Archive of Our Own ^beta

“There was surely nothing to indicate at the time that such evidently small incidents would render whole dreams forever irredeemable.”

-The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro

Arthur doesn’t read the paper often. In fact, he avoids the hawkers when possible. Their hollering grates terribly on his nerves, and on a particularly bad day, he’s one intrusive yell away from smacking some unlucky paperboy to the ground. But Hosea asked him to pick up a copy while he was in town, so he dutifully makes a detour after his business at the Valentine gunsmith.

“Can I interest you in the latest issue of The New Hanover Gazette, mister?” asks the paperboy, all smiles and rosy cheeks. That’s another thing Arthur dislikes about them. They’re always cheerful, even though they’re usually peddling the grimmest of news. And that’s another reason Arthur doesn’t read the paper: the country, it seems, is constantly going to shit, and frankly, he has more than enough on his plate without also having to concern himself with the various injustices and disasters that plague the rest of the nation. 

No news is better than bad news. His pa had told him that, attributed it to some fancy English king. Lyle Morgan said a lot of aphorisms and proverbs, in place of any original thoughts.

Sighing, Arthur wordlessly hands over 50 cents. The paperboy smacks a hefty packet in his hands.

“Thank you kindly,” the boy says, and then immediately continues his racket: “The latest news in your hands! Come and get The New Hanover Gazette !”

Arthur scowls and moves to put the paper away, but a headline catches his attention: TRAIN ROBBED BY O’DRISCOLL GANG, PINKERTONS ON THE HUNT, screams a front-page article.

Arthur doesn’t read the paper often, but today, he makes an exception.

A private train owned by business magnate Leviticus Cornwall was robbed, shortly after it had departed from West Elizabeth and headed North towards the Grizzlies. The train was found barreling through the area at high speeds and was eventually stopped near Annesburg by the sole survivor on board, an injured crewman who played dead to survive the assault.

Twenty-two men were killed in the attack. Damages to the train are estimated in the tens of thousands, in addition to an unspecified amount stolen from Cornwall’s private car.

According to the crewman, whose name has been withheld for safety reasons, the gang wore the infamous green bandanas of the O’Driscoll gang, who have been at-large in New Hanover for the past several years. The O’Driscolls are allegedly responsible for hundreds of deaths country-wide, and their leader, Colm O’Driscoll, is wanted dead or alive with a bounty of now $8,000.

“These feral creatures playing at outlaw will have their comeuppance,” said Cornwall. “I am personally funding the investigation and the Pinkertons, who will see to it that they all hang.”

Alan Reicht, Head of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, confirmed that the organization’s current priority is finding Colm O’Driscoll, shifting their attention from the notorious Van der Linde gang.

“No one has forgotten Blackwater, but the O’Driscolls have terrorized the entirety of New Hanover for far too long,” Reicht said. “Mr. Cornwall is being a very generous sponsor of justice for the state’s peoples.”

Continued on page 3...

“God damn,” Arthur says.

The paperboy pauses to give him a commiserating look, though he couldn’t possibly know which story Arthur is reading. “Well said, mister.”

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Arthur convenes with Dutch and Hosea, gathering at the table on the edge of camp with the newspaper splayed out before them. It warms Arthur down to his bones to have the old guard together, just like the old days. 

“It looks like we just missed them. Some sort of divine providence,” Hosea remarks wryly, upon finishing the article. Dutch is still scanning the paper; for all his custom of flipping through philosophy books, he’s always been a slower reader than Hosea.

“Couldn’t have been more than a day off,” Arthur says. Quite possibly, they were even in the Grizzlies at the exact same time as the O’Driscolls. Holed up in Colter, none the wiser to the disaster unfolding mere miles away. 

Hosea hums, thoughtful, and patiently waits for Dutch to say his piece. Dutch lifts the paper into his hands and makes a show of trailing his eyes along the other headlines before he speaks.

“Colm has gotten himself into a fair bit of trouble,” Dutch says. His mouth curves into a vicious smirk. “I would’ve liked the money on that train, but this is priceless . Don’t you think, Hosea?”

“With the Pinkertons off our trail and onto the O’Driscoll’s, we can move west as planned,” Hosea agrees, finishing Dutch’s line of thought with practiced ease.

Dutch folds the newspaper and tosses it aside. He stands, chest out, his chin tilted up, eyes glimmering as an idea takes form. Arthur imagines that Dutch can actually see it in the sky, the clouds assembling before him to deliver the image of some grand plan.

“Indeed. But that’s not all we can do,” Dutch says.

Hosea furrows a brow, puzzled, before understanding dawns on him. Then, he frowns in earnest. “You can’t mean that we should…”

“Oh, but I do.”

Arthur looks between them. The sense of confusion is familiar to him, especially when it comes to partaking in discussions between Dutch and Hosea, but he’s no less embarrassed by his own slowness. However, not too embarrassed to ask: “What are you two talking ‘bout?”

“You don’t follow, Arthur?” Dutch says, redundantly. He waits for Arthur to shake his head. Dutch spreads his arms out, a grand and measured gesture, as the smirk on his face shifts into a shark-like grin. “Why, son, we’re talking about Blackwater .”

“Blackwater?” Arthur repeats in a hushed tone. “You mean the money from the ferry job?”

“I told you that I stashed it for a rainy day, when we were capable of retrieving it. And it seems our storm has come.”

“Blackwater is still hot. We’d be fools to go back there now,” Hosea says.

“Hosea’s right. Every bounty hunter from Lemoyne to New Austin is prowling through West Elizabeth, lookin’ for us,” Arthur says.

Dutch’s grin fades when he realizes the lack of support. His mustache twitches as he speaks, vehemently, “Bounty hunters can be fooled and dodged. The Pinkerton patrols were the real problem, and they’re now otherwise occupied. There’s no better opportunity.”

“There’s no better opportunity to pack up and move west, while we still can,” Hosea says. “Go through Tall Trees, avoid the whole Blackwater area. Once we’re in New Austin, we can find some tickets to California.”

“And where will we get the money for those tickets? Everything we had was abandoned in Blackwater. Everything .” Dutch shakes his head and continues, tone gaining impassioned velocity, “Now is most definitely our opportunity to seize our freedom. Yet we cannot do anything with it if we don’t have money. We need the money. We need it for tickets, for new papers, for land, for seed capital. Our dream of California will remain a dream, without the proper finances.”

Arthur and Hosea don’t have much argument for that. The gang is currently poorer than they’ve been in years. For the past several weeks, they’ve lived off of Charles’ and Arthur’s combined hunting efforts. Dutch sent as many able-bodied men as they could spare, without interfering with guard shifts, off on jobs, leaving the camp with an empty, solemn air.

Hosea sighs. He asks, reluctantly, “So just where is the boat money?”

Dutch preens, satisfied, and tells them.

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It is a dual-purpose mission: primarily, to retrieve the money; secondarily, to scout for any information on Sean and Mac’s whereabouts. I haven’t forgotten them, Dutch said, almost chastising, as if Arthur had been the one to leave them behind on the boat. You find our boys, and the money.

Dutch apparently hid it in a strongbox, hastily stowed beneath a rock formation in the cliffs just south of town. Approximately one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, sitting under some lakeside stones. The mere thought of the number makes Arthur’s head spin.

Dutch puts Arthur in charge of the ordeal. Arthur has an uneasy suspicion that he might not have been the first choice, but Micah has been gone for over a week now, and there’s no time to waste waiting for his return. He isn’t sure when Micah became Dutch’s favorite. He supposes he’s much too old to be caring about that sort of thing.

In any case, Arthur is running the show. To join him, he selects Charles, cool-headed and ruthlessly competent— and, more importantly, unlikely to shoot Arthur in the back and take off with the cash himself. Charles may be relatively new, but he’s proven himself more trustworthy and reliable than a number of the other men, even ones Arthur has known for years. He’s a damn good guy, and they’ll watch each other’s backs.

Under Dutch’s instruction, they keep the ordeal hush-hush from the rest of camp. There’s no point in providing false hope to the good people. 

Arthur and Charles saddle up that very evening for their “hunting trip”. The sky is cloudless, promising a relatively well-lit night suitable for some light excavation.

“Bring us back a big one, boys,” Dutch calls, smiling, as they ride out. Arthur can only hope.

The journey to West Elizabeth goes smoothly, not another soul in sight for miles. The roads are never too busy at night. They make it near the border of Blackwater territory near ten o’clock, when dusk has well and truly passed. Lanterns glow on the cliffs across the Montana River, orange flames daunting, watchful.

They curve into the tree line, stopping when they’re suitably hidden.

“That’ll be the lawmen,” says Arthur, scowling. “Likely patrollin’ all the roads in and out.”

“I thought the Pinkertons were on the O’Driscolls now,” Charles says, mildly. He took the news of the potential suicide mission with the same quiet, unblinking confidence he has facing down game. It’s a quality Arthur sorely admires. Arthur is a confident man when it comes to jobs, but he’s never perfected the art of stoicism — always comes across too gruff, too cowboy cocksure.

“Blackwater’s own police force ain’t no joke, unfortunately. But there’s only so many of ‘em.” Arthur fishes out a map from his satchel. “Maybe we can find some spot to cross ‘long the upper Montana…”

Charles pulls Taima up alongside him, leaning close enough that Arthur can catch a whiff of his scent. Smoke and natural tobacco, mostly, since Charles rolls his own cigarettes, with a surprisingly flowery undercurrent. Must be the herbs Charles is always mashing up.

He examines Arthur’s map, which is marked up with symbols and scrawled labels. Sketched animals, plants, tiny houses. Sometimes a crossed-out question mark with an updated drawing beside it.

“How do you even read that?” Charles gets his own map out. He clearly has a different cartographic focus; the paper is detailed with terrain and geographical landmarks. 

“Here,” he says, tapping a spot to the west, “there’s a dip in the cliffs here, and we can cut across the river. It’s narrow, but I think the horses will make it.”

Arthur folds his map away. “Alright. Lead the way.”

Sure enough, there’s a spot where the cliffs drop into a steep pass downward. Their horses jitter a bit as they descend, Taima less so. Arthur tamed his steed days after they reached Horseshoe Overlook (he’d previously been borrowing Taima or awkwardly riding with Charles), and the mustang is still slightly distrustful.

