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He’s had a... suspicion, for a while now, that Hosea knows. So Bessie too, probably. Miss Grimshaw has also given him some shrewd looks. But no one’s ever said anything.
Embarrassingly, it’s Trelawny, of all people, who calls him out first.
“Say, Arthur, how old are you now?”
“Sixteen. ...Why?” He’s only met Josiah Trelawny a handful of times – the man just seems to appear in their lives, cause trouble, then disappear just as quickly and cheerfully. But they always seem to be richer by the time he leaves, which Arthur guesses is why Dutch and Hosea put up with him. Arthur still doesn’t trust the man though. He talks so strange.
“Ah, a fine age! An age of possibility, of expanding horizons, of new experiences! Why, I had many firsts when I was sixteen – first sea voyage, first tax fraud, first hangover – you never forget your first. Oh, and of course! First kiss!”
Arthur nods along, sipping the single beer he’s allowed each evening (not matter how many times he points out to Hosea that he’s near as tall as he is, he can absolutely drink more!), hoping that one of the others will come back soon so he can escape the ‘conversation’.
“Emily was her name. Oh, she was a delightful creature – had beautiful golden ringlets, and the most charming habit of snorting like a hog when she laughed. I thought she was truly exquisite. What about you, eh? Any lucky girls in your life?”
Arthur scoffs.
“Naw,” he mumbles, taking another sip.
“Oh. Lucky boys?”
Arthur near chokes on the beer.
“What?!” he croaks in between coughs, but he can feel his ears flaming red. He hopes Trelawny will put that down to the beer going down the wrong way.
“Something wrong?” Trelawny asks, leaning an elbow on his crossed legs, giving Arthur an awfully knowing smile.
“That’s not- I don’t- I ain’t interested in fellas like, like that!” Arthur exclaims, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “That’s, that’s...”
“Hmmm?”
“Well, it’s sinful, ain’t it?!”
“So is stealing.”
Well, shit, he’s got him there.
“I ain’t interested in fellas,” Arthur repeats firmly, taking another sullen sip of his beer. “I’m a-” what was that phrase Dutch used? “-a red-blooded male, I like the ladies. Pretty ones,” he adds, just in case.
To his dismay, Trelawny laughs.
“My dear boy, no ‘red blooded male’ looks at another man’s derriere the same way you were looking at that ranch hand yesterday. Not that I blame you, those leather chaps were quite something. And I assure you, it’s nothing to be ashamed of! God made man and woman, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with partaking in the delights of both!”
Arthur would very much like the ground to open up beneath him and just swallow him whole, please and thank you.
It gets even worse when, on his next visit, Trelawny pulls Arthur aside. Apparently, having given it some thought, he has decided to take it upon himself to give Arthur ‘A Little Talk’, fearing there may have been some oversight in his worldly education, since “My boy, Dutch Van der Linde is a visionary. Which means sometimes he can’t see past the end of his own nose. And if he hasn’t, I feel it is my duty to explain some, ah, logistical considerations...”
He explains the logistical considerations.
He has a little book.
With diagrams.
Arthur regrets eating his lunch.
“In the what? That’s gross!”
“On the contrary, dear boy! Rather, I would maintain that it’s something every man should try, no matter his proclivities – there’s nothing quite like it! Though, bathing beforehand is recommended. Why, a hot bath in itself is a powerful aphrodisiac!”
“Afro-whut?”
“Aphrodisiac; something to help, ah, induce the mood, as it were. Think about it – it helps you relax, loosens the limbs, heats the blood – that can be handy for-”
“Stop talking.”
“Oysters are another option of course, but I wouldn’t recommend it – they can do dreadful things to your constitution...”
It’s another few years before Arthur can look at Trelawny without blushing, and he swore he would never approach the man for romantic advice of any sort, despite his offer of ‘lending an ear to any queries or concerns you don’t feel comfortable asking Dutch and Hosea about’ – mainly because Arthur’s scared he’ll whip out more ‘educational pamphlets’ from his hat or something.
So it’s with much reluctance that, on the day Trelawny shows up for the first time in months, Arthur sidles up to him in the evening.
“Arthur! Goodness, Miss Grimshaw wasn’t wrong when she said you’d shot up again – at this rate you’re going to be taller than Dutch! And how are you this fine evening?”
“M’fine,” Arthur mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s already regretting this decision.
“And yet, you have the visage a man with a vexing conundrum.”
“Huh?”
“What is it you need help with?”
Arthur huffs. He’s learned over the years, much to his annoyance, that Trelawny is just as good at reading people as Hosea, but isn’t half as subtle about it.
“Well... Thing is, I... You’re...” Arthur makes a face, waving his hands vaguely at the man. “You’re fancy.”
Trelawny chuckles, setting his drink aside.
“Well, I dare say that’s not the worst accusation I have had laid against me over the years, but it’s certainly one of the most peculiar! And what does my being ‘fancy’ have to do with your problem?”
Arthur ducks below his hat brim, trying not to blush.
“It’s just... well... There’s this girl-”
“Aah – the conundrum that vexes all men! Well, plenty of them anyway. Would this happen to be the fabled Miss Gillis I’ve heard so much about?”
“Ugh, yup,” Arthur sighs. He wishes the others weren’t such gossips.
“I see. So what is it you need help with, dear boy? Want to smarten up that wardrobe of yours? Shirts without holes and bloodstains would be a good start. And, might I suggest a new vest? Something in a nice dark blue, perhaps – silk is best of course, but even a sturdy corduroy would be better than that old thing-”
“Hey, I like this vest!” Arthur protests, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Sure, it’s got the odd small tear here and there, and some stains he doesn’t always remember the origins of, but it’s a good vest! He even wore it when he and Mary got their picture taken together, and she hadn’t said anything... “Besides, I weren’t after advice about my damn clothes.”
