Chapter Text
— Part One —
The Coyote and The Yarrow
When Aiyana’s mother left to pick honeyberries, she would not know that it was the last time she’d ever see her. And she would not know that the army soldier who’d slit her mother’s throat would stand trial for it until it was written in the paper.
But she would know that the soldier who’d done it would be acquitted. That was in the paper, too.
And so goes the infamous tale of the White man and that careful slap on his wrist — even in the twisted face of cold blooded murder. But that was how their world was. And this was ours.
She’d learn it, too, since being a little girl. When the children that looked like her went missing, where were their pictures on the local paper? Why did justice conveniently turn silent?
Yet the journalists had never been busier. Paper after paper. Week after week. Robbery after robbery. Only when a rich oil tycoon’s suede pockets bled from the canines of his greed would they finally care. She supposed money was worth more than a human life. But we are not human, she reminded herself.
We are savages. And they’ve decided that they are not.
She stored the painful truth of that knowledge in her weary heart. And at twenty-seven years old, the tragedy of her mother intensified it. So she’d preserve a bitter, maybe even vengeful spirit of her memory with every uneven barefooted step she climbed up the rocky Grizzlies. Onward to their new home. But how does one call anything home without her mother?
Her boots had torn from the steep snow, though this needn’t worry her for the calloused soles of her feet had thickened like hard rubber since their last trail. They caked with wet dirt. No longer would they become matted with the stickiness of blood-rust and chiseled stone that dug into her plantar. Hours up the treacherous mountain cliffs puckered her dry tongue with thirst. She’d quickly learn to swallow the urge— water was saved for those who needed it most.
They paused upon a bodied pond where the ram sipped and a great moose fed on barked twigs. The warm glow of the sun peeked its eye from the icy ridged mountains. Ice caps melted the grassy ledges soon to be trampled against. Tribal members lined and gathered in their crouched state, sloshing icy water down their throats. Some splashed their hot necks, while others scrubbed up their arms. A temporary relief.
Her brother was tasked with siphoning water into canteens. The threat of the setting sun fell upon them, causing his muscles to work with haste. He finished prepping the circular containers and returned them to the carriages. Aiyana watched his sleepless eyes. Please let me help, she would beg. Whispering the words to him with the quietness of her eyes. But it was a burden he’d promised their mother that he would carry and he could never dishonor her like that. At least, that was what she would’ve believed had she not known how downright stubborn he was.
And it was like this in the months to come after their mother’s death. The never ending cycle of violent broken treaties would forcibly uproot them and the weather had been too harsh for some to survive. Aiyana winced, the memory of death fresh in her mind. One member had collapsed in danger of the rolling snow storm.
The boy’s body was young… No older than nineteen. Frozen air pierced his gasping lungs like that of a razor tipped icicle. Next, his body grew slow and numb. When his legs gave out, snapping like brittle wood, the pallidness that covered his warm face traveled until his heart turned still. The candle of a life lived, extinguished into the void, never to be lit again.
But somehow the brightened color in his irises remained so. Her eyes would mist, then. And she ignored the prickling assault of the blizzard as her palms closed his eyelids. The flutter of her lashes joined him in the darkness, as the language foreign to this new land sang to his spirit.
“It’s cruel to leave him…” she’d told her brother.
“We must move. There’s no strength to lift him.” His teeth clattered under no emotion. She watched as he turned his back, carrying the freeze of the storm in his heart.
Your anger is corrupting you, she thought. What would father say?
Her eyes reluctantly traveled ahead to the horses pulling two carriages up the winding terrain. Clusters of children sat with their shoulders squished and their breaths hot with silliness and mushy cracker bits nestled in between the slits of their incomplete teeth. Joyous laughter, sticked tongues and grabby hands masked the harsh threats of the new land.
The second carriage pulled elders; slow with the weary news of tragedy. The fallen young man’s mother wept an ugly noise until her throat ached, swollen and raw from her wrenching screams. Next to her would be where Aiyana’s father sat. His weathered fingers squeezed the woman’s hand in calm consolation. Her cheeks were stained with wet streaks as she cursed the White man under her native tongue.
Another hour passed until the golden eye of the earth sank into a gradual decline. They stopped only once more before they climbed up the grassy cliffs. The horses carrying the older members halted first. Followed by the set driving the children and then finally, whoever else remained.
