Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I remember the first time I saw him.

How could I not – he was and still is a walking legend. But when I first saw him, I couldn't believe it. I had thought him to be arrogant and confident and a know-it-all. I had thought he would think he would have the right to do whatever he wanted. 

He was not like that.

He was confident, yes, but he was not arrogant. He was kind and friendly and was treated the same way like any regular person and he didn't seem to mind that at all. He looked at me with his dark eyes and I didn't feel I had to be afraid. In my profession back then, it was not uncommon for men to look at us with their hungry eyes, wishing to touch us for even a moment.

He kept his distance.

In fact, he didn't touch me at all except to shake my hand. He didn't stare. He didn't do anything. 

I thought he was perhaps married or had a lover himself and was loyal to her. But I saw no ring on his hand and he didn't make any indication that there was someone waiting for him. I even asked him, for I could be bold and rude when I was younger, and he had simply smiled and said that there was no one – that there never would be someone and that he was just fine with his horse as company.

I remember the barkeeper looking at him as if he were an idiot. I remember being flabbergasted myself, before I let it slide and we started talking to each other like we were companions, equals, almost friends. And even as I relaxed more in his company, not once did he suddenly demand anything. 

He was just like any other man.

But he wasn't, was he? Not really. Everything he did, he did for us, the people, and he never asked for anything in return. But in the West you don't survive by being kind. And yet, this man somehow did. 

From the stories I had heard, I believed him to be our savior – he would save us whenever we needed him, he would help us and then leave to help someone else who needed him. I almost believed him to be extraordinary, something else than human, but when I saw him that day, I realized he was just a normal human being. He wasn't overly big or menacing. In fact, if he wasn't a savior at all, I would've not spared him one glance. He was a thin, tall man with dark eyes and frankly – a fashion sense that could be different, but I suppose I am not one to judge.

He was just.. a man. Simple as that. A man with his wits, horse and gun, occasionally aided by his shadow or his luck. We grew to see each other more and each time I felt more comfortable within his presence. Throughout the years, he had become a friend. This man, who I once believed untouchable, became my friend and I had the luck to be able to even pet his horse – something he didn't let others do lightly. I was touched by this and I swore him that I would continue to be his friend, as long as he let me.

And he had replied, “As long as I can stay yours.”

Kind men do not make it far in the West. I've witnessed it myself. But this man, who I saw caress his horse like a bond that was deeper than mere friendship, this man had the luck to make it as far as he did. 

And I hope that I can stay by his side, even if that luck runs out.

Chapter Text

I hate him.

I fucking hate him.

Wherever I go, I see his face and it angers me. He has no right to haunt me like that. He is the worst person on Earth – and I curse whoever gave birth to him, I curse God who has let him live, I curse myself for never being able to kill him even when the odds are in my favor and I could do it.

Because that is the truth – I can't do it.

I can't kill him. It's as if my entire body freezes and I can't pull the trigger. Why am I so weak?

He is everything I am not. He is tall and kind and handsome. He is an angel sent by God, and I am a demon. I create destruction wherever I go and he has come to stop me. He is untouched by my behavior. 

But he is not invincible. He bleeds like any mortal man, and his blood is red and it's the most beautiful thing I have seen. What I wouldn't give to be the cause of that blood, to see him look in shock, in pain, to be the reason he cannot keep himself up and he'll have to beg me for help, help he knows that I will never give.

I know who I am. I am cruel and sadistic and even though I have my limits for I am not a monster, those limits go out of the window when he stands in my way. With him, I want to hurt him in every way possible. I want to break him and only let it be me who can do it. I won't give anyone else the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. It's my right. 

He broke me when he killed my family. He killed my cousins without a thought and he went on his merry way, as if it didn't even occur to him that he had torn a family apart. I swore revenge. I swore to kill him, slowly and painfully. He had not spared my cousins from a painful death, so why should I spare him from the depths of Hell? 