“Ah, so it’s advice you’re after! Advice regarding young ladies. Hmm, well, I can tell you what I know, dear boy, but frankly you’d be better off asking Miss Grimshaw – given her previous... occupation, I’m sure she’ll be able to tell you a thing or two about how to please-”
“Not that kind of advice!” Arthur yelps. “I just wanna take her out to dinner!”
“Well, that’s always a good first step!”
“Jesus...” Arthur groans, burying his face in his hands. He knew this was a mistake. “I wanna take her out to dinner,” he repeats through his palms. “Somewhere nice. Somewhere fancy. But not too fancy, ‘cause...”
“Because if you go to a restaurant that’s too fancy, word might get back to this fancy girl’s fancy parents that she is courting a decidedly less-fancy young man who also happens to be a criminal.”
“...Yeah, that uh, that about sums it up.”
Trelawny regards him for a long moment.
“And what do your parents make of all this? Dutch and Hosea I mean, and the ladies.”
“I’unno,” Arthur shrugs. “They’ve only met her and her little brother a coupla times. I mean, Miss Grimshaw don’t like her, but if she just got to know Mary she’d change her mind, I know she would!”
“I see. As I understand it, the two of you have been courting for over a year now, albeit mostly in an epistolary fashion, correct?”
“Huh?”
“Through letters, dear boy. My point is...” Trelawny pauses, an unreadable expression on his face. “...It can be very hard, Arthur, trying to live two different lives; trying to be two different people at once.”
Arthur scowls. This is getting far too close to conversations both Hosea and Bessie have gently sat him down for on separate occasions; about how love may move mountains, but it couldn’t shrink distances – in fact it made them feel even greater. And with all Dutch’s talk about heading further out west in the spring...
His fingers brush his satchel. Can feel the corner of the small box in there poking into the leather. It’s reassuring – if things go according to plan, which he desperately hopes they will, distance between him and Mary won’t be an issue.
So he scoffs.
“Christ, I was just gonna ask if you knew any good restaurants on the quieter side of town! If you don’t wanna help me you only had to-”
But Trelawny claps a hand over his heart, looking scandalised.
“Did I ever say I wouldn’t help?! Dear boy, you must know by now that I am nothing if not a romantic! You honestly think I’d forgo an opportunity to help foster the blossoming of young love? Perish the thought!”
His indignation is over the top and theatrical – like everything else he does – but Arthur still can’t help but feel relieved. Because he’d looked at the menus of some of the restaurants in town, but half the time the dishes were all listed in French (or at least, he guessed it was French...) But Trelawny knows about these sorts of things – surely he could recommend a nice-
“But dinner at a restaurant is so dull, so unimaginative. No, no, I have a far better idea.”
“Wait, what-”
“Don’t worry, my boy, leave it all to me.”
“But-”
Trelawny is mounted and riding back to town before Arthur knows it. He watches him go, with distinct feelings of concern.
But his concerns are unfounded. The next day, Trelawny reappears back at camp and tells Arthur he has called in a couple of favours and had things arranged – and then gives him not the name of a restaurant, but a set of directions to somewhere upstream from town, telling him to bring Mary there just before sunset the following evening. Arthur does so, with no small amount of trepidation – and is glad Mary’s sat behind him on the horse, since it means she can’t see the surprise on his face when they get to the spot.
A picnic has been laid out on a large blanket on the banks of the river. There are cushions. There are candles. There are small, dainty sandwiches and other... things which Mary calls ‘whore-doves’ or something (Arthur thinks that might be French too, but he’s too embarrassed to ask). There’s a fruit platter and little cakes and jug of what turns out to be sangria, which Arthur says sounds like some kind of disease and Mary makes fun of him for it, playfully smacking him upside the head, and it turns out it’s not so bad, if a little too fruity for his tastes. There’s a plate of fancy cheeses he can’t pronounce the names of, and dried figs, and something called ‘quince paste’ which looks suspiciously like something leftover from the tallow-making process, but turns out it’s actually very sweet.
But not half as sweet as the smiles Mary keeps giving him.
He proposes then and there.
“Aha, our Romeo returns!”
Arthur jumps, startled out of his daydreams as he rides back towards camp after dropping Mary off at her friend’s house – where her family thinks she is whenever they steal time away together – as Trelawny rides up beside him.
“Watchu shouting for?” Arthur grumbles.
“Well, my apologies, but I wasn’t sure if you’d hear me; to say you look over the moon would be an understatement – you look like you’re past Mars and well on your way to Jupiter! You enjoyed your picnic with your sweetheart, I take it?”
And Arthur wants to act stoic about the whole thing, wants to remain calm and aloof. But he also wants to shout from the rooftops that he’s going to marry the prettiest, loveliest, most wonderful girl in the whole world. So he ignores the dumb joke and grins right back.
“She ain’t just my sweetheart no more – she’s my fiancé.”
Trelawny’s expression freezes, just for a fraction of a second.
“...Oh? I’m sure I was told she’s not yet twenty-one – did her father come around after all...?”
“Pfft, no. But her birthday’s in less than six months – after that we don’t need her stupid father’s blessing,” Arthur says, annoyed that that’s the first thing Trelawny has to say about the fact he’s engaged.
Trelawny gives him that same unreadable look from the other day for a long moment – then gives him a showman’s grin.
“Well then, a good thing I was sent out to find you! I’ve been having a very productive evening with Dutch and Hosea at the cards table in the saloon near the river crossing. Miss Grimshaw is on her way there now – so we can all celebrate together! Tell me, have you ever tried champagne?”
Looking back, it was the eyes that did it.