Aiyana surveyed the woodland forest decorated with groups of hollowed trees. Hooves of pronghorn galloped as squirrels squeaked and scurried in their wake. Stretching from the mountains was a haze of gray fog. There was light, but the sun had disappeared. Aiyana wore the clammy mist on her besmirched skin.
As her brother approached, she eyed him closely. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her eyes spoke and asked: Is this home?
Eagle Flies nodded. For now.
Out in the plains of New Hanover, Arthur Morgan awoke and the blaring light cracked his skull with the force of a mallet. His temples throbbed as the sun screeched, assaulting his aching senses. His breath escaped painfully from his chest and he held his swollen, hot face. There was a sharp sting that erupted on both of his fractured cheeks. The night’s prior bar fight only amplified his anguish and regret. And defending Bill, of all people. Arthur scoffed. That damn swine wasn’t worth it.
He’d slipped on his hat and his now, torn, riding gloves, licking at his chapped lips when he tore open the tent. The sweet aroma of coffee was sharp and the sounds of sizzling meat was pleasant enough to give motion to his weakened legs. The distant ruckus at every edge of camp was excruciating, though, and the local songbirds shrilled above the winding trees.
Abigail berated John as Jack whined. Lenny and Bill shouted over a lousy game of dominoes (The fatter man shoving his sausage finger drunkenly at the other, of course). Miss Grimshaw shouted, tailing after the girls, hurling her usual accusations: “lazy squatters” “good for nothin’ entitled whores”.
Then, there was Dutch: yap, yap, yap.
Arthur’s hat shielded his careful eye roll. Their leader’s charismatic prates were often visibly appealing ideas on paper, but somehow poorly executed as of late. And so, they naturally found themselves laying low in the woodland shrubs of Horseshoe Overlook. A normal day.
But Dutch's aggravating optimism pierced his ears and Arthur clenched his jaw. A steaming cup of soothing coffee couldn’t come any quicker.
When he’d reached the stew pot, he thanked a God he wasn’t quite sure he believed in that everyone else found themselves too busy to want to linger there. Swiftly, he poured the hot kettle into a wrought mug. The first sip burnt his tongue, but the instantaneous relief it provided had made up for that. By the time he’d taken a second sip, he was enamored as the hot liquid danced in his throat and comforted his ringing ears. It seemed to drown out every shrill voice, dish clink and clang, and the agitating cluck of hungry chickens. His third sip was no more than a simple bliss.
He’d begun to reminisce on the last stroll he had through Blackwater. It was a freeing time, one that wasn’t afforded to him on this side of the land. A time where he could easily walk into the local saloon without worry of being recognized or chased after. Before the swarming threat of Pinkertons. Before the haunting bloodshed. The idyllic moment was cut short by a squeaky voice.
“Mornin’ Arthur.”
Arthur squinted and lifted his head to find the perpetrator. Kieran stood before him on wobbly knees wearing a dullard’s straw hat. The man’s lanky fingers waved weakly at him, and soon fear etched across his small, long face upon witnessing Arthur’s penetrating brood. His hand fell swift and he swallowed a lump as Arthur drew closer. He threw the mug down and Kieran winced as the liquid remnants seared onto his tattered boots.
“Y’think just ‘cause ya saved my life once yer free to just say anything to me?”
Kieran tore his gaze away from the hot flash of Arthur’s fiery eyes and he fiddled with the torn fabric of his loose coat. Whatever he’d meant to say was swallowed as his face grew pale.
“Don’t forget yer still a goddamn O’Driscoll,” Arthur snapped before turning on his heel, stomping towards the medicine wagon. Not once taking a glimpse at a defeated Kieran hunkered onto the ground, wiping his shoes and plopping Arthur’s soiled dish into a soapy bin.
As Arthur stalked to the cliffside of the camp’s overlook, his dark eyes cornered Sadie Adler. Always sat pathetic on that lonesome piece of rock. Sniffles were heard as her head hung low. It was a sad sight; a widow and all. A strange sensation of pity rose from the bile of his gut that only a quick hawking of spit could squash.
