and he ain't gonna be showing his face if there's a gunfight, either."
"Well," Arthur said finally giving John a long look out of the corner of his eye, "we seem to be at a bit of an impasse."
"Yeah," John agreed slowly, "a real spot of trouble."
Then he threw his belt knife right into the O'Driscoll's gun hand, knocking the gun away. Arthur was on top of him in an instant, yanking his arms up behind him.
"Rope," he said shortly, and John dropped his lasso into Arthur's hand without thought.
"Just kill him," he said after a moment, bewildered, but Arthur gave John a dark look and flipped the man back onto his back once his hands were tied.
"Oh no, this feller's gonna tell us how many of Colm's boys are down there, where they're posted up, and what their—no doubt dumb—plan is. Then I'll kill 'im."
"I ain't telling you shit!" The Irishman spat.
"Yeah y'are," Arthur said lightly, "because if you don't, your own boys will kill you for fuckin' up, and I seen what they do to folks that fuck up."
"You bastards—"
"Yeah, yeah, damn us to hell. How many men?"
Behind Arthur's shoulder, John picked up his belt knife from the ground, cocking his head at the O'Driscoll. "You can tell us how many men," John said coolly, "or I can tell you how many fingers you're gonna have left at the end of this. I bet my number's lower."
The O'Driscoll looked deeply mulish for a long moment, and then, abruptly, "Nine. That I was told of. You pricks."
"Thanks for that," Arthur said brightly. Then he bashed the boy's head against the roof, knocking him out cold.
John sheathed his knife, and grasped Arthur's arm at the wrist to pull him to his feet, "All things considered," he said lightly, in response to Arthur's scowl, "that coulda gone worse."
"Coulda gone better, too," Arthur grunted. He scooped up the binoculars and looked back down at the road. "Shit, the prison wagon's coming. If there's nine O'Driscolls down there—"
"Fuck O'Driscoll's boys—do you see Dutch?"
"No. Wait, fuck maybe—"
"Maybe?" John repeated.
"Give me a fucking second, Jesus," Arthur grumbled. "Not Dutch—but I think that's Escuella, dressed as a fuckin' cop, so he's here somewhere."
"Dressed up the same, you reckon?" John asked, as Arthur handed him the binoculars.
"The same?" Arthur repeated with a scoff. "No, Dutch'll be a captain. Or maybe the chief."
John paused at that, looking through the binoculars, because … "There's a man in a lieutenant's cap with his back to us. Dark hair."
Arthur snatched the binoculars right out of John's hand, focusing on the police milling about in front of the gallows. There was only one dressed as an officer. "Oh, that's definitely him. And—" the man, Dutch's, head shot up as the prison wagon pulled to a stop, "—looks like he's just seen Sadie."
"And he ain't looking like he's running?"
"Oh, no," Arthur said darkly, "he's here for the show."
"Ain't we all," John replied.
Colm O'Driscoll was gagged when they brought him up onto the platform. No last words for him, it seemed.
"Wish we could be down there," John muttered. "Can barely see his face from here."
"You seen men die before," Arthur chided. "It ain't a pasttime."
"Not for us," John replied, "but look at the crowd."
"Bloodthirsty bastards," Arthur muttered, lip curling up.
John didn't actually know how many men Arthur had killed, in his life. He had an idea of how many since he'd known him, but Arthur actually killed relatively few people as a bounty hunter. How many he'd killed as an outlaw, well … at least enough to get a five hundred dollar bounty in Illinois. But he didn't enjoy death the way some of the men they brought in, or even some other bounty hunters did. He took no joy in suffering, in torture—even the boy that had killed Eliza and Isaac, Arthur had killed him quick and clean, no vengeance, just reprisal.
"Maybe it shouldn't be a show," John said after a moment, "but if anyone deserves this, it's Colm O'Driscoll."
Arthur grunted. "We're here for Dutch. He'll rabbit after the hanging, if it don't turn into a gunfight. Or even if it does. So we need to be real, real careful to keep eyes on him if we wanna find where he's keepin' Abigail and Jack."
If only it turned out that simple.
Arthur and John had taken the sniper's perch, of course, but the men on ground started the shootout just as the executioner pulled on the lever. Sadie was shooting folk before O'Driscoll had even stopped twitching, and, ironically enough, so were Dutch and Escuella.
Without them, Sadie Adler might have been killed herself. Not that she would care overmuch, now that Colm was gone.
Arthur had thrown the binoculars at John once the shooting started, taking up his own rifle, and snapped, "You keep your fuckin' eyes on Dutch, or all'a this'll be for nuthin'!"
"Arthur, don't," John immediately said, grabbing the forestock of his rifle. "You start firing, people are gonna look up here. People look up here, Dutch might see us."
"He's too far—"
"You gonna risk it?"
Arthur's expression went very mulish for a long moment, and then he lowered his gun.
The gunfight lasted only minutes, Sadie crouched on one side of the courtyard, Dutch and Javier on the other, the O'Driscolls pinned between the two.
In the brief lull between the fall of the last of the O'Driscolls, before the cops interrupted, Dutch yelled across the body-filled yard, "It's always a pleasure to see you, Missus Adler. Isn't this a wonderful day?"
"Glad I got to share it with you," Sadie yelled back, her tone dry.
"I'll send Abigail your love, shall I?" He yelled, as he and Javier backed out of the yard.
"You do that," she yelled back, while Arthur, crouched next to John, all but growled.
Just then, Charles careened around the corner in a two-horse cart. "Dutch! Javier! Get in!"
"Okay," Arthur said darkly, "here's where we see if Dutch'll take the bait."
He did. He barely hesitated before jumping into the back of the wagon, Javier right behind him. "Mister Smith, what a pleasant surprise!"
Charles nodded grimly, whipped the horses, and they disappeared around the corner, the sound of gunfire immediately greeting them.
Arthur immediately deflated, resting his forehead on his forearm, draped on the side of the roof. "All right. All right, let's go get Sadie. Nothing to do right now but wait."
*
"We could follow him," Charles had said, during the planning, "and hope we don't lose him, or …"
"Or?" Sadie prompted.
"I wasn't with the camp when you left. I went to the Wapiti, heard about Dutch there, but he didn't hear about me. If he sees me again … well, in his mind, maybe I haven't betrayed him. There's a chance he might welcome me back to the camp."
"Or he might shoot you," Arthur pointed out, brow furrowed. "He ain't seen you in months."
Charles gave him a long look, his face stone. "I'm willing to risk that," he said, and after a moment, Arthur nodded back.
"All right," he agreed. "That's the way we'll do it, then."
*
They joined Sadie in the courtyard, where she was standing, hands on her hips, in front of Colm O'Driscoll's limp corpse, still dangling by his clearly broken neck, blank eye still open, mouth slackened in a ghoulish scream.
"He's already dead," she said in a low growl as they came up behind her, "and I still just wanna tear his head off. Rip him to pieces."
"Well don't," Arthur said shortly. "You don't wanna become that kinda person, Missus Adler."
"Maybe I already am," she said darkly. "Maybe I always have been."
Arthur looked away a moment, then stepped beside her, cocking his head at Colm's dangling corpse. "I had a wife myself, you know. A son, too. Colm O'Driscoll ordered 'em killed just to send me a message. Too chickenshit to come after me, no—he went after my family."
"Bastard," Sadie muttered under her breath.
"Weren't Colm personally who did it, o'course. He ain't the type to lead from the front. Naw, he had some little boy do it, barely outta his teens. Barely older'n John was."
Sadie turned to look at him then, brow furrowed. "So you caught him? The one that actually did it?
"Well, someone caught 'im, anyway, and dropped him on my doorstep," Arthur hedged. "I was the one that shot 'im dead, though. Thing is ... Eliza and Isaac were still dead after. Still dead now that Colm's gone, too."
Sadie scoffed, glaring hotly. "Don't go preachin' to me, Mister Morgan. We ain't the same."
"I ain't a preacher," Arthur replied, voice suddenly harder, "I'm a man who lost a wife, and you're a woman who lost a husband."
"I didn't just lose a husband—I lost everything," Sadie replied sharply. "The only things I had in this world was Jake and our home, and now it's all gone. Dutch even took our goddamn horse. But you, you still had a home, you still had a living, you still had—" she glanced over his shoulder for a moment, to where John was standing just a step behind him, "—you still had John, didn't you?"
Arthur glanced over his shoulder at John, as well, expression unreadable. "I suppose I did."
"Yeah," Sadie said darkly, crossing her arms and turning her gaze back to Colm's limp carcass, "like I said. We ain't the same."
*
Arthur was pensive on the ride out of town—Sadie had rented a room above the saloon, but John and Arthur were trying to keep their heads down, so elected to camp outside of town.
"Well," John said finally, after the silence got heavy, "even if this doesn't pan out, at least Colm's dead."
"Yeah," Arthur said after a pause. "Do you—" he stopped, looking down, hat shading his eyes.
"… what?" John prompted, and Arthur looked a back up with a grimace.
"If Eliza had lived—"
"Don't," John immediately stopped him. Shit, this had almost been a good day. "Don't do this—it ain't gonna lead anywhere good."
"You and I—"
"Jesus, Arthur, why you wanna be thinkin' about this? Eliza didn't live. And you know full well that all she would want is for you to be happy."
"I wanna be happy," Arthur said after a moment, ruefully, "I just ain't sure if I know how."
"That's not—that ain't true," John replied instantly. "We've been happy, haven't we? You just don't let yourself be anywhere near often enough."
"Maybe," Arthur agreed after a moment, looking away. "It's hard to feel like I deserve it."
If John could just crack open Arthur's skull and pull out all the self-loathing tangled up in his bizarre sense of honor, it would really solve a lot of their problems.
He wanted to say something comforting, assuring, even loving, but in frustration, what came out was, "You know that's screwed up, right?" And, when Arthur immediately looked over at him with a narrow, almost confused expression, "Like, I get it. Fine. You think you're a bad, bad man who's done bad, bad things, but Jesus, Arthur. I been 'round you, what, ten years? That bad man you think you are, I ain't never met 'im. He only lives in your head."
Arthur stared back at him a moment, mouth hanging open slightly, and John swiped a hand over his face, pressing hard against his eyes, and groaned.
"I want you to be happy, Arthur. I do. But I can't make you be."
"I'm … sorry?" Arthur tried, sounding lost.
"I don't want you to be sorry," John grunted. "I want you to—" figure out your shit, John stopped himself before saying. "I wanna go back to a year ago, before all'a this," he finally sighed, defeated.
"Yeah," Arthur sighed back, looking off at the horizon, the setting sun painting his skin flame-red, his eyes distant, "that'd be nice."
*
A year ago, John and Arthur had been in Mexico.
It wasn't any kind of regular thing, for them to be on the other side of the river, but they'd followed a bounty through the New Mexico Territory all the way over to "Old" Mexico, and found themselves in a decent sized little town with a name neither of them could pronounce, waiting for the Mexican government to decide if they would be allowed to bring their catch back across the border.
Arthur had claimed to hate Mexico. Said it was too hot, too dry, too Spanish, and he couldn't wit to leave. That had been what he said, but he'd spent nearly every day while they were there out riding, up and down the shore of the river, down into the arroyos and out through the red-sand desert.
It had been absolutely entrancing to John, watching him. They had ridden all over the US for years, but neither of them had been to Mexico before. John had never seen Arthur discover somewhere, something, new. It had seemed, in all the years John knew him, like nothing ever surprised Arthur. In Mexico, despite his complaints, there were times when they would come to the top of a ridge, where you could see miles and miles of red desert and rocky plateaus, that John thought he caught a glimpse of something like wonder.
They camped one night beside a small lake with water nearly as warm as bathwater, no light but their campfire, and a sky more full of stars than John had ever seen. Arthur had stripped out of his clothes to wash off the sand, and then not redressed fully—sprawled out by the small fire with nothing on but his damp trousers, feet and chest bare, with one hand behind his head and his rolled bedroll as a pillow, smoking his way through an entire pack of cigarettes while he watched the stars.
They had ridden for hours before they'd found the place, and hadn't crossed paths with another soul since they'd left the marked roads, so perhaps that was why Arthur had been so nonchalant about it, but it had been another strangely new thing for John to see. He had sat in the shallow water of the lake for what felt like hours watching him, submerged nearly up to his nose, like a spy, afraid a reminder of his presence would break the moment. It wasn't until Arthur finally called out, without looking,
"You drown in there?"
that John had finally crawled out and dried himself off with his discarded shirt.
It was hot, even with the sun down—hot enough that in the time since Arthur had gotten out of the lake, the water beaded on his skin had been replaced with sweat, pooling between the muscles on his chest and dripping down his ribs. He made a soft noise when John bent to pull on his trousers—faint, but audible enough that John paused, looked up, and saw the lingering look that traced over John's naked form from top to bottom. He swore he could feel it on his skin.
Arthur's reactions to John were typically noticed in his pointedly not looking. Like he was afraid of being caught, even when they were alone. John had never been sure whether that was Arthur's own natural modesty, or whether it was something the world had taught him—the look he gave John then seemed to confirm that it was the latter. Only when John straightened, dropping his trousers, and Arthur seemed to realize that John saw him watching, did the older man's face flush, and he looked back up at the sky.
So John had walked over, put his feet on either side of Arthur's hips, and dropped himself, still unclothed, right into Arthur's lap, with enough force that Arthur actually let out a low grunt.
"Hey, cowboy," he husked, and Arthur huffed out a laugh, his gaze clearly, unnecessarily cautious. They'd been doing this for almost five years, but every time, Arthur acted like he was committing a crime. Like he wasn't sure what he could get away with.
Well, he supposed they were committing a crime, both of them. But it wasn't like John was going to turn him in.
"You want me to get dressed?" John had drawled, as he leaned down, elbows in the sand one either side of Arthur's bare arms. Arthur's Adam's apple had bobbed as he swallowed. "… Or you wanna get undressed?"
He'd squirmed down Arthur's body before the man could even answer, yanking Arthur's unfastened trousers down as he went, and Arthur only managed to stutter out "John, you—" before John was swallowing him down to the root.
Arthur had, John was fully aware, a lot of particular inhibitions when it came to sex in general, and sex with John in particular. Any time John got on his knees for him, John could practically see behind Arthur's eyes the memory of fifteen-year-old John doing the same, offering as payment something John now wanted for himself, and it meant that Arthur rarely let it happen.
Which was a shame, because sucking Arthur's dick was amazing.
Not especially the act of it—it was what it was, neither awful nor exhilarating on its own, and John had done it dispassionately often enough—but watching Arthur while doing it.
Seeing the absolute, utter disbelief in his eyes when John would first sink his mouth over the velvety head.
The soft, not-quite-inaudible whine that would escape him when John pulled off slow, cheeks hollowed.
The way his thighs would tremble around John's shoulders when he used just the slightest hint of teeth.
The way his heels started digging furrows into the red sand when John tongued carefully over the head, mouth open and wet.
The way his fingers found their way into John's hair seemingly without his conscious thought, not grabbing or guiding but petting, almost, careful and soft.
The way he repeated John's name increasing breathlessly, starting out in an almost reluctant tone, and finally gasping almost reverently when he came over John's tongue.
John only had time to tug on his on cock a handful of times before he was coming onto the ground, gasping wetly against Arthur's hipbone.
He'd wrung Arthur out so hard that he didn't even try to get redressed, and for possibly the only time (John could not remember another) they'd slept the entire night next to each other, skin on skin, Arthur's mouth soft against John's temple and his hand soft on the back of John's neck. It had been enough that John almost didn't resent the way Arthur kept a careful one-foot minimum distance between them once they got back to civilization, as if this town of foreign strangers they would never see again might look at them and know.
Yeah. Mexico had been nice.
Notes:
So ... John and Arthur's relationship has been, of course, deeply dysfunctional, but like all dysfunctional relationships, it had it's really good parts that make you put up with the dysfunction. This was a nice part, followed by a reminder of the dysfunction (once they get back to the town) so yeah.
Chapter 26: Chapter Six, Part Seven
Summary:
WARNING: There is some period-typical racist rhetoric in this chapter. It is very similar language to the game itself, but I did want to warn you.
I know I get too introspective sometimes. ... this is one of those times.
I've been wrestling with this one for so long that I don't think I've actually read anything in the fandom for weeks. Hopefully I can go catch up on new releases/updates after this!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There was nothing they could do for the moment but wait for word from Charles … and waiting around was something that Arthur was absolutely terrible at. Not that John was so stunning at it, either, but John had never had this idea, like Arthur did, that his only worth was in what he could do.
Arthur kept himself occupied the first day with hunting. John had left him to it, staying at their camp and re-reading a dogeared copy of 'The Prince and the Pauper' that had once been Isaac's. Arthur returned at dusk with three rabbits and a brace of quail. It was more meat than the two of them could eat in one meal, but John had the good sense not to say anything, just set to work plucking the two quail when Arthur dropped them in front of him.
Quail were one of John's favorites, and not at all common in Lemoyne, so clearly it was some kind of gesture—John just wasn't sure exactly what Arthur was trying to say with it, considering the way Arthur just silently walked to the other side of the fire to dress the rabbits after dropping them on John.
"Thanks," just to break the quiet. Arthur had been gone since dawn, and John wasn't in the mood to have a whole day of silence.
Arthur grunted an acknowledgment. "Little things are an awful lot'a work for the amount'a meat you get off 'em." He muttered, almost to himself.
"Sometimes something you want is worth the extra trouble," John replied lightly. "Why else would I've stuck around you for all these years?"
Arthur snorted. "You know, Mary did tell me a few times that I was a hard man to love."
John felt a oddly offended on Arthur's behalf, despite having just implied something similar. "That's a shitty thing to say to someone."
Arthur shrugged, seeming unbothered by the memory. "She weren't wrong, though. I was a fuckin' outlaw, John, you think that was an easy thing for someone who grew up like she did?"
"Sounds to me like she chose to fall in with an outlaw, then got mad that an outlaw is what she got."
Having met Mary now, John could practically picture the way that whole romance must have played. Mary, under the thumb of a controlling father with a very particular vision for her future, had sought out someone leading the exact opposite type of life. She'd had the good—or maybe bad—fortune to find Arthur, a true noble outlaw, someone who actually somewhat fit the romantic image she no doubt had.
So she'd lived her fantasy for a while, the perverse delight in rubbing her father's nose in her rebellion, but she'd soon discovered that the realities of Arthur's life were harsher than daydreams could prepare her for. She'd dreamed of being Maid Marian to a Robin Hood, but found that in the real world, even the most honorable of outlaws had bloody hands.
So she'd wanted to go back—back to her fancy, civilized life—and she'd wanted to bring Arthur with her because, no matter what she'd said to him, Arthur was actually a very easy man to love. She wanted to have her cake and eat it too, to have her rich, gay lifestyle with a steady man like Arthur in it, but Arthur wasn't built for that kind of life. The more Arthur tried to make her happy, the more clear it would have become that he never would, until they reached some breaking point, and Mary had taken that thin gold ring—an extravagance for Arthur, but probably a mere bauble for Mary—and put it back in his hand.
Probably it had been meant as a threat, a final push. Surely Mary hadn't really meant for Arthur to turn right around and give that ring to another woman, but he had. He had, and he'd made a life for himself that Mary would never have fit into.
"… thought you kinda liked Mary, these days," Arthur said, pulling John out of his musing.
"I felt bad for Mary," John admitted, "because her life was kinda shit when we saw her. And— well, you don't let a lotta folk care about you—"
"So I am a hard man to love," Arthur cut him off, almost amused.
"Lately kinda, yeah," John replied immediately, because it was true, at least in part—love was both a feeling and an action, and it was the action of loving Arthur that was hard, because he wouldn't let you. Still, he looked at Arthur across the fire—trousers muddy, fingernails broken and dirty, stubble on his face turning grey at the edges of his jaw, deep lines around his eyes—and, for John, he didn't see anything all that different from the twenty-five year old man that had taken him home all those years ago. "That doesn't mean I'm going to stop, though, cuz I ain't Mary. I always knew what I was getting into," John added, firmly, "and even if all the stuff you think about yourself was true, well, that's what I picked. For better, for worse, ain't that what they say?"
Arthur looked back at him across the fire and John wondered, for a moment, how much Arthur had known what he was getting into, when he dragged that skinny, dirty teenager back to his wife's home. John was probably a bit of a hard man to love, too.
"… sure." Arthur agreed finally, and John couldn't quite decide if his tone was rueful or ominous. "'Til death do us part."
*
The second day, Arthur took out his journal for the first time in a long while and spent nearly two hours in it.
John and Arthur had no secrets from each other, that was true. Arthur's journal was different, though, not secret but private. If John had asked to see it, even to read it cover-to-cover, he was fairly confident that Arthur would let him, but he had never asked. Arthur's inner space was dark and bottomless and there were times when John wasn't sure he ever wanted to truly delve into it.
Times few and far between, but still.
He caught glimpses of things, all the time—Arthur wasn't secretive about sketching John or various wildlife or interesting places or John, again. When they'd been alive, John had caught plenty of glimpses of Eliza and Isaac in the pages of a previous journal, as well, quick drawings without his current polish, but still recognizable.
John had never seen an image of Dutch in Arthur's journals. Or Hosea, or Susan. Which didn't mean there weren't any, of course, but …
"How many pictures you got of me in that thing by now?" John asked, tilting his head. Arthur only glanced up at him for a moment, pencil barely pausing.
"I wouldn't call this scribbling pictures," Arthur demurred, but after a moment he admitted, "No idea. I'd hafta count' em."
"Who else you got in there?" John asked, scooting closer. They were sitting on the same log, so it wasn't hard to peek over Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur hesitated a moment, then started flipping back through the pages. They were almost all Arthur's tight, tidy script, but after a few, John grabbed Arthur's wrist, halting him. He could've sworn he saw—
"Wait. Flip back a bit," and the way Arthur immediately froze was a dead giveaway.
"You asked who else I drew. That's just another of you—" Arthur tried, his voice taught as a drum, so John just flipped the page back himself, before Arthur could stop him.
He'd seen right. The sketch Arthur had flipped past far too fast, had frozen being caught at, was a full-body sketch of John, sprawled back against a half-drawn tree, face turned away, neck arched invitingly—
Completely naked.
It obviously hadn't been drawn from life, and somehow that made it more scandalous. More salacious. More … "You draw this from memory?"
Arthur had tucked his head down, hat hiding his eyes, but his flaming red cheeks were still visible. "That's—"
"When'd you draw this?" John interrupted, cocking his head. It really was a remarkable likeness, considering that Mexico was likely the last time John had been totally nude in front of Arthur. Every scar was there, and even the Illinois-shaped birthmark on his hip, all carefully drawn by Arthur's hand.
Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't remember," he muttered, in a tone that made it clear he did, and John felt an burst of absolute delight.
"C'mon, you got others? How many?" John tugged on the journal, but Arthur didn't let go.
"There aren't any more," Arthur replied, tugging back in the other direction.
"I don't believe you," John said gleefully, tugging again. "C'mon, just show me."
"John, there aren't any," Arthur replied, more tightly. He let go of the journal, though, allowing John to drop it into his own lap.
"You don't gotta be embarrassed, Arthur. Plenty'a people like lookin' at dirty pictures. Just show me—"
"There's none in there," Arthur cut him off finally, looking away with flaming red cheeks.
"Where are they?" John demanded eagerly. "C'mon Arthur, you ain't gotta be shy with me."
Arthur licked his lips, and John could see him weighing it in his head—just showing him, versus John needling him about it until he did. Finally, after a long moment, Arthur reached into the saddlebag sitting beside him and pulled out a larger, visibly older journal.
"I ain't about shy, or keepin' secrets," Arthur said somewhat defensively, as he set the book in his lap. "Some things are just … not for other people."
