Chapter Text
Dutch had asked for a pipe some weeks ago, apparently he had lost his old one at Blackwater and Arthur had soon offered to look for a replacement. Just as all the other trinkets and herbs the gang would ask for him, Arthur wouldn't constantly go and actively look for them, he would just stumble with them at the most odd places sometimes. Like Dutch 's pipe. He had just stumbled upon it in a small hut in Ambarino.
Arthur hadn’t meant to stay away from camp for so long. He had lost track of time, what was a hunting trip that he supposed would take three to four days soon turned into more than a week and a half of wandering wherever he wanted to. Soon after leaving Shady Belle he came across a lady whose horse had died in the middle of the road and needed help getting back to Annesburg, which didn’t really stray him from his path much, as he was heading north either way. On his way to the grizzlies he got deviated as he came across a small camp of treasure hunters and couldn't help but hear the bragging of an old drunk man and this map that would soon make him richer than Cornwall himself. Of course, Arthur waited until night fell and the group of drunk treasure hunters fell asleep to take it from him.
He had found a couple of gold bars thanks to that map, nothing near Cornwall’s fortune, but he could sell them for a good amount of money. Maybe they could finally buy that boat Hosea was talking about to go fishing once in a while.
Finally, he headed to Ambarino looking for a big white moose he had heard about, which actually appeared on the map Hosea had given him. Traveling through Ambarino took him 4 days alone, as he would get distracted here and there thanks to a nice view, or some herbs that he knew Charles or Grimshaw would appreciate. When he had finally arrived at the Moose´s area he was exhausted, his bones ached, and he could feel a pain on his chest that wanted to come out as a cough. He didn’t have to be a great or experienced hunter to know it was a bad idea to hunt with a cough, he could scare his prey, and attract an unwanted predator nearby, so he decided to take a small break and sleep before he started tracking the animal.
He was too tired to even set the tent up apparently, because early in the morning a small, strong storm came and ripped the tent’s cloth.
“Goddamnit Morgan, you fool.” He continued to mutter to himself as he got outside of the tent and got absolutely drenched by the rain. “Couldn’t even manage to set a fucking tent right, couldn’t ya?” Arthur angrily started to pack the cot on Beca, his mare before it got too wet and unsalvageable.
“Let’s go girl, let’s get a nice warm place to stay for the night.”
He decided that up in west Ambarino he wouldn’t find much, so his only option was to head either east or south to West Elizabeth, and the latter seemed like a much better option in the rainy night, even if it meant getting farther away from camp. He would definitely start heading back tomorrow morning, leaving the moose for his next trip.
After a few hours riding, Arthur ended up near a creek in West Elizabeth. The rain had finally diminished enough for it to only be a drizzle, but Arthur was wet and probably already sick, so it would be better to find shelter, an abandoned building or a nice feller that was friendly enough would be great, but at that point he would settle with a cave, anything that would give him enough roof to stop getting more wet.
As Beca started to shake in exhaustion and he started getting desperate while he couldn’t stop coughing for more than a couple of minutes, Arthur noticed a light from afar.
Perfect , he thought. He couldn’t thank whoever was up there enough for this. He just hoped that whoever lived there would pity his drenched-self enough to give him a place to rest for the rest of the night, which wasn’t much. Maybe Arthur wouldn’t even rob them, probably.
Just as he was going to knock on the door he noticed it was already slightly open and couldn’t hear anything coming from inside. Which was odd, seeming as there was a lit candle on the night table, he unsurely entered the small cabin, taking a look around. There was no one to be seen, the bed was undone. He was so exhausted that for a moment he wondered if he could just fall asleep on it, but he didn’t want to risk the owner coming back too soon, seeming as he had left the candle on. Maybe he could wait for the owner at the porch so he wouldn’t frighten them before asking for shelter. Maybe for the first time in a while he could use all those elections he had learned from Hosea and talk his way into a good situation instead of getting out of a bad one.
He turned around and he spotted it, on top of the desk. A pipe, just like the one Dutch had lost so many months ago back when they had to run away from Blackwater. Arthur smirked, the owner probably wouldn’t notice if he took it with him, and Dutch would sure as hell be happy with him after he came back with a couple of gold bars, herbs, and a pipe . And Dutch would surely be more relaxed after smoking his usual stuff. So it was for a greater good really, he thought as he put it inside his satchel.
Now he just had to wait at the porch. He sat down with his back resting on the wall, and admired the landscape while trying to not fall asleep. He tried to keep himself awake by counting trees and looking for animals. He noticed a few rabbits and chipmunks, but other than that just trees and rocks. But then he noticed a big brown blob move.