One time, I saw him angry, truly angry. His anger was directed at me, and I cannot remember what I had said or done, but I still remember that moment his silence had turned to anger and I had never been as happy as then. So he wasn't an innocent angel at all. He was capable of being like me, ruthless and cruel, but he hid it. Or he pretended not to have it. What a shame! My brothers had looked in shock, they had never known him to be able to be so cruel(to be fair, neither did I), and my shock had slowly turned into a smile, to know that he was just like me. Oh, why had no one noticed? Why had no one shaped him to be like me, a man devoid of love, a man ruined and could no longer be fixed? Perhaps then we could've been equals, he and I. Perhaps in a better world.

I see his face in my dreams. I see his face on the wall in our prison cell. I see his face whenever I rob a bank or a saloon and it makes me want to shoot my gun at him till there are no more bullets. I want to see him bleed by my hand, I want to see him ruined like me. Fallen angels are a beauty to behold, and this one shall be the most beautiful of them all.

Chapter Text

When people look at the Daltons, they see Joe, our oldest, our leader. They see Averell, our youngest, the one with his head in the clouds.

They do not notice me or my fellow brother Jack. We are almost invisible and we use it to our advantage.

I leave the words to Jack – he can use it better than I can. He can twist sentences around to make someone else feel guilty, to make himself look better. I have no idea how he does it, it's a skill. But I have one of my own and we complement each other with it.

Where Jack uses his words, I use my own eyes. People underestimate how useful those are. They think no one watches them, but we do. 

I notice the director of the penitentiary is a nervous man who tries to act like he has any power over us, but he doesn't and he knows it. His hands tremble and they always clench into fists whenever he sees us and he always takes a second to speak so his voice sounds stable. He always looks at the ground first before raising his head and looking at us, because he is afraid and he needs a moment to stabilize himself.

He is a weak man. Even Billy the Kid would scare him off.

I notice such things easily and that cowboy that sends us to this nightmare of a place is no exception. 

Granted, his was a bit more difficult, but I always enjoy a challenge and I managed to figure it out anyway. He is not like the director, he is not weak and easily scared. He looks at us like we are troublemakers. It seems he has forgotten that we are still capable of being cruel whenever we want to. 

He is sentimental.

Whenever he sees someone he knows – which is in almost every town – his eyes light up and his guard lessens, which gives us time to make a run for it, but it has never worked because he always seems to know whenever we try. It's infuriating. 

When he ties our hands, he doesn't look at us. He is tense and does it quickly as if he doesn't want to be too long in our presence. But his demeanor changes when he's with his horse. He relaxes and seems almost happy and he caresses the animal softly and whispers to it and gives it a kiss and I have no idea why he does it because horses are troublesome and they're filth. They can also crush a man with their own hooves like it's nothing and this is the one who accompanies him? This beast? 

And I thought Averell was insane.

His horse is the one thing you need to truly catch him off guard. Tie it up, whip it, hurt it, whatever you do, it will always shock him and he'll freeze and it gives us enough time to escape for he has completely forgotten about the gang he had to tie up in favor of saving his horse.

Even at night, he is a waking man. Any tiny noise wakes him up, his gun in his hand, directed at my brother and at night and in the early morning he is easily annoyed and agitated. He has directed his gun at us more in those hours than any other part of the day. 

His sentimentality and love is a weakness. I am no hypocrite, so it is also a weakness for me and my brothers. We care about one another, we care about our mother, and our love for each other will kill us one day. Perhaps he shall kill us when we are separated from one another and then the graves filled with the bodies of our cousins can be opened once more. That weakness will kill us, even him, but we have no luck on our side. 

All we have is each other. He is alone. He has never spoken about someone, not even to his horse, he has never worn anything on him from someone else. I pity him. Where would I be without my brothers? I couldn't imagine to live in a world without them. I'd rather die alongside them than live further without them. 

Family is sacred. I've noticed he doesn't understand that, and I can do nothing else but pity him for it. 