"I ain't other people, am I?" John replied immediately, looking at the journal with keen curiosity. He'd seen it before, he realized—back when they were still living in New Austin, and maybe a few times since. Certainly not as often as he saw Arthur's current journal. In addition to being nearly twice the size of his current one, which could just about fit in a pocket, the older journal had loose pages stuffed in between the bound ones, hanging out. There was no way that it was just a book of dirty pictures. "Are you gonna show me?"
Arthur hesitated another long moment, hand splayed over the cover, before he flipped open to the back of the book. A few loose pages fluttered out onto the floor, and John reached for them at the some moment Arthur did.
The page John picked up was a portrait of Dutch.
It wasn't dirty, not like the one of John—but it wasn't exactly innocent, either. Dutch was shirtless, a half-sketched gunbelt slung low on his hips, and while the drawing was clearly quite amateur, there was quite a bit of attention paid to his form. Arthur had spent time on this.
John had known, of course, that at the very least Arthur had idolized Dutch, had, in some ways, styled himself after him. And maybe that was all this was—a young Arthur drawing a picture of the kind of man he wanted to be.
But John had suspicions about other ways Arthur had felt about Dutch.
"When'd you draw this?" John said, flipping the picture around to show Arthur. He hadn't really meant for his tone to sound as accusing as it came out. Still, Arthur only glanced at the drawing, gathering up the other spilled pages.
"That one … when I was seventeen, maybe."
"And you kept it, still?"
Arthur blinked over at him, expressionless. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Jesus, after what he's done—"
"John," Arthur cut him off, folding the loose pages back into the journal, "That scribble you're getting so worked up about—I don't have it cause'a Dutch, I have it cause'a me. And I'm … I'm not gonna apologize to you for things I did or thought before I even met you."
And that was … well, largely, that was fair. Arthur had flat told him, not long ago, that he considered the Dutch from his youth to be a different man from the one he knew now. John couldn't make him forget that man, erase that part of his life, so he finally just asked the question he'd wanted to ask all along, wanted to ask for months, maybe years.
"Were you in love with him?"
There was nothing but genuine confusion on Arthur's face when he replied, dumbly, "What?"
"This ain't a picture you'd draw of a man you thought of as a father. Or a brother."
"Dutch weren't my father or my brother," Arthur replied, almost defensive. "And no, I wasn't in love with him, Jesus Christ."
"But you wanted him," John pressed, tapping a finger against the photo.
"How embarrassing," Arthur shot back, starting to sound angry. "A teenage boy having thoughts about an older man who took him in. That sorta shit is unforgivable."
"That's not—" John tried, but Arthur continued as if John hadn't spoken.
"Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. Dutch ain't a queer and he really would have preferred if I weren't, either. Thought that was clear from the way he talks about it. So if you've got some idea in your head that I tried anything with Dutch like you did with me, the answer is no."
John mouth fell open, stunned.
"And if it had, why would that matter to you? You think I never looked at a man before you?"
John hadn't, actually. He'd always thought that Arthur must have some history with men. Truthfully, he'd even had thoughts that his history must have something to do with Dutch, with Dutch creating a lot of Arthur's strange shyness and shame, but something about that drawing, about the clear … desire it seemed to have, made John—
Made him angry. But he was angry at Dutch, not at Arthur.
So he said, shortly, "Dutch didn't deserve you."
"Dutch didn't have me, John," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes, sounding exasperated.
But he had. He'd had Arthur before John did. Irrationally, part of John had always hated Dutch for that.
"If I asked you to get rid of this," John said slowly, holding up the drawing, "to … throw it in the fire right now … would you?"
"Yeah, I'd do it," Arthur said without hesitation, "but it wouldn't take the memories outta my head—you want me to throw out my drawings of Mary, too? Or Eliza? Or anyone but you?"
"That ain't the same thing," John argued.
"… It ain't my fault that you only ever had me," Arthur said, his voice turning gentler. "It ain't theirs, either. It just is what it is, John."
John set his jaw and looked down, eyes squeezed shut, and wondered … had Arthur always seen through him this clearly, and John just never knew? Because Jesus …
He wanted to say something honest. Something about how he just wanted to know that, of everyone, John was the most important. That no matter what Dutch had made out of him, or even Mary and Eliza, that Arthur was there with him because John was his choice, and not because he was the only one left.
Instead, what he said was, "You asked me what I thought would happen if Eliza hadn't died. Well, what do you think woulda happened if Dutch wanted you back, back then?"
And Arthur replied, without a hint of regret, "I think he woulda lost interest in me the minute anything got tough. Like he did to everyone else. Hell," he added, with something almost like humor, "maybe that woulda been better. Maybe then he wouldn't followed me my whole life."
John blinked.
"I done told you, John—I know who Dutch is. Better'n most."
"But you still …" John tried, struggling even in his own mind with what he wanted to say, "you still look at that drawing, and you see something worth keeping?"
"It's like lookin' at someone dead and gone," Arthur said softly, "because he ain't that man and I ain't that dumb kid what drew this … but I don't want to forget how things was, John. I don't want to pretend it never was." He looked up, expression conflicted. "I done told so many lies, I don't wanna lie to myself."
John felt his hands clench and unclench, almost against his will. He forgot, sometimes, how deep Arthur's still waters ran.
"Okay," he said after a moment, and he let his hands fall open at his sides. "I ain't looking to take your past, Arthur. Though I might lay claim on your future."
The corner of Arthur's mouth quirked up for a moment in an awkward smirk. "Sure. It's your burden if you want it."
"I do," John said, too quickly, and Arthur looked away, face pink, as he tucked the drawing back into the journal.
*
The next day, Sadie finally rode up to their camp around midday. It wasn't Charles Smith with her, however—it was Wapiti chief Rains Fall and another well-dressed man they'd never seen before.
"Chief," Arthur greeted, brow furrowed, before greeting Sadie, even.
"Misters Morgan," Sadie responded on his behalf, uncharacteristically using John's pseudonym. "We've got a bit of a problem."
"With Charles?" Arthur asked, gaze turning keen, but Sadie shook her head.
"Nah. It's Eagle Flies."
John's mind went blank for a moment, before he recognized what he was saying. "You mean that—" hothead, he cut himself off from saying. He instead, like Arthur, addressed Rains Fall. "Uh, you mean, your son, sir?"
The Chief, already a perpetually hangdog figure, seemed to deflate even more. "Yes, that is the case. Your Dutch Van der Linde—he convinced my son into some scheme, and …"
"And that scheme was looting the US goddamn army," Sadie finished for him. "Eagle Flies got caught and is locked up in Fort Wallace, while Dutch apparently got away mostly clean."
"Sounds like Dutch," Arthur said, cynically. "Leave someone else holding the bag."
"My son's actions were ill-advised and foolish," Rains Fall said, sounding … heartbroken, "but he is my old child, the only blood of my blood. For all his missteps, does he truly deserve to die?"
"Very few people deserve to die," Arthur replied, looking between Rains Fall and Sadie with a curious expression, "but your son's fate ain't exactly in our hands."
"It could be," Sadie said, boldly, and Arthur's brow immediately furrowed, with as much irritation as confusion.
"No, Missus Adler, it couldn't. Neither John nor I are lawyers, which it sounds like this young man needs."
Sadie's answering scowl was far darker than Arthur's. "You think some big-city lawyer is going to help some red boy what went up against the US Army?"
"I think I ain't about to get shot for some other man's grown son," Arthur replied darkly, glaring back.
We owe things," Sadie said slowly, meaningfully, "to the folk that were here before us, don't we, Mister Morgan? The folk what got their whole lives stolen from them by bastards who think they deserve whatever they can take?"
"My debts," Arthur replied, darkly, "deep as they are, ain't gonna be repaid by gettin' me an' mine killed."
"Ah, well," the well dressed man man behind Sadie finally spoke up, his voice inappropriately bright, "perhaps death is not necessarily the outcome."
"And who the fuck are you?" John demanded, lip curled up in a sneer.
The over-dressed gentleman swept his top hat off his head into the closest approximation of a bow he could manage from horseback. "Gentleman. My name Josiah Trelawney, and I do not think bloodshed needs to be the inevitable outcome of this endeavor."
Notes:
This is a little shorter than most chapters, but when I reached this perfect stopping point, I really wanted to let it go.
Incidentally ... there are a lot of plot events in chapter six that are really not relevant. I'd really like to, at this point, hurry on to the climax. But I did want to gauge if there was a lot of interest in the other Ch 6 story missions (for example, the Cornwall Oil Refinery mission), because I can always be convinced.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and those of you still reading: I appreciate you, and I hope not to let you down.
Chapter 27: Chapter Six, Part Eight
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Maybe it ain't for me to say," Arthur muttered aside to John, his voice low, "but that feller is queer."
He wasn't wrong. Josiah Trelawny had clearly patterned himself as a dandy. Patterned, because the end result looked more like a cretin's idea of class, a poor man's idea of wealth. He created an enormous picture of himself, but it was all shallow, all presentation and no substance, a heaping pile of misdirection. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
John had read that saying in a book, somewhere. He just couldn't recall where.
He did wonder what, exactly, Trelawny was trying to conceal, and it made him view the man with not a little bit of suspicion.
Arthur's attitude seemed more bemused. Sadie's endorsement meant something to him, clearly.
"—so the obvious conclusion," Trelawny was saying, when John started paying attention again, "is to approach as someone other than ourselves."
"Hm. Well, my conclusion is to just not go," Arthur replied, cocking his head. "You all think you got such a fine plan, you can handle it yourselves."
"A woman and a native are hardly gonna be believable as soldiers," Sadie point out, quite correctly. "Maybe Josiah can pass as an officer, what with all his airs--"
"My lady, I'm hurt that you would doubt me!"
"—but we need some grunts. Someone the folk at that fort will buy as soldiers."
"And if someone recognizes us—even leaving aside that I been wanted for questioning in West Elizabeth, John and I have done government bounties before. We ain't anonymous."
"I wouldn't worry to much about that,"Josiah said, waving it away. "There's something about uniforms that make people see one as interchangeable. We put you in army blues, no one will look at you twice, especially with me," he half-bowed from his seated position, "running the show."
Arthur cocked his head at John, who shrugged. Eagle Flies was a stranger to him, and while Rains Fall seemed like a sincere enough feller, his son's problems were not theirs.
"John and I are bounty hunters,"Arthur said after a moment, "not outlaws. Find someone else."
"Thought you were more reliable than that," Sadie sneered.
"This kid was lawfully arrested for a crime you admit he committed," John put in. "And ain't you lot always talking about how we're lawmen?"
"They will certainly kill him," Rains Fall finally spoke, looking utterly broken.
"Look, I'm sorry, but better him than us," Arthur immediately shot back. "We just got done talkin' about what a damn fool idea it is to pick fights will the US Army."
"If you don't help us with this," Sadie said slowly, eyes narrow, "Charles Smith ain't gonna be real happy, when he gets back. Might not wanna share his information with you."
Arthur narrowed his eyes back at her in response. "That'd punish you more than me. You really think the two'a you could take on Dutch alone?"
"What I think is that I deserve you bein' willing to stick your neck out at least a little on my say-so."
Arthur chewed on that for a long moment, glancing between Sadie and Rains Fall, looking unhappy, before he finally sighed. Sadie, Arthur and Charles had only spent two weeks together before John rejoined them, but apparently that was enough time for Arthur's fierce sense of loyalty to kick in. "All right. But let's make one thing clear," he pointed at Trelawny, brow furrowed. "You ain't running this show. I am."
"Whatever you say, dear boy," Josiah replied breezily. "Give me a day to source some clothing, and then we can go. Hmm," he looked Arthur up a down, speculatively, and then shrugged. "Hopefully I can find something large enough to fit."
He took his leave right then, leaving Sadie still glaring over at Arthur. "And where will you be," Arthur grunted, "while we menfolk are risking our necks?"
"Waiting with Rains Fall at the reservation," she replied. "Look, Mister Morgan, I wouldn't have brought this to you if I didn't think it could work. And Eagle Flies—I know you ain't really know him, nor do I, but Charles does. Spoke real sympathetic of him, and frankly," she put he hands on her hips, looking down, "ain't we kinda making a career outta help folk that been screwed over by Dutch?"
Arthur grumbled under his breath. "I thought—I swore to myself I wasn't going to risk this kinda shit anymore, Missus Adler. I'm trying to have a real life, John and me. People that do things like this don't get to have real lives."
Sadie gaze turned marginally more sympathetic, at that. "I swear to you, this will not come back on you."
"And I'm tellin' you it will, sooner or later. Dutch … he always had this idea that once you cause a ruckus, you could always just head west until no one knew who you were anymore. We can't do that, not anymore."
"No," Sadie said, thoughtfully, "guess not."
"John," Arthur said after a long pause, turning to face him, "if you don't wanna do this—"
"Of course I don't want to," John snapped immediately, "but if you're doing it, you know damn well I'm gonna be right behind you."
"Okay," Arthur hummed, gaze turning inward. "Okay. Then I guess that's that."
*
Josiah Trelawny, true to his word, returned to their camp the next day with two army uniforms of unknown origin. Arthur's was a little tight in the shoulders, but he supposed they wouldn't have to wear it long. It was at least a full day's ride to the fort, and with the prison wagon they'd have to bring, probably more like two. Arthur didn't seem real keen on leaving town for so long when they were supposed to be waiting on word from Charles, but he was also a man of his word. Charles, if he showed up in town, would just have to … wait, a day or two.
Fuck, this had all been supposed to be about Abigail and Jack, and now, here they were, running after impulsive Indians in the loving care of the US Army.
"I mean, you know this a terrible idea, right? John asked Arthur, as they were packing up their bedrolls. "You ain't just forgotten about that?"
"Believe me, I know," Arthur said darkly. "Like I said, you ain't gotta come."
"Nah," John said, surprising even himself with the ease of his tone, "so long as we're both clear on how this is gonna blow up in our faces."
"Oh, I don't know how it is," Arthur replied dryly, "just that it is."
"Well," John mused back, "that's something, anyway."
But the funny thing was … it didn't. Or at least didn't seem to—they put on their costumes when they were an hour's ride from the fort, John a Corporal, Arthur a Sergeant, and Josiah, of course, a Captain. The orders he'd produced saying that Eagle Flies was to taken to Blackwater for public execution had been convincing enough that the ginger private who greeted them was only to happy to hand over the boy.
"Wish I could be there for it," he sneered, when his compatriots brought a gagged Eagle Flies out to load in the back of their wagon. "This fucker and his boys killed two dozen soldiers up by Roanoke Ridge. Say," he peered up under Arthur's cap, eye narrowing, "Don't I know you, Sergeant?"
"Maybe," Arthur said, looking away. "Didn't I see you at Wounded Knee?" and the man's eyes went wide a moment.
"No, you … must be mistaken. I weren't anywhere near that."
This was something Arthur must have learned from either Dutch or Hosea—you make someone uncomfortable, and they want the interaction to end right quick. The man immediately turned his gaze away.
There was no recognition in Eagle Flies' eyes when he looked at them. For all he knew, as they rode out of the fort, clean as you please, they actually were taking him to get hung. He fought against them as they loaded him into the prison cart, yelled unintelligibly through his gag as they rode, and was only silent once a man in a bandana stopped them in the middle of the rode, rifle drawn.
"I don't want to kill you," the feller said, darkly, "but I can't let you take that man."
Eagle Flies yelled out in the rear, but Arthur just squinted a moment and said, in disbelief, "Charles Smith?"
After a moment, Charles pulled down the bandana. "Arthur?" Then, after looking more closely at the other two, "John Marston? Josiah?"
"Huh, guess you were right, Trewlany," John said, tipping up his army cap. "No one looks past a uniform."
"When it comes to obfuscation, my dear boy, I am something of an expert," Josiah replied proudly.
John had no idea what 'obfuscation' meant. Unlike with Dutch, however, he didn't think that was why Trelawny had said it. "Sure," he drawled, "whatever that means."
"Distraction, my friend! The art of prestidigitation, the transformation of one into another, the magic of—"
"Can we keep moving now?" Arthur grunted, rolling his eyes.
"With Eagle Flies still gagged in in the back'a your wagon?" Charles replied, gesturing with his rifle.
"Well," John drawled back, "we heard he likes to run his mouth."
So, they ditched the wagon there, with Eagle Flies mounting up behind Charles and with Trelawny, after some grumbling from John, behind him.
"Are we heading to Dutch's camp?" Eagle Flies asked, as soon as they got the gag off, and Arthur snorted.
"We're taking you to your father, boy—and if you got a lick'a sense in your head, you'll stay there."
John could have told him that was the exact wrong thing to say to a kid like this one. Eagle Flies' eyes went flat, and his lips curled up in a sneer.
"Who are you to tell me what I should do, white man?"
"Listen to me, then," Charles Smith cut in. "This road you are on is not going to help your people!"
"And doing nothing will?" Eagle Flies snarled, looking like righteous vengeance, like just retribution, like …
… like a fucking teenager.
"What you are doing will lead to you having no people. What will help them then?"
Eagle Flies didn't answer that. The mulish set to his jaw, however, suggested that he was not convinced.
*
It only took them five hours to get to the Wapiti reservation, dropping Trelawny at Bacchus Station on the way to jump a train. Eagle Flies did not speak for the rest of the ride, and the only words spoken between the other three men was when Charles asked them:
"Sadie meeting you us Wapiti?"
After Arthur hummed an affirmative, John asked back,
"Dutch waiting for you?"
And Charles made a similar affirmative noise.
It wasn't until they reached the reservation that Eagle Flies showed any animation at all, sliding off Charles' horse before they had even got to the hitching post, and he seemed like he would have run off—to where, John didn't know—if John hadn't immediately jumped off behind him and grabbed him by his upper arm like a misbehaving child.
"You think you're the squirreliest fella we ever went after?" John taunted, shoving him forward. "Said we're bringing you to your daddy, and that's what we're doing. If he can't convince you to stay put, reckon we don't got a chance."
"Rains Fall is not just his father," Charles said, eyeing the boy with significance. "He is his chief. He is the leader of this tribe, and those who belong to it defer to his great wisdom in order to lead them through times of strife."
Arthur huffed and replied, not without humor, "Sounds like Dutch."
"Maybe," Charles agreed, and John thought there was perhaps a bit of humor in his voice as well, "if Dutch were actually wise."
"Dutch is the only person outside of the tribe that sees the evils of this government for what they are," Eagle Flies immediately spat.
"I have not met your 'Dutch'," Rains Fall intoned, as they finally reached the main tent, "so I will not guess why he has involved you in these activities—"
"I will," Arthur muttered under his breath.
"—but has not lived the truth of this oppression. He has not followed the steps of our people as were driven across this land, as our women were killed, our homes burned, our sacred places destroyed. He has not lost all but one of his sons to this darkness. How can you trust this stranger to our people, who would gladly lead you to your death, above me, who desires only for us to continue to live?"
"And that is your problem, Father," Eagle Flies spat, tearing his arm out of John's grip. "You are content with a life as a slave. Some of us feel different."
"My son—" Rains Fall tried, but Eagle Flies was already stalking off into the camp. He cut himself off with a heaving sigh.
"None of us were any different at his age, I imagine," Arthur offered, trying to be comforting, but Rains Fall just shook his head.
"We lived long enough to know better. I worry he may not," he replied. "Do not concern yourselves, Mister Morgan. You have done what I asked of you. And Mister Smith—I assume you were trying to save my son, as well. You have done me a service. Whatever I may do to repay you—"
Charles gave John and Arthur a warning look, but needn't have. They weren't going to ask anything of this man. Around them, his entire camp was wasting, starving, and ill, and it was clear that the army was intent on marching them off to their deaths. "We won't take anything from you," Arthur said. "Where has Missus Adler got off to? We need to be going."
"There is a Captain in the army who has been negotiating on our behalf for medicines. She went to accompany him while we awaited your return."
Arthur huffed. "When'll they be back?"
"I'm afraid I do not know. Likely after dark."
John could see the impatience crawling under Arthur's skin, felt it himself, but he also couldn't say he didn't understand why she would have gone. The camp needed medicine. They might have gone themselves, had they been here.
So, instead of expressing impatience, annoyance, or anything else he was clearly thinking, Arthur just looked over to John and Charles with a weary expression and said, lightly, "Well, looks like we have some to kill. What would you boys say to some fishing?"
*
Arthur had told him a story once of being taught how to fish—he hadn't said any names, then, but from what John knew now the teacher in the story must have been Hosea or Dutch. The long monologue that Arthur had described about how fishing allowed for clarity of mind and self-reflection could have been either. He'd finally concluded, as he told John at the time, that It was really intended to teach him patience.
Charles didn't join them when they went off. He said that he had never learned how to fish with anything but a net; John suspected the true answer was that he would rather spend time with the Wapiti than with them.
That was fine. John would rather spend time alone with Arthur, anyway, rather then with a chaperone.
They set up on the dam, feet dangling, and even as Arthur seemed to settle, seemed to embrace the calmness of familiarity, John was reminded—he really hated fishing.
Not for any particular reason—he just found it boring and pointless. He didn't like the taste of fish, and while there was certainly something to be said for spending times in the great outdoors, he and Arthur already spent near all their time there. He kind of felt like the world had very little new left to show him.
The lake was pretty, though.
"It was Hosea, right? Who taught you to fish?" John asked after a long while, after several nibbles with no bites.
"Yeah. Or, well …" Arthur huffed out something that wasn't a laugh or a sigh, just a exhalation, "Dutch and Hosea both taught me, just it was Hosea's that stuck. Fishing with Dutch, he would never shut up. Like he was afraid of silence. Hosea was happy to say what needed said and leave it. Made it a lot easier to know what was actually important."
John made a thoughtful noise. Didn't that say just about all that needed to be said about the difference between Dutch and Hosea.
"What about fishing could possibly be important?" John said lightly, and Arthur laughed.
"Think I told you once before," Arthur replied, "but I think the important thing was tryin' to find something to keep me out of trouble for an afternoon."
John wasn't going to let an opportunity like that pass. "Hard to imagine you gettin' up to much trouble," he said, leadingly.
Arthur wasn't dumb. "If what you're fishing for is embarrassing stories of my 'youthful indiscretions', you should'a got 'em outta Dutch while we were still on his good side."
"I wouldn't'a trusted a word that came outta Dutch's mouth about you," John said, matter-of-fact. "Did I never tell you how he told me the two'a you met?"
Arthur looked over at him with a furrowed brow. "Why? He tell you something different?"
So John told him. Arthur started shaking his head halfway through, expression disbelieving, oddly surprised. He was silent a moment when John finished, looking down at the water.
"That's …" He he breathed, looking almost confused.
"Well, he sure weren't going to tell me a story where he weren't the hero," John offered, and Arthur shook his head.
"No, that—that happened, just not to Dutch," Arthur said. "Hosea had a story like that—he found a kid 'bout to be hung for theivin' at a homestead one time. He played preacher and shamed the folk into letting him down."
John went very, very still.
"Played preacher?" He repeated, keeping his voice even.
"Sure," Arthur replied. "Hosea's bastard of a grandfather was a preacher, 's why he was named as he was. Playing preacher was one of his best ones."
"… When'd he tell you this story?" John asked, and though he wasn't sure why, there was something like alarm prickling under his skin.
Arthur looked over at him, brow furrowed, clearly picking up on on at least some of his agitation. "Well, let's see. We woulda been in Oklahoma, so … not long before I left, I reckon."
Hosea saved a kid thief from a gallows at a homestead, did it by playing at being a preacher, three years or so before John and Arthur met. Something like a chill ran down John's spine, because no, it couldn't be true. He would have recognized Hosea if it was, would have immediately known he was—
Would he have, though? John had been twelve, and and fifteen years had elapsed between then and his showing up in Clemens Point.
