Work Text:
1878
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Arthur is fucked.
That’s his considered opinion.
Fucked.
The saloon had been loud, packed with locals and travelers all drunk on booze, music, the excitement of fights that kept breaking out, or a combination of all three. The air was hot and thick - almost suffocatingly so, not that the drunk men seemed to notice - from the summer weather and the sweating bodies practically on top of each other.
The man had been drunk too, steadily buying rounds alongside his companion from the early evening well into the night. Arthur’s done this before - many, many times in fact. Usually only to men passing through, like him. It wouldn’t do to piss off the locals too much, unless he wants a visit from the Sheriff and his finely braided necklace.
The man hadn’t even been guarding his bag. It had been sitting there on the floor beside him, fancy and expensive looking, untended to and practically screaming its worth at Arthur. Even if it hadn’t, the man was well-dressed and well-groomed with a shiny gold pocket watch peeking out of his pocket; his pa used to berate him for being slow, but even Arthur knows how to tell a wealthy man when he sees one.
So Arthur took it.
There were so many people coming in and out of the building that no one should have noticed a boy with an overlarge hat and tattered clothes casually walking out. Certainly not the man who was too busy laughing uproariously and wiping his eyes. And he wasn’t stupid - he’d even thrown his coat over the bag to hide the obvious extravagance - extravagance that a boy like him should not have been carrying.
It should have been easy and, technically, stealing the damn thing was.
He made it outside, no problem. It was getting away from the damn saloon that was the problem.
He’d stepped out into the night, walking – not running – down the moonlit street with practiced ease. His plan had been simple: get out, get to the trees, hide out until the men moved on, and sell whatever was left in the bag. He had just enough food left to tie him over the day or two it would take the man to drift out of town.
He didn’t plan on the dark figure following about 30 feet behind him.
At first, he ignored it. Or, at least, he pretended to.
Be calm, be casual, and act like you ain’t done nothing wrong. The sound and the bite of his pa’s old orders has long since faded with the man himself, but the lessons are ingrained in Arthur’s mind. If you panic, you’re caught. If you’re careful, you’re clear.
So he ignored the growing panic and walked just a little faster. The footsteps behind him sped up too.
He turned abruptly into the darkness of a narrow alleyway - hoping that whoever was following him would keep walking straight.
They didn’t.
So Arthur did what he did best.
Ran like the Devil was at his heels.
The man was fast and kept pace with Arthur, but Arthur was smaller and knew the town better. He ducked and weaved and dodged his way through to town to the outskirts, hoping but failing to lose his tail. Every time it seemed like Arthur would outrun him, the man was right there. Silent. Pursuing.
Like a predator biding his time.
And yet, a deer may not be able to run forever, but neither can the wolf.
He wasn’t sure what a man like that would do if he was caught. All he knew was this: he was not going to find out tonight.
He ran until he reached the line of the trees bordering the town. With good luck, the man would give up or Arthur would lose him in the trees. With Arthur’s luck, he’d lose the man, but become hopelessly lost himself. It was a chance he had to take.
He darted behind a tall pine, intending to lose him in the dark wood when the man, who clearly saw Arthur’s plan and had grown tired of the little game of cat and mouse, yelled from behind gritted teeth: “Damnit kid – quit running!”
“Sure mister, I’ll get right on that!” Arthur called back, sprinting farther into the dark.
He wasn’t sure how long they ran like that – part of him felt like hours had passed, the rest of him knew it couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes.
His lungs were starting to ache and he heard the pounding of his blood in his ears. The man sounded labored, but not like he was going to slow down at any point; Arthur knew had to lose the man, and fast, or he wasn’t going to get away.
The forest was vast, but he knew there was a small ravine – barely more than a crack in the dirt – nearby. If he was fast and very lucky, he could jump it and hopefully lose his tail. If nothing else, he hoped that the man wouldn’t be expecting Arthur to jump and hesitate.
All he needed was a second.
He dodged and weaved through the trees, mind whirling as he tried to recall where it was located. He strained his eyes, frantically looking around him and – there!
In the distance, he could see a small sliver of light – a break in the trees. Arthur pushes himself harder, desperate now, trying to pick up speed to clear the distance. He heard the man curse behind him.
