my bare-stript heart

by anderfels

Summary:

Charles clears his throat. “Don’t mind Arthur,” he says, and can hear the warmth in his own voice, the softness with which his tongue speaks his name. He glances sideways to Eagle Flies, and shifts to sit more comfortably, crossing his legs. “He…acts.”

After just about surviving 'Urban Pleasures', Arthur brings Charles to meet Eagle Flies for the second part of the Chapter 4 mission, 'American Fathers'.

Chapter 1

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
   

  “You came.”

  It is a statement of concrete certainty. Rhetorical only in its position - placed firmly where a greeting should be, but lacking any genuine attempt to greet, nor prompt a conversation. Eagle Flies speaks just to mark the moment, as though pushing a pin through the fabric of the meeting. Punctuation. An unspoken exclamation point that jabs at the silence that follows.

  Charles is quick to dismount. Silent, he urges Taima to the grassy crest of land that swells behind the ridge, patting her croup as he leaves her. With a snort, Arthur sits heavily in Tallulah’s saddle, legs hanging alongside her stirrups, bristling in his exhale, gesturing with a flap of impatience. “Of course we came,” he replies, to the statement that asked to go unanswered. “Said we would.”

  It earns him nothing. Crouched on one knee, Eagle Flies continues to watch the valley from the ridge, the rims of his binoculars like fool’s gold amongst river stones, glinting in the waning light. He makes no sign that he’s heard either of them.

  A low fog is creeping from the marshes, where the prairie sinks and begins to steep like stewed tea, flooded with the run-off from the mountains. Though the summer still clings to Lemoyne’s wet feet, the temperature high and the weather fair, its absence is noticeable in New Hanover, apparent in the fallowing leaves, the golden grassland becoming bare like a balding head. Cloud covers the horizon in thick blots, a mirror of the mist rolling slowly through the pastures, twin blankets draped across them from above and below.

  They had left Shady Belle after noon. The sun is nearly gone from the day’s memory, leaving only a smear of bloody yellow behind the clouds, just visible through the aperture of Twin Stack Pass. In the refinery yard below them, the lanterns are almost all lit.

  Dropping to his knee, Charles positions himself beside Eagle Flies, looking out from the sandstone promontory, a jutting slab of pale rock suspended above the plains like the seat of a great throne. They perch at the feet of Citadel Rock, the butte’s peak disturbing the cloud cover behind them, reaching up to the grey skies as if to stir them like a stew, the tufts of grass and windswept sedge that dot its crags disappearing into the descending mist as dark falls.

  Arthur passes the landlocked citadel a glance as he leaves Tallulah with Taima, and joins Charles on Eagle Flies’ other side. He drops to his knee in turn, boots crunching in the grit.

  “There’s a foreman,” Eagle Flies says, with only a slight movement of his head. He mirrors the gesture to his other side, inclining his chin towards Charles. “His name is Danbury.” Without looking at either of them, he holds his binoculars out to Arthur, and keeps talking when he takes them. “He has the files in an office above the refinery room. It’s the window with the blinds drawn up.”

“Mm,” Arthur grunts, teeth pressed to his lower lip, binoculars raised to his eyes. “I see it.”

  After a moment, he passes them over to Charles, blinking the magnified scenery from his vision.

  Cornwall Kerosene and Tar sprawls like a black welt, a fungal growth on the leaf of a rose, spreading across the hillside. The site spits a dusty smoke from multiple chimney stacks, such that the sky is all the darker above it, churning with coal clouds like a diseased lung, coughing soot into the air. It is surrounded by walls, barbed wire, patrolled inside and out, resembling a prison camp rather than some nadir of modern industry. Blackened workers trudge from the factory to the drilling rig, the coal store to the water tower, while armed guards wander the perimeter taking potshots at possums, covered wagons constantly bringing cargo through the gates. Railroad tracks run through the middle - a tunnel has been bored through the hillside to provide the refinery its own loading platform - a black tendril curling out into the Heartlands, carving through the green prairie like a great steel knife.

  With the binoculars to his eyes, Charles observes the complex in silence, the breeze plucking strands of his hair, teasing them from the band tying the ponytail at his nape. “Two of us will draw attention,” he says quietly, and holds the binoculars out for Eagle Flies. His gaze slips past him and lands on Arthur, a crease between his eyebrows. “There’s too many guards. Patrols too. One person might go unseen.”

  Arthur grunts his agreement with a nod, his attention remaining on Charles for a moment, watching as he shifts his weight, sitting on his heels, and moves his hand to his right knee. Across Eagle Flies’ shoulders, Arthur notices his jaw muscle clench, his expressionless lips tightening at the corner, like a single stitch has been pulled in his cheek.

  Nose scrunched, Arthur idly scratches his jawline, mouth bumping from one side of his face to the other as he looks back out at the refinery. “You expectin’ trouble from Danbury?”

  Eagle Flies flicks his eyes towards him, but doesn’t move his head. “It would surprise me if he gives up the papers gladly.” His voice is clipped, stripped of any emotion, in a way that could easily infuriate the common English speaker, so bare as to resemble sarcasm. Charles doubts it’s intentional, rather recognises the bleached, starched vernacular of someone whose mother tongue is so very different to the language pressed upon them, whose thoughts roll and swirl in a soupy mixture of both, and sometimes neither. It’s the curt, society English taught by those that believe it is the proper language, the superior language, a rigid and punitive framework with no tolerance for tropes or idiom, for wordplay of any kind. He rubs his knee with an absent palm, and Eagle Flies continues, “If they are as incriminating as we believe…”

“Mm,” Arthur hums, pulling at his bottom lip.

  He exhales sharply through his nose. “I’ll go. Charles is right, one’s less liable to get caught.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asks. “I’m quieter.”

“Yeah, well, I’m persuasive. I’ll handle this Danbury.”

  As he says it, Arthur winks, smirk pushing firmly against his cheek. Charles’ eyes are warm but still roll away from him, a huff all Arthur hears in reply.

  “Cornwall’s men will destroy the files if they know you are coming,” Eagle Flies says, regarding Arthur out of the corner of his eyes.

  Sliding into the very beginning of a frown, Arthur’s expression hardens. “There’s only one of me, son,” he says, and hefts the weight of his gun belt as a kind of physical punctuation, his thigh holster shifting in place against his jeans, the leather sliding smoothly across the denim. He slips his thumb along the spine of his revolver’s grip, framing the belt’s buckle with his other hand. The word ‘son’ is clearly a loaded choice. “I don’t intend for them to know I’m comin’.”

  It sounds a little impressive to Charles, but he doubts Eagle Flies feels the same. His impassive face turns back to the refinery, passing over Arthur’s gun on the way.

  “What’ll the files say?” Arthur asks.

“There will be a report from the Leland Oil Development Company.”

“And you got the money?”

  It is the most Eagle Flies has moved since they arrived. Head high, he turns just enough that Arthur sees both his eyes, framed by dark lashes, a single faint line wrinkling his forehead. His brow is heavy, angular like the sandstone cliff. There is no reaction in his expression, no clench or twitch of muscle, no tightening in his closed lips, and yet his entire being somehow exudes impatience, irritation bristling in the cool air. He is handsome, with a strong nose and long cheekbones, like hands cupped around his face. Arthur almost wishes he would snap and snarl again, like he had when they had met in Saint Denis, in the shade of the council offices just two days ago. The spark of anger had suited him better than the sullen disinterest.

  “Yes,” Eagle Flies says, his mouth only parting enough to let his tongue speak the word. Not a millimetre more.

“Good,” Arthur says, deliberately bright, turning his attention to the refinery. “That’s good.”

“We will watch and wait for you.”

  Dropping his head, Eagle Flies looks at Charles. He hooks the leather strap of the binoculars around his neck, thoughtful. “I have an idea while we wait, but it will take two of us.”

“Sure,” Charles replies, with a shallow shrug.

“So,” Arthur says, adjusting his hat on his head. “Any ideas how I sneak into this place?”

“Could crawl under the fence.”

“Or hide in a wagon,” Eagle Flies says.

  A gate is built into the perimeter palisade, facing the overlook upon which they sit. Behind it, the canvas of various covered wagons is visible on one side of the complex, parked in spaced lines. “They keep rolling in.”

  On cue, hoofbeats sound from their right, and a wagon draws into view along the road from Twin Stack Pass. Its lantern swings with a metallic creak, driver dressed far too smartly to be a local. “If you’re quick,” Eagle Flies says, still looking out into the distance, darkness rapidly creeping across the prairie, the refinery unnaturally illuminated, like a jewelled button in a dark coat. “You could climb into the back of that one. The train is coming.”

“How d’you know?”

  Eagle Flies doesn’t answer, and as the silence stretches between the three of them, a low rumble begins to thrum within the hillside, a few chalky fragments of stone tumbling from the outcrop in a plume of dust. The train’s lantern swells from the grassy slope beneath them, an arc of yellow light cutting through the stone where the tunnel splits the cliff face, spilling onto the dark tracks like a melting pat of butter.

  “Huh,” Arthur says, as the noise rolls up around them, a metallic, thundering rhythm, hissing with steam. His shoulders rise and fall as he adjusts his hat - a halfhearted shrug, shaking his head as he begins to walk away. “I’ll go take a look.”

“If there is a problem, call for us.”

