Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One

___________________________

It takes killing a man with his bare hands at the saloon for John to finally acknowledge that he’s not alright.

He tells Abigail that it isn’t his fault. Maybe she’d believed him the first few times he’d screwed up. But she surely knows by now that it’s not other people— it’s John.

The minute he steps through the rickety door of the cabin they’re housed in, he can tell by the look on her face that she knows what’s happened. News spreads like fire in small towns. She isn’t pleased— in fact, she looks like she’s about at the end of her rope.

He knows what she’s thinking. He’s thinking the same thing. He ought to be better adjusted than this. He should be more stable, grounded, settled. A year is long enough. He should be doing better for the two people who still rely on him.

Friends don't mourn their friends for this long, this hard. Do they?

He certainly shouldn’t still be thinking about that mountain.

But he does. More times than he can count.

When he shuts his eyes at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day, he’s right back there like he never left, heels pounding the dirt as he runs. One fearful look back, seeing Arthur’s boot heel disappear around the cliffside. A disappointing last look.

The sounds of gunfire growing fainter the further he gets. A sick, wrong feeling in his belly.

There’s part of him still there on the mountainside. Sometimes, lying in the dark of the cabin, he worries that it’s more than just a part that he left behind.

*

The saloon incident begins and ends in a matter of moments.

It starts with John buying a drink for his friend, Terry. The older man, going grey at his temples, has a cough that’s gotten persistently worse, even after they all quit the mines together.

John had only worked these particular mines for two months before he’d quit alongside the rest of the crew of men. The Yukon’s gold has just about run dry, and they all know it. He and Terry are part of a group that goes to work a nearby field until autumn yields its last crop.

Terry’s cough makes John anxious. It seems to be getting worse day by day. Tonight, it’s the worst John’s ever heard it, deep and wet and bone-rattling.

John keeps his voice light, asks Terry how his wife and two daughters are doing, if they have enough blankets for the cold front coming in.

Somewhere in the middle of their quiet chatter, Callum, or Curtis— John can’t remember the new hand's name, he’s only been on for two days— budges into the middle of them as Terry is taken by a loud hacking fit.

“Ya’ mind keeping it down, old timer?” The new hand slurs drunkenly. He’d been tipsy even before quitting time, and John is surprised he can still see straight by this point in the evening.

“Sorry,” Terry answers gruffly.

John bristles. He wishes Terry would put this scraggly bastard in his place. The older man is bigger and stronger, but too soft in the heart. Calum-or-Curtis has needled him both nights they’ve come out to drink, pulling back at the last moment each time; a snake playing the part of friend in a way all too familiar.

“It’s just that you’re always the loudest thing in this place,” Calum-or-Curtis says with a wry laugh.

John grits his teeth. Terry isn’t like him, or any of the men John grew up around. Terry is an honest, hard-working everyman. A bit timid. But he loves his family in a way that’s palpable.

Alternatively, John's known plenty of men like the new hand. Calum-or-Curtis is rotten the entire way through. Out late into the night bothering women, shooting buckshot at the farm dogs on his breaks for the fun of it.

“Why don’t you shut it?” John snaps at Curtis— right, that’s his name— but Terry is already waving them both off apologetically. As he does, his voice dissolves into heavier, thicker coughs. Curtis’ face twists in repulsion.

“Just go home, black-lung, you’re gettin’ spittle all over the bar top! Scarin’ away the whores.”

Curtis is a loud drunk, easily overheard by anyone in the saloon and a few paces out. But it’s the last thing anyone hears from him. When he opens his mouth to berate Terry again, John’s vision has already turned red, the past and present muddling together in his own alcohol-addled mind. Snake, it identifies.

It takes three other hands to haul John out of the saloon, but by that time, Curtis’ face has already been permanently altered by the bar top he cared so much about, and John’s work gloves are soaked with blood.

After that, John, Abigail, and Jack head east, on Terry’s advice.

“I can tell you’re a good man, John,” Terry says to him the next day when John is promptly let go from his field job on account of being a wanted man in town. Nobody has turned him in so far, only for the fact that nobody else had liked Curtis, either. “You’re just full of anger. I know how that is.” Terry says. John can appreciate the sentiment, but he’s not sure there’s a man alive who knows just what he’s feeling.

Terry gives him his brother’s name. He lives out near Montreal, a city well on its way to becoming a sprawling metropolis.

“If you can make it out that far, tell him I sent you,” Terry tells John. “He’s a hard man, but an honest one. He’ll pay good workers.”

Abigail watches him warily as they pack up their little wagon. There’s still blood on his work gloves. To be fair to her, it’s not the first time something like this has happened, not by a long shot. It's just the first time that John hadn’t used a gun. He doesn’t blame her for the way she watches him.

Admittedly, he’s wary of his own self, too. His only solace is knowing that he’d rather die than bring harm to either of the two members left in his family.

He’s become reckless. But he seems at a loss to stop it.

*

On their journey east, he gets into a brawl with a hunter he meets out in the wild. He isn’t sure why it all happens. He tries to convince himself that he’d been looking for a friendly encounter, or, more subconsciously, something carnal. Deep down, he knows that he’d just wanted to hurt and be hurt.

He gets his ass handed to him, and only by the mercy of the hunter leaving him face down in the mud does he live.

He comes home well into the next day, eye black and face still bloodied, clothes still caked in dried mud. Abigail nearly gives him the boot then and there, threatens to take Jack and the wagon herself to the next town. It’s only when he admits to her, drunkenly, that he can’t feel his heart inside his chest anymore that she lets him sleep it off on a bedroll in front of the fire.

“It’s grief, John,” she tells him quietly the next evening.

Sometimes, Jack comes up out of sleep in tears, asking for Miss Tilly or Miss Mary-Beth or Uncle Hosea or even, sometimes, Uncle Dutch.

“When will we see them again?”

It catches John off guard, every time, and his throat will clench up, barely able to breathe, to answer the boy. How can he tell a small child that they won’t be able to see their family anymore?

When Jack asks “When will we see Uncle Arthur again?” John’s breath goes shallow and he has to let Abigail take her son while he curls up on his side.

There is a part that lives deep down inside of him that’s still young and immature and scared as the day he joined Dutch. A part that cries along with Jack, that also wants to know when they will get to see Arthur again. John folds his arms against the cold, holds himself together, reminds himself for the dozenth time that they wont. Not ever again.

Sometimes, John dreams about him.

Of Arthur riding into camp after days or weeks spent away. Of the bigger man shouting to set him straight about being a jackass to Abigail. Sometimes he dreams about him drunkenly mumbling the words to Clementine into his ear on a quiet evening, or greeting him on a slow morning, blue eyes half shut with sleep while he pours himself a cup of coffee.

One night, John comes up out of his slumber saying words he can’t remember, limbs flailing out of his own control. Abigail stirs behind him, reaches out and pulls him into an embrace, her chest pressed to his back. “S’alright, John,” she whispers, holding onto him. These moments are some of the only times they touch. “You’re alright.”

He isn’t. He can’t quite explain to her why. He’s not very clear on it, himself.

He wishes that he could make himself love her the way he ought to, the way she deserves. The way Arthur made him promise he would. He feels so damn guilty for not being satisfied with what he’s been given. He feels guiltier because Abigail doesn’t expect him to be.

“He really loved you, you know?” She murmurs soothingly in his ear on the nights that he struggles out of sleep saying Arthur’s name. “Everything he did in the end, he did for you. For all of us.” Of course, she knows what this is about. How could John ever doubt that? She lays awake with him far too many nights to not know. She probably knows him better than he knows himself. They’ve been friends long enough.

John thinks about spilling his guts. Telling her everything— everything he’s ever felt, deep down. Everything he doesn’t understand about himself. Anything to ease this loneliness. He thinks it would feel nice to tell her, even if she already knows.

But it feels off-limits. Some unspoken thing that might break if he brings it into the light. If he names it.

Even if he and Abigail aren’t together— not really, not in the way everyone else thinks they are— he feels it would still be a discourtesy to her. To this thing they’re supposed to be. The proper thing.

“He wouldn’t want you to grieve him, forever.” She tells him. “He wouldn’t want you to live this way. You’re drowning, John.”

______________________

It’s been a week since Abigail cut him loose. In the days since he’d left Montreal, time has run together into one long, sprawling day.

He steers his horse down through the northern border, passing into the states quietly, avoiding all the main roads. He lingers in the north deciding whether to head out east or west, all the while inching southward, closer and closer to the border of Ambarino.

It seems that John is still good at lying to himself, and then lying about lying to himself. His life is just one, big drawn-out con. He likes to imagine that Hosea would be proud, but he knows it would just make the old man sad to hear him think like that.

He makes a pact with himself, as he passes into the Grizzlies, to head for warmer lands. He’ll make the journey quick and painless, bypass all of the major towns of New Hanover and West Elizabeth, and head straight through New Austin. He’ll pick his way down to the San Luis and hop on a ferry to Mexico. He’ll see new sights, meet new people, and forget all about this damned country and everything that happened in it.

As they do, his plans fly out the window once he’s in the thick of them. He’d been woefully unprepared for just how strongly the past would take hold of him once he wasn’t preoccupied with taking care of two other people. Once he wasn’t struggling to play a role that he never felt cut out to play.

That role, of course, being the role that Arthur gave his life for John to take up.

He hadn’t meant to trick himself into playing it for so long. Like most things, he’d fallen into it and hadn’t known how to get out once he’d realized his mistake.

He thinks he’s been pretending at it for far longer than Arthur’s passing, though. If he had to point to a place in time, he’d point to that year he first turned 22. The very first time he ruined things. Or, the first time he ruined things that mattered.

Things better left unthought about.

He digs blunt nails into his palm around the reigns to keep his mind in the present.

*

A week after he crosses into the Grizzlies, an old weathered sign tells him that he is about to enter the grand old state of New Hanover. This is the part of his trek where he should stick to his guns. He will not stay here— anywhere here. He’ll keep moving, out to West Elizabeth. Camp only when he needs to. Make his way through New Austin. Cross the river.

The plan.

Except, John’s willpower is shit and he’s always hated plans. That’s how he ends up in the messes that he does.

He takes his time moving down through the Cumberland Forest. Stops to make camp more often than he needs to. His horse, Rachel, seems to like the shorter days, spending mornings and evenings grazing the lush forest floors while John warms his limbs by a cook-fire or languishes in his bedroll. At night, he stares at the stars overhead and they feel more familiar now than in Canada, despite being the same sky.