Mary broke their engagement, and his heart. Her family found out, three weeks before her twenty-first birthday; and by the time he got there, it was too late. She said that the lives they lived were just too different, that it was clear neither of them could or would change; that this was for the best, for both of them, even if it didn’t feel like it. He’s not sure whether the fact she seemed as devastated as he felt made things better or worse.
So he’s slipped out from camp to escape the looks of pity (or derision, as Miss Grimshaw never fails to remind him that she never liked Mary from the start), and has found himself in yet another backwater bar, determined to drink away his memories of Mary’s smile and Mary’s laugh and the softness of Mary’s hair and the way Mary’s eyes would sparkle when she was teasing him and how Mary would stick out her tongue when she was concentrating and...
And sure, it hasn’t worked in his last dozen attempts, but there’s a first time for everything.
So he’s hunched over a table in the back corner, his scowling and the thick wad of bills he placed on the bar enough to ensure that the barman leaves him be with the bottle, and is steadily and determinedly drowning his sorrows in awful whiskey, and it’s the eyes that do it.
Big doe-eyes, just like Mary’s.
Arthur’s twenty-two, and has long grown out of any feelings of revulsion or shame when it comes to his attractions to other men. He’s even realised that he has A Type – and that type is ‘could throw him onto the nearest horizontal surface without a thought’ (or against the nearest vertical surface. He ain’t picky.) Trouble is, not many fellas fit that type, since he’s easily cleared six feet and is still growing, to Miss Grimshaw’s dismay, into ‘the physique and appetite of a bullock’.
This fella is not his Type – he’s slight, almost waifish, but he’s got big brown eyes and when he catches Arthur looking those eyes widen and he turns sharply away. But then he glances back, and when he sees Arthur’s still looking, a pretty blush appears across freckled cheeks. And, after a little longer of making eyes at each other across the saloon, he makes his way towards Arthur’s table, and Arthur’s stomach flip-flops a bit at the sudden prospect of having someone to hold, to touch, to kiss; the prospect of being able to press his lips against warm skin and forget about Mary for the evening.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I don’t reckon I’ve seen you before – you new around here?”
They make the usual small talk. James is the son of the general store owner. Arthur is the son of a rancher, specialising in rearing horses, coming along on a cross-country trip to view some new stock – to learn his father’s trade, just like James is. And because he’s good with horses – he’s a great rider.
A look of something too quick to catch passes across James’ face, then he smirks.
“That so? I’ve been trying to work on my, uh, riding skills. You think you could teach me a thing or two?”
“A thing or two,” Arthur drawls, finishing his whiskey with a grin.
He’s so busy trying to forget about Mary, as James leads him out a side door and down behind the row of stores closed for the night, that he forgets about the map Trelawny showed him in amongst the diagrams (which, looking back, have actually come in pretty useful over the years).
“Now, if you only remember one thing, remember this – see this area here?” Trelawny had indicated to a rough shaded area on map of America. “Don’t go looking for any, ahem, ‘gentlemanly’ company here. No matter how nice he seems, no matter how fine things look to be, no matter how far your brain has travelled south for the summer. Avoid at all costs.”
“Or what?” Arthur had asked, curiosity piqued despite the dazed horror and fascination of the past fifteen minutes.
“They’ll hang you.”
“Pfft, they’ll hang you for that anywhere.”
“Yes, dear boy,” Trelawny had said, a rare solemn expression on his face. “But in these parts, they’ll enjoy it.”
He forgets about the map, and the conversation, and just where in the States they are – right up until he rounds a corner of a storehouse after ‘James’ (probably not, Arthur now realises, his real name), and finds four more fellas waiting for them, nasty grins on their faces.
Shit.
“Didn’t know there was a party,” Arthur says lowly, suddenly and deeply regretting the better part of a bottle of whiskey.
“Oh, this ain’t a party, mister,” says one of them, leering. “This is a salvation.”
“That right?” Arthur blinks, trying to keep them all in his field of vision as they spread out to circle him. And sure, he’s big and strong, but he’s also drunk as hell, and he’s left his damn guns behind to avoid trouble, and none of the others know where he is...
“Sure. We’re saving our town – from the likes of your kind.”
“‘My kind?’ What, you don’t want those horse riding lessons, then?” Arthur tries.
Apparently he’s so drunk that he can’t even damn count, because a sixth fella comes out of nowhere and bends him double with a sucker punch to the stomach. Arthur manages to scramble away and into a somewhat upright position, fists up. None of them seem to have weapons, which, sober, he might count as a good thing; sober, he might have stood a chance as long as no one pulled out a gun. Now, he presumes they’re sticking to fists just because they want to make it slow and painful as possible.
He manages to get some good punches in, but it’s a losing battle from the start. Head spinning from the hits and the booze, Arthur’s just starting to hope they don’t throw him to the pigs so at least there’ll be something for Dutch and Hosea to find, when there’s a call from the corner of the building.
“Aha! There you are, dear boy!”
The punches and kicks abruptly stop, and Arthur’s assailants look just as surprised as he feels as Trelawny strolls over, looking like he’s out for a night at the theatre and not some muddy, bloody hellhole between a storehouse and some empty animal pens – top hat, brightly patterned waistcoat, polished cane, the works.
Not for the first time, Arthur reckons Trelawny’s most impressive magic trick is how he manages to stay looking so clean all the time.
“Oh, Augustus,” Trelawny scolds, reaching down and hauling Arthur out of the muck – the others having backed away in confusion, if nothing else. “How many times do we have to tell you? Gentlemen box, they do not brawl.”
“Augustus? You said your name was Arthur!” James says accusingly, as if he weren’t just helping beat a fella senseless.
“’sif I’d be dumb enough t’give you my real name,” Arthur slurs, hoping he’s not cringing as much on the outside as he is on the inside.