  Head tilted, Arthur looks back at Eagle Flies, halfway down the slope bordering their rocky perch. “Thought the whole point was that this had nothin’ to do with you?” With a huff, he keeps walking, the wagon passing beneath the outcrop, driver slowing his horse before the railroad crossing. “They ain’t gonna be shootin’ at your ass,” he says, grumbling, only just audible beneath the noise of the train.

“I’m gonna shoot yours if you keep grousing,” Charles says, as Arthur disappears beneath the outcrop, arms out to keep his balance as he traverses the steep slope. He turns only to show Charles his first two fingers, and then hurries down to the road, crouched almost double.

  The wagon horse stops at the crossing, shuffling in place as the train rumbles past, cars rattling behind it. Lamps are lit within the dark windows, throwing soupy yellow light across the banks. Arthur is no more than a hunched figure, creeping across the road into the wagon’s shadow, a glimpse of dark blue disturbing the canvas, and disappearing into the bed. Charles exhales. The train chugs slowly on, and with a short jostling of his reins, the wagon driver crosses the track once it has passed, proceeding towards the refinery.

  Charles clears his throat. “Don’t mind Arthur,” he says, and can hear the warmth in his own voice, the softness with which his tongue speaks his name. He glances sideways to Eagle Flies, and shifts to sit more comfortably, crossing his legs. “He…acts.”

“Mm. I noticed.”

  At that, the conversation seems over. Brow taut, Charles watches the wagon. The road curves beneath the hillside, the last of the sunlight caught far behind them, too low to clear the battlements of Citadel Rock, spreading long shadows that quickly become the night itself, darkness falling like a spilt inkwell. By the time the wagon reaches the refinery, there are lanterns lit on either side of the gate, and another carried by the attending guard, orange glow wavering in his hand as he greets the driver. The gate is hauled open, the wagon proceeding inside. Eagle Flies holds the binoculars to his eyes, and waits.

  Night settles down across the prairie, lounging like a great black cat. A deep ocean spreads before them, sparkling with a few clustered lights, swimming in the indeterminable distance beyond the refinery site. For the most part, the Heartlands are featureless, stripped of form and colour by the absence of sunlight, washed in a deep shade of indigo blue, a huge sapphire set in the pale claws of the granite rocks, the sandstone stacks, glowing with the soft touch of the waxing moon.

  A chill rolls from the ramparts above them. The horses huff and fidget as they graze, leather creaking, buckles clinking. Charles inhales sharply when Eagle Flies speaks again. “He has entered the factory building.”

  Perhaps his lack of response is what prompts Eagle Flies to keep speaking. He lowers the binoculars, unable to keep track of Arthur inside the building, and turns his head towards Charles, eyebrows slightly raised. “He- Arthur…is one of the ‘gang’ you mentioned to my father?”

  Charles looks at him, only just visible despite sitting beside each other. The lights of the refinery are like a pincushion, tiny dots of amber creating just enough contrast to see by. “Yes,” he says simply.

“This group is…like a family to you?”

“Perhaps. To Arthur, yes. He’s been with Dutch and the others for…more than twenty years.”

  With a soft rustle of fabric, Eagle Flies drops his bent knee, and sits on his heels. His gaze remains on the factory building, eyes reflecting the pinhead lights. “But you haven’t?”

“No, nothing close. I…”

  Charles frowns, palm idly rubbing his knee. “I met them…winter last. Not yet a year.”

“Hm.”

  There is silence for a moment more. Eagle Flies taps his fingers against the binoculars’ lens casing. “Why join with them?”

  Charles moves his gaze to the glinting rim of the binoculars, then to Eagle Flies’ face. Finally, he shifts to look ahead, watching the blank blue prairie, the bluestem grass rustling like the bristles of a stiff brush. “I had been alone for…years,” he says, quietly. “And Dutch…is- Dutch seemed different. He offered me a place. Not many would.”

  With a short sigh, Charles scratches idly at his stubble, voice almost a monotone. Their voices are low, murmuring like the breeze in the expansive silence around them. “Truthfully, I…had become tired of being alone.”

“You…have no tribe? No nation?”

“My mother did. Far from here. And long ago, now. I don’t remember them. She was taken before I turned ten.”

“Oh.”

  Again, the silence engulfs them. An owl calls somewhere in the distance, and an answer echoes in gentle response, a mated pair finding each other as they search the black plains, high and soundless like they are fragments of the sky itself, made of the chill wind and dark clouds. Eagle Flies checks the view through the binoculars, and exhales when he lowers them, eyes dropping from the refinery for what feels like the first time since they joined him on the rocky outcrop. He turns enough to look at Charles, and pulls his free hand through his ponytail, expression a little less stiff than before. “It’s hard for me to imagine finding…community here,” he says, with a vague gesture to their surroundings. “Outside my family. My people. I have little experience with…this world outside. And what I have experienced has been…disappointing.”

  With a wry movement of his lips, Charles nods. “I understand.”

“My father still believes we have to tolerate the people here to survive. Their cities, their oil fields.”

  Lips twisting into a sneer, Eagle Flies scoffs, and jerks his hand towards the refinery. “These men would see us exterminated. How can I see them as friends? Brothers? Human beings? He’s a fool.”

  Meeting Eagle Flies’ eyes, Charles says nothing. Which is an answer of itself, he supposes. “Please do not tell me I’m too young to understand and the world is more complicated than I think,” Eagle Flies adds, sullen, turning back to the view before them.

“I wasn’t going to.”

  Charles slings a sidelong glance at him, lingering on his aquiline profile. It sounds very much like his perspective is slightly biased due to youth, and Charles can confidently say the world is indeed more complicated than his assessment, but he’s also sure Eagle Flies doesn’t need to hear it. Especially not from him. He understands his frustration. Felt it as fiercely as he does, raged against the impotence he saw around him, desperate to make himself heard.

  On the other hand, Eagle Flies seems to have a short fuse, a loose lid set precariously on a boiling pot. Perhaps giving him the impression Charles agrees with him is just as unhelpful as telling him he’s wrong? Who knows? Evelyn Miller hadn’t mentioned ‘counselling twenty-somethings’ as part of the job description. Arthur is far better at talking to young people than he is. Talking to people in general, in fact.

  “People are complicated,” Charles says, speaking carefully. He rubs his knee with his palm. Words are often elusive. Trying to find the right ones feels like sieving through gravel to try to find gold. “I’ve spent my life trying to avoid them. But…the world has changed. Isolation isn’t sustainable. For people like me and for…tribes like yours.”

  Charles frowns, feeling distinctly like he’s overstepping the bounds of their acquaintanceship. What would he know about it? What right does he have to even form an opinion?

  Swallowing, he grasps for something more to say, fumbling like he’s trying to find a door handle in the dark. “Surviving outside…this-” With a twisting wrist, he gestures to the refinery. “-Is…difficult,” he says, frown deepening, lips pressed together. One adjective could never adequately explain what he means. “Especially without others. A community. One you choose.”

“I would rather see my people die than submit,” Eagle Flies snaps.

  For a moment as he turns his head, the pinhead lanterns blur in his eyes, like streaming comets. His lip snags, hitched by a muscle near his nose.

  “I’d rather you live,” Charles says quietly.

  With a snort, Eagle Flies looks out at the refinery and beyond, staring into the darkness of the distant prairie with a glare that might set it alight. “You would rather we live in gratitude to the people that raze our land, that murder our families-”

“No, that is not-”

“How could you understand? You choose them. You choose to keep company with… With men like him,” He gestures with a jerk of his chin, aimed towards the factory building, leaving no doubt as to whom he is referring. “Men that take our money, that only so much as listen to a matter of such injustice when there is something to gain.”

  Teeth clenched, Charles can feel himself tense, unnaturally still against Eagle Flies’ spitting anger, sparking in sporadic motion beside him like corn kernels popping in a hot skillet. “I expect your Dutch is much the same,” he says, expression heavy, roiling like storm clouds. “Second, third, fourth generation thieves and killers, growing fat from the spoils their forefathers stole from us. From this land. That’s the community you choose as preferable to being alone? The men that do this to us?”

  Charles does not speak. The night surrounds them, dark and featureless, the air itself refusing to stir as though it too dares not make a sound, holding its breath as Eagle Flies’ words sink into meaning. In its silence, the unspoken accusations are easier to hear. Arthur is a man that takes the money of those who clearly have great need of it. A man that sees this tiny act of aid as a great hardship to him. Arrogant, self-serving, ignorant.

  A man that, despite his complaints, frequently risks his life in service to others. A man that willingly puts himself in harm’s way to save something as inconsequential as Charles’ aching knee. A man desperately loyal, fiercely protective.

  It isn’t an invalid criticism of Arthur’s character, nor his own. Neither of them are good men. There’s a reason their lives have led them both, in their own ways, to Dutch and his human cabinet of curiosities. No one finds themselves fleeing across half the country with two dozen other losers, addicts, outlaws, and wastrels unless they have no other choice and no better options. Civilised society has weighed the sum of their lives, and found them lacking to such a significant degree that it would rather see them swing from a sturdy tree than be allowed to continue living as they do. Living to steal, kill, cheat, and survive.

  To Eagle Flies, how could Arthur be anything but another enemy, another threat to his home and his people? A violent, selfish man with little use except as a blunt instrument, raised to view the world as a game rigged against him. And by standing at his side, how could Charles be anything but complicit, a collaborator in his people’s oppression? A cold, bitter man born in two different worlds, welcome in neither, adrift in a meaningless existence, clinging to the coat tails of someone bigger. They may not serve the highest powers in the world in which they live, but to Eagle Flies, it makes little difference.