He looks at Bacchus Bridge through binoculars. It looks newer than anything around it, built back up from the damage he and Arthur had done it.

Arthur.

Two years and New Hanover has changed little. He isn’t sure what he’d expected to find, passing through. It’s not that he’d thought anyone he’d used to know would come riding out of the forest to greet him— or start shooting at him— but it had felt like that might happen.

Instead, the forest roads greet him gently and quietly. A few fellow travelers do the same. All is calm.

He’d let Arthur’s satchel alone for all their time in Canada. Abigail had gone through it for him in the early days, taking out any perishables or useful things that they’d need for their own journey. Tonics and alcohol, cured meats and root vegetables. She’d left the other things alone. Maybe for John’s sake, but more likely out of some respect she herself held for Arthur and his memory. The man had inspired a lot of reverence in those final days.

Now, John pulls out the cluttered remains of Arthur’s life and scatters them haphazardly across his tent floor. Rain patters off the canvas overhead, more calming than concerning. It complements his melancholy.

Arthur had kept a lot more junk than John ever thought to. It seems the man had gotten up to some strange undertakings in his time spent away from camp.

John sorts through stacks of old newspapers, pamphlets, and handbills. Letters to and from people he’s never heard of. Dried flowers and herbs pressed between pages of books. Nicknacks and trinkets made from all sorts of odds and ends. Stacks and stacks of cigarette cards, organized into different sets and stuffed into little homemade envelopes to keep them separated. Lists of locations and coordinates, their significance he can’t decipher from what little information is spelled out on the paper.

John lays it all out and stares, Arthur’s belongings surrounding him in an array. He tries to imagine an Arthur who’d thought that these things were important enough to keep, to collect and organize. He’d never thought Arthur did more than look for jobs, go robbing, maybe drink his sorrows away at a saloon.

Then again, even when he and Arthur had been on the best of terms, the jobs they’d done together that weren’t assigned to them by Dutch and Hosea were few and far between. So what did he really know about the man, anyway?

He’s remorseful, looking at all of these things that hint to an Arthur that he’d never been privy to. He imagines the man thumbing through old newspapers, folding and perforating and tearing out articles he liked. Sorting through collections of picture cards and seeking out the ones he didn’t have. It makes John grin, despite himself, and snort a little laugh before his face crumples up and he has to hang his head between his knees and breathe slow until the blurriness has cleared from his vision.

Those sorts of feelings come on fast these days. Blindside him.

He has a bit of whisky to take the edge off.

He hesitates when looking through Arthur’s journal, old and beaten. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to look through it for all of their two years in Canada. Now that he’s back, it feels like something has cracked open in his chest. Now, the journal feels like a lifeline in his hands when he opens it.

Reading Arthur’s words, his thoughts and memories, feels intrusive. He still does it. He’s suddenly desperate to hear Arthur one last time, to listen to him. He reads Arthur’s contemplations about the final events of their lives before it all went to shit. Further back, before Blackwater and coming east. About Mary Linton and even a few memories about his family before. John stops reading, then. He can’t stomach so much sadness at once.

He flips back towards the end and sees a drawing of himself. He pauses on it, looking long and hard. A three-quarter angle, tired dark eyes, his face more serious than he remembers himself being. No hat, hair past his jaw, and scars running up and healed on the side of his cheek. He can’t remember seeing Arthur draw this. He must have done it when he was away from camp. John’s chest swells in bittersweetness and he flips past the page.

Chest still tight, he turns to a new, blank page and takes out his own pen, scribbling out a single sentence.

‘I miss you’ He pauses, staring down at the words, then scoffs and adds, ‘you miserable bastard.’

Arthur’s map is less charged with memory, so he opens it up, last. He rakes his eyes down it, looking over all the places Arthur had discovered in his time away from camp, things he saw, things he noticed. With his index finger, dirt wedged under the nail, he finds his own location, and what is probably an old hunting cabin nearby. He could stay there if the rain turned into a bad storm.

He decides he might ought to pay closer attention to the map, maybe even start marking his own discoveries on it. It feels like continuing a legacy, as repugnant as that idea sounds.

He slips Arthur’s hat onto his head and tucks his own away into his pack.

*

He goes on like this for a few weeks, working his way across northern New Hanover slowly, living and breathing and speaking to no one. He reads over Arthur’s words once, twice, more times than he can count, deciphering the person Arthur used to be. He follows his map, seeing some of what he saw. He lays awake some nights and wishes that he were some sort of conduit-- a medium like those little old ladies in the cities who set up darkened shops with velvet tablecloths and hold seances for the dead. He wishes now that that sort of thing was real. Wishes he could feel the man touch his shoulder in the dark, no matter how unnerving it would be.

He drinks to forget about that idea.

John takes to writing in Arthur’s journal himself, and once he starts, he can’t seem to stop.

At first, he recounts everything he can recall about the two years since they fled from Beaver Hollow. Traveling to Canada, his failed attempts at staying employed, and his tendency to turn to violence, sometimes slowly, but always inevitably. He treats it like a logbook, dry and factual. But then he recalls one especially dark night.

It had felt like the sky had cracked open, like he’d been drowning in the darkness, unable to get air into his lungs. A waking nightmare. Abigail had held onto him, murmuring into his ear to ease him. He writes about that, how it had all felt, and he feels minutely better for it.

Soon, older memories start to surface, things he's tried to put behind him, things he would never breathe to another soul.

His penmanship has never been the neatest, but he draws his lines out, wondering all the while if he’s sullying Arthur’s memory by taking over his journal.

He does his best to make little sketches. Many of them, Arthur would laugh at. Sometimes John makes them worse on purpose, imagining the teasing that they would invoke from the older man. John spends hours at a time grinning down into the book, getting lost.

He inevitably comes back up from that dream to cold reality, each time. Rachel nickers quietly from nearby, and he remembers to feed her and himself, to keep their bodies going.

__________________

“Hey. You.” John says. His belly is full of whisky, and he knows that he’s about to start something that he does not have the faculties to finish. But that’s the power in being tipsy.

Arthur’s boots scrape to a stop. He’d been heading for his own tent, no doubt. He looks John up and down, face twisting in scrutiny, but John’s grown immune to that look by now.

“What?” Arthur demands. He’d looked busy. John had probably caught him on his way to do something important. Good.

John’s sick of being on bed rest. They’ve been in Horseshoe for nearly a month, but only in the last few days has he been allowed to wander around, do minor chores. His face is just healed over enough to not hurt when he eats and speaks. He resents the others who have been going out robbing and drinking.

“Heard you talking to Abigail earlier,” John says, folding his arms over his chest.

“Go to bed, Marston. You’re drunk.” Arthur scoffs, starting off towards his tent again.

“I ain’t,” John insists, following after him. “Quit asking her if I’m behaving, whatever the hell that means.”

Arthur turns on him, brow lowering. “Well, are you?”

John bristles, glowering at him.

"I been here for weeks! I ain’t had time to drink, or gamble, or— or— and it ain’t none of your business what I do, is it, Morgan? Just quit interfering with my life.”

“Interfering?” Arthur snorts. “You’ve lost it.”

“You’re always askin’ them if they need anything, gettin’ Jack comics, askin’ after me—”

“Well, someone has to look out for them,” Arthur says, face morphing from amused to serious. He’s angry. John opens his mouth, but Arthur cuts him off. “You have a good thing going, and you’re throwing it all away. Been acting like a fool for years. Messin’ up over and over.”

John blinks.

“I ain’t messin' anything up. I— I’m doing my best to—“ He frowns, brain foggy, and fuck, maybe he’s drunker than he thought. “I love her.” He insists. It’s not a lie, not really— he does love her, just not the way everyone thinks he does. The way he’s supposed to.

“Well then, you ought to act like it,” Arthur says, voice thin.

“It ain’t nobody else’s business,” John says, voice hard. “Let me and her handle that. Don’t need a keeper.”

“Just don’t want you to lose the only good thing about yourself, Marston.”

That stings like a shot to the gut. Then again, lots of things that Arthur says to him sting. That’s how they’ve been since John’s return a few years back. And ever since Blackwater, they’ve been gunning for a fight. John’s felt it brewing under his skin, seen it in Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur knows how to hit him where it hurts, but John knows how to go for the throat.

“Is this—“ His heart pounds in his chest. “This ain’t about that thing a few years back, is it?” When he was 22.

It’s out of his mouth before he can think twice about saying it, and then it’s too late. Arthur’s eyes go wide for a split second before his face morphs into unbridled rage. He says nothing, eyes boring into John’s.

John can tell he’s contemplating hitting him, fists curling and uncurling at his sides, but he holds back just barely on account of John’s cheek, and shoves past him instead, knocking into his shoulder, hard. It makes John reel, his face still hurting from the impact, but he doesn’t make a sound. He got the reaction he wanted.

He turns, watching Arthur stalk off towards his horse.

Arthur leaves camp, just like that.

Deja vu.

John is only satisfied for a few moments before he feels the weight of his perpetual regret drop back into his chest.

Pressing Arthur’s buttons gets less and less fun the older they get.

When he’s sitting at the fire the next day, resting and sobered up, Arthur sits next to Hosea as the man tells stories from days of olde— before John joined up. Before a lot of them were there. When Hosea and Dutch and Arthur had been the three anti-heroes of the West.

John is envious of that time, of a time during which he was no doubt young and sleeping on the street, doing anything he could to get by. He watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, and he thinks that Arthur watches him too, but whenever he looks, Arthur is only looking at Hosea with undisguised admiration.

Later, there's music and dancing, and Arthur warms back up to him on account of the whisky Pearson starts pouring. He grips John around the shoulders too tightly, sings too loudly into his ear, and John’s heart pounds happily in his own drunken chest.

________________________

The old remnants of their past camp at Horseshoe look untouched in the two years since John’s seen it. Perhaps one or two new campfires have been lit and put out since then, travelers who stumbled upon this spot and saw it for a treasure. 

Whisky warms his belly still, and it’s the only reason he got up the nerve to come out this far. Probably a bad idea, but John made a whole career on bad ideas once upon a time, so this one seems inconsequential.

He sits on the same fallen log, now half embedded into the earth by rain and snow and time. A blackened fire ring lays dead in front of it.

He stares over the cliff's edge into the night and imagines the fall for just a moment. Shudders. It wouldn't be high enough, anyway.

It’s late, and he’s exhausted. The fire ring comes to life with a match, kindling, and some coaxing, and he lays his bedroll nearby with a clear view of the sky. He lays silent.

