Chapter Text
It was a little before dawn, a handful of hours since Arthur and Micah had made their plan. Desperate times, Arthur figured. He never thought he’d willingly scheme with Micah Bell, but then he’d never imagined waking up in the fool’s skin either.
He checked the fastenings on his saddle one last time as nearby Micah swung up onto Baylock. The dark horse standing stoic and accepting of his master’s larger-than-usual bulk.
Arthur kept his movements quiet, ears straining for any sounds from the still sleeping camp, until the soft rustling of fabric made him freeze.
He turned slowly to see Hosea walking over, coat pulled on over his nightshirt, silver hair tousled from sleep. The older man’s eyes moved from Arthur’s borrowed face to Micah already mounted, then to the packed saddle bags with bedrolls, and the way both horses were pointed toward the trail out.
Arthur stiffened. He’d hoped to avoid this. Hoped to slip away clean leaving only a note behind as explanation. Hosea didn’t speak at first. Just looked at them. Long enough that Micah shifted awkwardly in his saddle.
Finally Hosea sighed, the sound heavy in the cold air.
“I figured you two might try somethin’ like this,” he said quietly, voice carrying just far enough for them to hear. “Dutch’ll be spittin’ mad when he wakes up and finds you gone.”
Arthur swallowed. Micah’s throat felt too tight. “We can’t wait on Dutch’s ‘right time’, Hosea.”
Hosea’s gaze stayed on him and Arthur wondered if he could still see the real him somewhere under Micah’s face. Even if Arthur himself was becoming more confused as to who or what the real him really was anymore. There was clear disappointment in the older man’s face but something softer too. Understanding, worry, or maybe just tiredness.
“I know,” Hosea said at last. He took a slow step closer, coat pulled around himself against the chill of the early morning air. “I know you feel like you’re drownin’ in this…both of you.” His eyes flicked up to Micah, who snorted softly from the saddle, although the sound lacked his usual bite.
“You best take care of that body, Micah.”
“I’ll try not to break it ‘fore we get fixed.”
Hosea gave a small, sad, huff of laughter. Then he turned back to Arthur.
“Come back to us when it’s done. No matter what happens. You hear me?”
Arthur felt his eyes burn. He nodded once, sharp, unable to find any words.
Hosea reached out then, slow enough that Arthur could have stepped back. Instead he let him rest a hand on his shoulder, Micah’s shoulder, and squeeze once, firm.
“Be careful,” Hosea said before stepping back, clearly with no more to be said.
Arthur swung up onto his mare. She danced a little under him, like she sensed his hesitation. But he was determined they would fix this mess, and if that meant ignoring Dutch then that’s what he had to do. Micah nudged Baylock forward, already turning toward the trail and Arthur followed. He looked back only once to see Hosea’s lone figure in the grey early morning light, watching them go without a wave.
***
From Horseshoe Overlook they headed south, in the direction of Flat Iron lake, keeping the railway tracks to their right. Neither man spoke much. Each lost in their own thoughts as the sun continued to rise on their left.
Micah couldn’t help feeling triumphant. Swaying Dutch’s golden boy into outright defiance had been easier than expected and proof that the cracks in Arthur’s loyalty ran deeper than even Micah had guessed. And Hosea? The old fool had all but waved them off with his sad little speech instead of raising the alarm. Fine by Micah. All that mattered now was finding the bastard who’d twisted them up, undoing it, and making him bleed for the trouble.
As they rode on, swinging to the east, Micah did his best to ignore the itch of the wound healing on his leg. Then had to remind himself it wasn’t *his* leg. He ran a hand thoughtfully over the stubbled chin he now wore, strange to think how fast the ideas of “mine” or “his” were blurring. This body was strong, sure. But in it he was clumsy in ways he never had been. Fingers too thick for fine work, arms too long for his usual quick draw. He needed his own skin back. With all that came with it.
The sun was bright ahead of them now, the last of the morning mist burned away and other people on horseback or coaches were visible in the distance. Ahead, Arthur rode tense-shouldered. Dutch would be awake by now. Would know they’d gone against him.
***
By mid afternoon they were making good progress. They skirted Emerald Ranch, keeping south to avoid unnecessary attention, and headed toward Dewberry Creek.
Arthur stopped on the mostly dried-up creek, letting his mare drink from a shallow pool that lingered in the shade. The rest of the creek was little more than cracked dirt and scattered rocks. Baylock stamped a foot impatiently so Micah nudged him forward to let him drink from the same puddle. That bought him close alongside Arthur, their knees bumping as their mounts shuffled together.
“I ain’t so sure this is right,” Arthur sighed.
“It is, we drop drown from here and into Lemoyne, I know the way Morgan.”
“That ain’t what I mean,” Arthur looked round at him, their knees still leant together.
“You doubting?” Micah sneered, he should’ve known, “so what, you wanna stay like this?” He flicked a hand lazily between them.
“No… I…,” Arthur shook his head, “maybe we just shoulda waited a bit. Like Dutch wanted.”
“An’ here I thought you finally grown a pair,” Micah glared at him, “ya pathetic.”
“Yeh, well some of us care ‘bout loyalty. Somethin’ you wouldn’t know if it shot ya in the damn head.” Arthur snapped back.
“An’ where’s loyalty gonna get us?” Micah’s voice grew louder, “it ain’t gonna fix this. So it’s up to us to survive it.”