Upon reaching the riverbank, two figures hunched along the cliff-face become visible. Arthur immediately puts a hand on his revolver.

“Wait. We know them,” Charles says.

That white cowboy hat is all too familiar.

“Well, well. What a happy coincidence,” Micah drawls, walking over. He at least has the good sense to keep his voice down.

Beside him, Lenny startles awake and rises to his feet. “Arthur? Charles? What are you guys doing here?”

“What are ya doing, indeed?” says Micah.

“Hunting,” Arthur says, uncontrollably curt.

Micah grins, yellowed teeth showing. “Hunting. On the border of Blackwater, at night. We ain’t stupid, cowpoke. Save your lies for the lawmen, not your brothers .”

“We’re looking for leads on Sean and Mac,” Charles deflects, coolly. “What are you two doing?” 

“Robbing, of course. Some wealthy citizens from Blackwater are taking a stagecoach up to Strawberry in the morning,” Lenny says, hands waving with enthusiasm.

Micah shoots him a dirty look. “Goddamnit, don’t be telling everyone and their mother our plans.”

“I’m not. It’s Arthur and Charles. What do you think they’re going to do?” Lenny snaps.

“Muck it up, probably. Morgan loves to get in my way,” Micah bites back.

“It’s been nice talkin’ and all, but Charles and I need to get going,” Arthur cuts in.

“Why? Are those leads on the boys going somewhere?” Micah sneers.

“Yes, they are. Let’s go, Arthur,” says Charles. He nods his head respectfully. “Good luck with that coach.”

“You, too. Bring them back,” Lenny says.

Anger steaming in his chest, Arthur trots along after Charles. Thank God Charles had ended the encounter. He’s always been level-headed. Arthur was itching for his gun, ready to put a hole in Micah’s blabbering face.

Arthur waits until they’re across the Montana to growl, “I’m fed up to my eyebrows with that man.”

“I think we all are,” Charles says.

“Don’t know why Dutch trusts him.”

“You’d know better than me.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches in frustration. The thing is — he does know. Micah jabbers in Dutch’s ear and tells him exactly what he wants to hear. The pliable, worshipping yes-man that anyone would like, telling them that they’re right . No compunctions, no questions. Arthur just hoped that Dutch was better than that. Unfortunately, he’s learning that all men are fallible to their own hubris.

“Forget Micah,” Arthur grumbles, ignoring that he brought him up in the first place. “Hopefully he just cuts and runs after we settle down in California.”

“Mm. I can’t picture him being a rancher or farmer with the rest of us.”

In all honesty, Arthur can’t picture most of the gang’s men as ranchers or farmers. He tries to imagine Javier dressed in a farmhand's tattered work clothes instead of a crisp vest and necktie. Bill being satisfied with shoveling horse shit and milking cows. John settling down in his cabin with Abigail after a long day’s work. That last one settles uncomfortably in Arthur’s gut, in the way that a lot of his thoughts about John and his potential happy family do. Arthur can, however, see Charles peacefully spending his days tending to the horses. It’s a sort of wonderfully gentle thing to imagine.

Arthur chases the musings away to focus on the ride. They navigate by moonlight, and Arthur allows Charles, the admittedly superior horseman, to take the lead as they progress on an extremely roundabout route to the shore of Flat Iron Lake, skirting around lawmen and their glowing lanterns and the occasional roaming group of bounty hunters. 

About an hour later, they settle their horses by the lake. They’re uncomfortably close to the town of Blackwater, just a couple hundred yards north, but the cliffs provide fortuitous cover. They dismount and survey the area, somewhat dismally. There is no shortage of rocks washed up by the lulling lake waters. 

“Check the ones along the cliff first,” Arthur says, with a slight sigh.

The night passes, torturously slow. This first section of the beach proves to be empty of any strongboxes, and they move north along the shore, edging closer to Blackwater. Sand scrapes and settles inexplicably in his trousers, and his hands raw from handling the harsh grooves of stones. He glances jealously at Charles’ gloves a few times.

Eventually, when the sky is lightening, an anxious precursor to dawn, Charles whispers, “Arthur, come here.” 

Arthur helps Charles pull out a metal box previously concealed beneath a large, flat stone. It has a hefty lock, smashed and bent, and the box opens with some jimmying.

“Holy hell,” Arthur says.

Stacks and stacks of crisp, newly minted hundred-dollar bills. Each wad of cash is more than an inch thick. It’s dizzying to see in-person. Charles picks up a bundle and runs his thumb along the edges. There’s an uncharacteristic wideness to his eyes that belies his shock.

For the first time since they buried Davey, Arthur feels hope well up in his chest. He turns to Charles and nudges him.

“Think this is enough to get to California?” Arthur says, grinning.

Charles’ lips tick up. “I think we could go to Australia and back.”

Cognizant of the time and their proximity to Blackwater, they hurriedly gather up the money into Arthur’s crossbody bag. They get back on their horses and suddenly pause, recalling their other objective.

“How are we supposed to find information on Sean and Mac?” asks Charles. 

Arthur’s joyous mood dims. “Well, I ain’t really sure. We’re not exactly… the inconspicuous sort.”

With the exchange comes a renewed suspicion that Dutch had no intention of them actually looking for the two lost men. He and Charles are probably the two least suited to that sort of low-profile, information-gathering type task. Arthur because his face is plastered in wanted posters all over the state (and a few others), and Charles because he draws prejudiced attention whether he wants to or not. 

“We could ride up to that overlook,” Charles suggests, pointing to a spot in the distance, “get some eyes on the town. See how many lawmen there are, and I can go down to sniff out some information if the patrols look light.”

“That’s a lot of risk to take. Hell, we’re pushing it just staying here with all this money.”

Charles looks at him disapprovingly. He and Hosea are all too good at making Arthur feel like a piece of shit with just one look.

“Alright, we’ll take a look,” Arthur relents. It’s not like he wants to abandon Sean and Mac.

They ride up to the hill, which provides a small cluster of trees for concealment. He takes out his binoculars and peers into Blackwater. Not many civilians milling about, unsurprisingly, besides the odd drunk stumbling around. There’s still more than an hour until sunrise. 

“Not too many lawmen. Without the Pinkertons, they must be spread thin covering the borders,” Charles says, after some minutes of observation.

“Not too many is still more than I’m comfortable with.” When Charles stares at him flatly, Arthur says, “I just don’t want you gettin’ caught, too. The gang needs you.”

“I won’t get caught,” says Charles, with his usual solemn confidence. “Stay here. I’ll be back in twenty.” 

He rides off without giving Arthur any time to protest. Arthur sighs, and keeps his binoculars trained on Charles, who hitches Taima by a construction site on the edge of town. There really aren’t quite as many officers as Arthur thought there would be, just three patrols riding in circuits and a few men stationed outside the bank. Charles stalks through town, expertly dodging the patrols. He must’ve tracked their routes whilst watching up on the hill. Arthur privately corrects himself: maybe Charles is suited to this espionage thing.

Charles stops at the post office to read the bulletins posted, then goes to the sheriff’s office. Arthur watches as he, like a complete and utter madman, peeks through the window, then walks around the building to step inside . Anxious sweat soaks Arthur’s back just observing. Then, when he’s preparing to go down to fight off the law on Charles’ behalf, Charles walks right back out of the sheriff’s office without a hair on his head disturbed. He strolls back to Taima and comes trotting back to Arthur.

“What the hell was that,” Arthur hisses. “Going inside the damn sheriff’s office?”

“The deputies in there were all dead asleep. Passed out drunk over a poker game,” Charles says.

“And if one of ‘em woke up?” 

“None of them did. And if they had, I would have put a knife through his throat, and all the others, too, before they could even think about getting their gun. Trust me, Arthur. It was the right move.”

Trust me. Arthur admits he can do that. Charles isn’t an idiot, not like Micah or Bill or even John. He wouldn’t put them both in danger so carelessly. It’s partly why Arthur brought him along, after all.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur says, placating. “So, what’d you find? Was Sean or Mac…?”

Charles hands him a letter. “Sean wasn’t in the cell. He’s being held by a group of bounty hunters, not the Blackwater police. They plan to move him to a federal prison in a few days.” He grimaces. “Mac is dead. Saw the report on it.”

“Right. Good work,” Arthur says, trying to smother the surge of grief. “Let’s head back to camp. We’ll tell Dutch and Hosea, make a plan to rescue Sean.”

“Alright.”

Arthur pulls his hat down low as they ride across the plains at a speedy gallop. He can’t help but think of Mac’s death. It stings. Mac was a good guy, if a little trigger-happy like his brother. Arthur wasn’t especially close to Davey, but Arthur was fond of Mac. They had a friendly rivalry going on: who was the best at five finger fillet ( Arthur, definitely Arthur, Mac almost cut off his pinky contesting that ), who could get the most rabbits on horseback ( Arthur again, but because he’s a very good shot, not because he’s a particularly good rider ), who could ride to New Austin quickest ( Mac this time, for the same reasons as the rabbits ). They used to collect their old whiskey bottles and have drunken shooting competitions. What was the last score? Arthur, painfully, realizes he can’t quite remember.

Now both the Callandar boys are dead and gone. Two more fallen soldiers in Dutch’s army.

Each breath Arthur takes is shaky with nerves, and perhaps a bit of sorrow. He’s thankful that Charles is leading them again, the sight of his wide back a powerful reassurance. It’s hard to think straight right now.

Dawn looms ominously overhead, tinging the sky blue and yellow. Through sheer speed and probably some dumb luck, they manage to evade any encounters (except for almost tramping a sleeping bounty hunter) and make it back to the same narrow pass by the Montana.

They cross the river and trot upward, back onto the ground of northern West Elizabeth. The sight of dense forestry and grassy hills is welcome, as the sun finally edges above the horizon. Arthur feels like he can finally breathe again.

Less welcome is Micah, who emerges from the treeline just as they get up the path, and without a single warning or word, shoots Charles right off his horse. In Arthur’s peripheral vision, he sees Taima whinny with fright and take off. He can’t see where Charles got shot, if he’s alright, if he’s alive .