Chapter Text

When I was younger I thought the world was divided in black and white. The bad people were black and the good ones were white. Now that I am older, that is obviously not the case. People are grey. We are all capable of carrying darkness and goodness within us, there's just one that takes over and the other stays hidden.

So, logically, that cowboy that constantly foils our plans, is also grey. He is a good man and his darker parts stay hidden. Me and my brothers are the opposite. But everytime I see him, I always start to doubt myself.

Some people have better patience than others, but one day, that patience does run out and then they show their true selves. They get angry and annoyed and say the harshest things they can say to someone, but our good-natured cowboy has never done that. He calms himself, I say to myself. He calms himself down, because how else could he stay so good? 

It sickens me, really. What's next? He's gonna come out with a pair of wings on his back or some shit? That would make the entire thing easier, if not more infuriating.

One evening, we were sent back to the penitentiary(such evenings happen frequently) and I had spoken with the cowboy. I don't know why. The silence unnerved me – when you grow up with three brothers, silence doesn't exist.

But we had talked, he hesitated at first, but I managed to open him up with my careful use of words, and we had spoken of the weather(great small talk), about the robbery we had committed that morning and then about the people we killed.

Yes, we, for he had apparently killed people himself and I must admit I had gasped in shock. Him? His hands were stained with blood, just like ours? I couldn't believe it. I finally thought that this was the darkness that was hidden away, until the damned man started talking about how he was young back then and that he regretted it and that he wouldn't do it if he saw his victims now–

What kind of bullshit is that? Who regrets killing their victims? I certainly don't, and neither do my brothers. We don't kill children or anything, we kill annoying people that stand in our way(the cowboy is an exception). Last week, I killed an old man, but he really had it coming, cause all he did was whine about how his wife had left him. 

To get to the point – who regrets killing their victims? If even him had a reason to kill people, then they must've deserved it, perhaps more than anyone else. 

I asked him why he would regret such a thing, who he had killed to think this way and he had looked at me and in his gaze there was guilt and regret and sadness(something William saw on Joe sometimes when we were younger, he told me) as he said, “Your cousins.” My breath had hitched at that moment, because we never really spoke of them, my brothers and I. It angered and hurt Joe to speak of them so we silently swore to not speak of them in his presence. The Dalton cousins were like ghosts whose chains were shackled to our eldest brother. Unlike us, Joe has known them.

He noticed, because he had stopped talking for a bit, but then he continued. “If I saw them now, I wouldn't do it. But I was young and stupid and I believed there to be no other way. If I had known of your existence back then..”

He had stopped talking and he had left me alone at that point to go to his horse, but the sincerity in his words had not left my head ever since. He really seemed to regret it. I was partly touched(just a bit), but it also angered me because that regret and guilt made him even more of a saint. What could I do with that? I didn't want to feel guilt for when we eventually would kill him(I have no idea what keeps Joe from doing it, if I were him I would've done it in a heartbeat).

I don't understand him. His kindness, his sincerity, his guilt, his regret, it's all so foreign to me. How can a person live like this? It's conflicting. It's lonely. If I were him, I would've killed myself to get rid of those feelings.

Perhaps I will never understand. To a Dalton, kindness is only a tool to get to the end. It's not real. It never is. It may have existed, but whatever good that existed in our family was taken the moment our father was declared dead.

Chapter Text

Despite what everyone else may think, I am not stupid.

Sure, I care a lot about food, and I am slow sometimes, but I am not an idiot. My brothers and mother are not stupid, so why should I be? I love this outlaw life as much as my brothers.

And if it also makes sure that people underestimate and forget me.. well, that's something only for me to know.

I like to dream.

I like to dream of food, of freedom, of seeing my mother again. I dream of punching Joe instead of Joe punching me, because he must know how annoying it is to keep being the one punished. I could, technically. I am taller than Joe, I could easily take him off of me, but I was taught to treat people with respect. At least, the ones who deserve it, and Joe is my brother.