Flat clouds pooled the hues of bright cyan that draped above their new home. He nearly grimaced at the word. Nothing really felt like home since Blackwater. Now they were a foot closer to the bustling realities of civilization, one that he felt was far too close for comfort. With a damn O’Driscoll in camp that can’t seem to learn his place. It was all a mess. Somedays, when Arthur looked at Kieran he’d despised him more for saving him that day. As if he now was the one indebted to an O’Driscoll maggot no less.
His grounded apathy tended to drown out that flickered voice of reason that he maybe used to have. And that was long ago.
After tipping his hat lower to ward off any more aggravating light, he fished the pockets of his satchel and shuffled out one of the cigarettes that he’d clumsily rolled the night before. Next he’d draw a match that sparked the paper into a glowing ember. The drag of smoke enveloped him and squashed whatever hunger he had lingering in his empty belly. Food would’ve been quite nice hadn’t that scrawny O’Driscoll boy ruined his appetite and possibly his morning. Arthur shook his head, a feeble attempt to forget.
And so, he’d stood there, smoked two more cigarettes before Charles had found him.
“You’re gonna smoke your lungs black like that,” he said coolly.
Arthur took a final drag and extinguished the burnt ember under the heel of his boot. He eyed the darker man from his peripheral. “What’dya want?”
“Well, Dutch’s yapping about Micah, insisting you head out to Strawberry.”
“Yeah, I could figure that,” Arthur grumbled.
“You’re avoiding it,” Charles said it as more of an observation than a question.
Arthur made no reply. Instead gazed down at the distant bottom lake. Two bucks grazed the shallow before the loud smack of a gunshot pierced one of their brains. The targeted buck collapsed into the water forming a small shatter of waves. The other bounced with urgency. A man followed after it and began to skin his prize.
“Micah’s right where he belongs.” Arthur sniffed, still examining the buck carcass. Charles remained stoic and unreadable, waiting. “Y’know Dutch’ll never see it that way.”
“I got something better in mind, if you’re up for it,” Charles offered. Arthur turned to him.
“What?” he started sarcastically. “Robbing a stagecoach?”
“No, you simple-minded fool… bison.”
“Bison?”
He shrugged. “Either that or Micah.”
Arthur weighed the options for a moment and decided Charles was right. Hunting bison couldn’t have been any worse than looking at Micah’s ugly mug. And if it meant killing some time before embarking on that dreadful task that Dutch had bestowed upon him (against his will— he might add) well then why the hell not?
“Sure. Let’s go.”
It was late afternoon when they reached the prairie clearing. On the way, Charles spoke of childhood memories revering bison. The respect of such an animal of that grandeur was quite alien to Arthur, but he listened and offered the occasional grunt. He didn’t entice these conversations much.
When Charles spoke of his parents, Arthur’s mood soured.
“What about you?” Charles would ask and “What about me?” would be Arthur’s harsher reply. But it didn’t bother Charles, or perhaps he’d ignored it. “You have any memories of them?”
“Oh, sure,” Arthur drawled, his tongue laced with stark bitterness. “Booze was kinda like his bison… Or his fucked up version of it anyway...”
He scowled at a flittering memory of his father passed out in a pool of vomit outside their barn. His mother had shielded his boyish blue eyes away from the pitiful sight. They’d stocked up on porridge and oats that week because the coop was dressed in filth those days and the chickens had stopped laying.
A week later they’d die one by one and Arthur was left cleaning rotted chicken carcass and plucking their filth-ridden feathers. He’d made a small grave for his favorite bird using the chipped bottles his father had trashed nearby. His eyes turning numb: Don’t cry.
“And your mother?” Charles asked.
“Dunno…” Pause. “Was real young when she died. And that was that I guess.”
It was only a half-lie.
Rows of dead bison led them to a small camp of nasty poachers. Emptied cans of corn and kidney beans were scattered and squashed around two opened tents. Their bedrolls were soiled and stank of molded cheese and sweat. Charles killed one in a fit of raged impulse and left Arthur to do the dirty work on the second one. He smirked, wicked and satisfied after Arthur's veined hands coiled the man's sweltering neck. Charles stilled, watching the bulging pair of eyes as the light in them ceased upon the fatal crack of his throat.
“Good. He deserves it,” Charles said. The poison on his tongue dripped as he stared down at the bodies soaked from the slow pool of their darkened blood.
Arthur looted two pocket watches: one silver and one gold that would prove to be a nice trip to the local fence. He shuffled through their belongings in further search.