“Good heaven’s man, look at the state of you! What will Mary think?”
“Who’s Mary?” one of the thugs pipes up.
‘Why, his fiancé! I do hope you boys didn’t hit him in the face – not only is it unsporting, but I don’t think his bride-to-be will forgive him if he shows up to her big day black and blue! The wedding’s in less than a week!”
Arthur grimaces – as much at all this talk of Mary and weddings as at the bruises he can feel appearing all over, not just on his face.
“Hold up, he’s engaged to a lady?” one of the other men asks suspiciously.
“Well what else he be engaged to? A goat?” Trelawny asks with a genial smile. “But alas, I fear we have not been introduced! Anthony Halloway, at your service,” he says grandly, bowing with a flourish. “And who are your new friends, Augustus? If you’re planning on inviting them to the wedding, might I suggest you ensure the caterers are informed posthaste – it can’t be easy planning fourteen courses for that many guests! And you know how particular the Colonel’s wife is about these things-”
“Wait, Colonel?” one man asks uneasily.
“Why yes – soon to be Augustus here’s father-in-law,” Trelawny says with a smile. “And you gentlemen are...?”
“It don’t matter who we are,” one of them snaps, apparently recovered from the shock of Trelawny’s arrival. “This fella here’s one of them inverts!”
But the confusion returns to the thugs’ faces when Trelawny bursts out laughing.
“Oh, my dear boy, that’s a good one!” he hoots, having to brace himself on a fence post to control his mirth. Arthur rubs his aching jaw and tries to keep a blank face, having learned over the years that it’s best to keep his trap shut when Trelawny starts these... dramatics.
“What’s so funny?” James asks, slightly uneasily.
“Oh, heavens, I do apologise – just, hah, our dear Gus! An invert! My boy, they’re practically antonyms!”
“What’s an anti-nim?” one of the younger men mutters.
“You got any proof he ain’t a sodomite, Mister?” one of the older ones sneers.
“What, besides the string of broken hearts from here to Philadelphia?” Trelawny snickers, shaking his head. “No, I’m afraid my nephew here is quite the ladies’ man, much to his father’s chagrin. But that’s all going to come to a stop after the wedding, isn’t it?” he adds sternly, wagging a finger threateningly at Arthur.
“Yeah, yeah...” he mumbles.
“But, but, he... he kept looking at me!” James accuses.
“Looking at you? Last I checked, looking at someone is perfectly legal. And certainly not grounds for such grave allegations,” Trelawny says, raising a brow. “Are you saying that you wish to accuse a young man of good standing of such a heinous crime over the fact he merely looked at you?”
“I- No, I don’t- It weren’t just that! He flirted with me!” James exclaims, though even Arthur can tell Trelawny’s got the guy on the back foot; the others can too, judging by the way they all shuffle a little, distancing themselves from him.
“Oh? Flirted with you how, exactly?”
“He told me he... he was good at riding and offered me... riding... lessons...”
“Well, someone call the Sheriff immediately,” Trelawny drawls, resting both hands atop his cane. “A man looks at another man and offers him riding lessons – what scandal!”
“But... but...”
“I do hope word of this doesn’t get back to the Colonel,” Trelawny says mildly. But Arthur blinks, wondering if it’s just the booze making him imagine things, because... Trelawny does something, with his posture and voice, and suddenly he seems downright scary.
“I dread to think how he’d react if he found out someone was making baseless allegations that would upset his darling Mary,” he continues, eyes glinting dangerously in the fading evening light. “And if he were to find out that his son-in-law was wilfully harmed over such malicious rumours, or, heaven forbid, he thought certain people were forming mobs and assaulting upstanding American citizens, right under his nose...”
“Forget it. Let’s get out of here,” the oldest of the yokels mutters, and the others seem all to happy to retreat.
“I hope to see some of you at the wedding!” Trelawny calls cheerfully as they slink off. He leans his cane against a fence and adjusts his sleeves, flicking a speck of dirt off his jacket and smoothing his lapels until they’re all gone.
“Well...” he begins conversationally.
“Don’t start,” Arthur grunts, sinking down onto hay bale, whiskey and embarrassment curdling in his stomach.
“And what a pleasure it is to see you too dear boy, why yes I had a splendid journey, thank you for asking!” Trelawny says brightly, far too loud for Arthur’s pounding head. But he apparently takes pity on his sorry ass, because his expression softens.
“I shouldn’t worry,” he says quietly, proffering a handkerchief. “You’re not the first poor fool who’s fallen for that kind of ruse, and sadly you won’t be the last. Come along, let’s get you back to camp – young John informs me you promised him you’d teach him some rope tricks. Quite the feral little creature, isn’t he?”
Arthur sighs, but nods and heaves himself up, even though he’s not sure he’s sober enough to get up into the saddle and stay there, let alone show off any fancy lassoing. They walk back to the hitching posts at the end of the main street – well, Trelawny walks, leisurely swinging his cane, while Arthur shuffles behind him like something that just emerged from a swamp. But he manages to mount up with only the smallest amount of flailing, and it’s a relief as they ride out and leave that shithole of a town behind, the cool air and first winking stars doing something for his aching head and heart.
Right up until Trelawny starts talking again.
“I was sorry to hear about Miss Gillis,” he starts, giving him a sideways look. “Hard luck, dear boy. But don’t worry, I’m sure there’ll be another.”
Arthur just grunts, hoping that’ll be all he has to say on the subject.
It isn’t, of course.
“Now, I know I told you not to go looking for company in these parts, but I do understand you might be feeling rather lonely. I also happen to know that, if you head to the next town downriver, nice little place called Oakfork, there’s a fellow at the stables-”
“Oh Lord, don’t start.”