It’s easy to feel like no time has passed. Easy to imagine that if he tilted his head just so, he might be able to catch a glimpse of a few more tents and wagons set up nearby. Might see the soft burn of a scout fire on the edge of camp. A dozen horses grazing in the tree line. The sounds of people sipping whisky and telling tales around the fire

He doesn’t look. It will break the careful illusion. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the dark abyss above, listening to the fire crackle and willing his mind to stay in the fantasy for just a few moments, as long as he can hold onto it.

There’s so much that he doesn’t miss about 'the life'. Worry about backstabbing companions, about feeding an entire camp. About their leader's plans and if they’d pan out or land them in even greater danger. Worry about the law catching up to them or an old rival with plans of revenge. Those things are happily left to the past.

The things he truly misses are perhaps fewer in number, but they’d been much more prominent than all the bad, had taken up more of his mind. The smell of leather and smoke, roasting meat. Coffee and pine on an early damp morning. Horses and open planes. Seeing something new every day.

Dark nights under the stars.

Things hadn’t always been prickly between he and Arthur, but even when they’d been the maddest they’d ever been at each other, there’d been good moments. Moments under the open sky, relaxed and warm. Making plans about spending fortunes and making homes and having enough food to last the winter comfortably. About buying art and music, fine clothes and train tickets.

Even the smallest moments, John had used to live for.

“You feelin’ better?” Arthur’s deep drawl echoes in his mind. They’d met eyes across the stew pot, John sipping at coffee, Arthur getting himself a bowl. John’s cheek is still healing, ugly and pink and raw looking.

“Yeah,” John says. “Almost feel normal again.”

Arthur chuckles, deep and rumbling, ducks his head, and John gets a nice view of his thick lashes before blue eyes flash up at him. “You were never normal, Marston.”

John’s eyes fly open. The darkened treetops are just where they were.

A memory, but it had felt like a living dream, like he’d been there.

He groans, rolling onto his side. His heart aches.

*

His resolve to stay out of major towns breaks when he needs to eat something other than dried venison and canned kidney beans. The few wild carrots he’s found aren’t cutting it anymore, and he’s been setting those aside for Rachel, besides.

He needs fruit. Vegetables. More coffee.

The sign directing him to Valentine looks new, more grand than the last rickety old thing he remembers seeing when they’d first come through from Colter. A few more houses have been built on the outskirts of town, more carts and buggies on the roads than single riders, now.

He makes his way to the general store from the back alley, keeping his hat pulled low and his head down. He buys what he needs, and a few things he doesn’t, and by the time he’s stocked up, it’s clear that he’ll need to start replenishing his money sooner or later. Sooner would be preferable.

He has a few ideas on how to go about it.

There’s a bounty board outside the sheriff’s office, and he takes an inconspicuous look at it. The faces of the Van Der Linde gang stare back at him. Dutch’s likeness, hollower and meaner than the man had actually been, makes John feel homesick and furious all at once. Maybe he hadn’t been that way, at first. But by the end, John hadn’t recognized the man. Maybe this image of him is what he was truly like. A fiend.

Along with Dutch’s name are Micah and Bill, wanted on similar charges. Javier is nowhere to be seen, but to his surprise, Charles’ face is there. The fine print reads, among many other things, “aiding in Indian retaliation upon the United States Government” and it becomes apparent why Charles would still have a bounty two years out. The government is hard-pressed to forget even the smallest transgressions, these days.

John tears down Charles’ poster, crumpling it into the bottom of his satchel. There will be another posted soon when no one brings him in, but John does it on principle. Charles doesn’t deserve to be displayed next to the rest of this lot.

Arthur’s face is nowhere to be seen, and he’d expected that, but it’s still disappointing. He’d thought maybe seeing his face there would make it easier to believe that Arthur was just lost, instead of dead. Out there, somewhere. Maybe out west.

John’s mug shot from Sisika hangs down in the corner, and he tears it off immediately. His bit of beard hides his scars when he combs it the right way, but not well enough for him to feel comfortable waltzing into the saloons or the gunsmith. He knows that if he hangs around in Valentine for too long, someone is going to start putting two and two together.

So.

He can’t pull in bounties without drawing the eye of the law. He ought not to rob any stores if he wants to stay gone from the world. He’ll need to find other ways to pull in money, but luckily, there are a few tried and true methods that he can fall back into without much fanfare.

One of them, he can even try tonight.

He’d be lying to say that the money was the only reason tempting him to do it.

*

“Hey, mister.” John drawls, casual-like. He’s leaned up against the back of Smithfield’s. The trickle of piano song and drunken bar-goers shouting seeps out through the back walls.

The man passing by stutters to a stop, probably not expecting to find someone hanging around out back. He warily assesses John, probably wondering if he’s about to be robbed.

He’s not the first man that’s passed by, but John doesn’t talk to just any man. He waits, watches, looks for the kind of person he’s fairly sure will accept the sort of thing he’s offering. There are sometimes little tells, but mostly John relies on instinct, a sort of innate knowing that he’s cultivated from youth. He’s certain he’d never be able to explain it to anyone else. It’s seldom wrong.

“Yeah?” The man says, voice gruff but not sharp. He’s older than John, not attractive and not ugly, just a man with touches of grey in his brown hair, a beer gut, and a weathered tan over soft farmer's muscles. He’s not too big and not too strong and not too dirty looking, and he doesn’t look the violent type. He has a ring on his finger that only gives John a momentary pause. A married man like this might be looking for something to shake up his life, John knows. It isn’t right or decent, but if the man’s going to be unfaithful anyway, it may as well be making John a few extra dollars.

“You need anything?” John asks, lets his lids slide lower, runs his eyes down the man's front just for a split second. Back up to his eyes. To a straight man, it might be confusing. To a man of John’s persuasion, it’s unsubtle.

“Huh?” The man asks. The color on his cheeks comes only after he realizes what John means. John waits, observing, legs tensed to run if he needs to. He sees the realization dawn on his face not long after. He knows he’s assumed correctly. There have been times that even when he's made a bad call, the man will take him up on it, anyway.

“Just a few bucks,” John says softly.

“For… for what?” The man asks, familiar hunger in his eyes as he approaches.

“My mouth,” John says, because he won’t do anything else.

He knows this song and dance well, has used it many times in his past. He asks to see the money, lets the man keep it until he’s done, but promises that he’ll get it off his body if he tries to split without paying. John doesn’t expect this one to run; he doesn’t look the running sort.

Before now, he’d briefly considered running a good old-fashioned bait-and-rob. It’s easy enough to hold someone up in an alleyway. That sort of thing gets unwanted attention in towns as small as Valentine, though. You can only pull that trick once, maybe twice. He isn’t sure that he can afford that sort of attention now, traveling alone and reliant on stores.

It still feels as strange and exciting as it ever did. An unfamiliar man on his tongue, grunting and groaning and tugging too roughly on his hair until he growls loud enough to hear. It does give him the momentary, twisted sort of power trip he’d hoped for— a thing he’d used to primarily do it for when he was younger.

“You sure— ah, sure I can’t pay more to get you up against the wall?” The man pants above him, voice gruff but low, keeping quiet where they hide against a darkened barn. John pulls off to look up at him sharply.

“I don’t do that,” He says, voice cracked but as firm as he can manage.

“Alright, alright,” The man says meekly, nudging his dick against John’s cheek, asking to be let back in.

When the man has finished, gripping John’s head too tightly and working his throat too roughly, he slips John a few dollars and then disappears into the night. John scoffs when he’s by himself. He hadn’t expected the man to return the favor, and in all honesty, he probably wouldn’t have accepted a return offer, but the lack of one is still offputting.

He makes himself throw up in the grass outside of town. If anyone sees him, he’ll only be taken for a drunkard losing his stomach after a night of boozing.

He counts the seven bills that the man had passed him as he makes his way back to where Rachel is hitched. Extremely generous, considering he’d been hanging around back of a saloon full of real prostitutes. He grins, almost proud for a moment, but then just feels sick to his stomach. The momentary power had done nothing to quell his overarching melancholy. Any hint of lust he might have felt is extinguished the moment he’s alone.

It hadn’t done for him what he had hoped it would. Used to, he would have tugged one out after an encounter like that, maybe even during. He’d barely felt a stirring in his jeans, this time.

Riding back to camp, he recalls meeting Abigail just like this, running tricks of his own in a new town.

She’d been the prettiest prostitute he’d ever met, with a sharp wit and a flare for pickpocketing. He couldn’t help himself but flirt when he’d caught her hand clutching his pocket watch.

Thinking about her hurts, now. Partly because he had hated the facade they put on together, but partly because he misses her company.

He considers whether he’ll keep down this path.

Letting men use him is far from the worst thing he’s ever done, it doesn’t harm anyone, and it gives him the most control for some fair money. No matter how tough or mean a man can act, they all seem obliged to listen to him when their most sensitive organ sits between his teeth. Especially when he’s made clear to them that he doesn’t care about threats to his life or dying, he will bite if they give him reason to.

Still, it doesn’t feel the same as it used to. The erotic thrill is gone.

He sits at his cook fire and eats the new can of peaches he’d bought, staring blankly into the flame.

______________________

John has an epiphany one midday as he’s repairing a farmer's grain silo with the rest of the seasonal hands, somewhere between the Yukon and Montreal. It’s been a year in Canada, and John hasn’t stopped grieving, only gotten better at hiding it.

Must have really, truly loved him.

He’s always known about the parts of himself he couldn’t outrun. He isn’t stupid. He’d known what he was— some sort of invert, at least partially. He never could seem to choose between the allure of the softness of a woman or the sturdy ruggedness of a man and every variation in between.

Being brought off the streets into Dutch’s camp at nineteen hadn’t suddenly changed that.

In those days, there'd been more people in camp. A few young men like him, but Arthur stood out above them all. He commanded attention and respect. He was the one Dutch and Hosea trusted most.

John had watched Arthur move quietly around doing chores, chopping wood, moving hay, fixing wagons. He’d been stoic, solid. Well liked by everyone despite his young age. In the summer months when he only wore a thin work shirt or sometimes no shirt at all, John had known what his own body was telling him.

Lust was easily explainable, but not always reliable. Lust was easy.

He’d lusted after all sorts of men, in his short life.

What had been harder to explain were the strange things his heart did when the other man was around— or wasn’t around. When Arthur was away, sometimes for weeks at a time, John found himself restless and discontented. Sitting around the cookfire without him had started to feel bad. That feeling had thrown John differently.

