Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“God-” Arthur huffed, blood seeped from the bodies around him and speckled his knuckles, “-dammit!”

Arthur looked at the three bodies at his feet: thin, bloodied before Arthur had a swing at them, and covered in white paint.

“God dammit,” He whispered to himself, still trying to catch his breath.

He took a shortcut through the swamps to avoid an encounter with the Lemoyne Raiders, but the swamp seemed to have its own freaks of nature. Though, they were nothing like the racist, gun toting nuts that roamed through the remains of old plantations. The folks that lay dead at his feet came out of nowhere. Not a shout, threat, or shot to alert passerbys of their arrival.

Why didn’t they holler or nothin’?

Arthur had jumped back in surprise when a breeze from a swishing knife brushed over his neck. He spun around to face — not one — but three men corralling him. They were dead silent.

He looked around the dark corners of the swamp, squinting to determine his surroundings and any additional threats. He had already been caught off guard once, and he feared it would happen again.

He wondered what was more dangerous: the gators or the folk that lived there. All Arthur knew was that he wanted to get back to camp and fast.

“Hey, Bubba,” Arthur patted his horse’s side, “we’re alright.”

Arthur could sense his Tennessee Walker’s skittish nature coming through, and he tried calming himself to avoid setting off Baby Bubba.

Arthur wasn’t spooked by much — even as a young boy — but these men scared the hell out of him. Even when he was sure he broke one man’s jaw, he didn’t grunt out in pain or flinch back, he halted a moment before continuing to chase him down in silence.

He hopped up on Baby Bubba and tugged at the leather reins, prompting him to trot away from the mess Arthur walked into. Arthur was reluctant to pull out his lantern to observe where he had run to, worried it would alert other folks that snuck around in the silence of the swamps. He was set on keeping the lantern void of gas ... until he got a solid kick to the face only after moving a few feet further on horseback. It wasn’t a branch — he knew it wasn’t.

Arthur held his breath, rested his hand on his Cattleman Revolver, and lit his lantern.

To his surprise, no counter attack came. But the dim glow of the lantern reflected off the object blocking his path: the front of a metal-tipped shoe — hanging at eye level. Arthur craned his neck, observing the the tree above up and surrounding him. Body after body — strung up on branches.

"Son of a bitch."

A damned lynching party.

Arthur scratched his beard, starting to wonder if he should turn around.

He went through the swamps to avoid fighting. That was the sole reason he took the shortcut: Arthur was beat, and he wanted to make it back to camp without running into any more senseless trouble. He seemed to be getting his fair share of it anyways.

Arthur turned down his lantern until he was consumed in darkness again. Arthur waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust back to the darkness so he could have a better chance at spotting alligators. He used that time to think over his next move.

Nah, he thought, no use back trackin' after getting this damn far.

Arthur slid off his horse’s saddle, and settled on leading Baby Bubba through the swamp on foot. He wanted to avoid touching as many corpses as he could. He’d already seen plenty less than a mile into the swamp. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what the folks in the swamps were like, but they weren’t making a very good first impression.

“C’mon, boy,” He urged.

While walking, Arthur made a conscious effort to avoid any structures, warmly lit with inviting lanterns or not, he didn’t want any more close calls.

They moved quick, but cautious — Arthur's boots squelched in the mud with every step, and Bubba's hooves suctioned angrily as he clopped along.

“Pretty nasty out here, huh?” Arthur spoke quietly to his horse, trying to calm his own nerves and those of his trusty steed. “We’ll be outta here soon.”

Both him and Baby Bubba would need a clean up after trekking through the sludge of the swamp. Arthur could feel it soaking through the bottom threads of his pants and clogging up his spurs.

“Who goes there?” A strangled voice hollered out.

“Shit,” Arthur muttered.

He hadn’t meant to get too close to the run-down, mossy cabin, but he had to go around from behind to avoid a small congregation of gators.

“I’m armed!”

“Just passin’ through,” Arthur hollered back, hoping it would ease the man’s nerves. “I ain’t here to rob ya or nothin’. Just simple folk passin’ through!”

“Okay,” the man’s voice wavered, “show yourself, then.”

“Alright, alright.” Arthur pushed past the brush and held his hands up. “See?”

“Oh, well I’ll be damned,” the man said, resting his shotgun on his porch, “you really are just simple folk!”

Sure.

Arthur first thought it odd that the man had been standing guard and almost preemptively searching for someone, but he realized it was probably better to be safe than sorry with the odd folk lurking about.

“Well, I best be on my way.” Arthur nodded to the man, and began to turn.

“No, no!” The haggardly old man stood abruptly, “At night? ‘Round these parts? You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I get your drift, partner,” Arthur said, “I ran into some folks already, but I don’t really got much of a choice.”

“Well, you’ve got one now!” The man beckoned Arthur to come closer. “It’s lonely out here, anyways. Come on in.”

Arthur paused, unsure if it was a good idea to trust anybody in Lemoyne as far as he could spit.

“Really, mister, you shouldn’t be out in these parts ‘til morning!” He insisted. “It ain’t safe.”

Damned right, Arthur thought.

“Oh, what the hell,” Arthur said with a shrug.

If it went poorly, Arthur was armed and this scrawny old hick wouldn’t stand a chance against him. He wasn’t worried in the slightest.

Baby Bubba let out a snort of frustration as Arthur hitched him on the railing. “Ah, don’ worry, boy. We’ll head out the moment sunrise comes ‘round.”

After hitching his horse, Arthur made his way up the porch.

“So, you hungry, huh?” The man asked, his voice warm and inviting. “I got food inside, come along!”

Arthur nodded to him as he held open the door for him, “Thank you, kindly.”

“Uh huh,” the man said with a smile.

Right as Arthur made his way inside, he realized he hadn’t asked the welcoming stranger his name.

“Now,” the man growled behind him, “come ‘ere.”

Before Arthur could even turn to face the man, something from behind smacked him hard, and he crumpled.

Chapter Text

Everything blurred together — words, sounds, feelings, pain — until he smacked into the ground once more. Arthur felt dirt under him, rather than wood, and he quickly realized he was outside. He lifted his head up slowly, meeting Baby Bubba’s watchful stare — he was hovered over Arthur, as if he had been standing guard.

He blinked his bleary eyes a few times, and wiggled his fingers — making sure he still had them.

What in Christ's name? He thought, taking a few moments to grasp onto reality.

He felt light-headed and foggy — not entirely sure if he was awake or dreaming. Arthur began to try and force his trembling arms to support him, but the shock of the situation slowly dawned upon him.

Frayed rope turning his fingers purple, dirt-caked nails clawing down his back, heavy weight holding him down, hot breath in his ear.

Arthur scrunched his eyes shut and groaned. His arms went numb, and he crumpled into the dirt.

He didn’t move for a while.

Arthur contemplated staying put. If he waited long enough, rain would come; and the ground would mold around his frame as he sunk. A few days, then a few weeks — he would disintegrate into dust and mix with the dirt. No one would ever know he had even been there.

Arthur licked his cracking, bloodied lips, and grimaced, feeling the grit that coated his mouth. His tongue was sour and his throat was raw. He propped himself up on his elbows and spat the foul taste out of his mouth. Arthur let loose a watery cough, feeling his chest and body ache.

His mind was reeling.

Baby Bubba whined at him to get up.

He sighed, his eyes wet. Arthur held his throbbing head and his eyes fluttered shut.

He began to consider laying back down.

He could come back, a voice in the back of his head snarled. Arthur’s head shot up and he shakily scrambled to his feet, searing pain biting him at every angle. His breath came fast and harsh, and darkness lurked at the edge of his vision. The last thing Arthur wanted was to see that scumbag's filthy face again.

After a few moments of anxiously spinning around, Arthur realized his assailant was nowhere to be found.

In fact, there wasn’t a single soul in sight.

He figured it was less than an hour past midnight, since the moon was still high. And assuming his sense of direction was not impaired — Arthur seemed to have been dumped at the edge of the swamps, near the trail that led to Saint-Denis.

He checked the trail twice more before he was sure no one was around to see him in the state he was. Arthur rolled his aching shoulders and rested his hands on his hips — fuming when he noticed his buttons were sloppily done half-up. He hastily fixed his trousers with clammy hands.

What a sick fucking wretch, Arthur thought, clenching his jaw.

Arthur shook himself to his senses and searched his satchel. Arthur groaned in frustration once he realized he hadn’t even been robbed. He was short a few cigars and a bottle of gin. Not one cent of three hundred dollars had been stolen off him.

You’ve got the money, he reminded himself. Should be grateful.

But he was far from it.

He was faint, and quickly becoming aware of his body’s protests.

Arthur felt stabbing pains in all sorts of unsavory places, leaving his stomach feel more than unsettled.

Arthur reached around to pat himself down and assess his injuries: a raised, throbbing spot near the base of his skull, battered knees, wrists and ankles burned from rope, and a pain like nothing he had felt before inside of him — like a dagger scraped him raw and tore his insides out.

Arthur felt down his backside and nausea churned his stomach. His behind and legs were slick.

“Oh my Lord...” He whispered, his voice shaking.

Arthur stared at his unsteady hands, his blood black in the moonlight.

Arthur reminded himself he had been through worse — near death experiences were a given, being an outlaw. Bone-shattering shotgun shells, fevered infections from deep wounds, and brutal beatings that turned into torture. He once cauterized his own wounds, inflicted by the hands of Colm O’Driscoll.

But he had never felt like this.

He felt like screaming until his lungs gave out.

He felt like he had been hollowed out.

He felt a startling urge to pull out his gun.

He felt empty.

Arthur looked up and down the trail once more, and then back at his horse.

He inhaled a shuddering breath as he grappled clumsily for his gun, weighing it in his hand.

Arthur cocked it and stared at it.

He stood there so long — just staring — that his vision unfocused and he felt like he was looking through the gun and staring at his feet.

The hell are you doing?

His chest burned with shame, and Arthur sunk in on himself. An anguished, guttural cry escaped him as burning tears trickled down his face. The night hung heavy over him, squeezing tight around his chest and stealing his breath. Quiet sobs wracked his frame, and Arthur tried to convince himself they were from the pain.

Baby Bubba nudged his muzzle into Arthur’s shoulder, snorting in his ear.

“M’sorry, boy,” Arthur whispered, resting his forehead against his horse’s.

He inhaled a few shaky breaths, leaning against Bubba for support, then slipped his gun back into its holster.

Arthur pulled himself up onto the saddle — preparing to grip the reins and pat his horse's hide — but he recoiled almost immediately, baring his teeth against a sudden stab of pain. He looked down at himself, and winced upon noticing a pool of blood forming in the base of his saddle. Arthur took in shallow, bated breaths as he gingerly readjusted himself into a less trying position.

The immediate shock of what happened slowly faded into a milky haze in the back of his mind, seeping down his neck and into his spine; and Arthur felt sparks of panic and fury overtake what was left of the haze. His frame began to vibrate with rage. Anger so intense and hot coiled up inside him. He felt woozy and sweaty from the furious thumping of his heart.

Arthur wanted to kill him.

He wanted to murder that poor excuse for a man.

He wanted to tie him up, beat him to shit, then throw him to the gators.

He wanted to watch him scream.

“Les’ go, boy.” Arthur dug his heel in, and Bubba took off.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke with a start, barely past seven o'clock in the morning.

He felt like he had been holding his breath in his sleep.

“Ugh,” Arthur groaned, pushing himself up on weak arms.

He felt the back of his head and found a swollen knot near the base of his skull. He rubbed his thumb across it and gasped as a hot barb of pain shot through his head — it was much more tender than he expected.

Uncle, surprisingly upright, walked past Arthur’s tent and snorted. “Looks like some feller needs to lay off the liquor!”

“Go to Hell,” Arthur spat.

Arthur couldn’t get himself to look up and face Uncle. He felt like he was swaying; the grass was waving at him from beneath his feet.

Arthur closed his eyes and held his head — it pounded to the beat of his heart. It made his eyes feel like they were rattling around in his sockets. It made his neck feel like a strained stem, barely supporting a plump, ripened fruit.

“You all right, Arthur?” Karen’s voice rang in his ears. “You ain’t lookin’ so good.”

I can’t deal with this shit.

“Ah, leave him be.” He heard Lenny say.

Lenny looked pointedly to Uncle and Karen and snickered, “Not like either of you folk got any room to talk.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, you watch your tone, boy.”

The two bickered and Lenny laughed at them.

Uncle, with his hands on his hips, threw insults at Lenny, and Karen protested Lenny's comments, no matter how spot on they were. Arthur would usually laugh and join Lenny, or tell them off — depending on his mood — but he felt horrid.

Shut the hell up, for Christ’s sake, he thought.

The usual bustling of the camp was obnoxious and overwhelming.

Every one of ya, shut the hell up.

He underestimated how much the whack on the back of his head would hurt — as well as the rest of him.

Sitting upright brought about a different wave of pain — the tension in his muscles burned, his shoulders clicked with each breath he took in, and his wrists shook painfully under his weight.

His legs felt like rags rung dry, hanging loosely over the edge of his cot, and his behind throbbed the longer he sat up on his lumpy, uneven sheets. Arthur wanted to lie back down, but he feared any sudden movement would make him hurl.

The crunching grass grated against Arthur’s eardrums as more footsteps approached, signalling that Mary-Beth joined them.

“Oh, Arthur!” She squealed. “You look horrible.”

I feel horrible.

"Everything okay?" Charles spoke smoothly, pushing past Uncle.

No.

His throat felt hot and saliva pooled under his tongue as he battled back nausea.

Don’t make a damned scene.

The last thing he wanted to do was get sick in front of the whole camp — Arthur didn’t need anymore questions raised that he wouldn’t even begin to know how to answer. Arthur was tempted to ask one of them to get Hosea, but he kept his lips sealed and jaw clenched tight. He worried something other than words would come out.

“Arthur?” Karen asked, her voice softer.

Mary-Beth took a tentative step toward him, and whispered, “What happened to ya?”

"Give him some space," Charles said, raising a cautious hand out to Mary-Beth.

“Yeah, you girls best scoot back some,” Uncle warned. “He’s lookin’ a little green ‘round the gills.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Tilly asked, walking up behind Karen.

All their concerned voices and urgent questions weren’t helping. The sounds blurred together and Arthur felt like their words echoed in his ears. Every single sound was amplified by the ache in his head. He just wanted them to be quiet. Everything was too loud.

Everything was too much.

His stomach gurgled its protests and bile burned the back of his throat.

Arthur opened his mouth, tied between saying cut it out, shut up, and fuck off.

But he could only manage a strangled: “Stop-” before keeling over and losing control of his stomach.

“Christ!” Karen hollered, scurrying back.

“What’d I tell you?” Uncle grumbled, lumbering off to get himself a drink — earning himself a glare from Charles.

“Oh, my.” Mary-Beth put her hand over her mouth. “Miss Grimshaw? Miss Grimshaw, come quick!”

"Arthur." Charles leaned closer to Arthur, his hand hovering above his back, "Stay put, I'll be back in a moment."

As if I'm goin' anywhere, you big oaf.