"John, what's wrong?" Arthur finally asked, the furrow between his brows deepening in concern, and John opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. It was—it was too surreal to even think about, let alone explain to Arthur, that maybe John had been—
The sound of hoofbeats coming up the trail spared him from having to answer. They both looked over their shoulders to see Sadie coming up the trail full pelt, bent down over the neck of her horse. It was only when she saw them, sitting right in her path on the edge of the dam, that she yanked her horse to an abrupt halt.
She sat up straight in the saddle, rolling her shoulders like she was settling herself back into her skin, before she spoke.
"Gentlemen," she drawled, nudging her horse into a trot. "I do hope you ain't been waiting long."
Arthur gave John one more confused, concerned glance, but John ignored it. "You seemed in an awful hurry, Missus Adler. You run into trouble."
"No, no trouble." She replied. "Just got a case of medicine here that can't really wait."
"Well, don't mind us," Arthur replied, reeling in his line. "Go on and deliver it, we'll meet you up there."
Sadie nodded once, sharply, and then spurred her horse again, passing them so closely on the dam that her horse's tail brushed against John's arm. It was only once she was out of sight, up the path to the reservation, that Arthur turned back to John, fishing rod flipped up against his shoulder.
"You gonna tell me what's got you so shook?" He asked John, plainly, and John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"Yeah," John said, reeling in his own line, and not meeting Arthur's eyes. "But not right now."
Notes:
Hi all.
I know it's very glib of me, as a fanfic autor who knows none of you personally, to say this, but ... I really hope all of you are doing all right in these difficult times.
I work in the manufacturing industry, and as some of our products are used by the DoD and in the power grid, we are classed as essential workers. So I still have work. I know that is not the case for everyone.
Again, it may sound glib, but I would like to offer some joy to everyone who's having a hard time, so I though I might try something I used to do back in my livejournal days: a drabble prompt. Basically, if you leave me a brief prompt in the comments (along the lines of "person x and person y in z place" or "x and y doing z") I will write for you a brief (100-500 words) mini-story from scratch. This was something I used to be quite good at, and I hope it might be fun for my readers to participate in.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and leave me a prompt if you're interested--I work 10 hours tomorrow, so I can't promise quick return times, but if you leave one I will respond to it.
Stay safe, all. xo
Chapter 28: Chapter Six, Part Nine
Chapter Text
Sadie and Charles were waiting by the hitching post when John and Arthur got back to the reservation, watching as seemingly the whole tribe clamored around Rains Fall's tent.
"So what's the story with this medicine, anyway?" Arthur asked Sadie, as he stowed his fishing rod on Boadicea's saddle. "Why'd they need you to go fetch it if it was comin' from the government?"
"Because it weren't," Sadie said shortly. "The government decided to hold it hostage, so I went and liberated it."
"Jesus," Arthur murmured. "They won't even give 'em medicine?"
"They think there's oil here," Charles muttered. "Found a couple letters Cornwall wrote a while back, they want to drill here."
"Cornwall's dead," Arthur pointed out.
"His company isn't," Charles replied darkly.
"This is fucking sick," John muttered. "They're just gonna let these folk die up here?"
"These ain't people, not to the government," Sadie muttered. "They're obstacles. Indians are sovereign, and if there's one thing the government hates, it folk they don't control."
"Hmm," Arthur grunted. "'S enough to make you sympathize with Eagle Flies."
"He's not wrong about what's being done to his people," Charles replied. "He's just wrong about how to resolve it."
Arthur sighed, hands on his hips. "We got our own troubles, still. We should head out—where is Dutch staying now?"
"You know Butcher Creek?"
"That's Murfree brood territory," John said immediately. "Those fuckers are crazy. Dutch is hanging his hat near them?"
"Yeah, in a cave nearby. Beaver Hollow, it's called."
"And Abigail and Jack are there?" Arthur pressed.
Charles frowned. "Dutch is … he's having them stay in his tent, both of them. Pretending like she's his wife, but I think it's really about being sure they can't get away."
"Shit," Arthur muttered.
"But," Charles continued, "Dutch still trusts me. I've been talking to her. I can't get her out on my own, but Dutch is planning another train job, and she won't be on it. We might be able to get her away then."
"Surely he won't leave her alone?" John said, brow furrowed.
"He won't have much choice. He don't have all that many men left. It'll probably just be her and Susan."
Arthur huffed. "Jesus, Susan. She's still there?"
"She's about the only thing holding that camp together, right now. I think the shine might have worn off now that she's not got the girls to rely on."
Arthur huffed. "We offered her a way out. She didn't take it."
"Well, you can't save people from themselves," John said, crossing his arms.
"No," Arthur said, looking away. "No, you sure can't."
*
John pulled Arthur aside as they were getting ready to leave. "We need to go to the Pinkertons."
Arthur looked at him like he had grown a second head. "The hell kind of foolishness you talkin', boy?"
"It ain't foolishness," John immediately snapped back. "This ain't just about Abigail and Jack anymore. I told you what Ross said to me in Blackwater—we don't give them Dutch, they'll see you hanged for what happened in West Elizabeth."
"And if we send them to Dutch's camp, they shoot the whole place to hell, Abigail and Jack included. So we get them out first—"
"—and them Dutch moves on as soon as they're gone, and we won't catch him again!"
"What matters more to you, John," Arthur asked darkly, "the life of a woman and child, or catching Dutch?"
"They matter, all right? But so do you. We're in a real bad position now, Arthur, in a lotta ways—"
"I been in worse," Arthur dismissed.
"That ain't comforting," John growled.
Arthur sighed, setting his hands on his hips, and looked away. "John, we talked about this. Even if we give them Dutch, those folk ain't gonna leave us alone. You know that, right?"
John paused for a second, suddenly feeling lost. "They—they have to. Dutch is what they want, they said—"
"Dutch said a lotta stuff, too," Arthur replied, tiredly, "and it all boiled down to, he wanted to be in charge, and he wanted to win, whatever that meant to him. The Pinkertons ain't any different—when we ain't danced to their tune they just kept changing it, and once they find the one that'll get us on our feet, you really think they're gonna stop playin' it?"
"What choice do we got but to play along?" John asked, helplessly. "If we don't—"
"It'll be the same whether we do or don't, John, that's what I'm telling you! You trust Edgar Ross? You trust Andrew Milton?"
And when Arthur put it that way—of course John didn't. But he wanted it to be true. Wanted it so, so badly. He wanted to be done with Dutch, with Dutch's taint on them, to go back to their normal, almost boring lives.
He was little worried that, at this point, they might never get that life back.
"Then what are we supposed to do?" John demanded. "Run and hide? 'Cause this ain't just gonna blow over."
"… I got some ideas," Arthur said, pursing his lips, "but I'm telling you now, John—I'm more worried about that woman and that child right now than I am about us. I know you don't wanna hear that—"
"I know by now how you are, Arthur," John replied tiredly. "Just … let's not fucking die, all right?"
"Don't worry about that," Arthur replied dismissively. "Let's get going, we should be able to get to Beaver Hollow by midday tomorrow."
"Arthur," John said, aside, as they were mounting up. "We're gonna have to deal with the Pinkertons, eventually. Like I said, we can't just run and hide."
"Running and hiding is not what I was thinking of doing," Arthur replied, and there was something very dark, very unsettling, about his tone.
*
They stopped for the night once the light got too bad, the night nearly moonless, black as pitch. Arthur and John's bedrolls on one side of the dim fire, Sadie and Charles on the other. They chewed silently on their dinner, Arthur and John sharing a packet of jerky, Charles and Sadie supping on dry biscuits.
"When we get to this place," Sadie finally said, poking idly at the fire, "what are we gonna do? We can't exactly walk right up and ask to speak to her."
"What's there to speak about, anyway?" John asked. "We watch for a quiet moment, then we snatch 'em. We can worry about explaining once they're safe."
"No," Sadie said. "Abigail is—she had a plan, going with Dutch. I don't know what it was, but I want to know. She might need our help."
There had been something hard in Abigail's eyes when she left with Dutch, something crafty in the look she exchanged with Sadie. Even so—
"Whatever plan she might'a made, it don't matter as much as their safety," Arthur replied shortly. "Every minute she and that boy are in that camp is a minute closer to them dying bloody."
"I ain't arguing that," Sadie replied. "Charles—she said anything to you? 'Bout getting out?"
"Why would she?" Charles replied. "As far as she knows, I came back to Dutch as soon as I could. As far as she knows, I'm still loyal."
"Then tell her you ain't," Arthur replied. "You can walk right into that camp. Tell her we're here to get her out, and find out why she ain't got out on her own, yet. We'll set up camp somewhere nearby—if they see us, we're fucked—and we'll wait for you. Ain't my preferred way, but it probably safest."
Charles nodded slowly. "What if she doesn't believe me?"
"Why wouldn't she believe you?" Sadie demanded.
"… everyone is a little paranoid right now, at that camp. It's hard to know who you can trust." Charles said sadly.
"I'll write her a letter," Sadie offered, digging into her bag.
"Abigail can't read," John pointed out.
"Jack can," Arthur replied quickly. "Use small words, he can read it to her."
Sadie muttered under her breath at that, but she finally fished out pencil and a sheet of yellow paper. "What do I say?"
"Be cryptic," Arthur said. "Try to make sure it don't say too much, in case Dutch gets his hands on it. Charles, you make sure they burn it after it's read. And," he added after a moment, scowling, "if she does got some plan, some scheme to get one over on Dutch—you talk her out of it. It ain't worth it."
"Have you ever tried to talk Abigail out of something?" Charles asked, and When Arthur gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow, he continued, "Nor have I. But I have my doubts that I could."
"Try," Arthur snapped, and then shoved to his feet and stalked away from the fire.
John followed him after a moment, grabbing the lantern from his saddle to light the murky forest. Arthur's path was difficult to see, and it was only when he finally saw the cherry end of his cigarette that John found him, leaned back against a large oak, arms crossed over his chest.
"… you all right?" He asked, leaning his shoulder against the tree next to Arthur.
"Just tired," Arthur sighed, dragging on his cigarette wearily. "Tired of lookin' over my shoulder, of solving other people's problems, of goddamn plans. Tired of all'a this."
A small part of John wanted to point out that Arthur had gotten himself into this whole mess, against John's strenuous protest—but it wouldn't be helpful, it really wasn't the time, and he wouldn't really mean it, anyway. The kind of man Arthur was had never been a secret to him.
So instead, John plucked the cigarette right out of Arthur's mouth and kissed him. Leaned over and pressed their mouths together, closed-mouthed and almost chaste. Arthur made a low, startled noise, but didn't move to stop him. Didn't even uncross his arms, just blinked at John with a bemused expression when the other man pulled back.
"… What was that for?" He asked after a moment, cocking his head.
"Because," John replied, and Arthur looked so absolutely flummoxed by this explanation that John leaned in and did it again, lingering long enough that Arthur slowly uncrossed his arms and settled his hands on John's waist, oddly tentative.
"Why you trying to be all sweet, all'a sudden?" Arthur said, sounding slightly suspicious.
There were a couple of ways that John could have answered that—Because you kinda looked like you might need it. Because I want to. Because you're letting me, because I'd be sweet to you all the time if you'd let me.
John wasn't really the type of man to say those sort of things. Neither of them were.
"Why I gotta have a reason?" He finally said. "Maybe I'm just a sweet person."
"Nah, that ain't it," Arthur replied with a smirk. But he still folded his arms all the way around John's waist and kissed him back.
*
John had a dream, that night, about Hosea.
It was the day he had, unknowingly, met the man. In the dream, it was the Hosea he had met this year, much older than the man must have actually been at the time.
The difference was that, in this dream, Hosea pulled John up onto the horse behind him, and took him back to a camp. It was there he found an Arthur that looked exactly like the one from the photo Hosea had died with, an Arthur with a smooth, unwrinkled face, honey-blonde hair falling onto his eyes, younger even than John was now.
Even in the dream, John was immediately, viscerally attracted to him, and the small part of his mind that recognized this as a dream thought for a moment that it would be the nice kind of dream.
But … it wasn't.
John had noted, even in the one still photo he had seen, the wildness, the hardness, in Arthur's eyes. He'd looked like a degenerate, a wild child, and that had been part of the attraction, but …
But some part of his subconscious must have recognized the reality of things, because in the dream this young, beautiful Arthur had looked at John on the back of Hosea's saddle, sneered, and said, the contempt dripping from his voice, "What you bring us this dead weight for?"
"He's a child, Arthur," Hosea chided, and Arthur scoffed, pulling his hat down over his eyes.
"Children ain't worth shit. What's he gonna do—eat our food, spend our money, and give us nothing back for it?"
In the dream, I was Dutch who welcomed John, who walked over to him with an open, welcoming expression, arms wide. "Why, Hosea, who is this you have brought to us?"
"Some else's trash, that's what he's brought us," Arthur snapped, before turning his back on all of them.
*
John woke up, thankfully, as Dutch was about to embrace him, to wrap his arms around John's shoulders like a welcoming savior. He woke to Arthur above him, having shaken him awake, his brow furrowed, and John immediately clutched at Arthur, this real Arthur who, for all his flaws, John knew loved him.
"Jesus," Arthur grunted out, but he gripped John back, immediately, cradling John against his chest. "What's—darlin', calm down, it was just a dream."
John had been prone to bad dreams as a child. Arthur hadn't been there for most of them, but Eliza had. He'd woken a few times in Eliza's arms, with her stroking his hair, with her calling him 'darling'. Those dreams had been of faceless men in back alleys, of a noose cinching tight around his neck, but somehow this dream, this dream of an Arthur who had no interest in him, who had contempt for him, seemed worse than all of those.
"I was the boy," John blurted, suddenly, and though John couldn't see Arthur's face, his confusion was palpable.
"What are you talking about?"
"The—the story Hosea told you. About saving a boy from the gallows. I was that boy, Arthur."
Arthur, clearly not understanding, replied, "Weren't we all?"
"No, Arthur, I mean—I mean I really was. I was pulled off a gallows by a man playing at being a preacher when I was twelve. Hosea saved me. And I never knew."
John could feel Arthur breathing, John's cheek against his chest, and it went deep and heavy. Arthur's hands clenched in the back of John's union suit, and John could hear him licking his lips, a wet noise against his ear.
"I don't … understand."
"I don't either," John said instantly, "but it … it's too close to not be true. It was him, Arthur. It couldn't have been anyone else. I don't know—I don't know how it happened, I don't know why he took you with him and didn't take me—"
"Thank God he didn't take you," Arthur said, instantly. "You couldn't—John. That life weren't for you. If … if that's true, if it were Hosea—then he knew you deserved better."
John breathed hard against Arthur's chest, clutching at his shirt, and thought, how could you know? How could either of us know?
"When Hosea pulled me and Dutch outta jail," Arthur said after a moment, still holding John, "Hosea tried to give me a bundle of cash and send me on my way. He didn't want to take me. It was Dutch who did. It was Dutch who—" Arthur stopped. He stopped, and he pushed John away, just enough that he could look in his eyes. "It was Hosea? You're sure?"
"I was twelve," John replied instantly. "But the story is … how many folk could that have happened to?"
Arthur just breathed for a long moment, eyes distant. "… I don't believe in fate, John," he said finally, closing his eyes, "but that's …"
"I know, I know," John replied, feeling the creeping panic that he had felt at the first realization return, skittering under his skin. "Jesus, as if our life wasn't fuckin' weird enough. I just—" John buried his face in Arthur's chest again, pinching his eyes closed. "I said I'd tell you. On the dam. So I'm telling you."
They sat like that for what felt like a long time. Until Arthur finally asked, almost gently, "That was what made you so weird, on the damn? You recognized the story?"
"Yeah." John replied. "You asked me once a while back, if I had ever been on a gallows. That was the one time I was. And then a man—Hosea—he ran up waving a bible. Said something like, let the one of you without sin cast the first stone, yelled and carried on until they back off, ran off. I was still tied up, so he came up on the platform to take the noose off me, cut my hands free. And when they were free … he put a gun in them. A six-shot revolver with a black engraving on the barrel. Told me to be more careful, the next time."
"… Sounds like him," Arthur said, ruefully. "Hosea always tried words first, before bullets. Dutch used to be like that, too, when I was younger. Seems that's changed, lately."
"Not like he could talk his way outta the shit that he's in now," John muttered.
Arthur sighed, his chest moving against John's cheek. "It'll be done, soon. We'll get Abigail, get Jack, and we'll … we'll fuckin' do the Pinkerton's dirty work, if we gotta, and then this'll be over."
"Sounds nice," John murmured, but even to his own ears there was a skeptical undertone to the words.
Across the fire from them, Sadie snuffled loudly in her sleep, and this prompted Arthur to unwrap his arms from John, dropping back down onto his own bedroll.
"Get some sleep," He said, rolling onto his back. "We might end up having a busy next couple'a days."
*
The four of them set off at first light, but Charles left them near O'Creagh's Run around midday while he went ahead to Beaver Hollow. The three had lunch there, by the shore of the pond, until they were interrupted by a brilliant gold Dutch Warmblood.
The horse, saddle still on his back, walked right up to their little campsite, and, clearly having good taste, immediately stuck his nose right into the collar of Arthur's jacket.
Arthur took it in stride. "Well. Hello, there." He said, lifting a hand to stroke the animal's nose. "Where'd you come from?"
Sadie, on the other hand, had a very strange look on her face. "There's … there's a leg in his stirrup."
Arthur looked up from the horse, brow furrowed. "What?"
Sadie repeated herself, more slowly. "There is a leg in his stirrup."
John got to his feet and grasped the leg, pulling it free. It was made of oak, with a belted harness at the top. "Whoever this belongs to," John pointed out, "they ain't gonna get far without it."
Arthur pushed himself to his feet as well, the horse snuffling at his satchel until Arthur pulled out a biscuit to feed him. "Well, reckon we oughta go find him, then."
Arthur took the horse's reins, and the three of them walked back up to the path, the horse nuzzling at Arthur's shoulder the entire time. They started calling out once they reach the road, Arthur following the freshest set of hoofprints backwards. It was only a minute or two before a voice called back, sounding relieved. "Here, I'm here!"
The man was leaned up against a boulder just off the road. His right leg ended at the mid-thigh, a fabric sleeve pulled up over the end. "Reckon this is yours," John said, holding up the false leg.
"Reckon this is, too," Arthur added, jerking his thumb towards the gold horse.
"Buell, you miserable bastard, there you are," the man said brightly, and the horse whinnied in reply. "You're an absolute pain in my ass, boy, you know that?"
"He's a beautiful horse," Arthur stated, stroking a hand over his withers. "The pretty ones are always trouble, ain't they?"
"Too right," the man replied, accepting the hand up John offered him as he returned the false leg. "I'm Hamish Sinclair—what're your names, friends?"
"I'm Arthur Morgan—this here is my brother John," Arthur replied. "And this is our … cousin, Missus Sadie Adler."
"A pleasure," Hamish said warmly, as he leaned against John's shoulder to pull his leg back on. "What brings all you folk 'round this way? You on your way to Annesburg?"
"Sure," Arthur said, immediately. "Heard there's work in the mines, there."
"Well, if you wanna die, you go ahead, that's what Annesburg'll give you," Hamish replied dryly. "You folk hungry? I got a side of venison back at the cabin, feeding you would be the least I could do to repay you for returning this beast."
"That's real kind'a you," Arthur said, as he passed the horse's reins back to Hamish, now standing on his own two feet. "Another time, maybe."
"I'll hold you to that!" He replied brightly. "I live alone out here, it's rare I get company. You all come back some time, give me a reason to play host, hm?"
"Surely, surely," Arthur agreed, patting the horse one more time before he stepped away. Hamish pulled himself into the saddle, giving the three of them one last wave, before setting off down the road.
"Huh," Sadie said, after a moment, watching the man ride away. "Well, that happened."
*
It was only when the sun was just starting to set that Charles returned, finding them once again on the shore of the lake.
"It's money," he said, immediately, before they had even greeted them. "Abigail thinks she knows where Dutch has the camp funds, she wants to take them."
"Who the fuck cares about money?" Arthur immediately snapped. "We can make more."
"She says its their money, and they deserve it," Charles replied, and Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, scowling.
"Jesus Christ, what's she gonna spend it on if we're all dead?"
Charles was silent a moment at that, his face dark. "Dutch is planning to rob an army payroll train. The camp will be clearing out for it. Abigail reckons we could get in, get the money, and be gone before they get back."
"Fuck," Arthur muttered. "I told you to talk her out of—"
"And I told you I couldn't," Charles immediately replied. "This is how it is. When I go back, do I tell her you'll help, or you won't?"
Arthur exchanged a look with John, face grave, but John gave him a short nod. This was probably the best they were going to get, honestly, and he knew that fighting for something else would just make all of this linger longer.
"Fine," Arthur said, finally. "Fine. You tell her—you tell her we'll be there."
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed the infusion of sweetness =) It was fun to write.
The upcoming chapters are basically going to be the finale of this fic. Meaning they are going to be quite heavy. In some ways, that's exciting for me--heavy writing is very ... cathartic, maybe? Or maybe the word I'm going for is 'edifying', it makes me feel like I'm really flexing my writing muscles.
We're reaching the end. Thank you all for coming on this very long journey with me! The first chapter of this fic was published on Dec 26, 2018 (I remember because it was my birthday). Soon we'll know when the last chapter will be published, too. <3
Chapter 29: Chapter Six, Part Ten
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Charles left back to the camp, to avoid more suspicion. The rest of them rode with him as far as the shore of the Kamassa River. The three of them set up their own little camp there, to wait.
As was already established, Arthur was terrible at waiting. And Sadie didn't have the patience for his restlessness that John did.
"Mister Morgan," Sadie said darkly, the third time Arthur wandered off and came back with something—herbs, the first time, quail, the second, and this time it was an enormous trout, easily the biggest John had even seen—"if Charles comes back while you're off wandering, I ain't waiting for you. You understand?"
"Sure you won't," Arthur replied flatly, not sounding at all chastened. He dropped himself down by John on the opposite side of the fire, setting to work on cleaning the fish.
"You keep saying that every second Abigail and Jack are there is dangerous. We have to wait for you to get back from some jaunt, that's gonna add a lotta seconds."
Arthur dragged his knife across the skin of of the gigantic trout, scales popping off in all directions. "So I should sit here," he said, drawing his knife across the scales again, with a horrid scrapping noise, "on my ass," scrape, "and do nothing?"
Sadie worked her jaw for a long moment. "It's clear, Mister Morgan," she said finally, "that you are Dutch's son. Because he ain't never learned, neither—sometimes nothing is the best thing you can do."
Arthur ducked his head, tapping his knife against the fish's scales. "You … may have a point," he admitted, slightly chagrined, "but truthfully, Missus Adler … I don't know how to be any way other than how I am."
Sadie grumbled something under her breath, crossing her arms. "Try harder," she said finally, but other than that, she dropped it.
She did however, accept a generous helping of the fish once Arthur took it off the fire.
*
It was two days later, early morning, while Arthur was out hunting for the first time of the day, when Charles rejoined them at their camp.
Well, rejoined might be the wrong word. He nearly skidded into the camp, Taima lathered underneath him. John felt his gut clench, because there was no way this could mean anything good.
"The hell you about," Sadie snapped, grabbing at Taima's bridle, "busting into here like this?! You being followed?"
"No—well, yes, but not like … we have a problem."
"If you're being followed, you're damn right we have a problem!" John growled. "Who's behind you? Pinkertons? Dutch?"
Charles hesitated a moment, almost holding his breath. "… Rains Fall."