“None of that,” Micah warns when Arthur gets a hand on his revolver, “unless you want to see Lenny’s brains come out the other end of his skull.”

The bastard is holding Lenny in front of him, the barrel of his blackened steel gun pressed to Lenny’s temple. Lenny’s face is contorted in fury, a strange sight to see on the usually upbeat kid, and a small amount of fright, showing only in the anxious line of his mouth. Arthur reluctantly moves his hand away from his gun.

Micah drawls, “Whatcha got in that bag of yours, cowpoke? Information about our lost boys?”

“Why don’t you let go of Lenny and come check,” Arthur spits. Micah won’t, of course. But maybe he can rile him up, create some sort of opening for Lenny to wriggle out of his grasp. “I always knew you were a no-good snake-faced bastard.”

“Morgan, you say the sweetest things. But naw, be honest— you didn’t know. You and your daddy are too dumb for that.” Micah taps his gun against the side of Lenny’s head. “Now, take off the bag. Slowly. Lenny and I are watching you.”

Damn it all. For all of Micah’s flaws, stupidity isn’t one of them. All too aware of Lenny’s precarious fate, Arthur unstraps the bag. 

“Throw it here,” orders Micah.

“Don’t do it, Arthur,” Lenny says, steely. “Just shoot the bastard.”

Micah cackles. “Morgan is soft. He’ll never risk your worthless fucking life.”

Indeed, Arthur wouldn’t risk it. Lenny is too young, practically uninitiated. He joined their life out of necessity, running away from the law after he took vengeance on his father’s killers. He isn’t bad yet, hasn’t made the choices Arthur or the rest have made. Not to say Arthur would risk any of the other men’s lives, but he’s more likely to do so than with Lenny’s.

Arthur throws the bag to Micah’s feet. It lands on the ground, dust billowing.

“Good dog,” says Micah, before gunshots erupt around them.

“Round ‘em up, boys! We want these assholes alive!”

Two groups of bounty hunters come riding in: one from the west, one from the south. Luckily, it seems that they aren’t cooperating, which means that they’re also shooting at each other, fighting over their quarry. Arthur takes the distraction to fire on Micah, who’s already released Lenny and is diving for the bag of money. The bullet hits him in the head, and he crumples to the ground, blood pooling in the dirt.

“Grab the bag and go,” barks Arthur as he leaps off his horse. The mustang goes running toward the trees, where Lenny is scrambling for a gun.

Arthur takes cover behind a boulder and unslings his repeater. The group to his left are the most pressing concern, as they have a better shot on him and Lenny from their angle. He inhales, readies himself. 

The closest one he hits with a bullet in the chest. Another is dashing atop his horse toward Lenny; Arthur puts a round in his steed’s brain, and the man goes flying as the animal collapses. He gets a headshot on two others, stationary on their horses, idiotically firing at the other bounty hunters. 

“Run, Lenny! I’ll hold ‘em off,” Arthur shouts. 

“Shut up, Arthur,” Lenny yells back. He remains steadfastly crouched amongst the trees, taking shots with Micah’s revolver. He hits one bounty hunter right in the neck, blood spraying from the wound.

Arthur resigns himself to the fact that Lenny isn’t going anywhere. The kid has never had a great sense of self-preservation.

Together, they take down the rest of the bounty hunters. An eerie quiet falls as the last of the men drops, leaving only a scattering of corpses along the road. Arthur hastily gets up and searches through the battlefield. He finds Charles, pale and sweating, but thankfully alive. However, he is unconscious, bleeding out from a bullet wound to his upper right torso.

“Fuck,” Arthur swears, trying to suppress the icy swirl of panic in his lungs. He puts pressure on the injury and shouts, “Lenny, get the horses and get over here, fast .”

Lenny obeys post-haste, sprinting off to find their horses. He returns in a few short minutes, which Arthur worries might still be too many minutes for Charles. Together, they wrap Charles’ wound as tightly as possible, and get him balanced onto Taima. Lenny keeps him in front, holding him securely with one arm.

“Go to Strawberry, get him to a doctor,” Arthur instructs, putting a fold of bills from his own satchel in Lenny’s hand. The Blackwater cash, he’s already strapped to his person again. “I’ll take the money back to camp, meet up with you all soon.”

It pains him to just leave Charles like that, even if Lenny is more than capable. But Arthur is far too recognizable to go gallivanting into a town so close to Blackwater, bloodied and carrying a wounded man, after a shootout not half-an-hour prior. 

Lenny stares at Arthur’s bulging crossbody bag. “So Micah wasn’t lying. That really is the Blackwater money.”

“Yea, it is,” Arthur says, not wanting to engender mistrust in Lenny. “But don’t you worry about it. Just take care of Charles, and lay low.” 

“Right. I will, Arthur. See you soon.”

Arthur tips his hat, and turns his mustang eastward. 

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When Arthur returns to camp, the air is bright and warming. The pungent scent of Pearson’s stew, always stuffed full of herbs to mask the gamey flavor, reaches him before Javier’s question, on guard: “Who’s there?” 

Arthur has always found Javier’s warning tone to be the most compelling. It’s sharply barked with just the right amount of instability, like the speaker will not hesitate to shoot you — and he’ll probably enjoy it, too.

“It’s Arthur,” he replies, approaching Javier’s post.

“Welcome back,” Javier says. He lifts an eyebrow when Arthur trots into view. “Not a productive trip?”

“What? Oh,” Arthur falters, remembering their hunting trip cover story, now an unnecessary pretense given the mission’s success, “No, uh. I’ll explain later. Gotta speak with Dutch.”

“Okay. Don’t let me keep you.”

Arthur hitches his horse and beelines for Dutch’s tent. His stomach churns as glee over their newfound riches wars with anxiety over Charles’ health. The gang’s future is theoretically brighter than ever, but to Arthur, it seems terribly dim if yet another of their men is dead. And such a good man, too.

Dutch is enjoying the morning with a hot cup of coffee and a book, looking remarkably unworried for a man who just sent two of his best guns on a retrieval mission for a literal fortune. His eyes light up when he sees Arthur and the hefty bag slung across his torso.

“My boy,” Dutch says, discarding the book with uncharacteristic swiftness and rising to greet him. “You were successful.”

“I was. But there were some complications,” Arthur says, and glances around. The camp is fully awake; the girls hanging up the wash to dry, Miss Grimshaw laying into Karen for the standard infractions of indolence and cheek, Abigail helping out Pearson with the stew. No one seems to be really paying attention to Dutch and Arthur, but Arthur knows that isn’t true. When the leadership of the camp is engaged in discussion, people are always listening. Arthur beckons Hosea, who walks over from his lean-to. 

“Welcome back. Glad to see you safe,” Hosea says, patting him on the back. “Where’s Charles? Is he alright?”

“Let’s talk inside Dutch’s tent,” Arthur says. He isn’t usually the secretive type, but even he can recognize that this amount of money, and Micah’s betrayal, are sensitive matters.

Dutch raises his eyebrows. “Sure. Come in, then,” he says, approvingly.

The three of them proceed into Dutch’s tent, and Arthur lowers the flaps on both sides and then stands, facing them, trying to gather his thoughts. String together a proper narrative, or come out with the most important details first.

“We got the money out of Blackwater, and I have it all right here,” Arthur decides to start. He forges on before either of the men can say anything, “But we got into some trouble on the way back. Dutch, I. I’m not sure how to say this right, so I’ll just say it: Micah ambushed us. Shot Charles and held Lenny hostage, demanding the money. We ran into him and Lenny on our ride into Blackwater, and he must’ve connected the dots. The whole thing ended with us all getting attacked by bounty hunters. I killed Micah, and Lenny took Charles to Strawberry for a doctor.”

Dutch listens to the story placidly. Hosea’s face is more revealing, his brows knitting with worry as Arthur speaks of Charles’ injury.

“How badly was he shot?” Hosea asks. “Is he going to make it?”

Arthur’s chest clenches. He remembers all the blood, the deathly pallor of Charles’ skin. His hair fanned on the dirt, his body limp. “I don’t know,” Arthur says, truthfully. “I want to ride to Strawberry, check on him.”

“Not now. That’d be too risky,” Dutch says. The irony of this is not lost on Arthur, but he doesn’t bring it up.

“I know. I’m not trying to bring the law down on Charles’ head. I just meant we should send someone,” Arthur says. He looks imploringly at Hosea.

“We will,” Hosea assures him. “Javier can go after his shift. You’ll stay in camp and keep guard. We need you around while we sort out the money.”

“The money,” Dutch interjects. “Micah really ambushed you to try and steal it?”

Arthur gapes, incredulous. “You doubtin’ me ‘bout that?”

“Perhaps there was a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t see how I could possibly misunderstand him shootin’ Charles and getting ready to shoot Lenny,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. 

Hosea seems displeased as well, narrowing his eyes at Dutch. “Dutch, I know you liked Mr. Bell, but there’s no way around the truth. He tried to kill our men and rob us, and he’s dead for it, just like any other sorry bastard who attacks our family.” He purses his lips, disappointed. “Let’s not question Arthur on that.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Dutch concedes. He squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, a silent apology. “It’s unfortunate how it went down with Micah, but… we’re better for it. We have the means to live our new life, now. You’ve done very well, Arthur.”

The approval is a balm upon Arthur’s frayed nerves and irritation. “What now, then?” he asks, calmer.

“Well, Hosea and I will come up with a plan for moving us all out of here. I’ll take the money and hide it somewhere safe until we’re ready to move.”

“We should split up a stash that large,” Hosea says. “It isn’t wise to keep all of it in one location, in case it gets compromised.”

“Always the strategist,” commends Dutch. “You do make me seem so foolish.”

Hosea chuckles and says, good-naturedly, “You don’t need me around to seem foolish.”

“Three ways, then?” Arthur suggests. “We each find a safe location near camp, don’t tell anyone else ‘bout it except each other.”

“A good plan, son. You’re learning,” says Dutch. He indicates for Arthur to unstrap the money bag.

“Ah, wait. Before we get started on that, did you manage to get any leads on Sean and Mac?” Hosea asks.