What’s worse was when he came back and regarded John with some guarded friendliness, John’s chest would finally ease up, and it became easier to smile.

Hosea had accused him of acting like a fawning puppy, once, the way he followed other men around— but especially Arthur. Luckily, Arthur had never been in earshot for those times, and John imagined that that was intentional on Hosea's part.

He should have known then, what it all meant. But it had been easier to ignore, back then, when he was just full of hormones and too busy learning to become an outlaw.

Must have actually loved him.

That’s the answer. He’d cared for him. In a way he’d always been told men couldn’t feel for other men. Impossible by nature.

He’d been stupid to mistake it for friendship or admiration.

He’d lied to himself, as he always did, that losing Arthur was the same as losing Hosea or Dutch. Losing your family could tear a man apart, he’d seen it happen plenty of times.

But losing Arthur had been inconceivable to him, right up until it had happened.

That’s why he lives in a stupor, half awake, half asleep, only coming alive at night when he’s trapped in the dark with his own thoughts.

He’d cared for Arthur, as deeply as one could. And, subconsciously, he’d always thought he’d have more time with him.

But now, it’s something that John will have to carry in him, alone, for the rest of his life. Unspoken and unresolved.

He drops his pliers and stumbles up and away from the silo. It sends him running from the farm, his heart pounding painfully and fearfully against his ribs. He rides, aimlessly, faster and faster until he feels like he’s flying and he can’t feel his hands or nose or eyes anymore.

He’s simultaneously freed by this revelation and heartbroken all over again.

He stays out through the night and into the next day, until both he and his horse are fit to collapse. He comes back home, staggers inside, and sleeps for two days straight.

He loses his job, but that doesn’t matter, they’d needed to keep moving east anyway.

________________

John finds Mary-Beth waiting for a train at the Valentine station.

He's been hunched over on a bench inside while he finishes writing a letter to Abigail, a task long overdue. He’s out later into the night than he’d wanted to be, but he can’t put it off any longer. She’ll be wondering about him since the last one he’d sent. Maybe she’d even be worried.

He has no intention of letting her know that he’s up to one of his— their old tricks again. A little part of him is ashamed, and afraid that she’ll pity him. He knows her to be a better woman than that, though, that she’d never judge someone— even him— for getting by,

He tears a few of Arthur’s sketches out of the journal to send for Jack. He doesn’t want to part with them, but he’s sure that they’ll be something that Jack cherishes, and he also hopes that the boy will understand that he still cares.

He hands the sealed envelope over to the clerk and buys another booklet of stamps before making his way out the back door to the deck for a quick smoke before he slinks back to his meager camp.

There Mary-Beth is, looking very much the same as the last time John had seen her, if not better. He can see the health in her cheeks as they bunch up in a smile.

“It is you!” Mary-Beth exclaims, her arms squeezing around him in a hug. He has half a mind to warn her off. She’s dressed in fine clothes and he’s positively filthy. Then again, none of the ladies at camp were ever bothered by a bit of dirt and grime. If she notices his grubby state, she only squeezes him tighter.

He sits with her, and lets her tell him about her new profession— writing under a pen name. It all sounds like great fun, if you like that sort of thing, and Mary-Beth has obviously come into some money from it.

When she asks about Abigail, John hesitates.

“We… We ain’t together no more.” He admits.

“Aw.” She frowns, folding her hands in her lap pensively. “I’m real sorry, John.”

He swallows, and the silence stretches out between them. He clears his throat.

“You know,” he starts. He’s wanted to tell someone. Anything to relieve some of the weight off his shoulders. It may as well be Mary-Beth. “We weren’t… Weren’t never really together, that way. Just for a few months, in the beginning.” He says. “I know you all thought we was good as married but…” He sighs. “Just wanted to take care of her and the boy. I got them pretty far, I think.” He grows anxious. “They’re in a good place, now. Cattle ranch, lots of money in it. Lots of good folk around. Jack’s in school. Think maybe she even found a good man. A better man—“ He cuts himself off, realizing he’s rambling, trying to make up for how it all sounds.

I left my family.

Mary-Beth frowns, a delicate hand settling on his, patting his knuckles.

“She told me you all had an arrangement.”

John looks sharply up at her, brow furrowed.

“She did?”

Her mouth quirks up at one corner. “Well, we was friends.” Her mouth smoothes out into a full grin. “She hated your guts, sometimes. But after you came back… she thought you were trying your best. Most of the time.”

John laughs weakly, leaning his elbows onto his knees. The knot in his chest begins to loosen, bit by bit.

“If you say they’re in a good place… Then I trust you. I think you did well, John. You won’t get no judgement from me.” She says. Before he can say anything in return, she sighs through her nose. “What are you doing all the way down here, anyway?”

“Livin’ on the road, for now,” he says with a half-shrug. “I’ll be moving on, soon.” Though he isn’t sure where.

“Well, you always were a restless one. It’s hard to picture you working on a cattle ranch.” She giggles, and he scoffs. Her face grows solemn. “I still think of you all. Every day. All those memories…”

“Me too…” His voice creaks, throat tightening again. “Arthur…” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Arthur saved my life… before he passed. It’s hard to talk about him… but I think about him all the time.”

“Me too.” Mary-Beth sighs, eyes stretching out to the plains beyond the limits of Valentine.

Her face, her youth, reminds him of the past. Of imagining the future like a golden road laid out ahead of them. Something they’d strived for. It had started that way, with dreams and aspirations.

“He was a fine man.” Mary-Beth’s voice rings clearly. “Sad and poetic. But a good man. He cared about everyone more than himself.”

John folds his arms, but it feels more like he’s squeezing to hold himself together.

“Yeah. That was his downfall, in the end. That and bein’ sick.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Sometimes, I wonder if he didn’t run himself ragged taking care of everybody else… maybe he would’ve lived. Longer, at least. I don’t know.”

“I know a doctor in Saint Denis. I asked him once about coughin’ up blood and losing weight and… He said that rest helps. But recovering from it is so rare, they barely have any record of it.” She pauses. “Arthur spent his last days like he wanted. Helping everyone. Helping you.” She pats his arm. When John looks at her, she’s watching him closely. “I guess that just has to be good enough.” She sighs.

“I’m proud of you, Mary-Beth. Really, I am.” He says. “I’ll pick up one of your books when I get the funds.”

“No need.” She flashes a new grin, some happiness renewed. She presses a book into his hands. “This one’s for you. I’ll even sign it.” She grins coyly, taking out a fountain pen and scrawling her pseudonym onto the front page under a short note.

For my old friend, who takes care of his own. Leslie Dupont

“It was good seeing you, John. I hope wherever you go, you find what you need.” She tells him, and then it’s time for her to leave.

“Safe travels.”

She climbs aboard her train and waves to him as it pulls away. With her goes some of the hope that John had felt at seeing her again. He begins to realize just how lonely he’s been feeling. He wonders if leaving Canada had really been the right call.

Then again, maybe he’s destined to be miserable no matter where he goes. Maybe this is all just a part of the process.

When the train’s light has faded into the distant dark, John stands on the platform feeling as if the entire thing could have been a figment of his tired mind. An apparition. The weight of the book in his hand is the only proof he has that his old life still exists out there, in some form.

That, and the old fellow who nods to him when he passes back into the station, a gruff “Pretty lady,” tossed John’s way.

That night, John reads Mary-Beth’s book laying under the stars. It’s called Lady of the Manor, and it’s as pulpy and salacious as John’s ever seen a published novel be, but he can see Mary-Beth’s voice in it

He isn’t a fast reader, but he gets through the entire thing, hours and hours into the night, and by the end, his heart feels a bit sore. To his horror, he realizes that he’s envious of the main character, who gets a happy ending. A man lifting her off the ground, carrying her across the threshold. A perfect life full of adventure and love and intimacy. A love more open and honest than John’s ever known to exist in reality. Like a fairytale for adults.

John wants it, but he can’t imagine that people like him get that sort of thing.

Despite his own secret, embarrassing thoughts, he’s eager to pick up another one of her titles the next time he passes through a town.

______________________________

Bright Haven Livestock and Stables sits just outside of the Montreal City limits. They make it there just after the turn of the century. The city is bustling, the picture of progress. It celebrates the new century with fireworks every night, big bands playing in bars and on corners, alcohol flowing in the streets. Jack is dazzled by their new surroundings and even Abigail smiles at the change of scenery.

John tries not to hate it so much. He also tries not to feel bitter about the others who should have lived to see the year 1900. Others with a lot of life ahead of them, who were smarter and braver and kinder than himself. Who deserved it more.

The only thing John seems to have going for him is stupid luck.

*

Hamish Maclean is every bit the hard man Terry had told John he would be. But when he hears that John has come on recommendation from his brother, he gets a job as a hand that same day.

John can rope fine enough, though he’s still no good at herding. He settles into maintenance and repairs and occasionally camping out in the back forty to watch over the grazing herds, keeping the predators at bay. He’s a better shot than any of the other hands, and it’s the one skill that the ranch foreman praises him for.

Abigail and Jack settle in easier than he does, mainly for the fact that Ruth Maclean, Hamish’s wife, takes a shine to them both. She’s a woman with russet skin and a head of thick, dark, silver-streaked hair. The Maclean’s daughter passed years back from cholera, and John suspects that that is one of the reasons why she asks Abigail to join her up in the main house to learn to cook and bake in her kitchen.

John is just glad that Abigail and Jack have others around them suddenly to occupy their time so that John can sulk out on the range.

He knows he ought to be better, more present. But ever since he’d realized the depth of his own feelings for Arthur, he’s had a hard time coping with everyday living.

On his nights out, back against a large stone and rifle across his lap as he keeps watch over the herds, sometimes he closes his eyes and imagines that his small crackling fire is that on the edge of a larger camp. That just a few yards away, there's the pawing of many horses and the humming conversations of a group of people who have sought shelter in each other in a changing world.

*

“Samuel seems like a nice man,” Abigail tells him three months into their stay at Bright Haven. Something in John knows at that moment that this is the beginning of something— probably the end.

“He is.” John nods as his eyes skim the morning newspaper. They sit in the small kitchen of the ranch house they’ve been provided. Jack is already playing with the dogs outside before they leave with the hands to move the stock to a new acre.

There is talk of getting him schooling nearby, to both Abigail and John’s relief.

“Samuel’s nice. And he’s kind, which ain’t always the case with men," John says. “Easy on the eyes, too.” He appreciates that he can say this to her openly.