I respect the cowboy, even though I probably shouldn't. I've heard Joe yell in rage multiple times before about how he would kill the man with his bare hands for murdering our cousins. I have never known my cousins, or my father for that matter, so I don't understand why it makes Joe so angry, but Joe was always one with a temper. Anything could easily piss him off. I simply think that Joe should move on and let it go – his obsession is unhealthy. Joe is smart, but he's also blind.

I'd never tell Joe that I respect the man though. Or my other siblings. They wouldn't get it. But our mother speaks of him positively, so why shouldn't I? When I was younger and my mother spoke to me about God and the Devil and whatnot, I never thought angels were real. They were too pure to exist, I believed. But I would call the cowboy a real angel, for he never seemed to be malicious like us. He was always kind and friendly and helped everyone he met(really, everyone. I thought it to be a bit strange, you couldn't possibly help everyone, could you?) and he never wanted something back.

If only we were born as pure as he was.

Sometimes, I dream of a world where we are equals. Where we aren't separated by the rules of the law, where we all could do whatever we wanted without consequences. Where the cowboy wouldn't bring us to the penitentiary, again, but instead would let us go on. He wouldn't help, no, that would make him an accomplice and someone corrupt(I hate corrupt people the most because unlike criminals or good people they aren't honest), but he wouldn't stop us either. He wouldn't watch with hate or disgust, but with indifference. It wouldn't matter. We would just do whatever we wanted and meet each other along the way sometimes. Perhaps enough to become friends.

But I know the West is not kind, because if it were, our father would still be around and Joe would be taller and no cowboys would be faster than their shadows.

Chapter Text

I remember exactly what I did when I heard the news. 

I hadn't done much. I had fed Sweetie and read the newspaper and I had frowned when someone knocked at the door. It certainly wouldn't be my sons at such an hour. So I had taken my gun(just in case) and opened the door, which revealed the mayor of the town, so I dropped my gun. Many people – including the mayor – were afraid of Ma Dalton, after all.

He had fidgeted with his hat and it annoyed me. When I asked why he came to my house he had started stuttering and trembling which annoyed me even more. But then he had cleared his throat and told me that my fellow nephews – Bob, Gratt, Bill, Emmett – were all killed during a bank robbery. Every single one. Even Emmett, the youngest, wasn't spared.

Oh, I was angry. I was also sad, but I always mask my sadness as anger because anger keeps people afraid. I had demanded who their murderer was and the man had replied that it was a young man, a cowboy to be precise and my first thought had been: what the hell would a cowboy be doing there?

I didn't even see the man, but I hated him already. Because of this man, my nephews were dead, my sibling's children were all gone. My eldest son was mourning their deaths, I knew how much Joe looked up to them. How would I have to explain to my three other sons that part of our family was gone and would never return? They were so young. 

Looking back on it now, if I had known what type of person he was, I might've been a bit more lenient. I mean, one man against four Daltons? I knew that my nephews weren't always fully prepared, they mostly made things go along the way and expected things to go their way because people feared them. I had always hoped that my sons wouldn't learn from that. My husband, my nephews, had perished already. If my sons would become part of that… I couldn't bear to think of it.

When I did meet him, I was surprised. He was friendly and smart, and if this man wasn't the murderer of our family, perhaps I would've asked him to stay a bit with us, for dinner, perhaps. But he was already gone before I could even blink.

Throughout the years, I have seen him more, and that warning that comes into my mind, the one that says, that is the man who killed part of our family, who shall kill my sons when my back is turned and he'll tear us all apart and the Daltons will be no more, slowly began fading. He rarely took out his gun in my presence. He even helped me with doing the dishes once, and I hadn't even asked him. 

He didn't seem like a killer at all.

But then, one day, my sons had gone their separate ways and even become good as if they had forgotten the way I treated them when they were children and I was angry. Good? Daltons? There is already one black sheep in our family who dares to be good, and my sons would not follow his behavior. It's partly why I didn't allow him to see them when they were children, because I knew Marcel would twist their minds into thinking stealing was bad. 