Guilt washes over Arthur. In the chaos of Micah’s betrayal, he completely forgot the other significant news. “Mac is dead,” he reports, grimly. “Sean is alive and held by bounty hunters. Charles found a letter explainin’ how he’ll be transported in a few days.”

Hosea sighs, all his years becoming visible at once. “Those Callandar boys… They were mean men, but they deserved better.”

“They did. But at least we have the opportunity to do right by Sean,” Dutch says, solemnly. “Arthur, once news on Charles’ comes back, get a team together to rescue Sean. You have that letter still?”

Arthur nods. 

“Good. Now let’s split up the money, and you can get some well-deserved rest…”

They divide the money into three approximately even piles. Racking his mind for ideas of where to hide his stash, he leaves the tent while Dutch and Hosea are still quietly discussing plans. Exhaustion hits him, bone-deep, when he sits by the campfire to think on it. He hasn’t slept in over a day. But he can’t just lay down and take a nap while carrying around $50,000 in his goddamn satchel.

Arthur takes out his journal and starts jotting down ideas. His mind is operating sluggishly, though, and none of the places he thinks of seem appropriate for this amount of money.

• bury beneath that funny-looking tree outside of camp
• somewhere along the Dakota?
• the damned bank 

He scowls down at his journal and wonders if maybe he should just ask Hosea and Dutch for a location. This thinking business is just not his forte. But he supposes that it’s better to occupy himself over this than sleeping or gnawing on his cheek worrying about whether or not Charles is dead. 

Yet the thoughts come once more, unbidden:  If Charles is dead, will it all have been worth it? To see everyone escaped and carefree, living out their days on a ranch together. Forgetting, slowly but surely, about everyone they’ve lost, as the blissful nature of their new lives eases the pains of the past. Hell, it happens even when people aren’t happy; Arthur himself barely thinks of the folk that died years and years ago. He doesn’t think it’s wrong to, per se. People have got to move on. But forgetting about Charles — Christ, that feels wrong. Charles is too good, too important. Being around him, trusting him comes naturally, unlike most any other person Arthur has known...

Arthur snaps his journal shut and scrubs a hand over his face. He must be getting delirious with the lack of sleep. He’ll tell Javier to go check on Charles and Lenny in Strawberry, as well as give him the whole rundown on the night’s events. Javier is unfailingly loyal to Dutch, and Lenny already knows the whole story anyway. After that talk, Arthur will ride out and find a place to hide the money before he falls over from exhaustion.

A phrase from his pa comes to mind. Ain’t no rest for the wicked , his pa would quote, shoving a knife into Arthur’s hand. And then: No one ever expects to get stabbed by a kid . That was one of his few original creations.

Arthur has come to learn that, despite all his father’s faults, the bastard was right about some things. There is no rest for Arthur, indeed.

.

.

.

(When they come down from Colter, the gang doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. Stripped of the thin tether to civilization that only wealth provides, they prioritize the most basic human need: food.

Having proven himself a decent hunter (or at least a quick study) whilst in the mountains, Arthur sets out with Charles to nab some game. 

“Anything will do,” says Pearson, frazzled, eyes sunken. “I’ll cook a fucking lizard if you bring me one.”

That initial trip is mostly unpleasant. Both Arthur and Charles are too tense with worry and exhaustion to converse, besides Charles occasionally hissing at him to tread more lightly or to “stay downwind, Arthur, where are you going?”. By the time they ride back to camp, Charles is even more stoic than usual, which Arthur has learned means he’s in a foul mood, and Arthur is fuming at being scolded like a child. But then Arthur sees the teary relief when everyone lays eyes on the two deer they’ve brought back, and his irritation fades. He turns to Charles, and Charles is already looking back, pensive.

“We‘re a good team,” Arthur says, because he can’t be prideful when it’s thanks to Charles that they can feed the gang.

Charles’ gaze softens. “Yeah. We are.”

From then on, they take it upon themselves to be the providers of the camp. Keeping twenty-some people fed is hard work, and they’re at it nearly every day. Setting and checking traps in the woods, tracking herds of pronghorn across the plains. One memorable trip north, carving through the gorgeous mountainside, to bring back an elk. 

They settle into a dynamic composed mainly of comfortable silence, interspersed with shared stories of their lives. Arthur carefully files away each piece of Charles’ history he learns, without examining too closely why it’s so important that he remembers that Charles’ mother taught him to craft beaded jewelry and braid hair, or that Charles used to street fight when he was a young boy, or that Charles likes carving bucks the most because of the elegant shape of their antlers. The main takeaway from it all, anyway, is that Charles is a helplessly good man. Arthur thinks that all the blood on Charles’ hands, the men he’s killed — none of that changes who he is at the core.

But: There ain’t no rest for the wicked , Arthur remembers, now, and selfishly prays that God or whoever above judges Charles too wicked to slip into that eternal repose.)

.

.

.

Arthur ends up hiding the money on a rock formation around Caliban’s Seat. He gets the idea from a treasure map he bought from a strange man last week. The man proclaimed that it was the only copy in existence, but Arthur figures even if there are more in print, whoever finds the Jack Hall treasure will be too distracted with that to keep digging around the place and find his money, too.

The next day, Lenny returns and reports that Charles is alive and conscious. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, going more through his shoulder, and had a clean exit wound, though Charles lost a lot of blood and his movement will be restricted for quite some time. He also suffered a mild concussion from falling off his horse. It’s much better news than Arthur dared to hope for.

“You did good,” Arthur says, and pats Lenny on the back. “Saved his life. I— well, we, all owe you for it.”

Lenny smiles at the praise, leaning into his touch a little. “Thanks, Arthur. Although, practically speaking, the doctor saved his life.”

“Don’t get smart,” Arthur says, chuckling. He feels a million times lighter, knowing Charles is going to be alright. “So, Javier’s still with him?”

“Yep. I think he’ll probably come back tomorrow, if Charles is holding up alright.”

“Someone should stay with him.”

Lenny huffs. “I agree, but Charles definitely doesn’t. After he woke up, he glared at me nonstop until I agreed to come back here. I’m sure he’ll do the same to Javier.”

“I think Javier can hold up against our Mr. Smith a little better than you, kid,” Arthur teases.

“I’ll bet you ten bucks he can’t. That man is terrifying when he wants to be, even laid out with a gunshot wound.”

Arthur shrugs and says, purposefully lofty. “I’d take that bet, but ten bucks seems a little like chump change to me now.”

“Oh, shit, it is , isn’t it?” Lenny grins from ear-to-ear. “How much cash was in there?”

“You’ll find out soon. C’mon, we’ve been waitin’ on you to get back. Dutch has got a speech prepared for the whole camp.” 

Arthur leads Lenny to the open space in front of Dutch’s tent, where a smattering of people are already collected. The rest of the gang comes when Dutch calls out for them to gather round. Even John hobbles out from his tent to slump at the table and listen.

Dutch stands before them with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face. The kind of smile that invites you to listen, for this man is surely about to share some grand knowledge that you’d be lucky to be privy to. Arthur wonders if he’ll ever develop some immunity to that smile.

“My friends, my family. Now, I’m sure you’ve noticed the secret rendezvous that Mr. Matthews, Mr. Morgan and I have been having,” Dutch looks purposefully at Karen, who just shrugs without an ounce of shame, “And it’s time to share with you all the reason behind them. At last, we are moving West.” He pauses, scanning the crowd. “Thanks to the efforts of Mr. Morgan and Mr. Smith, we are rich. Two days ago, they made a daring mission into Blackwater and retrieved the money from my ferry heist. The amount totals over one hundred thousand dollars.”

The gang erupts into shocked murmurs, which quiet when Dutch gestures for silence.

Mr. Matthews and I have agreed upon a plan for our migration. Due to the sheer amount of cash we have on hand, and the infamy of some of our members, we will move in groups. Mr. Matthews will lead the first group on a train West, past the Grizzlies. Upon arriving safely in Colorado, he’ll send word to Mr. Morgan, who will follow. Once both groups have settled in California and purchased beautiful acres of land for us to build our new home upon, I will come with our last members. Are there any objections to this?”

None are raised. Most of the game still seems to be reeling from the news.

Dutch continues, “Now, this success was not without sacrifices and misfortune. I regret to inform you all that Mr. Bell, consumed by greed, attempted to rob Mr. Smith and Mr. Morgan of the Blackwater money, and shot Mr. Smith in the process.” He sighs, deeply, as though the very words pain him. “He is currently recovering from his injury in Strawberry, and Mr. Bell is dead.” Here, Dutch shakes his head regretfully. “I vouched for Mr. Bell’s character, and feel personally responsible for his actions. I hope that my mistake does not make you all lose faith in me.”

Miss Grimshaw is the first one to collect herself, and speaks up immediately: “Of course not! Dutch, you’ve just told us that you’ve nabbed us more money that any of us have ever seen before. I think we can all forgive you for trusting one good-for-nothing bastard. We’ve all done it before.”

“Oh, most definitely, Dutch,” Reverend Swanson hiccups. “Mr. Bell was a devil in disguise, and any man would’ve been mightily tempted.”

There are more noises of agreement. Arthur himself has forgiven Dutch for trusting Micah, but he certainly hasn’t forgotten it. 

“Thank you. I appreciate you all for staying strong with me,” Dutch says, touched. “Now, as far as the moving plan goes…”

Hosea, carrying his portion of the money, will take most of the women and children with him first: Mary-Beth, Tilly, Abigail, and Jack. John will accompany him for additional protection; in the final stages of recovery from the wolf attack, he’s more than capable of shooting a gun, and sitting on a train won’t be altogether strenuous. Karen refuses to go with them once she learns that a rescue plan is in motion for Sean, as she wants to be at camp to greet him. Of course, she expresses it more as, “I wanna be the first to slap that bastard silly for being fool enough to get caught by some podunk bounty hunters.” So Uncle, being Uncle, volunteers to take her place instead. And lastly, Strauss tags along in place of Molly, who won’t leave without Dutch. The group will figure out their travel arrangements, likely separate into smaller pairings to avoid suspicion while still taking the same trains.