“Fuck” he muttered as he quickly stood up to grab his rifle.
Just a fucking great moment for his lungs to protest, making him cough, loud. The bear quickly turned his head from whatever prey he had catched and locked his stare onto Arthur.
And ran towards him.
Arthur quickly started shooting at the bear, but the thing wouldn’t fall. It was as if the bullets barely made an effect, as if they bounced off the huge beast.
Bracing for impact, Arthur put his left arm in front of his face to shield himself. His right hand let go of the rifle and quickly reached for his hunting knife. As he felt the knife with his hand, the bear was already upon him. Its massive claws slashed through the air, finding their mark with brutal force, causing both Arthur and the bear to fall from the small porch. One claw struck his left arm, tearing through his sleeve and finding flesh. The pain was immediate, sharp, agonizing, but there was no time to react.
The bear’s weight pressed down on him, its hot breath so close to his mouth, Arthur could still smell the blood of its last hunt. Arthur’s vision blurred with pain, but he fought to keep his grip on the knife. The beast growled, and for a moment he was sure that was the end, that he would meet all the people he had lost soon. But then he remembered all the people that he still had, Hosea, Dutch, Lenny, John, Charles, little Jack and the rest of the camp, he thought about Dutch’s pipe on his satchel and how he wouldn’t be able to give it to him if he just gave up in that moment. Something similar to what happened during gunfights occurred—his pulse raced as he pushed back with all his strength, using his legs to try and shift the beast's weight off him, slashing it in one eye.
The bear growled in pain and anger, soon, claws raked across his side, and blood soaked through his coat. Arthur screamed in pain, struggling to breathe. With one last effort and strength he didn’t know he possessed, he lunged forwards, knife in hand, stabbing the bear in the neck over and over savagely, with no other thought than pure survival instincts. The bear growled in agony as blood dripped from his neck, and stumbled back a few steps.
Enough steps for Arthur to pick his rifle again and shoot directly to the head.
The shot rang out, deafening in the quiet forest. The bear let out a last roar of agony and finally fell with a thud. Arthur didn’t wait to see if it was completely death or agonizing. In a flash of pain and fear, he forced himself to his feet, blood dripping down his side, and headed inside the cabin for shelter.
He moaned in pain as he took off his coat, now unsalvageable. It used to be his favourite, bought it just when they had moved to Blackwater after a very successful stagecoach assault. After quickly mourning the coat to himself, he ripped the good sleeve and applied pressure to his arm, which was bleeding quite a lot. He then grabbed the bottle of whiskey the owner of the house kept on the desk and poured it mainly on his forearm, using some of the rest for his side. He winced because of the pain, and gritted his teeth to avoid a louder noise coming off his mouth. He had already learned his lesson of attracting big animals through unwanted noise and was not looking forward to repeating it in the same night.
“Fucking hell” Was the most he allowed himself to say during the process.
When that was finally done he used the rest of his coat to make a decent attempt at wrapping his injuries before finally heading out in look of Beca. He grabbed his rifle and knife from the porch and walked towards the trees, just where he had spotted the bear before. What he had mistaken as a prey that was likely a poor doe or wapiti that had been too slow to escape the bear was actually a middle-aged man. The bloody remains were probably the owner of the hut. The body was still warm, rigor mortis having yet to kick in, Arthur wondered how long had it been since the attack, how before he arrived, and he wondered how he didn’t notice it, if he could had done something, help the man and attack the bear way before he spotted either of them. Then he would have saved himself a lot of pain, and this feller would still be alive.
A shaky breath made its way through his throat, threatening to get stuck before it made its entire path to his lungs. And Arthur decided it was enough, he needed to get back to camp before he and the man shared the same fate. He looked around before whistling for his mare, wincing at how it pained his side to do so.
Gladly, he didn’t need to repeat himself, Beca quickly emerged from the trees and in a few seconds was at his side. Beca was brave, but even she would run off when a big bear appeared in the dark and attacked her owner. Arthur quickly checked her for any injuries and was relieved when he observed she was unscratched.
Now he needed to get on the saddle, which he hadn’t thought about yet. Looking at his left arm, now useless, and his right side that was starting to hurt more and more by the minute he wondered what he could do to safely get on top of Beca and ride enough time to get back to camp. He was way too north, and far too east, in top shape it would take him a day without distractions, but now he wasn’t so sure he would be able to make it back. But his first concern was getting on the saddle.