Tilly winced. “I’ll go get Mister Matthews, yeah?”

Please.

Susan Grimshaw rushed over and set a tin down by Arthur’s feet, and he flinched back from her.

“Goodness gracious, Mister Morgan,” She shook her head at him. “How much did you have?”

Arthur gripped the bucket with shaking hands. “Didn’t-”

“Bull.” Arthur heard somebody mutter nearby.

“If this is your way of celebrating a job well-done, it sure don’t look too fun, ese.” Javier chuckled, strutting past Arthur’s tent.

“Arthur? Arthur.” Hosea was suddenly by his side. He rested a comforting hand on his back, and brushed back the mousy hair sticking to his forehead.

Arthur appreciated Hosea being there. He wanted him there. He wanted to rest his head in his lap, and lay there for the rest of the day. But he also wanted to be as far away from him as he possibly could. Arthur felt exposed — Hosea’s hand lightly rubbing circles into his back, right over raised scratches and darkening bruises.

Arthur gagged, splattering the bucket.

“You’re okay, Arthur,” Hosea said softly.

Arthur blinked slowly, peering into the old and rusted, sick-filled bucket. He usually had a strong stomach — and after letting everything out, he genuinely started feeling better — but once he saw a short, wiry hair swirling in the bucket, he retched again.

A small sob escaped Arthur, and Hosea hushed him.

The moment Hosea noticed camp members loitering, he snapped, "Go get to work, you silly bastards!"

He scowled, waving off everyone who had gathered.

Tilly and Mary-Beth spun around in an instant. Miss Grimshaw tugged Karen along. Lenny took off in the direction Uncle was headed. Abigail — who had been conversing with Mr. Pearson, young Jack at her heels — tugged her son along before he paid too much mind to his surroundings. Javier shrugged and shuffled off to get himself coffee.

"Go on, git!" Hosea hollered after everyone scattering off, "Make yourselves useful for once!"

And then, much softer, Hosea turned back to Arthur and said: “You’re okay, my boy. We’ll get you fixed up right.”

"Ugh." Arthur began to feel light-headed as his body continued to violently expel all the fluids from him.

“I hope you didn’t spend all that hard-earned money at the saloon, son,” Dutch joked, in a slightly accusatory tone, as he made his way over.

Shit, Arthur thought through his haze.

Hosea glared at Dutch, who had just returned from Rhodes, and shook his head sharply.

“What’s goin’ on?” Arthur heard Dutch's demeanor change, his tone melting into one of worry rather than accusation.

Dutch pulled up a chair quietly, and sat down across from Hosea, whose focus remained on Arthur. Easing Dutch's concerns was the last thing on Hosea's mind.

Charles returned with a canteen of fresh, cold water and handed it to Hosea.

Charles turned to leave, but stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing a dark, angry knot encrusted with dried blood that stuck out on the base of Arthur's skull. He reached out to Hosea timidly and tapped his shoulder. The older man looked up to Charles, then followed his line of sight.

Hosea bit his tongue, holding back a gasp, after noticing the lump on the back of his boy's head. Hosea squeezed Charles' hand and nodded his thanks, sending the man on his way.

"Here," Hosea said, urging Arthur to take the canteen.

Arthur grabbed it, but did not drink from it. He gripped it with shaky hands and remained hunkered down over the tin.

"You okay there, Arthur?" Dutch asked, surprised by Arthur's silence.

Whenever Arthur got hungover, he was usually somewhere between laughing at himself and apologizing profusely after missing the bucket or pissing himself.

Once the headache-inducing haze worse off, he would grow embarrassed — pushing his overindulgence off as a miscalculation, or blaming it on his lack of common sense — then, swear it would never happen again ... until it did.

Dutch quickly dismissed the possibility of Arthur being hungover after taking in how wrecked the young man looked.

He looked to Hosea instinctively for direction, who still had one arm wrapped loosely around Arthur.

Hosea lifted his free hand and made a quick, jerking motion — imitating something being rammed into him.

Dutch's eyebrows crinkled in concern.

What? Dutch mouthed.

Hosea patted his own head before tilting his head to Arthur, and Dutch slowly understood what Hosea was trying to make clear to him.

He was hit? Dutch's mouth parted.

In the head, Hosea confirmed, his face growing grim.

Both men sat in silence, waiting for Arthur to regain his bearings.

After some time passed — whether it was a few seconds or several minutes, he wasn't sure — Arthur's dizziness faded, and the realization that he never put the cash in camp funds box, or added a mark on the ledger, smacked him in the face.

Dutch probably thought he did spend all the money on himself.

Or worse — Dutch thought he lost the money.

Arthur made a quick move to reach for his satchel, clumsily knocking over a half-empty can of peaches and scattering pack of cigarettes in the process.

Hosea jumped in surprise. "What on earth you think you're doin'?"

"Stagecoach," Arthur insisted. "I forgot to turn in-"

"Arthur, stop worryin' yourself about the money," Hosea interrupted. "Sit with us a moment, please?"

Arthur stared at Hosea, then looked to Dutch. They were analyzing him closely, and he began to worry what they were thinking.

Shoulda just said you was hungover, you ass.

"Go on, and drink some, son," Dutch urged.

Arthur obliged.

He swished some in between the gaps in his teeth, then spat it back out in the bucket before swallowing any.

The cool stream of water eased the stinging of his throat and diluted the bitter taste in his mouth, but it choked him up as he drank greedily.

“Slowly,” Hosea said, shooting a worried glance at Dutch, who frowned back at him.

As he rehydrated his aching body, Arthur's head began to clear. He began itching to change his sheets — feeling sticky and uncomfortable. Arthur felt his chest seize up at the possibility of having to stand, and expose his soiled sheets and undershorts. At the thought, Arthur inhaled a splash of droplets into his windpipe and he coughed, his nose running.

"Easy, Arthur," Hosea soothed.

Arthur handed him the canteen and caught his breath, leaning over to cover his face with his hands.

“M’sorry,” Arthur rasped.

“It’s fine, Arthur. I-” Dutch paused, confusion clear on his face. “You get robbed, son?”

Arthur tried to keep his face blank. "Nah, I didn't get robbed or nothin'."

"Then, what happened to your head?" Hosea immediately challenged him, failing to rein himself in.

"Got bucked." Arthur forced out a weak laugh. "Bubba was spooked by sum'n — a snake, maybe."

Dutch watched Arthur — apprehension clear on his face from his fuzzled brows and flitting eyes — fiddling with the rings on his fingers as he listened.

“That’s how you hit your head?” Hosea confirmed, giving Arthur a look that made him feel self-conscious. “You got bucked?”

“Yeah,” he lied through his teeth, praying it was convincing. “Tha's all.”

"That's a nasty bump, Arthur." Hosea frowned, trying to picture how Arthur would have scraped up his face from hitting the back of his head. "You should rest up a few days."

"Ah, I'll be alright, Hosea," Arthur said. "I'm already feelin' a bit be-"

"You will rest up, Arthur." Hosea leaned back, crossing his arms. "That was not a suggestion."

Arthur opened and closed his mouth. There was no arguing with Hosea.

"No buts about it, son. I'll inform Miss Grimshaw to get something to ice that goose egg you've gotten yourself," Dutch said. "In the meantime, the most useful thing you can do is stay put."

"Fine, fine. S'alright with me," Arthur said cooly. "Okay if I wash up in a while, though? Feel like I've got dirt all up in my business from fallin' off Bubba like a tenderfoot."

"That's fine, but you best rest up, Arthur," Hosea insisted. "A bump on the head — as light as it may sound — is far from bein' a joke."

"Understood."

"Good." Hosea stood, and Dutch followed his lead. "Do tell if you need anything, though. Alright, Arthur?"

"'Course," Arthur said.

Dutch nodded curtly and stalked away without another word.

Hosea was reluctant to leave Arthur be, but he pushed the nerves coiling in his stomach down and followed after Dutch. Once out of their line of sight, Arthur tugged down his tent flap to strip his bottoms and bedclothes.

Chapter Text

Arthur shifted on his scratchy cot, a spare sheet thrown loosely over him — courtesy of Mary-Beth. He had been urging himself to get up for the last hour.

Tilly was kind enough to offer support, even after he threw a fit, yet Arthur hadn't moved an inch since she talked to him. He needed to change into something clean and figure out how to throw on one of those rags.

He wondered why she carried the odd bandages around; they were too thick and bulky for a small injury, but too thin and narrow to wrap around a gouge from a knife, much less a bullet wound.

The spare meat Miss Grimshaw snagged from Mr. Pearson, as good as the cool slab felt on the back of his head, was slowly warming from his body heat and greasing up his hair. It was chilled in the early morning, but as the afternoon stretched on, the light metallic smell morphed into a tangy stench as it rested under him. He needed to get up and wash himself off.

Get off your ass, for Christ's sake.

Arthur grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He cracked the tweak from his neck and rolled the tension from his shoulders, then snuck the padded fabric Tilly offered him into the pocket of his pants that he would change into. He was grateful to see he hadn't bled too much more after changing from his night clothes into an extra pair of undergarments. His cot and the pants he had on remained clean.

His head no longer felt like it would topple from his shoulders; the blunt object that felt like it was trying to bat his head from his shoulders at every move he made settled into a dull ache that left him mildly disoriented with some resting nausea.

He stood and slowly approached Susan Grimshaw, who was preoccupied with nagging Molly O'Shea, "'Scuse me, Miss Grimshaw?"

She turned away from Molly, who was red in the face and flustered. "Mister Morgan! Good to see you up and about."

"Yeah, I just was returnin' ... this." Arthur awkwardly held out the floppy, meat she fetched him earlier in the morning. "I wasn't too sure what you wanted me to-"

"Oh, yes, of course." She grabbed it from him, digging her fingers in hard to avoid it slithering from her grasp. "I'll take care of that."

Susan stepped away to take care of the spoiled meat, and Molly stayed put — her hands resting on her hips, knuckles white.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something — maybe along the lines of: Old lady raggin' on you again? — but Arthur stood there, staring blankly, unsure if he had anything worthwhile to say.

"Alright, Arthur?" She asked, her face mimicking a look of concern even though her voice lacked it. "Dutch said you've got yourself a knock on the head."

"Perfectly fine," Arthur mumbled.

"Good."

She grew short with him, eyeing Miss Grimshaw make her way back over to them, and Arthur took that as an opportunity to exit. Arthur nodded to the two women and turned to leave, but Susan held up a hand. "You take care, now, Mister Morgan. If you need anything else, you be sure to let me know, ya hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. On your way then, Arthur." Susan pursed her lips, and turned back to a disgruntled Molly — who was clearly disappointed Arthur's distraction didn't save her from more of Miss Grimshaw's berating.

Arthur walked over to Dutch's tent to let him know he would be heading out for a bit, but the flaps were pulled back and he was nowhere to be found. Hosea was gone, too, which meant they were likely together.

"Mister Morgan?" A light, grainey voice spoke behind him.

Arthur turned to face the wide eyed, tousled ginger. "Ah, Reverend. What can I do ya for?"

"Not much, Arthur," Reverend Swanson folded his hands together. "I was only told to keep an eye out while Dutch and Mister Matthews are running errands."

An eye out for what? Arthur thought, annoyed.

"Errands?" Arthur asked.

"They're heading into Rhodes to find more about those two families," he said. "There may be some gold in the mix."

Arthur gave him a thumb and started making his way over to the hitching posts.

"Where are you headed, then?" Reverend Swanson rushed out.

Ah, an eye out for me. Arthur huffed. That's rich.

"Just headin' out for a wash, not too far," Arthur reassured. "I'll be back within the hour."

That seemed to satisfy the Reverend.

Arthur approached his horse, where Kieran was busy brushing the coat of a golden Belgian while hushing Miss Grimshaw's antsy Appaloosa.

He jumped up to attention when Arthur reached to unhitch Baby Bubba.

"Oh, uh, Arthur!" He greeted, his voice wavering. "H-how are ... where are you headed?"

The simple question brought about a flash of fury in him.

Leave him alone, he ain't do a damn thing to you. Arthur clenched his fists, trying to swallow down his anger.

"None of your business, O'Driscoll," Arthur spat.

Kieran's face fell instantly.

You ass.

"I ain't an O'Driscoll! You-" Kieran stumbled over his words, heat rising in his face. "You know I ain't."

Arthur blinked at him, guilt sinking in the instant he opened his mouth.

He had grown from the habit of snarling "O'Driscoll" alongside a slew of other insults at Kieran. The young man was no more harmful than jackrabbit, yet the jab slipped out so suddenly — so full of menace.

Arthur couldn't pinpoint why he blew up on him so quickly; Kieran didn't mean any harm, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to apologize.

"Look, I ... I'm sorry, Arthur." Kieran looked over his shoulders, wringing his hands together. "I didn't mean nothin' by it."

I know, dammit, Arthur thought.

"I just didn't wanna sit by and say nothin'. I-" Kieran clamped his mouth shut, and shook his head abruptly. "Forget it, I'll mind my business from now on."

Part of Arthur wanted to thank him for cleaning what was left of the mess in his saddle, but another part of Arthur wanted to shove him flat on his ass and start hollering.

"You best keep it that way." Arthur shoved a finger into Kieran's chest, making him flinch.

"Yessir," Kieran muttered coldly, and turned on his heels to face the horses.

Kieran didn't do anything wrong, yet Arthur impulsively threw out the one thing that made the poor kid shake in his boots — one mention of the previous gang he ran with and Kieran would go silent for a whole day, not bothering to look up from the chores he busied himself with.

Arthur shoved his change of clothes in with the elk coat he had stowed, and pulled himself up on his saddle.

He gave the reins a pull, and Baby Bubba huffed in response, turning towards the trail, and picking up his pace.

You oughta tell him sorry later.

Arthur originally thought letting the icy game thaw against the back of his head for more than half the day had helped; the cool calmed the swelling and seemed to help him think clearer. But he began to have second guesses after blowing up at Kieran.

Sure, Arthur was more than ticked off that he told the girls about his saddle; he was trying to keep a low profile and avoid making a big deal about everything, and Kieran was preventing him from doing so easily.

But he didn't deserve to be snapped at.

The moment Kieran flinched away from him, Arthur's breath caught in his throat, but he couldn't even get the scowl to fall from his face or manage to utter a half-assed apology.

Bubba continued trotting along, content as can be, while Arthur ran around in circles inside his own head.

"Hey, Arthur!"

Arthur shot a look at John, who was standing guard at the edge of their camp's limits.

"I missed ya this mornin', but I meant to ask," John stepped closer to Arthur's horse, letting his gun rest at his side. "The hell happened earlier?"

"Don't let that barrel drop." Arthur shook his head at him. "Gettin' yourself distracted, huh? You want an ambush on your hands, John?"

A blush colored John's face. "Hey, I been starin' at the damn treeline for movement all day. It'll only be a second."

"It only takes a second," Arthur bristled.

Arthur ground his teeth together. Jesus, just leave me be for a moment.

"Fine." John repositioned himself and focused his eyes on the land in front of him. "But you ain't answered my question yet."

"Yeah, m'alright." Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "Got bucked, is all."