The other groups will be finalized later, once they’ve successfully saved Sean. Arthur pulls Lenny away from the bustling crowd, all chattering excitedly with one another about the development, to discuss the mission. Arthur is finding it difficult to be in a wholly celebratory mood with so much else weighing on his mind. He has a $5,000 bounty, one of his closest friends has just been shot, and the other is facing imminent death by hanging. He’ll relax when all that is taken care of.

They sit down to outline the route the bounty hunters will take, and pinpoint the best place to take Sean. It’s a tenuous plan, given that they can’t predict their exact movements or see how many men there are, but it gives them both some confidence to have a plan at all.

“If they’re really going up the Dakota, we should wait for them at this shore,” Lenny says, marking a spot not far from where he and Micah were camped. “That’s the only point where they can dock, unless they’re taking him up to Lake Owajinla.”

“Won’t it be dangerous to attack with their boat nearby? Could have a lot of men on it.”

“No, the Montana is too shallow and too narrow for a vessel like that. They’ll be forced to transport him on a smaller boat.” Lenny shrugs when Arthur gives him a questioning look. “I camped around there with Micah for two days. I know what the river is like.”

“If it’s such a restrictin’ thing, why are they botherin’ to take the river? Seems like a wagon would be better,” Arthur muses.

“Well, it’s difficult to ambush a boat. And if they have men covering the cliffs around the shore here, which they probably will, that’s a solid defense, assuming no one knows their travel plans.” Lenny smirks. “Luckily, we do. If we set up there ahead of time, we can take out the guys quietly and cut Sean loose with the rest of them none the wiser. We’ll need another man, though. Hopefully Javier rides back in time.”

Arthur snorts. “Yea, I’d rather not take Bill, unless we’re trying to blow up the boat, too. Damn, if only Charles wasn’t out. He’s the stealthiest of us all, that’s for sure. Micah shoulda shot me instead,” he says, surprising himself a bit with how much he means it. Arthur would have taken the bullet in Charles’ stead without hesitation.

“Micah should have shot himself,” says Lenny ruefully. “Anyway, we don’t have Charles, but you’re good with the bow, right?”

“I’m decent,” Arthur says. He’s used a bow almost exclusively on his hunting trips with Charles, who insists it’s neater kill.

“You can position yourself on the cliffs for a better shot with it, and maybe take out any watchmen up there. Javier and I will hide at the shore.” Lenny taps the table thoughtfully. “Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe we should bring Bill to blow up the boat as a getaway plan, if things go south. Throw some fire bottles, make a distraction. He can stay up on the cliffs with you and take out the other side’s guards.”

Arthur glances at Bill, who’s currently necking a bottle of whiskey, engaged in a hearty drinking contest with John. Bill suddenly chokes and sputters, whiskey dribbling down his chin, after it goes down the wrong pipe. He swears, loudly, when John starts to snicker.

“We can think about it,” Arthur says. 

“...Yeah, let’s do that.” Lenny starts marking up the map again, muttering to himself about positioning. Drawing points where he himself would place men. 

“You’re good at this strategy business,” Arthur comments. 

“I guess so,” Lenny admits, humble. He’s all gung-ho when it comes to one-upping Sean about heists and gunslinging, but he’s always been reserved when it comes to his more intellectual habits, such as reading. “I used to play chess with my dad. Drilled some smarts into me.”

“Being smart will take you a long way,” Arthur says encouragingly. “Hell, look at Hosea. Ain’t none of us in this life dream to make it to his age.”

“Sure… But what about you, Arthur?” Lenny asks innocently.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re his age, and not quite as smart…” Lenny snatches the map and bounds off, laughing, before Arthur can knock the hat off his head.

“You’re gonna get it later,” Arthur threatens, trying and failing to suppress a chuckle. He remembers when Lenny would only ever address him with distant veneration; Sean has been a terrible influence on the kid.

.

.

.

Lenny’s plan goes swimmingly; Arthur, Lenny, and Javier, who returned two days prior with reassurances of Charles’ steady recovery, quietly take down the men at the shore and retrieve Sean without a single shot being fired. The whole thing goes so well that it makes Arthur seriously reconsider Lenny’s role in the group as a simple gunman. With such a tactical brain, he should be scheming right alongside Dutch and Hosea. Of course, it’s something to bring up later (if at all, given that they’re giving up the outlaw life), as Hosea and his group are already long gone on a westbound train.

“Oy, where the hell is everybody?” is the first thing Sean says when they bring him to camp.

“Ouch, lass, what was that for?” is the second thing, as Karen makes good on her promise and slaps him right across the face.

“For getting caught like a green boy on his first job, and making us all worry about you,” Karen scolds, and then throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Dutch sends Lenny and Javier into town to purchase some quality drinks for a party, and they return with crates of whiskey and several bottles of tequila, which was apparently from the general store owner’s private stash. Javier stood around polishing his knife for several minutes, pretending to examine the alcohol, until the owner cracked and brought out the hidden goods.

The celebration lasts well into the night, even with some of the gang missing. In fact, that seems to give those still around a renewed commitment to have as much drunken fun as possible, so that they may later boast about the night to those who weren’t there to experience it. Even Arthur, immensely cheered by Javier’s report of Charles’ health, allows himself to let loose. Perhaps a bit too loose.

The tequila gives them all loopy, dancing energy, and Arthur ends up swinging wildly around with Lenny, Swanson, Pearson, and Sean, doing a clumsy rendition of the can-can. At some point, Arthur slips a folksy banjo track that he knows Dutch absolutely hates onto the gramophone, and absconds with it before Dutch can do anything. Dutch is too composed to actually run, but he does stalk after him in a manner reminiscent of an angry school teacher (or so Lenny says). This eventually results in a vigorous debate about the best genre of music ( blues , insists Lenny; opera, says Durch imperiously; classical, sniffs Miss Grimshaw, even though everyone knows perfectly well she loves minstrel tunes) — ultimately, Javier climbs onto the table with his guitar and declares: “ I am the best genre of music!” and starts playing, and no one can really argue with that.

Dutch cajoles Molly into dancing a sloppy version of some folk swing, which Lenny cheerfully decries as an insult to not only his eyes, but all his people, who invented “actually good dancing”. He grabs Arthur and demonstrates the proper way to lead a lady, and Arthur is just drunk enough to laugh and go along with it. 

Karen spends most of the night plastered to Sean, and also plastered in general. Her and Sean disappear behind the girl’s wagon, which is empty since Mary-Beth and Tilly are halfway to Colorado. Sean stumbles back to the party later than her, cheeks flushed, shirt unbuttoned, and fly only half-done up. Lenny makes an exaggerated wolf howl when he sees him, and they all burst into raucous guffaws.

“Feck off, the lot of ya,” Sean says, grinning, and snags another bottle of whiskey. “Morgan, c’mere, drink this with me. You’ve barely had a drop!”

That is patently untrue. Of course, Arthur is way past the point of caring about that. 

“You’re fuckin’ heavy, old man,” Sean complains when Arthur slings an arm around his shoulder, but he doesn’t shrug him off. They both wobble precariously as they pass the bottle back and forth, and through silent, mutual accord, flop down on the grass a ways off from the campfire, where Susan and Karen are belting out a raunchy tune. “ And he’s the one who turned me into a dirty little whore!”

It is warm, Arthur thinks, with Sean beside him and drink in his veins. Micah is dead, Charles is better, and Hosea, John, and the rest are riding at 60 miles per hour toward safety. Toward their dreams. Arthur tilts his head up to the sky. The night is clear, stars shining like a thousand good omens. 

“You cold or somethin’?” Arthur asks Sean, who’s begun to tremble. He realizes belatedly that Sean is shaking from repressed sobs.

Sean laughs, a choked sound. “Yea. I’m freezing next to your cold, cold heart.”

Arthur permits the weak reply. He tightens his arm around Sean, pulling him in closer.

“I’m just drunk,” Sean says. “I’m not…”

“Shuddup,” slurs Arthur, bumping their heads together. “You’re here now with your family, back where you belong. We’ve all been waitin’ on your dumb ass.”

Sean shakes, crying and sniffling and occasionally taking swigs of whiskey to disguise it, and Arthur stays beside him, a quiet comfort, as the women’s voices ring through the air: “ Singing home, boys, home, it’s where I want to be — Home, boys, home, with a girl on either knee…”

.

.

.

Hosea’s letter arrives soon after Sean’s return.

Dear Uncle Tacitus,

The mountains here are really beautiful. When I look at them, I feel like the embrace of Mother Nature is enveloping me, keeping me safe. However, the weather is less than stellar — it’s far too cold even for spring! I think cousin Jackie and I are going to keep heading for warmer climates. You should come join us. Seems the snow has finally melted, and there are no storms to worry about. At least, not for us.

Best,

Caroline

Over the next few days, more of the gang trickles out. Arthur conveys to Dutch that he’d rather stay behind with him, make sure everything goes smoothly, and Dutch acquiesces. “I raised you well,” Dutch says, with a proud smile. 

Arthur has to spend an afternoon persuading Miss Grimshaw to take most of “his” money and set out with the remaining fools of the camp: Pearson and Swanson. After she makes up her mind, though, she has them packed and ready to leave within fifteen minutes. Arthur has complete and utter faith that she’ll be able to keep the lot in line. Sean, Karen, and Lenny are to travel with them as protection but keep their distance, holding onto Arthur’s remaining portion. Their exit is the subject of much fanfare, i.e. Sean hops onto an upturned crate of whiskey and makes a fairly incoherent speech while waving a handful of bills in the air. They entrust the money to Lenny after that.

Within a week and a half, only Arthur, Javier, Bill, Dutch, and Molly are left at Horseshoe Overlook. The camp is stripped of personal possessions, just skeletal wagons and tents rotting where they stand, looking like a plague hit. A strange tension lingers as they await further news, and Dutch seems unhappier than ever when he surveys the desolate clearing. Arthur wants to go find Charles as soon as possible, but Dutch insists on waiting longer, letting things cool off. He clams up when Arthur tries to argue the point, preferring to hole up in his tent with Molly. After a few days, Arthur’s frustration wins out over his patience. He tells Javier that he’s going to go find Charles, and then leaves without checking in with Dutch.