  “Dutch…is another matter,” Charles says quietly, keeping his anger tightly held, crushed between his back teeth. “But, yes. Arthur is who I choose.” He pauses for an unnoticeable second, heart hammering his rib cage, and his voice drops to a murmur. “I’ll choose him over anything. I don’t have to justify that to you.”

  There seems to be no reaction from Eagle Flies. His face remains plainly unimpressed, illuminated only by the residual glow of the refinery complex as he stares into the sprawling valley. Angular as the architecture behind them, his side profile could easily be hewn from sandstone, the cliffs of Twin Stack Pass as still and sloping as his brow, the chiselled bridge of his nose flat as the smaller buttes and towers crowding Citadel Rock.

  After a moment of stillness, the light darts as his eyes move, and he turns his head to look at Charles with a haste that seems to have no cause, as though he is reacting to something only he has heard, answering a question Charles didn’t ask. A furrow appears between his eyebrows. He stares at Charles as though seeing him for the first time. It’s the most vocal his expression has been since they arrived. Since they first met.

  “Is there a problem?” Charles asks, words slow.

  With the same intense frown, as if he is processing some grand revelation, Eagle Flies glances to the refinery, then moves his attention back to Charles. An exhale escapes him, and his mouth parts around a burst of amusement, voicing a small, bewildered chuckle. “Oh,” he says, and presses the laughter between his lips, regaining control of his face. The glance he flings at Charles is furtive, like they’re co-conspirators colluding on some grand scheme. He checks the view through his binoculars, as though his smirk is invisible. It isn’t.

“Oh what?”

  Charles doesn’t intend to snap, but can’t help it. No wonder the kid’s father seemed so exasperated with him.

  “No, nothing,” Eagle Flies says, teeth biting down on his bottom lip as he observes the factory. “Just ‘oh’. Nothing.”

  He clears his throat, swallowing his stifled laughter, voice becoming serious. “I…apologise, my words were insensitive and unnecessary. My anger is not your responsibility, and there’s no excuse for directing it towards you.” Still trying to neutralise his expression, he lowers the binoculars. “My father and I are grateful for your help, both of you. Please, accept my apologies.”

  Though there is still a part of him that’s sure he’s missing the punchline of a joke he was unaware of making, Charles nods, and returns to watching the refinery. Strangely, Eagle Flies seems to have relaxed, his posture losing some of its defensive rigidity, expression moving more freely. Something has made him a little less uncomfortable in Charles’ company, for which Charles can’t account. Instead, he decides all he can do is let it go, again trying to catch any hint of movement within the factory building, any sign of trouble. Guards continue to patrol the perimeter, standing watch at the gated entrance in the orange pools of lantern light.

  “Do you see the tower there? The derrick?” Eagle Flies asks, pointing to a looming shape in the southeast of the complex. In the gloom, the structure is hardly distinguishable from the night behind it, its struts bisecting the speckled sky. It looks like a house of cards, hollow triangles of steel jacketed in wooden walls, holding a platform aloft. “It houses the drill, apparently.”

“Looks like they’ve spilled most of what they’ve pulled up.”

  The area in question isn’t lit, but the oil is still visible. A sizeable pit surrounds the derrick, glistening in the low light, a mirror of the night above, streaked with technicolour stars. Walkways have been constructed to span the swamp of mud and oil, crisscrossing the black ground on raised stilts like angular snakes. “Since I first saw it, I’ve wished to set it alight,” Eagle Flies continues, as though it’s the most mundane wish in the world. His lips slide askew to reveal a smirk as he turns to give Charles the binoculars, pulling the strap over his head. “Watch the pool erupt, like a lake of fire.”

  With an agile hop, he gets to his feet, and walks to where their horses are grazing, a way back from the edge of the rock. His mare stands a little apart from Taima and Tallulah, a pretty palomino Paint, her splashed coat the colour of fine buckskin. With a hand on her reins, he walks her closer, murmuring gently as he pulls a bow from her saddle, and two arrows from the quiver on her shoulder.

  “Have you ever used these?” He leaves his horse and returns to Charles at the cliff edge, kneeling to show him the arrows. Charles takes one by the shaft, inspecting the fat, layered head, wound with strips of fabric - or perhaps paper - into a dense ball, and covered with something brightly sticky, shining like the oil beneath the rig.

“Resin?” Charles asks, bringing the arrow closer to his nose.

  It smells like pine sap, sweet and astringent. To bind the gunpowder bundled underneath. Eagle Flies hums in affirmation. “I’ve used similar,” Charles says, and brushes the arrow’s fletching, recognising the feathers as turkey. “It’s well made. You have skill.”

“My… My friend- Ah. Paytah made them. He’s…very skilled with his hands.”

  Eagle Flies frowns. “With making things, I mean. He is a skilled craftsman.” He presses his lips together, avoiding Charles’ eyes for a moment. “I- I wondered if lighting the oil from both sides would bring the tower down.”

  With his own frown, Charles inspects the arrow, then looks out towards the oil derrick. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. It’s hard to tell without knowing what’s behind the wooden walls, hidden within the internal structure. “It might,” he says, attention momentarily drawn to a group of guards patrolling the refinery yard. “The fire alone would certainly be impressive.”

  There are three in the patrol, two armed with rifles. Charles hands the arrow back. “Could always throw a stick of dynamite at it. For good measure.”

  Expression breaking open, like a child passing a confectioner’s window, Eagle Flies turns to him, eyes wide. “Do you…have a stick of dynamite?”

“Sure, Arthur does. There’ll be some in his saddlebags.”

  A short exhale is the extent of Eagle Flies’ laughter, but it’s still novel to see him smiling at all, his teeth bright in the dark. Charles gets to his feet, a little less easily than Eagle Flies had a moment before, and approaches the other mares. Two Appaloosas stand side by side atop the crest, far enough from the sheer edge of their rocky perch, one head raised while the other pulls at the sparse, dry grass. Tallulah huffs as Charles roots through the bags and packs attached to her brand new saddle, Arthur’s repeater rifle snug in her cinch holster.

  Sharing his bed with the gang’s ammunition and armoury gives the room a slight smell of gunpowder, despite the missing window letting in more than enough fresh air. But it also gives Arthur first pick of the supplies, and since no one but Arthur really cares to maintain a thorough inventory of how many boxes of rifle rounds and shotgun slugs the gang possesses, he is generally free to take what he wants. Hence, the three sticks of dynamite - neatly wrapped in brown paper and packed in an old cigar box - nestled within one of Tallulah’s saddlebags with two boxes each of .44 and .45 ammunition. Charles stifles a smile as he leaves the horses; Arthur carries dynamite, various calibres of ballistic ammunition, even a small bundle of Charles’ own fletched arrows, but somehow forgets a spare pair of underwear.

  Their sojourn to the mud flats north of Saint Denis could easily be months ago. Only two days have passed, in actuality, yet so harried has Arthur been in the 48 hours since they left the city, the night they shared within the creaking walls of Canebreak Manor seems almost untouchable, far away and fading like the last light of a distant ship, swallowed by a misty sea. Recovering moments of calm, of peace for Arthur plays on Charles’ mind, plucking at him with distracting urgency. It’s like he’s watching a woollen garment unravel, a blanket with one loose thread, undoing every stitch across every row, on and on, faster and faster, an abyssal hunger consuming the fabric, eating its very existence until there is suddenly nothing left but one ragged strand. He has tried to keep busy in Arthur’s absence. There’s plenty to do at the crumbling mansion in which they find themselves. It just isn’t quite enough to quiet the discomfort he feels within its mouldering walls, hiding in its long, crowded shadow.

  With his own bow and quiver over his shoulder, Charles rejoins Eagle Flies at the edge of the outcrop. His eyebrows rise at the sight of the dynamite. “My father…” he says, and his expression flashes, eyes averted, mouth drawn tight. “Cannot know.”

“I wasn’t planning to tell him,” Charles replies.

“They will know it was us.”

“Perhaps. It is dark-”

  A frown twists Charles’ brow. The group he’d seen patrolling earlier are rounding the corner of the factory. They walk the platform running alongside the building, and as Charles watches, the second-storey window with the drawn-up blind opens from within, pushed upwards by a disembodied hand.

  Following his gaze, Eagle Flies crouches at the edge of the rock, putting the binoculars to his eyes. He mutters a curse. “I think it’s him.”

“If he leaves through the window, they’ll see him.”

“Maybe he’ll wait- Oh. No, I suppose not.”

  A figure heaves himself through the window opening, a hand on either side of the frame. Arthur pauses, just for a moment, adjusting his hat as he balances, boots on the ledge, and then drops, landing heavily on the roof below. With a grunt, he falls to one knee, palms finding the roofing tiles.

  A clouded night has taken hold, damp and trembling like a fever. Though they have left the humid heat of Lemoyne, the air is heavy with a similar silent thrum, like the thick clouds are a swarm of bees, which beat and whir with unseen wings. A breeze blows through, stirring distant trees, the building behind him groaning, rattling with the motion of machinery below.

  Arthur picks himself up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and tries to look out at the refinery yard, finding nothing but dark shapes and yellow light in infrequent pools, hardly able to see beyond the edge of the roof. The railroad tracks run beneath him, he’s sure, the factory surrounded by an ample platform of raised boards, like a train station, used for loading cargo, ferrying oil to Valentine, to Rhodes and Saint Denis. Machinery droops across the building’s height - most likely cranes, he suspects. Pulleys to move the loads, swaying uneasily in the breeze.