"You got bucked?" John turned back to Arthur, his mouth dropping open. "By Bubba?"

"Eyes forward," Arthur snapped, sending Baby Bubba a signal to get a move on. "It was my own damn fault, anyways."

As Arthur pulled forward, he felt John's eyes on his back. "I'll be okay, though, so don't you get your tits in a twist."

"I ain't gonna do no such thing," John grumbled as Arthur left him in the dust of Baby Bubba's tracks.

Arthur continued along the trails and crossed into the main road, sun now able to shine down on him and make him sweat.

Only a few minutes into riding, the slight bounce of Bubba's stride made his head feel heavy. Arthur patted his side, alerting him to ease up. His horse slowed at moment's notice and Arthur leaned into him, head lolling to the side as he lazily watched the green blur alongside them.

Arthur headed towards the southern side of Flat Iron Lake, opposite to the end that lapped against the ground at Clemens Point. Arthur had originally planned on a peaceful trek into Rhodes for a bath, as he had done plenty times before in Valentine and Strawberry.

The women who offered their bathing services in towns were always kind — their hands were soft and their voices warm. Most times he went, he accepted their offers and closed his eyes as they massaged his head with soap, being mindful to keep it out of his eyes.

Sometimes he would imagine it was his mother — and remember leaning into her touch as a boy, listening to her hum soft tunes while she bathed him.

He sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

Before he blew up at Kieran, that was his plan.

He quickly re-evaluated it, wondering if he truly wanted to be around anyone. He was already on edge around the gang; Arthur didn't want to risk hollering at strangers in a town he was an acting sheriff.

And if he went into town, it was guaranteed he would get some questions — well deserved, too. The more he thought about straying that far from camp, and heading into the thick of the town's busy crowds, the more his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Rhodes wasn't anything like Valentine, or Blackwater, or Saint-Denis. It was a simple, country town — but the less folks around, the better Arthur would feel.

He felt more comfortable by himself — out in the open, but hidden at the same time. He wasn't worried about being exposed or running into anyone at the lake; the corner he was heading to was usually unpopulated due to the lack of good fish that gathered there.

Arthur quickly shifted the reins to his left and cut off the path at the sight of two men on horseback, further up the road. Bubba snuffed and shook his head against the brush, pushing through to the clearing.

"Alright, boy."

Baby Bubba slowed to a stop, and scuffled his hooves against the gravelly beach. Arthur rubbed his side as he snuck him an oatcake from his satchel.

Arthur looked around once more before stripping down until he was barren, and hurried into the water. He ducked his head into the water, running his hands over his scalp, scraping away the layer of oils from the meat he iced his head with. He scrubbed at his face and his neck, then at his arms and chest. With his shirt off, bathed in the afternoon light, Arthur could clearly see some of his injuries as washed himself: the skin around his wrists were rubbed raw.

Thin, slivers of skin lifted around his wrists from trying to pull himself loose. His left thumb was swollen, too — a red, near purple ring formed around its base as it formed into a bruise. Arthur's ankles burned and ached in the same way his arms did. He figured he would have to wear long sleeves and avoid high corduroys or gurkha pants for a while, no matter how hot and humid it got.

Arthur splashed water over his shoulders, and attempted to stretch and see his back. He couldn't see much from the strained angle, but he got a quick glimpse of jagged red marks and dark bruises in the shape of knuckles.

Arthur shuddered, wondering what the bruise on the back of his head looked like — Hosea didn't do a good job of hiding the worry in his eyes when he caught a glimpse of it.

He was grateful he didn't go into town. What the hell would someone say if they saw him? What would they think?

Arthur started contemplating his original decision to head back to camp.

His first thought upon waking was to rush to the comfort of his bed — to be around his family — but once he arrived, he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone what had happened. His whole body and mind rejected the thought of uttering a word of what happened the night before; he could barely admit what happened to himself.

He wondered if it would have been easier to camp out and hunt some game until he healed up — that way, he wouldn't have to worry about keeping up appearances.

The cracking of a branch snapped him from his thoughts. Arthur jerked and dug his toes in the sand, searching the for the source of rustling bushes in the treeline, where Bubba stood. His horse wasn't spooked, so Arthur knew, he shouldn't be — but a lump formed in his throat.

Baby Bubba whooped as a skunk shot between his legs, and scattered through weeds as it crossed the beach.

Christ, Morgan. Arthur forced his muscles to unclench, taking in a sharp breath. Get ahold of yourself.

Arthur's throat burned, emotion welling up in him.

The more he tried to forget about everything and continue throughout his day, the more it bothered him.

A pit spread in his gut, and he deeply regretted not killing Sonny. He knew he should have, but he couldn't bring himself to — that was the part that angered Arthur the most.

That man had likely done that to other folks; he would have done it before and would continue after. Arthur knew he wasn't some unlucky bastard who mosied into the wrong place at the wrong time; Sonny was searching for someone — anyone, like a predator searches out its prey.

One of the many things Dutch told Arthur, that he had never forgotten, was that men like Sonny never change — and they were everywhere.

The closer you get to the city, further into the filth of civilization, the more dangerous it is. Dutch told him, staring Arthur down. The countryside is just as plentiful, but the city? All the more easier it is to get dragged off somewhere.

Arthur sank down further into the water — blowing bubbles at the lake's surface, and feeling dazed as he remembered their conversation.

The cities are filled with papists and rapists, Arthur! Both just as eager to get ahold of you. Hosea had shook his head at Dutch, praying he would step down from his soapbox and shut his mouth. There's bastards everywhere, and you know it, Hosea! People are too busy pissin' and shittin' in the streets to notice if you go missing for an hour. Before you know it, you've been knocked out, knocked up, and you can't find your damn trousers!

Dutch, don't you get him worked up about things he needn't worry himself about right now, Hosea scolded, resting a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. He's a boy.

Arthur swallowed, his mouth feeling dry.

Why did you go in that damn cabin?

Dutch looked Hosea straight in the face, a steely glare filling out his features, frustrated the man wasn't listening as intently as Arthur. Sick bastards like that start and they never stop-

Dutch, drop it.

-Not once they've gotten a taste for it.

Dutch, I ain't kidding around. Hosea growled at him, fists clenched.

Dutch stood abruptly, Neither am I, Hosea! He hollered, his voice and hands shaking. Keep goin' around pretendin' like the world is all golden and shiney. See what happens!

Fuck you. Hosea spat at him, and stormed off.

It's better to be safe than sorry, Arthur. Dutch left him, crouched at the grave Susan shoved some low-life in the day before, to follow after Hosea.

Arthur shivered, the water growing colder by the minute. It wasn't like Arthur didn't take Dutch seriously — he just never expected anything of the sort to happen to him. They told him. They told him.

The hell would they say if they found out? Arthur's head pounded.

He imagined Dutch's voice: deep, grating, and disappointed — You shoulda known better, Arthur.

Hosea's voice: sad, and soft — What were you thinking?

If some bastard don't seem right in the head, walk away.

Keep your gun holstered, but prepare to draw.

Don't turn your back on strangers.

Why did you go into that God damned cabin?

Don't turn your back on strangers ... don't turn you back on strangers.

Don't turn your back, don't turn your back, don't—

Never turn your back on strangers.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Arthur raked his hands down his face, dragging along his skin.

His thoughts stumbled into one another and he started feeling nausea creep back into his body.

Had Sonny done this to other men? Arthur wondered. Or women?

Arthur stared at the ripples in the lake, desperately trying to think of something else, but his mind was speeding away from him like a startled Stallion.

You coulda took that bastard out for good, Arthur scrubbed at himself, his frustration and nerves causing his body to tremble. Yet you ran away like a boy.

Arthur choked on his own spit as a thought struck him — were there boys he did that to?

Children?

Arthur felt sick.

He had scrubbed himself raw, shaking like a leaf by the time he managed to get a handle on his thoughts.

Arthur waded through the water and wrapped his arms around himself, the warm wind of the late afternoon feeling surprisingly chilly. He dried himself off, then struggled to shove the padded bandage Tilly gave him into the seat of his pants.

He redressed and hobbled around, groaning as he felt bulky rag shift in his undershorts. It was much more preferable than ruining his garments, one after another, but it was far from being comfortable.

Arthur ran his hands through his long hair, and wrung water from its ends.

He hoisted himself up into Bubba's saddle.

"Yip, yip." His voice hoarse, "C'mon, boy."

Arthur made his way back to Clemens Point with ease, but he couldn't get himself to stop looking over his shoulder.

Chapter Text

A silver puff of smoke with a hard edge slipped into the thick of the dark. The thin, quickly dissipating cloud nudged at Arthur.

It slithered around his forearm and soothed the goosebumps littering his skin. Its warm weight settled on his chest, and — stung? — him when it winded up his neck to rest on his face.

No — it didn’t sting. The sensation was not dry or harsh; it was subtle and ... wet?

It spit on him! Arthur's sleep-addled brain insisted.

No, that wasn’t right either — it couldn’t have spat on him; it was calm. It wound him up in — no, stripped his blankets from him.

Huh-

“Arthur,” it called to him.

I'd rather you come again later.

The smoke had hair; it had hands.

The voice rumbled again, “Arthur.”

It was quiet, but gravelly — reverberating through his head as Arthur came to — soft, but bold. The darkness grew grey, pale silver, then white.

“Arthur!”

“Huh!”

Arthur had to blink a few times before his vision fully cleared. Hosea hovered over him, a damp rag in hand, wiping at his face.

“You were mumblin’, Arthur.” Hosea brushed the cool fabric along Arthur’s brow and down his jawline.

“Yeah, I was,” Arthur grunted, swatting Hosea’s hand back. “‘cause I was sleepin’!”

Hosea pulled the rag away and leaned back on his heels, perched right beside Arthur’s cot. “Sweatin’ too.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s hot.” Arthur pushed himself up, his sturdy cotton shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back.

“Then, what the hell you wearin’ all those clothes for?” Hosea asked, gesturing to Arthur’s late fall nightclothes.

“I can wear what I damn well please.” Arthur shot Hosea a nasty look.

The mild frustration wrinkling Hosea’s face quickly softened into a look of concern. “You alright?”

Great, Arthur thought upon taking in Hosea’s expression, he thinks I’ve taken ill.

“I ain’t sick, I ain’t got anything wrong with me, Hosea.” Arthur rubbed his face, “I’ll be perfectly fine as long as you stop clucking around my bed like a warblin’ hen!”

“It’s noon, Arthur,” Hosea grumbled, struggling to force his aching knees to unhinge, and rose to his feet. “Forgive me if I worry.”

“Noon?” The shock lasted a moment before guilt trickled into Arthur’s system. He didn’t even stay up late the night before, yet Arthur felt like he barely slept a wink. “Damn, Hosea ... I’m sorry-”

“Oh, quit. You’re still on bedrest, anyways,” Hosea said, frowning. “I know you’re catching every spare hour you can get, but ever since that knock on your head — you sleepin' late got me-"

Hosea stopped himself short and put his hands on his hips.

“Worried?” Arthur asked.

Don't be.

“I ain’t sayin’ it twice.” Hosea said.

Nothin' is wrong.

"Agh, I'm fine, Hosea," Arthur huffed, cracking his neck.

It popped like distant gunshots, each shot loosening the tension that settled there during the night — Hosea winced with each one.

“Good grief, your neck sounds like my knees.”

“Nah, your knees sound worse," Arthur retorted.

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Hosea chuckled.

"I jus' slept a little funny, is all." Arthur sighed, observing the man's hard stare. "I usually ain't this stiff."

"You don't gotta prove nothin' to me, Arthur," Hosea said. "You're still gettin' back on your feet."

Arthur hummed a response, rubbing the sleeping grit from the corners of his eyes.

"So ... your head's feelin' okay, then?" Hosea asked, thumbing his pockets as he hovered.

“Yeah, better,” Arthur assured him. “No more than a little ache, now.”

Barely over a week later, Arthur's head no longer felt like it would topple from his shoulders; the invisible blunt object that tried batting his head off his neck at every move had stilled.

Besides moments where he moved too fast, or his heart sped up — Arthur barely felt the throbbing at the base of his neck. The pounding of his head faded to a dull ache, the constant nausea to an occasional sour stomach, and the disorientation to a light haze.

"Good! Good ... I'm glad to hear it," Hosea said, his face softening, before pointing to the lopsided table next to Arthur's cot, “Anyways, you missed breakfast by a long shot — Mary-Beth brought some over for ya.”

“Alright, I’ll have to tell her I said thank you, then.”

“You will.” Hosea smiled.

“If that’s all, I might as well have some food — if you can call it that,” Arthur laughed.

"Sounds good," Hosea said with snort. He clasped his hands together and turned to take care of whatever business needed taking care of. He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be around.”

“Okay, then.” Arthur yawned, watching Hosea lumber off further into camp, his eyes still feeling droopy.

Noon, he thought, damn.

Arthur stretched, his stiff muscles felt like barely worn leather — pulling back at him when he tried easing the knots from his back. He finally got around to picking at his breakfast way past lunch.

He grabbed his chilled meal, shooing away a greedy fly, and situated it in his lap.

Before he suffered through his first bite, Arthur noticed there was something folded up under his breakfast platter — the slight breeze tugging at its edges.

He reached for the paper, finding a scribbled drawing — of what, Arthur couldn't make out — accompanied by Mary-Beth's handwriting below:

Arthur smiled, tracing his thumb along the crooked lines and half-shaded shapes. A warm feeling secured his chest as he admired Jack's drawing.

The boy is an artist in the making. Arthur grinned. Thank the Lord he doesn't take after his father.

John couldn't draw a damn thing, much less think of something original; even when John tried tracing pictures from Arthur's journal as a boy, he never even came close to a poor imitation of Arthur's sketches.

A smile tugged at Arthur's face as he remembered John's attempt at drawing Dutch — the poorly drawn sketch that fourteen year-old John gifted him, his face lit up with pride.

Beautiful, my son! Dutch beamed. What is it? A ... a buffalo? It's a buffalo, isn't it!

The drawing brought about a heated conversation that resulted in both Dutch and John — red as cherries, Hosea, Tilly, and Arthur keeled over in laughter, and Miss Grimshaw rolling her eyes.

The warmth in his chest from the fond memory and Jack's gift was quickly shadowed by a pang of guilt, and Arthur's grin morphed into a grimace.

C'mon, Morgan, Arthur thought, you're worryin' the kid.

It was only a bash on the head.

He should have been as good as new by now.

You fell, Arthur thought, dully. You're supposed to get back up — not lie around all day long.

Arthur pushed the food around on his plater, a sour taste already forming in his mouth.

The only thing Arthur took in eagerly throughout the week were the fresh batches of Hosea's tea — odd aftertaste or not, the drink settled his stomach and eased the waves that rocked his brain like a boat lost at sea. Even if Pearson's meals, including the one he was nibbling at, were appetizing, Arthur wasn't sure if he would have been able to convince himself to finish them.

Arthur shovelled a spoonful of soggy, weakly seasoned potatoes in his mouth.

Should be grateful.

Arthur was feeling better; he was sore, aching, and a walking headache, but he had stopped bleeding.