“Daniel is his name,” Trelawny continues. “Lovely young man – not to my tastes, but I’m sure you two would get along splendidly!”
“Stop,” Arthur groans.
“About your age I’d say, big strapping chap, with rather endearing dimples; if you do fancy a dalliance, you’ll recognise hi- and just where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the saloon,” Arthur grumbles as he turns his horse back down the road towards town. “I’m gonna let those bastards finish me off.”
Trelawny just laughs at him.
Time passes. Arthur, kept busy as Dutch’s lead gun, doesn’t have time for falling in love, but he has the occasional ‘dalliance’. One such occasion results in a tiny, perfect, beautiful baby boy with blue-green eyes, and Arthur feels himself fall in love in a wholly different way the moment he lays eyes on him. Feels himself falling in love with Eliza too with each visit, to his own surprise – not that he didn’t already think she was the most wonderful woman alive, the way she’s raising their son all by herself. It’s different to how it was with Mary, but... He realises, when he wakes up one morning with both Isaac and Eliza snuggled up to him, that he wouldn’t mind waking up like this every morning.
More time passes. Arthur visits Eliza’s cottage one day and finds two graves, and feels his heart turn to stone.
When he eventually surfaces from the dark, numb depths of grief, he throws himself into his role in the gang. Besides the odd run-in with Mary – like star-crossed lovers they are, somehow bumping into each other every few years, apparently fated to have their paths forever crossing but never entwining – any thoughts of love and romance are far from his mind as he works to ensure the safety and security of the gang, protecting and caring for the only family he has left. And just as well, because the gang keeps growing and growing.
On a chilly day in early December, 1898, Arthur returns from scouting for a location for the gang to overwinter, and spots an unfamiliar appaloosa in the herd. Dutch calls him over, and introduces him to yet another new gang member – a man named Charles Smith.
But Arthur is soon glad of the newcomer. He’s quiet, works hard, doesn’t posture and throw his weight around like some of the other fellas, and has a calm, level-headed way about him, which comes in handy both in gunfights and on evenings when camp gets too rowdy. Weeks pass, and Arthur finds himself seeking out Charles’ company, even if that just means sitting at the scout fire or in the makeshift stable of the abandoned logging camp he found, each of them attending his own work in companionable silence. It’s... peaceful.
Arthur is less glad of Trelawny showing up.
Like some delayed, dandified Santa Claus, he reappears in January, dispensing presents and leads for lucrative work in the area. And just as well, since Dutch’s ‘foolproof’ plan to sell the gold they’d stolen just before Christmas had gone south – apparently he would’ve been killed had it not been for their newest recruit: a leering, jeering, slimy reptile of a man named Micah Bell, whose company Arthur avoids wherever possible.
So, he will begrudgingly admit, it’s probably a good thing Trelawny’s showed up.
Arthur just wishes the man wouldn’t talk so much nonsense.
“And so, I made it in,” he says in a stage whisper – half the gang’s been sucked into his grandiose story telling around the campfire, venturing from their cabins despite the cold and hanging on to his every word. Even Charles – who, Arthur’s noticed, tends to make himself scarce when the whiskey starts flowing – has joined them, and seems to be enjoying himself, if the small twitch of his lips is anything to go by. Arthur ducks his head to hide his own smile.
Just because Charles is new, and it’s nice to see him settling in. That’s all.
“Behind enemy lines,” Trelawny continues, “with no one the wiser! Like a Trojan horse I-”
“‘Trojan’ horse? Y’mean Belgian?” Bill scoffs over the bottle of whiskey he’s hogging to himself.
“Why, Bill, surely you’ve heard of the Trojan horse, being an army man? No? Why, the greatest of military strategists-”
“You’re wasting your breath, Josiah – I doubt any of these fools have ever had reason to pick up any Homer,” Hosea says dryly. “Well, not unless they were in the outhouse and there was a copy with particularly soft pages handy...”
“Oh, no, I’ve read them both!” Mary-Beth gushes, eyes lighting up. “Most folk think the Odyssey’s better, but the Iliad’s my favourite; it’s so tragic and romantic. A thousand ships, and all them heroes fightin’ and dyin’ – all over the love of one woman...”
“Well, certainly,” Trelawny muses. But when Arthur glances up from watching the campfire (and coincidentally, Charles, but that’s only because he’s sitting opposite. Well, almost opposite), he catches Trelawny watching him. His moustache quirks slightly, eyes twinkling, before he turns back to Mary-Beth.
“But the central and truly tragic love story is that of Achilles and Patroclus, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I...” Mary-Beth stutters, cheeks turning pink with more than the heat of the fire. “Well, they do seem... It’s not ever explicitly- But, Achilles does get awful upset, so... I did wonder...”
“Watchu blushing for?” Karen snickers, elbowing her in the ribs.
“Well... they’re both men...”
“What, you mean like inverts?” Bill growls. “Well, no wonder I ain’t read it – I don’t wanna read about no unnatural- I would never- It’s, it’s disgusting is what it is!”
Arthur rolls his eyes, used to Bill’s bluster on this particular subject. Hosea looks like he’s about to give him a sharp word or two, but Trelawny beats him to it.
“On the contrary! Why, the ancient Greeks believed in many kinds of love – to them, such a relationship was perfectly natural, and to be expected! Indeed, the bond between-”
“Ain’t nothin’ natural about it,” Bill spits. “Now, sure, I don’t read much, but I’m pretty damn sure the Bible’s very clear on-”
“Oh, my good man, if we’re going to start putting any stock in what the Bible says then we’re all in trouble – ask our very own Reverend!” Trelawny says cheerfully, nodding towards where Swanson’s already passed out at the cards table. Some sympathetic person has draped a blanket over him, but Arthur makes a mental note to haul his ass back into one of the cabins so he don’t freeze to death overnight. Not that he’s sure that’s even possible with the amount of whiskey the man must have in his system...