Samuel Finley is one of the other hands, and John has gleaned that he’s about 25 and has been working on the ranch since he was 15. Both the foreman and Hamish trust him with just about anything that can or will go wrong on the property, and still, Samuel has a sort of innocent naïveté that John envies. He’s a hard worker, has never killed a man, and he doesn’t know how much of a catch he is. He’s also good with Jack.

Which makes it easy to see why Abigail has taken a liking to him.

“Is he… Is he married?” Abigail finally asks, and John sets the paper down gently. There’s a pinch of worry in her eyes, but she faces him down as she’s always done. He imagines that there’s some part of her that will always worry about men, even him. About if he’ll try to lay claim to her if she starts to show a genuine interest in someone else.

“He ain’t,” John says. “I heard him talkin’ about the mending you did on his work trousers. He was impressed.” Her cheeks pinken, and she looks as young as the day he met her.

John doesn’t care about posturing. He wants Abigail to be happy. If either of them deserves it, she does.

“If you’d like, you should invite him around for dinner,” John says with a shrug.

“Oh,” Abigail’s cheeks turn from pink to red, and John hides his grin behind the paper again. “How would that look? Married woman asking a single man? You should ask him.”

“If I ask him, how will he know you’re interested? Besides, we ain’t actually married.”

Abigail is silent for a long while as they sit across from each other.

“You don’t mind?” She asks softly.

“You deserve someone good, Abigail,” is all he can say. "And Samuel's good."

She deserves someone better than John. Someone who she can give all her love to, and who she can receive it back from. “If… When you’re more sure about him… you oughtta clue him in.” He says, and that’s it. He’s finally prepared for this thing to start unraveling.

He imagines the pain of it will be less than what he’s been going through already, anyway. Maybe there will even be some sort of release, at the end.

*

A letter from Charles Smith finds John at the post office 8 months into their stay at Bright Haven. He isn’t sure how Charles managed to track him down all the way across Canada, but if any man could, he supposes it would be him. He lets John know that he’ll be passing through Montreal on the morning train of September 9th.

The letter reads like one of Charles’, but there is always the chance of it being a trap. Regardless, John makes sure he’s there for the arrival. Abigail refuses to let him go alone, and luckily, Jack is finally in school, leaving her free to join John on the ride over.

When they see Charles’ solemn face step onto the train platform, John looks at her, and Abigail looks at him. He feels more joy shared between them than he can remember since they started the journey north. It feels, for one instance, like coming home.

“Charles,” John shouts, waving from the wagon seat. Abigail has already jumped down, lifting her skirts as her boots thud through the muddy street. John leaps down to follow.

“You’re alive,” She says, arms outstretched for a hug. Charles' face, though surprised, breaks into a rare, beaming smile.

John is on them both in another few bounds, and when gets an arm around each of their shoulders in an embrace, for just a moment, John’s heart thuds to life painfully in his chest.

“It’s good to see your face,” John tells him, and he means it probably more than Charles could ever know.

“You too,” he tells them, his dark eyes glittering as he looks between them. “Been a long few years.”

To John, it feels both like a lifetime ago and just like yesterday that he’d seen Charles. That he’d seen any of the others. It makes heat prick behind his eyes in an unexpected, embarrassing way. He turns away to scrub a fist over his eyes.

Abigail drives the wagon while Charles sits next to her. John lets himself relax in the back, shoulders propped against the wagon wall as he listens to Charles tell them about where he’s been, and where he’s going next.

Charles can only visit for a day, but it’s a good day. Jack remembers him well enough, and the Macleans treat him to a dinner that Ruth insists on putting on.

That evening, John rolls out Charles' bedroll next to his own, next to the fireplace in their cabin, and the two of them sit out on the front porch while Abigail and Jack turn in. John brings out a few cigars that he’s been saving and they sit down next to each other on the front steps in the shadow of the porch. It’s calm, quiet. Cricket song fills up the night around them.

“It’s real good seeing you,” John says finally when they’ve sat in a comfortable silence long enough.

“I didn’t know if you’d even want to see me,” Charles says.

“Why?” John frowns. “You were one of the best men I knew, back then.”

“But still… I’m from back then. Wondered if you and Abigail had tried to move on from all that. Put it all behind you.”

John thinks for a long minute, inhaling sweet, herby smoke and letting it out slowly through his nose. A dog barks in a stable nearby, a groom shushing him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put it behind me," John says, honestly. “Not really. Maybe Abigail can. It’s easier for her. She has Jack and his future to run towards.”

Charles looks at him strangely, and John swallows, knowing how it sounds. He isn't sure he should tell Charles about their ruse. He doesn't feel like dredging up that particular part of his history, right now.

“Feel like I’m always livin’ in the past," He says instead. "Not quite here, not quite there. Not… Not really consciously, you understand?”

“Yes.” Charles nods, stares out at the dark stretch of road along the property line in front of them. “It feels like it’s always right here," Charles says, holding his hand up behind his head, just off to the side. “Like I’m being haunted.”

John looks at him sharply.

“Good way of puttin' it.” John takes another long drag of his cigar “Sometimes… It’s strange, but, I’ve been thinkin’ about Arthur a lot. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the one haunting me.” Nerves tingle in John’s abdomen, at talking about Arthur out loud with someone.

He’s afraid that if Charles knew the whole of it, he’d treat John differently, might look at him like he were a stranger. He might not want anything to do with him, anymore.

Charles looks at him with a look John can’t decipher— blank-like, slight pinch to his eye— but then he finally nods.

“Yes, I feel that way sometimes, too.”

John hesitates but feels that Charles is inviting him to speak further.

“Feels like I’m always angry. Like it’s only a matter of time before I screw up again, and then… ruin things. For Abigail and Jack, not just myself.” John’s hands fidget. He doesn’t want to explain why he’s so angry. That he sometimes misses Arthur so much, he can’t breathe. That he’d realized that he cared for him in the way he should care for a woman, and the fact that Arthur is gone now makes his insides dissolve into pure, red rage.

That’s surely too strange to tell another man.

“You always did have a wild streak.” Charles nods, and John scowls at him. “Just being honest. But… that’s served you well for most of your life.”

“Not sure I can temper it, at this point. Not sure… all this is for me.” He says, nodding his head at the ranch stretched out before them.

“I see,” Charles says, looking at him with that strange assessing look again. “I wanted to ask… what’s going on with Abigail and that hand? Samuel, I think. They seemed… sweet on each other, after dinner.”

“Oh.” John swallows. Of course, Charles, of all people, would notice something like that. “They are.” John nods, and Charles makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat. “It ain’t bad,” John says hurriedly. “We… her and I ain’t... Well, I just want her to be happy.” John says, observing the way his cigar turns to ash at the end. Shakes it off. “They got my blessing.”

“I see.” Charles nods again, like things are occurring to him, like something makes sense, and John scoffs. He wonders how obvious it had been, how long before Charles had suspected. Maybe he’d never even once believed they were together in the first place, even years ago.

“And anyway,” John says, trying not to be annoyed at something that doesn’t matter anymore. “They’re better suited for each other. Abigail, she’s a hard woman to please. And Samuel… well, he’s soft-hearted. Wears it on his sleeve.” John laughs.

In the months since Abigail had clued Samuel in on their arrangement, Samuel seems to have slowly become a fixture in their lives. John won’t pretend it isn’t strange having another man come around for breakfast and dinner at their home every other day, being friendly all around the table.

Then again, John’s lived most of his life in unusual circumstances. In some ways, having Samuel inside their strange family unit is the most at home John’s felt since the gang fell apart. Being messy is comfortable to him.

What’s more, Jack seems to like Samuel better than him. John doesn’t blame the boy.

He knows that the older Jack gets, the more aware he becomes of the world around him, the more nervous John makes him. He can play swords or teach him his letters alright. But Jack also remembers how John was— how he is— when he’s not playing miner or farm hand. When he’s an outlaw.

Jack takes a more curious interest in Samuel.

John chalks this up mostly to the fact that Samuel had helped raise his three younger brothers after his father had passed. He knows how to talk to kids.

“Could I be a writer?” Jack had asked one morning over the breakfast table, like the thought just then occurred to him that he could.

“I don’t see why not,” Samuel had said easily, spreading butter over bread and passing it to the boy. “What would you write about?”

John has watched Jack flourish. He opens up to the people at Bright Haven— Samuel, Ruth and Hamish, the friends he’s making at school, the other hands who take to looking out for him. And instead of feeling jealous and inadequate, John finally feels some semblance of relief.

Jack and Abigail are going to be alright.

That’s what had driven him through the last two years. He feels, in some part of his chest, that he’s kept his promise, fulfilled his duty. He’s taken care of his family. And they always will be his family, he hopes.

Charles brings John’s attention back to the present with a clearing of his throat.

“I don’t know what’ll happen… to me. Or what I’ll do.” John says, though he does know, deep down, somewhere unacknowledged. He knows where this road goes for him, or at least in what direction. “But… I feel good about this place, for them. If I… If I…” John swallows. “Well, anyway.”

“It lives up to it’s name,” Charles says quietly. “I wanted to tell you while I was here, John…” His change in tone makes John sit up a bit straighter. “I buried Arthur out in Ambarino.”

John’s head snaps away, staring out into the dark. He breathes in and out through his nose. He feels blindsided.

“Oh?”

“I made him a marker, planted some wildflowers around it. It’s in a real nice place. He would have liked it.” Charles says, watching him intently. John swallows, the realization of what Charles is telling him making him grip the edges of the step he sits on hard with his blunt nails. “I can mark it on a map for you.”

“Alright.”

Charles circles a piece of land east of Bacchus Bridge. John hides the map away in his satchel and tries to forget about it.

They all get up early the next morning, and both John and Abigail take Charles out to the train station.

“You’re welcome any time, Charles,” John says earnestly. He feels a bit like crying, watching Charles wave from a train window.

People always leaving.

He sits stone-faced atop the wagon, waiting for the train to pass so they can head back for Bright Haven, when Abigail looks over at him, brow pinched.

“You wish you were going with him, don’t you.” She says softly.

He can’t answer, but the truth is obvious.

__________________________________

John drives Rachel north, the opposite direction of Mexico.

He must be running on instinct, because his good sense isn’t in charge anymore. He makes his way up to Bacchus Bridge, heads east.

He never thought he could face that hillside. He’s done his best to put it out of his mind. But now he can’t leave without seeing it first.

He can’t move forward.

__________________________________

“You know, we’d be alright here. Jack and me.” Abigail tells him one evening after a bad day of drowning.