Arthur only used two of the three bandages Tilly lended him. He should be grateful for clean sheets and unstained garments — grateful for needing only one wash a day, rather than three.

Once he stopped bleeding, Arthur felt much cleaner — though, he found it was hard to fight the urge to head down to the lake.

Arthur continued to convince himself he had grown into a new routine — a routine Miss Grimshaw deeply appreciated — of being more mindful of his hygiene, but he really was just struggling to shake the feeling that he was filthy.

No matter how much he washed — even more than once a day, after the bleeding had stopped — Arthur still felt like he was covered in grime. He figured the bizarre feeling would lessen after he started healing up and stopped bleeding all over himself, which it did, but not entirely.

That feeling did not vanish; it lingered like a rancid aftertaste from one of Pearson's poorer meals.

All you did was fall. You only got bucked, Arthur reminded himself. It was your own damn fault.

Arthur swallowed another bite of his late breakfast, suppressing a gag as it slithered down his throat.

He thought back to the strange, few moments he experienced before waking — floating around in a void, smokey sounds pulling his body into the daylight.

Thinking back, that short sequence was the closest thing to a dream Arthur could recall from the past week; and the times he went without dreaming were minimal.

The tang of the metal spoon steadied him, and it dawned upon Arthur how disconnected he felt. He always was one for daydreaming as a young boy, and well into his early adult years — but this feeling was different. It was either Arthur had been in a constant dream for a solid six days, halfway onto a seventh, or functioning without them completely.

Arthur twisted the cap of his canteen open and relished in the way it sloshed down his throat; the cool, hard feeling that swam in his chest as he swallowed it brought him some peace of mind.

Everything just felt odd.

It was more than a daydream.

Arthur ached for a convincingly solid night's sleep; he ached for the comfort of a dream wading into his mind and dousing his brain.

He wanted something calm and soothing, a sharp contrast to the harsh and agitating environment surrounding him — the harsh and agitating feelings, brewing and bubbling up inside of him.

Arthur often dreamed about getting lost in the thick of forests at twilight — stumbling through sticky webs and tripping through burrows, apologizing to the tenants as his bulky, lumbering self ran right through them — only able to find a way through the brush at the first gleam of early morning light.

Dreams where his clothes soaked through with rain as the rocky cliff sides grew too slick to travel on; he would search for a cave to take cover in until the storm passed, struggling to lead a horse he didn't recognize along the mountain without slipping. He would sometimes wake with a shiver, completely dry other than the sweat cooling on the back of his neck.

Arthur usually got more rest in his dreams than he did in his day-to-day life. His peace of mind resided in a cool, summer spring that he dipped his feet in — a mix of memories and his imagination. He would lean back and watch buck sneak alongside the treeline, their watchful eyes: big, brown, and knowing — staring out at him as Arthur stared back.

Sometimes those dreams felt so real; he would hunker down, approach the buck real slow, and reach out — yearning to brush his hand against their silky coats. The buck would almost smile at Arthur, a glint in the animal's eyes, just before turning away and out of his reach.

Arthur would return to the spring, disappointed the buck set out on its way, and slump down with a huff.

Arthur took another sip of water from his canteen, letting the dream play out in his waking state.

Time passed as he crouched by the spring; his breath would change as the temperature rapidly dropped around him — the sun would change colors from a warm gold to a cool silver in the shades of winterous illusion.

The spring would freeze over before Arthur could throw on a warm fur, and snow would sprinkle around him. He would lay down, back flat against the frosted grass, watching snow fall around him — light against the dark pines, but dark like ash against the pale sky.

If Arthur focused enough, sometimes he could feel the water swishing between his toes in the spring, and smell the frozen afternoon as it stung his nose through his dream. If he could have gotten close enough, Arthur was sure he would have been able to feel the buck, too.

Movement flashed in front of Arthur's eyes, pulling him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see John walking past his tent.

John called out to him, "Gonna get to it?"

"I'll be up an' about, soon," Arthur said.

"Alright, Arthur." John seemed unconvinced.

Arthur fought down another bite of his breakfast, glaring at John's back as he walked off.

Sometimes Arthur would dream of John, but much younger. He would dream of John's greasy, twelve year-old self — kicking and biting as he came — stealing Arthur's hat, stealing tattered pages from Arthur's journal, stealing Arthur's stash of jelly beans, stealing all of Dutch's praise.

He would dream of Hosea and Dutch, back when they were young and clean-shaven, leaning into each other as they told Arthur stories around their campfire for three; followed by dreams of Susan Grimshaw's arrival — her arms linked with Dutch as she strutted into camp with a shout and a smack like she owned the place.

He dreamed of Bessie, and the day Hosea led her into camp; her shining strawberry ringlets bouncing with her laughter as she attempted to teach Arthur how to play dominoes. He dreamed of her warm, rosy face that freckled under the sun, and how she glowed on evenings Hosea leaned in for her to brush beeswax along his pale eyelashes, blush on his cheeks, and douse him in tinted gloss and powders — how her thin fingers rustled his hair up as he laughed and kissed her on the cheek. He would dream of her — almost an extension of his own mother.

Arthur rarely dreamed of Annabelle, but when he did — it was of her wide brown eyes, peering into his own as she spouted out big ideas and talked of the future. Annabelle's deep, warm voice lifting him up on cold mornings and singing during the summer evenings as she jumped around camp, electricity radiating from her like lightning from a cloud.

He dreamed of sprinkling rain without thunder, of his old steed: Boadicea and her soft eyes smiling at him, of spring blossoms along creek beds, of crickets in the summer, of crackling campfires — he dreamed of good times.

Those dreams made Arthur feel safe. It was like being wrapped in a blanket of cool thoughts after a day of hard work.

Arthur looked down at his platter, less than a third through, and wondered if he would be able to finish it off.

He took another bite, and washed it down with a swig of water.

Arthur's brain spun its wheels in reverse as his train of thought changed.

He thought of dreams that were less than pleasant — dreams that took his breath away, leading him to feel more like he had been smothered upon waking.

He would dream of his mother: blurry glimpses of her smiling at him as wispy brown hair fell around her kind face, and sharp edged sights of her shrinking away from a first. He would dream of the old, despicable Lyle Morgan; and how the man's hollers sunk into the wooden planks of their cabin as they rotted Arthur and his Ma from the inside out.

Arthur shifted on his cot, feeling a prick of anxiety tickle the back of his neck.

He would dream of when Lyle died: he cried through the cloth gagging him, trying to jerk away from the lawmen leading him up to the gallows — reliving the moment Arthur watched the hanging from the crowd as if he was just another spectator.

Every time Arthur would dream of him, he would wake choking on his own breath the moment they opened the hatch; it was no different than when he would wake from looking upon his Ma as she inhaled her last, wavering breath.

On mornings like those, Arthur would wake up irritated — snapping at anyone who bothered to ask him how he was. He knew his father didn't deserve a second of his thoughts, yet the man continued to occupy them — bringing about the same suffocating fear that consumed him when he dreamt about his mother.

On darker nights, Arthur dreamed of Eliza; her dark coily hair, olive skin, and green eyes — her eyes wide with fear, her eyes soft with adoration, and her eyes tired with strain as she stared down at their son, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, when her and Arthur were no more than kids, themselves.

They always started off comforting ... deceiving.

Eliza running into Arthur's arms every time he would visit, with Isaac babbling and drooling as he clung to her chest.

Isaac.

His round, pudgy face framed by his mother's dark curls. Isaac's eyes — big, blue, and wondering — a reflection of his own, staring at Arthur as he pulled at his whiskers with stubby fingers.

How Dutch swooped in to pick Isaac up and litter him with kisses, with Hosea at Dutch's side, cooing to the boy. Dutch spinning Eliza around with glee as if she were his very own daughter, and Hosea, whispering in Arthur's ear: you'll make a good father, my boy.

A good father — blowing raspberries on Isaac's cheeks and pulling at his chubby toes — with Eliza, a lovely girl at his side, rubbing her soft hands along his forearm as she asked how the gang was, giving him a peck on the cheek before he left.

Arthur's mouth felt dry, grating painfully as he swallowed. He unscrewed the cap to his canteen, again, fingers fumbling with the cap.

Get a grip, Arthur thought, frustration and nerves building up in his chest.

His vision in the dream would flicker and tunnel, shifting to Arthur's hands ... his hands, empty, and his chest, hollow — dirt caked in his nails as he dug desperately at the ground where two, unmarked crosses rested outside Eliza's residence. Sounds, echoing through his dream, that Arthur could barely recognize as himself — wails escaping him as his elderly neighbor cried for him to stop digging, the woman's hands holding Arthur's shaking shoulders.

Bessie, stiff and unmoving; and Hosea, drunkenly stumbling

Annabelle — scalped — blood trickling down her face as she was cradled in Dutch's arms, and Dutch, on his knees screaming.

Mac, dead ... then, Davey, Jenny, and — Colm.

Colm?

Dreams of Colm's sick sneer in his ear — tone eerily similar to the one someone took with him.

Arthur shivered, and quickly shook the rising thought away.

The punches Colm threw, full of hate, but somehow tinged with lust.

Pain searing in his shoulder, his head throbbing as he was strung upside down, the blood rushing in his ears and heat of the fever setting in — the fear that no one would come.

The fear that no one would come to get him.

Arthur set his cold, unfinished breakfast down on his table with a clatter and shuddered.

It ain't gonna do anyone any good to sit around like this. Arthur scratched at his beard, fingers twitching. Get outta your damn head.

Arthur was almost tempted to lay back down. His racing thoughts quickly wore him out, but the guilt of sleeping too long and not taking any jobs all week kept him upright. He needed to make himself useful.

"Sleepin' the day away, huh, cowpoke?" A nasally voice blurted.

Arthur looked up to see Micah sauntering past his tent with his chest sticking out.

The man didn't deserve his time; he didn't deserve his attention — which is all Micah wanted — so, Arthur didn't bother answering. He was too tired to bother arguing with Micah anyways.

At Arthur's submission, a nasty grin worked its way onto Micah's face. "You gotta start pullin' your weight, Morgan."

Arthur couldn't find it in himself to care too much.

He pushed himself off his cot and yanked down his tent flap with a smack, Micah's raspy laugh lingering in Arthur's ears a few moments after he walked away.

He slowly changed from his nightclothes into something fresh, long, and fit for daytime — eager for raw, scabbed marks and yellowing bruises on his forearms to fade. He was tired of being just slightly overheated.

Arthur shook his head at himself as he changed; he knew better than to dwell on his own thoughts, much less his dreams. Arthur dreamt nearly every night — good or bad — it was a given. There was no sense in analyzing his dreams, or lack thereof.

He was well aware lingering on his thoughts would fail to do him any good in the long run. Arthur needed to get on with his day and keep himself busy. He just couldn’t help but feel so, deeply unsettled.

The darkness that hovered over him the past week made him wish for the dreams that left him breathless, even the dreams that haunted him.

The empty, suffocating feeling that lingered in his sleep — that made him doubt whether he was truly awake or sleeping — unnerved him. Arthur knew his eyes were closed, and that he remained still, but the whole night he felt like he was staring into a pit.

Once dressed for what was left of the day, Arthur took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He brushed a finger over Jack's picture once more, and left his tent.

Arthur felt better.

Truly.

Arthur felt fine.

He couldn't afford to feel anything else.

Chapter Text

The sun lit up Arthur's eyelids and tinted them pink.

He groaned; the morning had come quicker than he bargained for.

He threw his legs over the side of his cot and forced himself to stand. Arthur went to bed fairly early, but he only felt he got an hour's worth of sleep. The only thing that brought him comfort was a dream — it was short-lived, blurry, and already slipping into the back of his mind, but it reassured him that he did sleep.

Arthur bent over, and bent backwards, stretching out his muscles. He felt a little less stiff than the day before.

Tent flap now tugged down — Arthur dug through his chest, searching for the most lightweight, long clothes he could manage. This morning felt hotter than the sizzling heat of the afternoon, yesterday.

Arthur caught a glance of his ranching pants and shoved them down to the bottom of his chest without hesitation They was ugly anyways.

He slipped on cool brown slacks, then pulled his long sleeve, informal French dress shirt — the one with the white cuffs at the wrist — over his head; sticking to clothes that were loose enough to move around and quick, if need be.

Arthur left his tent and made his way over to the round table, where Dutch, Hosea, Mr. Pearson, and Miss Grimshaw sat — with Charles standing from his seat, leaning back in an attempt to make a break for it, as Mr. Pearson desperately tried to reel him back in.

"You'll never believe this, Mister Smith!" Pearson insisted, preparing to start another spiel. "When I was in the Navy, I met-"

"Arthur!" Dutch cut off Mr. Pearson the moment he was spotted. "Head still attached to your shoulders, I see?"

"Mmhm, screwed on straight, for the most part." Arthur nodded to the group and stood next to Charles, shooting the man a sympathetic glance. "Was thinkin' of heading out today."

"Feeling better, are you?" Miss Grimshaw asked, not looking up from her newspaper.

"Much, thank you."

"Good," Dutch mumbled into his mug. "Glad to have you back with us."

Miss Grimshaw allowed herself a quick smile in response, then looked back down to the paper she had in hand.

"Stick with easy running," Hosea said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Ah, my spices!" Pearson remembered. "You still have that list?"

"Right here." Arthur pulled it from his pocket to wave at Mr. Pearson.

"Why don't you take someone with ya?" Hosea said, more of an order than a suggestion.

Arthur preferred to head out on his own, but judging by the expression on Hosea's face, that was not an option.

Mr. Pearson smiled, and gave Charles a nudge. "Could take Mister Smith, here. He looks and seems to be the best man for hunting and gathering, afterall!"

Charles scoffed at the man — more annoyed than amused. He didn't need confirmation of his strong suits from a man who could barely master the only thing he contributed to.

Sensing Charles' annoyance, Arthur grumbled, "Charles is one of our best men, period," then added politely: "Mister Pearson."

"Oh, I didn't mean nothin' by-" Mr. Pearson started, caught off guard.

"Right, right, Mister Pearson. Charles is very dear to us, as are you." Dutch interrupted, holding a hand up to Pearson. "Arthur, here, seems to have missed out on his morning coffee ... You two going, then?"

Charles looked pointedly to Arthur: silently agreeing to go if Arthur would have him, and a flutter tingled in Arthur's gut.

"Uh, yeah-" Arthur started, then bit his tongue. Don't, rang clear as a bell in his head. "-I, uh, think I should probably take ... Marston, he's always lazin' about. I'll make sure he gets out and earns his keep, for once."

Charles frowned — not at Arthur declining his company, but at Arthur talking down on John.

Everybody, including Arthur, knew John had finally got back on his feet. After running away at every chance he could get, even risking being eaten alive, John had finally settled down; Marston wasn't going anywhere.

Arthur just couldn't bear to tell Charles 'no'. Charles would respect it, but the fear of Charles asking Arthur why kept him quiet and pushed him into throwing John under the wagon.

You could go with Charles, Arthur thought. Stop worryin' about every God damned thing.

"Okay, Arthur," Charles said, his voice quiet; he turned away from the table and set off to find something else to do.