He looked around, looking for a fallen log, or a big enough rock that would help him to get on the saddle with his good arm and not hurt his bad side too much. Then he felt like a fool when he remembered that a few moments ago he had been at the porch, which had a small amount of steps, enough for him to get onto Beca. He leads her to the small platform, grips the saddle horn with his good hand, and uses his legs and core to haul himself up. It's slow and agonizing, his right side protesting, but he manages to get into the saddle. Knowing his side wound will bleed more if he leans to the right, he shifted his weight slightly to his left.
“Good girl.” He patted her head as he made a mental note to buy her some nice treats at Saint Denis the next time he was in the city. He grabbed his lazo and made an improvised belt tying him to the saddle, when he was content enough with it, feeling it secure enough that he wouldn’t fall when they started moving, he moved to make sure the makeshift bandage is secure around his torso.
When he is happy enough with the accommodations he made, Arthur gently kicks Beca to start her going. He leans forward slightly, resting on the saddle horn with his good arm for support, and just hopes the blood will stop bleeding enough to get to camp. Or Valentine if he wasn’t sure he would make it.
After a few hours the sun rose, and even with the warmth of the sun he couldn’t stop shaking. Whether it was from not having dried completely or the blood loss, he couldn’t really tell. he decides it’s time for Beca to take a small break, but knowing he couldn’t really get down he just directed her towards a tree shade, and managed to reach for some oats he still had in his pocket. He then drank some water from his canteen and managed to stomach a few bites of chocolate before continuing his path. He would repeat this every couple of hours or so. Apologizing to his mare, who was looking more and more tired by each stop.
As more hours pass and night starts to fall again, he can feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness. Staying awake less each time, and startling himself awake when he would feel himself slide off the saddle. Just as he was able to see Twin stack pass from afar, the exhaustion became too much, and this time he wasn’t able to stop as he felt himself falling to the side.
*
Alphonse Renaud was glad to finally leave the south. After multiple continuous incidents he had doubted he would ever head to Valentine like he had originally intended to. The oppressive humidity, the endless swamp stench, and the constant run-ins with hostile folks had drained him both physically and mentally. His wagon having been stuck multiple times in the mud while doing house visits, and not a single man offering to lend a hand. He would most definitely not miss the south, being so eager that he hadn’t cared to leave in the middle of the night when his last client had paid him.
He adjusted the reins of his wagon, the thought of heading north to a cooler, calmer climate was like a light at the end of a tunnel. Valentine wasn’t perfect, far from it. But at least it wasn’t infested with Lemoyne raiders and racist folk.
He was pulled from his train of thought as the wagon shaked after hitting a rock on the road. Maybe leaving in the dark wasn’t the best idea, he couldn’t see a thing, and Alphonse did not want for his horse to trip, or for a wheel to break. He already had far too little supplies, the doctor in Saint Denis had told him the next shipment wouldn’t arrive until next month, so he would have to have them delivered at Valentine. He couldn’t afford to lose anything now. So the best option was to look for a safe place to camp until daylight came.
If he took a left turn on the next crossing he would get further away from Valentine, but closer to the shore, which was a safer place to camp. So it would be worth it.
Just as he was beginning to feel a sense of relief, his horse slowed and neighed uneasily. Alphonse pulled back the reins, furrowing his brow as he scanned the road ahead. At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, but then his eyes caught the faint outline of something—or someone—collapsed in the distance.
“What in the world…?” he muttered. As he got closer, the shape became clearer: a man slumped on the side of the path, blood staining the dirt beneath him. A horse next to him, clearly exhausted.
Renaud’s stomach churned. Hoping for the worst. He stopped the wagon completely and walked towards what could be a corpse by now.
It wasn’t, as he got closer, Renaud could hear a small, faint whistle, breathing. And the man’s chest slowly rising and falling with every whistle. Not a good sign, at all, but at least a sign of life, for now.
He quickly grabbed his medicine kit from the wagon and kneeled next to the man, “it looks like your luck has run out—though perhaps not entirely.” Taking out his stethoscope to hear the man’s lungs, his biggest concern even with all the wounds. If the lungs were too weak there was really no point in trying to help the man, it would just be a waste of medicine and bandages that could save someone else.
As he listened to the lungs, Renaud got a closer look at the man’s face. He felt a strange feeling, like he should know this man. He felt as if he should know the man with the scar on the beard, with the lines across his face telling him about his age. But it was the eyes that gave it away, the blue-half closed and unfocused-eyes that made him remember the only kind mind he had met during his dreaded time in the south. And in that moment he knew what he had to do.
Arthur winced as Alphonse reached for his good arm in an attempt to carry him to his wagon. His face showing the pain and discomfort even while unconscious.
“Easy there,” he said softly, half to himself and half to Arhut. “Let’s see if we can keep you breathing long enough to make sense of how you ended up like this.”