He’s been riding the outskirts of Bright Haven for days, making sure all of the fencing is secured for the coming autumn that will bring predators closer to the ranch's pastures. It's tiring work, and John’s been tired for other reasons, too. It must be showing on his face.

“I think we found us a real nice place, here.” She rubs his shoulder with one of her small, sturdy hands and he swallows thickly.

It's been nearly two years, by this point.

“What sorta man would I be?” He asks. “Even if we ain’t together, I still got a responsibility—“

“We ain’t your only responsibility, John. I already told you that, long time ago.” She says gently. He knows, but he’s been acting the part for so long that he isn’t sure if he can tell the difference anymore. “You done right by us. You done more than anyone else would’ve.”

“Not Arthur.” John laughs humorlessly. “He wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea. He wouldn’t’ve messed up every opportunity we had between here and out west. He wouldn’t want to leave you and Jack alone.”

“We ain’t alone, John.”

She’s right. They have people who care, maybe even more than Dutch’s gang ever cared about them. Normal, honest folk. Folk used to hard work and taking care of their own. Samuel looks at her like she hung both the sun and the moon, and he hasn’t stopped even after months of quiet courting.

“You and Arthur were more alike than you think.” Abigail admonishes him, coming to stand in front of him. “And he weren’t no saint. Even still, you were both good men. Just got restless hearts.” She pats him on the chest. “I don’t blame you. You were raised in that life. I don’t know if you ever could’ve stayed in one place forever. Maybe it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long.”

It’s not that he enjoys being an outlaw or a vagabond. It’s just that this life, on this ranch, is unbearable to him. He likes the people. But he can’t get up knowing what he’s going to do every day for the rest of his life.

That stability is everything a young mother like Abigail fights for, for her and her child.

For John, it feels like death.

“You’re a good man, John.”

It isn’t true.

“It ain’t wrong for you to want to be happy, too.” She says more quietly into his ear. He stiffens.

“I don’t think I can be happy. People like me…” He’s so tired. At least she knows what he means— what he really means— by this point. His only solace is that Abigail is a friend, in every sense of the word. A better friend than he’d ever found elsewhere.

“Well. I suppose what I meant is, you deserve to try. And if you need to leave to do that… you’ve done well enough to deserve it. We’ll be here for you.”

Chapter Text

Two

- Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness -

The words are etched into a wooden halo that curves around the cross of Arthur’s resting place. Around it, orange and yellow wildflowers spill out from the plot. In the years since they’ve been planted, they’ve covered the entire hillside.

He isn’t entirely sure what the words mean, but they must be fitting if Charles had chosen them.

He removes his hat— Arthur’s hat. That’s what one does out of respect.

Had Charles been able to read John’s feelings on his face, when he’d told him about this place? He worries now that it had been obvious. Maybe it had been obvious to everyone but himself.

He hopes Arthur hadn’t been able to tell. The man had known a lot about him— too much, by the end of their friendship. But John hopes to any higher power who might be listening that he hadn’t been able to see just how much John had felt.

He’d loved Arthur, in his own way.

He isn’t sure how it works. From the time he was small, he’d always been told that men couldn’t love other men. Not romantically. He’d heard it from all sorts of men— his father, first, and later on, any number of men shooting the shit around a campfire. They all had things to say about it. That an invert’s love wasn’t real, couldn’t be. It was only lust, perverted even further.

John doesn’t believe that, anymore. He can’t.

Not with the way his heart seizes up in his chest at that first sight of his best friend’s resting place. His breath comes so fast and heavy that he has to gasp to catch it. His eyes prick with overwhelming pressure. The only solace he can find is that these reactions mean his love was real.

The sun forms a halo of rays from behind the wood, Arthur’s favorite time of day. The ground has evened out over the years since it was dug.

He could place Arthur’s hat atop the cross. It would be what any good man did. But he can’t. He selfishly wants it for himself. Arthur gave it to him.

He sinks down onto one knee and then the other, not out of respect this time, but because he isn’t sure he can stand anymore. The hillside is silent. Rachel grazes on the slope behind him. Wind breezes through the tall grass, blowing around his hair, long overdue for a trim. He’s let it grow out, hasn’t touched it since he left Montreal.

There’s no rush, now. He’s finally here, the hillside he’s been so afraid of finding. He can sit here as long as he wants, as long as he needs. He shuffles closer, knees knocking into small stones painfully. Six feet below him, Arthur’s body lays still.

He drinks from the bottle of whisky he’d brought with him, pouring a generous helping out over the green grass he sits on.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” He mutters, throwing back another mouthful of it. “Couldn’t just stick around, for me? For anybody? Had to run yourself into the ground.” Quite literally.

He knows he’s being unreasonable. Arthur had already been dying, and he’d spent his last days in the most honorable way he could see. And John still isn’t happy. He’s such a terrible friend. A terrible person.

Oh well. At least he knows it.

None of it feels real. In fact, he wouldn’t know that Arthur’s body was there at all if Charles hadn’t told him and made the marker. That thought unnerves him even more, the idea that he can’t sense Arthur in death. That the earth swallows him up whole, nothing but the few people who knew him to remember him.

Ridiculous, Marston.

He’s drunk, now. Even his thoughts reflect it.

You can’t feel dead people, even if you loved them.

He drinks and drinks, until the tears dislodge from the corners of his eyes and run down his face freely. Drinks more, until a sob finally frees itself from his throat. The sun goes down, and John yells and shouts, and hits the ground with his open palms.

Where was Dutch? Where was Hosea?

“Why’d you all have to leave me alone?” He asks aloud, his voice cracked and hoarse. His nose runs and he can barely coordinate himself enough to wipe it.

He wallows on his back, stares at that open abyss above him, vision blurred, twice as many stars. He wonders if the dead are still out there, somewhere, or if exiting time and space obliterates them. When his time comes, will Arthur be waiting for him on the other side of the line between here and there?

He hopes so.

Even if Arthur hates him, won’t even look at him, just brushes him off as he’s always done. He’d take that.

He briefly crawls to the edge of the cliffside, looking over. Just a little slip, and there he’d go. Still not high enough, he thinks, and rolls away from the edge. Maybe it is high enough, and he’s just too much of a damn coward.

He hears someone talking, muttering, and realizes that it’s himself. He speaks to Arthur as if he were there, like maybe he can hear him. He tells him all the things he used to think about, back when he was 22. Then again when he was 26. He tells him about his 27th year, when he’d finally come to terms with himself, acknowledged his own feelings.

He curls up on his side, his head pressed into the wood marker. It’s probably sacrilege, or maybe just sick in the head, sleeping atop a grave. John’s too far gone to care. He sleeps there and doesn’t get up until well past noon the following day.

*

John forgets about going to Mexico. Instead, he meanders north. Back to the start, where he nearly left the gang for the second time, where Arthur started his new journal.

His body won't let him quit no matter how much his mind wants him to.

After his night spent sleeping atop Arthur’s grave, he feels uneasy, like something has come dislodged inside of him. In some ways, he feels better. He’s said his piece, albeit to no one. In other ways, he feels worse. Like his heart has been carved out all over again.

Will it ever stop hurting? Will the wound ever heal over enough to not be ripped open again?

Arthur’s journal doesn’t offer much help. The man had sketched the likeness of a few places that he’d found interesting— abandoned trading posts, cabins, pretty mountain views. They’d brought John comfort, beforehand, but now, they make him feel even more lost.

He finds the hand-drawn map of Colter from when they first fled into the mountains. It had been cold and desolate. Isolated from anyone.

He travels north and keeps going until the ground turns frozen beneath Rachel’s hooves. Then it’s slushy with grey melt, and the further upward he goes, the ground becomes fresh powder atop packed layers of ice. No green but the pines, this far up.

He’s here to see Colter.

Being at Horseshoe had given him a hit of something that he wants to feel again. He’s retracing old steps, looking for some sort of meaning. Colter, miserable as it had been with blood and ripped flesh and rotten smells, had also been the first time Arthur had looked at him with some semblance of care in a long while.

Walking around the abandoned town, though, he realizes there’s nothing there for him.

Frozen wood buildings, dusty and molding.

He stands over the bed Arthur had slept in and recalls his indifference towards John’s whereabouts once upon a time when he’d been missing for two days. The details had been recounted to him by Javier and Abigail when he’d gone asking.Hearing that Arthur hadn’t wanted to come looking for him had stung worse than any verbal jab, but he couldn’t blame the man.

Even still, sitting out on that mountainside, so far off any trail, he’d been sure he was going to die alone. From freezing, or starving, or from infection, he hadn’t known.

He’d never been more glad to see anything than Arthur Morgan’s head popping up over the cliffside to look down on him. He’d almost thought he was dreaming as Arthur leaped down, crowded over him to fill up his vision. When Arthur had gathered him up onto his shoulder, the pain had told him it was real.

At least there was one good memory from this place.

He spreads Arthur’s map out on the floor of the stable, looks over all of the places he could go. He doesn’t much care right now. He wants to go to sleep, and he thinks about curling up there in the cold, but his body won’t let him succumb to the urge, just yet. It pushes him on to find somewhere he can keep warm.

He uses his finger to trace out a path east. There’s a small square next to Cairn Lake, probably an old hunting cabin. He’s not seen anyone out here, so far, so maybe no one but him is stupid enough to be up the mountains in this sort of weather. He’ll hole up there for a few days. Maybe he’ll work up the energy to fish on the lake.

Maybe he’ll scrounge up some reason to keep moving.

The sun is low in the sky, and he pushes Rachel through the knee-deep snow drifts until they find some semblance of a trail.

Halfway up the route to the cabin, he hears unexpected voices echoing quietly off the trees. He slows Rachel, hand settling on the butt of his pistol as his eyes scan the trail ahead. He sees two horsemen, bundled in big coats, rifles slung across their shoulders.

Watching, one of the men leans over in their saddle, shoving the other, though not with any real force. The other pushes back, hand reaching out to jab them in the side.

“You fool,” one of them laughs, deep and gruff, and John lets his pistol settle back into its holster, some of his fear quelled by the playfulness between the two. He holds up a hand in greeting as he approaches, intending to pass them on the right. The two faces that watch him come into focus, and they are far younger than John thought they’d be. Surly no older than 20, 21. They’ve got guns; rifles and sidearms.

“Mister,” One of them greets him warily, voice harder in the face of a stranger. John nods to them.

“You boys okay out here?” He asks, can’t help it because they barely look old enough to shave.