Luckily of course, my sons had stopped this behavior when I arrived, but then – you should've seen it! Their guns, in the blink of an eye, gone from their hands and all we heard was the sound of a bullet. And who stood there? Why, that cowboy. He's the only one who brings my sons to the penitentiary. He's the only one who cares that way. And he seems to treat my sons well, at least that's what my darling boy Averell says and he wouldn't lie to me(Joe's protests are always an exaggeration).

I have never seen someone shoot so well, so fast, and I have met many gunslingers in my life. My husband was a good shooter. So am I. So were – admittely – some of the sheriffs we had encountered during the bank robberies we would commit. Ah, those were the days.

But none of them were as good as this man. And those sheriffs were the ones bragging all because of the star they wore! They'd have taken one look at the cowboy and then run with their tails between their legs. 

A certain evening, the cowboy had admitted to me that he thought of me a good mother. Morals set aside, that is. I was touched. Mothers rarely get told that they do a good job with their children. We can only see the results. I asked him how his mother was and he had told me that he didn't know, because he was an orphan and his parents have been dead for a very long time.

I've always felt bad for orphans. Having no parents is something I wouldn't wish on anyone, especially not on little children. It's the mother in me that thinks so, because it makes me think how my sons would've turned out if I wasn't there for them and that thought breaks my heart. No child should ever grow up without a family.

I had told him that I would've been proud of him if he were my son. I mean, I would've taught him different morals, but any mother would be proud to have him as a son, people who shoot like that are not very common. 

For a moment I had feared that I had offended him, because he didn't say anything. But he had softly told me that he appreciated my words, and instead of a man, I saw a child, one who wanted love, but was so deprived of it that he couldn't even comprehend the need for it because it was foreign.

I wonder if I would've adopted him if I had met him as a child. He would've been a good influence on Joe, I'm sure. That boy has such a temper, even now. They would've worked together and the Daltons would've been the most feared criminals in the West!

Ah, well. The past can't be changed.

When we see each other now, I dare say there's respect between us. There will always be a part in the back of my mind that will consider him to be a killer of our family, but with the way he handles my sons(and cares for them, he cares), I believe it's his way of apologizing. He knows that a simple ‘sorry’ won't bring them back, but perhaps he'll protect my sons from the same fate.

A mother's nightmare is to bury her children, and it's a nightmare that I think of too often, but whenever I hear people say that they've been apprehended by a certain cowboy, I can always breathe a sigh of relief.

Chapter Text

I taught myself all sorts of things.

I taught myself how to remove a saddle, to play chess, to fish, to talk in the human tongue. I had told myself that there would never be an use for it and that I would do it simply for knowledge, but back then I had no idea of my fate.

Us horses were kept separate from humans. We saw their guns, their greed and their hunger and it scared us. We hid whenever another horse was shot and brought to town for food. Humans needed us to live, but they had no idea that they were killing us in order to do it.

Or rather, they did know, but told themselves it was for the greater good. 

Humans couldn't be trusted. They were dangerous, unpredictable. They would rather save their own skin than think for even a second about us. We didn't like humans at all.

My cowboy was no exception. I didn't trust him either, at first. He was a child, but children followed the rules of the adults, so how could I know I was safe with him? He had saved me from the coyotes, but would he betray me? Would I be his meal? I had told myself to make a run for it, because I am not cruel, I wouldn't crush him with my hooves or with my mouth. 

I didn't make a run for it.

I didn't crush him.

I stayed.

He understood me and I understood him and I felt for the first time that I had made a friend. 

Of course, I didn't bring him home with me. Child or not, the others would've been scared or angry with me. But we were together frequently, talking about everything, not talking at all, and I slowly got used to the idea of this boy by my side.

He hadn't betrayed me at all. He cared. He was kind. He was thoughtful. He still is.

Together, we're unstoppable. 

Though that doesn't mean it's all sunshine and rainbows. I have been annoyed with him on multiple occasions, due to his confidence, his foolishness, his ability to be calm constantly. It made me realize he was still human and humans have flaws. It was wrong of me to think my cowboy didn't have any just because he was better than most.