“Hey. Come help me tie this, will you?” Charles called out. There was a lasso rope in his hand.
“Whatch’ya doing? They’re already dead.”
“You gonna state the obvious or are you gonna come help?”
Arthur sighed. He helped secure the rope, connecting it to the horse.
“I know some people— up in the Grizzlies. They could really use this bison,” Charles said. He looked down at the cattle. “It’s not rotted like the others at least so it’ll do.”
“Grizzlies?” Arthur repeated, his deep scowl evident. “All the way up them mountains?” He shuddered, remembering Colter and the unforgiving season.
Charles shook his head. “East. Won’t be snow, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.” He exhaled cautiously. “It’d be the right thing to do.”
“Dunno much about that but… is it worth it?”
“To me. Besides. I might have a proposition for them. Could be some money involved.”
Arthur chuckled and finally lent his hand. “Well why didn’t you just start with that?”
It was hours later until they’d made it up the northeastern mountains of Ambarino. Woodland aromatics greeted them; the air melted in sweet ember, herbs and spice. Bony cattle grazed the dead patches of devil grass while nearby chickens clucked and an incessant dog barked. There was the unmistakable chime of pots scraping. The trees blanketed the surrounding land under a pale sky.
Arthur noticed a faded wooden sign that looked like it had been split and reattached. Two words were scribbled in ivory chalk letters:
WAPITI RESERVATION
Huddles of long haired brown men and women quietly greeted Charles, but looked down upon Arthur with disgust and shame. Their mouths frowned deep into their worn faces. Some eventually turned their eyes downcast muttering under their breath as he followed behind Charles.
He squinted as smoke dusted the scattered bovine hide canopies like fallen ash (he wiped his sleeves). Sticks sprouted from their triangular tips. Dirt clung to his spurs with every graveled step, further alerting those in the vicinity of his presence. Their dark glaring eyes silently screeched at him in collective chants: you are unwelcome.
That signature scowl of his had returned on his white face. Arthur kicked at pebbles lapping dirt on the tips of his boots. He stayed a few feet behind as Charles spoke to one of the men who wore feathers in his hair. He turned to introduce Arthur.
“He’s one of my associates. This is Arthur,” Charles said. The younger man looked Arthur up and down. Arthur slid his hands to rest upon his waist buckle.
“Howdy.”
The brown man said nothing until he spoke with Charles. “You’ll have to speak with the Chief. But not him.” His eyes shot back towards Arthur, clearly reiterating the unwelcome.
He huffed and attempted to swallow his agitation. With a wave of his gloved hand he said: “Just take care of it, Charles.”
He nodded. “Hang back until I come out.” And then he disappeared up the wooden ramp of a cabin barn.
Arthur walked in circles near the trees— they were much too thin for him to hide in their shadows which only fueled his growing irritation. Even from a distance he could hear their cold whispers. He walked some more until he overheard a pair of ladies conversing over a weak fire. One woman wore a headscarf, she was knitting while sat on a chopped log. The other woman had taken to standing, her white skirt was stained with dirt and ash. She spoke in a hushed tone but loud enough for Arthur’s ear to perk up at the bits of their small conversation.
“Not good. My youngest is still sick… they say supplies are coming. What supplies?! At this rate she will be dead when they come...”
“…They treat us like vermin. We are worth nothing to them.”
Arthur made sure to keep footed distance between himself and them as to avoid their glowering looks. His brows furrowed when one of the women began speaking in a native tongue completely foreign to him. The conversation sounded jumbled and he couldn’t make out any more of what was said.
He eyed the barn door, impatient. As if expecting to see somebody stumble out. Empty. C’mon Charles…
It was a cue for him to excuse himself away from the cornered groups, so he ventured out past the wooden sign towards what looked to be a water bank. He sauntered, following the bright row of grass.
The air on the outskirt side of the reservation was still rich with smoky cedar. There was a thin, but long riverbed tucked in between vibrant patches of wading grass dotted with some red and white florals. One sweeping willow wept as hollow leaves sagged from her curling branches. Arthur’s eyes caught a woman sat alone, her feet buried in mossy water. Her skin blazed of bright copper, kissed by the sun, unlike his own. When he moved closer, the woman eyed him with quick suspicion before abandoning him. Arthur expected this but pretended not to notice and responded by sparking his cigarette. He flicked the burnt match and the woman scowled as it plopped and sank into the whisking current.