“We’re just fine,” the same one replies, the larger of the two. “You…” His eyes run up and down John once. “You some sort of bounty hunter?”

John’s eyes shift over to the other boy, sees that he’s got his hand on his pistol. He wonders what they could have possibly done to be worried about bounty hunters.

“Nah,” He laughs wryly. “I don’t do bounty work.” He thinks about telling them that he’s been on the crooked path for the last few months— not necessarily a danger, but not a saint. It might gain him some trust, but there’s no need. He’s under the impression that they all want this interaction to end as soon as possible. “I was actually heading for the cabin up by the lake. You seen it?”

“Sure,” The other boy finally speaks up, his voice smoother, less rough sounding. “We was gonna stay there, but someone was already there, few nights ago. We set up camp elsewhere.” He looks John over once more, seeming to decide he’s not a threat. “They’re probably gone by now, though.”

“Thanks,” He nods at them, their eyes following him as he leads his horse down the trail. “Take care,” He offers.

“You too, mister.”

He hopes that they don’t pose some sort of threat. He doesn’t want to have to kill two kids, even if it is in self-defense.

*

By the time he makes it out to the end of the trail, the sun still has a few minutes left in the sky to show him the cabin at Cairn Lake. There is enough light to tell that the place looks utterly abandoned. No smoke rises from the chimney, no horse tied up outside.

Snow piles high in drifts against the dilapidated sides of the cabin, all the way up to the windows on one side. The building looks only moments from falling apart. The roof is caked in a foot of snow, and he wonders how stable the beams are holding up the weight.

All is quiet enough.

“We’ll stay here for the night, girl,” John says tiredly to his mare. He’ll need to clear away the fresh top layer of snow and make a shelter for her, perhaps even a small fire. For now, he loosely fastens her reigns to the long hitching post, promising to return to remove her tack when he’s assessed the state of the cabin.

He surveys the lake for a moment. It’s more of a large pond. It’s frozen over, but maybe he could get his hatchet through it to drop a line in. That is, if he can even work up the strength to bother with such a thing.

An hour ago, he’d wanted to curl up in a freezing barn and leave his fate to the elements. He’ll be lucky if he can make himself open a can of beans to eat with a stale end of bread.

He presses his ear to the door of the cabin, but no sound or movement comes from inside. He can’t imagine anyone living up here without a horse. But there’s always the possibility of an animal making their way inside for shelter. He eases the door open with a creak, peering into the dim space.

Deserted, as far as looks go.

Empty of almost everything a home needs, except for a hearth on one side of the room and a dirty cot on the opposite wall. There are a few detached countertops nestled in one corner and a small square table, but it’s still too shadowy for him to tell their state.

He steps inside fully, the new dark making a stark contrast to the white expanse he’s been staring at for most of the day.

The smell of wood smoke reaches his nose, and he frowns. It wafts towards him from the fireplace, disturbed by his opening of the door. He steps closer to the fireplace, his boots thudding hollowly on the floorboards, eyes adjusting by the second. He finds a few still smoldering embers inside the pit. A large pot sits off to the side on the brick ledge, and a look inside it reveals clear water, probably set aside for drinking and washing.

A stack of logs sits piled nearby.

He swallows, turning to give the cabin another look. Now that his eyes are adjusting, he can see a few cans stacked atop the old counters, looking much newer and less dusty than they ought to. A blanket is rolled up underneath the cot, and he realizes that the thin mattress isn’t dirty like he’d thought— there’s a bedroll spread out over it.

Occupied, then.

He turns to make a hasty exit, wanting to be good and gone before whoever is staying here comes back to find him lurking around.

Abigail had used to tell him that he had the worst timing in the world.

She’s still right, even after all these years.

Before he can make a step towards the door, it swings open abruptly, smacking against the side of the cabin.

John freezes, feeling ridiculously like a kid caught with his hand in the change jar.

“I’m in here, feller,” he says quickly, trying to make his presence known before he startles whoever it is. They already know, of course. His horse is tied up outside.

A man stands in the doorway, tall and broad, filling up nearly the entire opening. He has a large animal pelt rolled up over one shoulder, and John can tell from the way his other hand flexes at his side that he’s prepared for a firefight.

“Easy... I ain’t here to rob you. I was just checking if the place were empty.” John says, taking a cautious step to one side, hoping that the man will give him space to leave. He has no hope of rushing him in the narrow space— the man is simply too big.

The man stares him down, frozen but sturdy-looking. John can’t see his face from the last of the daylight shining in behind him. Still, he tries to find eyes in the dark silhouette under the brim of a hat.

Eye contact is sometimes the only thing that can calm a bad situation, keep it from going any more awry. Hosea had taught him that.

Still, his palm eases onto his hip, little finger brushing the butt of his pistol for comfort, just in case this man isn’t interested in staying calm.

“Look, just let me pass, and I’ll be gone. I ain’t looking for any troub—“

“John?” The man says, voice harsh, gruff, and disbelieving.

John’s mind stutters to a standstill. Entirely blank.

Somewhere in his brain a bell is set off by that voice. He knows it, is intimately familiar with it. In fact, it might be the one voice he’ll never forget to the day he dies.

“Christ,” Arthur hisses. The animal skin drops from his shoulder to the floor heavily, rolling away from him. He stares, and John stares back. The longer he stares, the more into focus Arthur’s face becomes.

The sun takes a final bow over the crest of the far mountain, casting the room into cold, dim shades that are easier on the eyes. Finally, he can see the whites of the man’s eyes, how they sit in their sockets.

John stares for a very long moment, before finally coming to the conclusion that he must be caught up in a very convincing dream.

He’s dreamt about Arthur dozens of times— maybe hundreds of times— but he’s never had a dream like this before. He can remember how he’d arrived here at the cabin, all of the nights leading up to it, right down to the day he’d left Montreal.

He suddenly wonders if the entire journey has been one long fantasy his mind has dreamed up and that maybe once he’s awake, he’ll be back in Canada sleeping next to Abigail on the furthest edge of the bed he can get.

He’s heard about dreams like that, before. Dreams that last a lifetime before you suddenly wake up to your old self.

The idea makes him lightheaded, and he braces a hand against his chest.

“John,” Arthur says again, a bit of the shock and rigidness melting from his frame. He stands up straighter, shoulders dropping. John mirrors him, his hand falling from the butt of his gun.

“Arthur…” John murmurs, surprised his mouth even works.

It doesn’t feel like a dream. His dreams are never this stable, for one thing. He’s sure he would have woken up by now from the shock alone.

A ghost, then.

John thought he’d seen a ghost, once. One early morning, all those years ago, riding along the tracks outside of Rhodes. He’d seen the white smoke, heard the ghostly horn. He’d paused on the hillside, searching for an engine, but all he’d caught a glimpse of was a pale wisp making its way down the tracks. When he’d tried to follow, it had spirited away into nothing before he could catch up.

He’d chalked it up to the whisky he’d been nursing that night.

Could he be seeing Arthur’s ghost, now?

No.

“I’ve gone crazy,” he concludes aloud. 

This must be the answer, because his dreams are never this stable, and he doesn’t believe in ghosts. He’s finally lost his ever-loving mind. The grief must have been too much. He’s become one of those men driven insane by tragedy. 

It was the crying and groveling and sleeping over that damned grave, he knows it. He shouldn’t have done that, he’d known it was some sort of sacrilege, even as he’d lay there drunk. But he’d just been so goddamn sad and lonely, and he’d wanted Arthur so badly he could’ve died.

Could’ve. Wanted to. An hour ago, he’d thought of succumbing to the urge.

“It’s me,” Arthur says, voice faint, a slight rasp around the edges. “You’re not crazy, John.”

John blinks rapidly. He stares at the shape of Arthur’s face, mapping out the same bones, the same jaw, in excruciating detail, comparing it to how he remembers. Scruffy stubble, the scar on his chin. Greenish blue eyes glinting in the bit of burning ember that had flared up with the oxygen fanned in by the door. Thick brown lashes. A few extra lines around the corners of his eyes.

“You’re…” John’s mouth snaps shut. He squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head. He presses his fists into his eyes, hard enough until he can see colors popping on the peripheral. When he pulls his hands away, eyes blinking open again, Arthur still stands before him, lips curled slightly down in a frown. “You’re alive?”

John breathes in. Back out.

“What…” He staggers forward a step, lightheadedness still strong like he might pass out. There’s another emotion driving him forward, though, one that takes precedence over shock. “What—“ He growls, burning fury rising up in his chest. “What?”

“John,” Arthur says, an edge of warning curving his tone. John sees the nervous bob of his throat, the guilt in his eyes, and that’s what seals it all as real for him.

He takes another step forward, then two.

“Now, John—“ Arthur repeats, a hand outstretched to keep John at bay. John’s rage must be entirely evident on his face.

“You—“ John bites, legs carrying him forward, closing the distance between them. “I—“ His movement is not really in his control anymore. If he hadn’t lost his mind before, he’s surely losing it now. The world spins, but his vision has tunneled in on the man before him, that face. “You son of a bitch,” John growls, voice raising as he charges.

Arthur’s hands fly up to catch his fists as they lash out, uncoordinated. On the second round, one slips through, crashing into the man's cheek. It’s not nearly enough force to do anything but sting, but it makes Arthur mad all the same.

“John!” Arthur shouts, but John isn’t done— he’s seeing red. And he’s shouting, too.

“I’m gonna strangle you, fuckin’ piece of shit—“

Arthur growls, hands closing forcefully over both of John’s forearms. He twists them around, flipping John painfully, locking him into a straightjacket hold against his chest.

John recognizes the move, something Arthur had used on him once or twice in the midst of a brawl when they were younger. Arthur holds him firm, squeezing both of his arms around John’s, pinning his elbows to his sides. John kicks out with his feet, the only appendages left free.

“John, calm down,” Arthur warns, voice wavering in the struggle.

“How fucking dare you?” John shouts, boots thrashing out, trying to catch on anything to give him some leverage. “You— You have no idea—“

The strength begins to leech from his body, his surge of energy giving way to bone-deep exhaustion. He wrestles as long as he can until Arthur drags him down to the floor.

He realizes far too late that he’s crying, and that that’s why it’s getting difficult to see or hear.

The one thing he can hear clearly is himself, and god, how mortifying. He tries, unsuccessfully, to choke off his open sobs. He’s never heard himself sound like this before, not since he was small and his father hadn’t come home in three days and he’d realized he might never see him again.