Hosea gave him an odd look, and Dutch raised his eyebrows. No one said anything — no one asked him anything — but the silence seemed to turn his stomach in that moment more than any words could.

"Best be off, then." Arthur shuffled away, feeling sweat form along his brow.

Arthur headed to his tent to grab the book Reverend Swanson loaned him, his satchel, and a canteen of water, then made his way over to Abigail and Jack.

"Mornin', Abigail." Arthur greeted, then lowered his voice upon realizing Jack was still fast asleep on their padding — Abigail stroking his hair. "John around?"

"Talkin' to Sean, I think." Abigail whispered, and smiled up at Arthur. "Feelin' okay?"

Arthur nodded to Abigail, gave her a small smile, and headed to the campfire on the opposite side of camp — listening for Sean's chipper, ringing voice. He found John, sitting next to Javier and Sean, who was rambling about something.

"John!" Arthur called. "You doin' anything?"

"Uhh, no?" John looked up, adjusting himself on the rock he was perched on. "Not really."

"Then, get off your ass and start doin' something." Arthur lumbered over to where the three men sat, and patted John roughly on the back. "C'mon, les' go."

"Mornin' to ya," Sean greeted Arthur, who grumbled his 'hellos' in return.

Javier tipped his hat as Arthur dragged John off.

"See you boys 'round," John said, cranking his head around to catch a glance of Javier and Sean.

Arthur gripped John's shirtsleeve tighter and tugged him along.

"You sure you're ready to be headin' out, Arthur?" John asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

The hell you so mad for? Arthur thought, frustrated more so with himself, than with John; he was perfectly content only a few moments before.

"Uh ... no reason, really." John shrugged Arthur's slackening grip off. "You feelin' better?"

"Just peachy." Arthur reached around Baby Bubba and unhitched him.

"Head hurtin'?" John pulled himself up into Old Boy's saddle.

"What you askin' me that for?" Arthur patted Bubba and started out on the trail to the main road.

"Well, you hit it, didn't ya?" John asked, falling in behind Arthur. "You're snappy."

"No, I fuckin' ain't," Arthur snapped.

"Like hell you are!" John laughed at him. "What'd I do to make you start at my throat again? Thought we worked things through?"

We did. Arthur took in a breath and let one out.

"Maybe I changed my mind 'bout how I feel," Arthur retorted. Calm down a moment, would you? He was thankful John wasn't getting riled up by him being a horse's ass. Tame and cool-headed, or not, getting hollered at out of nowhere would set anyone in their right mind off.

"Yeah, sure, Arthur." John mumbled, taking each of Arthur's backhanded comments with a grain of salt. "Where we headed?"

"Up north a bit, then west. We've gotta stock up on some stuff."

"Like what?" John asked.

"Stuff we need to stock up on," Arthur said bluntly.

"Cut it out, Arthur," John groused. "If you keep this up, I can easily turn back around."

Good job, Morgan.

"John, wait-" Arthur had Baby Bubba slow down, allowing John to ride up beside him. He pushed down the irrational anger that bubbled out of him — the burst of rage that sizzled off his skin like droplets on a hot pan — and forced himself to lighten his tone. "I ... I'm sorry."

"Should be," John said, the look on his face closely resembling a pout. "I ain't do nothin' to ya."

"I know, I know." Arthur held up his hands in a surrender. "I haven't been gettin' too much sleep, is all."

"How come?" John asked, eyeing him slowly.

"No reason," Arthur said quickly. "Jus' get unlucky sometimes, I guess."

"You guess?" John asked, his cocky grin returning. "Sometimes I think you get up on the wrong side of bed, then go back just to sleep on the wrong side again."

"You might be onto somethin'," Arthur chuckled, then added a snarky: "for once."

"Hey!" John made an attempt to shove at Arthur from his saddle, but nearly lost his balance.

Chuckling, Arthur threw out a hand to steady him. "Easy there, cowboy."

"Shut up," John said with a snort. John readjusted himself and pulled on Old Boy's reins, taking the lead on the path. "So, what we lookin' for, exactly?"

"I've got a list of things from Pearson and Swanson on me," Arthur said, patting his pocket. "Need some stuff for salves and spices."

"Spices?" John echoed, "God knows Pearson needs 'em."

"Uh huh, aren't we lucky we've got one of the best cooks to bless the south?"

"Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather have Abigail cook! At least we'd catch fire and never have to eat again," John remarked.

"What?" Arthur laughed, caught off guard. "She can't be that bad!"

"Oh, she can, I promise you that," John insisted. "Though, maybe catchin' fire would be preferable to poisoning."

"Poisoning? What you on about?" Arthur asked, tugging on Baby Bubba's reins and picking up speed.

"Oh, c'mon, Arthur. You don't ever wonder what happened to all Pearson's fellow seamen?" John hollered to him. "I would bet money they dropped dead from his cookin', alone!"

"He didn't poison nobody!" Arthur cracked up, "At least ... maybe not on purpose."

Both of them cackled, throwing around jokes and jabs back and forth, as they rode through the countryside.

The guilt Arthur initially felt about turning down Charles to come with him drifted to the back of his mind as him and John were galloping, side by side. He had missed spending time with John — as stupid as John was — Arthur had missed him.

Things had been tense since he ran off, but over the past year or so, the tension began to ebb away like the strength of spider silk in a storm. Getting out of camp and getting out of his head was already proving to make a huge difference in how Arthur felt.

As the warm summer wind tickled his face and blew back his beard, Arthur felt more clear headed than he had the past week.

The bounce of Baby Bubba's stride no longer left his head threatening to bobble from his shoulders, and the sun no longer left him feeling light headed or wanting to lie back down.

See? Arthur thought to himself, you're fine, Morgan.

Arthur listened to John whistling as he rode, relishing in the song in his ears rather than the ringing in his head.

Chapter Text

Arthur was on his way back to camp from the Grays Family's estate, bronzen badge pinned on his summer overcoat.

The weak-palated, rusty dirt shifted under his feet as he walked along the estate's pathway.

Arthur slipped off his coat and whistled for his horse. An appreciative neigh, followed by the patter of horseshoes behind him met his ears. Baby Bubba arrived at his side just past the entrance of Caligula Hall's leaden gates. Arthur stowed his coat, pushing his shirt cuffs above the elbow, and tipped his hat to the Grays' Family guards before heading back to Clemens Point.

"Good day," Arthur called to the men, then to Bubba: "Hyah!"

He breathed easier once the afternoon breeze filled his lungs as he rode, countering the thick humidity that settled in the summer's stillness.

Arthur had been feeling much better.

The only remaining evidence of his fall off Baby Bubba's saddle was a pale yellow, patchy bruise along his neckline — not entirely visible between the strands of his hair, anyways.

Not always sleeping sound, but enough to get through the day.

Though, he could still sense the guilt of Hosea's lingering nerves.

Earlier that morning — just before Dutch was sending him out — Hosea offered to send someone along to accompany him.

Dutch had laughed at him. Well, aren't you ever the overbearing matriarch? He's a grown man!

I'm well aware, Dutch, Hosea had spat back. He had looked to Arthur expectantly, but Arthur declined.

Hosea had nothing to worry about.

A knock on the head ain't nothin', Arthur reassured himself. Old man can't help himself but worry.

Arthur was back on his feet.

He was fine.

Pick yourself up, dust off your knees, and get back on that horse, Dutch always taught him. If you fall, you get back up. If you ain't movin' no more, you ain't livin'.

And Arthur always did as he was told.

He saw the glimmer of hope return in Dutch the moment Arthur started taking missions again — the moment Arthur showed initiative. Dutch's approval and support was enough incentive to keep Arthur steady.

When Dutch was well, things went well for the gang.

By remaining in the head sheriff's good graces — and, on occasion, doing favors for him, like the one Arthur was returning with, Dutch was slowly wrapping the Grays around his finger; to Arthur's knowledge, the gang was planning on pinning the Grays and the Braithwaites against each other.

Dutch — and Micah, frustratingly enough — had high hopes the two families would wipe each other out, leaving loads of their filthy, confederate gold up for grabs.

Arthur, Dutch, John, and Micah — with the infrequent assistance of Josiah Trelawny — were working with Sheriff Leigh Gray. They would run when he called, like working horses, and do as he asked. On the other hand: Hosea, Sean, Bill, and Javier were working their way into Catherine Braithwaite's good favor.

Even though Arthur was not entirely in on the loop of what was transpiring on the Braithwaites' side of things, he knew Hosea was enjoying playing his part. If his old man wasn't so nifty with his hands, he could have made it as an actor.

Or a comedian, Arthur thought, remembering the stories Hosea would tell him of his younger years.

Arthur had nothing but good news to return to camp with: the Grays wanted the gang to do more of their dirty work.

He talked to the Sheriff's eldest brother, Tavish — current head of the family, at Caligula Hall, who told Arthur to inform the rest of "his men," they were to unleash the Braithwaites' prized racing horses.

Arthur smiled to himself. Got ourselves some horses to steal.

Mr. Gray insisted that would be a big enough blow to wake the Braithwaites from their slumber and alert them that the Grays' had the upper hand.

Dutch would be pleased.

Even more so with those lovestruck fools, Arthur thought, remembering his conversation with Beau Gray.

Arthur patted Bubba's side. "How ya doin', boy?"

Baby Bubba huffed a warm response, jerking his head up.

"Mmhm, I know," Arthur hummed.

Arthur tugged the leather and Bubba cut off from the main road, heading deep into the brush that concealed the camp.

A mile into the wooded area, Arthur heard a shout: "Who goes there?"

"Arthur!" He hollered, galloping in on his horse.

"Hey, Arthur," Lenny greeted with a soft smile and a nod in his general direction, though his eyes remained glued to the treeline..

"Okay, Lenny?" Arthur ducked to avoid a stray branch hanging down.

"Jus' fine, you?" He swatted a gnat buzzing around his head.

"Dandy," Arthur said, riding past him further into forest.

"See you 'round!" Lenny called out.

Baby Bubba slowed to a stop, his muscle memory taking over, as they approached the hitching post. Arthur slid off the saddle, and untacked his horse — throwing his satchel over his shoulder, gathering his supplies to take back to his tent.

Arthur set his things down, then dug through his food for oatcakes — only to find crumbs. His hand closed around a golden delicious and he shuffled back over to where his horse stood.

"Hungry, boy?" Arthur smiled at him, looking into his deep and watchful eyes.

"Here ya go, Bub." Arthur held out his apple, receiving an appreciative grunt as he nibbled at it — teeth splitting through its crisp, golden skin, narrowly avoiding Arthur's thumb.

Baby Bubba's teeth gnashed away through half the apple before turning his head and using his muzzle to push the other half back at Arthur.

"The hell makes you think I want the rest of this?" Arthur chuckled, pushing the apple back at his horse — warm, bubbled saliva and the stick of juice in Arthur's palm. "Finish it! I ain't eatin' after you, boy!"

A rough hand grasped Arthur's shoulder from behind and he jumped back from it, his heart leaping in his throat.

He turned and found himself facing Dutch, who didn't unhandle his shoulder but had an odd expression on his face.

"Chew a lotta gum today?" Dutch asked, eyeing Arthur's uneasy stance.

Christ, ya don't need to sneak up on me.

"Caught me by surprise, is all." Arthur laughed, wiping Bubba's slobber from his hands on his pants. "Whatcha need, Dutch?"

Before Dutch allowed himself to ponder on it, the expression on his face dissolved into a smile. "Checkin' in, my boy! How'd things go?"

As Dutch led Arthur away from the posts, he relaxed into the man's touch. "Good news, all 'round. We've got some racin' horses to steal."

"Oh?" Dutch looked giddy.

"Lotta wealth lies in their steeds," Arthur said, walking with Dutch. "It'd be a nasty blow on their standing if they were to lose 'em."

"Good." Dutch gripped his shoulder a little tighter, a look of determination on his face. "That's exactly what we're gonna make happen."

"May not even have to do much more for those families to come crashin' down, though."

"What makes you say that?"

"Two youngsters have been sendin' love letters back and forth ... a Gray and a Braithwaite. Some kinda inbred re-tellin' of Romeo and Juliet," Arthur said. "If either gets found out, I'm sure hell will rain down on the lot of 'em, and they may just wipe themselves off the map for us."

"Perfect." Dutch pumped a fist, smiling wildly. "Thank you, and job well done, my son."

"'Course, Dutch."

"Go on, an' get yourself somethin' to eat." Dutch waved to Arthur and set off to do other things.

Arthur nodded to him and settled down at one of the picnic benches. He split open a can of peaches and nibbled on a stale bannock roll.

"Mind if I sit?"

Charles gestured to the seat across from Arthur, a bowl of breakfast soup in hand.

"Charles," Arthur greeted, "'course not, sit down."

Arthur tore off a decent-sized bit of the roll and handed it to Charles.

"Don't want it?" Charles asked, slowly reaching out to grab it.

"Nah, won't finish it." Arthur pinched a peach between his thumb and forefinger. "It'll go good with your soup, though."

Charles gratefully dipped the piece into his soup, allowing it to absorb some of the watered down excuse for broth before he scooped up a spare carrot chunk.

A peach slice snuck through Arthur's fingers and back into the can — a splash of juice dripped down its side. Charles snickered as Arthur grappled with the slippery peaches until he gave in and lifted the can to his lips.

Charles shook his head at Arthur as he glugged down half of the can, not even stopping to chew.

Arthur noticed and raised his eyebrows at Charles. "What?"

"Nothin'." Charles smiled at him. "You're just a ... you can be an absolute barbarian."

"What? Whatchu mean?" Arthur asked incredulously, then snorted as Charles reached out, wiping the juice that dripped down Arthur's chin with his thumb. "Oh-"

"Oh," Charles echoed mockingly, but his face only showed adoration. "S'okay ... caveman, or not, I'll still ride with ya."

"You sure 'bout that?" Arthur tested. "You'd still ride with me?"

"Always." The calm, casual way Charles spoke to him made the tips of Arthur's ears grow red.

The two sat in a comfortable silence as they ate.

Arthur picked his roll to crumbs, but bent the can's lid down inwards on his half-finished peaches.

"You should finish that," Charles said softly.

"I ain't all that hungry."

Charles met his eyes. "How come?"

Arthur shrugged. "Don't got much of an appetite in this heat, I guess."

Charles gave him a look — not quite a grimace, but close, and full of unease. "It's barely spring, Arthur."

"Yeah, an' late-March usually don't feel like this up and over in the west, Charles," Arthur said defensively.

"Okay," Charles said, chuckling. He watched Arthur, the man's arms closing himself in with a slight glower settling on his face. Charles forced his expression to soften, and lowered his voice, "Okay, Arthur. I don't mean to hassle."

"Alright," Arthur grumbled, feeling more than a little self-conscious.

"I'm sorry." Charles rested a hand on Arthur's forearms, which were crossed tightly and pressed into the wood of the table. "I just want to make sure you're all right."

"Yeah-" Arthur eased out some of the tension that gathered in his forearms for Charles' sake, only for it to re-group in his shoulders, "-I know."