  Frowning, he crouches to judge the next drop. As he leans over the edge, a spatter of water hits his hand. He inspects his knuckles - red and, admittedly, a little sore after having met Danbury - and another droplet hits him. It starts to rain. With a glare at the sky, he swings his legs down over the lip of the roof, and drops with a grunt.

  The landing makes him stumble, one knee hitting the boards beneath him. He exhales, winded, and his breath stalls, tripping him into a flurry of coughs. Hitting his sternum with his fist, Arthur looks up as a light careens into view, bouncing off the wooden walls, the hoists, the empty crates, brandished by a guard’s outstretched arm.

  “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hold it right there!”

  Lantern creaking as it swings, Arthur squints at the voice’s origin. Three figures swarm from the darkness, boots thudding as they run across the platform. He coughs around a muttered curse, the guard’s lantern pouring over the wall behind him, dousing him in a swirling yellow glare.

  Still hunched on the ground, he blinks at the light with one eye screwed shut, trying to make out his immediate surroundings. The platform is wide and drops into darkness some way ahead of him, revealing the steely glint of rails beyond. Barrels stand in clusters around them, too far away to be of immediate use, and behind him is the building he just left, noisy with machines, the shrill clang of metal-on-metal audible even through the wall. Slowly straightening up, he lifts his hands, palms showing.

  “Weapons on the ground and hands in the air!” the same voice shouts, emerging from the gloom as the middle of the three men, aiming a long gun at Arthur’s head. As is one other. The third carries the lantern, and a pistol. Rain spatters against Arthur’s raised hands.

“Easy now, fellers,” he says, quiet, still blinking the glare from his eyes.

“Now!” the middle guard barks, jabbing his gun forward. “We won't tell you again!”

“Alright, alright, take it easy,” Arthur says, bringing his open hand down towards his revolver, as slowly as he dares. “I’ll put it on the ground. Nice and slo-”

  An explosion rips through the refinery. Flame bursts from the darkness, leaping into existence a split second before the boom. Like a bomb has gone off, it smashes through the night in an instant, shaking the group apart like ninepins, sending Arthur to the floor with a curse. The three guards shout and scatter in the confusion, stricken faces turned to the derrick across the yard. In a moment, the tower is completely engulfed in fire, its bones alight in black silhouette against the clouded sky. Beams break and fall in flames, the structure wailing as the pit of oil burns around it, splashing liquid fire onto nearby ground.

  Arthur stares at the inferno, his back against the factory wall. The darkness is instantly ablaze, a hellish orange glow crashing outwards from the fire like a wave, sweeping through the refinery site. Groping for his revolver, he scrambles across the boarded floor, ducking behind the nearest stacked barrels as he hears the first shots.

  Gunshots clap and bang from the direction of the tower, bullets whipping through the air. Shouts puncture the roar of the fire, hoofbeats thudding, and as Arthur looks out past the barrels, he sees the black outlines of two riders circling around the flames, weaving through featureless buildings, in and out of the darkness. It’s Charles, he’s certain. Charles and Eagle Flies. They must have set the derrick alight. To give him an exit?

  He takes a breath. The hammer of his revolver clicks beneath his thumb. He must get to them. Before they all get killed.

  Two guards remain with him, having found their own cover further along the wooden platform as they try to comprehend what’s happening. One has ducked down by the train tracks, unfortunately not quite small enough to hide himself completely. His back slopes above the platform boards, head poking up between fence posts, hair already wet from the rain. Arthur shoots him. The guard disappears behind the platform, his partner shouting as he rears up from behind his own barrel, a little way from Arthur, and is quickly shot in the head.

  Are they barrels of oil? Arthur scrambles upright, ducking out from behind the stack to stare blankly at the barrels. One stray shot could have flayed him alive.

  Unable to spend more than a moment dwelling on what it would be like to burn to death, he hurries across the platform, jumping the shallow drop down to the railroad tracks. They bisect the compound from the west, and as Arthur crosses to the opposite side, a mounted guard canters alongside the track from around the factory building, his face lit up as he confronts the flames ahead. For a fraction of a second, he baulks away from the fire light, eyes narrowed, face turned, giving Arthur an extra moment to react. His revolver is quicker than the rider’s rifle, catching him in the chest. The horse rears as the guard slumps, sliding from the saddle to the tracks with a thud.

  Ahead, the fire roars as it climbs the tower, seeming a hundred times bigger than its actual size from the brightness alone, the entire site doused in orange light, the flaming derrick in the centre. The oil pit is a lake of fire, spitting from below, and as the wooden structure above it starts to collapse, shards of timber splash into the burning liquid, throwing lashing tongues of oil to the nearby buildings, the fences and lampposts, adding more fuel to the ravenous flames.

  Arthur hurries over dry, scrubby ground, raindrops bouncing as they hit his boots. Black figures run across the flaming tower, half seemingly trying to fight it and the other half fighting their unseen assailants, torn in multiple directions like the occupants of a poisoned anthill. He doesn’t feel much better off as he weaves through the complex, both blinded by the fire and struggling to see in the dark, wading through a monotone landscape of black silhouette and amber flames.

  Another guard sprints past him. Arthur shoots before he does, catching him unaware. The gunshots are louder as he nears the derrick, men shooting as they run. Shouts relay orders, pain, directions, terror, muddled with the thumping rhythm of the rain, the metal sounds of the factory, the messy gorging of the fire, chewing the timber in great, charred chunks.

  Fumbling more rounds into his revolver, Arthur goes unnoticed as he darts beneath raised wooden tracks, past wagons and loading equipment, starting to pant as he reaches a whitewashed building. ‘Kerosene Storage’ is emblazoned on its side.

  The inferno hits like a cast-iron pan, the heat clanging in the wet air as a shot cracks beside his head. Another follows, and he flattens himself behind some packing crates as a handful of men round on him from opposite the building, swinging their guns around as they find a new target. With a curse, Arthur wipes the rain from his hands on his jeans, spinning his revolver’s barrel. Bullets hit the storage building behind him, splintering the render, the guards advancing fast. Trying to get closer to Arthur or else trying to get further from the fire. Probably both.

  Hammer cocked, Arthur leans out of cover, and a guard is shot in the back before he can even take aim, a shout ringing above the din of the fire. Another shot and a second guard collapses forwards. The nearest man turns and spirals to the ground with a bullet in his head, as a palomino mare canters across the burning tower, her rider shooting from behind them. Each shot comes as quickly as he can flick his wrist, cycling his rifle’s lever action until the men surrounding Arthur lie dead, the fire licking across the ground towards their bodies.

  “Arthur!” Eagle Flies shouts, and sits heavily as he approaches, the fire reflected in his mare’s wide eye. She snorts and huffs, curling around his outside leg as if to lean as far from the inferno as possible, dancing in place as Eagle Flies pauses beside the storage building, reins in one hand, his rifle in the other, propped on his thigh. “Come,” he says, barking as if yelling commands to a runaway dog, “Charles is this way.”

  At the click of his tongue, his mare kicks forward, squeezing past the storage building and into the night beyond. Arthur exhales in a rough chuckle and hurries after him, the fire like a hot iron on his cheek as he skirts the building.

  Running out into the dark plain is an instant relief. Gunshots rejoin the soundscape ahead, cracking above the constant drone of the rain, but the air is its rightful temperature, free of the heady vapour of burning oil. With the fire behind him, the world becomes a little easier to see at least, and Tallulah has a bright enough coat that she’s visible before Taima, waiting a short distance away.

  Beside the twisted figure of a manzanita bush, Charles sits atop Taima, repeater raised and firing, taking out two guards in pursuit. Arthur jogs towards them, and Eagle Flies rides past on his right, rifle reloaded to join the shooting.

  “Did you get the documents?” he asks, shouting over the gunfire. Charles looks up, a breathless smile greeting Arthur as he reaches Tallulah, grasping for her reins.

“Yeah,” he shouts back, face tight with each crack of Charles’ gun, whipping at his ears. “But we need to get the hell outta here!”

  He jams his boot in Tallulah’s stirrup and hauls himself up with the saddle horn. Skipping forward, she’s running before he tells her to, eager to follow Eagle Flies, his mare’s white tail flicking through the darkness like a hare. His voice rings amongst the noise, shouted back at them from somewhere ahead. “Follow me!” Arthur squeezes Tallulah’s sides, hearing Charles urge Taima on beside him.

  The refinery complex has no fence on the southern side, the terrain enough of a natural barrier. A rocky steppe delineates the boundary, loose scarp tumbling the short distance down. The horses slow by a fraction, jumping the shallow drop to the grass below one after another, and finally they are free of the place, only prairie ahead.

  Charles continues shooting, twisted almost backwards in his saddle. A handful of riders follow them from the oil fields, backlit in roaring gold, easy to pinpoint against the glow behind. Then a few more, circling around from the west, not quite fast enough to get in front of Eagle Flies, who easily picks them off, the muzzle of his rifle flashing like a firework.

  They ride across the prairie in loose formation. Destination is unimportant. In the rain and dark, the plains are indistinct and featureless, like the landscape of a dream, somehow blurred of detail. Clumps of foliage pockmark the ground, tangled sedge and buffalo grass, the scrubby ground undulating as far as Arthur can see, writhing beneath the dim moonlight like a blanket thrown over a colony of rats.