Lucky Luke. My cowboy. My friend. My partner. I know he'd rather die than sell me, than have me saddled with someone else, even if it were someone we knew well. I fear it's because he doesn't ever want to think I shall leave or abandon him, but I don't know how to make this clearer than I already have. I've given up mares for him, I've given up my rest for him, so he can keep going after those criminals that terrorize the West. I have to get it multiple times through his skull to make him stop and rest. Not once have I ever thought about leaving him. My future was shared with him the moment I decided to stay by his side, why would I give that up now?

The rules are always the same. He does his thing, he whistles for me whenever he needs help(and I keep telling him to stop jumping out windows but he never listens and both of us have no idea how he never seems to be hurt from jumping through glass), I run as fast as I can, the Daltons are back in the penitentiary(they escape way too easily if you ask me), the sunset waits for us and my cowboy starts his song, like always. His song soothes me. It means everything is the same as it always is and it always will be. But of course, I won't tell him that. His confidence is as big enough as it is.

There has never been a change and there never will be. We are bound together and I wouldn't change anything for the world. Luke and I are inseparable. 

Chapter Text

When you read this, I am dead.

But, really, you did have to see this coming. I was old and I drank way more than I should have and gambled away every coin I had. I am surprised it didn't happen earlier in my life, but then again, sometimes you just experience things you never thought you would, eh?

Remember when I met you? You were so tiny, so thin, I think I could almost see your bones. I looked into your eyes and perhaps that's when I felt sadness for you. Ah, that's so long ago now.

By the time you read this, you should (I hope) be a grownup. I wonder how you'll be. I wonder if you'll have learned from my mistakes or if you have taken them over. I hope not. I wouldn't wish my fate onto anyone, least of all you.

You were such a brat. You tended to disobey me and lie and you even put a cactus in my shoe at one point! That thing was itching for three days! And you acted like you knew nothing of what was going on! You were a dirty little

And yet, even now when I write this, I have never met someone as kind as you. I had to drag you away from dead animals – do you remember? – you think I wouldn't notice, but I did. I noticed you crying in the evening when we saw a dead horse covered in blood in the desert. It was a sight I hoped you wouldn't have to see at such a young age, but the West is not kind.

I hope that you've grown into a man I you can be proud of. I hope that you are not like me. I knew you were special, you had a gift, you were unlike me anyone else. You had a future in front of you. 

I regretted having you with me in the beginning. You must know, I never liked children and never wanted them. But somehow, you crawled your way into my heart. I cared for you – I care for you still. You must hate me for what I've done, and I don't blame you. But let this then be my way of apologizing:

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for abandoning you when you needed me an adult. I'm sorry I left you behind. I was a coward. I still am, because I don't dare to go up to your face to say all this. I would not be able to handle you looking at me in anger and hurt. I left out of cowardice, because I was afraid I wouldn't want to leave you and then you'd be stuck with me. 

For fuck's sake, this is difficult.

How – how is that horse of yours? If he's still around, that is. Your horse annoyed the shit out of me, I swear, that beast lived to make my life a hell or something. But I didn't dare to separate you from it, because you were so attached. You should've seen yourself – your eyes lightened up every time you saw the damned horse, you spoke to it more than you did to me. That horse didn't even need to talk and you loved it immediately. But you needed weeks to even start trusting me.

The night seems to drag on, so I shall end this:

Be a good man. No matter what happens, be a good man. The West needs someone good. Don't end up like me.

Your old caretaker and friend,

Oldtimer

Chapter Text

My first memory is when I was a child, young, and I had looked at the sky and I had found it beautiful. I had hoped to always see the sky. That's probably where my desire to be a cowboy began. At that moment, I was in an orphanage, and I didn't like it. It was strict and harsh and constricting. But as a cowboy I could be free. I could always wake up under that beautiful sky as a cowboy. And when I saw the sunset for the first time, that dream had only intensified.

