Chapter Text
“I see I’m boring you.”
Truthfully, Arthur had completely forgotten Dutch was talking. He hadn’t even realized he’d yawned until the irritated retort yanked him back to the world of the living, Dutch’s tent spinning dangerously when Arthur snapped his head up, meeting the cold eyes that watched him.
“No,” Arthur said, eyes watering as he forced back another yawn. “Sorry, Dutch, I’m listening.”
“What did I say?”
Arthur shakily realized that he didn’t know, face heating up in shame. He had no idea what they’d even been talking about before he involuntarily faded out, couldn’t even remember stepping into Dutch’s tent.
“You might want to think about getting more sleep,” the other man scoffed. Arthur wanted to tell him that it wasn’t like he was being given much choice, but Dutch was talking again before he had the chance. “God knows you have the time with how little you do around here.”
It stung, Arthur suddenly feeling every single ache in his muscles from the strain of working non-stop for days at a time.
“That’s not--”
“So if you’d rather stay back and nap, or whatever the hell it is you do, be my guest. Or you can get out and make us some money so we can get hell out of this dump.”
Arthur did want to stay back and get his first real night of sleep in far too long. He’d managed less than an hour in the past five days, only once letting himself drift off beside the campfire nearly two days ago after his last hunting trip.
Miss Grimshaw had given him an earful for that, practically dragging him to his feet and shoving him toward an axe and a pile of awaiting logs. He’d obeyed without question, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands as he worked.
Dutch was watching him, cocky and expectant, like he’d just finished scolding a child, like he knew the effect his words had. Arthur knew he didn’t, all too aware Dutch had every excuse to lash out, but he couldn’t stop the flash of resentment.
“Jesus, Dutch,” he muttered, mouth moving before he could stop himself, and he saw something flicker in the other man’s eyes.
“Something you want to say?”
Arthur wanted to scream. He wanted to tell Dutch to go check the damn box he claimed to care so much about, or ask Pearson who’d brought the supplies for the last two meals Arthur hadn’t gotten a chance to eat.
He swallowed, throat and chest feeling tight. His eyes were stinging unbearably, worsening each time he blinked, hating the tears threatening to spill out and shatter his carefully crafted patience.
But he knew better. He didn’t need a bruised jaw on top of bruised pride. Dutch was blind to anyone’s stress but his own, and he had every right to be, as much as it hurt.
“No,” Arthur said, the safest approach, now desperate to get this over with and get out of the suddenly suffocating tent. “What do you want me to do?”
“I need you,” Dutch said, slow, and Arthur found himself digging his nails into his palm. “To get yourself together, son. We need you sharp.”
If they wanted him sharp, they needed to let him sleep. But he said nothing, only nodded silently, hoping Dutch would be satisfied and leave him alone.
“Like I told you before,” he said, dragging out each word, Arthur certain the older man was just testing his patience. “Apparently there’s an unguarded stagecoach leaving Strawberry at nightfall. I assume you know what to do from there?”
Arthur nodded again, clenching his jaw until it ached to keep himself from yawning again. “You want me to go alone?”
“Why, you need someone to hold your hand?” It might have been Dutch’s poor attempt in lightening the mood, or maybe he really was just trying to make Arthur feel worse. It certainly wasn’t doing anything to improve his spiraling temper. “It’s just a stagecoach. I think you can handle it.”
Arthur wasn’t sure he could handle walking in a straight line, but he knew better than to risk arguing with Dutch when he was like this, too caught up in what had to be done to see what was right in front of him.
A part of Arthur wanted to tell Dutch to rob the damn stagecoach himself, but he knew it was just his mind’s useless attempt at fighting against the thought of another job. Everyone was stressed, he wasn’t the only one not getting enough sleep. Dutch was right, he couldn’t afford to slack off. He could handle one more day.
“Sure, Dutch,” he said, already backing up towards the exit, the spacious tent feeling tight and smothering.
“And when you’re done,” Dutch called, making Arthur freeze. “I need you to help Strauss with some of his work.”
Arthur’s whole body protested, muscles tightening painfully, head beginning to spin. Because he knew his body’s limits, and he knew he couldn’t. There was no way he could possibly of any use to anyone right now, especially after another night of working.
“I don’t know if I should--” he started, but Dutch raised an eyebrow, waiting for the excuse, and Arthur felt an almost crippling guilt wash over him. “I’ll...I’ll talk to him.”
Dutch nodded, lowering himself to the crate beside his cot, reaching for his book. “Thank you, son.”
Arthur was sure he would pass out right there and then, his head too heavy on his aching shoulders, a new headache sprouting to life behind his eyes. He wondered if Dutch would care, if anyone would, or if he’d just be woken up again and mercilessly thrown into more work.