The ride to Strawberry feels both too long and too short. He’s eager to see Charles again, but during the extended separation, Arthur has become increasingly aware that he’s perhaps too eager, in a manner ill-befitting a simple brother-in-arms. The idea of losing Charles shook loose feelings that Arthur isn’t yet willing to put a name to. He’s sure that seeing Charles again will only make them grow. 

He spends the trip skirting around the topic in his mind, and distracts himself by imagining the land they might purchase in California. Perhaps a simple field with verdant grass and rich soil, ready for cattle and crop alike. Maybe acres of rolling hills that sprout up trellises for a vineyard. Or even more spectacularly, some beachside property with as much sand and sea as plains.

Arthur can see it, now, whatever it is. He has a hard time placing the people there, but the land is endless and grand. Maybe he can put a few — maybe, mostly, he can put Charles there, sweat glistening on his skin, long hair tied back to help with the heat. Maybe he can put himself there, too, nudging Charles with the toe of his boot, exchanging a sly smile in the midst of breeze-blown grass.

Goddamnit. Arthur decides to just think about nothing at all, and that works pretty well for the remainder of the journey.

Strawberry comes into view right as the sun reaches its zenith. Arthur slows his horse to a canter as he enters the town proper, and then hitches the mustang outside the post office. 

The obnoxious hollers of a paperboy catch his attention from across the street. “Latest issue of The New Hanover Gazette! Can’t miss it! Evil brewing and people stewing! Blood spilled and wheat milled! Gangs riding and men hiding! Perhaps the end is afoot!”

Arthur trudges over and buys a copy. “Stop spoutin’ gibberish, boy,” he says.

The boy shrugs and hands him the paper. “Got you to buy one, didn’t it?”

He has a point there. 

“Where’s the doctor here?” Arthur asks in a surly tone, annoyed at having been bested by a 12-year-old.

The boy directs him across the bridge to a quaint building with a brick-red roof. Arthur flips through the paper as he walks over. His last brush with the news had led to rather fortuitous events, and he figures it can’t hurt to stay updated on the Cornwall-O’Driscoll situation now. Also, it prevents him from impatiently sprinting to the medical like a worried husband, or something equally absurd.

The front page has nothing of relevance, but page two has an article about a recent robbery of a coach carrying Cornwall’s payroll. On page four, there’s a story warning about the Van Der Linde still at-large, some members last seen in a shoot-out with bounty hunters in West Elizabeth. That’s… worrisome. Arthur folds the paper away and heads into the clinic — it’s time to get Charles out of this cursed state.

“Excuse me,” says Arthur to the receptionist, a wrinkled man with slicked-back hair, “I’m looking for my friend. Big black fellow, came in ‘bout two weeks ago with a bullet wound.”

“Oh, you must mean Mr. Wesson,” says the receptionist, squinting at Arthur. “He’s staying at the hotel. Our practice is too small to accomodate long-term guests.”

“Right. Thank you.”

This time, Arthur jogs to the hotel like a damned worried husband. He didn’t much like the flare of suspicion he saw in that receptionist’s eyes.

The hotel manager gives him a similarly doubtful look, but he informs Arthur that Mr. Wesson is in Room 3. Arthur climbs up the stairs and knocks on the door.

“Mr. Wesson?” he says cautiously. “It’s your friend, uh, Tacitus.”

“Come in,” says a familiar voice, muffled by the door.

Arthur wipes his clammy palms on his pants before entering the room. Charles is perched on the side of the bed, shirtless, the right side of his chest and shoulder wrapped in thick layers of bandages. He looks hale, otherwise, eyes bright and alert. Arthur exhales with relief, closes the door behind him.

“It’s good to see you, Charles,” Arthur says, a severe understatement. 

“You as well,” says Charles. There’s a lilt to his tone that Arthur can’t quite decipher.

“I got a lot to catch you up on, but we should get out of this town first. Think I caught the eye of some folk. You good to move?”

Charles nods. “I’ve been fine for days now.”

He grabs his shirt, a new blue cotton button-up splayed out on the bed. His injury, however, makes it difficult for him to shrug the sleeve on. Arthur notices him struggling and walks over.

“Let me.”

“I got it,” Charles protests, annoyed.

Arthur fixes him with a look, attempting to channel Hosea’s brand of stern disapproval. Charles stands up with a sigh and reluctantly gives the shirt over.

Arthur helps him put his arms through the left sleeve and pulls it up with ease. The right side is a little trickier, requiring some gentle maneuvering. He can’t stop himself from noticing how thick Charles’ arms are, how the shirt stretches over his bicep. Then comes the buttons. The back of Arthur’s neck heats up as he does up the bottom button, hands brushing dangerously close to Charles’ abdomen. He has to tamp down the urge to place his palms against Charles’ stomach, feel the muscles there. When he finishes the last button, just beneath the strong shape of Charles’ collarbone, he lightly brushes his fingers over the fabric.

“Done,” Arthur says coarsely, dropping his hands. He looks up and is startled to find that Charles is mere inches away. He can see the flecks of lighter brown in Charles’ irises, can count each individual eyelash. 

“Thanks,” says Charles, the word ghosting from his lips to brush against Arthur’s cheek. He holds Arthur’s gaze, equally intense.

“We were … I was real worried about you, Charles. Would’ve come sooner if I could,” Arthur says apologetically. “Dutch didn’t want to draw attention and…” He trails off and frowns, not liking the sound of the excuse.

Nonetheless, some tension bleeds from Charles’ shoulders. “I know,” he says, the odd quality of his voice from before gone. 

“If you had died, I,” Arthur stops himself. “Well, I dunno.”

It’s hard to say it wouldn’t have been worth it. Now that the safety of the gang has become a reality, a great burden lifted, Arthur isn’t so selfish as to pit one man’s life against everyone else’s. And yet, seeing Charles alive and well in front of him brings nearly equivalent joy and relief as the idea of the rest of his family at peace.

“I didn’t,” Charles says, simply. “I’m alright.”

He takes Arthur’s hand in his own and squeezes his fingers, reassuring, affectionate. Arthur’s whole chest warms at the gesture. The knowledge that his strange feelings might genuinely be returned sinks in, making him lightheaded. A barrier between them has shattered. 

“Good,” says Arthur, feeling dumb and brave and slightly breathless, sliding his thumb over Charles’ wrist. His eyes flicker down to Charles’ full lips. His heart stutters in his chest, and Arthur thinks he can feel Charles’ pulse quicken, too. For a moment, the two of them stand suspended in time.

Then, a voice from outside drifts up through the window.

“...yes, he did look quite a bit like the poster. Frightening, really quite frightening…”

“Shit,” Arthur curses, and steps away to look down at the street. The hotel manager is outside speaking to a deputy, the gold star glinting ominously. “We gotta get out of here. Think we’ll have to jump out this window, make a run for it. Will you be alright?”

“I’ll have to be,” says Charles, and steps over to the window. 

Arthur helps him up onto the ledge, steadying him by his back. “My horse is at the post office. Start going first.”

“You better follow me,” Charles says, frowning. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

“I won’t, I swear it,” says Arthur, though, admittedly, it did cross his mind to hang back and delay the deputy while Charles escaped.

Beneath them, the lawman has disappeared into the hotel lobby. Charles takes the chance to jump, rolling onto his side and standing up in one movement. Several passersby yelp in shock.

“Come down,” Charles hisses, with a pained grimace. That could not have been good for his injury.

Arthur hikes himself up and jumps, attempting to imitate Charles but landing ungracefully on his side. Ignoring the pain, he picks himself up and then hurriedly follows Charles down the street.

“Hey, you two! Stop right there!” comes a shout once they’re halfway to the post office. “Stop, in the name of the law!”

“Aw, shit,” Arthur mutters, sparing a backwards glance. Just the one deputy still, though his arm is moving like he’s about to draw his weapon.

Arthur turns, whips out his own revolver and fires a shot at the deputy’s arm. It strikes true, bullet lodging in his forearm. However, it is a temporary triumph; more lawmen are now pouring out of the sheriff’s office.

“Come help me,” Charles grunts, struggling to get onto Arthur’s mustang.

Arthur lifts him onto the horse, then leaps onto the front. Charles wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pressing tightly to his back.

“Hold on tight,” Arthur says, and they ride.

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They lose their pursuers on a winding journey northward into Ambarino. Arthur takes them further to a vast valley that intersects the Dakota River and provides a natural crossing point to New Hanover. 

“Your shoulder alright?” Arthur asks once they’ve reached the bottom of the valley. Although the current is quick, the river is shallow here; a bed of pebbles and soft sand is visible through the clear waters.

“It’s fine,” Charles says. The strain of his tone suggests that it’s not really fine.

Arthur scans the area and finds a relatively private spot to make camp: Up the riverbank, a cluster of shrubs and collapsed boulders will provide adequate cover from potential onlookers.

“We’ll stop here, rest up a bit,” Arthur says, turning his horse southward.

“It really is fine.”

“Well, I don’t wanna ride straight back to camp anyway after a chase like that.” 

It’s a poor excuse, and Charles knows it. He huffs, the air tickling the back of Arthur’s neck, but he doesn’t argue the point further.

Arthur helps Charles get down from the horse, one hand on the small of his back and the other supporting his elbow.

“I feel like a gentleman caller,” says Arthur.

“You have some wandering hands for a gentleman,” says Charles, finding his footing.

Arthur jolts and retracts his hands; one had accidentally slipped down to his backside when Charles righted himself. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles says. His voice drops to that low timbre, the one that always makes Arthur’s cheeks feel hot, “But next time, buy me dinner first.”

Arthur’s brain short-circuits.

The next time he can think straight, Charles has already settled against a boulder and is checking his bandages -- some blood seeps through, but not enough for the stitches to be completely torn. Neither of them have proper medical equipment to fix up the wound if they are, anyway.

Arthur goes to sit beside him, plopping down a bit closer than appropriate. He can feel the heat radiating from Charles’ body. Charles is like a furnace, and Arthur wants to curl up beside him like a contented pup. Wants to scoot closer, or put his arm around Charles, or rest his head on his shoulder.

“So, what’s the situation at camp?” asks Charles, businesslike.