The sight of the ravine unfolded in front of him as he made it past the trees, just a few feet in from him. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt and his lungs were screaming for mercy. Arthur braced himself, planting one foot firmly on the ground and launching himself forward.
And then a hand shot out.
Arthur cried out as the man clamped down on his arm and yanked him back onto solid ground. He hit the dirt with a wheeze, the little breath he had forced out of his lungs. He peeled his eyes open and shot up, ignoring the pain in his back and clutching his stomach. The man towered over him, his chest heaving and eyes dark as they stared down. He said nothing as Arthur struggled to catch his breath.
Arthur pushed himself backwards and scrambled to his feet.
So this is how he dies, Arthur thinks as faces his pursuer. At fifteen years old, all over a stupid bag that he ain’t even sure has anything worthwhile in it. He feels weak and shaky, from exertion and fear and the hunger that got him into this mess.
Still. He clenches his fists tight. He ain’t gonna roll over without a fight.
The man is silent. He doesn’t look angry yet, but Arthur isn’t fooled. The man is older than Arthur but still young, likely strong. But Arthur has a knife tucked away - it’s dull and rusted, but more than this man seems to have. Arthur’s younger and faster than this prettily groomed, well-to-do man, and unlike him, Arthur is playing for blood.
The man lets out a long, slow breath eventually. He stands tall and straightens his clothes, all the while never looking away from Arthur.
He can’t help but feel like a prize pig at an auction under the man’s scrutiny.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the corner of the man’s mouth tugs upward and he says: “I gotta say, kid. I am impressed.”
“‘M sorry, what?”
That is...not what he expected.
“I’m impressed,” the man says again. “I ain’t had this much excitement in a while; that was quite a chase you put me through here.”
“Um. You’re welcome?” The man chuckles, probably at Arthur’s dumbstruck face. Arthur’d braced himself for a fight, not to be…complimented?
“What impressed me more, honestly, was your little theft back in the saloon.” Arthur tenses, but the man, who looks far too smug for someone who was just robbed (almost robbed?), continues. “It’s been a long time since anyone - especially in this dull, backwater town - has managed to steal something from right under my nose like that. Speaking of which - toss me my bag there, kid.”
Arthur hesitates and contemplates running while the man is distracted.
“Son,” he says, this time lower, with steel in his voice. He can clearly see Arthur weighing his options in his head and isn’t as impressed. “My bag. Please.”
Arthur swallows, reaches down and tosses his meal ticket back to the man. He tries not to feel too bitter about it. The man catches and throws it over his shoulder without bothering to look inside. Like it doesn’t even matter.
The man smiles brightly, all trace of danger gone. “Much obliged, kid.”
“You ain’t -?” Arthur starts, but closes his mouth before finishing the thought.
“Ain’t what?”
“Ain’t...mad? That I, I stole your stuff?” A voice at the back of Arthur’s brain says he probably shouldn’t be reminding the man, but. He looks at the man’s gleeful face. What the Hell kinda man gets excited when they’re robbed? “I weren’t exactly planning on giving it back any time soon.”
The appraising look is back.
“What’s your name, kid?” the man asks, ignoring the question.
“Buffalo Bill.”
“Cute. Now what’s your real name, Bill.”
Arthur grits his teeth. “Arthur. Arthur Morgan,” he spits out after a moment of indecision. He’s already in a tricky situation, his name ain’t gonna make things better or worse at this point. “What about you, mister?”
The man spreads his arms out wide and gives a little half-bow, like a prize turkey showing off his plumage. “Dutch Van Der Linde, at your service. As for your question: who’s to say I’m not angry? In fact, Mr. Morgan, why don't you give me one good reason I shouldn’t inform the good, hard-working sheriff of this town about your little stunt tonight?”
Arthur’s heart skips a beat. His hands clench back into fists.
He swallows and says: “‘Cuz I’ll run.”
“And I’ll just chase you down once more. Try again.”
“‘Cuz I’ll...I’ll kill you if you try.”
Dutch throws his head back and laughs. Loud. “Oh is that so? I am sure you’ll try, boy!” he says between guffaws. He sounds like he did in the saloon, laughing at his partner’s stories, seemingly oblivious to the world.