John and Sadie were both silent for a moment. It was John who finally spoke up. "You … care to explain that?"
"Eagle Flies showed up at the camp, with about two dozen Wapiti braves. Talked Dutch and the boys into following him to an attack on Cornwall Oil and Tar in the Heartlands. I had to duck out of sight, keep Eagle Flies from blowing my cover."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Sadie muttered.
"There's no way they'll win. The factory will send for the army, and Dutch doesn't care—he's after … bonds, or something, I think. I heard him whispering with Micah about it, the Wapiti are a … distraction. A sacrifice."
"What I'm hearing," Sadie said slowly, "is the camp is empty right now."
"I won't abandon the Wapiti," Charles said sharply, hands clenched on the reins of his horse.
"We gotta have some priorities here, Mister Smith," John pointed out. "You said yourself—there's no way they can win. If the whole Wapiti nation ain't got a chance, what could we do?"
"Try," Charles snapped.
"We did try," John snapped back. "We rescued that's boy's fool ass and Arthur and you both told him to give up whatever insane revenge fantasy he has. If he ain't listen to us, well, you can't save someone from themself."
"Who ain't we saving?" Arthur said, appearing from behind Charles, two turkeys hanging from his saddle. "Mister Smith, you have word about the Roberts'?
"They're fine. This is about Eagle Flies."
"Oh, Jesus," Arthur grunted, rolling his eyes. "What's that boy got himself into, now?"
Charles laid out the whole thing for Arthur, Arthur listening curiously as he took his turkeys to the fire, head cocked, as Charles put the most sympathetic spin possible on Eagle Flies' insanity. When the other man was done, Arthur settled his hands on his hips, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, plainly, "What do you really think we can do about it, Mister Smith?"
"That's what I said," John agreed plainly.
"Fine," Charles replied, turning his horse aside. He'd never even dismounted "Then I'll go on my own."
"Charles, wait, you—" Sadie started, but he was already riding off. "… Goddamn it. I'm going after him."
Arthur and John exchanged a glance as Sadie mounted up, scowling, and Arthur finally let out a groan. "Oh, for fuck's sake, why do we always end up—mount up, John. Apparently, we're going to fucking war."
They caught up to Charles and Sadie maybe five minutes down the road, conferring with Rains Fall. Rains Fall was a perpetually hangdog figure, damaged by the difficult life he had lived, but he had not really looked quite as tragic before. There was perhaps the slightest, briefest spark of hope in his eyes when he saw John and Arthur join them, stopping mid-sentence.
"Misters Morgan. You—thank you."
"Don't thank us yet. What are we doing here, Chief? What you want out of this?"
Rains Fall seemed to hold his breath a moment. "Gods forgive me … all I want is my son to be alive. Everything else … I cannot worry about that now. I have given up so much for my people … I want my last son."
"All right," Arthur agreed after a moment. "Reckon we'll try to get 'im for you."
*
The factory was dark. It had electric lights, but they had been blown out in the chaos. It was dim, the only light the flickering of the fire through the window, casting Arthur's face in dramatic shadow, tar smoke slowly filling the building.
"You're sure you saw him?" Arthur whispered, crouched by the stairwell.
"I only met 'im once," John replied, equally hushed. "It looked like him to me."
"This is fuckin' crazy," Arthur muttered. "Dutch is right upstairs."
"We see him before he sees us," John pointed out, "and our lives could get a whole lot simpler."
Before, when John had made these veiled references to killing Dutch, Arthur disapproved. He would give John looks like what he'd said was hurting him personally. For better or for worse, Arthur didn't want Dutch dead, that had long been clear to John.
This time, Arthur only made a thoughtful noise. "Think the Pinkertons would go for that? Us delivering them a corpse?"
John was stunned silent for a moment. "… Think after all'a this," he said finally, "they're gonna be even less picky."
It was right about then that Dutch and Escuella came clomping down the staircase, guns drawn. John and Arthur tucked themselves further into shadow of the staircase.
"Where the fuck is Eagle Flies," Arthur muttered, barely audible.
"I'm telling you," John replied, equally hushed, "he's here."
And there there was a cacophony, as two oil men jumped out at Dutch and Escuella.
"Shit," Arthur hissed, but he didn't move. Even as one of the men pinned Dutch to the floor, a smoking steam pipe blocking Escuella, who was flailing dazedly for the gun that had been knocked from his hand. Arthur didn't move even as they both saw the knife the man was holding dip slowly closer to Dutch's chest.
"He's gonna kill 'im," John whispered against Arthur's ear.
"We ain't here for him," Arthur replied, without hesitation.
It was then that Eagle Flies appeared, the man of the hour, and it was as he was shooting Dutch's attacker off the older man that Arthur finally burst out from the shadows.
He didn't bother trying to argue, of convince, or anything of the sort. He pulled his lasso from his belt, and he looped Eagle Flies from where he stood, nearly six yards away, yanking him across the floor with pure bodily force.
The rope took both of Arthur's hands, so John immediately sprung up behind him, pistols in each hand, aimed at the other two men.
"… Arthur," Dutch husked, his voice gritty from his attacker's hands around his throat. He had a gun in on hand, and Escuella had drawn his offhand pistol, aiming it right at Arthur's bent head. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Unfortunate coincidence, Dutch," Arthur replied, even as he bound Eagle Flies' hands behind him, like the cursing boy was a bounty. "Don't worry, I've got what I came for."
"Really?" Dutch said, rubbing at his throat. "All this chaos, and you came for one boy?"
Arthur looked up at Dutch from under the brim of his hat, the flame-light flickering across his cheek. "Someone taught me, a long time ago," Arthur said, even as he heaved Eagle Flies over his shoulder, "that sometimes a single person matters. That sometimes what you do for one person can make all the difference in the world." He took a step back, letting John cover their retreat. "You know," Arthur mused, hand holding the squirming form of Rains Fall's last son over his shoulder, "sometimes I wonder what happened to that man. I ain't never met his like, since."
Dutch cocked his head, something unreadable on his face, rubbing at his chest. John couldn't parse what was going on behind his eyes—probably weighing his options. He and Javier could shoot it out with John and Arthur here and now, and they might even win, though certainly not unscathed. But the odds were not great, and the renewed gunfire might bring more men.
That was probably it. There certainly couldn't be anything else that would make Dutch hesitate to kill Arthur.
"Javier," he said finally, "put your gun down. We'll have this out sometime. Now ain't that time."
No one stopped them. Oil and Tar was a warzone, but those still living seemed to have no interest in continuing the fight. They rejoined Sadie and Charles by the tar pits, Eagle Flies tossed across the back of John's horse, uninjured but for the rope burn coming up on his wrists.
"You found him," Charles breathed, seeming almost in disbelief.
"We're bounty hunters," John replied, tone slightly ironic. "We're kinda known for getting who we're after."
*
They rode Eagle Flies, squirming and cursing, all the way back to the remnants of the Wapiti camp. Rains Fall almost collapsed on seeing them.
"My son. He—"
"He's fine," Arthur said, yanking the boy of John's horse. "Maybe don't untie him just yet."
"You don't understand, none of you," Eagle Flies snarled, straining against the ropes. "What are we supposed to do—keep running, keep surrendering, to die a long, slow death, as if that's better?"
John rubbed a hand over his mouth. It wasn't his place to say—he was the white man, he was, to the mind of Eagle Flies, the problem, here.
"None of us can pick the world we're born in," Charles snapped, "But you have a father who cares about you, which is more than many of us did."
"When I was thirteen, my father tried to use me as a hostage to escape the law. Put a gun to my head," Arthur put in.
"My father used to try to drown me in a bucket when I made him mad," John added.
"And my father was dead drunk until the day he actually died," Charles finished.
"You think I'm a child," Eagle Flies started, and it was Arthur who cut him off.
"Because you're acting like a goddamn child." Arthur snapped. "You wanna change the world? Make a better future for your people? Bullshit. You want revenge."
Something about that, about that particular sentiment, seemed to strike him. "They have been trying to kill our people for generations—"
"Yes," Rains Fall finally said, his voice grave, "so why are you helping them to do so?"
Eagle Flies fell ominously silent.
"How many of our brothers, our sons, will not be returning today?" Rains Falls asked. "How many of our few remaining people died for this folly? My son—perhaps I have learned selfishness. I want my people, my last son, to live. Even if we live in this … repugnant subservience."
Eagle Flies looked on his father, for one moment, with pain.
And then he said, flatly, "I would rather die."
So Rains Fall followed their advice—he didn't untie his son. Eagle Flies was being loaded, still bound, to sit in the back of one of the wagons as they left.
"What you have done for me," the old man said, before they parted, "I can never repay."
"You know he's just going to run off again, as soon as he can," Arthur pointed out. He gave John a short glance. "I've seen myself—you can't make someone stay where they don't want."
John knew Arthur was talking about John running away, that first month he spent in Armadillo. But John's first thought was that even a wife and child couldn't keep Arthur in one place.
"Surrounded by his own people, and apart from the influence of your 'Dutch' … well, I have hope." Rains Fall sighed. "That, and each other, is all any of my people have, anymore."
*
The whole thing left Arthur in a strange mood. He was silent the whole ride back to the Kamassa river, and once they had set up the camp fire, and Charles had left to head back to Dutch's camp, he immediately stalked off to the trees, without even a word to John.
He took a lantern, but he took a rifle, too, so after a moment of hesitation, John followed him.
"Christ, now you're running off, too?" Sadie grumbled, even as she was biting into a portion of the turkey that Arthur had shot that morning. "Might as well have gone to get Abigail by myself."
"Sure, we ain't helped out at all," John snapped back, affronted. "Anyway, it ain't like he took a horse. Loud as you can be, I'm sure if you shout, we'll hear you."
"You know," she called after him, sly, as she staked off after Arthur, "if you wanted some time alone, ya only needed to say!"
John had heard to much of that kinda shit lately for it to make him blush. Mostly, it just made him annoyed, and he flipped Sadie off over his shoulder without turning around.
It was easy to find Arthur, considering the light of the lantern was obvious in the dusk gloom. He found Arthur peering out into the darkness with a furrowed brow, one hand firm on the grip of his rifle, the other holding the lantern aloft to illuminate the dim forest.
John gamely peered out over his shoulder, for a moment, before he spoke. "There's nothing out there, Arthur."
"There's something out there," Arthur replied, darkly. "Just 'cause it ain't arrived yet don't mean it ain't comin'."
"You gettin' paranoid, sweetheart?" John replied, his tone slightly ironic.
Arthur was silent for a long moment, and then he turned to John with dark eyes. "Dutch knows we're in New Hanover, now. And he already knew Sadie was here. Only a stupid man wouldn't suspect that there was something shady goin' on, and Dutch ain't stupid. He knows. He knows we're here, and he knows why."
"Don't go borrowing trouble,"John chided.
"I ain't borrowing it," Arthur muttered, even as he lowered the lantern, turning his gaze away from the dark. "Reckon I own it by now."
*
Arthur did come back to the camp, after that, though. Came back, and insisted on taking first watch, waving John and Sadie to their bedrolls as he stood, still as a sentinel, along the shore of the river.
John didn't recall falling asleep. That was not unusual. But he was damn sure he hadn't fallen asleep with his head pillowed on Arthur's thigh, which was was how he woke up, eyes still closed but suddenly aware of the conversation around him
"—not that it ain't kinda sweet," Sadie was saying, "but, well … you know you're risking a lot."
"Am I," Arthur said, flatly, without any questioning inflection.
"Plenty of folk would wanna see the both of you hung,"
"So what?" Arthur replied, pointedly. "You're sitting across from me in men's trousers packing a pair of revolvers, there's folk that would wanna see you strung up for that."
"It ain't exactly the same thing," Sadie replied.
"No, it ain't," Arthur shot back, "because you could put your guns and trousers away tomorrow, but I can't put away who I am."
Sadie was quiet for a long moment. "Thought you had a wife, once,"
"My wife knew who I was." Arthur muttered after a moment, under his breath. "More'n I did, sometimes."
John thought about that night, two weeks before she died, when Eliza teased Arthur about John being sweet on him. Maybe Eliza had known both of them better than they knew each other, back then.
"Guess its none'a my business, really," Sadie said finally, after a long pause. "You're good men. But you know that won't matter—no one's gonna see anything but how you two are together. "
"You're right," Arthur said, pointedly, "It ain't your business. And you—" John near jumped out of his skin when Arthur's hand fell onto his shoulder, "if you're done playing possum, you can take the next watch."
John rolled onto his back, blinking up owlishly at Arthur's mock-stern expression.
"… was just enjoying havin' such a comfy pillow," John said after a moment, giving Arthur an innocent expression, and laughed under his breath when Arthur, groaning, shoved his hat down over John's face.
"Nah, you two bed down," Sadie said, pushing herself to her feet and picking up the rifle by the fire. "I'll take watch."
"Yeah?" John said in surprise, pushing Arthur's hat away, and she gave him a strangely warm look.
"Sure. You just enjoy your pillow."
Notes:
Hi all! I had a computer problem this weekend, otherwise this chapter would likely have been out on Friday. (had to buy a new laptop, the old one was absolutely bricked.)
We're in the final stretch, here--but y'all knew that already. I'm going to miss this story when its done ... might try doing a epilogue, but that would be a story-by-story thing, not a multi-chapter beast like this one.
PS I know I don't really title my chapters, but in my head this was the 'do nothing' chapter, for somewhat obvious reasons, lol. I do love to have an overarching theme to a chapter.
Chapter 30: Chapter Six, Part Eleven
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
John couldn't recall the first time that he had thought he was going to die.
The time on the gallows, at twelve, had certainly been a time, but before that there was a series of memories of his blind father holding his head down in a rainwater bucket, or gripping his hands around his throat, or swinging wildly with a kitchen knife while John cowered under the table, and all of them sort of blended together into a general, constant feeling of I'm going to die from as early as John could remember, until his father did, instead.
But he could vividly recall the first time he thought that Arthur would.
He'd been 17, fairly newly so, and he'd only recently gotten as tall as Arthur. He'd only recently started to think of himself as a man, as someone akin to Arthur himself, and he'd only just started to resent being left at home with the woman and the child when Arthur went out to earn money, so when Arthur offered, almost casually, for John to accompany him after a bounty not far away—just up towards West Elizabeth, not even across the state line--
Well. Let's just say he'd been more than willing to start earning his keep.
As soon as they had started to ride away from the house, John mounted behind Arthur on Agrippina's sturdy back, John asked when he got to have a gun.
"Whatchu need a gun for? You really think you'd hit anything?" Arthur scoffed.
"Why bring me if I can't have a gun?" John asked, honestly baffled.
Arthur made a thoughtful noise. "We ain't gonna get there tonight. When we set camp we'll try you out on some bottles or sumthin', if you can hit those maybe you can carry my spare revolver."
The sun was setting when Arthur set up the four beer bottles they'd drunk with their dinner on the top of a boulder. Arthur's gun felt unusually large in John's hands, as Arthur stood over his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, talking John through his stance.
"Keep your arm straight, but don't lock your elbow. The butt of the gun should line up straight with your forearm. Keep your other hand on the bottom of the grip, hold it stable. Don't hold your breath when you fire—"
The first shot John fired went wild, the gun kicking in hands unready for the caliber of gun Arthur carried, hard enough that John nearly hit himself in the face.
He expected Arthur to laugh. He didn't. He huffed out a breath, the emotion behind it impossible for John to parse, and said, "Try again."
John next bullet chipped off a bit of the boulder below the far right bottle.
"Better," Arthur said, and the vague approval in his voice made John's stomach feel strangely twisted. "Go on."
With the third bullet, the rightmost bottle shattered. Arthur let out a whistle at that, and he sounded quite genuinely impressed when he said, "Well, looks like you're a natural, kid."
*
The man they were looking for had been seen around a piddly little docking spot colloquially called Theives Landing, but Arthur had a tip that the man was actually camped at Stillwater Creek. They stopped in the trees the moment the saw the smoke of a campfire, and they both dismounted, Arthur loosing tying Agrippina up to a tree branch.
"You listen to me," Arthur said to John, his voice hushed but serious, "you do exactly as I tell you. I tell you to get down, you get down. I tell you to stay somewhere, you stay there. No arguing, no discussion, I can't be having a debate with you in the middle of a job. You get me?"
John thought back to the Arthur that had captured him in the woods, before he had seen that John was a child. This was that Arthur, the hardened bounty hunter.
"I get you," John agreed, sincerely.
They got within shouting distance of the camp, and Arthur peered through his binoculars in the waning sunlight at the man seated by the fire. "Looks like our guy," he murmured. "All right. John, you wait here and you stay outta sight."
"What? But—" John started, cut off by Arthur's immediate warning look. John sucked on his teeth, unhappy, but he drew Arthur's spare revolver from where it was tucked into the side of his trousers, and tucked himself up behind the widest tree.
He'd never really seen Arthur work. Arthur had caught him sleeping, so he'd never seen Arthur play act, wouldn't have thought such a straightforward man capable of it. But when Arthur walked up the the camp, it was with an unconcerned amble that exuded nonchalance, not a hint of danger around him.
"Hold it right there," the mark said, when Arthur appeared in the light of the fire, and Arthur immediately raised his hands, eyes wide.
"Gee mister, I weren't trying to trouble you. My horse threw a shoe on the road, I thought there was a town down this way what might have a farrier."
"Ain't no town near here," the man said, but he didn't reach for his gun. He even offered, "If you head back west, there's a ranch that probably has someone."
"Don't suppose I could warm myself a moment by your fire?" Arthur said, taking another two steps forward, now only a couple yards away. "It's fixing to be a cold night—"
"Get outta here," the man cut him off, but, again, he didn't reach for his guns.
"Surely, surely," Arthur placated, turning to the side, the man visibly relaxed, shoulders sagging, and that was when Arthur snapped his gun out with the hand the was turned away from the man, spun back, and said, I na completely different voice, "Put your hands up."
The sudden change was clearly enough to throw the man off balance, and his hand fell to the butt of his pistol.
"You draw that gun," Arthur said, in that same dangerous voice, "and I'll happily turn in your corpse. It'll only lose me twenty-five dollars."
Slowly, looking almost lost, the man raised his hands. Arthur took four long steps across the campsite, and kicked the man onto his stomach, the aim of his gun never wavering until he bent over and pulled the man's own gun out of its holster, tossing it into the dark.
"You're a smart man," Arthur said as he tied the fellow's hands, patting him on the shoulder when eh was done, like they were friends. "I'll be sure to mention how cooperative you were to the—"
John had been so concentrated on Arthur, that he hadn't seen the second man come out of the shadows, either. Not until he cocked his shotgun, and Arthur froze.
"Get off my brother," the other man growled, and Arthur stood slowly, telegraphing every move, while John clutched desperately at Arthur's spare revolver, heart in his throat.
Arthur had this under control, John told himself. He did this all the time.
"You a lawman?" The second man asked, ask he stepped closer, eyes glued to Arthur's raised hands, waiting for moment.
"I hunt bounties," Arthur replied. His tone had changed, yet again. Not innocent, like when he was playing civilian, but still nonchalant, still unnervingly calm. "This feller is worth a hundred dollars, but I didn't see your face anywhere. Why don't you wander off before get your own bounty for murder?"
"That is my goddamn brother," The man shouted, punctuating the last word with the butt of his shotgun against the side of Arthur's face.
Arthur fell to the ground, catching himself on his hands before he fell into the dirt, the brother's shotgun instantly pointing at the back of his head.
That was the moment, the second, where John had been certain, absolutely convinced, that he was about to watch Arthur die. He felt his stomach twist, his heart leap into his throat. The world felt like it slowed down, watching Arthur spit blood into the dirt, even as the man above him was tucking his shotgun deeper into his shoulder. As he squared the barrel right behind Arthur's head.
John raised Arthur's gun and fired.
Time seemed to snap back into place. The shot went wide, nowhere near hitting the man, but it made him look up in shock, made him let the butt of his shotgun fall away from his shoulder.
Arthur took the opportunity and kicked out the man's knees.
Arthur immediately rolled to his knees and threw himself onto the brother's back, wrenching his arms up behind his back. "John!" He called out, as he was wrapping the rope around his wrists, the other end still tied to his brother. "Get over here!"
Arthur already had both men tied when John rushed over to the fire. "Arthur, I didn't—"
"Did I tell your damn fool ass to shoot at us? Did I?" Arthur snapped, standing to loom over John, eyes fiery.
"He was gonna kill you!" John insisted, and Arthur scoffed.
"I woulda been fine. It ain't your job to save me, you're a goddamn kid!"
"The hell'd you bring me for, then?" John finally snapped back.
Arthur worked his jaw for a long moment, eyes dark. "You ain't ready for this, John," he said finally. "I thought you was, but you ain't."
"Because I tried to help you?" John near shouted in disbelief.
"Because, John, in a job like this, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to goddamn do it," Arthur replied, without a hint of empathy.
"You said stay outta sight," John replied after a moment. "No one saw me, did they?"
"I ain't playing this game with you, boy," Arthur growled. He leaned over to sever the rope between the two men, throwing the brother over his shoulder. "Go get Aggie, bring her here, so we can go get rid of this trash. We'll discuss this at home."
And the funny thing was, even with the adrenaline of Arthur nearly being shot right in front of him, even with Arthur just having torn a strip off of him for something that John still didn't think was wrong, the thing that really struck him most as he was walking away was that Arthur had just referred to Eliza's house as home, for both of them.
*
Arthur wasn't next to John when he woke the next morning, the gentle gurgling of the Kamassa river overwhelmed by the sound of meat sizzling on the grill. He opened his eyes to see Sadie tending to a Spatchcocked rabbit.
"… Arthur get that?" John asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"I may have complaints about your man," Sadie replied, gruffly, "but I must say, I ain't eaten near this well since I left my homestead."
"Arthur likes to be useful," John said. "Sitting around a fire ain't real useful."
"I got some socks that need darning, if he wants to be useful," Sadie replied, tone ironic. "Or is it only useful if you get to shoot something?"
"Shooting something sure always brightens my day," John said lightly. "Why didn't you wake me earlier to take watch?"
"Way you was cuddled up, thought I'd need a pry-bar to do it. Didn't seem worth the effort."
"You know what? Knock it off," John snapped, after a moment of stunned silence. "Stop acting like you're teasing or trying to give advice when you're really trying to make some kinda weird point about us."
Sadie looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "… it's strange." She finally said, her tone carefully neutral. "You can't expect me to act like it ain't strange."
"Everyone in the world is strange," John said pointedly. "You're strange, I'm strange, anyone who ain't look strange is just good at not letting folk see who they actually are."
Sadie was silent a long moment. "That's … you might have a point about that. Folk called my husband strange too, y'know. For being happy with a wife like me."
"And they never let it go, did they?" John asked. "There was always some word, some back-handed nicety, to remind you that you was seen, and you weren't like them."
Sadie was silent for a long, long moment.
"And even the nice ones, the ones that say, oh, it don't matter to me—they just wanna remind you, you're still goddamn queer, but we're so nice as to overlook it."
"I wasn't tryin' ta—" Sadie started, and her tone was suddenly tight, uncomfortable, but at that point, John didn't care.
"I don't care what you were tryin' to do, or say. That's what you was doing," John cut her off. "You tell me, Missus Adler—why did you and your husband wind up living all the way up in the mountains in the middle'a nowhere?"
Sadie was looking down now, her hat shadowing her eyes. "Because we was sick of it. Of all of it, the looks and the whispers and … yeah." She looked up at him, and suddenly there was something deeply, heavily knowing in her eyes. "We was tired of being seen as what we knew we weren't."
"Right," John agreed. "I don't blame you."
*
Charles Smith came to the camp near sundown.