“Say… You got the time?”
No response. Arthur looked down and scoffed, the cigarette that hung careless on his lips threatened to fall. “Ya forget how t’speak or what?”
“I speak just fine. It’s you I have little to say to.”
“Excuse me?” He said grim. The hell is her problem?
Her oval eyes, darkened honey, finally peered up at him, but she said nothing. He clenched his jaw and swallowed his slow anger with another drag of smoke.
“Not so friendly ain’t ya?”
“I have no obligation of being friends with you… Why are you here?”
Arthur stomped his cigarette. “Y’know if you ‘n yer little friends gotta problem with me why don’t ya just come right out and say it instead of whispering in those pathetic corners of yers.”
The woman stood up. He watched the deep rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes seemed to turn blacker with every passing moment she glared at him. But his focus fell on the crown of her black tendrils, then. Rested there was a scarlet flower.
“You have no place here,” she said venomously.
“Says who? You?”
“My people.”
Arthur chuckled, dark. “Who? Them?" he motioned with the flick of his head. "Y’know with all them dead bison, I’d say yer lucky we ever showed up.”
With widened eyes, the woman swept her head past Arthur. She’d struggled at first. He was taller, much broader than she. An eyesore. But what he’d said wasn’t a lie. In the distance she could make out Paytah and Eagle Flies loading the remains of a dead buffalo into a wagon. Stood next to them was a darker skinned man with black hair that crawled past his shoulders. A stranger that she almost believed to be one from the tribe until she landed on the sawed shotgun holstered at his side. As the men rolled the cattle, she breathed a sigh of relief. Their first bison in weeks.
Arthur’s eyes never left her. Honestly, he couldn’t help to not look at her, which was bewildering to him. But the flower in her hair twinkled. She whipped her head back at him.
“This changes nothing.”
“Sure,” he spat, baring teeth. “We’ll just leave ‘em to rot next time.”
He turned away and her gaze lingered on his heavy march. Arthur and the darker man exchanged words before she’d seen him unhitch a white mare that leant into his scratch after he’d offered (what looked to be) a small treat. When he fled from the reservation, she knew she never wanted to see him again. Though whether she would or not was unbeknownst to her because men of his kind had a habit of living above the law. They stole. They killed. They raped. And they seized and conquered whatever it was they saw fit. But there was one thing she knew for certain: he was kind to his horse.
East Grizzlies.
Orange gold had long sunk, replaced by an illuminated tapestry of a purple ashy sky. Arthur finished searing a flank game of quail. His nose slightly scrunched as his hands reeked of the familiar flux. Even after all these years, there were just some smells he still couldn’t get used to. After filling his belly, he spotted a nearby lake and decided to clean up. He averted a serious gaze to Mable.
“Stay, girl.”
The horse snorted her response.
Wet brownish black traces of grime streaked down Arthur’s temple as icy water splashed his face. Then he scrubbed his scalp. It was no luxury and provided none of the comforts that a steaming deluxe bath did but the sounds of growing twilight stirred him calm. Bullfrogs croaked in the distance while sparrows whistled. A small duck flapped at the lakes surface. Arthur shook his head and loose droplets flew from their tips before he’d used a bandana to pat dry.
He resumed his spot, leaning against Mable. She’d taken a relaxed position, ready to be lulled under the crescent light. Arthur furrowed his brows as he attempted a weak tracing of a small duck. He stared down at the sloppy outline with disdain. Could be better. His pencil scraped patiently at the next page as he outlined the subtle curve of the mountains. Next were the thin linings of scattered trees followed by shaded clouds.
By the time he’d finished scribbling, he stared up at the half glowing moon. Arthur closed his eyes and inhaled a minty scent of sage and burnt wood. The tip of charcoal went back to work.
Met a woman today. Didn’t seem too fond of me. None of ‘em did… Spoke to me like she knew who I was but I’d never seen her. Charles is convinced we could earn some money from these people. I ain’t so sure. Guess they call ‘em the WAPITI. In need of bison cause of them damn poachers— said whatever we can round up they’ll pay for.
We shall see.
Before tucking his journal into the slot of his satchel, Arthur drew once more below his short passage. A woman with a small flower in her hair.