  As the distance between them and the refinery grows, the noise finally starts to die down until the last shot is fired, and only the horses’ hooves thunder with the drumming rain, Arthur’s breath heavy as Charles brings Taima to his left flank, riding alongside him. It’s another few lengths before Eagle Flies slows his horse, sitting heavily in his saddle to sling his repeater across his shoulder. A shortbow rests on the other. There’s a quiver of arrows against his right knee, resting on his mare’s withers.

  “I don’t see any more of them,” he says, voice raised to reach both Charles and Arthur. He turns his mare in a loose circle as she walks, breathing hard, looking back towards the oil fields. An eerie glow oozes from the unseen refinery, bleeding into the opaque backdrop of Cumberland Forest in the north. The rain seems only to blur the distant flames, smudging a bright, caustic light across the plains.

  Arthur brings Tallulah to a free walk, patting her withers. Leaning over to tuck his repeater into its holster, Charles lets Taima slow down with her, walking beside each other as they take a moment of rest, all three horses snorting heavily, the heat from their bodies condensing visibly in the cold air, foamy sweat like soap suds in their coats.

  It is only a moment, however; Eagle Flies keeps them moving for a while longer, leading them further out into the barren Heartlands, until Twin Stack Pass rises in the west once again, two great black monuments only visible by their total obscuration of the clouds behind. They catch the wan moonlight in their cliffs and crags, the rest solid shadow like holes in the sky, swallowing the rain in open mouths.

  Finally, when it seems they must have ridden halfway to Valentine, Eagle Flies’ voice is audible once more, his horse pausing to stretch, shaking her wet mane. “Think we’re clear,” he says, and steers his horse to their left, having somehow found a road within the brush and sodden darkness, a lamppost denoting a junction some way ahead. He looks back at Charles, and seems to beckon him to follow without changing his expression.

  With a nod, Charles straightens in the saddle, stretching his arms and neck as he urges Taima to continue, pressing her towards the road. His bow is also across his chest, Arthur notes, as Tallulah follows on behind.

  “You good?” Charles asks, and Arthur blinks, finding his eyes in the dark as the horses amble beside each other, snorting the rain from their nostrils.

“Sure,” he says, still breathing more roughly than normal. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“That explosion came just in time, huh?”

  It’s not really a question. Charles’ lips move, smile visible in the round of his cheek, even if his mouth is not. “Was that your idea or his?”

  Tilting his head, Charles hums, voice warm and soft, like he is wrapped in a blanket before a low fire, listening to the downpour from a comfortable bed. “Does it matter?”

“I was happy to watch some of that oil burn,” Eagle Flies says, looking back at them over his shoulder.

  Though it’s hard to see through the rain, Arthur is sure he’s also smiling.

  “So you met Mister Danbury?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Arthur says, with his own smirk, huffing a short laugh. “He was very obliging.”

  The road curves through the prairie, and despite the time that has passed since they spent more than a day in New Hanover, it still feels familiar. Like returning to a childhood home, or perhaps a place seen only in books and artwork, the endless plains are recognisable even in the rain, bathed in milky moonlight from behind the massing clouds. The Heartlands stretch in every direction Arthur looks, pulling away from them into the same rolling, tumbling hills, the same clusters of bluestem and buffalo grass, the same abandoned wagon at the side of the road, sheltering a fox. A great horned owl shrieks overhead, and the horses’ hoofbeats disturb a possum in the brush, who waddles away with a shrill squeak, before collapsing to a melodramatic ‘death’ worthy of the most lauded Juliet at the Metropolitan Opera. Even the smell is the same. The fresh, earthy scent of rain on dry grass, the warmth of hay and musk of manure from the multiple farms. There are bison over the ridge in the north, whitetail deer amongst the thickest brush, rabbits on the slopes of the rockier hills. There’s no factory smoke. No swamp. No alligators.

  With Eagle Flies leading, the three of them proceed eastwards with the meandering road, every length pulling the oil fields further from view, until the fire is just a smudge on the black horizon, barely noticeable. As they span the last of Citadel Rock’s ancient fortifications - the plains tumbling outwards for miles from the mountain itself, like a town built around its castle - the landscape starts to sink, becoming sodden and marshy, overflowing into the centre of the basin in misshapen, broken pools, rippling in the rain. Emerald Ranch creeps into view in the far distance, no more than a scattering of lights against the buildings, taking vague shape in the dark.

  Another few miles, and Eagle Flies slows his horse, finally stopping at a junction, a lit signpost spilling a round pool of light across the road. He stretches as Arthur and Charles stop behind him, and dismounts with a glance back towards the oil fields. The rain is stopping.

  “I will take this road north,” he says, and tucks his bow into the holster on his saddle. He turns, pushing wet strands of hair back from his face. “To return to the reservation.”

  With a hum, Charles dismounts Taima. He takes a deep breath, and also pulls his bow from his shoulder, stowing it on his saddle. “It was good to meet again,” he says, and Eagle Flies smirks towards the east, voice coloured with something like amusement.

“It was. Not as good for Mister Cornwall, however.”

  There’s a snort from Arthur as he, too, dismounts. “Thought you wasn’t gettin’ involved,” he says dryly, gingerly rolling his left shoulder, right hand pressed to his bicep.

“I thought you were going to enter and leave silently,” Eagle Flies replies.

  He raises his eyebrows, but his voice lacks the bite Arthur expects, sounding more amused than annoyed. Perhaps Charles’ company has somehow softened the kid’s spikes?

  Huffing, Arthur lifts both palms to his shoulders in surrender. “Shit happens,” he says brightly, his own smirk slowly fading, pressed between tight lips. He looks at the ground, shifting in place, scuffing the toe of his boot against the dirt. “Thank you,” he says, dragging his eyes up to meet Eagle Flies’ gaze. His expression twists, and he pulls out the bundle of papers he’d liberated from Danbury, tucked inside his vest, offering them to Eagle Flies. “You saved my life.”

“Thank you,” Eagle Flies says, briefly shuffling the papers, reading a few words.

  He gestures with them. “I hope… Well-” Turning back to his horse, he slips the papers inside one of her saddlebags. “I don’t know what I hope,” he continues with an audible sigh, shrugging. “But who knows? Maybe these will be of some use.”

  There is a small, neat stack of notes in his hand when he turns around, sealed with a strip of brown paper. “Here’s your money.”

  Arthur takes it, looking down at the bundle in his hand. His thumb moves, ready to flick through the notes, to estimate the worth, the quotient by which he can rest, assured of having achieved something tangible, something evidenced by empirical value. Money. Wealth.

  With a twitch of his brow, he slips the money into his satchel. “Thank you,” he replies, and tries to make it sound genuine. “And to your father, too.”

  Eagle Flies makes a sound that could easily be a laugh, a short snicker like a branch breaking underfoot. “I will pass that to him. Though I will not tell him all the details of our activity tonight.”

  Charles huffs, and offers his palm. “Take care,” he says, and grips Eagle Flies’ hand with a nod.

“You too. Until we meet again.”

  Mounting up, Eagle Flies pushes his wet ponytail over his shoulder, and clicks his tongue, his horse skipping into a steady lope. He follows the road as it breaks towards the north, her white tail flicking in the darkness as her hoofbeats fade away.

  For a moment, Charles stays silent, watching the road without expression, as if deep in thought. Taima shuffles behind him, snatching a mouthful of grass from a tuft beneath the signpost, shaking her wet mane with a huff.

  Arthur looks at him, then out at the road ahead. He scuffs his boot on the ground again, kicking at a small stone. Whatever Charles is thinking, he doesn’t want to interrupt. The rain peters to a stop.

  Nose scrunched, Arthur pulls off his hat, the leather creaking, water beading in the brim, and pulls his fingers through his hair before replacing it, feeling the damp chill of the leather cling around his forehead. Though it doesn’t let the rain through completely, it still isn’t quite as water resistant as it once was. Likely its age, he supposes. It’s older than he is, after all, and hasn’t been particularly well looked after. Lyle Morgan wasn’t the sort of man to care much for anything, let alone the integrity and upkeep of the leather used to make his hat, so it wasn’t exactly cherished even before it became Arthur’s. Maybe he should buy some wax?

  An insistent muzzle bumps into his backside. Arthur stumbles a step forward before catching his balance, turning to rub Tallulah’s nose with a disapproving huff, scratching beneath the cheekpiece of her bridle. She burrs, snorting wetly against his thigh, and he pulls a paper bundle from the back pocket of his jeans, unfolding what was once a small bag, and pulling out a loose peppermint.

  “Shh,” he whispers, Tallulah pulling the mint from his offered palm, the fine hairs of her muzzle tickling his hand. “Don’t crunch it or-”

  The crunch of Tallulah’s teeth bring Taima to him like clockwork, her ears up and forward, head tilted to find his hands in her side-set eyes, to find the loud snack he is keeping from her. “There we go,” Arthur mumbles, and sighs as he gives Taima her own mint, rubbing her nose with a stifled smile. He scrunches the paper bag back into his pocket. “That’s all you’re gettin’,” he says, as stern as one can be when talking to horses. “Folks’ll think you ain’t fed at home. And you’ll rot your teeth. If y’all think I’m findin’ a horse dentist out here, you got another thing comin’.”

  “What’re you whispering to my horse?” Charles asks, looking across the short distance from where he’s standing, pulling his wet hair back into a new, tighter ponytail, band caught between his teeth.