Arthur had gotten back to camp around midday and, much to Sadie's obvious surprise, had contentedly spent the afternoon darning socks and mending shirts. Arthur after all, was a man used to living near alone—any skill needed to be self-sufficient, he mostly possessed. After all the mending was done, both he and John had gone down to the river for a wash, and there was something significant in the way that Sadie said nothing, didn't even look up, when they went down to the water together.
As if it were a total non-issue. Totally normal.
They ate cold turkey for dinner, alongside a can of beans, and had been fixing to set a watch when Charles approached, leading Taima by her halter.
He hadn't opened with greetings, or pleasantries. The first words out of his mouth were, "It's tomorrow."
*
This had been the moment they had been planning for, for weeks, for months.
And somehow, to start—it was deeply anticlimactic.
Charles went on the robbery with the rest of the men. John, Arthur and Sadie waited out the departure in Butcher Creek, listening to a long diatribe about how the water in the Elysian Pond had been cursed by the devil. In fairness, looking at the water, the oily cast to it, John had to admit that something was off about it, but frankly, demonic curses seemed a less like explanation than some kind of contamination up the river.
After they heard the commotion of the camp riding out, Arthur and John walked up the road on foot, leading their horses by the bridle. Sadie circled around the camp to approach from the river, in case things actually did turn into a gunfight.
"Hang back," Arthur murmured, once they got in sight of the wagons. "If Susan is on watch, she might be a little less likely to shoot me than you."
"Fine," John agreed after a moment, "but if she starts shooting, I'm shooting back."
"Pick your shots," Arthur replied. "Miss Roberts and Jack are in that camp, too."
John took up a post behind a tree, where he could watch Arthur approach the camp. He only got a few yards further down the road before, as expected, Susan Grimshaw's voice called out, "Who goes there?"
"It's Arthur, Susan."
"Arthur," she breathed, and there was something almost relieved at her tone. "I … I oughta shoot you. You knew the rules."
"Those rules are for members of the gang—and I ain't been one of those in a long time."
"Then you're a lawman, and I should shoot you for that."
"… are you going to?"
There was a long, heavy pause, and then Susan sighed. "No. No, I'm not."
"You going to stop me from taking Abigail and Jack with me?"
"Hell," Susan said, and there was something deeply tragic about the wetness of her voice, "I'll help 'em pack."
Abigail was all but locked up in Dutch's tent, it took Susan several minutes to undo all the ties and open the flaps. Abigail was sitting in the corner, Jack in her lap, and was watching the flaps anxiously. She seemed to collapse when she saw Arthur and Sadie, clutching Jack tighter against her chest. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh God, I was afraid you weren't—"
"Get packed," Arthur said. "We need to get going, quickly. And what's all this Charles was sayin' about money?"
"The camp funds are in a chest, in the caves," Abigail said. "I followed Dutch one night, lifted the key yesterday. There's gotta be a couple thousand dollars in there, gold bars, too. We're gonna take it with us."
They'd known this was Abigail's plan. Charles had told them, but Arthur still scowled, setting his hands on his hips. "Ugh. Goddamn it. Give us the goddamn key and started getting what you're taking. John and I will get the money." Arthur threw his saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed his lantern and, before entering the caves, "So. Where exactly is this chest."
*
The chest was all the way at the deepest part of the cave, under a broken wagon. When they got it open—
"Jesus Christ," John hissed. "They got this much money sitting around and they're still running around robbing trains?"
"Nothing's ever been enough for Dutch," Arthur murmured, even as he was shoving the gold bars into his saddlebag. John grabbed the paper money, stuffing it into his satchel. "Hurry up, let's get gone,"
They left the empty chest open behind them, gaping open, and started back up through the caves, past the ominous remnants of the Murfree Brood's previous occupation.
They were halfway out when they heard the scream.
"Shit," Arthur hissed, drawing his gun, and dropped the saddlebag, breaking into a run.
John picked it back up. They didn't go though all this to drop it now.
He'd expected to see Dutch having returned, or one of the other men. He held back from the entrance, hoping for the element of surprise, and what he saw—
What he saw was Agent Andrew Milton, with a gun to Abigail's head.
"Fuck," John whispered to himself. Arthur was already squaring up across from Milton, gun drawn but not aimed. Susan and Jack were not visible, but Sadie was also squared up, gun in hand.
"I must admit," Milton was saying, "I wasn't expecting to run into you here, Mister Morgan. Apparently you just can't stay away from gangs and violence."
"You wanted me to get you Dutch," Arthur replied. "Ain't that what I'm doing?"
"Oh, if only I believed you," Milton replied. "But I heard you and your brother were seen at the Cornwall Oil factory last week. Didn't seem that you were on the side of law and order."
"We were after a bounty, one'a the Indians," Arthur replied. "The rest of it was nothing to do with us. Now, why don't you let that woman go, she ain't done nothin'."
"You mean, other than robbing the First National Bank in Saint Denis?" At Arthur's silence, he cocked his head. "Oh, you thought that was a secret? One man died from his injuries, from the bombs this woman and Hosea Matthews set. That makes this woman a murderer."
"You shot an unarmed man in the middle of the goddamn street," Arthur snapped.
"A murderer. And a criminal," Milton replied easily. "I'd happily do it again. When you live like a savage, Mister Morgan, you cannot be surprised when you die savagely."
"He ain't the one holding a gun to the head of a young mother," Sadie put in. "You're outnumbered, Milton. Where's the rest'a your army?"
"Oh, they're coming," he said. "Four dozen Pinkerton Detective agents are going to surround this place, once Van der Linde returns. I came ahead to spare these poor folk from dying in the crossfire. They'll die on a gallows, as they should."
"You don't really want her—pretty young woman, a mother, like that?" Arthur said, leadingly. "Folk ain't gonna think kindly of people that would hang someone like that. You want to hang someone who looks like a criminal. Like a degenerate."
The way Milton tilted his head said he was listening.
"So let's trade. You hand Miss Roberts over to Missus Adler, here, and I go with you. You can hang me'n Dutch side by side, just like you want."
"You paint a pretty picture, Mister Morgan. If I actually believed you meant it—"
"I'm many things, Agent, but I'm not a liar."
And that was true. If Arthur was making the offer, he meant it.
John thought back, to saying to Arthur, let's try not to die.
Arthur hadn't said, we won't. He'd said, don't worry about it. Had this been the plan, all along? Rather than giving them Dutch, had he always intended to play the martyr?
Even if he had, that didn't mean John had to go along with it.
So John did what he hadn't been able to do, hadn't had the skill to do, ten years back.
He pulled his gun and, without hesitation, he shot the man threatening Arthur right between his goddamn eyes.
"Jesus fuck!" Sadie gasped, jumping forward to catch Abigail when she almost collapsed under Milton's sudden dead weight, tangled with the corpse. Arthur spun around, eyes wide.
"What the hell, John?"
"I ain't gotta stand here and watch you kill yourself," John snapped back, throwing Arthur's saddlebag at his feet, "and you got no right to expect me to!"
"I had a—"
"Plan?" John cut him off. "Now where have I heard that before?"
"That was a government agent, John!" Arthur yelled.
"And you shot more'n half-a dozen of his comrades not long ago."
"Shut the hell up, you idiots! This ain't the time," Sadie snapped, still holding Abigail up against her. "You get the money?"
"Yes," Arthur hissed. "Where's—"
"Susan scooped Jack up and rode off the minute Milton showed up," Sadie cut him off. "We'll find her down the road. Get this shit and let's get gone before we have any other unpleasant surprises. Apparently four dozen Pinkertons are on their way."
"This is a fucking mess," Arthur breathed. But he heaved Abigail's trunk into the back of the camp's smallest wagon without further comment, while Sadie hitched her own horse up to the front, before he went to roll Milton's body down the hill into the river.
Before he did, Abigail paused over the corpse and deliberately, purposefully, spat in his mangled face.
"Wearing a fancy suit don't make you any less a savage," she sneered to his crumpled face, before joining Sadie in the wagon.
Notes:
I wanted to be clear about Sadie and John's interaction here. I did receive some comments about Sadie 'shipping it' etc, and while I an a firm believer that intent is not magic in writing, and reader interpretations are always valid, that wasn't really what I was going for. I wanted a period-accurate sort of acceptance, one that was somewhat problematic (because I love love love flawed characters, because without flaws, how can there be growth?). Sadie is not a bigot, but she is someone who is made uncomfortable by Arthur and John's relationship. Her 'cheeky' comments, mostly subconsciously, are stated to make John and Arthur just as aware of their behavior as she is. She is, as John states, making them aware that they are seen.
And again, I want to be clear--I'm am not trying to imply any malice. It's totally normal to get fixated on things to which you have not been exposed, which is what Sadie is doing here. The point is that after she and John talk she gets it, she sees what she's doing, and she is open to doing better. In essence, to use modern terms, she is learning to be a better ally.
So yeah, I really wanted to address that, because, as much as I love Sadie, it's important to me that the characters not be pure paragons of virtue.
Chapter 31: Chapter Six, Part Twelve
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They found Susan five minutes down the path, Jack clutched in front of her, his face red and wet with tears. He began sobbing again as soon as he saw Abigail, reaching out to her before she even had a chance to get off the wagon.
"I'm fine, baby, I'm fine," she cooed to him, petting at his dark hair. "You know your mama's always fine."
"All right," Arthur said, once the boy had calmed a bit. "I know you ain't much of a rider, Susan, if you'd rather take over the wagon—"
"I'm going back."
All of them froze.
"What you mean, you're going back?" Arthur snapped.
"What would those boys do without me, hmm?" She replied, and there was something horribly resigned about her tone. "You all have each other. They have me. They need me."
"Susan, if you go back to that camp you will die," Arthur pressed, knuckles white on the reins of his horse. "It's not too late to—"
"Oh, Arthur, it was too late for me years ago," she sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, but—Dutch has always needed people. And I'm the only person that really, truly cares about him, anymore."
"Why the hell," Sadie growled out, "do you give a damn what Dutch needs? After all'a this?"
There was a painful sadness in Susan's eyes when she blinked over at Sadie, her shoulders seeming to slump. "You were married, Missus Adler. How far into hell would you have followed your husband?"
"Dutch ain't your husband! He never did right by you!" Abigail argued. "I been around long enough to see that! Susan—"
"I'm not leaving," she said, and while there was a strange undertone of grief, he voice was resolute, "but you all need to be. So go. What will or won't happen to me ain't on your heads."
She spurred her horse back up the trail before they could try to argue more. Arthur, seemingly by instinct, turned Boadicea around as if her were going to follow, but stopped before spurring her.
"We can try and go back," he said finally, glancing at John, "once you ladies and Jack are on a train outta town. We don't have time for this right now."
"She can't really mean to die for Dutch," Sadie muttered, but she whipped the horse and got the wagon going.
None of them said what was obviously apparent—even if they did return, by then it would be too late.
*
"They never built a line across the Dakota," Sadie was saying, seemingly to herself, at they unloaded the wagon in Annesburg. "We'll have to take a stage from Valentine, but it'll—" she stopped herself, cocking her head.
John finally prompted, "It'll what?"
"I was gonna say," she said slowly, "that it'll be expensive. But I guess that ain't a problem, right now."
They had ducked down an alley, out of sight, to transfer the money from the saddlebags into Abigail's trunk. John tucked gold bars up under Abigail's dresses, the paper money having being handed off to Sadie to buy the train tickets. "You'll need a fence to take these off your hands," John pointed out, as the bars thudded into the bottom of the trunk. "There used to be one in Tumbleweed, but that was years ago, now."
"I'm sure we'll figure it out," Abigail said. "Why don't you keep a couple? For your trouble."
"This ain't our money," John replied. What he didn't say was that, if Arthur knew he'd accepted payment from Abigail, he would not be happy.
"It is if I give it to you," Abigail pointed out, arching an eyebrow, and John huffed out a laugh.
"Give it to the rest'a your camp when you meet up with them in new Austin," John replied. "Let 'em get on their feet. Arthur and I don't need it."
Sadie and Arthur returned just as John was closing the trunk again, now nearly a hundred pound heavier. Even Arthur grunted when he grabbed the other side to help John carry it to the train.
"You gonna be able to get this off again in Valentine?" He asked Missus Adler skeptically, and she scoffed.
"Hire a porter if we have to. Not like we ain't got the money for it. Or," she looked at Arthur out of the corner of her eye, "you could come with us."
"I think you been knowing me long enough to know I gotta try," Arthur replied.
"Yeah. That's your whole problem," Sadie replied, but there was a bit of humor in her voice. "Well, I wish you luck."
"And you," the had reached the train, and John and Arthur handed the trunk off to the baggage loaders. "We'll follow you down to New Austin, one way or the other."
"Yeah. Looking forward to it."
It was once the train pulled away that Arthur said, almost absently, "I told Sadie that the three of them could use the house."
For the first second it didn't click. What house? And then— "You … sent them to Eliza's house?"
"Don't know if it's even livable, anymore. But if it is, might as well have folk in it."
John was quiet a moment. "So … we ain't going back there."
Arthur lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke with an unreadable expression. "You really wanted to go back to that house? Live alongside those ghosts?"
"Then what was all that you were saying before, about going back?"
"I meant it, about going back to New Austin. But thinking about going back to the house … it would never be like it was." He looked over at John, cigarette glowing red in the shade of the brim of his hat, "Wouldn't you rather go back to be new people, rather than the ones we was?"
"Maybe," John said, thoughtful. "Maybe."
*
They started back up Roanoke Ridge immediately, but before they even got to the top, John asked Arthur, somewhat skeptically, "We aren't really going back for Susan, are we? Dutch and his boys could be back by now, and if they are, the Pinkertons—"
"I said to Sadie and Abigail I would," Arthur replied, sounding almost resigned.
"And you're a man of your word," John replied, "like you said to Milton."
"You sore at me about that?" Arthur scoffed. "John, I weren't never gonna let Milton hang me, I just wanted to get him away from Abigail."
"Coulda done that by shooting 'im," John snapped back.
"Milton is a big muckity-muck. People are gonna miss 'im," Arthur pointed out.
"People might notice he's gone," John shot back darkly, "but I doubt anyone is going to miss him." Then, after a beat, "I sure didn't."
Arthur huffed out something that wasn't a laugh. "That ain't funny," he said, but John thought he saw a treacherous twinkle in his eyes that said he thought it was, at least a little.
"Milton went out on his own to an outlaw camp," John pointed out. "Even if he told anyone where he was going, no one knew we were there. It ain't gonna come back on us, Arthur."
"It ain't that simple, John," Arthur sighed. "Nothing is. It'll come back on us—just in other ways."
And when Arthur stated it with that tired certainty, John felt a clenching in his gut, a sudden worry. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Arthur sighed. "Never mind. Let's see if he gang is back yet—if they are, Susan's on her own, we can't wade into that shit. If they ain't, I guess we'll try to be persuasive."
John wondered if Arthur was thinking of the same kind of persuasion they had used on Eagle Flies.
"Lotta risk for a woman that ain't wanna be saved," John pointed out.
Arthur huffed out a sigh. "Yeah, well, story of our life, ain't it?"
*
They didn't even make it back to the camp—they ran into Charles Smith on the ridge, riding like the hounds of hell were behind him. He very nearly rode straight by them before they recognized each other.
"Morgan. You need to turn around," Charles said, shortly.
"We—we promised Sadie and Abigail we'd go back for Susan—" he started, and Charles' face went even harder than before.
"Susan's dead. She—when we got back, she told Dutch what you'd done. That she helped you, and that she'd do it again. Told him he needed to pick what was more important, money, or family. Then Micah shot her in the chest. Dutch … he didn't even flinch."
"Jesus Christ," Arthur breathed. "Twenty years she cleaned up after that man, while he threw her over for whatever new pretty face took his fancy."
"She made a choice, Arthur," John pointed out. "She had to have had an idea what it would mean, to stay."
"Pinkertons swarmed the camp, not long after," Charles finished. "Everyone scattered. I barely got out."
"Shit," Arthur breathed. "Did Dutch—did they get him?"
"Don't know. I doubt it."
"Shit," Arthur repeated.
"Milton wasn't with the Pinkertons," Charles added. "If he's still chasing Dutch—"
"He's dead, too," Arthur replied flatly. "He's at the bottom of the river."
"One less worry, then," Charles replied. "Look—I'm going to the Wapiti. They're planning to go North, to Canada. I want to make sure they get gone before any of this comes around on them. I'll try to meet you in New Austin after."
"Yeah, a'course." Arthur agreed. "Stay safe, Mister Smith."
"You as well, Mister Morgan," he replied, before taking off again.
John and Arthur sat in silence for a moment, struck, before John spoke up. "We still trying to get Dutch for the Pinkertons? Or did that die with Milton?"
"Fuck Dutch," Arthur replied immediately. "I'm done with him being our problem. Pinkertons come threaten us, I'll tell 'em to get the law. Ain't no sheriff in New Austin that'll hang us without a trial, they know us, and if they come at us about the agents that died in that shoot out—well, I reckon Sadie and Abigail would be happy to witness in our favor that it was Dutch what killed 'em."
John felt a hopeful tightness in his chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Forget all this garbage. Let's … let's go home."
*
It was a lovely thought. It would have been lovelier if it had actually worked out.
They barely got three hours away before they all but stumbled over Micah goddamn Bell.
The thing was … for all his dislike of the man, John understood Dutch, at least a little. He was a self-absorbed, venal man, but his self importance was predictable, and could be exploited.
Bell, though … Bell was simply crazy.
And … well, the man had never looked super hale and hearty, doughy as he was, but now … now he looked half-dead already. His skin was sallow and pale, and there was blood in the whites of his eyes. He was so pallid that every vein could be seen underneath his skin, blue trails across his cheeks and down his neck.
A crazy man with nothing to lose was dangerous.
"Well, well," Bell scraped out, his voice sounding like a knife-blade scraping over tree-bark. "Look who we have here. The folk with our money."
John and Arthur had their guns drawn the moment they recognized him—Bell did the same, a gun in each hand. Even with two guns, there was one of Bell and two of them. "I'm liking our odds here, Arthur," John said, conversationally, even as he nudged Rachel backwards.
"You look like a strong wind would take you out, right now, Bell," Arthur pointed out. "What good is money gonna do ya when you're burnin' in hell?"
"Oh, I'm a survivor," Micah replied, smugly. "I'm planning my retirement to California as we speak. Hear the air out there is real nice."
"Well," Arthur drawled, "I do not regret to inform you that that money is already on a train outta state."
"Where'd you send it?" Bell growled.
Arthur actually sighed, as if put-upon. "Walk away, Bell. I ain't gonna chase you if you do, but if you keep going after this, it will not go well for you."
A pistol clicked behind them. "I rather think," Dutch said, and when John turned slightly over his shoulder, the man was on foot behind them, both of his own guns aimed, "that this is not going to go well for you."
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur turned to look over his shoulder. "Dutch."
"Arthur," Dutch responded, cocking his head. "I should've known it was going to end like this. I knew you shouldn't be trusted way back when started up all your faggotry."
Arthur winced at the word, but still replied. "I'd rather be a faggot than a disloyal coward. Where's your family you claim to care about so much, huh? Where's Susan Grimshaw?"
Something shrewd flashed across Dutch's face at that, and John realized—he must have an inkling that, the only way they could know about Susan being dead was if someone who was there had told them. "Susan knew the rules, and she broke them. And I didn't betray my family—they betrayed me."
"At some point, Dutch," Arthur said meaningfully, "if every person around you is against you, you have to consider that the problem is with you."
"Enough of this, already," Micah snapped. "Where the fuck is the money?"
"You think I'm scared of you, Bell?"
"I think you should be," Bell replied.
"I'm giving you one last chance," Arthur said, darkly. "Walk away."
"And I'm giving you no more chances," Dutch said, and fired.
The bullet hit John in his right shoulder, knocking his gun out of his hand, nearly knocking him out of the saddle. Arthur immediately fired back, as Dutch ducked behind the tree beside him. Micah was firing from the other side, putting him and Arthur right smack the in the middle of a cross fire, so there was really no choice but for Arthur to spur Boadicea off to the right, towards the sparse tree cover, whistling for Rachel to follow him.
Rachel was, in theory, John's horse. But when Arthur called her, she immediately followed.
"How bad," Arthur immediately demanded, once Rachel was alongside. He snatched up her reins, which John had let fall loose, to keep them apace.
John flexed his fingers. It made his arm ache the entire way up. "I ain't gonna die of it in the next hour," he said tightly, "but I don't think I'll be shooting a rifle, neither."
"Fuck," Arthur muttered, under his breath, but he only spurred the horses harder. "There's a rope bridge up the river. If we can get to the other side of it, we can cut it down behind us."
John knew the bridge Arthur was referring to. "There's no way it will hold the horses."
"One at a time, it will."
It seemed like they didn't have a lot of options. Micah and Dutch had been on foot, but their mounts couldn't be far, so whatever head start they had was narrow. "Okay. Okay."
They galloped, break-neck, in silence for a moment, before John spoke up again. "Hey, Arthur," he gestured to his own shoulder, then to Arthur, "now we'll match."
Arthur was silent for a moment, seeming in disbelief, before he replied, blankly, "Mine's on the left."
It took them maybe fifteen minutes to reach the bridge. They obviously had no idea how far behind them Dutch and Micah might be, but they dismounted, and John and Rachel went across first.
"You and Rachel both weight less then me and Boadicea," Arthur argued, "and you're injured. You go first."
Rachel was probably about 900 pounds. Boadicea was closer to 1200, at a full hand or two taller. It still didn't sit right with John, as he lead Rachel across the creaking bridge, heart in his throat.
Arthur waited until Rachel and John had gotten to the other side before he and Boadicea set foot on the bridge. He'd only gotten a third of the way across before Dutch and Micah appeared from the horizon.
John, honestly, half expected Arthur to cut the bridge himself. Arthur had always been too willing to sacrifice.
He didn't. When he saw Dutch and Micah, he immediately slapped Boadicea on the rump to rush her across the bridge ahead of him, and broke into a sprint.
Boadicea made it across the river.
Arthur didn't.
It was probably the stupidest thing Bell could have done, but the minute he got off his horse, he saw Arthur in the middle the bridge, and pulled a machete off his horse's saddle.
It was the work of moments for him to hack his end of the bridge to pieces.
The bridge folded under Arthur before he could do anything, before he could grab the slats. John had only a fraction of a second to meet Arthur's gaze, wide eyed, before he plunged into the river below.
John fell to his knees on the edge of the cliff, frantic, but had to immediately retreat when Micah and Dutch started shooting across the gulf.
"I hope you know," John screamed back at them, voice thick, "that I am gonna make sure you both die slow."
"We are gonna cut where our money is outta your flesh, Marston!" Bell replied, from across the river he had made impassible.
John didn't bother to argue. He tethered Boadicea to Rachel's saddle, and set out down the river.
John couldn't swim. But Arthur could.
Notes:
This is a short chapter. Because I had already decided where I wanted it to end.
This is also a ... stressful chapter. I don't want to broadcast my plans for the end of this fic (which will be the next chapter, next two at most) but I hope you trust me enough to have 'faith' that it will be true to the narrative so far.
I also ... I do want to apologize about Susan. I know her arc made a lot of you assume I was going to save her. But ... I felt I couldn't. She was too entrenched in the lifestyle Dutch endorsed. He rebellion, such as it was, was to save other folk, not herself. This, in a lot of ways, mirrors canon Arthur. Too deep to get out, but not to deep to save others.
Chapter 32: Endgame
Notes:
This is it, folks.
This is what I've been working towards, not quite since the beginning, but since several months ago, at least. So much of this was in my head already, that it just seemed hard not to write quickly. I hope the speed of this conclusion doesn't give you whiplash.
Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. This fic has been almost two years in the making, and it has been a labor of love the whole way. <3 I'm actually really anxious about this ending, because ending are often controversial, so I hope it appeals, but I can't really apologize if it doesn't--because this was definitely what I wanted.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Now
There was something deeply surreal for John about having to knock on the door of the house where Eliza and Isaac had died. Even having had to do it quite a few times, by this point.
Abigail's voice called from inside for him to enter, and when he did, he found her at the stove, hair tied up. Apparently, he hadn't succeeded in missing breakfast.
"Mister Marston," Abigail said, nodding to the table. "I'm just finishing up the eggs, why don't you have a seat and visit awhile?"
"Actually, I was hoping to see if Charles or Sadie were about."
Abigail's expression went a bit hard at that, mouth pinched, but she didn't give him an answer. "Sit and eat. I know you live off that tinned stuff, it ain't healthy."
John chose not to mention that it was probably healthier than eating Abigail's cooking. She couldn't ruin eggs too badly, could she? And see that she was clearly in a mood, John chose to obey, taking a seat at the table.
Abigail dropped a plate in front of him a moment later with three eggs on it, which were somehow both runny and burnt, and dropped into the chair across from him with her own plate. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "What you want Charles and Sadie for?" She asked, pointedly, and John looked down, taking a very sharp interest is his eggs. Abigail sighed after a moment, leaning forward. "John. It's been four months. Why are you still doing this?"
John felt his hand clench around the fork in his hand. "There was no body."
"Because it's at the bottom of the river. Look, I know you don't wanna hear it, but if Arthur was alive—"
"Don't talk to me about Arthur," John said harshly. "You knew 'im a couple months. I been knowin' 'im twelve years."
"How long you plan to keep this up?" Abigail asked.
"As long as it takes," John replied, immediately. "Are Charles and Sadie here, or not?"
Abigail was silent a long moment, looking as if she would like to say more, before sighing with a shake of her head. "Sadie's up chasing bounties near Blackwater, but Charles is out working on the new coop. Reckon he can decide for himself if he wants in on whatever new rumor you done heard."
John found Charles hammering in slats on what would eventually be the chicken coop's west wall. He and Sadie had already built the second bedroom Eliza had once dreamed of, and Abigail had mentioned wanted to erect a proper barn, next. He gave John a long look when he announced himself, more sympathetic than Abigail's, but no less knowing.
"John. It about that time again?" The last time John had come to the house, he'd managed to convince both Sadie and Charles to help him follow a rumor up in the West Grizzlies. Nothing had come of it, of course.
"This is different," John replied. "I got a letter. From Dutch."
Charles blinked. "There's no way that a letter from Dutch is anything but a trap."
"He says he has information about Arthur."
"Because," Charles said, gently, "he knows that's what you want to hear."
John knew that Charles was likely right, but … "If there's even the slightest chance, I have to try … and I'd rather not meet him alone."
Charles regarded him silently for a long moment, before setting down his tools. "Where are we going?"
John let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "West Elizabeth."
*
Then
John had given Rachel free rein as he'd ridden downriver, all his concentration taken with searching for a dark-blond head bobbing in the water. The river was fast-moving there, and littered with boulders and outcrops that could easily knock a man unconscious, assuming that hitting the water from the height he did hadn't done that already.
It was quite a ways down the river before the cliffs slid down into shoreline, before the river became shallower, shallow enough that, when John saw something dark bobbing in the water, he didn't hesitate to jump off Rachel's back and splash through the knee-high water to grab it.
For a moment, his brain refused to accept what he was holding. When he finally did, he nearly dropped it like a dead thing.
Arthur's hat, the rope band fallen off, but still recognizable by the hole in the brim.
John went wild. Screaming Arthur's name, splashing through the shallows frenetically enough that the horses began to stress, whinnying worriedly and stomping wildly. He felt like his vision was tunneled, his ears ringing, panic crawling up his gut into the back of his throat, so maybe it was no surprise that he didn't hear someone come up behind him until he was tackled into the water.
It had been stupid to stop. He wasn't even away from the river, Dutch and Micah would have followed the exact same path, on the other side.
He was only under the water for a few moments, but it was enough to bring back that childhood trauma, the panic, and he flailed hard enough to knock the person off him, and scrambled backwards, jerking his head above the water with a gasp, until his back his stone.
Micah Bell was in front of him, with a long-bladed skinning knife in his hand.
"You're lucky we need you alive, boy," he growled, "because I coulda shot you easy enough while you was having your little fit there. Aww," he cooed, mocking, seeing the Arthur's hat, still clutched in John's hand, "that his hat? Was his head still in it?"
John breathed for what felt like a long moment, as what had been panic curdled into rage. He fisted his hand in the soft sand covering the bottom of the river.
And threw it right in Bell's eyes.
Arthur had told him, when he was teaching him to fight, the only way to win a knife fight is to not get in one. He'd told him, the loser bleeds out in the street, and the winner bleeds out on the ride to the doctor.
When he leapt at Bell, who was pawing at his eyes with his empty hand, cursing, the first thing he did was grab for the wrist holding the knife, trying to get Bell up against the ground so he could bash his hand down against it. But they were still in a foot of water, and John couldn't get the force to knock the knife free before Micah knocked him back with a knee in the middle of his chest. John fell back into the water again, his hands flailing at the riverbed to keep his head above the water, before Micah was on top of him.
He slashed wildly with the knife, face feral, and managed to get a lucky slash in, across John's cheek and nose, even as John kicked out, trying to keep the knife as far from him as possible. His success was moderate—he was at the disadvantage, on his back, and Micah lunged closer, snarled and, in an unexpected moment of intelligence, punched John right in his right shoulder. Right where Dutch's bullet had hit.
John's vision went black. Only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. When it came back, he was under the water, Micah's hand around his throat.
The first slash had been lucky. The second, as Bell slowly drew his knife across John's cheek, was deliberate.
"Don't worry, kid, I promise won't let you drown," Micah cooed.
John writhed a moment in a panic, arms flailing weakly in the shallow water, before he felt something hard under his left hand.
He grabbed the stone tightly and, with all the force he could muster, bashed it across the side of Bell's face.
I didn't knock him over, but it dazed him enough that the hand on John's throat let go. John jerked his head up out of the water, gasping, and hit him again, hearing the crack of bone as blood began to pour from Micah's eye socket. He scrambled up and grabbed again at the wrist of Micah's knife-hand. There was a boulder, this time, for John to catch it against, and when he slammed down the stone against it, like a hammer on an anvil, he heard fingers break before the knife tumbled into the water.
"Goddamn it," Micah groaned weakly, his other hand cradling his mangled face, as he spat out what looked like a tooth. He was up to his chest in the water, John above him, the rock still clenched in his fist. In that moment, he was helpless. John had already won. He could have walked away.
John dropped the stone, folded both his hands around Micah's neck, and forced his head under the water.
Micah flailed, briefly, but the water slowed his blows, and he was half dead already. After a moment, John shifted to pin down the arm with the unbroken hand with one of his knees. He needn't have bothered—Micah's flailing quickly slowed, ineffectual, as bubbles and blood drifted up from his face, blood-shot eyes wide under the clear water.
It takes about three minutes without air to kill a man. John wasn't sure how long he held Micah under, but it was quite a bit longer than that.
He felt like he was waking from a dream when he finally stumbled to his feet, Micah's corpse slowly starting to drift down-river without John pinning it.
He had barely felt it, during the fight, but now his face felt like fire, and he could feel the blood trickling down his jaw to fall on his soaking wet shirt.
As he sloshed unsteadily back towards the horses, movement caught his eye, and when he turned, he saw Arthur's hat, caught in an eddy behind one of the largest boulders, spinning endlessly.
He stumbled over and picked it up, hands shaking. After a moment, he put it on his own bare head.
As he stumbled back to Rachel and Boadicea, he finally had the thought—where the fuck was Dutch? Why wasn't he here, pulling John off Micah's neck, making sure they won the fight?
What the hell was happening?
*
Now
The instructions in the letter had been clear but elaborate—write a letter to an obvious alias in Valentine, wait thee days, ride to Strawberry, wait for a man to approach them, provide him with a stupid-sounding password, and follow where he took them. It rubbed John the wrong way, but then, considering all that Dutch had done lately, the man had cause to be cautious.
The man that ultimately met them in Strawberry was a native. There was a flash of recognition in Charles' eyes when he saw them, suggesting to John that this was one of the Wapiti braves, one who had survived the assault on Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, and then decided, for some goddamn reason, to return to Dutch instead of going north with his tribe.
"I was told I was meeting one man," the native said skeptically, after John offered up the idiot passphrase, "not two."
"I'm no threat to you, brother," Charles said lowly.
"You are not my brother," the man immediately replied. "I know you, Charles Smith. The man who is both black and red and still does the will of the white man."
"I followed the will of your Chief, which was more than you did," Charles replied, but there was no anger in his voice.
"Sometimes the will of young people, who will have to live with the decisions made, outweighs the will of those who are soon to die," the native replied, "But fine. You may both come. But first—" he held out a large fabric sack,"—your guns."
They didn't have a lot of choice. They both handed over their pistols, and John his repeater. He let Charles keep his bow, but took his arrows. Then they road north, up the river towards Mount Shann.
"How long has Dutch been here?" John finally asked, when the silence of the ride began to feel heavy, and the native threw him a warning look.
"Long enough to find others to join him," he replied, darkly. "Stop talking."
It took three hours for them to reach the mouth of an old mining tunnel. Dutch was already waiting for them, flanked by two other native men. He looked … strange.
John had only ever seen him in elaborate, upper-class costumes, even when they were frayed at the edges. To see him like this, in a fraying grey knit shirt, moccasins on his feet instead of polished boots, the beginnings of grey hair at his temples—
It had only been four months. But this was a different man from the one who had shot him on Roanoke Ridge.
"I'm glad you could join us, Mister Marston. Though I don't recall inviting your friend."
"Hello, Dutch," Charles greeted, his tone as dry as ever. "I hope you've been well."
"I had wondered about you, at times, Mister Smith," Dutch responded. "I see now I should have put more faith in my instincts."
"Maybe you should have put less faith in money."
Dutch chuckled, as their native guide came over to join him. "Funny you should mention money, because that's really what brings us here."
"What brings me here is that you said you had information about Arthur," John cut in sharply.
"And what do you expect I want in return for it?" Dutch said, his tone still falsely cordial. "By my count, John Marston, you owe me fifteen thousand dollars."
John clenched his teeth, hard, to keep from saying anything that would make this all go to shit. "I don't have your money anymore. I barely did in the first place. We gave it back to the folk that earned it."
"How magnanimous of you," Dutch sneered, "but nonetheless, that is the cost."
"Why should I pay you to lie to me?" John sneered back. "Why would I believe anything you have to say?"
Dutch nodded slightly, as if he had expected this. He looked to one of the men beside him, who passed him a small object, which Dutch tossed across the clearing to land in front of John's horse.
"That's why," Dutch said, nodding to the object, and after a moment's hesitation, John dismounted, never taking his eyes off Dutch, to pick up what he had thrown. He glared suspiciously at Dutch for a moment longer, and then looked down at what was in his hands.
And had to grab onto the neck of his horse for support.
It was Arthur's journal, his latest one. The one that had been in his satchel when he fell from the bridge. John frantically flipped through the curled, water-damaged pages, and the writing was smudged and in some places illegible, but it was Arthur's.
"Where did you find this?!" John immediately demanded.
"That is a discussion we can have," Dutch said heavily, "when I have my money."
"Where the hell am I supposed to get fifteen thousand dollars?!" John demanded, but he didn't sound angry. More like panic. Desperation.
"Robbing rich folk always worked for me," Dutch said archly, "but I'll leave that to you to figure out. I believe we're done here."
"Wait!" John said, frantically. "When I've got the money, where do I—"
"Oh, we move quite a bit," Dutch cut him off. "Send another letter to Strawberry, and I'll send someone else to collect you, and return you, safely, to where you came."
*
"Where the hell am I supposed to get fifteen thousand dollars?" John said again, as he and Charles rode back down the mountain, unaccompanied on the return.
Charles was silent for a long time—long enough that John thought he simply did not have an answer.
Then, Charles said, slowly, "… there is something."
"Fifteen thousand dollars worth of something?" John asked in disbelief.
"What do you know about the Blackwater Massacre?"
It had been a year ago, now, when John and Arthur had stood on that promontory across from Dutch and Javier, and been asked for favors that Arthur would not provide. And now, strangely enough, it seemed it might all circle right back to where it started—the Blackwater money.
*
Charles didn't know where the money was. But … it seemed that Abigail had always had a way of finding out these sorts of things. She'd known where the stash was in Beaver Hollow, and she knew where it was in Blackwater.
She hadn't been able to resist saying though, her eyes sad, "Mister Marston. You know that journal could very well have been taken off a corpse."
"Just what the hell you got against hope, Miss Roberts?" John had snapped back, and she'd pursed her lips, thoughtful.
"Hope ain't often done folk like us much good."
It was while he and Charles were riding down the main street of Blackwater, their horses loaded down with Dutch's stolen gold, that John finally asked, hesitant, "Charles … do you think Arthur is alive?"
Charles glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not going to answer that, John. I would hope that my helping you with this would be enough."
Which, to John … sounded clearly like a no.
"Yeah," John said softly, looking away, "okay. I … I been thinking. I think … I think we maybe need to handle Dutch … a little differently. Than Arthur and I been doing."
Charles cooked his head at that, curious. "What did you have in mind?"
*
The new camp that one of Dutch's native acolytes lead John to, a week later, was at what looked like it had once been a small homestead. It had clearly fallen into disrepair, and the only ones there, now, were heavily armed native and Hispanic men, possibly more that had there had been only two weeks ago.
And, of course, Dutch. Dutch, sitting on the front porch of the largest building, reclining like a king, smoking a fat cigar as John and his guide rode up to the front of the building.
"Mister Marston," he said, his voice cruelly amused, "how did you get on?"
John wordlessly dismounted Boadicea—he'd been riding her for four months, Rachel was with the Roberts—and dragged two saddlebags off of her rump, letting them fall, heavily, where they would.
Dutch had asked for fifteen thousand, that was what he got. Ten of the gold bars were still with Charles Smith.
One of the natives slowly came down from the porch when Dutch gestured, holding his handgun on John the whole time, and leaned down to pick up one of the saddle bags.
He grunted and stumbled. It was far too heavy to pick up one handed.
"Feels like a lot, Dutch," he called back up to the porch.
"Why don't you get some of the boys and go count it," Dutch called back, "while Mister Marston and I," he gestured to John to follow him into the building behind him, "have the conversation I'm sure he's dying for."
"Tell me," John demanded, as soon as the door closed behind them. "Where did you find Arthur's journal?"
"By the Kamassa river," Dutch said lightly, and it was all John could do not to grab him by the collar and shove him up against the wall.
"Do not play goddamn games with me, Dutch!" John snapped, following Dutch as he walked down the narrow hallway.
"Maybe you should ask more specific questions," Dutch replied with a smirk, and he gestured John through an open door at the end of the hallway. John stepped in and—
No.
It—
It couldn't—
Arthur was lying on a cot at the other end of the room, his wrists tied to the frame.
John stumbled across the room in a daze. Arthur looked nearly thirty pounds lighter than he had been, his union suit hanging loose over his stomach. As he got closer, it was clear that his eyes were glassy, unfocused—drugged. "The fuck did you do to him?!" John snapped.
"Saved his life," Dutch replied. "Obviously. And asked him a few questions—not that we got any answers."
Without asking, John immediately cut away the ropes holding Arthur to the bed frame. They seemed unnecessary, anyway, as Arthur barely stirred when he did—did nothing, in fact until John cupped his face in his hands, looking down at his gaunt face, eyes wide. "Hey, Arthur, you in there?"
After a very, very long moment, Arthur blinked, eyes focusing slowly.
"'m I dreamin'?" Arthur slurred, voice gritter than ever, one hand weakly raising just enough to cup John's elbow, and John let out something between a laugh and a sob.
"If you are, so'm I," He said. Then, to Dutch, "Where … where was he? I searched the whole goddamn river!"
Dutch hummed. "Oh, not far from where you left Mister Bell. I just happened to get there first."
Something cold curled in John's gut for a moment. How long had he held Micah's head under the water, sitting there at the ford? And while he had been doing that, Dutch had been pulling Arthur out of the river.
Whatever Dutch had done to Arthur, in those four months, was possible because John had just had to see that bastard die.
John let the thought go, it was too much to deal with right now. He heaved Arthur up into a sitting position, Arthur being almost no help at all, collapsing against his chest with his head on John's shoulder. "We're leaving."
Dutch tsked. "Now John, our deal was for information, which you have received. Arthur leaving with you is a separate deal, and a separate negotiation."
John eyed the room around them. It was set up like a proper bedroom, with a desk, a bedside table, and a large, heavy armoire, just to the side of the bed.
"I think I'm done negotiating," John replied.
He yanked Arthur off the bed, kicking the frame to skid towards Dutch as he did, and yanked them both behind the armoire, Arthur's back to his front. He fired two shots as he did so, without really aiming—the first hit the door frame, the second going straight through the window behind Dutch, as Dutch ducked out of the doorway.
"You've made a very foolish decision, son!" Dutch yelled through the door. "We could have made a deal! You could have walked away! Now neither of you will leave here alive!"
"That so?" John yelled back. "Maybe I'll surprise you!"
And then, a moment later, the sounds of dozens of shooters began from outside the building. John panted from the adrenaline, one hand flat against the center of Arthur's chest where he held him against his own, where he could feel him breathing.
"… what have you done?" Dutch called back after a pause, his voice dark.
"Just invited a few friends," John called back. "You know—Charles Smith, Sadie Adler … and the entire Blackwater police division."
"We had an agreement," Dutch said, sounding almost surprised, and John actually barked out a laugh.
"Well you outlaws may have honor, but us lawmen are all filthy liars."
It was only a moment later that John heard the clear sound of Dutch retreating, going to save his own hide, and John finally let himself relax, just a little.
The chief of police, in Blackwater, had been almost giddy when John and Charles had come to him. Blackwater had the largest police force this side of Saint Denis, and the chief had been only to happy to offer as many as they needed, even with John's condition that he be let to talk to the man first, alone.
What'll be the signal, then, to move in? The man had asked, eagerly, and John had no hesitation in answering,
Gunfire.
"John?" Arthur slurred, turning his head to try to see John's face. "What're—wass happenin'?"
"Nothing, we're fine, we're—" John twisted over Arthur shoulder to kiss him, the angle awkward and Arthur too dazed to really kiss back, but God, it was still the best thing John had felt in months, Arthur's mouth on his own, warm and alive.
It was moments later that he heard Sadie's voice calling his name from the front door, and he finally crawled out from their hiding spot, heaving Arthur's arm over his shoulder, the man's feet barely under him, unstable as a colt.
There was something deeply, viscerally gratifying about the absolute disbelief on Sadie Adler's face when she saw the both of them emerge from the room.
They stumbled their way out into the courtyard, Sadie now under Arthur's other shoulder, though the height difference between her and John made the whole thing quite awkward, and Charles Smith slowly rose from where he was tying up a survivor with a look on his face very similar to Sadie's.
"He's alive," Smith said, blankly.
"I goddamn told you so," John replied, hotly. "Find us a goddamn wagon, there's no way he can ride."
Charles and Sadie ran off to do just that, like they were on fire, while John dropped Arthur onto the bench in from of the house, crouched in front of him to meet his eyes.
"You still with me, old man?" John asked, brushing some of Arthur's hair out of his eyes. Dutch hadn't cut it—it was getting long.
Arthur stared back at him a long moment, eyes still half-unfocused, before he lolled forward, nearly falling, grabbed awkwardly at John's face, and kissed him.
"John Marston," he muttered against John's lips, in a tone he was sure he never woulda heard outta the man if he was sober. "I'm always with you."
Notes:
Aaaand then I take all the angst and drama and turn it right back around to be saccharine. -_-;; I can't DO sad endings--I just can't. Luckily I managed not to let all of you know that, lol.
I wanted this ending to touch on some canon themes--revenge against Micah coming at a cost, for example. Revenge brought the Pinkertons down on John in canon, in this, though less severe, it made it so that John could not get to Arthur first.
I am now marking this as complete, but my current plan is for two epilogues--one more immediately in the future, probably fairly short, just to deal with the aftermath of all this, and one that will serve as a sort of combo of the canon epilogues and RDR1 (which I will not be writing a longfic about, so do not ask lol)
Oh, and if any of you would like to know my real name ... it's Jennifer. =D
Chapter 33: Epilogue One
Summary:
The direct aftermath of Arthur's rescue.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Arthur shoved John's hands away, crossly, for the third time in as many minutes. "For God's sake, lemme alone."
"If you fall again—" John started, and Arthur almost growled.
"I'm using the damn crutch, ain't I?"
"Your leg ain't gonna get any better if you—"
"My leg ain't getting any better no matter what I do, you heard that doctor," Arthur snapped back.
Apparently, Arthur's unsteadiness on his feet during his rescue hadn't been entirely due to the morphine he'd been given. The journey down the river had broken his left leg and hip, and with the pneumonia he quickly developed being the first concern, it hadn't been noticed until it was far too late to mitigate the damage. The amount of time he'd spent immobile (tied down to a bed, or a chair, or drugged) had in some ways made it better, and in some ways worse.
What the doctor had actually said was, He'll probably walk with just a cane, eventually, but I make no promises about riding.
That had probably been the main cause of Arthur's overwhelming surliness, of late, but even with Arthur biting his head off at every single turn, there were moments that John just found himself smiling stupidly at nothing, because Arthur bitching at him mean Arthur was alive to bitch at him.
"Quit giving me that look," Arthur grumbled, as he hobbled out the front door of the surgery, to where John had the wagon waiting.
"What look?"
"Like I'm a puppy or sumthin', it's annoying."
Arthur was more like a Rottweiler than a puppy, for sure, but there was something cute about him when he was surly. "You are a bit of a cur, y'know."
Arthur gave him a long, dark look. "You lookin' to start a fight with me, Marston?"
"Reckon I'd win, right now."
There was a long, tense moment, before Arthur looked away, with a hint of a smile. "Reckon you would," he admitted. "With how long I was lying around—I'd put even odds between me and a kitten."
Arthur paused at the wagon to greet Boadicea, she and Rachel were both hitched up to the front. Boadicea actually whined when she saw him, as loyal as a faithful dog, burying her nose in the collar of his jacket as he stroked a hand along her mane.
"You miss me, girl?" Arthur cooed, as Boadicea nuzzled up against him. "Yeah, I missed you, too. You been being good for Johnny?"
"Why ain't you ever talk that sweet to me?" John teased.
"You ain't carried me on your back for ten years," Arthur replied. "You want me to brush your hair and feed you a carrot, too?"
"I mean, if you're offering—"
Arthur was obviously not at the peak of health. The punch he aimed at John's shoulder still hurt, though.
The good humor soured when John had to help lever Arthur up into the wagon, his left leg stiff as a board. He snatched the reins out of John's hands once he settled, giving him a sharp look. John let them go, holding up his hands in surrender. "It ain't like we're going far." Only to the train station, they could have walked the distance if—
Well.
They couldn't walk it, obviously.
"Fuckin' trains," Arthur muttered, whipping the horses.
*
The trip took five hours—if they had been mounted, it would have taken two days. John chose not to mention that—he had a feeling the convenience of it would not be persuasive to Arthur. He also didn't mention the way Arthur kept rubbing at his stiff hip the whole ride, absently, as if he weren't aware he was doing it. Arthur refused to talk in any meaningful way about his injury, about what it might truly mean about their future—he alternated between deep, hopeless cynicism, and complete denial, talking about what he'd do when he was 'better', when there was only so much better that he was going to get.