“Besides,” Trelawny adds, “the ancient Greeks didn’t follow the Bible – I do believe the Iliad pre-dates it, in fact! It’s hardly fair to expect people to follow rules that haven’t been written yet, is it?”
And then, to Arthur’s dismay, he turns to Charles.
“And what do you think, Mr. Smith?”
Charles freezes for a moment, looking taken aback. Arthur glowers at Trelawny, ready to scold him for hassling the newer folks (though, watching him pull a rat from Micah’s holster earlier had been pretty damn funny...) But Trelawny ignores him, looking expectantly at Charles.
“I... I don’t really...” Charles stumbles over his words a little, suddenly looking a lot smaller despite the fact he’s the only one around here besides Bill who’s got Arthur beat on height and size. Arthur turns to Hosea, silently willing him to come up with one of his own ridiculous stories, but even he’s watching Charles with interest. Arthur wracks his own useless brain for something, but then,
“I’ve seen a lot of... hate,” Charles says quietly, looking down at his fists clenched in his lap. “Don’t... don’t really see how love can be bad.”
There’s an awkward silence, people’s faces ranging from sad to resigned to (in Bill’s case) sulky to thoughtful. Charles dares a glance up at them all, seemingly shrinking in on himself even further.
“I mean... I...”
“Ya’ll ever hear about Johnny’s first love?” Arthur asks loudly, figuring it’s better than nothing – anything to get that cornered look out of Charles’ eyes. “The wonderful Juliette?”
“Oh, come on!” John barks from across the camp.
Grinning, Arthur launches into the story (“Little Johnny comes back to camp one day, kid’s barely seventeen, and he announces to everyone that he’s in love with a singer down at the saloon...”), despite John’s squawks and protests (“She weren’t that old!” “No, no, ‘course not – she didn’t look a day over forty, ‘least not from the back!”), and is relieved to see Charles’ shoulders slowly coming away from his ears.
Maybe Arthur just imagines the small, grateful smile he gives him.
He doesn’t imagine the smirk Trelawny is giving him. He’s got no clue what he’s giving him that look for, but he knows he doesn’t like it.
Thankfully, Trelawny leaves a few days after, apparently bound for New York – not that Arthur even realises he’s gone until Dutch approaches him while he’s sat at the campfire, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Arthur! When you next heading into town?”
Now, apparently. So much for a quiet day.
“Why?”
“Need you to grab me some more hair pomade – that stuff you’ve got is useless!”
“I ain’t... got any hair pomade...?” He’ll let the barber put some on after getting his hair cut if the man insists, but ain’t like he ever bothers with applying the stuff himself – no point trying to make a silk purse out of the ugly old sow’s ear he calls a face.
“Yeah, well, Trelawny left this for you, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it,” Dutch dismisses, tossing something his way. Arthur catches it on reflex – and does a double take, staring at the small glass bottle in his palm, festive greeting note still jauntily attached to the stopper:
A belated Merry Christmas, dear Arthur! I’m sure you’ll be able to put this to good use!
“But you should toss the stuff,” Dutch carries on, oblivious. “I tried some, it’s useless! Far too greasy, just turns your hair into a slimy mess with only a few drops!”
“...Right,” Arthur croaks. “I’ll, uh, grab some better stuff at the store...”
“Good man,” Dutch declares, patting him on the shoulder before heading back to his and Molly’s cabin. Arthur stays put, cup of coffee going cold in his hand as he continues to stare at the little vial of what he knows is Definitely Not Hair Pomade.
Damn Trelawny.
“You okay, Arthur?”
Arthur jumps, startled, and finds Charles standing in front of him, log carrier slung over one shoulder (Arthur may or may not have been surreptitiously watching him chop firewood while he drank his coffee. Just to make sure he was doing it right, of course.) But he’s paused, giving Arthur a curious look.
“Uh, me? No, I mean, yes, I’m fine, never better, uh, why?”
Charles blinks at him.
“You... just look a bit flushed. Hope you aren’t coming down with something.”
“Who, me? No, never, constitution of an elephant...” Arthur waves his hand dismissively – then realises it’s the one holding the damn bottle. He tries to quickly but casually shove it into a pocket, and misses, and if Charles hadn’t noticed the Not Hair Pomade earlier, he sure as hell does now, and oh good Lord, Arthur hopes he doesn’t know what it is...
“Welp, I gotta, go, uh, check Bo’s hooves,” Arthur announces as he finally manages to fumble the little bottle into his pocket. “But, good talk! Ok, I’ll catch you later then,” he says sunnily, and flees.
“...All right, Arthur,” he hears Charles say quietly, sounding bemused. Head down, he walks as quickly as he dares to the empty log store they’re using as a stable, and Boadicea gives a confused nicker when he lets his forehead thump into her side while he lets out a quiet groan of despair.
Charles must think he’s a lunatic.
Not that that really matters, why should it? But...
The oil burns in his pocket, and Arthur’s cheeks burn too.
Damn Trelawny.
Months later, while Dutch is holding forth and Arthur is prodding at his teeth with his tongue to check for any loose ones after his muddy introduction to Valentine’s polite society, Trelawny glances between him and Charles. He gives Arthur A Look. But he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean, nor does he care all that much, skull still rattling from the beating he took from that giant ‘Tommy’ fella.
It’s not until they’re back in the Great Plains that he realises what he’s getting at.