“Your horse is takin’ advantage of my good nature.”

“Thought you didn’t have one.”

  He smiles, exhaling a laugh at the look of affront Arthur gives him, and walks over to him, hair smoothed back from his face. His smile pulls at his closed mouth, eyes on Arthur. In the yellowish light from the signpost, his eyes are almost amber, damp skin highlighted as if gilt with leaf gold. Arthur’s thoughts seem to seep out of his head at the mere sight of him, pooling like the puddled rain beneath his boots. He exhales, and when Charles is close enough, leans into his chest, and kisses him.

  “Mm…” Charles radiates heat, and soaked as they both are, it’s like the humidity in the air is raised just by his existence, Arthur feeling his skin become clammy, his palms damp as he touches Charles’ waist. With another slow exhale, he pulls at Charles’ lips, wanting nothing more than to peel his clothes off, to feel the stifling warmth of his bare skin as the rain dries, as he runs with sweat, as the friction between them starts to burn.

  He breaks the kiss, flushed, lips shining. His hat has been knocked askew. Charles blinks at him in the low light, amusement pulling at his mouth. “What was that for?” he asks gently, voice as warm as he is.

“Nothin’,” Arthur says, stepping back. The air rushes between them, offensively cold. He fixes his hat. “Nothin’. Thank you. For settin’ that tower alight.”

“It was Eagle Flies’ idea,” Charles says, and watches as Arthur checks Tallulah’s cinch strap, giving the rigging a tug. “Thank you. For volunteering to go inside.”

“Yeah, well. S’my good nature. C’mon, we’ll never get back before morning at this rate.”

“Mm,” Charles hums, as though he’s thinking again, turning to lead Taima a few steps away, giving him enough space to mount up.

  Arthur does the same, stepping up into his saddle with a grunt.

  They follow the road eastwards as the night settles in, silent and indigo, and quite overwhelming in its sheer size. It flows in every direction Arthur can see, from horizon to horizon, unmarred by any buildings, any chimney stacks or water towers, any oozing lights bright enough to sap the darkness from the sky. Shady Belle isn’t exactly urban, nor is the surrounding swamp ‘built-up’ in the way of a town, but somehow he had forgotten just how open the plains are, how little there is to disturb the natural landscape, and consequently, how trapped he has felt by contrast, sleeping beneath a roof and walls, albeit rotting as they are. It is so freeing to look up and see the sky, still swirling, flooded with grey wads of woollen cloud, but endless. Gaps open up here and there, and the scattered stars can then be seen for a moment, before another storm cloud washes them away.

  They only left Clemens Point…almost two weeks ago? And yet the swamp is as claustrophobic as Saint Denis, as stifling and unsettling as the decomposed plantation house, drowning amongst its embalmed dead in the backyard. It has been so long since Arthur felt comfortable with their surroundings. Before the year began. Turning south into the mountains, the long winter spent in the foothills of the Northern Grizzlies. Dutch had talked about California then, but, somehow, they ended up in Blackwater. Far from lands yet untouched. Not that there is much of that any more.

  This is the sort of place he is meant for, he’s sure. Preferably to the far west of New Hanover, but of all the country they’ve seen in the last year, the Heartlands suit him much better than the bayou. Even surrounded by forest in Lemoyne, the trees are dense, their roots flooded, tangled with duckweed and algae, their canopy tied with such vigorous ivy it is as oppressive to be beneath them as it is to be in the city, sweltering amongst the tenement blocks, the clipped hedges and stone roads. The police officers. The local warlord.

  Arthur sighs, and refocuses on the view ahead. What a mess that’s turned into.

  He’s sure he voiced how little he thought of Dutch’s plan to rob the trolley station. He’s sure he made the point that robbing in a city is a far nastier beast than robbing stages or even trains, nastier than simply robbing folks themselves - old-fashioned robbing with a bandana and a mean disposition. He’s sure any man of half a brain would have agreed with him. But what difference does it make what he thinks? They were lucky to get out alive, let alone with fifteen dollars and a quarter in each pocket.

  Christ. He’s getting really sick of being lucky to get out alive.

  Maybe there’ll be peace and quiet in Tahiti, or Australia, or wherever else Dutch sees his paradise taking shape. Somehow, Arthur doubts he’ll get a moment’s rest even if they do manage to find some tropical idyll in which to grow mangoes. Someone will have to learn how to grow mangoes, for a start. Do mangoes grow on trees? Or do they sprawl across the ground like melons? They can’t grow in the ground like potatoes, surely.

  Come to think of it, Arthur isn’t sure he’s ever actually seen a mango. Do they even taste good?

  It’s pointless to try to fix such potential problems. There’s little use in thinking more than a day ahead, if that. Despite the fact that living in Dutch’s moments, reacting to whatever is thrown in his direction, is not only incredibly stressful but usually painful, and seems to result in a far greater mess than he could ever have imagined. Trying to plan, to see beyond the next few hours, knowing he has no control over what will be done and who will get hurt, is becoming much more difficult. It’s certainly easier not to bother, despite the often catastrophic consequences.

  “You good?”

  Charles is looking at him, riding alongside. Arthur turns his head, and sits up, Tallulah slowing down beneath him. “Yeah,” he says, and shrugs, stiffly, his collarbone still protesting after its recent meeting with a rifle butt. He coughs, and grunts as he lets his weight sink again, unable to sit with the quick motion of Tallulah’s trot. Tallulah huffs, and slows to a walk. “Yeah. Just tired. Thinkin’.”

  With a hum of acknowledgement, Charles watches the plains for a moment, his mouth pulled to one side, pressed shut like he’s wincing. “I…spoke to Lenny some. Before we left.”

“He alright? I was so bent on gettin’ us outta there… It was crazy. I should’a checked on him.”

“He’s good,” Charles says, warm but also firm, like a steadying hand. “You said he did well.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did. Kept his head. Ain’t sure I’d’ve made it without him.”

  To that, Charles is silent, swaying gently with Taima’s walk, watching the horizon. He takes a moment before he speaks further. “He said Dutch was… ‘Spitting mad’.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says again, with a drawn-out sigh. “Yeah. He ain’t wrong.”

  No follow-up question comes from Charles, so Arthur continues talking, his thoughts buzzing to the forefront of his mind like persistent wasps, harassing a picnic. “Dutch reckons…weren’t no money in the station on purpose. ‘Cause Angelo Bronte either got it moved, or straight lied there was ever any at all. And, y’know, me bein’ the devil’s advocate that I am-” Arthur waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I ventured that maybe it was just a quiet day, or it bein’ the day after they take the money to the bank, or somethin’, I don’t know. Some explanation. Hosea even agreed with me! But, uh… Well, Dutch ain’t havin’ none of that. He’s sure it was Bronte’s doing.”

  With another sigh, he presses his finger and thumb into his eye sockets, pushing weakly over his brow bone. “I reckon he’s right. No question it’s Bronte’s turf. Whole sheriff’s office seems to be his’n all.” He gestures aimlessly, letting his hand rest on his thigh with a smack. “Guess it was a warnin’, at best. Somethin’ to run us outta town without more trouble.”

“Or,” Charles says, voice low. “It was intended to get you killed.”

“Mhm.”

  That’s the most likely explanation, in Arthur’s opinion. “A warnin’ at best and a planned hit he ain’t anywhere near at worst. Could’a rid himself of us real easy, and folks’d just see a bunch’a dumbass country bumpkins slidin’ into town, bitin’ off more’n they could chew and gettin’ their asses shot by the local cops.”

  It’s difficult to see it as a coincidence, despite how much he wishes it was, if only because it might dissuade Dutch from pursuing the matter. Bronte doesn’t seem like the type to believe in coincidence. Nor is he stupid enough to orchestrate such a scheme without believing it would succeed - that Dutch would either be scared out of his territory, or killed in the process. Their survival, and Dutch’s appetite for retribution, probably wasn’t part of the plan, whatever it was.

  “What do you think Dutch will do?”

  Arthur looks across at Charles as they ride, and can’t muster the energy needed to keep his expression neutral, nor unconcerned. He frowns and scrunches his nose, exhaling in a short huff. “Hell if I know,” he says, registering the tightness in his chest at the admission as some kind of pain. “Ain’t sure I know much about what Dutch is thinkin’ no more. If I ever did, but uh… Dutch don’t like bein’ made a fool of. Reckon I know that.”

  Even Hosea had seemed frustrated, once the three of them had limped back to Shady Belle after the debacle at the trolley station, nursing Dutch’s cracked head with more than a few choice words accompanying his first aid kit. Though he isn’t a man that could be described as easy to predict or persuade, Dutch has always listened, at least. To Hosea, if no one else. He might still have done something drastic and cruel, but at least he would have listened. Wouldn’t he?

  Perhaps Bronte, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, and Colm O’Driscoll have truly wounded his pride beyond reasonable sense.

  Or perhaps he was always reckless. Vengeful. Vindictive. And it’s Arthur that simply failed to truly notice until it began to affect him.

  “He, uh… He told me to be ready tomorrow,” Arthur says, stretching his neck with a wince. The injury to his collarbone has scabbed, the bruising turning pale as it starts to fade, but it still aches, throbbing gently beneath his skin. Crashing the trolley left him with a few more bruises besides the ones he already had, pains persisting in his shoulders and hips, jolted and bounced by the Saint Denis cobbles. “Said we’re headin’ into the bayou, to a place called Lagras.”