Arthur bristles at the easy dismissal. Reaching into his back pocket, Arthur pulls out the slim knife. “Fuck you. I ain’t kidding and I ain’t a boy. You - you take one step and I’ll gut you.”
He brandishes the knife and holds it between the two of them.
“Will you really?” Dutch says when he gets control of himself; his smile stays plastered on, soft and strangely fond. Arthur ignores the strange, unwanted stirring in his gut.
“Yes.”
Dutch just nods. And that’s when Arthur feels the steel against his neck.
“Drop the knife boy,” a voice says from behind. It’s patient, but firm and unyielding. “Please.”
The knife falls from Arthur’s hand before he even processes the words, not that it matters. It’s a command that he would have obeyed regardless. The blade lands on the dirt with a dull thud. The knife doesn’t leave Arthur’s throat.
“Please don’t kill me,” says Arthur, throat suddenly dry.
“Hosea,” Dutch drawls. He looks, to Arthur’s annoyance, unperturbed. “That’s enough.”
“Your funeral,” Hosea mutters, and pulls away the knife. His hands clamps down tight on Arthur’s shoulder, preventing him from trying to run or cause more harm. Not that Arthur would, trapped between two men who Arthur is beginning to realize may be a bit more dangerous than he first thought.
He takes a moment to study them. The one behind him, Hosea, is tall and thin, with a head of pale blonde hair - a stark difference to Dutch’s slicked-back dark mane. Both are calm, as if they hadn’t just stopped a robbery and Arthur’s pitiful attempt at intimidation. And, Arthur can’t help but notice as Hosea’s grip gets tighter, they are deceptively strong.
All in all, Arthur figures they’re men accustomed to violence.
And that doesn’t bode well for him.
So much for easy targets.
They stand in silence, Hosea and Dutch having some silent conversation while Arthur looks on.
Dutch gestures to Arthur with an expression that‘s unreadable to Arthur but loud and clear to Hosea if his long-suffering sigh is any indication.
“You sure?” Hosea asks.
“Positive,” says Dutch. Arthur has no clue what they’re talking about
“Fine. But it’s on your head, Dutch.”
“Ye of little faith, my friend. I know what I’m doing.”
“I think you’ve got an idea in your head and no real clue of how to do it or how it’s going to actually work out.” Hosea’s words are harsh, but fond and amused in tone. He releases Arthur and Arthur releases a breath.
Dutch turns away from Hosea and looks at Arthur. “Follow me, kid.”
He doesn’t wait for Arthur to agree, turning on his heel and walking away. Arthur wants to argue - a knife was just held at his throat! This man chased him up and down the town! He could be leading him away to kill him in a more convenient place or to the sheriff! But Hosea nudges Arthur forward and gives him a look that brokers no argument, so Arthur keeps his mouth shut and follows Dutch back into town.
-
Dutch doesn’t lead them to the sheriff or to a dark alley to slit his throat. No, he leads them to a hotel, just across the road from the noisy saloon where it all started. Arthur wants to yell, to get the attention of someone, anyone. But what would he even say? Help, the man I robbed wants to kill me?! Even if everyone around wasn’t too drunk and too loud to notice a boy being marched by two adult men, no one would care about one less thieving kid on the streets. The son of the no-good bastard Lyle Morgan, getting what he deserves.
Arthur will die and they’ll call it a tragedy while thinking it’s justice.
“You alright there, boy?” Hosea asks, startling Arthur. “My blade didn’t nick you there, did it?”
Arthur clears his throat. “Uh, no sir. It didn’t,” he says simply. No one says anything until they reach the steps of the hotel. Dutch, to Arthur’s continued surprise, doesn’t just lead him up to his or Hosea’s room to torture him or leave him trussed up for the sheriff. Instead, the man orders a bath and three hot meals.
He’s gonna get whiplash around these men.
“I can’t force you, Arthur,” Dutch says, despite forcing Arthur to come with them in the first place. “If you want to leave, you can leave. I won’t stop you. But there’s a hot bath and meal waiting for you if you stay long enough to hear me and my friend here, out.”
The words make him hesitate. Logically, he’s been given and out. He should leave. He should get as far away from these two men - men who laugh at being robbed and threatened with knives - before it’s too late. To not let himself be drawn in.
But Dutch gave him a choice.
But God, is it a bad idea.