“Oh, uh, it’s alright,” Arthur stammers, embarrassed by Charles’ focus and his own apparent lack thereof. He clears his throat, buying time to gather his thoughts. “Everyone’s headed out ‘cept for Dutch, Molly, Bill, and Javier. Dutch wants to wait for Hosea to get everything in order before we go.”

“Everything in order?” Charles repeats.

“Buy some land, get papers for whoever needs ‘em. Make sure we’re settling in the right area and all.” Arthur shrugs. He doesn’t know what else it might entail. “Shouldn’t be much longer. Dutch said maybe a week or two.”

“Mm.” Charles contemplates this for a bit. “It might be wiser to leave now. Seems like we’re tempting fate, hanging around so close to Blackwater.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I’ve been arguin’ with Dutch ‘bout it for the past week now.” Arthur frowns and pulls up some grass, picking at the blades. “Wanted to come get you earlier and then hightail it outta here.”

“Truthfully, it was a risk coming to get me at all. You should have left.”

Arthur’s frown intensifies and his accent deepens, as it tends to when he’s particularly incensed. “Whatchu mean by that? You think we woulda just left ya?”

Charles exhales, looking away. “I know you wouldn’t . But you should have. I would’ve been fine.”

Sometimes, because Charles has integrated so smoothly into the gang, because Arthur can’t quite remember what life was like before without him there, Arthur forgets that Charles was running it alone for years. Practically his whole life. He isn’t yet used to the concept of people waiting for him, having his back. Caring about him, like Arthur does.

That’s the feeling that Arthur didn’t want to name earlier: He cares about Charles, so sorely that sometimes it hurts. Cares about him in a way he’s only cared about Mary before. 

Given a title, the feeling emerges, irrepressible and more fervent than ever. Suddenly, he needs Charles to know this. 

“Charles, I could never just leave you like that.” Arthur shifts closer, pressing their thighs together, encouraging Charles to look at him again. He admits, thickly, “I care about you too much. More than a man should care about another man.”

The confession curls slowly between them, filling the air like cigar smoke. Arthur sees the words fully register, sees Charles’ eyes widen and his lips part. He’s breathtaking, in that moment. Arthur wants to sketch him, preserve his features in perpetuity. 

“S’alright if you don’t feel the same,” Arthur says. It’s a lot to expect from someone, male or female, to reciprocate that intensity.

“Arthur,” Charles says, fondly, “of course I do.” 

He leans forward and gently presses his lips to Arthur’s. Arthur inhales, surprised, then returns the kiss, deepening it. Charles’ lips are soft and plush, and he tastes like mint leaves and cigarettes. It’s nothing like kissing Mary, and Arthur chases away any comparisons that flock in his mind. There’s no Mary in his life now, or ever again, most likely. There’s only Charles, beautiful and sturdy and here , sharing the sweetest of sins with him, and Arthur feels drunk off his lips.

Charles brings a calloused palm up to stroke Arthur’s cheek, thumb cupping his jaw, as he licks into Arthur’s mouth. Desire flames hotly in Arthur’s belly, a burn that he’s rarely felt before. He puts a hand on Charles’ leg, squeezes the strong muscles there. Slides his up until he’s found the softer flesh of Charles’ inner thigh, and rubs his thumb in slow circles there.

Charles shudders and draws back a bit. His pupils are dilated, darkening his brown eyes with lust. 

“You sure you want to go there?” he asks, voice low.

Arthur stops his ministrations. He was only barely conscious that he was doing it. “I dunno,” he admits. “I haven’t been with a man before. Have you?”

“A few,” Charles says. He smiles softly and leans his forehead against Arthur’s, their noses brushing. “It’s alright. Let’s just take it slow.” He kisses Arthur again, chaste, one hand still curved lovingly along Arthur’s cheek.

The afternoon passes like that: the two of them nestled together by the river, chasing each other’s mouths and cherishing the little slice of peace they’ve carved for themselves after weeks apart, as the world changes around them.

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Come evening, Arthur is dizzy with affection and joy. He’s about ready to set up camp and spend the whole night basking in Charles’ company. But Charles, damnably sensible, insists that they head back to the gang, citing that Dutch is probably worried something went wrong. So they mount back up on Arthur’s horse and ride back to Horseshoe Overlook.

It isn’t a long trip, and they make it back before night has properly fallen. Bill hollers at them as they canter past, “Who’s there?”

“Arthur and Charles,” says Arthur, then adds, just for the hell of it, “you big buffoon.”

“Oh shit, Charles, welcome back,” Bill says, then to Arthur, in retaliation: “Get outta my face, idiot.”

Charles laughs at the exchange. As they dismount, he says, “You two ever said a nice word to each other?”

Arthur snorts. “Has Bill ever said a single nice word to anybody?”

They approach the campfire, its yellowed light fending off the night’s shadows. Dutch, Molly, and Javier are seated there, talking in low tones. It’s a bizarre image. Arthur can’t remember the last time he saw Dutch by the fireside, sitting on a splintery log and bumming it with the rest of them. Probably back when it was just him, Hosea, and Arthur, a ragtag team of three. 

“Christ, Charles, are you a sight for sore eyes,” Dutch says, like he hasn’t spent the past week delaying Arthur from seeing him. “Come join us. Both of you— no more running away, Arthur,” he adds, only half-teasing.

They obediently settle by the fire; Arthur guides Charles to the sole chair, which has been left empty ( like Javier hadn’t wanted to take it, if Dutch didn’t ), and sits on a crate next to Javier. Arthur listens as Dutch cycles through some welcome dialogue: inquiries about Charles’ health, expressions of gratitude for his aid with the Blackwater money, praise for saving “our family and making a new chapter of our lives possible”. It evolves into a rather lengthy speech about Charles’ importance to the gang and how glad Dutch is to call him family. The last of the tension drains from Charles as Dutch reassures him of his value. 

“...and Arthur here was especially keen on seeing you,” Dutch says, “so much that he ran off without a word to the rest of us.”

Arthur shrugs, unrepentant. “I told Javier.”

Javier scoffs. “Yea, as you were riding past me.”

“Communication is key, my boy, especially now,” Dutch says. “We can’t afford to have you gallivanting about the country as you please. Not like before.”

“I was gettin’ Charles, not going for a joy ride,” Arthur protests.

Dutch glares at him sternly, making him feel like a hooligan kid again. Back when he first joined Dutch and Hosea, he was always getting into trouble: mouthing off to the wrong guy, joining in on bar fights for no reason, pickpocketing the mayor. Arthur’s intimately familiar with Dutch’s scolding glare.

“Alright, I understand,” Arthur surrenders, the kid inside him instinctively called to heel.

“I know you do.” Satisfied, Dutch drops the subject. “Molly, would you be a dear and grab us some whiskey? We should toast to Charles’ safe return.”

“I’m not a serving girl, Dutch,” she sniffs. Dutch whispers something in her ear and kisses her delicately on the cheek, and she melts. Goes to retrieve a bottle from Dutch’s tent.

There are no glasses in the camp, so they make do with scrubbed-out coffee mugs and, in Dutch’s case, the actual bottle. 

“Welcome home,” Dutch says, raising his bottle.

“It’s good to be back,” Charles says sincerely.

They cheers, and the whiskey burns something fierce. Then Charles meets Arthur’s eyes and smiles, a soft and secretive thing meant just for him, and Arthur can’t be sure it’s the alcohol that’s making him feel warm all over.

They don’t drink much that night, aware of their limited firepower and watch. Charles retires early, absolved of any guard duty despite his best protests. Javier gives him John’s tent, with a real cot to sleep on, which Javier took over when the Marstons left. Dutch whisks Molly away with a spring in his step, like everything has fallen neatly into place with Charles’ return. It makes Arthur wonder why Dutch was pussyfooting around it so much to begin with. Maybe he really was just being careful of the law — Arthur had been recognized, after all, just like Dutch anticipated. Arthur decides to quit his recent questioning and doubts regarding Dutch’s decisions. Without Micah gone, the man is clearly recovered from whatever bout of insanity he was suffering during the Blackwater affair. 

Arthur takes the guard shift after Bill, and smiles to himself, looking out into the dark woods and pondering Dutch’s returned rationality. It’s a good, good thought.

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“I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you, son,” says Dutch in the morning, walking up to the table where Arthur is breakfasting. Dutch sits across from him and clasps his hands together. “We aren’t following the others to California.”

Arthur stops, mid-chew, to stare blankly at him. 

“I have been contemplating this for a while, and it’s the best course of action,” Dutch continues, lordly. “Besides Charles, the remaining five of us are the most wanted amongst the group, excluding Hosea and John. They’ve already made a clean break, but we shouldn’t test our luck. We’d be inviting trouble, following them.”

The flaky oats are beginning to coagulate on the side of Arthur’s teeth. 

“With just a group of talented gunmen, and fifty thousand dollars, we could accomplish anything. You and Charles alone are a powerful duo. Add Javier and Bill and me to the mix, without having to worry about the safety of twenty others,” Dutch chuckles, like he’s a fool for not realizing this before, “hell, we can conquer the damn world.”

Arthur swallows the greying mush in his mouth and tries to argue. To retort with something poignant, educated. What comes out is a bewildered: “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Dutch is undeterred. He closes his fist emphatically as he says, “I’m talking about our shared dream , Arthur. I’m talking about the opportunity we have now to claim real freedom. We have all the money in the world, and all the firepower.”

“I thought our dream was a ranch. Living in California with, with Hosea and the rest. We’re just gonna abandon them?” Arthur says, incredulous.

“It isn’t abandonment, Arthur. We’re freeing them, too, of the burden of having to look over their shoulders every day. Our very presence puts them all in danger.”

It stings, in the way that only truth can. The amount on their heads totals almost $20,000, for offenses that can’t be paid off. Arthur himself is wanted for murder, grand larceny, robbery, assault — the whole nine-yards.

“Does Hosea know about this?” Arthur asks, his heart sinking. The fact that the most infamous members of the group had been left behind is too deliberate. “Did you plan this with him?”

Dutch hesitates. “No. He doesn’t know,” he admits. “But he would certainly see the sense in it.”

Arthur reluctantly sees the sense in it, too. Without them, without him, the rest of the gang would be much safer. As Dutch said, they could live without the burden of many wanted men hiding amongst them. Hosea’s face wasn’t well-known, and he was an old man besides. Ugly bastard that John was, at least the new, disfiguring scar would help disguise his true identity.

