Chapter Text
Hosea was sick.
He—he was sick, so Arthur made him stay in camp. Real estate could wait another day or two, he said, and, reluctantly, Hosea agreed. Dutch saw the opportunity—Dutch always saw the opportunity—and it just worked out too perfectly to decline.
Come with us, Dutch had said, the ladies can keep after Hosea, and we can use all the manpower we can get.
Arthur agreed. He agreed, because it was just one ferry. An ill-thought-out plan and a rather public display, sure, but one ferry in a small town with hardly enough law to keep itself civil—that was it.
That was supposed to be it.
But now—
Now—
Now the ferry was on fire, and the flames licked up the walls, climbing like fingers towards the ceiling, cheered on by the bloodcurdling screams of the passengers and the angry shouts of lawmen that weren’t supposed to be here. Pinkertons, Dutch had called them, but Arthur hadn’t gotten a good enough look.
Not until now. Not until he and Dutch and Micah and Javier stood trapped like rats in that little room, their guns pressed to the heads of their captives and their hearts beating so damn hard Arthur worried his might just pop.
Dutch was negotiating. He was trying to talk down the law, trying to weasel his way out or make an opening for them. Arthur could see the gears in his mind grinding and smoking. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He tried to take a mental tally of where everyone had gone. John was shot. Davey was shot; Mac was with him, because when it came to those Callander boys, it was always them first, gang second. Charles was lost in the pandemonium that had overtaken the deck. Sean and Lenny could be heard the floor above them; if Arthur focused, he could make out their shouts and footsteps well enough to know they were alive. Bill was… somewhere, hopefully with Jenny, because if either of those two were off on their own shit would end up a whole lot worse than it already was.
Javier was fine; shaking, nervous, but fine. Micah was unbothered in a way that, were the situation less dire, Arthur would have found real fucking strange.
Dutch had a hefty sack slung over one shoulder. The take, the whole damn point of all this bloodshed, and he had it draped like it was a bag of dirty laundry.
And Arthur?
Arthur didn’t much care for himself. Not the way his entire body ached, or how light his ammo pouch was starting to feel. He was more focused on the weight of the gun in his hand and the quivering of the woman he’d taken hostage. They’d grabbed them before they were cornered and now Arthur regretted it more than anything.
It was okay though. They’d played this song and dance before; Dutch had pried them out of tougher scrapes than this, so this time… this time he’d get them out clean, too. Arthur just had to wait for the signal.
Sure enough, a sideways glance. Instinct took over and, as he had done a million times before, Arthur followed Dutch’s actions to the letter.
They shoved their hostages away, letting them trip and stumble into the waiting arms of caring lawmen. They opened fire, looking to squeeze past and out the door under the cover of gun smoke.
Nobody moved as the smoke cleared. Not a muscle. Not a twitch from outlaw or lawman. The walls seemed to hold their breath all the same.
Two dead Pinkertons.
One dead hostage.
Arthur’s hostage. That woman he’d shoved in front of him; the one he’d taken from her hiding place and forced into that small office. The one who had begged and pleaded for her life, whimpering about a husband and an ailing mother and a baby. Arthur had promised her she’d be fine. He promised.
And now—
Now, as she lay there crumpled on the floor, her head split open like a freshly-laid egg, her dark hair splayed, and she looked like—she looked too much like—like Eliz—
“Let’s go!”
Dutch’s hand was on him, a tight, iron grip dragging him over the corpses and through the puddles of thick blood. Through the screaming masses, up the stairs, across the deck, over the railing. Arthur was aware of none of it. His mind was full of her face; her voice. Her cries. Her prayers.
He didn’t even know her name and he’d killed her.
He was shoved into an alleyway, nearly collapsing in on himself as they rallied. He could hear heaving breaths around him but Arthur wasn’t even breathing.
“It’s hell out there!” Dutch huffed, peeking around the corner, “We— We gotta get out of this, fellers. Arthur, you— Arthur?”
Arthur didn’t respond. He didn’t hear any of it. His ears still rang with the crack of his gun, every blink bright with the muzzle flash. His heart hadn’t slowed, not a beat.
“Arthur—“ Dutch had crouched, laying a tentative had on his shoulder, “You— you with me son?”
“I killed her,” he whispered, sounding distant. He felt distant too; as if he was miles away from here, watching himself from afar. “I… I killed her, Dutch…”
“What? You—“
“Oh, leave him be,” Micah barked as he reloaded his gun, “Cowpoke’s just a little gun-shy is all. I mean, fuck’s sake, Morgan. We supposed to pretend like you ain’t never killed nobody before?”
Arthur flinched at those words. Of course he’d killed before. He’d killed dozens today alone—but those were lawmen. They were dangerous, a threat to their way of life. They’d had guns and they’d meant to use them. She—
“She was innocent,” he croaked, “I… She ain’t done nothing to no one.”
“It was a mistake, Arthur,” Dutch said carefully, as if the weight of the wrong words might break him entirely, “We all make mistakes. And we can reckon with that as soon as we get ourselves the hell out of here. The boys are set to meet us a few blocks over and if we ain’t there, they’re gonna start to worry, understand?”
Arthur nodded, swallowing back the rising sick in his throat. He pushed to his feet, cocked his gun, and let himself be herded through the fiery remains of what used to be Blackwater.