“I’m just sayin’ that…”
Arthur was cut off by a shout from the ridge above the creek. A posse of seven men, all on horseback, their leader clearly in the center of the line up.
“Micah Bell!” he barked, voice carrying across the dry creek. “We know it’s you, you son of a bitch. Got a nice price on that rat face and it’s dead or alive.”
The leader pulled out a poster and Micah’s gut twisted in Arthur’s bigger frame. Of course. They saw his face on Arthur. Micah Bell, wanted dead or alive. High enough price to make any man greedy.
As the men approached with rifles drawn, Micah forced Arthur’s mouth into a lazy grin, the kind that usually made men nervous.
Then he laughed, an ugly bark in Arthur’s chest. “You boys sure you got the right fella?”
The leader spat. “Ain’t mistakin’ that weasel face.”
Without a second chance to try and talk their way out of it the first shot came from the left. A warning crack that kicked dirt near Baylock’s hooves. Baylock reared, and Micah swore, fighting to stay in the saddle with Arthur’s heavier weight.
And then it was chaos.
Micah slid to the ground fast, using Baylock’s bulk for cover. Arthur’s body moved strong, stronger than his own ever had, but slower in the turn, heavier in the drop. He drew both revolvers smooth enough this time, muscle memory holding, and fired. Not the best shots but good enough that his two targets fell.
Across from him Arthur was struggling. Micah caught glimpses. His own narrower frame ducking and weaving as he fired, but the shots were going wild with only a single lucky one finding its mark. Then Micah saw blood bloom dark on his shirt. *His* blood. Something sharp and furious twisted in his chest.
Arthur ducked behind a rock for cover but one of the hunters tried flanking. Micah saw him and without thinking charged, driving Arthur’s bulk like a train. He hit the man hard, drove him into the dirt, and put two in his chest point blank before the bastard could scream. Felt good, powerful. But when he turned his head, the posse leader had a clear shot at his back.
Thankfully Arthur, bleeding and wheezing, managed to put one in his throat. A clean shot, even with shaky hands, and the man went down gurgling blood.
The last two ran. Micah dropped one. Arthur clipped the other. Then there was only gunsmoke, blood and the stink of powder in the warm air.
Micah strode over, heart pounding heavy in Arthur’s broad chest. Arthur was slumped against the rock, hand pressed to the graze just under his ribs. Blood seeped into the fabric of his shirt.
“It ain’t deep,” Arthur grimaced, “stings like hell though.”
Micah looked down at his own face wearing a pained scowl, pale under the sweat and dirt.
“Too damn close,” Micah growled, Arthur’s voice making it sound almost concerned. “This body’s a tank, but I ain’t got the timing down yet.”
Arthur laughed weakly in Micah’s throat. “Yours gives out too quick. Couldn’t breathe for shit.”
Micah crouched, unbuttoning and pulling the shirt aside to check the wound. The skin was his, the blood was his, and seeing it torn open made something uncomfortable twist behind Arthur’s ribs. But it was true it wasn’t deep. Not even half as bad as his leg had been. Arthur kept a hand pressed to it and they decided they’d set up camp soon as they were far enough from the mess around them. They looted quick, taking what was useful, and then left the bodies for the law or the coyotes, whichever came first.
***
Once they’d crossed over into Lemoyne they decided it was a good idea to set up camp. Arthur gingerly slid himself down from his mares back, being careful not to pull at the wound. It made sense to camp out here for the night rather than get too close to Bluewater Marsh and all the hostile wildlife there.
Arthur was still wondering if he’d made the right choice. Disobeying Dutch had seemed simple under the night sky and with the influence of alcohol. But he told himself the damage was likely already done and he was best focusing on fixing this mess. He could beg for Dutch’s forgiveness once back in his own skin.
He was at least pleasantly surprised by Micah’s willingness to help. It was unusual to see him take the time to set a camp fire and pitch a tent. Though maybe it was just for the selfish fact that it was currently his body that was injured. Something he’d clearly been thinking on, because as soon as their camp was made, he forced Arthur to sit beside the fire and strip his shirt.
Micah wasn’t exactly gentle but he did take his time checking and cleaning the wound. Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the fire as Micah wiped alcohol over the area. He did his best not to think of the last time one of them was cleaning an injury on the other. But clearly Micah was thinking of it, his fingers lingering.
“Funny ain’t it,” Micah murmured, voice low in Arthur’s chest, “seeing your own skin from outside.”
Arthur huffed something that might’ve been agreement.
Micah moved slow now, almost careful, tracing the edges of the graze like he was mapping territory. The sting had faded to a dull heat, and Arthur felt every pass of alcohol soaked cloth and fingertip more than he wanted to. Micah’s thumb brushed just under the wound, then lower, slow enough that it couldn’t be called accidental. Arthur’s breath caught sharply, obvious in Micah’s narrower lungs, and Micah froze, hand still pressed warm against skin.
Neither of them spoke.
Micah’s palm stayed there too long, thumb resting just above the waistband of Arthur’s pants, close enough that Arthur could feel the twitch of it against the fabric. Close enough that if either of them shifted even an inch…
Arthur finally looked away from the fire. Met his own eyes staring back, unreadable. Micah’s lips parted like he might say something mocking, something cruel to break the moment, but nothing came. Just the crackle of the fire.
Micah still didn’t move away. If anything, his fingers spread slightly, pressing a fraction closer.
Arthur’s heart hammered hard and he hated how part of him didn’t want that hand to stop.