Dutch didn’t seem to notice when Arthur swayed, reaching out a hand to steady himself, screwing his eyes shut to try and combat the dizziness.
“Arthur?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, forcing his eyes open, everything a blur of light and color. Dutch was watching him, brow furrowed, curious. “It’s nothing.”
“It better be nothing,” Dutch said, watching as Arthur forced his legs to carry him the rest of the way across the tent. “I need you strong, son.”
He sounded angry, threatening, but Arthur was almost sure it was just his overworked mind turning delirious. But Dutch was right. He couldn’t be the only one working himself this hard. Right now, everyone was vital, and Arthur couldn’t afford to fall behind.
And he couldn’t expect Dutch to notice everything, not with the weight on his shoulders, his mind focused on things far more important than Arthur missing a few nights of sleep.
“Hey, Morgan!”
Arthur had to fight against a groan, able to recognize the taunt laced in Bill’s tone without looking up. He knew what was coming, having no doubt Mary-Beth and Tilly had already told the entire camp.
“You go see that girl yet?” Bill asked. Arthur clenched his jaw, wishing he could just disappear, knowing he should just walk away. “What was her name? Mary?”
“Yes.” But Arthur was frozen in place, carefully turning to see Bill and Micah resting by the campfire-something Arthur hadn’t had time to do in days-knowing smiles plastered on their smug faces. “Why?”
Micah just shrugged, and Arthur wasn’t sure how long he could refrain from striking him. “Just curious, cowpoke. She take you back yet?”
Bill laughed, his breaths turning to giddy wheezes, and Arthur suddenly realized that the bastards were drunk, and for a moment he wondered why he was working so hard to keep these people alive.
“That’s too bad, Morgan,” Bill said, words slurring together, taking another swig from his bottle. “Can’t say I blame her. You know, maybe if you weren’t so sad and angry all the time.”
“And always in that damn journal of yours,” Micah adds with a smirk. “You ever gonna let us read that thing, princess?”
It was stupid, drunk slurs and insults thrown out by two angry men to combat their own stress and exhaustion. In the morning, neither of them would remember what they’d said, and any other day it wouldn’t matter.
But every little thing seemed to strike him like a knife lately, cruel words like a punch to the gut, his hazy mind suddenly only able to focus on the hurt and anger brought from Mary turning him away once again.
He hadn’t even realized he’d been starting forward, fists clenched, until something grabbed his arm and pulled him back, dragging him from the drunk laughter.
“Will you pull yourself together?” The voice was distant, irritated and exasperated, and Arthur had to blink a few times before he recognized Hosea dragging him towards the hitching posts.
“I wasn’t--”
“I saw you, Arthur,” Hosea snapped, finally letting go and shoving him forward, Arthur stumbling against the grass. “They’re drunk fools. Ignore them. You’re supposed to be working a job.”
“Hosea--”
“We can’t be fighting each other,” Hosea said. “Especially not now. Not over some stupid argument. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you know that.”
"Arthur swallowed against the lump in his throat that refused to go away, feeling his frustration steadily rise. If anyone would listen to him, help him, it was Hosea.
“I--I don’t know if I can--”
"Arthur, I don’t have time to argue with you,” Hosea said curtly, barely hearing him, already turning to his own horse. “You’re not the only one who’s stressed, son. I’m heading into town to try and make us some money. I suggest you do the same.”
He wasn’t angry, not like Dutch had been, but his words were only reawakening the suffocating guilt Arthur couldn’t get rid of.
So he just nodded, saying nothing as Hosea mounted his horse without sparing him another glance, disappearing into the brush before Arthur could work up the courage to call out.
He felt dizzy, fumbling with the reins around the fence, climbing into the saddle taking longer than it should have. He pressed a hand against his temple again, trying to fight against the worsening headache that had been rising over the past few never-ending days.
Arthur shook his head, pulling away and veering to the path leading to town. Dutch’s words echoed in his mind, and he forced himself to sit up straight, to clear his head and focus.
He didn’t have a right to complain, to be dramatic and cause everyone more problems. Dutch couldn’t be getting any more sleep than he was, still standing with the weight of so many lives on his back. He was relying on Arthur, counting on him to help keep the gang alive and strong.
He tried to ignore the way the trees all blended into an indecipherable shape around him, blurred and colorless, darkening when his eyes threatened to slip shut. Keeping them open hurt, his head pounding relentlessly, but he just pushed his horse faster, breathing in the cold breeze against his face.
It was just one more night. Two, depending on what Strauss needed. They’d have to let him sleep after this, after he’d done something they actually noticed.
Arthur pulled his head from his aching shoulders and rode forward, silently praying he would be awake enough to hold a gun.