“Have you talked to the others?” Arthur says, with grim resignation, knowing that Dutch surely has. He would only come to Arthur, the most troublesome person to persuade, once he acquired guaranteed support.

Dutch smiles broadly. “Bill and Javier both agree with me. I was hoping you would speak to Charles. I know the two of you are close.” 

“What if Charles doesn’t want to stay?” Arthur asks, quietly.

“Then he’s free to hop the next train to California, of course.” Dutch places his palm over Arthur’s hand. “As are you, my boy. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

(The rings on his fingers are cold against Artur’s skin. Arthur remembers the day he presented Dutch with the gold-carved lion band, a year after getting picked up by Dutch. Arthur saw a slick, mustached businessman in town with the gaudy thing on his finger, and he thought: Dutch would love this. Before he knew it, he was following the man to a hotel room, telling the receptionist he was just going to find his pa, flashing his baby blue eyes. Arthur closed his fists around the door’s shiny golden knocker, rapped twice. The man opened the door and blinked at him, and asked, concerned, if everything was alright.

No one ever expects to get stabbed by a kid , Arthur thought, and stuck his knife into the man’s belly.

Arthur wiped the blood off the ring before giving it to Dutch. He didn’t clean himself up much, though. He wanted Dutch to know. Dutch took the jewelry and slid it onto his pinky finger, smiled as smugly as a lion, and called him “son” for the first time. And Arthur’s been vying for that same approval ever since.)

Arthur says, “I’ll stay. You know I will.”

“Thank you. I’ve always been able to count on you. You’ll see, Arthur— this is all for the best.” Dutch pats his hand, and leaves him. Unbidden, Micah’s last words form a ghostly whisper in his ear: Good dog. 

Arthur puts his head in his hands. He sits there for some indeterminate time, counting his rhythmic breaths. Peace slipped through his fingers in an instant. He doesn’t know why he expected anything else. It was a cruel dream, to think that he could escape this life. To think that Dutch would roll over like that. Now, he just has to convince Charles to leave, and live a better life.

Arthur steels himself and gets up. And that’s about when the bullet tears through his back.

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He dreams of a cyclops with yellow teeth, grinning down at him. 

“I was aiming for your pretty little head,” the cyclops says. “But this gives me a better idea. An eye for an eye.”

Something wet bursts and trickles down his cheek, and the dream dissolves into a haze of gunfire.

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Someone is holding his hand. 

“Arthur?” says the someone, quietly, squeezing his fingers. It’s a familiar gesture, and a familiar voice. 

He opens his eyes and is immediately struck by a sense of wrongness. The world around him is faintly blurry and somehow off, like he’s viewing it through a lens. He brings a hand up to his left eye, and finds a thick wad of gauze.

“Arthur,” says Charles, still clutching his other hand. “Thank god.”

Arthur tilts his head to look at him, then winces at the pain that small movement brings. “Hey Charles,” he rasps. 

Hunched beside him in the tiny room Arthur recognizes as Valentine’s surgery, Charles looks downright haggard; his stubble has grown out into unkempt scruff, his hair is unwashed and knotted, and the skin beneath his dark eyes sags like he hasn’t slept in days. Still, the sight of him makes calm drift through Arthur, soothing the initial nervous confusion.

“What,” Arthur says, then chokes on a cough as his throat dries out.

Charles grabs a cup of water from the nightstand and tips it gently into Arthur’s mouth, keeping one hand behind Arthur’s head to support him. Arthur drinks greedily for a few seconds, then lays back.

“What happened?” he asks.

Fury tugs Charles’ brows down. “Micah ambushed us with some of his men. We killed them all, but not before Micah got to you.”

“Micah?” Arthur flounders. “I shot him. In the head .”

“You did. The bullet grazed him, I guess. Took out his eye.” He grimaces and casts a weary glance at the left half of Arthur’s face.

Oh. Arthur rubs the bandages over his eye. “Guess we’re even, then,” Arthur says vacantly.

“No. Micah’s dead now,” Charles says, in a flat tone that suggests he made damn sure of that.

Arthur shoves aside his alarm over losing an eye. There are far more pressing matters. “Are the others alright? Where’s Dutch at?”

An impossibly grimmer expression overtakes Charles’ features. “Everyone else is fine, mostly. Nothing like what happened to you. They… Well, they left. Dutch left.”

“That’s good,” says Arthur, relieved. “Where to?”

Charles shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Fear creeps into Arthur’s chest, cold and sharp. “Are they coming back?”

Charles’ silence is answer enough.

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They stay in the tiny surgery for another week before the doctor declares Arthur ready for travel. Or rather, he says: “You probably won’t die on the road, but if you do, I absolve myself of all responsibility.”

Charles buys them two tickets to California. Dutch left them $1,000, more than enough money to pay for the doctor’s bill and a private cabin, horse-transport included, for the cross-country trip (and to ensure the conductor doesn’t ask any questions). When Charles shows him the small fold of bills, Arthur wonders, briefly, what Dutch plans on doing with the other $49,000. Where he plans to go now that he’s shed all the dead weight. Arthur quickly cuts off that train of thought. He’s been trying desperately not to think about Dutch.

When the time comes to depart, Charles practically has to carry Arthur onto the train. He sets Arthur down one of the beds and locks the door. At Arthur’s beckon, Charles crawls into bed alongside him and curls their bodies together. 

The trip passes slowly, in their ritzy cabin with ornate red walls and golden trim, probably the fanciest place Arthur has stayed in his whole life. Arthur spends most of the time asleep, still far from wholly recovered. In the waking hours, he doesn’t talk much, preferring to watch the passing scenery, white-misted mountains and sprawling countryside, until Charles pulls him away from the window. Arthur knows Charles is worried about his behavior. About the hours of morose silence and the shaky refusal to talk about Dutch. About the one morning he spends staring into the cabin’s hand-mirror before he crushes it beneath his foot.

Charles lets him be, helping without words. He keeps Arthur grounded with the comfort of his presence, steady and unyielding, the kisses he presses to Arthur’s skin. Holds Arthur when he wakes up from dreams of a knife carving into his flesh and startles in the darkness, thinking he’s lost his other eye. When Arthur is feeling up to it, they share complimentary cigars and drink whiskey straight from a glittering crystal decanter.

Charles pays a doctor onboard to discreetly attend to Arthur and remove Charles’ own stitches. The doctor tuts at the “shoddy work” and goes off on a long tangent about the superiority of city-trained professionals, but he does his job well and without making any bothersome inquiries. Still, there’s a sense of relief when he gets off at Salt Lake City.

One early morning, so early that it’s practically night, Arthur wakes up before Charles and goes to use the restroom. When he returns, there’s a copy of The Pacific Weekly at their door. Arthur rifles through the paper, scanning the headlines without entirely acknowledging what his sleep-addled brain is searching for.

Charles finds him, slumped outside the door with his head in his hands, ink-stiff pages scattered on the cherry-wood floor. He pulls Arthur back inside their cabin and into a snug embrace, guiding Arthur to bury his face in the crook of Charles’ neck.

“He left me,” says Arthur, hollowly. “Soon as I was a trouble to him.”

Charles puts his lips to the crown of Arthur’s head, a silent comfort. Outside, the desert turns into mountains, and then into miles of yellow-green plains. The ocean blooms across the horizon, caressing the cosmic sands of California.

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coda

It’s a fine morning, the sun bursting against a clear blue sky. Charles stretches on the front porch of his and Arthur’s cabin and idly takes in the acres of verdant land. He’s woken up a bit late, and the wagon is missing. The women have likely gone to the market already in search of a bull (their heifer is healthy and ready for breeding) and two wayward fools; Uncle and Swanson wandered into town together last night, and are probably neck-deep in either liquor, gambling debt, or both. Sean and Lenny are specks in the distance, ostensibly repairing a fence but more than likely just shooting the shit. The two of them aren’t exceptionally useful around the ranch, but Charles doesn’t fault them for it. It’s been a strange lifestyle adjustment for everyone.

On his way to the stables, Charles walks past John, snoring on a hay bed outside the Marston family house. He must’ve ticked off Abigail again. Charles nudges John with his boot, but John merely snuffles and rolls over. Well, not his business if the pasty fool wants to get sunburnt. Charles chuckles and continues onward.

Taima chuffs when she sees Charles, and noses him insistently when he gets close.

“You’re spoiled, girl,” Charles scolds, but feeds her a peppermint anyway. It’s a bad habit he picked up from Arthur, who likes to go down the row each evening giving every horse a sugar cube for a “hard day’s work,” whether that’s true or not.

Charles brushes out her mane, mind drifting from the repetitive movements. A few months ago, most of his free thoughts were dedicated to Arthur. Specifically, worrying about him. The man was like a ghost from the time he woke up in Valentine, all through the train ride, and even weeks after they arrived at the ranch. Charles was beginning to think Arthur would never recover from Dutch’s abandonment, when one evening Hosea pulled Arthur aside for a private talk in his cabin. It ended up lasting the whole night, and Arthur returned to Charles in the morning with an apology and a fierce hug. 

Arthur’s better, now. Not exactly back to his old self, who was gruff and too cold at times. Instead, he’s mellowed out. He smiles more, gives and accepts affection more freely. Has the self-assurance to ask for it, from Charles, even though he never needs to. Charles feels like he’s overflowing with love for Arthur these days, and it’s a wonder that no one has told him to put a stopper in it, quit embarrassing himself.

Charles detects a familiar gait behind him, a prelude to strong arms wrapping around his waist. He leans back into Arthur, tilting his head up to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Mornin’,” murmurs Arthur, punctuating the greeting with a kiss to his cheek.

“Good morning,” says Charles, smiling like a sop. “You look good from all angles, you know that?” 

It’s true. Arthur looks handsome upside-down — silly, as all people do, but still so handsome. Charles is on a lifelong mission to make Arthur realize how gorgeous he is.

Charles must be doing an alright job, because instead of clamming up and rejecting the compliment, Arthur just says, “You look better, Mr. Smith,” and cranes his neck to kiss Charles on the lips.

It’s a fine morning, indeed.