"I know it's been a rough couple a' ... well-" Charles cut himself short, and a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh came from him, "-you know how it's been."

"Yeah, I get wha' you mean." Arthur gave Charles a small smile, and leaned back. "M'alright, though."

Arthur stood from his seat, breaking away the man's stare.

"I'll hold you to that," Charles insisted.

Arthur nodded to him, and Charles nodded back.

I really wish you wouldn't.

Chapter Text

Faint hints of sweat and salt wafted through the dark, damp of the swamp — slow cooking shrimp gumbo on its last rung, raw sea-smell signalling its life is nearing its end — blending into a base of souring mildew, and the wet roots of sinking Common Bulrush.

Creaking wood beneath aching feet and cracking overhead — lured into a vulture's nesting pit at feeding time. A boot to the chest, followed by a wheeze from the lungs.

Sticky palms running over skin, dirt and blood-caked nails scratched deep, cutting marks into flesh. Bare-chested and shaking, blood pumping quick.

"Don' you even think 'bout usin' your teeth."

He was choking.

He could barely breathe.

He could barely see.

"Ooh hoo, you done this before, ain't you," a cold, taunting voice crooned.

Darkness—

—a quick blur pulling him back.

Hands grabbing him roughly and crushing down against him when he tried to flee. Fingers twisted in his hair, pulling his head back.

"You got long, purty locks—" pulled back further to allow teeth grate along his neck, before the grip loosened, forehead smacking against the wood, "—like a bitch."

Clammy palms shoving him down.

Searing heat shoving in—

"Don't-" Arthur gasped breathlessly, shooting straight up. "-don't..."

A bead of sweat ran down his temple, his chest tangled in knots, a desperate cry playing on his lips — only a strained whisper escaping. One hand on his heaving chest, the other twisted in his sheets, knuckles bone-white.

Arthur's eyes darted around him, noting his surroundings, clinging to his current reality. He ran a hand over his brow and wiped the quickly cooling sweat from his face.

As bleak as things seemed, Arthur counted his blessings: he didn't scream out — he hadn't woken anyone. Arthur reached for his water canteen, then glanced at the platinum pocket watch he stole off an O'Driscoll in Ambarino — 4:37 A.M. He figured an attempt at catching a few more hours wouldn't be worth his while; Arthur wasn't even sure he wanted to if he could.

Arthur shifted on his cot to grab his journal, thumbing through the pages with trembling fingers.

It's been more than a few weeks now maybe longer, who knows? I done lost track of time. and things still ain't good. Ain't good is putting it lightly, they're bad. Not been getting much sleep either.

Hell, just woke up shaking like a dog. Feels like I just ran for hours on end, but all I've been doing is sleeping.

I even made a fool of myself in front of Mrs. Adler a while back, too. God help me if I'm ever in such a position again.

Been journaling more. Hosea has always said, from the time I started running with him and Dutch ... if you ain't gonna tell no one, tell it to the books. Problem is I can't bear to write nothing down I don't know what's worth saying and what ain't.

If I get a good night's sleep I should be fine, but that seems out of the question hopefully it'll come around soon. I'm tired.

Arthur stared at the paper — a mix of smeared graphite tip from scratching out line after line for fear of vulnerability — his usual fine curling print was nearly indecipherable; his hands were shaking too much to write legibly.

I'm just so goddamn tired. I'll start feeling better soon.

He shut his journal roughly and shoved it under his sheets.

Arthur dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, nauseated by how his skin crawled — like beady, pinprick fire ants rustling between each hair. He stifled the urge to go seek out Hosea; he didn't want to talk, just to hear his old man blabber about something and help Arthur get his mind off of everything. One of his entertaining tales woven from a mix of reality and exaggeration inspired by his youth, or even Arthur's youth.

Anything was better than his mind lingering on the horrors of the night.

Go fishin' ... maybe? Yeahh, that'll be good. Arthur thought, and nodded to himself. If I'm gonna be up this early, might as well be useful. He stood a little too fast, having to grip a firm hand on the beams of his tent to keep his knees from giving in.

Arthur groaned inwardly, more than exhausted with his body's outright refusal to comply and its decision to shake and tremble and crumple — he felt weak.

Despite his state, Arthur gathered some bait and his fishing pole. He kept an eye out for any movement around camp, stepping between tents with care, avoiding rustling flaps, rungs, or crates; the last thing he wanted was a conversation that never went anywhere.

Meaningless quips like: fine morning, isn't it? He could almost hear the words coming from someone's mouth, like Uncle or Mary-Beth or Pearson. Or, even worse, a string of useless questions Arthur had no intention of answering: what's got you up so early? Hosea's subtle, but strong handiwork, or Dutch's obnoxious prying, or John's invasive ass nosing about, or anyone else who had the nerve to pester him.

It was far from being a fine morning — all Arthur had been wishing for lately: a simple day starting with a pleasant and peaceful rise. Fine morning, Arthur thought bitterly, not one I care to be awake for one bit.

Arthur neared the edge of camp, swaying slightly on his feet as he stepped through the muddied bank of the lake front, and equipped his bait to the edge of his line. He started out with a chunk of hardened bread in hopes of attracting some Redfin Pickerel.

The quickly warming morning, especially before the sun touched the horizon, signaled it was a good day for pickerel. The flaky skinned, freshwater fish enjoyed the weather ten times more than Arthur did, but one of the upsides to the warm weather was catching pickerel — light, easy, and filling.

Arthur focused on the stillness of the water, willing the shakes to secede from his body and stop causing his line to vibrate. With how much his body was being affected by the continuous course of adrenaline, his fishing line looked more like harp strings just strummed rather than the smooth, sneaking string that lured in lunch. He was so intent on keeping his line still, he failed to notice the footsteps approaching from behind.

"What you doin' up so early?" Kieran's shaky voice spoke out.

Arthur jerked, breaking his focus, and tried stifling his gasp at Kieran's presence as a sneeze.

"Pollen from those trees budding 'round here is real bad, huh?" Kieran said after Arthur forced out a convincing ahh-shoo, "Makes my eyes water and nose itch somethin' awful."

Christ, Arthur shook his head at the younger man. He was tied between saying: I could ask you the same thing and what's it look like? But Arthur couldn't trust his voice to remain steady enough to snap at Kieran for sneaking up on him, so he stayed quiet.

Within seconds of Arthur's vow to silence, he could almost sense Kieran's body tensing up in the stillness of the atmosphere — his expectant flinch, from years of preparing to be hollered at, could have sent soft ripples across the lake's surface.

Whether it was guilt or pity that pushed him to, Arthur spoke up a moment later, "Fishes always bitin' good 'round this time," his voice gravelly.

At Arthur's resolve, Kieran's posture softened and he let out a quiet sigh of relief. "Sure are, ain't they?"

Arthur settled for a moment of silence, wondering if it would deter Kieran from remaining, but he still lingered — the both of them watching the sun's slow rise, orange glow blending into the dark blues of the lake.

After a few minutes of Arthur failing to catch anything other than a horsefly that charged at him when he sucked in a breath, Kieran raised another question. "Mind if I join you?" Kieran asked timidly, preparing for Arthur to snap at him.

Arthur paused, then gave him a quick nod.

Kieran offered a soft smile, and Arthur cleared his throat, "Bait?"

"Sure, whatchya got?" Kieran unfolded his pole, tightening the rungs around its middle, and straightened it out.

Arthur handed Kieran a mix of stale bread crumbs and chunks of cheese. Kieran either pretended not to notice Arthur's shaking hands, or payed no mind to them — he took the spare bait from Arthur, gingerly plucking the handful from the center of Arthur's palm, and hooked a piece of Swiss on his line, metal right through its hole.

Kieran swung his rod back and cast out his line, while Arthur slowly cranked the reel counter-clockwise, attempting to pull the fish in with the mime of a surface swimmer.

A few moments of silence, other than the smooth lap of the waves kissing the muddy shore, a sliver of confidence rose in Arthur as his hands stilled. "You ain't said what you're doin' up early for?"

Kieran shot him a side glance. "Oh, w-well ... I was-"

"You best not be runnin' back to Colm, boy," Arthur dropped his voice to a growl at Kieran's hesitation.

"I would never, Arthur." Kieran's grip on his pole slackened.

"And why's that?" Arthur retorted, starting to wonder if he had put too much faith in Kieran's loyalty to the gang.

"I never liked him," Kieran protested, face falling.

"Well, you ran with 'em."

"Well, I ain't never had no choice," Kieran said sharply, a tone Arthur hadn't yet heard from the young man.

With how skittish and flighty Kieran was, Arthur never would have thought he had a confrontational bone in his body — not if he couldn't even stand his ground when people were ragging on him.

Shocked, and a little unnerved, at the rise in Kieran's voice, Arthur softened his demeanor. "M'sorry for-"

"No you ain't," Kieran sighed, dejected, "no one is."

They stood in peace for a few moments before Arthur dared to speak again. "What wassit like runnin' with them?"

Kieran's anger faded into something Arthur was more familiar with seeing on the man's face: fear. "Well, it ... it sure wasn't good."

"Naw, I know that."

"Then, what you askin'?" Kieran asked, cautiously.

"Runnin' with Colm, I mean ... day in an' day out." Arthur's voice was gruff, recalling the atrocities the man was more than capable of.

Kieran stood, staring blankly out at his line. "Honestly?"

Arthur nodded. "I've had my fair share of ... interactions with Colm, but I can' imagine runnin' with that lot."

"Well, he's uh ... uhh," Kieran mulled over his words. "Wh-when he talks to you ... when he talks to you nicely, it's like the sun is shinin'."

Arthur turned to get a better glance at Kieran; the fire in his tone was gone.

"And when he's mad at you, it's like ... like the devil's gonna be put upon you. That- that's how I'd put it." Kieran shifted on his feet. "He changes. He's happy and you're happy, then he's mad ... an-and you're upset and you don't know why."

Arthur stared at Kieran, mouth parted in surprise at Kieran's vulnerability. He'd known Kieran was sensitive, but he hadn't known Kieran was one to say anything about it. Other than horses, Arthur didn't know much of anything about him.

"He's unfair ... and unkind, and as long as it isn't directed at you — you don't care!" Kieran let out a breathy laugh, that sounded more like a whimper. "He turns his men into monsters ... somehow he makes them love only him."

Kieran visibly shuddered — weather too warm and too humid for him to push the reaction off as anything but cold, unbridled terror — and Arthur could only balk at the young man, his thin face worn with sorrow and pain.

"He scares me," Kieran said quietly, eyes still fixed on the lake.

At that point, both men had partially or totally abandoned their focus on their lines — Kieran's quiet, shaky voice spoke volumes, and Arthur couldn't begin to be bothered by the fish in the lake no matter their size.

When Arthur said nothing, Kieran continued — forcing his voice to adapt a chipper tone, "I mean, you boys scare me, but you're still like- like human beings. He's- Colm ... he always-" Kieran quickly faltered, "-it's hard to explain."

"Somethin' ain't he?" Arthur spoke up, his voice weaker than it was when he thought to pry. "But he ain't above no one else, he'll be buried in a grave and gone just as the day he came. Don't need to worry 'bout him no more."

Kieran stared him straight in the face, fingers: white-knuckled around his fishing pole, "He still scares me."

I know, Arthur thought, I also came to know you 'hardly knew him'. Turns out Kieran knew Colm a lot more than he let on, but not to a degree where Kieran would turn his back on their gang for his.

Arthur felt guilty at getting a rise out of Kieran; it wasn't entirely intentional, but once Kieran's awareness of Arthur's state was in the forefront of his mind, he felt weak. Pulling the young man's strings right where the thread was frayed for his own sick curiosity over a chance at bonding didn't make Arthur feel any stronger, it made him feel sick.

Dunno what I'm supposed to do 'bout this mess I just created.

"M'sorry for bringin' that up," Arthur admitted, his voice low.

"Issalright," Kieran said, thickly.

"Not really." Arthur clenched his jaw, turning to face his rod again.

Kieran sniffed, wiping his hand below his nose. "I was only up 'cause I- I couldn't ... wasn't sleepin' too good."

Arthur's stomach felt sour and twisted as he did so, but he agreed, "Me neither."

Kieran's wide, red-rimmed eyes connected with Arthur's. They both looked at each other a moment, processing the weight of the words said, before speaking, "I know."

Does he? Arthur swallowed roughly, feeling light-headed. Does he know?

A light tug on Kieran's line pulled his head to the water.

They fished for close to an hour, the sun reaching the first visible treeline by the time they were on their finishing catches of the day, before Kieran spoke up again, "I was never an O'Driscoll, Arthur."

"Mmhm," Arthur hummed a response, furrowing his brows as the last fish yanked down on his line.

"I never wanted to run with 'em, and I ain't never wanted ... never wanted to run with Colm," Kieran said, pulling a decently sized Bluegill out of the water. "I feel like I'm more Kieran van der Linde rather than Kieran O'Driscoll."

Arthur snorted. "Kieran van der Linde? That'll never stick."

"Hey!" Kieran shook his head and laughed. "Well, a-actually you might be right 'bout that one ... mostly I'm- I'm just Kieran Duffy."

Arthur smiled at that, tidying the the net around the fish they collectively caught. "Well, we're as happy as clams havin' Kieran Duffy with us over the O'Driscolls any day. People'll start comin' round and warmin' up to you eventually."

Kieran's retracted his pole, his cheeks rosy. "Thank you for lettin' me fish with you, Arthur."

"Thank you for joinin' me."

Arthur parted ways with Kieran, the sun now fully above the treeline, and turned in their fish to Mr. Pearson, rewarded with a rough pat on the back and a wheezy "Thank you, Mister Morgan!"

It was just after six o'clock, and few members in the camp were crawling to a slow start.

Dutch, dressed in his red union suit, was hunched over on his bed with Molly still fast asleep next to him. Arthur quickly strutted past Dutch's tent, hoping he wouldn't catch him, but Dutch jerked his head up. "Arthur."

"Dutch," Arthur greeted warily.

"Up, bright and early, I see."

"Went fishin' with Kieran," Arthur said. "Some decent catches."

Dutch nodded, still stuck in a half-sleep stupor.

Even with how little Arthur had been sleeping, he would bet everything in his satchel that Dutch barely slept half the amount Arthur did.

Chapter Text

The night was still young by the time Arthur managed to get the slightest of grips on himself, after his fight with Bill. He wanted to claw at his skin, but it was still burning from the cigarette. His stomach turned, but he felt more level-headed at the sudden, release — more in control of his body and his surroundings than he had felt a moment prior.

Arthur thought about his knife, but Baby Bubba timidly scuffed his hoof against Arthur's side when he had first dug the burning tip down into his skin, whining at him — and he couldn't bring himself to continue any further. Guilted into stopping, the level of clarity he reached was enough to keep him steady and get back on his horse.

He rode into Rhodes — in the opposite direction of the Bayou Nwa — a decent ways away from camp.

Arthur just needed to get out.

He needed to get away.

Stars speckled the deep blue sky, flickering bright against the darkness, contrasting Bill's dark blood speckled against the pale of Arthur's skin.