John didn't care—he wouldn't have cared if he had to spoon-feed Arthur for the rest of his life. But Arthur would care. The idea that he might never ride again, that he might have to rely on John rather than his own self, even to the slightest degree—he knew it would likely never sit well with Arthur.
They'd cross that bridge when they—well.
Maybe crossing bridges wasn't the best metaphor, right then.
Sadie Adler was waiting for them when they got off the train. She raised her eyebrows at Arthur's crutch, but considering that the last she had seen of him was when she and Charles helped John load him, near incoherent, into the back of a wagon, she was probably completely sincere when she yelled out "Mister Morgan, you're looking quite well."
"As are you, Missus Adler, as are you," Arthur called back. "Hear you're takin' in our footsteps."
"You been outta the game so long, someone needed to fill in," she replied. Sadie was not a subtle woman—she had no compunction about referencing Arthur's … incarceration. "Found out bounty work quite suits me."
"I imagine it would," Arthur agreed.
They arrived at the house just as the sun was starting to set. Arthur had been nodding off in the back of the wagon, he grumbled when John shook him awake, and grunted, involuntarily, when he climbed down off the wagon.
"… how are you doing?" Sadie asked, hesitantly.
"Every day's a new day," Arthur responded, but with an ironic undertone. "A new, shitty day."
"Careful, Mister Morgan, you're starting to sound like me."
Arthur humphed at that. He looked up at the house, expression curious. "Two bedrooms," he said, softly. Then, sounding more wistful than sad, "I wonder if they got a phonograph."
"Abigail made up the new bedroom for you," Sadie said, obviously not understanding the significance. "Brand new bed in there."
John noted the singular—bed, not beds. He supposed nothing about him and Arthur was very secret anymore, but it was a bit odd to come to a friends home (especially one that used to be theirs) and be given a single bed, like they was married folk, or something.
"Where're you and Charles staying, then?" Arthur asked.
"I stay in town, I need my space. Charles, he—well. Look. Armadillo's a lovely town. Mostly. But they ain't been all that welcoming to a half-colored half-Indian. So he's been staying up at the MacFarlane's."
"People been giving Charles trouble?" John said, immediately outraged.
"No," Sadie replied. "They ain't been giving him anything. No food, no lodging, no liquor, not even a nod hello."
"Why those miserable—"
"It is what it is, and we ain't gonna start trouble so close to Abigail." Sadie quickly cut him off. "Anyway, Drew MacFarlane ain't tolerate that, so Charles has been doing some work for him, when he ain't working on the house."
"You done a lot with it," Arthur admitted. The new bedroom was the on the opposite side of the house from the old one, visibly newer, and the chicken coop Charles had been working on was finished, though still empty. Further behind the house, some stakes had been hammered into the ground, marking out space for a barn or stable.
"Abigail means to put down roots here. She's already talked to the local schoolmarm 'bout getting Jack into classes, she's putting in a garden, and the MacFarlanes are gonna sell 'er some chickens."
"And you?" Arthur asked, and Sadie scoffed, dropping her cigarette and grinding it under her boot on the toeboard.
"I'm a wandering soul these days, Mister Morgan, you should know how that goes. Why don't you head on in, Abigail's been cookin' half the day. I'll get the horses settled and join you."
John half expected Arthur to argue, but his exhaustion must have won out, because he just waved her off and turned to the door.
They found Abigail inside at the stove. Jack was standing on a chair beside her, in front of the sink, very seriously peeling a small pile of potatoes. They both looked back when they heard the door creak open, and a strange series of expressions passed over Abigail's face—pleasure, then shock, then concern, and then finally a abrupt, clearly conscious decision to settle on pleasantness, wiping her hands on her apron.
She hadn't known about Arthur's leg, any more than Sadie had.
Like Sadie, she had the good sense not to mention it. "Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, Mister Morgan."
"You as well, Miss Roberts—seems home life suits you."
Abigail acknowledged the compliment with a small smile, and then tapped Jack sharply on the shoulder. "Say hello, Jack."
"Hi, Mister Arthur," Jack said obediently. "Why can't you walk anymore?"
John winced, and Abigail's face went white. "Jack, that's not—"
"Let 'im ask," Arthur cut her off, as he hobbled over to drop himself into a kitchen chair. "Ain't like the rest'a you don't want to. Jack, I had a real bad fall, and my leg broke. You know how John had a brace on his arm when you met 'im? Well, no one put a brace on my leg, so it didn't heal right."
Jack looked thoughtful for a moment. "How far did you fall?"
"All the way to the bottom."
Jack's face scrunched up in a way that seemed to indicate that he knew there was something wrong with that response, but he couldn't quite figure out what. "Will it get better?" Jack asked, still innocently, and that more than his previous question made the entire room wince, and a silence fell that felt like it lasted forever.
"… no." Arthur finally said. Then, to Abigail, "If you'll excuse me, my lady, I'm a bit tired from the road. Reckon I'll go rest a bit before supper."
"… did I make Mister Arthur sad?" Jack asked, worriedly, when the door to the bedroom shut behind Arthur.
John hesitated for a long moment, debating internally, before he followed him. Arthur sometimes needed to get away from people to lick his wounds, but John wasn't people.
Arthur was in a chair by the window when John entered, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, chin resting on his hand as he stared, unfocused, out into the desert. Eliza's house was far enough from town that the only thing visible was scrub-brush, cactus and, now, the empty chicken coop.
"… You don't have to have dinner with 'em if you don't want," John started tentatively. "Abigail's cooking is shit, anyhow."
It took a moment before Arthur looked over at him. "John. What are we doing here?"
John's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? I asked you if you wanted to come, you said yes."
"I believe what I said was fine," Arthur replied, "and that was—I thought Sadie and Charles would be here."
"Why would that matter, why would—" John started, and then abruptly cut himself off, as it suddenly occurred to him what Arthur was getting at. "You didn't think we'd be alone, here. With Abigail and Jack." Just the two of them, with a mother and her child, in the house Arthur's child and that child's mother had died in.
Arthur winced, turning his gaze to the floor. "Abigail's a fine woman. And Jack, he's … he's a good kid. A real good kid. But …"
But Arthur had been more invested in the idea of saving them, than in actually making himself a part of their lives. It had been a long time since Arthur had been a part of anyone's life but John's.
"… but I'm tired," Arthur said finally, turning back to the window. "I'll be sociable in the morning.
*
"Mister Morgan not joining us?" Sadie said, mildly, when John emerged from the room alone. She was smoking at the table, sprawled out in one of the wood chairs, as Abigail and Jack were dishing out food onto plates at the counter.
"I'm sure you can appreciate he's tired," John replied.
"Of course," Sadie agreed, but there was something knowing about it, her brow arched. "I'm sure that's the only reason."
"What're you talking about?" John demanded, and he wanted to sound accusatory, but he mostly sounded tired.
"Well, I'm sure that you can appreciate that I rode with your feller for over a month, and that ain't long, but I reckon it still makes me the person who knows him the best, after you. You was the one who once gave me a long talk about being seen, John. I'm thinking Arthur don't much wanna be seen, how he is."
John opened his mouth to argue, and then closed is again, slumping. "Maybe. Maybe."
"Sit an' eat," Abigail cut in, dropping a plate on the table in front of Sadie. "No heavy talk over dinner."
*
Arthur was asleep when John crept back into the room, flat on his back on top of the covers, one hand on his bad hip, as if he'd been rubbing at it when he fell asleep. John tried his best to crawl up next to him without waking him, but Arthur stirred as soon as John put a knee on the mattress.
"How was dinner?" Arthur muttered blearily, rubbing at his eyes.
"Terrible. Abigail saved you a plate—don't eat it."
"Mm," Arthur hummed. "Good to know."
"We talked about going up the MacFarlanes' tomorrow, to see Charles, if you're up for it."
Arthur grunted. "That's fine."
"Actually fine, or fine like coming out here was fine?" John replied, suspiciously.
Arthur turned to give John a long, hard look. "You think all'a this is frustrating for you?" He challenged, and John wilted.
"That's—I just want you to tell me. If it ain't fine. Because that's okay, too."
Arthur sighed. "I don't know what you want outta me, John. If I say no, you'll give me that look like I'm a kicked puppy and I can't stand it."
"You're a grown man. You can deal with how I look at you," John replied, almost harsh, and Arthur blinked.
He blinked, and the corner of his mouth quirked up after a moment, looking almost pleased. "Sure. Sure I can."
*
Arthur was already gone from the bed when John woke. He finally found the man out in the yard with Boadicea, and he stopped for a moment in the shadow of the house, to watch Arthur try, clearly not for the first time, to mount. He could get his right foot in the stirrup just fine, and lift himself up, but each time he tried to swing his left leg up over her back to sit, the limb refused to do more than jerk up against her side.
John couldn't hear Arthur's voice, from how far away he was, but the movement of his mouth suggested he was alternating between soothing Boadicea and cursing his own body.
Boadicea, of course, was patient as anything, even as Arthur repeatedly ended up kicking her in the flank with every attempt. She whinnied at times, as if in encouragement until, when Arthur stepped back after maybe his fifth attempt, Boadicea dropped her weight and settled down to kneel on the ground in front of him.
Like she was trying to help.
If any horse was smart enough to understand what Arthur was going through, it was probably Boadicea. Arthur had raised her from a foal, once Agrippina had started getting on in years, and John would swear she thought herself a human being. She had always had an intelligence in her eyes that John had never seen in another horse, and a bond with Arthur that—well. If Arthur had to pick between saving John or saving Boadicea, he'd probably pick John. But it would be a harder decision than most.
With Boadicea on the ground, Arthur was able to use his hands to pull his left leg over her back, and settle himself in the saddle. There was a crease between his brow that told John the position hurt, but he still urged the horse up, and Boadicea of course obeyed. The jostling as she rose to her hooves made Arthur wince more noticeably, but Arthur had his hands clenched on the reins, determined.
He took Boadicea around the yard three times before he finally pulled her to a stop, sweat on his brow, hunched over in the saddle. He still hadn't noticed John watching, or he likely would have acted more stoic—he swung his good leg over Boadicea's back, putting all his weight in the other stirrup to dismount—
His leg didn't hold. Arthur fell to the ground with a jarring thud, his left foot still in the stirrup. John was already running across the yard before he hit, frantic, and dropped down next to the other man just as Arthur yanked his foot from the stirrup, cursing.
"Jesus Christ, Arthur!" John scolded, pulling Arthur up to sit with a hand in his shirt. "What the hell were you thinking—"
"Back off, John," Arthur immediately snapped back, shoving John away, much harsher than John expected—harsh enough the John was struck silent for a moment.
"I will not," John finally snapped back. "I spent four goddamn months looking for you, and I didn't do it so you could wind up breaking your own neck."
"And how you think those four months was for me, John?" Arthur snapped back.
"I would know if you'd tell me," John pointed out. He'd asked Arthur, shortly after he'd come out of his drugged haze, what Dutch had done to him, during all that unaccountably long time. Arthur had never answered.
"Why, so you can feel even sorrier for me?" Arthur grasped Boadicea's bridle to pull himself to his feet.
"It'd be hard to feel sorrier for you that you already are!" John responded harshly.
"Hey!" Sadie yelled abruptly from the porch, starting both men into silence. "The hell is wrong wit' you two?" and John looked down, abruptly chastened.
Arthur wanted a fight, that was clear. Arthur was feeling hobbled and embarrassed and quite possibly useless, and he'd rather feel angry and indignant.
He'd rather John be angry.
But angry wasn't going to help anything.
"Get yourselves sorted and get on in. Breakfast is ready." Sadie said finally, glaring darkly, and slammed the door behind her.
John rose to his own feet, grabbed Arthur's crutch from where it was leaned against the fence, and handed it over to the other man with a expression blank enough that Arthur abruptly looked unsettled by it.
"I ain't sorry for you," John said, "I'm grateful for you. Even when you're bein' an ass."
Something almost guilty flashed across his expression. "John, I—"
"Nevermind it," John cut him off. "Just … you could be careful, a bit. For me."
"Yeah," Arthur replied, "and you could try to ease up and be more normal, a bit. For me."
It was true that John hadn't let Arthur out of his sight in the last two weeks since he'd got him back, had been under his elbow near the whole time, but living in each others pockets was the usual, for them. Which wasn't to say that John hadn't been treating Arthur with kid gloves, because he had.
He thought about the oddly pleased look on Arthur's face, when he had snapped at him the other night. "All right," John said, ruefully, "I guess we'll both try."
*
Jack was absolutely delighted by their train ride up to the MacFarlane Ranch. Apparently, he loved trains about as much as Arthur hated them, eyes fascinated from where he was seated on Abigail's lap. Sadie had purchased them a private room on the train, against Arthur's strenuous protest, but John was willing to admit that it was a much nicer ride that the one they had taken down from Blackwater.
Not that Arthur took advantage—within five minutes he had hobbled off to spend the trip sitting on a hay bale on one of the flatbed cars.
John left him to it. He was trying, really, to treat him more normal, and babysitting him certainly wouldn't be doing that.
"It's only an hour trip," Sadie said, after he left. "Surely that ain't so terrible he needs to run off."
"Arthur doesn't like being closed in," John replied. "Now more'n ever, probably."
Sadie hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose I can understand that."
Arthur returned when they pulled up to the stop, smelling like cigarette smoke, and actually let John put a hand under his elbow when they climbed down from the train without complaint.
It was the worst kind of coincidence that, just as they were getting off the platform, Drew MacFarlane and his only daughter were just riding back into the ranch.
"Mister Smith!" Drew MacFarlane called out in greeting. "Since when have you hung around reprobates?"
"Since very recently, Mister MacFarlane. You've taught me the joys of honest work," Charles replied, and John could hear the humor in his voice, but John wasn't sure that MacFarlane could. "I take it you know Mister Morgan and his brother."
"Not as well as I knew his wife," MacFarlane replied, pointedly. "Mister Morgan. It appears some misadventures befell you."
"So they have," Arthur agreed, something tense, uncomfortable in his gaze. "I've heard some have befallen you, as well. My condolences, for your sons."
"And mine for yours," MacFarlane replied, and something about his look seemed to … not soften, but ease. "I don't think you've met my youngest, Bonnie."
The blonde girl looked about 16. She cocked her head at the ground, curiously. "Gentlemen."
Arthur lifted the hand that wasn't on his crutch to dip his hat. "Miss."
"Missus Roberts, Missus Adler," MacFarlane finally acknowledged. "You're both looking lovely as always."
"And you're as charming as ever, Mister MacFarlane," Abigail replied. "I appreciate the eggs you sent the other week, we had 'em for breakfast this morning. I'm hoping you might sell me some chicks while I'm here, so we could have our own."
"Of course. Speak to Juan at the barn, he'll help you. And when you're done, why don't all of you come up to the house for some lemonade? I'd love to hear what you've been about, Mister Morgan."
MacFarlane tipped his hat once more time, and then he and Bonnie trotted up the road into the ranch proper.
After a moment, Arthur turned over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at Abigail. "Missus Roberts?"
"Which do you think they'd accept more, an unwed mother, or a widow?" Abigail replied primly.
"My wife was an unwed mother, before she was my wife," Arthur shrugged, "but I get what you mean."
*
After they'd seen about the chickens, and Charles had given them a brief walking tour of the ranch, they finally wound up at the large main house. John had a brief memory of the last time he had been here, in the dead of night, with a camp of degenerates behind him. MacFarlane brought it up as soon as they were inside, gesturing all of them to the couches in the sitting room. "I found some work for some of the folks you brought here, young Mister Morgan. You were right—they do work hard."
"I'm glad to hear they impressed you," John replied. He could see that Sadie and Abigail wanted to ask further questions, but MacFarlane did not know they were from the same group, so John did it for them. "Did any of them stay nearby?"
"Only Miss Jones—she's been working at the saloon in town, last I heard. Miss Jackson I sent up to interview with a rancher family in Great Plains looking for a governess. When the men I sent to escort her came back, they said the couple seemed to like her. The others—I kept 'em until they wanted to go. They all had some money when they left."
"You've done so much for those folk," Arthur said, sincerely. "Thank you."
"I do wonder," MacFarlane responded, pouring out a tumbler of brandy, "how you wound up sending that motley crew to me."
John wondered, for a moment, how Arthur would answer—if he would lie, or if, as with Benjamin Lambert in Saint Denis, he would be far too honest.
Instead of either, he just didn't answer. "The world is a funny place. It's strange who we wind up finding ourselves around."
MacFarlane looked over the folk in front of him, just then—three bounties hunters, one a woman, a half-native, and a widow with her son.
"There is some truth to that," he said, dryly. "Well, Missus Roberts—how have you been getting on?"
They talked about Abigail's (Eliza's) home for near another hour, about the addition Charles and Sadie had built, the chicken coop that would soon be filled with MacFarlane's chicks, and of the new garden she was putting in—the stakes John had seen were not for a barn, but for that raised garden. Somewhere along the line Bonnie had joined them, apparently having an interest in planting, and they were speaking or crop rotation when someone, from the other side of the road, screamed "FIRE!"
"You all wait here," MacFarlane immediately snapped, even as he launched to his feet. Charles and Sadie, of course, immediately ignored it, going after him instantly, and John moved to follow after a moment, only stopping when Arthur started fumbling with his crutch to push himself off the couch, as well.
He stopped after a moment, dropping back onto the couch beside Abigail and Jack, and meeting John's eyes. John, who had been frozen in the doorway between staying to make Arthur stay and going because that was what Arthur would do.
"Go," Arthur assured him tiredly.
John went.
*
The entire south pasture was alight. The cattle had luckily managed to escape, but the fencing and grazing land was near black when they got there, and it took a few hours to stop it from moving further towards the ranch. All of them—John, Charles, Sadie, and MacFarlane himself—were exhausted and ashy when they finally made it back, the ranch painfully quiet after the roaring of flames, and the road so dim that they didn't notice first body until they near stumbled over it.
"Oh, God," MacFarlane breathed. "McNairs."
"It was a trick," Charles said after him, his voice equally haunted.
And then they both broke into a run for the main house.
John and Sadie followed after a bare second, guns in hand—John had no idea who the McNairs were, whether a gang or a rival ranch, but regardless, a body in the street was not the sign of a friendly visit. There were a few more bodies in front of the house, and they caught up just as MacFarlane was kicking in his own door, barred from behind. As soon as it came down—
As soon as it came down, they were face to face with Arthur Morgan, the bounty hunter, the gunslinger. Even with a crutch under one arm, the pistol in the other didn't waver. Miss Bonnie was behind him with what must have been her father's shotgun. There was another body in the entryway, with a gunshot right in his throat.
The half-a-second before Arthur recognized them seemed endless. Then, he pointed his pistol up, and Bonnie flew into her father's arms, shotgun still in hand.
"Bonnie, my Bonnie," MacFarlane murmured, petting at the poor girl's blonde hair. Though she clung to him, she wasn't crying. There was a fierceness, John thought, to the expression he saw over MacFarlane's shoulder.
"Arthur, are you—" John started to ask, even as Abigail appeared at the top of the stairs, Jack on her hip.
"You know what, John?" Arthur drawled, holstering his pistol. He looked to the body in the entryway, clearly shot before he'd had a chance at anything, to Miss MacFarlane in her father's arms, and to Abigail and Jack, safe as houses, and said, sincerely, "I can't recall the last time I've been better."
Notes:
Hi all. I know it's been a while. This chapter fought me--I knew what I wanted to say, but not how to say it. I wanted to explore Arthur rediscovering his own value after a life-altering injury, and I think I got that, a bit--the second epilogue will be in 1907, and might explore that theme a bit more.
Thank you for reading!
Chapter 34: Epilogue Two
Notes:
I really wanted this to be the final chapter. But after 5500 words, I've decided to give what I have, and then have one more short chapter to finish out the epilogue.
That will probably be quite sappy and fan-service-y, as I plan to echo the meetings that John can have in his epilogue with the campers.
Also probably some sex. Because y'all deserve it.
Anyway, here's this so far. Hope you enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
1910
Blackwater, West Elizabeth
"You know, Mister Morgan," the postmistress said, as she passed him the bundle of letters, "I've got a stage that delivers mail to all the ranches 'round here once a week. Be easy enough to have him bring it 'round yours and save you the trip."
It wasn't the first time Esther had made the suggestion. "I don't think Arthur would go for that," John replied, an amused tone to his words.
"There's no reason for that brother of yours to be such a hermit," she sniffed.
"He ain't a hermit, just busy," John replied, "we do have a whole homestead we're trying to build."
"You ought to buy one of them pre-cut houses, be quicker," Esther suggested.
John immediately shook his head. "Too modern."
"The future is coming right quick, Mister Morgan, we're all gonna have to get used to it. You know them federal men up at the capitol building got themselves an automobile? I've seen them riding it around, scaring the hell outta the horses."
"God forbid," John said, sincerely, as he tipped his hat.
It was two hours ride to the ranch on horseback—twice that with the wagon. John had left before dawn to ensure that he got back before dark.
He passed Henry on the road about an hour from the ranch, a bag over his shoulder. John waved as he passed, but didn't stop to chat—the scowl on the man's face told him just about all he needed to know.
Arthur was standing in the shade of what would one day be the house's east wall, rubbing a handkerchief over his sweaty face and leaning heavily on his cane, when John came through the front arch.
"Saw Henry heading out on my way in," John called, in lieu of a greeting.
Arthur grunted.
"Arthur," John sighed, "you can't keep running off everyone we hire."
"You hire," Arthur replied, pointedly.
"You agreed we needed some help," John pointed out, as he hopped down from the wagon bench.
"Yeah, someone like Charles, or Jack, or even Karen's boy—he's gotta be, what, six or seven now? Old enough to hammer some nails."
People we know, John translated in his head. "Dominic's five," John said flatly, even as he leaned over to brush a kiss across Arthur's cheek. "And knowing who his father is, I doubt Karen'll be sending him out here to do manual labor."
Arthur muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath about politicians, settling a hand on John's hip. "Well, that doesn't mean we need to invite any yahoo from town to put his mark on our property."
"We been sawing at this for three weeks now, Arthur, and what do we got to show for it? It'd be nice to sleep indoors again sometime before winter."
"I'll get us a hotel room," Arthur muttered, mulish. "I just … I want this to be …"
"Perfect?" John finished for him, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We're gunslingers, Arthur, not architects—nothing we could build would ever be perfect."
"Perfectly us, then," Arthur replied. "Perfect for us."
John, in a sudden burst of sentimentality, "If you're in it, it'll be perfect for me."
"Jesus," Arthur groaned, embarrassed, shoving at John. "You're gonna rot my teeth, you keep feeding me all this sugar."
John laughed as he went back to the wagon, heaving the boxes off as Arthur thumbed through the mail.
"Well now," Arthur said after a moment, eyes scanning over the opened letter. "There's one here from Sadie. She's coming back to Armadillo. Might be just what we need,"
"Give Sadie a hammer and a mouthfull'a nails, she'd be hammering them into someone's skull," John snorted. "Oh, and Esther at the postal office asked me again, 'bout getting our mail delivered out here."
"What have I said about that, John," Arthur replied, not taking his eyes off the letter. "No government on my land."
*
Sadie was on the porch when they arrived at Abigail's house a week later. They hadn't seen her in years—they'd been out of the country, and Missus Adler had been everywhere and nowhere.
"Missus Adler!" Arthur called out in greeting. "How was Quebec?"
"French," Sadie replied. "Very French. I learned how to say 'hands up' and 'pay me' in Quebecois."
"Both useful," John agreed.
"Woulda been nice to learn 'Keep your dick away from me', too. Saved me some bullets."