  Charles’ mouth draws tight, brow heavy in thought. He’s seen the shanty town on the map, a cluster of dots within the swamp’s dense heart, spread across a thin peninsula like a case of scabies. “I’unno what for exactly,” Arthur adds.

“Surprised there’s anything there but the alligators.”

“Yeah, well… Hopin’ it ain’t gators we’re goin’ for, but I’d opine it’s somethin’ to do with Bronte and…fixin’ his flint. Somehow.”

“Won’t end well.”

“No, I reckon it won’t.”

  With a sigh, Arthur looks up again, watching the massing clouds. “Ain’t none of this gonna end well,” he says quietly, and offers Charles a lopsided smile, kept behind closed lips.

  Though he holds Arthur’s gaze for more than a moment, Charles doesn’t return the smile. The motion of his thoughts is almost audible, ticking like a clockwork mechanism, spinning cogs within his mind. As before, Arthur feels as though to speak would be an interruption, so he stays quiet, and urges Tallulah back up to her easy lope, Taima following behind.

  The road curls upon itself as they reach the edge of the prairie. New Hanover ends within the greyish silt of Dewberry Creek, a great dry river carved through the landscape from Flat Iron Lake. As they cross into the creek bed, it’s deemed sensible to leave the road, avoiding the red plains of Scarlett Meadows and hugging the jagged shoreline as much as possible. The massacre at Rhodes seems so long ago, but a matter of weeks is surely not long enough to pass through with any hope of anonymity. Arthur would rather be over-cautious than become reacquainted with the Gray family. What’s left of it.

  It is a long ride south, climbing out of the basin and up across the meadowland. Between the pockets of forest, the land rolls and swells, dotted with sunken stone walls and the carcasses of cottages, buried beneath tickseed and red poppies, jackets of ivy and Virginia creeper.

  Though the night is cool and cloudy, it’s more obvious here than in the swamp that autumn is fast approaching, creeping through the treetops and pastures, whispering in the air. Even though the rain has stopped, there’s a freshness in the breeze that’s missing further south, a rusty colour in the foliage, as though the verdant sheen is wearing away.

  It’s nearing midnight when they approach another thicket of trees along the shore of Flat Iron Lake, after a rocky stretch of grass meadow. Turkeys warble in the undergrowth, flapping weakly out of the horses’ path, the track carving a shallow valley between fern-covered hills, winding beyond the trees to a clearing that curves out into the water. One huge oak sits in the centre, keeping a familiar watch. Following Charles through the trees, they are almost in its shadow before Arthur realises where they are.

  “Oh,” he says, with a jaded smile, looking out over Clemens Point.

  The hitching posts stand at the entrance to the clearing, bearing an abandoned lead rope knotted around its frayed end. A couple of empty barrels sit closer to the centre tree, a battered crate, a torn sack that once held flour. The ground is still clear where the main campfire once burned, splintered kindling blown into the grass. A little further across the clearing, the scouts’ campfire is marked with the same stones it was months ago, a few crumpled cigarette ends lying in the blackened brush, a crushed tin can strewn nearby.

  Silent, Charles continues riding the path leading from the tree cover. Hoofprints mar the wet ground, baked into the dirt and dust and revealed by the rain. Taima flicks her tail, ambling along the track without guidance. She has surely walked the same path a hundred times. As she did on a similar night in the height of summer, Magpie painted with blood beside her, wide-eyed and lame. With Charles in her saddle and Arthur in his arms, a dead weight on her withers, shivering in his septic sleep, blanket wrapped around him like the pall that covers a coffin.

  It’s a peaceful place. Even beneath a stormy sky, there is a stillness in the clearing, a pocket of calm between the lake and the meadowland that stretches down to Rhodes. The grass leans into the shoreline like a sleeping cat, curling into a loose ball at the edge of Flat Iron Lake, water rippling gently over the silt and stones, as dark and clouded as the sky. Spots of light hang in the far distance beyond the oak tree, imperceptible shapes gliding from Saint Denis to Blackwater and back, but they are few given the weather, and far enough away that the ships are hardly noticeable, the deep foghorns barely heard. A breeze rustles through the oak’s wide canopy, a coyote shrieks somewhere to the east, but the Point feels comfortably isolated, cut off from the rest of Lemoyne by the unassuming woodland. Forgotten, except by those that know it well.

  Pausing some way into the clearing, Charles swings his leg over Taima’s cantle and dismounts. Inspecting the ground, he walks to the area that was once the scouts’ campfire, scuffing his boot through the dirt. The land rises very slightly to the cleared ground, resulting in a shallow hill overlooking the jetty, grass falling away to become a sandy shore. A three-legged stool once sat by the short pier. Arthur would often sit there to sketch, if not catching bluegill from the end.

  Watching him, Arthur urges Tallulah onwards, and halts her beside Taima. Charles seems occupied by his thoughts. He has done since they returned to Shady Belle the day before last, accompanied by an internal heaviness, like a wet coat is weighing him down. Arthur is tired, and would assume Charles is too, only that Charles never seems to show any signs of physical fatigue at all. For as long as Arthur has known him, he’s been one of the gang’s earliest risers, and usually one of the last to bed. He’s easily the hardest worker, too, very rarely found relaxing, and not one for cards or dice like some of the others. Not much of a drinker either. Riding is probably the only time he sits down for longer than a moment.

  With a grunt, Arthur dismounts, stretching his shoulders. His vest feels tight, the corduroy creaking as he moves, still damp from the rain, shirt sleeves wet around the shoulder seams. It’d be nice to warm up a little. There’s not much chance of that at Shady Belle - what with the missing window beside his bed. He’d have to light a fire, and with the amount of ammunition and firearms in the room, it’d likely be the last thing he ever did. At least the temperature stays a couple of degrees higher in the swamp. One of very few benefits to being so far south.

  With a glance to the sky, he takes off his hat, pulling his hand through his hair before he starts to walk, heading towards Charles. His approach begins with confidence but falters as he continues, good intentions quickly sinking like a boat full of holes, until his legs stop moving a couple of yards away. He stands mid-stride, unmoving, and isn’t sure what to do next.

  Standing by the missing scouts’ campfire, a felled log still lying beside it by way of furniture, Charles looks at him. He tilts his head. “You good?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Arthur says, a little desperately, bringing his feet together like he’s being called to attention. “I’m- I was just- You. And I thought I’d see… But- Uh. I didn’t wanna… Interrupt.”

  He flaps his hand. His hat is still in it. With an owlish stare, he blinks at it, and then plants it firmly on his head. “I, uh… I can leave you be. If you want a moment. I was… Uh.”

  Expression soft, Charles closes the distance between them, taking both of Arthur’s hands. With a slow sigh, he briefly shuts his eyes, simply standing in silence as Arthur exhales, his shoulders falling, holding tightly to Charles’ fingers. “You kissed me for the first time here,” Charles says, voice a low hum, lips moving into a slight smile. He gestures with their joined hands at the empty stones, where a fire once crackled. Arthur was eating peach cobbler on that particular night, his voice still rasping, neck sore. “I was just…remembering.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, blinking at him.

  He shifts within the hold of Charles’ hands, looking around at the cleared ground, at the log that once acted as a bench. “Guess I did,” he says, as if he had somehow failed to notice where they are, as if the memory of their first kiss isn’t one of his most precious. “Well, you was cryin’ out to be kissed. Reckon someone had to do it.”

  Charles laughs, a gentle, rumbling chuckle. His lips don’t move more than necessary to speak, voice measured and soft. “I’m glad you did. I would have gone mad waiting much longer.”

“Is that right? Well, forgive me for my lack of haste. You could’ve kissed me first, y’know.”

“Mm, but I wanted you to kiss me.”

“Just saved my life in that cornfield too,” Arthur adds, amusement pulling at his mouth. “Least I could do was kiss you, considerin’.”

  Eyes half-closed, Charles leans in enough that Arthur feels his exhale on his skin, feels the warmth of him seeping outwards as their hips meet. He loses his breath, caught in the momentum, anticipating a kiss that doesn’t come. A soft, plaintive sound rises unbidden from his throat, feeling Charles’ belly pressed to his, but still no kiss. His gut seems to squirm, twisting like a coiled rope.

  “D’you…” Voice weak, he stutters in the centimetre of space before Charles’ lips, gaze flicking from his eyes to his mouth. Above them, the clouds drift across the moon’s bright face, and for a moment the moonlight catches on Charles’ cheek, his scars shining like mother-of-pearl. Arthur’s lips part. He’s sure he can taste the tinned peaches in his memory. “Do you…want me to- To kiss you. Now?”

  With a smile like syrup, smooth and flowing, Charles hums, his own voice having fallen somewhere down into the depths of his chest, his nose touching Arthur’s as he tilts his head. “More than anything,” he answers.

  Arthur’s nostrils flare as he breathes in, like the very sound of his voice is a hand fisted in his hair. He obliges, meeting Charles’ lips in the barest, gentlest kiss, lips trembling as they had the first time they touched, not daring to open, to take any more than the smallest sip of him lest he drown. It lasts a long, quivering moment, hands frozen together by their sides, Arthur’s breath audibly shaking, wobbling on Charles’ cheek until he breaks apart. Clemens Point remains silent, secluded from the world outside by the steady rhythm of the rippling water, enveloping them like confident arms.