Arthur stopped in front of Rhodes' Saloon and hitched Bubba outside, patting his reddish-brown, white splotched coat, gently resting his head against his horse's muzzle. "Good boy," he spoke quietly.

The moon had not yet made its appearance, but with the quickly darkening sky, Arthur was sure it would soon.

Before heading into the saloon, Arthur spat on his knuckles, and rubbed them against the rough underside of his shirt — cleaning them of any of the more visible incriminating things about Arthur's appearance.

He walked in, legs still weak under him, and situated himself at the bar. Arthur tapped on the counter, signalling the bartender, "Can I get a whiskey, please?"

"Sure, be with you in a minute," the man said — his thick, curled mustache rising in the form of a smile.

Arthur ran his hand along the wood grains of the counter, tracing the loops slowly as his knuckles grew stiff with the beginnings of swelling.

Fucking Bill. The bartender slid Arthur the two shot glasses of whiskey, and he swiftly brought it to his lips the moment his forefinger and thumb was on the glass. Goddamn, stupid idiot. He downed one, immediately after the other.

The bartender raised his equally bushy brows, the question of "you want somethin' stronger?" played on his face. Arthur nodded to the man, and patted his side — signalling he had the means to pay, if the bartender had the means to share.

Only good thing 'bout the South, Arthur thought bitterly, surplus of that stinkin', cursed moonshine.

The bartender slipped behind the frontside counter and headed into the back in search of his stash, while Arthur downed the rest of a half-empty beer bottle since the fellow who had bought it was face-down against the bar.

A few minutes later, the bartender returned with a "bottle of bourbon," label half-scratched off, and Arthur threw $3.75 on the counter.

He cracked open the bottle with the tip of his hunting knife, bending back the crimp-edge metal, and choked down his first sip. Damn, that burns.

It had a bittersweet bite at first, none too pleasurable, but what followed was what Arthur struggled to stomach. Smelled like soggy bread, tasted like ethanol stirred in sugar cubes, and went down like liquid pepper.

"How's that for ya, goodsir?" The bartender gave Arthur a nervy smirk. "Finest bourbon in all' a Lemoyne."

"Perfect," Arthur rasped, throat constricting at the sting, "thank you."

Halfway through the bottle, a dull throb grew behind his eyes as his cheeks flushed, reminding him that he hadn't had much sustenance other than stew to be drinking this heavy. Arthur sighed in frustration — that would be a problem he would deal with when he got there.

His brain moved sluggishly, like its innards were trailing behind the shiny path of a brown garden snail. The thoughts whirling around in his brain before he started drinking — before he lit his body aflame — slipped off the side of his brain, out his ears, and down his back. Arthur's head felt thick with alcohol, but devoid of any meaningful thought.

The moonshine was empty within half an hour, and Arthur smiled dumbly at the golden brown bottle, and snorted into his hands. He stood from his stool, gripping onto the counter's ledge for support, and burped his thanks to the bartender.

"Shhhould be on ma' way," Arthur slurred to no one in particular, and made his way for the main doors.

Arthur pushed through the dual, white shutter doors, bumping right into three men on their way into Rhodes' Saloon.

"Hey! What the hell's your problem?"

"I dunno," Arthur giggled drunkenly, "I think I forgot-"

"You best watch your step, you sonuvabitch," another one of the men growled.

When Arthur tried moving past them and head through the doors, the first man hollered again.

"Oh, you've got it comin', you bastard!"

A fist connected into his side and Arthur was thrown out the door, the three men corralling in on him. Arthur was on his feet and fighting through his drunken haze in seconds — elbow connecting with a sickening crunch into the blonde, sending him straight to the ground.

The thick metal of Arthur's badge weighed heavy, adding to the building nerves in his chest. Don't 'cause no trouble, he reminded himself. But if Arthur was being honest with himself, it was a little late for that.

"You rrreally wanna do this righ' now?" Arthur spat to his right, pumping his fists as the men rounded on him.

A near miss on Arthur's cheekbone, the bearded ginger man's knuckles grazing the side of his cheek. He backed up, steadying himself in front of the two men — eyes blurred from the alcohol and the continuous unrelenting nature of his evening. Arthur threw a jab in the ginger's chest, bringing a wheeze out of his lungs.

"That all you got?" The heaviest set man hollered, swinging at Arthur. "You ain't so tough!"

Arthur's mind went blank.

Friendship ain't so tough.

A fist slammed into Arthur's gut, dragging him from his shock by knocking the breath out of him.

And neither is you.

"Help! Somebody, help!" A frantic voice called out. "Can we get the law over here?"

Arthur swept a foot clumsily under the ginger, knocking him to the ground — a plume of copper-tinted dust rising around his back — and pistol whipped the heavy set man in front of him.

The man fell back into the dirt, and Arthur climbed over him — kicking his gun far out of reach — and reared back his fist.

Punch after punch, the man's nose busted under Arthur's fist. His fist, already aggravated from bopping Bill in the face, ached. The man under him, still conscious to an impressive degree, had his hands wrapped around Arthur's front of his shirt — trying to throw him off.

"Cut it out right now!" A booming voice called from behind him.

Arthur did not stop.

Blood swelled beneath the surface of his skin — his knuckles slightly discolored, preparing to bruise deeply by the morning came around.

"Put your hands up," a warning shot fired, "now!"

The gunshot rattled Arthur, as it did the man beneath him — Arthur was quickly thrown onto his back as the heavyset man scrambled away at the first sight of the law, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran back behind the saloon.

Arthur stood up abruptly, in search of who was shouting at him.

"Don't move, or you're as good as dead."

And with that, Arthur stayed put — hands raised high, muscle in his face twitching.

Chapter Text

Dutch spotted Arthur lumbering around camp half-past five, gathering clothes in a bag and stowing them on Bubba's back.

Where are you goin' now? Dutch thought, irritated.

Dutch came up behind Arthur, "I thought you'd ran off." After last night, wasn't so sure you'd show up again.

"Not yet," Arthur said — a drop of venom in his tone — not bothering to face Dutch.

"Right," Dutch glared into the young man's back, desperately hoping Arthur could sense how cross he was with him. "When shall we expect your return?"

"Tomorrow." Arthur avoided Dutch's eyes as he returned to his tent, gathering arrows. "Charles and I are headin' out."

"Finally doin' somethin' useful," Dutch quipped, turning on his heel — furrowing his brows in frustration when he heard Arthur huff behind him.

Arthur had no right to be angered with Dutch. He was the one causing problems. Arthur was.

Dutch wasn't running around, getting into drunken brawls, or throwing camp members flat on their backs. Arthur's the one causing problems.

When Dutch tried pulling answers from Bill, and the man refused, that turned his stomach sour. What could have happened that even Bill wouldn't talk?

Dutch sat down in his chair outside of his tent, Molly still fast asleep on the cot, and watched Arthur as he and Charles packed up their things to head out.

Hosea sleepily approached Dutch, likely preparing some speech to berate Dutch and get in his head — tell him he's wrong. Dutch only wanted what was best for his family, and as much as Arthur was his family, Arthur was bringing them down.

And risking their safety by blowing up in Rhodes was only one thing.

"Dutch," Hosea said through a yawn.

"Hosea," Dutch said thickly.

"Somethin' on your mind, old friend?" Hosea asked, seeing straight through Dutch's resolve.

"Arthur," he murmured in a low voice.

Hosea nodded absently and sat down next to Dutch, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I know."

"Then, why bother askin' when you already know the answer?" Dutch snapped.

"Hey, now," Hosea retracted his hand, raising his brows, "don't get all heated with me."

"I ain't heated with ... with you," Dutch said, struggling to force a softer tone with the older man. "I'm heated with him. He ain't listenin' to me no more, he's doubtin' my every word, and he's-"

"Dutch," Hosea interrupted softly, "m'afraid he's hurtin', dear."

"What you mean?" Dutch asked, glaring ahead.

"I mean ... how he's been acting lately, Dutch. He ain't himself, and I- I don't know why," Hosea frowned at his lap. "I don't think it's on you any more than it's on me, Dutch."

"Well, why wouldn't he say somethin', then?" Dutch grumbled.

Hosea sat quietly for a moment, watching Arthur throw his things carelessly onto his horse's back. "I'm not sure."

What if he's pretendin' to be hurtin', a thought pressed in the back of Dutch's mind. Maybe he's all distant and cold because he found somethin' else ... somethin' better — and "hurting" is just a cover for "betrayal."

"He don't trust us no more, Hosea."

"I wouldn't say tha-"

"What if he's betrayin' us?" Dutch asked suddenly, gnawing on the side of his cheek.

A snort worked its way out of Hosea, but his laughter fell short when he saw the look on Dutch's face. "You've gotta be kiddin' me, Dutch."

"Do I look like I'd be kiddin' you right now?"

"No," Hosea said slowly, a flicker of fear on his face. "Dutch, we ... we raised that boy, you and I. You should know more than anyone here Arthur doesn't have a disloyal bone in his body."

Maybe we don't know him as well as we thought we did. Dutch stayed silent.

"How much sleep you get?" Hosea asked, gripping Dutch's shoulder.

"I got a fine amount, thank you," Dutch said, sharp and biting.

"You sure?" Hosea asked, looking him up and down, "'cause it sounds like you're gettin' up in your head."

"Now, you're doubtin' me!" Dutch threw his hands up, standing from the chair in a fit. "Exactly what I need."

"Dutch, I ain't doubtin' you," Hosea groaned, running a hand over his face. "I'm tellin' you I'm worried."

Dutch struggled to maintain his resolve as Hosea struggled to keep his voice low; he turned away from Hosea and made a break for the other side of camp in hopes the older man wouldn't follow, but Hosea grabbed his arm.

"I'm worried ... for our boy, Dutch," Hosea said stonily.

"You're worried about the wrong things," Dutch retorted, his voice cold.

"If you're not worried about our family, then what is there left to worry for?" Hosea asked, voice full of bitter sadness.

Dutch tore from Hosea's grasp and trudged down to the lakeshore, feeling the man's disappointment shoot through his bones like poison. Soon enough, Dutch thought, something's gonna go wrong when we're lookin' the wrong way, and someone will make their move.

Whether that someone is Arthur, or not.

After pushing off the offer continuously, Arthur accepted the invitation to go hunting with Charles. Even if Arthur had any intentions to turn Charles down, with Hosea's desperate plea to get Arthur out of his hair, there was no room for debating.

But Arthur was more than happy to get out of camp. After heading into Rhodes the night before, it dawned upon Arthur how stir crazy he'd gotten — heading into the town wasn't his brightest idea, but out in the wilderness, there was little to no threat of the law.

It would just be him and Charles.

He was relieved to find some comfort in that.

The sunrise flashed its greetings to them as they headed out on Bubba and Taima.

Charles remained silent for a good half of the morning, leading the way as Arthur followed behind him. Arthur, still feeling the lingering effects of the alcohol from the night before, settled for quiet. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence — the quiet moments both men shared were never uncomfortable, just time to rest and re-build depleted energy — but it was weighted.

There were lots of things either of them could talk about — ask about — there was no pressure to talk, but the tension was there.

Arthur could barely recall the last time they were out with each other.

It must've been sometime after Colm, Arthur thought, tensing and untensing his shoulder muscles, when I was tryna build my strength back up.

"Arthur?" Charles called out.

"Uh huh?"

"Sharp left after this next set of crossroads."

"Got it," Arthur copied.

They rounded a corner, horses' hooves clopping angrily against the rocky mountain path. A cool, summer breeze whooshed in Arthur's ears as they dug in deep up the incline. Arthur was relieved to get out of Rhodes — to get out of Lemoyne — a trip to the Heartlands was just what he needed; the air, slightly less thick and the breeze more than barely breathable humidity.

Once they reached the peak of the steep hillside, they both slowed to an easygoing canter — side by side on the straightedge path.

As they rode on, the sun rose up — high in the sky, beating down on their necks — and they eased into conversing the more the two of them transitioned from their half-woken slumbers.

It was just casual commentary at first: pointing out wildlife growth, discussing plant properties, and debating where exactly they wanted to hunt, until Charles mentioned: "Hair isn't long enough to braid anymore."

Arthur raised a hand to brush over his neckline, he's right. "Yeah," Arthur said, "guess not."

Charles offered Arthur a small smile, "I'll miss it."

"Me too," Arthur admitted, brows knitting together.

"Why'd you cut it?" Charles asked.

"Ah, I dunno ... needed to change somethin' up, I guess."

"I understand," Charles said, sounding slightly disappointed.

Arthur shot him a look. "What? You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," Charles chuckled. "Short hair works for me if it works for you, Arthur."

"Sure," Arthur said, a grin forming on his face, "try not to sound too torn up 'bout it then. Ain't gonna grow back for a while."

"I'll stay strong," Charles rested a hand on his chest.

Arthur snorted, shaking his head at Charles.

Charles visibly softened at Arthur's laugh — seeing him laugh, even smile recently, was a rarity — it made his chest feel warm. In the moments he saw Arthur light up, Charles was reminded how far he would go for that man: there were no limits to his love. If it came to it, Charles would willingly lay down his life for Arthur if need be.

Arthur met Charles' eyes — big and watchful, brown and beautiful — and his chest felt a little lighter. He was relieved to be free of nitpicking; there was no one who would chide him on doing too much or too little, or on how he hasn't been talkative lately, or anything else. He was relaxed for the first time in weeks — no longer feeling like twenty pairs of eyes stared him down, watching his every move, in camp.

He felt at peace — confident he would be able to catch an acceptable night's sleep at Charles' side. It would be the first sleep, Arthur would score in over a month. Maybe the solution is comfort as opposed to moonshine or rosicrucian elixir — or any other liquor Arthur could get his hands on. He realized he just needed a moment's time to breathe.

A moment to rest.

To sleep.

Arthur hadn't had any time to rest; his body wouldn't let him, but he was safe here. He was safe with Charles.

And despite any remaining nerves that fired off warning signs, Arthur knew he was no longer in danger. As long as Charles was with him, and he was with Charles, Arthur would rest easy.

Everything'll be fine, Arthur reminded himself. Things'll get better, Dutch'll calm down, and so will I.

The two of them settled down for lunch in some plains off the trail, eating some raspberry compote on bread with some salted venison as they watched a pair of robins gather twigs for a nest.

"I was thinking of heading a bit further north," Charles said, chewing at the fat of the venison, "we could find some bison."

"That'll keep us stocked for a while."

"Sure will," Charles agreed. "If we head past the Greensworth Peninsula, towards where we set up at Horseshoe Overlook, we'll find a decent amount."

"Alright," Arthur nodded. "What time you reckon we'll get there?"

"Bit of a trip to make, still." Charles scratched his chin, and took a swig of water from his canteen. "I would say we'd make it there by nightfall. We can stakeout overnight, and head out right in the morning when the herd is moving."

"Sounds good," Arthur said, finishing up his lunch.

"I'll tack up the horses," Charles said, rising to his feet.

"Thanks, Charles."

Within a half hour, they were back on the road again — sun stooping past its high point of the afternoon, making its way to the western hemisphere of the sky. They only stopped once more to share a quick dinner, then start preparing cover scent lotion and a few sets of herbivore bait.