Blackwater sits before them, patrols of lawmen and bounty hunters clearly visible from where they lay on the cliffs above the town. From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Charles slide his hand along the ground towards him, palm-up. Holds it there. Arthur blinks in surprise. Charles is usually always so... strong, and stoic, and calm. Nothing ever seems to faze him. But, Arthur supposes, Charles has every reason to be nervous – hell, all of them do. Dealing with town sheriffs is one thing, but federal agents? State troopers? Not to mention the goddamn army of bounty hunters currently after their heads? They’re against a whole new level of guns. And, he reasons, Charles is still relatively new to the gang, and must still getting used to the idea that he has a family to support him, to watch his back. Running alone all those years must have been so frightening... And it must make their current task all the more daunting.
So, he slides his own hand across, carefully takes Charles’ hand in his own, gives it a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly, “this ain’t the first time we’ve had to bust someone out, and it won’t be the last. We just stick together, we’ll all be fine.”
Charles blinks, glancing between Arthur’s face and their clasped hands.
“That’s... good...” he says slowly. But he doesn’t pull away, so Arthur lets their hands stay intertwined. He ain’t gonna deny the man any comfort he needs. And besides – Charles’ hand is warm, and big, and Arthur kind of likes how it feels to hold-
“Um. Can I have the binoculars now?”
Javier, wisely, says nothing, but Trelawny gives a delicate cough that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. When Arthur snaps his head around to look at him, the man has such an awfully knowing smirk on his face that Arthur feels his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of scarlet than they must already be.
“Let’s just go rescue the little Irish bastard,” he huffs, tugging his hat brim lower over his face and doing his utmost best to avoid looking at Charles or Trelawny.
Frankly, Arthur’s surprised he lasted as long as he did before his encounter with the wrong end of a noose; but he’d be lying if he said the incident in the Braithwaite’s cornfields didn’t give him a damn good scare. Funny how the memory of a bit of rope not an inch thick can make a man feel so damn claustrophobic.
If Charles hadn’t been there...
So, he’s taken himself off on a longer trip – the Heartlands aren’t quite the open plains of the West he misses, but they’re pretty enough in their own right, and the cool, clean air of the Three Sisters mountains is a mighty fine change from the humidity of Lemoyne. He spends a few days fishing and hunting, before looping back the long way around the Heartlands, watching the bison herds, drawing the wild horses, and stocking up on herbs for Hosea’s medicine-making. Now he rides slowly along the shore of Flat Iron, relishing the last of the peace and quiet; he loves the gang, he really does (well, most of them) – but Lord if they don’t make one hell of a racket from sunup to well past sundown. That and no doubt Dutch’ll have some other fool’s errand for him to run for one of those awful families-
He’s so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t even notice the rider appearing on the grassy bank above him.
“You’re a hard man to find, Arthur.”
“Charles?” Arthur blinks up at him in surprise.
“Been tracking you for days,” Charles admonishes, but there’s no real heat behind the words – in fact, if Arthur didn’t know better, he’d say he sounded... fond.
“Dutch send you out after me already?” He doesn’t think he’s been away for that long...
Charles shakes his head as he guides Taima down the bank to join him on the beach.
“Dutch didn’t send me. I... You never came back to camp, after the cornfields. Wanted to check you were ok.”
Arthur is filled with... something, an emotion he daren’t study too closely, but it has him ducking under his hat.
“Aw, no need to worry about me,” he mumbles. “I just wanted to keep away from camp for a bit – couldn’t be bothered listening the crap Marston’d give me.” Which isn’t exactly untrue; by that first evening, he could barely talk, his throat swollen and bruised with an ugly purple ring around his neck, identical to the one around John’s all those years ago (he can just imagine it – “So now who sounds like they gargle broken glass every morning, huh?!”)
But when he looks up, Charles is looking at him like he can see right through him. It has Arthur ducking his head again.
“Anyway, we should get back,” he says, clearing his throat. “And keep an eye out for any game on the way – camp’s prob’ly already half-starved with both of us gone.”
Charles chuckles, and Arthur relaxes.
Despite his talk of the camp starving, neither of them makes any move to ride faster than a walk, and for a while they amble back in their usual comfortable silence. But as they pass a man fishing, a Labrador Retriever waiting faithfully at his side, Arthur’s reminded of the poor ‘lion’ in Mr. Margaret’s circus and mentions it – ends up recounting the whole bizarre tale, to Charles’ incredulous laughter. They pass time swapping stories, about the places they’ve been and the unusual characters they’ve met in their travels, and it’s... nice.
Right up until it’s ruined by a sudden crack of thunder that has the horses whinnying in alarm.
“Ah, shit...”
Despite the humidity, camping by Flat Iron Lake has its perks – the area’s gorgeous, especially at sunset. But Arthur could do without the storms that sweep across it without warning – looking out over the water, he can see the wall of rain heading their way under thick black clouds he swears weren’t there a moment ago.
“We could wait it out under those trees,” Charles suggests, nodding back up into the hills.
“I know a fella with a cabin in the next bay – we can shelter there, come on!” Arthur has to raise his voice above the hiss of the rain hitting the lake as it steadily becomes a roar.
They don’t quite make it to the cabin before the first sheets of water start coming down, but Arthur will take being soaked to the skin over being soaked to the bone. They send the horses into the shelter of the trees with slaps on their rumps, before ducking under the meagre porch. Wiping the rain out of his eyes, Arthur squints at a piece of paper tacked to the door.
To my devoted fans who have somehow discovered my address,
I have travelled north in search of more legendary piscine foes worthy of battle. Please leave your expressions of admiration, love letters, marriage proposals and autograph requests at the post office in Rhodes, Lemoyne, where I shall attend to them upon my return.
- J. Gill
“Thank Christ, he ain’t home,” Arthur mutters. The door’s locked, but a couple of good shoves with his shoulder soon fixes that.
“We’re... breaking into your friend’s house?” Charles asks.