  The next kiss is shorter, and the third even shorter still, stripping Arthur’s self-restraint by a measure with every touch, every bite he takes without true indulgence, every taste when he needs to gulp, to tip the bottle and let it fill his mouth, streaming from his chin and cheeks until he’s breathless. Charles simply waits, and by the fifth kiss, Arthur is panting, pulling his hands from Charles’ hold to grope for his waist, his neck, fitting his entire body to him in a desperate bid for closeness. He folds into him, licking into Charles’ mouth to kiss him properly, to feel his chest pressed against his, butting up against a warm, solid body, a tongue that meets his, teeth that snag his bottom lip, nails that scratch as fingers pull through the ends of his hair.

  Breathing hard, Charles lets Arthur lead, lets him kiss his cheeks, his neck, his jaw. Arthur doesn’t slow, relentless as the storm clouds, drinking from Charles until he is heavy, his mouth wet and red, chest so full he feels he might burst, split like the clouds and overflow, unable to hold the well of longing in his depths.

  As if on cue, a spot of rain hits Arthur’s nose. It is followed by another, and as Charles pulls back from his lips, another thousand droplets suddenly fall with a stuttering roar, the rain restarting all at once, like a bucket has been upturned above their heads.

  “Shit, really?” Arthur snaps, wincing. He finds Charles’ eyes, only a foot away, similarly creased, expression scrunched like a used handkerchief. They simply stare at each other as the rain pelts them both, already dripping from the brim of Arthur’s askew hat, droplets running the length of the free strands of Charles’ hair.

  Charles breaks first, his smile like the riven clouds, splitting his face in a torrent of sudden laughter. At almost the same moment, Arthur snorts a rough laugh, tripping from his nose like it has fallen from him. They laugh together as they become soaked in a matter of seconds, rain bouncing on the bare ground, splashing up to their knees.

  “Fuck,” Arthur says, and laughs, throwing his arms up helplessly from his sides. His voice is drowned out by the rain, spitting from his lips as he speaks. “There’s not even- Anywhere we could- We’re gonna fuckin’ drown.”

  Charles snickers, expression slipping easily into a giddy sort of amusement. “At least you have a hat.”

“Hat’s gonna save me, is it?”

  Arthur pulls it from his head, the leather already suffering in the onslaught of water, and places it on top of Charles’. He stands back, lips threatening to part around his stifled smile. His hair is plastered to his forehead in an instant, dripping into his eyes. “There. Now what are we gonna do?”

  With the same warm, soft expression, like he’s just a little bit drunk, Charles pulls him close, one arm around Arthur’s back, and kisses him, deep and hard, the rain ricocheting from his cheek to Arthur’s, from Arthur’s nose to his forehead, soaking into each other’s jeans from the point of contact with their thighs, dripping from Arthur’s hair to Charles’ hand. Arthur keens like a hungry kitten. He’s never been kissed in the rain before. Thankfully, the rain is far louder than him.

  After a sodden few moments, Charles breaks the kiss, staying close enough to see the raindrops clinging to Arthur’s eyelashes, the thousand droplets sliding past his temples from his hair, the pink tint to the end of his nose, water beading in the short bristles of his stubble. “Help me pitch the tent,” Charles says, leaning a little closer to Arthur’s ear so he doesn’t have to shout. “We’ll wait it out ‘til morning.”

  For a second, Arthur just stares at him. His smile is dazed, and he laughs as he regains the power of coherent thought, slowly restarting the mechanism that works his brain and body. With a defeated laugh, he follows Charles back to the horses.

  The rain at least lessens in intensity as they work, but by the time their rudimentary shelter is built, both of them are soaked to the bone. There’s little point even trying to build a fire, so they roll their blankets out within the confines of the tent, bedrolls on top, and light Arthur’s kerosene lamp in lieu of a proper fire, its small flame creating just enough warmth that Charles predicts they won’t die of exposure. Which is encouraging.

  Stripped naked and wrapped in a heavy blanket each, they finally sit together before the lantern an hour and a half after midnight, Arthur’s hands extended towards its wan light, fingers pale and shaking. His toenails are an odd shade of purple. Without a fire, their meal consists of jerky and stale bread, plus the tinned beans Arthur finds in a saddlebag. Hardly satisfying, but Arthur feels no irritation, or discomfort at their meagre circumstances. He’s cold, and damp, and the ground is cold and damp beneath them, and his left arm aches, muscles trembling in the cold and damp even more than usual, but it doesn’t matter. Charles is beside him, and shifts as though able to hear his thoughts, shuffling across to sit on Arthur’s bedroll and envelop him from behind, wrapping his arms beneath his blanket to fasten around his waist.

  Arthur tugs his blanket around and covers his legs instead, Charles draped over his back like a bearskin rug, holding him to his chest in a steady, stubborn hug. His head rests beside Arthur’s, and when he turns inwards, he nuzzles Arthur’s cheek with his nose, breath so hot it makes Arthur shiver, a lopsided smile slipping across his mouth.

  “You smell like rain,” Charles murmurs, inhaling against Arthur’s stubble. The drumming of the storm has lessened to a constant, droning patter, pinging from the canvas shelter like hailstones. Their shadows loom on the walls, waxing and waning in the flicker of the kerosene flame.

  Arthur snickers. “Or wet dog,” he says, and tips his head back to find Charles’ eyes, smiling as he lets his head rest on his shoulder. With a warm burst of breath, Charles smiles against his jaw, lips pressed to his skin in a gentle kiss.

“Like rain on fertile earth,” he says, chest rumbling through Arthur’s back. “Fresh and green.”

  Shifting again, Charles stretches his legs beside Arthur’s, their hips together, slotting against his back. A soft noise falls from Arthur’s exposed throat, his Adam’s apple stumbling as he swallows. Charles kisses his shoulder, damp hair slipping forward as he ducks his head, tickling Arthur’s skin.

  “Warmer?”

“Mmhm, gettin’ there,” Arthur hums, eyes closed. “Thank you.”

  After a moment, he speaks again, voice low, picking his head up. “Was it on purpose? Us ridin’ this way, through Clemens Point.”

  Charles smiles against his shoulder, a short exhale signalling his laughter. “A little,” he says, close to Arthur’s ear. “I thought I’d struggle to convince you to stay here for the night, though.”

“Mm. Well, I’ll blame the rain.”

“It’s a nice spot. Had some good days here.”

  He is quiet for some time, gently leaning their heads together, the rise and fall of both their chests becoming synchronised, moving as one. “Might be fewer good days coming, is all.”

“How’s that?”

“A feeling. I…don’t know exactly.”

  Unseen by Charles, Arthur frowns. Somehow, he has an extraordinary ability to verbalise Arthur’s thoughts and feelings before Arthur himself can even recognise them, giving voice to unspoken truths of which he is aware but has not yet confronted. He supposes it must be because Charles often feels similarly to him, by some quirk in their natures. Their thought processes seem mechanically alike, as though the cogs and gears that power their minds were moulded in the same die.

  He has the same feeling. That something bad is around the corner. A notion so unhelpfully ambiguous that it seems pointless to try to decipher it. Intuition can be useful when it tells him to duck as a bullet splits the wall beside his head, or when it moves his hand to his revolver a split second faster than the other feller’s. He can’t really do much with a general, non-specific feeling of foreboding. It sits like a rotten apple in a barrel, lagging into decomposition, leaking foul stench and blue-grey mould until the entire crop is festering within itself, stewing in slow silence.

  Charles is always intuitive. There is certainly a strange mood in camp, a restlessness brought screaming into undeniable reality by the O’Driscoll attack. Again, Arthur can’t articulate exactly what it is, only that the way he had seen Dutch speak to John that morning was about as comfortable as a porcupine cushion, and that he’s not sure when Karen was last sober. Or Molly, for that matter.

  A sense of defiant urgency chased them from Clemens Point, but with their second week at Shady Belle close to ending - and the only potential plan to bring any kind of safety involving tropical fruit - perhaps the stress has become palpable, a tangible presence amongst them like the spectre of those already lost. A group increasing in number.

  Kieran hasn’t been mentioned once. Nor has Arthur’s outburst, which seemed like a small relief, at first. John hasn’t looked at him like he’s grown a second head, and if there has been any whispering about the sordid details of the O’Driscolls’ torture, it has occurred out of his - and Hosea’s - earshot. Yet, in the same way that the O’Driscolls had shaken loose in all of them some terrible sense of running out of time, of being hunted and having no real chance of escape; ignoring Arthur’s desperate confessions seems only to have added to the unease permeating the camp, the feeling that something is wrong but that it cannot be spoken of, that it must be starved of attention until it dies. Or until they wash up in Tahiti, apparently.

  A dread gnaws at him, but of what exactly - he doesn’t know.

  With a long sigh, Arthur twists in Charles’ arms, gingerly turning just enough to find his eyes. In the meagre light of the lantern, his shadow is blown across the back wall of their canvas shelter, giving Arthur the impression that he’s completely surrounded, encircled in Charles’ body. There is no space around him that isn’t filled with Charles. Charles’ arms, his warmth, his scent, his affection - all have physical presence, all felt as clearly as his skin. “If this is one of the last good days,” Arthur says, voice a low mumble, “Then lie down with me. We’ll get a good sleep. And let’s have a good mornin’ too. ‘Fore we leave this place again.”

  Charles smiles around closed lips, cheek catching the light as it moves. He rests his forehead against Arthur’s and kisses him, exhaling in a weary sigh. “Sounds like a plan.”