The sun sunk to the dark, tree-lined horizon of the Heartlands — casting golden shimmers across the landscape, blowing up shadows of waving leaves and weathered rocks, and lighting up Arthur's and Charles' faces with the dim glow of the evening. They stopped and scoped out an area near the cliffside at the forest's edge, perched just over the flat-top plateaus and grassy plains where the bison grazed.

"This looks good," Charles said, hopping off Taima's back. "Let's stop here for the night."

Arthur patted Baby Bubba's back, reaching out his palm to let his horse nibble at some hay, before gathering his things to set up camp.

Almost second nature, Charles pitched his tent and rolled out his and Arthur's pads next to each other inside, while Arthur absentmindedly set up his own tent — unaware of what Charles was up to.

"Did you wanna sleep in your tent?" Charles spoke out from behind.

Arthur turned to face Charles. Oh. He hadn't thought that through.

"Uh, yeah, sure" Arthur said casually, kicking a stake into the dirt.

Arthur hadn't thought this through at all.

Charles started to fold up his bedroll, but Arthur stopped pitching up his tent the moment Charles gathered his things.

Once Charles noticed Arthur had stilled over, he stared at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, sounding so unsure of himself that the word came out like a question rather than an answer.

He hoped Charles wouldn't ask him any more questions, but Charles — being the ever-observant pain in the ass that he was — put together the awkward position Arthur placed him in right off the bat. "Do you not want to sleep in the same tent?" He asked cautiously.

No, it's not that. Arthur ran a nervous hand over the back of his neck. Not exactly.

"Well, I- you know, there could be people, Charles," Arthur stumbled through his words.

"Arthur, you realize where we are, right?" Charles let out a small laugh, waving a hand at their surroundings.

"Obviously, I know where we're at, Charles, but-" a hint of indignation in his voice growing before Charles cut him off.

"No," Charles paused, his face falling as he looked Arthur over, "that's not it. What's wrong?"

"What you mean?" Arthur asked, face growing hot with embarrassment.

"I haven't done anything to upset you, have I?" Charles asked, looking mildly hurt — his bedroll hanging loosely in his hand.

"No, 'course not." Arthur took a reassuring step closer to Charles — who was desperately searching Arthur's face for an answer. "You didn't ... I just- I-"

Arthur stopped himself short, worried he would say something to either upset Charles or make himself look like a right idiot. How the hell you say you wanna sleep with someone without takin' them to bed? He thought, irritatedly. Arthur ran a sweaty hand over his face, opening his mouth to try again, but Charles spoke first.

"Arthur ... we don't have to do anything you don't want to," Charles said, face clearing up. "I'm sorry if I made it seem like I was-"

Arthur shook his head, and Charles fell silent, waiting to let Arthur speak — Charles' words hung in the air, and Arthur couldn't help but feel stupid.

He knew Charles would never push him, he knew it, yet he feared for a moment of the possible obligation hanging over his head as the reminder of what they usually got up to on their hunting trips flashed through his head. Arthur couldn't even recall a time they had slept in the same tent, or bed together without having slept together first.

When Arthur said nothing, Charles rested a hand on Arthur's arm and gave him a light squeeze. "I wasn't expecting ... anything, I hope you know that."

"O-oh, no I knew ... I know," Arthur backtracked quickly. "I didn't mean to make it sound like ... I just- I'm tired-"

"That's okay, Arthur," Charles gave him a concerned look. "You can still sleep here even if we aren't ... you know you can just rest. You don't owe me a thing, Arthur."

The tension visibly washed out of Arthur's frame, like a stream weaving down a mountain's side. "Okay, I- I'm sorry, Charles."

"It's okay, Arthur," Charles said, wrinkling his eyebrows together. "If it's something you're comfortable with, we can still share the same tent-"

"No, yeah, yeah- I want to," Arthur shook his head eagerly, feeling slightly dizzy. "M'sor-"

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Arthur," Charles insisted.

"Gagh, I know ... I just- I been pushin' you off lately," Arthur sighed.

"You really haven't, Arthur," Charles swore up and down, and let Arthur's arm go — leaning down to take care of the fire. "There has been a lot goin' on lately."

"Yeah," Arthur said, exhaustion seeping into his bones as he stuck in the last stake in the ground while Charles kindled the fire in front of their tent.

"I'm just sorry I took that the wrong way, Arthur," Charles said quietly. "I ... I know you've been through a lot lately. All you need to do is tell me what's on your mind and I'm here, okay, Arthur?"

"'Course, Charles," Arthur said between a yawn.

"Let's get some sleep," Charles whispered, his own yawn coming quickly after Arthur's. "We've got an early morning."

They crouched down and settled into their pads under the tarp of Arthur's tent, only a small sliver of space between them.

Arthur reached over to Charles' and squeezed his hand before tucking it under his head, propping his neck up into a comfortable position under the fat of his forearm.

Charles squeezed his hand back. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"G'night, Charles."

Charles awoke to a sound, animalistic in nature, but human. He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the dim firelight outside their camp, and turned to Arthur.

Arthur.

His form was rigid.

Muscles taut, pulse throbbing in his neck, face pulled tight in a grimace, forehead beading up with sweat.

Sharp, stilted breathing.

A small noise, almost a cry, dissolved in the back of his throat before it could escape his lips.

Charles pushed himself to a sitting position on arms, shaky with sleep. "Arthur." His own voice was a hoarse whisper in his ears.

You shouldn't touch him, Charles' own voice rang in his head, might make things worse.

The man's form was almost struck still, the only thing shifting was the contractions of his muscles as he flinched in his sleep. He was flat on his back, straightened out like a pole, struggling to move or stay still — Charles couldn't tell. "Arthur, wake up." A single tear pushed out from Arthur's eyes, squinted tight in his sleep, and slid down his cheek.

Charles' chest tightened up. "Arthur," he said a little louder, hand hesitantly hovering over Arthur's good shoulder.

Arthur twisted, craning his neck away from Charles — his breath coming quicker — and Charles was nearly holding his own breath, unsure of what he should do. Unsure of what Arthur needed him to do; Charles hadn't ever seen him like this before, and he was afraid of escalating the situation further.

"Arthur."

Arthur shot up, painfully stiff, sucking in a wheezing gasp.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing his surroundings.

"Arthur?" Charles asked, ever so cautiously, but his voice still caused Arthur to wince away.

What's going through your head?

Arthur's fists clenched and unclenched around the thin sheet, thrown off him in his waking frenzy, continuing to stare straight ahead.

Arthur, please, Charles thought desperately — searching the man's face for answers, for a sign he knew Charles was even there.

After a few moments of sitting in the dark, unmoving, Charles went on a whim; he slowly reached out in Arthur's general direction — Arthur's name on his lips — but Arthur jerked back, flinging the sheet at Charles, and scrambled to his feet. He cracked his back into the tent frame — sending it caving inwards. Arthur recoiled, struggling to escape the tent collapsing in on them.

"Arthur? Arthur, it's okay," Charles raised his voice, trying to keep it steady, but Arthur was beyond hearing him, and Charles' nerves pushed him over the edge. The tarp fell over his head, blocking Arthur from his vision, and he heard footsteps crunching in the early morning frost in the opposite direction of their campsite. "Arthur!"

The cool, fresh air of the northern Heartlands filled his lungs as he fled — blindly speeding past the campfire and making a beeline for the trees. Arthur scratched at his throat, eyes watering.

He vaguely heard Charles calling out to him from behind, but he just kept moving — further away from the now collapsed tent, and further away from Charles. The man was unrelenting, though — chasing him to the edge of the forest in the darkness of the dawn.

A black ring circled around the edge of his vision, zoning in on the trees as Arthur approached — almost as if he had whipped out his binoculars and was trying to run while looking through them. Arthur threw his hand out against a tree, barely keeping himself upright.

The sweat of his hands caused him to slip, and Arthur crashed his bad shoulder into the trunk with a groan as he started to crumple; Charles, already behind him, caught him by the arm to steady him, but Arthur swung at him hard.

"Arthur!" Charles shouted, ducking swiftly.

"Fuck," Arthur cried out once his vision refocused on Charles' face,"fuck!"

Arthur's breath caught in his chest as he bumped into the tree behind him. You fucking moron. Arthur slipped down to the ground, tree bark grating into his back. Charles could only stand and watch him — eyes wide, mouth parted in shock — for fear what Arthur would do if he reached out to him again.

You god damn fucking moron. Arthur's vision blurred, angry tears dribbling down his face, and he raised his arm to wipe them on his sleeve hurriedly.

He wanted to claw at his skin, the slow-healing cigarette burns just beginning to itch more than sting. It wasn't enough to steady, but Charles stood right in front of him. You useless, stupid ass.

A pained groan slipped out of Arthur, and he rammed the palm of his fist against his eyebrow — trying to bring back the feeling of his body, sitting on the forest bed, trying to bring his body back from that night. Charles dropped to his knees, getting on Arthur's level, and approached him slowly.

"Arthur..." Charles spoke — looking Arthur over cautiously, and realizing he had never seen the man look so small. He had seen people panic before, but not Arthur. Even after he had been taken by the O'Driscolls, Arthur was level-headed in steady. But something in his eyes showed such an intense terror, more so than on the night before — after his fight with Bill — and it shook Charles to his core. "Can you look at me?"

Arthur lowered his hands, taking in a shuddering breath as he rested his head against the tree. He slowly raised his eyes to focus on Charles, meeting his face — sweat broken out on his brow in the chilly morning.

"Good," Charles gave Arthur a small nod, palms open to him as he scooted closer.

Embarrassment and anger at himself flooded through his system, overtaking the blind fear that swept him in the early hours of the morning. You made a damn fool of yourself. Not only had Arthur gotten himself worked up, but he nearly scared Charles shitless judging by the look on his face.

"You with me?" Charles asked, his voice more calm and smooth than it had been a few moments before.

Charles was just inches away from Arthur, and Arthur wanted to apologize so desperately to him; he had woken him up, he nearly hit him. But he couldn't trust himself to speak. Arthur feared if he opened his mouth, his rolling stomach would betray him; he settled for a small nod.

"Good," Charles said, again. Quiet and reassuring, his breathing slowing down as Arthur's did.

They sat there for a while, the breeze whistling between tall midwestern maplewoods, as the sky pinkened to a warm salmon against indigo along the horizon; Charles crouched in front of him, breathing in deep, with Arthur watching his chest rise and fall rather than meeting his eyes. Arthur was at a loss for words while recovering from his shock, but Charles always respected Arthur's silence when he maintained it. There was no rush; their hollering likely scared off the game they aimed to hunt, so it wasn't like they were short on time.

As the sun peeped up and warmed Charles' face, Arthur blinked slowly at him — worn out from sleeping. Arthur reached out to Charles and brushed his fingertips along Charles' smooth, brown knuckles. Pathetic, a venomous through shot through his mind, but Arthur disregarded it for a moment; the weakness had already been unveiled — holding the man's hand wouldn't give it any further power. Arthur could only wonder what Charles was thinking.

Charles' brows furrowed, as they often did when he focused intently, and he turned his hand up to hold onto Arthur's. "What's goin' on?"

His voice was so soft, Arthur almost missed the question. Arthur ran his thumb along Charles' hand, squeezing it a little tighter. What is goin' on?

Enough time passed between Charles' question that Arthur was met with another, "Is your head alright?"

Arthur deflated, unable to mask his grimace. He knew Hosea was still weary, over a month later, but Arthur hadn't considered his old man may have asked others to watch out for signs. Son of a bitch.

"Yeah," Arthur grated out. He turned his head, coughing against his own spit the coagulated in the back of his throat; his mouth felt dry and full of cotton.

"Okay," Charles nodded, but looked unconvinced.

Still down in the brush of the forest, hands clasped in one another's, Arthur met Charles' stare.

Arthur could see the hundreds of questions running through his mind, and see the process of elimination in the twitch of his nose of which ones to avoid asking. He wished Charles would give in — maybe they would make up for lost time and hit the road early ... whatever time it may be, Arthur thought idly.

But Charles never let him off easy. "Is this about Colm?" He asked, close to a whisper.

Arthur almost blurted a harsh no, but as he looked into the sincerity of Charles' eyes and realized how much Charles was trying to reach out to him, Arthur found he was at a loss for words.

He looked away from Charles, busying himself with watching a lady bug crawl over a small mound of moss to the left of him. He didn't know what to say.

The hell you want me to say? Arthur thought bitterly. That I got beat, hogtied, then—

What even was that? Could he call it rape?

What else would it be called? Arthur shivered, and Charles gave his hand a soft squeeze.

Charles didn't want to hear it. He wouldn't want to hear that Arthur was afraid for anyone to touch him; disgusted at the thought of anyone wanting to touch him. Or about how he feels filthy in clean clothes and wanted to spare Charles or anyone else the trouble of being near him. About how that man put a sickness in his body and in his mind that he feared would never leave him.

Charles didn't want to hear about it. And he won't, Arthur told himself.

But Arthur's chest tightened with grief, and despite his desire to stay silent, he rasped out, "Wish I coulda killed that bastard," biting against his bottom lip when it began to quiver.

"You don't have to talk about it," Charles reassured him, when he sensed the tension in Arthur's frame that gathered at his vulnerability, "but know I'm here to listen."

This ain't about Colm.

Arthur nodded sharply. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me for anything." Charles shook his head, his hand still being clenched onto by Arthur. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah, jus' gimme a minute."

Charles sat quietly until Arthur shifted, no sooner than the sun edged half of itself above the horizon — the salmon hues shooting upwards in streaks, with waves of crimson flowing behind the warmth of the sun. He leaned heavily into Charles when he stood, tremors still leaving his legs weak, and they walked back to their campsite.

Leaning against Charles and focusing on the cool air of the morning, filtering through his lungs, helped ground him. He was feeling mildly better by the time they reached the spot they set up camp at.

Once Arthur saw the tent in a heap — tarp torn and one support snapped in half — he let out a nervous laugh. "Uhh, I-"

"Don't you dare even think about sayin' sorry, Arthur Morgan," Charles gave him a light hearted chide, stomping out the fire and the beginning's of Arthur's instinctive apology.

I really wish you'd let me. "Agh ... alright," Arthur said. All I've been is a god damn hassle lately.

Arthur rolled up their bed roles and gathered the remaining belongings they had out, then slipped them into their sacks, before throwing them over his shoulder.

Charles shot a glance back at Arthur, the both of them now finished tearing down camp. "I didn't ask, but ... I'm assuming you weren't planning on going back to sleep?"

"Nah, I'm ready when you are," Arthur said, shifting the weight of their sacks to his good shoulder.

"Good," Charles said, still observing Arthur's words and movements carefully, "let's go tack up the horses."

The two men tore down the rest of camp and mounted their saddles.

It was closer to dusk than it was to dawn, but by the time they reached the herd — the sun would be rising.

They rode in silence for nearly an hour.

Then, Arthur spoke.

"Charles?" He called out from behind, voice uncertain.

Charles slowed Taima's pace to match Baby Bubba's. "Yeah, Arthur?"

"Can ... I ask you somethin'?"