"Knife would make more sense if you were trying to take 'em off," Arthur pointed out, amused.
"There's an idea. I could have a necklace made of 'em by now," Sadie replied, mouth slowly turning up into a grin. "Arthur Morgan. What a relief to once again be around such uncivilized folk. Abigail, God love her, has gone full homesteader."
"Funny you should mention that," John mused. "We're aiming to get a homestead built, ourselves."
"I'll believe that when I see it," Sadie said, unconvinced.
"We bought land," Arthur told her. "Twenty acres, half a day's ride outside Blackwater."
"Jesus, really?" She sounded struck. "What you gonna do with twenty acres?"
"Hell if I know," Arthur mused. "Build a house, to start. Had an idea of raising horses."
"Huh," Sadie said. "Well, if you need any help—"
"Oh, we do," John interrupted her.
She mock glared. "It was a polite offer. You ain't supposed to take me up on it."
"My apologies. Guess we're too uncivilized to know about that," John shot back.
Sadie laughed. "Yeah, I guess I walked myself into that. Let me visit with Abigail a few days, then we'll head up and I'll look at these twenty acres of yours. Goddamn, I never thought I'd live to see the day the two'a you actually retired."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said, breezily. "We been retired since 1900."
*
1900
"You looking for work, Mister Morgan?" MacFarlane had asked him, the night of the MacNair attack, after all the women had gone off to bed, and it was just them menfolk—Drew, Charles, John and Arthur, lingering over MacFarlane's bourbon, poured out of a crystal decanter instead of a bottle and tasting more expensive than anything John had ever had.
"Why," Arthur drawled, sounding affected from the liquor, "you got one for me?"
"This ranch of mine has been getting bigger and bigger since we got the rail stop. Too big to rely on the sheriff in Armadillo. We've been talking, my foreman and me, about getting a lock-up built, and we need someone to be in charge of it. Be in charge of keeping order on the ranch."
"Thought that was your job, Mister MacFarlane," Arthur replied slowly.
"Everything is my job right now, Mister Morgan—that's the problem. And I got plenty of good men here—but I haven't met one quite as cool under fire as you."
"Now, I know that's a lie," Arthur replied, pouring himself another several inches of bourbon, "because Charles done been working for you for months."
"Mister Smith isn't planning on staying much longer," MacFarlane said.
"Nor am I," Arthur immediately responded. "It's an interestin' offer, Mister MacFarlane, one I ne'er would'a expected, but it ain't for me."
"You have plans already, then?" MacFarlane asked.
Arthur saluted him with his bourbon, in lieu of an answer.
Arthur was drunk enough, by the time they retired to the cabin MacFarlane had loaned them, that he couldn't manage the crutch, and John had to take its place. Arthur grunted when John finally dumped him out on the dusty bedspread, and he didn't release his grip on John's collar, jerking the younger man down with him, John catching himself with his hands on Arthur's shoulders.
"Lemme up, ya sot," John grunted, rolling his eyes.
"N—wait. Let's—" Arthur mumbled, fumbling his other hand up to grip John's sleeve.
"You're gonna be real cross in the morning if you sleep in your boots and belt," John pointed out, trying to brush Arthur's hands away.
"John, John," Arthur pressed, drunkenly insistent, tugging on John's collar, "let's go to Mexico."
"You hated Mexico," John replied immediately, ignoring the flutter in his stomach at the idea.
Arthur blinked up at him, blearily. "I di'nt."
"You said you did," John clarified.
"I was lyin'," Arthur said, sounding almost confused. "You knew I was."
John hesitated a moment, then shrugged, having to allow the point. "You still wanna go to Mexico when you've sobered up, we'll go to Mexico," John agreed.
Arthur finally let go on John's shirt, rolling his shoulders to settle himself in the bed. "Where you wanna go?"
John had considered that a moment, as he slid down the bed to yank Arthur's boots off. Finally, he said, thoughtfully, "I reckon I might like to go to Mexico."
So a month later, they did.
*
1903
Puerto Ángel, Oaxaca, Mexico
John groaned when he awoke to pounding on the door. He elbowed Arthur, hard, but the larger man just elbowed him back, harder, hard enough that John was almost knocked out of the bed. Still grumbling, John stumbled out of the bed, turning up the flame on the oil lamp.
"Someone's at the door," John said, shaking Arthur's shoulder.
"Answer it, then," Arthur muttered, burying his face in the pillow.
"What if it's an Alvarez?"
"Then shoot 'em and come back to bed."
John considered that for a moment, then took a pistol off the gunbelt hanging on the bedpost before he went to the door.
It wasn't just an Alvarez, at the door. It was the Alvarez, Emiliano himself, in a crisp white linen shirt, his hair slicked back with pomade, perfectly clean as if he had simply appeared at the door, without walking through the dusty streets to get there. There were two more practically dressed men behind him, hands on their guns.
John thought, briefly, of Dutch.
"Señor Morgan," he said, his English heavy accented but otherwise perfect, "I am so glad to have have finally caught you. You are hard men to see."
"Not for people we're interested in seeing," John replied, keeping his gun hand hidden behind the door. "I don't think you have any business with us."
Emiliano sighed. "Must we play this game of posturing? This is not your American West. You know very well my business here—the girl."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," John replied.
One of the men behind him shifted, menacing. Emiliano held up a hand, a show of his power over his men for John's benefit. "That girl had something very important of mine. We know you put her on a boat. Tell me where you sent her."
She had something of his? The girl had been pregnant.
Arthur's cane thumped against the wood plank floor as he came up behind John. "If a girl from your whorehouse came to John and I, a couple'a foreigners, and asked our help to get outta Oaxaca, she musta had a powerful good reason."
Emiliano ostentatiously straightened the cuffs of his shirt. "I have heard that you are lawmen. So you must be able to understand that the girl signed a contract, and the law requires her to obey it."
Arthur said, darkly, "We're retired."
Emiliano sighed, heavily, and then said something to the men behind him in Spanish. One slowly, menacingly, drew out a long skinning knife, while the other drew his gun, squaring it on John.
It made sense, really, from their perspective. John was the younger man, and Arthur was visibly crippled. John was clearly the larger threat. After all, Arthur didn't even have a gun.
Arthur shook his head at the threat. "Emil, you don't want to do this."
"Oh no?" Emiliano asked, cocking his head.
"No," Arthur replied, and quicker than a blink, he pulled his revolver from the back of his trousers and shot both of the armed men, one in the hand, the other in the knee. Emiliano jerked at the spray of blood across his cheek, eyes wide, as both other men fell to the ground, howling and clutching at their wounds. "I told you, John, if it was an Alvarez, to shoot 'em," Arthur said, in that no-longer-familiar lyrical tone of working a job, his gun squared on Emiliano. "Ain't nothing else going make an impact with his kind."
"When I tell my father—" Emiliano stuttered out, and Arthur clicked his tongue.
"Your father is going to be awful busy with the Federales, considering what we and your girl told 'em."
"You think the Federales care about what a whore has to say?"
"I think they'll care an awful lot about all the guns you been shipping in from Guarma," Arthur replied, "and who you been selling them to."
Emiliano froze at that, his expression falling blank.
"You shouldn't talk business in front of women who ain't fond'a you, Emil, even in English. Never know who speaks it. You better run back home to daddy, so he ain't caught off guard when the army comes to take off his head."
Emiliano seemed to consider that for a long moment, his expression stone. He looked behind him, at his two goons, still rolling on the ground in pain. He visibly weighed his options, as John stepped out from behind the room door, showing that he, too, was armed.
"This is not over," Emiliano finally bit out. "You will not leave Oaxaca alive."
Arthur and John got a train out of Oaxaca later that same week. They were able to clearly see, from the station, the light of the Alvarez hacienda burning.
*
1906
Ciudad de México D.F., Mexico
John came back to the table with the bottle of mezcal Arthur had asked for, and two wide-mouth clay cups. "Don't know why you like this stuff," he said, even as he poured out a cup for each of them. "Tastes like drinkin' acid."
"You just ain't got a refined palate," Arthur replied, smirking.
"Whatever that means—you been drinkin' with those art students again?"
"Where you think I got the taste for it?" Arthur replied, saluting John with his cup. "They're real cosmopolitan, those artists."
"That what they're calling it these days?" John asked, pointedly. "I ain't kept up with the lingo." John saluted Arthur back, and downed his cup of mezcal like a shot. Arthur, rolling his eyes, began sipping more moderately on his.
"No wonder you don't like it when you drink it like that," Arthur said. "It's meant to be slowly savored."
"Yeah, well," John said, eyes dark, as he licked the last drop of liquor off his lips, "slow ain't never been much my speed."
Arthur hummed, knocking his boot against John's under the table as he refilled John's cup. "You need to remember, John," he said, putting the cup in John's hand, "we got all the time in the world, now."
John opened his mouth to reply, when a voice cut across the smokey bar. "Oye, Arturo!" and whatever John had been about to say was replaced by a groan, as John dropped his head against the table with a dull thunk.
John was still not quite sure how Arthur had managed to become friendly with a bunch of kids from the Academia de San Carlos—he'd left Arthur at the Plaza de la Constitucion to sketch the Catedral Metropolitana, and when he'd come back, there had been half a dozen young art students cooing in accented English over Arthur's sketches of the southwest. Two of those men were now dodging though the crowd to their table.
"C'mon, they're like puppies." Arthur laughed under his breath. "Manuel, Luis," he called back, "pull up some chairs."
"I'm glad we ran into you, amigo—we've got word on a great party tonight. You and your Juan could give it some American flavor."
"It's John," John muttered into his cup.
"Your kinda parties might get us arrested—don't think just 'cause we're American we ain't heard about that 41 ball."
Luis—or Manuel, John wasn't sure which was which—burst out laughing. "El baile de los cuarenta y uno! This party isn't like that—"
"Yes, Diaz's son-in-law isn't invited to this one!" The other man laughed.
Arthur slouched back in his chair, and raised an eyebrow at John. "You up for a party, John?"
"What, you wanna?" John replied. "The crowd might be a bit young for old folk like us."
"You are seasoned men, many like it," Manuel insisted.
"I'm more seasoned than most," Arthur chuckled. He'd passed forty back in 1903, and John was thirty-three. Manuel and Luis were not a day over twenty-five.
"You will only get older if you do not have fun! Come out with us, Arturo—bring your John, we will show you a good time."
After some more cajoling Arthur gave the boys a lukewarm assurance that he would consider attending, and the young men finally left them at the table. John eyed Arthur oddly, once the boys were out of earshot. "Why on earth you put up with those kids?"
"Don't quite know myself," Arthur admitted. "They're—innocent, I guess. Imagine living a life where you can study art for a living and go to queer parties at night, and no one bats an eye? Dunno if it's the times, or where we are, but … this ain't the world I grew up in."
John chewed on that for a moment, mouth pursed. "That really a life you would'a wanted?"
"Who knows what life either of us would'a wanted," Arthur replied, "if we'd ever had a choice."
*
It was a much more somber man that they saw two days later at the Plaza. John would not have even recognized him, but Arthur did—called out to him, alarmed sounding, and demanded an explanation for his visible gauntness.
He gave them a wan smile. "Arturo—Arthur. You were right—we were … Luis was arrested. And many others."
For the first time, John realized that Manuel and Luis were the same kind of friends that he and Arthur were.
Arthur let out a heavy sigh. "Damn it. They gonna send 'im to jail?"
"More likely to the Yucatán, if his parents won't pay for his freedom." Manuel answered, sounding despondent. "And they won't—not for something like this."
"… do you know where they're keeping him now?" Arthur asked him after a moment.
"What can you do about it, Arthur?" Manuel sighed, sounding defeated.
"You might be surprised," Arthur replied, darkly. "Where?"
John said, dubious, after Manuel finally told them where they had taken Luis, "… we ain't really gonna raid some Mexican jail, are we?"
"No," Arthur confirmed. "We're gonna do this Hosea's way."
*
"We work," Arthur told the officer at the jail, hands resting on the buckle of his gunbelt, "for the Vasquez family. You have, uh …" he cleared his throat, "… a member with you at the moment. His family is very concerned that their name might appear in something official, if he stays with you."
"Why," the mustachioed officer, looking bored, asked them, his feet up on his desk, "should I care?"
Normally, John would have expected Arthur to reach for his revolver. But because this was 'Hosea's way', what he actually reached for was the stack of bills in his satchel.
"As I said," Arthur said, laying something like five hundred American dollars on the desk, "they are very concerned."
The officer picked up the stack of bills and flipped through them, gaze still impassive. After a moment, he dropped his feet down of the desk with a loud thump.
"Vasquez who?" He said, with a smirk, pulling the keys off his belt. "I do not think I will recall a Vasquez."
*
"Why would you do this for me?" Luis asked Arthur, when he was on the back of John's horse, both his eyes black, lips split. "You—you know we laugh at you, when we leave. The old, crippled, classless American, who fancies himself an artist—"
"I know," Arthur cut him off, to John's surprise. "It don't matter."
"But—" Luis started again, and again, Arthur cut him off.
"I know how you see me. That don't change how I see you."
They left Luis with Manuel. Both men looked tearfully grateful, but it was only Luis who also looked guilty.
*
1908
Chuparosa, Nuevo Pariaso, Mexico
It was about as close as they had been to the US border since they came to Mexico—closer than John had expected Arthur to be willing to go. They couldn't hide being Americans, but something about the whole ordeal Arthur had been through in 1899 had seemed to make him completely sour on the country, want nothing to do with it.
John hadn't complained—his home was wherever Arthur was.
Mexico had never really welcomed them, though, and Arthur had also never truly lost his wanderlust. They stayed in each town or city until either Arthur became weary of it, or until it became impractical or dangerous to stay. They meandered vaguely northward, through Durango after Mexico City, and now, ten years after they'd crossed it for the first time, they were in spitting distance of the San Luis river.
John didn't know how to feel about it.
They got off the train in Chuparosa. It was a town that, without the train line, would clearly have turned to dust years ago. A few surly locals watched them disembark, and there was something predatory in the way they eyed Arthur, his limp and his walking stick. Arthur was was older now, and they wouldn't be the first to think his limp made him a mark.
They wouldn't be the first to find out how wrong they were, either, if they tried it.
"Ey," one of the men said in heavily accented English, leaning his shoulder against the stations wall, "eh, gringo!"
John ignored them, shifting the rucksack over his shoulder, but Arthur, ahead of him, paused.
One of the others elbowed the first, muttered something in Spanish, and he called out again.
"Oye, I'm talking to you, Americano!"
"You ain't saying anything I want to hear," John replied, not even breaking stride.
The men pushed away from the wall to amble behind them as John and Arthur walked across the open square. They hadn't had much trouble with the locals before, but then, this close to the border, Americans were less a novelty than a nuisance. John couldn't exactly blame them—Americans were, largely, self-important assholes.
They followed him and Arthur across the square, jeering at them in English and Spanish, trying to get a rise. Better men than them had tried—they got no response, until one of them darted forward and snatched Arthur's walking stick right out of his hand.
Arthur's balance was much better than it had been eight years ago, but the unexpectedness of it caused him to stumble, his bad leg to fail, and he dropped down onto one knee in the dirt.
John's fist was in the man's face before he was even aware of taking a step.
The man stumbled back, dropping the walking stick, and John caught it before it hit the ground. The man cried out in surprise, stumbling back, and the other two immediately started to square up, scowling, before they abruptly stopped.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw that Arthur, still down on one knee, had drawn both of his pistols, hands completely steady and face impassive.
"Is this nationalistic machismo worth getting shot in the head, caballeros?" He drawled, "I may be a cripple, but I don't need my leg to shoot straight."
After a moment, John drew his guns as well, dropping Arthur's walking stick. "Three-to-one is fair odds when we got four guns."
The three men in front of them seemed to consider for a moment. They had guns, themselves, but John and Arthur's were already up and aimed; theirs were still in the holsters.
"You aren't welcome here, gringos," the leader said, even as they dropped back. "We aren't the only ones who will think so."
John and Arthur stayed in the street until the men vanished through the east gate. Then, John finally holstered his guns and grasped Arthur by the elbow to pull him back to his feet.
It was as he was bending to pick up Arthur's walking stick that an American voice said, from behind them, "They're not wrong, you know."
John sighed, turning over his shoulder. "And who are you?"
Arthur turned over his shoulder, as well, and his brow suddenly furrowed, expression going tight. "… I know who he is."
The man behind them—long, grey hair, and a greyer mustache—tipped his battered hat. "I'd wager you know who I was," the man replied.
"Well," Arthur acknowledged, "reckon we're different men than we was in our youth, too, Mister Ricketts."
"Ricketts?" John repeated, brow furrowed. "Landon Ricketts? The gunslinger? You was famous when I was a kid."
"You're gonna make the both'a us feel old, John, sayin' shit like that," Arthur drawled. "Ain't heard much'a you since the Butcher Brothers, Mister Ricketts—you been here the whole time?"
"Once I crawled back outta the bottle, sure," Ricketts agreed. "And you boys—this train was coming from Durango, not New Austin. How long you been down South?"
"Eight years," Arthur said, sounding surprised himself at the fact. "We went down to Oaxaca back in nineteen-hundred, then up through Puebla to Mexico City around aught-six. Spent a year in Zacatecas before coming up through Durango, and now we're here."
"… you were in Zacatecas in aught-seven?" Ricketts said slowly. "There was some gang shake-up there around then, I heard."
"Yeah, 's why we left," Arthur replied, easily. "Was getting a bit hot."
"Hm," Ricketts said. "And you're gunslingers?"
"Bounty hunters. Retired." Arthur replied. "Just as you are, I imagine."
"Sure," Ricketts replied. "Now I only shoot people for principle, instead of money. Tell you what, fellers—let me be a bit more hospitable than your first welcoming committee. I'll buy you a drink."
*
"So," Ricketts said, when they were on their second round of liquor, "what brings you folk to Chuparosa, really?"
"Wanderlust," Arthur replied, lazily. "We ain't got any reason to be anywhere in particular. Chuparosa is on the rail line, that's all it is."
"Huh," Ricketts said. "You sound more like a man running from something."
"Away from the past and towards the future," Arthur replied, saluting his with the cup. "Reckon you'd know a thing or two about runnin', Mister Ricketts—else, how did you end up here?"
Ricketts smiled tightly, expression almost ironic, and he saluted Arthur back. "Well, it was on the rail line."
They drank for another few hours, before Ricketts pointed them to a room for rent in the same cantina.
"There's something strange about that man," John said, while Arthur settled down on the bed to pull off his boots. "Real … intense, like."
"That's a man who's got demons," Arthur grunted back. "Seen it in the mirror often enough."
"I thought Ricketts was supposed to be some kinda hero," John replied.
"I don't know if I believe in heroes." Arthur replied dryly. "Ricketts killed a lotta people, and most folk think he killed the right ones. But I don't know if I could truly say that every man I killed deserved it."
For some reason, John thought of the crying, sniveling boy Dutch had brought them, all those years ago—Eliza's murderer. Or the instrument of her murder, anyway, in the same way the gun that had shot her was.
Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You were set to hang when I found you. Maybe if I'd'a let that happen, I'd be a lonely old man like Ricketts today."
Ricketts had mentioned a wife, while they had been drinking. He'd used the past tense.
"Yeah, well, if things were different, they wouldn't be how they are," John dismissed. "You're already an old man," John teased, as he climbed up onto the bed, forcing Arthur to lean back as he set his knees on either side of Arthur's hips, "but you ain't never gonna be lonely."
*
They were on the road to Escalera, Rachel and Boadicea at the front of their rented wagon, when a rifle bullet hit the hard packed dirt right in front of them.
If the bandits that appeared on the overlooking ridge had been smart, they would have immediately noticed that none of them flinched—not Arthur and John, and not the horses, either. If they had been smart, they would have noted that horses accustomed to gunfire were usually owned by men accustomed to gunfire. If they had been smart, they would have taken note of the pump-action shotgun leaning against Arthur's leg, the repeater tucked under the bench, behind John's feet.
They clearly were not smart.
Still, John and Arthur slowly raised their hands, as if cowed, while a third man stepped into the road with two guns aimed at them.
"Let's make this nice and easy, amigos. What's in your wagon?"
"Oh, not much, friend, not much at all. Certainly not anything worth—"
"Wait," the man in the road said, suddenly, taking a half step backwards. "Arthur Morgan?"
Arthur shut his mouth abruptly, eye narrowing. "We met?"
The man in the road pulled down the black bandana over his face. Even still, John didn't feel the slightest flicker of recognition until the man said, lightly, "Yeah, we've met, lawman," and John sucked in a sudden breath.
"Javier Escuella," John said, and Arthur cocked his head at the name. He clearly hadn't recognized the man, either.
"Well, well," Arthur drawled. "Javier Escuella, back in Mexico and robbin' folk on the road like a common bandit. Guess you didn't much stick to Dutch's lessons."
"Dutch's main lesson was to look out for you and yours," Escuella replied. "That's just a bit of a smaller group, these days."
"And Dutch ain't in it?"
Javier replied, darkly, "Not for a long time."
Arthur made a thoughtful noise. "Well, it's been wonderful catching up, Escuella—now are you gonna leave us be, or are we shooting this out? Because I reckon you have an idea how that would go."
It was a bit of an impasse, because Javier's side had more men, and the two on the ridge had the high ground, but John and Arthur had faced far, far worse odds than that and come out smelling like roses.
After a moment, Javier turned his face slightly to yell something in Spanish up to the two men on the ridge. He didn't take his eyes, or his guns, off of them. The men on the ridge yelled back, sounding irritated, but after a brief back-and-forth, they holstered their guns and turned their horses away from the overlook.
"We'll go our separate ways this time, pet lawman. Let's say it's for old time's sake."
"We weren't never lawmen," Arthur replied, "and anyway, we're retired now."
"Oh yeah?" Javier said. "How's that suiting you?"
"It's restful," Arthur said, setting his hand on the shotgun resting against his thigh. "Real restful."
"Well," Javier said, as he finally holstered his guns, "if restful is what you're looking for … I'd get out of Nuevo Paraiso."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm not the only greaser down here that's eager to put a bullet in an American."
"Funnily enough, we'd noticed that already," John said. Being accosted straight off the train was half the reason they left let Chuparosa so soon. "We ain't scared of some little banditos."
Javier's expression went odd, dark. "Those men, that were on that ridge?" Javier said. "They were Mexican Army. And we stopped you to see if you were transporting guns. This ain't about bandits and outlaws—and I don't think you want any part of it."
After along, heavy pause, Arthur said, slowly, "You're working for the government?"
"A man has to look out for himself," Javier replied. "No one else is going to do it for him."
John was abruptly reminded of something Arthur had said, all the way back at Shady Belle. About how Dutch was like a kiln, and his people were like clay. After a while with him, they either turned hard, or shattered.
Here was another person that Dutch had turned hard.
After Javier had turned his back on them and ridden away, Arthur took a deep breath, and turned to face John.
"… I think it might be time that we got out of Mexico."
John could see New Austin from the road, just on the other side of the river. He hadn't missed it before, but seeing it now, thinking about living in a country were everyone spoke their language, where they knew the towns and the roads, where they knew people …
Suddenly, he felt oddly homesick.
"Well … we never expected to spend the rest of our life here, did we?"
Arthur put an elbow in his knee, and rested his cheek against his closed fist, regarding John with thoughtful expression. "Where do you want us to spend the rest of our life?"
"Anywhere that's ours," John replied, after a moment of thought, and Arthur smiled.
"Sounds like an idea," he replied.
Notes:
This is maybe a little disjointed, but I was personally very disappointed by the sudden jump to 1907 in the game epilogue, so I wanted to show a little bit of John and Arthur over that same time period, before they actually decided to retire.
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