But God, is Arthur hungry.
Still, he hesitates, and his worry must be written on his face because Dutch leans in and places a hand on his shoulder. He says: “Look at me kid.” And Arthur does.
He says, pinning Arthur down with his hand and eyes, “Trust me, Arthur. Hosea and I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
It ain’t that easy, Arthur wants to say. Why should I trust you, he thinks.
Maybe Dutch and Hosea are waiting until they’re alone to kill him; maybe they feel bad for the dirty, stick-thin street rat – like a mangy stray dog that you give a bit of meat before putting it out of its misery. Arthur has absolutely no reason to trust these men.
But his stomach is empty and if he dies, then maybe he can die clean and full.
Arthur doesn’t say anything, just nods. Dutch smiles once more.
“Good,” he says. “Now go on upstairs and wash up. Don’t take too long, wouldn’t want your food to get cold.” Arthur nods again and makes his way up the stairs.
He doesn’t linger in the bath, though the water is warm and Arthur would be happy to spend the rest of his life just soaking up the heat. It feels wonderful to scrub away the layers of grime and filth that have been sticking to him. He’s not exactly looking forward to putting back on his muddy, greasy clothes.
As he washes, his thoughts wander back to Dutch and Hosea. He isn’t sure what they want. Either they’re going to kill him, or they’re not, but he can’t figure out what they really want in either scenario. If they’re going to kill him – are they giving him food and water out of pity, like he initially believed? If they aren’t – why is Arthur even here? Why not just let him run back into the trees or the alley way, out of sight and out of mind?
Arthur washes and scrubs himself until he feels clean for the first time in years. Until he felt like maybe, just maybe, he might be a person. He quickly dries himself off and dresses himself back in the dirty clothes he came in, ignoring the gauntness of his frame and the ribs he can count. There’s a warm bowl of stew waiting on a small table for him when he steps into Dutch and Hosea’s shared room, one that Arthur scarfs down as the two men talk. A part of him is still wary as he eats, still telling him to cut his losses and run. A larger part, one that has always been too damn curious for his own good, tells him to wait, to hear what these men want to say. To bask in this warmth for just a little bit longer.
Dutch waits until Arthur is finished - and resolutely not licking the bowl clean - to start talking.
There’s something cold and hard in Dutch’s face. Arthur tries to ignore it, focusing on his meal. “I see you were hungry,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“When’s the last time you ate, boy?”
A pause. “A while, sir.” He’s not too sure why it matters or why Dutch would even care to know.
Hosea hums thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. Dutch nods. “Do you have folks, Arthur? Or siblings, or grandparents? Anyone who looks out for you?”
He stares down at his empty bowl, away from Dutch and Hosea’s eyes. “No,” he says. “My folks’re dead, sir. Ain’t got no other family.”
Dutch just nods again, as if expecting the answer. Anger and shame bubbles up in Arthur, hot and sudden. “But I don’t need nobody,” he says with a venom that makes Dutch lean back and his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. Pity isn’t something that Arthur ever needed. “I’ve survived just fine on my own. Don’t need nobody holding my hand.”
“Nobody is saying you aren’t capable, Arthur,” Hosea says. He stands up, and Arthur braces himself, but Hosea walks over to him and hands him his still full, still warm bowl of stew. “You’ve managed to keep yourself alive for God knows how long and that shows skill. Maybe your fair share of dumb luck, too, but skill nonetheless.”
As soon as it comes, the anger in him washes away. Embarrassed, he mutters a quick thanks to Hosea before digging into the meal handed to him.
Starving men ain’t got no use for pride, his pa used to say.
“Hosea’s right,” Dutch says. “Frankly, Arthur, you’ve got skill. Skill and mettle and potential. Potential that I for one do not want to see wasted by this...cesspit. This godforsaken dump that turns its back on anyone it’s mildly inconveniencing to give a break.”
The stew isn’t hot, but it still burns on its way down. “I...don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Call me Dutch, Arthur,” Dutch says. “What I mean is that I - we - want to offer you a choice here. You can stay in this place, steal and pickpocket and fight everyday for a few measly and mealy scraps. You can live and die in this town or another town just like it; live among the ‘civilized’ cowards and dogs. Or you can join Hosea and me.”