I had a lot of questions. I wondered who my parents were. If someone knew them. Luke – my name, did they give me that? Is it the last connectible thread I have to them? Did they think it was a beautiful name, did they know someone named Luke and wanted that man to be honored so they decided to name their son the same? 

No one answered, so I stopped asking.

When I was younger I wished for a family. Everytime I could, I wished for a mother and a father. They never came, at least not in reality, they only came in dreams. But those dreams are long forgotten and perhaps I should be wary of how I barely remember anything of my family, but I've grown so accustomed to it that I can't bring myself to care. I can't remember my parents. Even with a gun to my head I couldn't say anything. I couldn't say how my father looked, if I looked anything like him, if my mother had a soft voice. I am a mix of the both of them, but no one remembers my parents, so how would I ever know who they were? How can I say that I love them when there is not even a face I can look at?

Perhaps it's why I am not capable of love. I've tried to think of a girl the same way as other men, I've even tried to think like it of men, but it never worked. I never had a spark, I never had a desire for it. I've heard men say they felt aroused when seeing the body of a woman, and I simply couldn't care. Perhaps I do not know that love because I had no parents to teach me. Maybe I would've been normal if they were around. I remember saying it once to someone, when I was younger and more naive. Their reaction convinced me to not do it again, for they reacted in disbelief and disgust and even dared to say that I just hadn't found someone yet who could fix me. Ever since then, I told no one – apart from Jolly. Oh, Jolly, where would I be without you? He had reacted in surprise and then he just.. accepted it. He hadn't reacted with disgust. He just said it was a part of me that he accepted. I hadn't known how much I valued that kindness till he told me. 

He knows. Jolly knows many things. He also likes to pry open ‘old wounds’, which irritates me. I don't need to hear being told that I don't know love because I haven't experienced it. I know what love is. I feel love for Laura because she is a friend I trust, I feel utmost love for Jolly Jumper. I know what love is. I've also experienced it, because I know Laura loves me, just like Jolly Jumper does. I know what love is because I recognize it. The Daltons love their mother. I notice that. I know love. I do. 

Jolly always likes to say that that type of love is not what he means, but he is still a horse. Human love is complicated compared to the one of horses. I don't tell him that, because it offends him, but it is also the truth. I just end up saying that we should drop the subject.

People believe me to be untouchable, invincible, and I wish I was. But just like anyone else, I am still human. I curse and I mourn and I yell and I mess things up. I get hurt. I've bled more times than I can count, Jolly too, and it's those moments where I regret his presence because if it weren't for me he wouldn't get hurt. Jolly always says that I should stop blaming myself, he knows what he got himself into and he doesn't plan to stop just because of pain.

Has anyone ever told you that you're an angel, my friend? Your love for me has been my light in the darkness. You keep me up whenever I feel like ending it all. Have I ever told you? Perhaps I should. 

Jolly sometimes jokes instead that I do feel love like everyone else, but instead for humans I feel it for the sunset. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and it still manages to take my breath away, even now. If God is real then God must be in the sunset. Perfection is something humans can never achieve, but the sunset is perfection and I feel honored to be able to see it every evening. To see the sun go down. To have Jolly with me. My eternal companion. No one else.

I am used to this solitude – I want nothing more. I can't stand being shackled to someone for the rest of my life or living in one place in a town. It'd make me sick. The freedom, the wind, the silence of the West soothes me. It would be torture to be gone from it. It would be torture to be taken away from that beautiful sunset, to be taken away from Jolly. My home is that sunset. It's why I started saying(or rather, singing) ‘I'm a long way from home’. Because the sunset is eternal and never-ending and no matter how hard I try, I could never reach it. When I told Jolly, as a child, about my desire to see it, really see it up close, he had said: “I don't think that's possible. But we can try. You deserve seeing it.”

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the child in me deserves to see the light of the sun near to its end. It's always there and it won't ever leave.

And there's an eternal beauty in that, knowing that the sunset waits for us.