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Hosea never saw himself as the paternal type. Raised as an only child who left home early, his experience with children was minimal at best. So when Dutch, in all his well meaning wisdom, had made the executive decision to adopt (or rather, kidnap) a jumpy, grumpy fourteen year old and raise him up all nice and proper, he had a few reservations.
“Are you sure we can even do this?” He remembered asking Dutch during that first week as they watched the kid, Arthur, from afar. Dutch had found him half-starved and half-dead in an alleyway late one night, digging food out of a trash can like he was nothing more than a street rat. His clothes hung loosely on his body, and where there wasn’t cloth there were holes large enough to show the skin and bones that laid underneath. Somehow Dutch had managed to lure the kid out of the alley and back to camp, likely with the promise of food, and there he had stayed. He didn’t let anyone get too close, glaring at them whenever they got within spitting distance and physically flinching backwards when they moved too suddenly. To Hosea, it seemed like a lost cause.
“Of course we can!” Dutch had responded then, so sure of himself. Not once did he doubt his decision to take the boy, and it showed. For weeks and months he’d worked and carved away at the walls built up around him, feeding him regular meals and teaching him how to read and write. It was slow work, tedious work, that was for damn sure, but after nearly a year and a half of that work the boy had come leaps and bounds from the scrawny and underfed thief he once was.
And it was proving to be an issue.
“Come on, ‘Sea. I can help!” Arthur stood in front of him now, arms crossed and brows furrowed in consternation. The look was so similar to one Dutch frequently wore that it was uncanny. “I’m nearly sixteen now, and I’ve been robbin’ long before I was runnin’ with you two. A coach job is nothing.”
“It ain’t nothing, Arthur,” Hosea sighed, tired of having this argument. “You thinking that is exactly the reason I think you should stay back.”
Arthur tried and failed to hide the eyeroll he had in response to that. “You’re worried over nothing. Dutch thinks it's fine!”
Of course Dutch did; it was him that came up with the idea to begin with. Now that Arthur was older, bigger , he seemed to think it was smart to bring the kid into the fold. But as loathsome as he was to admit, Hosea had grown a soft spot for the surly teen, and the idea of him being out there and possibly in danger set his teeth on edge. But to Arthur, Dutch’s word was gospel.
“Come on, Old Girl.” Speak of the devil. “Let’s just let him come and scope it out with us. If we think it’s too dangerous he can stay back.”
Sensing a losing battle, Hosea sighed as he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”
Arthur immediately brightened up, beaming over his shoulder at Dutch, who stood behind him. “But,” Hosea interjected, and the scowl returned. “You listen to what we say. We say jump, you say how high. We say stay, you stay. Go, you go. Understood?”
Arthur at least seemed to understand the severity of the situation as he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
That had been Hosea’s first mistake of the evening. The second mistake was actually following through.
From the beginning, Hosea had a sinking sense that something was wrong. For as much cash the coach was supposedly carrying, there were too few security measures. At least one hundred in cash on hand, and only a shotgun rider? Practically unheard of, almost too good to be true. And when the guard’s hand didn’t even move to the trigger before throwing his hands up in surrender, it should have given him more pause. Instead he was too busy riding the high of a simple job gone well to notice the sound of hoofbeats fast approaching.
The law was on them faster than he or Dutch could have prepared for. Normal procedure in those moments was to split up and get the hell out of dodge, riding in opposite directions until morning and meeting back at camp the next afternoon. Except this time, they were on foot instead of horseback. Except this time they had Arthur, who had never been part of a stick up like this with them before, and who had never been shot at before.
“Dutch! Hosea!” Arthur cried out in fear as he was separated from both of the older men. Hosea fired wildly, his shots going wide as he tried to scare off their pursuers as he dove into cover. He tried desperately to keep Arthur in his line of sight, but the moment he lost sight of him was the moment he dreaded most.
A shot, one that didn’t come from his gun or Dutch’s, and then the piercing cry of a child in pain. Hosea whirled around in time to see Arthur drop to the ground as he was surrounded by lawmen, a brand new bloody hole right in his gut. Time stood still for Hosea in that moment as the pieces fell together, as he realized that the boy he had begrudgingly began to see as a son had just been gravely wounded and it was his fault. And then everything sped up again, and all four lawmen around Arthur were dead on the ground and the barrel of his gun was smoking. Hosea ran out of cover despite the remaining shooters, trusting Dutch to take care of them, and ran straight for the kid.
“Shit, Arthur,” Hosea gasped when he saw the state of him. Blood poured out of the front of him and out of the back of him like he had more than enough to lose, like he wasn’t still skinny and struggling to put on the weight after years of being malnourished. The wound itself burrowed nearly straight through his stomach, piercing just to the left of his naval and exiting straight out the back. Hosea tore his coat, the expensive ram skin coat that Bessie had bought for him just last month, off without a second thought and wrapped it as tight as he could around Arthur’s middle and winced when he whimpered at the touch.
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he whispered and he folded the kid into his lap, hugging him awkwardly to his chest as he squeezed him with an uncomfortable amount of pressure. Arthur whined and writhed, trying to claw his way away from the pain and out of Hosea’s hold, but he held steady.
“S-stop,”Arthur bit out, still trying desperately to squirm out of reach. By now, the shooting had stopped around them. “Hurts, ‘Sea.”
Hosea bit his tongue harshly as his eyes watered up against his will. Now was not the time to cry. “Just hold on a bit longer, Arthur. Dutch should be back with the horses soon.”
Arthur groaned, and tilted his head back to rest on Hosea’s shoulder. Hosea tucked him in closer, trying desperately to ignore the blood that was already soaking straight through his coat and how he was never going to get the stain of Arthur’s blood out of it. Forever tainted, forever ruined.
“I did good?” Arthur wheezed quietly. Hosea was shocked to hear the question, and heartbroken that he even felt like it was necessary to ask.
“Of course you did, son,” Hosea reassured. Blessedly, he heard the sound of Dutch bringing the horses over just a few moments after. “Now you just hold tight, Dutch it almost here.”
Arthur nodded jerkily against his shoulder, and shuddered out a sigh. “D-don’t let go, ‘Sea.”
Hosea swallowed past bile that rose up the back of his throat. “Wouldn’t dream of it, my boy.”