“Pfft, I said I know the fella, we definitely ain’t friends,” Arthur huffs as they step into the cabin, shaking the rain off. “He pays me for fish photographs – says he’s some kind of fishing celebrity, or somethin’. Don’t think I ever met someone with their head so far up their own ass.”
“Heh. Well, he certainly likes fish,” Charles muses, looking around the cabin at all the stuffed specimens on the walls.
“Yeah, almost as much as he likes himself,” Arthur grumbles as he kneels in front of the fireplace. “Here, see if you can find some matches – I’ll never hear the end of it from Miss Grimshaw if we both catch a chill.”
They get the fire going, hanging their jackets up close by, before settling on the couch before the fire to dry out and warm up. Arthur keeps himself preoccupied with tending the flames – but once the fire’s going proper, he becomes acutely aware of how close he and Charles are – and how good Charles looks in the firelight, damp strands of hair escaping his ponytail and framing his face.
Arthur looks away, biting the inside of his cheek, before he can do something embarrassing like that incident with the binoculars.
Charles hums softly, looking around the room as well.
“You know, I’d almost say this is cosy,” he remarks, “if it weren’t for all the fish.”
Arthur swallows, doing his utmost best not to let his fool heart run away with any feelings on ‘being cosy’ and ‘with Charles’.
“Yeah, they’re a little... disconcertin’,” he agrees. “Kinda feels like they’re watching you, don’t it?”
“Mm. So, what – ‘Mr. Gill’ pays you to send him photographs of fish so then he can go catch them?”
“Naw, he pays me to catch him the fish, so he can pretend he caught ‘em, so people can pay him to take a photo with ‘em and pretend they caught the fish together. I think. I dunno, I barely understood half of what he was sayin’,” Arthur scoffs. “But, he pays me well enough. Usually. And it’s kinda fun!”
Charles chuckles, and Arthur makes the mistake of turning to look at him again. He’s got that same warm, fond expression from before, and Arthur’s mouth suddenly feels oddly dry.
“You find the strangest people,” he says, eyes reflecting the warm glow of the fire.
“Hey, they find me,” Arthur protests, having to make and effort to keep voice steady. “Ain’t my fault I keep running into folk with crazy requests.”
“And yet you help them anyway.”
“Well... sure. I figure, why not?”
And Charles gives him a look that he is very sure he doesn’t deserve – a look that’s kind and gentle and almost proud.
“...What?” he asks, fighting the urge to bite his lip.
“I knew you weren’t all that tough and dense.”
And Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. He mumbles something indistinct, turning back to look at the fire. Hopefully the growing heat he can feel in his face can be attributed to the flames.
“How’s your neck?” Charles asks after a moment, voice soft.
“Ah, fine,” Arthur mumbles. “I’ll live.”
He catches movement in the corner of his eye, and turns to find Charles reaching towards him. But he’s paused, waiting until Arthur manages the slightest of nods before he gently tugs his shirt collar, folding it down so he can inspect the ring of still-fading bruising. Arthur has to remember to breathe.
“Looks like it’s healing well,” Charles murmurs.
“Yup,” Arthur manages to rasp out, focusing very hard on not jumping and twitching like a new-broke colt when Charles traces the bruising with his fingertips, ever so gently.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Charles says. Arthur finally meets his gaze at that – and can’t look away. Charles watches him carefully for a long moment, before, even more carefully and gently, sliding his hand from Arthur’s neck to cup his jaw, thumb resting on his cheek. He gives Arthur a questioning look, but Arthur can only stare back, feeling like a spooked deer; unable to understand what’s going on but unable to move either. Charles tilts his own head slightly, looking amused – then leans in and presses their lips together.
The kiss is soft and chaste and can only last for a few seconds, but Arthur’s eyes still flutter shut, and he’s quietly mortified by the noise that escapes from somewhere low in his throat. Charles chuckles, pulling back a little. Arthur can only stare at him again, completely at a loss for words.
“...Been wanting to do that for a while,” Charles admits quietly.
“...Oh?” Arthur squeaks, as some bright bubbly feeling soars from the pit of his stomach to reverberate through his ribcage, stronger even than the thunder outside.
“Mm-hm. But... I didn’t know if- I... suspected, but wanted to be sure that you... felt the same.”
“Oh.”
“So... you do?”
“Wha- oh, no, I mean, yes! I mean, uh-” He groans, ducking in an effort to hide the blush he can feel burning in his cheeks as Charles laughs softly at him. “What gave me away?” he finally mumbles.
“Well... like I said, I suspected, but... Trelawny.”
The bubbly feeling is promptly doused, and Arthur’s head snaps up.
“What?”
“He... might have dropped a hint or two on the way back to camp, after we rescued him.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Arthur drawls, feeling his cheeks flush even further. “So now he’s going around telling people my... personal business.”
“Not... exactly,” Charles says, amused. “I think his exact words were ‘Our dear Mr. Morgan wouldn’t recognise flirtation if it came and sat in his lap, so if you want things to progress beyond staring at each other like lovelorn buffoons, you’d better make it pretty bloody obvious’.”
Arthur laughs weakly at Charles’ imitation of Trelawny’s accent, even though he’s sure his cheeks are glowing bright enough to signal ships out on the lake.
His embarrassment is matched only by his annoyance that, when he gets back to camp, he’s gonna have to thank Trelawny.
“So... now what?” Charles asks. He’s leaned back – giving Arthur space.
“Well... that storm don’t sound like it’s lettin’ up anytime soon,” Arthur says, after giving it some thought.
“So...?”
“So...” Arthur meets his gaze again, feeling like some blushing schoolboy asking for his first dance – equal parts nervous and hopeful.
“So... you could kiss me again?”
Charles laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound, and does exactly that.