Arthur stares at Dutch, rapt. “Join you?”
Out of everything, all the scenarios that ran through Arthur’s head while in the bath, this wasn’t one of them.
Hosea chimes in. “Dutch and I have traveled together for a while now. If you want, you can travel with us as well. We’re a bit nomadic - always had a bit of wanderlust.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Dutch chuckles, a nice sounding chuckle, not a mean one at Arthur’s expense. “It means Hosea and I don’t like to live in cities around hypocrites and idiots, but we also can’t stay in one place for too long. When things start to go missing, there’s only so much time to remain anonymous.”
That’s when it clicks. “You two are thieves!”
And Dutch threatened to give him to the sheriff!
“Thieves, criminals, con-artists, degenerates, outlaws - it all depends on who’s talking. And wipe that look off your face, kid” Dutch says with a smirk. Arthur drags a hand over his face, snapping his mouth, which had fallen open in shock, closed. “I wasn’t going to hand you over to anyone, but you did rob me. Couldn’t resist scaring you just a little.”
“That’s why we were at the saloon tonight. Well, part of the reason,” Hosea says with a wink. “People don’t expect drunk men to be decent poker players. And I suppose young thieves don’t expect them to notice when their things are taken from their side.”
It shouldn’t be such a revelation, these two men being criminals. “So. You two are...outlaws. And you want me to join your - what? Group? Gang?”
“I suppose we’re becoming a right little gang of thieves, but yes, Arthur that’s the extent of it,” Dutch says. “To be blunt, we could use a boy with your skills. You’re young and you’ve got a lot to learn, but you seem quick. I don’t think it would be too difficult for you.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Dutch and Hosea don’t push him to answer. They just let him sit and think. His mind reels at the proposition.
Life ain’t great here, but is he willing to give up the, admittedly shaky, security for whatever life these men are offering? In this fading little town, he’s the town riff-raff, the town mistake; no one helps him but no one bothers him much either. And the further away people stay, the lesser the chance of them making him do what he doesn’t want to do.
It’s lonely and it sure as Hell isn’t easy. But it’s what he knows.
“Why?” he says finally. His voice is shaky. “Why would you want me to join you? Why would you want to even help me? I ain’t anything special. And I ain’t even that smart so you’re wrong on that end. I’d just slow you down.”
There’s something fierce in Dutch’s eyes when he leans forward and says: “Because the world ain’t a kind place to boys like you, Arthur. You don’t need me to tell you that. Places like this - they demand you follow their orders; they don’t care if you never had a hope of winning so long as you play the game by their rules. But Hosea and I, we know what this country once was - we know what it can be again. Good. Honest. Society calls us - calls you! -thieves and criminals, but what we really are, Arthur? Free men. Free from the shackles, the demands, of society. And if I can offer freedom, freedom from everything that civilized society puts people who are just trying to live through, then I’m going to offer it. I’ll offer a dry place to sleep and food in your stomach and a chance to live. To make your own choices about what your life is going to be. To do more than just survive.
“I won’t force you to join us. I can’t and I won’t. But answer me this, Arthur: wouldn’t you like to live before you die?”
Arthur’s answer is barely a whisper: “Yes.”
Dutch smiles and Arthur feels like crying.
-
They leave town the next morning. Arthur sits behind Hosea on his saddle, stomach full with the dinner from the night before and the breakfast this morning. The wind is in his face and hair and he’s bouncing uncomfortable in the saddle he’s sharing as Hosea’s horse canters down the path. With every step, the town he was born and raised in grows smaller and smaller.
“So where are we headed?” he calls out in excitement. He’s not sure what to expect when living on the road with a couple of outlaws. Outlaws with a moral code and a desire to help people, no less. He still wasn’t sure if he believed that - if these men weren’t just as crooked inside as he was. Nonetheless, he’d happily be free amongst the wicked than trapped amongst the respectable.
“Somewhere to help you get your feet wet,” Dutch calls back. “I’ll tell you this, kid. You stick with us, and we’ll turn you into a proper man of the West! This country won’t know what hit it!”
“Proper!” He laughs, delighted. “Sounds like a fool’s errand to me!”
“Arthur,” Dutch says. “Believe me. The three of us are gonna change this country for good!”
And God Almighty. Arthur believes.