Arthur shifts behind him, tense and uncomfortable, but doesn’t let go. John feels like a child, overwhelmed and embarrassed and out of control of himself.

“I’m sorry, John,” Arthur huffs into his ear. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” John says, voice breaking. “I’ll kill you.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know, how could you know!?” John demands. Arthur’s arms finally untangle from around him and John twists, grasping at Arthur’s coat. Arthur’s hands land on his wrists, gripping tightly, probably to fend off any more blows. Some of John’s rage drains from him as he grips the front of Arthur’s coat, holding him in the light to stare at his face.

Christ, it’s him. The same man, the same scar, the same eyes. Two hard years older, but it’s him.

John slides his hands clumsily up to cup his face, feel the warmth of his skin, the scrape of his bearded jaw. His fingertips brush over ears, thumbs pressing softly into the apples of his cheeks. He only narrowly stops himself from leaning closer.

Arthur stares at him with increasing alarm, large hands coming up to settle over John’s, gently pry them away.

“Arthur,” John says, voice cracked. The rage that had overtaken him fades swiftly, leaving him feeling like he could sink into the ground. He’s suddenly bone tired. “Really is you. How… How?”

Arthur stands up, staring down at John like he’s a feral animal about to strike again. He skirts gingerly around him to close the door, throwing the latch to lock it. When he turns back, he looks as tired as John feels.

“Couldn’t tell you how…” he says carefully, quietly. He walks to the fireplace, looking over the coal in the bottom of the hearth before picking up a log and setting it overtop of them. He crouches down, leaning in to blow on the embers to bring them back to life. John watches the simple movements in wonder, Arthur’s long blue coat parting, revealing dark pants and a pale, rolled-up button-down. Clothes John’s never seen. His body looks as strong as it ever has, muscles coiled in his thighs under his jeans.

When the fire finally begins to grow, catching on some of the dry bark of the new log, Arthur looks back over his shoulder at him. John swallows and wonders what Arthur sees when he looks at him.

Finally, the man stands up and begins to remove his coat.

“S’pose my body wasn’t quite as ready to give up on me as I was.”

__________________________

Arthur doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but this must be a dream.

Golden light stretches out as far as he can see. In it’s luminance, he can make out an open, endless plane. The sound of a creak trickles nearby. He tries to lift his heavy head off the ground, and then he’s entirely upright.

Not the mountainside. It’s too bright to make out much, but it’s not the mountainside he’d been lying on.

He hopes John made it back to Abigail and Jack.

Dark eyes watch him, set back into the skull of a buck. The same buck, he realizes, that’s been haunting his waking life. Its rack of antlers is pristine, old, and larger than Arthur’s ever seen on any living animal. Doesn’t it ever shed them? he wonders. His concern fades easily enough; the buck looks unencumbered by the weight it carries.

He tries to remember how he got here. Images of Dutch and then Micah flash through his head. Maybe the Pinkerton’s are already coming. Maybe they’ll find him, or Dutch or Micah. Maybe they won’t, because Arthur isn’t there anymore.

All he can see is that buck.

He feels something gurgle up in his throat, wet, thick, and vile. His head pounds, his mind swims with the pain.

Right, he was sick. Is sick. He’s dying.

This is the end. He’d known it was coming, and he’d feared it all this time.

But the light that waits for him seems so welcoming. Golden and warm. He wants to shut his eyes, let it bathe his body and soothe his aches, let it swallow him whole.

Thinking, as if from outside his body, he wonders if he’ll see Hosea, soon. Or Lenny and Sean. Eliza and Isaac. His mother. Everyone he’s ever loved who left before he could save them.

His heart picks up, an unexpected excitement bubbling in his chest. His pain begins to numb, to feel further away, just an afterthought now.

He gets to go home, wherever that is. He’s sure it will be preferable to where he’s come from. He can feel it, the presence just beyond the line, more real than anything he can remember feeling. Past the horizon, wherever the horizon is and whatever a horizon means.

He begins to forget what having a body means, too.

Who was he?

“Arthur?”

The buck hadn’t led him off into the sunset yet, or whatever it’s meant to do. It watches him, too large, too intelligent.

Arthur— yes, of course, that’s his name— coughs wetly, chest rising and falling rapidly with each pained breath he takes. The buck takes a tentative step back at the sound, and Arthur reaches out a hand.

Wait, he thinks, don’t leave.

He’d been mistaken, though. The buck isn’t leaving, only preparing itself. It raises onto its hindquarters, cocking its head and bracing it just so, and fear leaps up into Arthur’s throat. He knows what that stance means, what comes next. He’s seen it a few dozen times in his life, the stance of a buck about to spar.

He tries to shout, but no words fit past the liquid pooling in his throat. He tries to leap out of the way, but his feet are frozen to the ground.

The buck comes down on him, antlers leading its charge. They pierce him sharper than any knife, straight into the flesh of his chest. They tear through his muscle, down deeper. His ribs crack loudly like thunder. It drives deeper still, until it feels like his lungs are burning from the inside out.

He can’t move, can’t speak through any of it, even as the pain grows too much. He tries to look down at where he’s been punctured.

The thick wetness pooling in his throat rushes up, bubbling out through his airways before he can stop it. It hurts worse than anything.

This can only be punishment. Why would he receive a happy ending, after the life he’s led?

*

He comes out of his death dream hacking and gasping for air. It feels like the weight of an entire wagon sits on his chest. He sputters, tries to clear his lungs so he can take in air. Strong hands press into his shoulders, lifting him up, turning him onto his side so he can cough properly. He spits out what comes up. Blood and black and that same vile taste.

“Arthur,” Charles’ shocked voice comes from above. Arthur turns, opening his eyes. He has to work at it. They’re crusted together as if he’s been hard asleep for days. He looks around, as much as his stiff neck will turn— he’s still on the mountain.

It’s daylight, now. In the distance, lightning fills the sky. In a few moments, the crack of thunder reaches them, so loud and shocking that even Charles shrinks under the sound.

Pain radiates out from Arthur’s ribs. His hand comes up instinctively to feel around his ribcage, but there are no wounds, despite his phantom pains.

He isn’t dead. But God, he wishes he were for how much his body hurts. And for how much he misses that light. He yearns for that warmth, now that he’s back in this cold world.

Charles stares down at him, dark eyes wide and amazed. The larger man has a hold of him, his hands brace against Arthur’s shoulders and chest, strong where Arthur is weak.

“You’re alive,” Charles breathes. He pulls Arthur up, closer, wrapping him in a quick embrace. It’s more physical affection than he can ever remember Charles showing before.

“I am?” Arthur groans, his voice raspy from disuse. He tries to clear his throat again.

“You are, my friend. C’mon, get up,” Charles replies, large hands tugging under Arthur’s arms to stand.

“Just leave me,” Arthur says, letting his weight pull him back down to the ground. He’s so tired, so weak, all he wants is to go back to sleep. Charles’ hands aren’t letting him go, though.

“No, Arthur,” Charles says as if he were speaking to a child. “Get up, you’re not staying here.”

“Leave me, goddamnit.”

“Arthur—“

“Just let me die,” he begs, his voice all but a whimper.

His mind feels fractured, split between here and there. Droplets of rain begin to patter down on his skin and it feels like ice. The idea of Isaac and Eliza and Hosea and his mother still sits fresh in his mind. He wants to see them so badly. To be embraced. He wants it more than he wants to live.

He wants someone to welcome him, to let him rest for a long time.

“You’ll have time to die later,” Charles says gently, no longer holding back. He hauls Arthur up until he’s standing, and then further, up over his shoulder. It’s painful, pushing more coughs from Arthur’s lungs. He spits blood out onto the dirt below, and it's indistinguishable from the rain. “But you’re not dying here.”

Charles isn’t asking, only informing him.

“You have a fever. You’re not all here.”

No, he’s not, Arthur wants to agree. Charles wouldn’t know the depth of what he means, though.

A chill runs through him, and it begins to make more sense why his mind is pulsing in and out of consciousness. He feels feverish, his skin sensitive, cold running up and down his spine.

Charles sets him up on a horse, and Arthur can barely hold himself up over the horn while Charles mounts behind him. Arthur tries to argue that he can ride just fine on the back, but he blacks out before he can finish the sentence.

*

As far as Arthur has ever heard, tuberculosis is a death sentence.

When he begins to get better, little by little, he can’t make heads or tails of it. He’s coughing more, his throat stripped raw and burning, and what he spits up is bloody and indiscernible from mucus. And highly offensive smelling.

Day by day, over weeks, and then months, his lungs begin to feel lighter, the pressure on his chest receding.

He begins to wonder.

How sure had his diagnosis been? How sure was the treatment? How did he know he wasn’t still caught up in some long, hopeful dream about making it out alive somehow?

This couldn’t be a dream, though. He would have dreamed something better, less painful, and more full of people he loves, both dead and alive.

Rains Fall takes him in with no questions asked. He has his own tent, quarantined outside of the camp. Charles doesn’t leave his side, no matter how much Arthur urges him to.

Maybe it's the buck’s fault, whatever it is; a specter or a trickster god of olde with an awful sense of humor. Maybe it’s a cure; one of the many things that Charles forces down his throat, or one of the vapors he makes him breathe.

Maybe it's just pure, blind luck. Except that Arthur isn’t lucky— he’d never been the lucky one. And besides, he doesn’t feel lucky.

He tries not to resent Charles for saving him. He knows he would have done the same for him or anyone else he cared about, no matter what self-obliterating horse shit they’d been spouting at the height of a fever.

Months later, when Arthur can finally ride again, his resentment fades into blankness. He begins to think about the future in abstract terms, such as time and distance.

“You can stay with us,” Charles tells him. “You know you can.” Of course Arthur knows. But he’d been aware since his first fully conscious day that that was not a long-term option.

“Naw,” He says, waving the other off. “I’ll be moving on soon, I think.”

“Where will you go?”

“Maybe out west. Maybe east.” He could go home, he thinks, but there’s nothing left in New England for him.

They devise a simple plan. Charles will create a grave and marker for him, and plant the seeds along their trail north that many of the former Van Der Linde gang are deceased, including Arthur Morgan.

“John’s in Canada, last I caught wind of.” Charles tells him the day before he’s set to leave. Arthur wants to know how Charles could have possibly heard that, but he’s come not to question the man. “Do you want me to let him know, if I see him?”

“No,” Arthur says uneasily. “No, don’t drag him back into it all. He’ll try to come back down this way. The idiot. I’ll get around to see him, eventually.” Charles frowns at him, obviously in disagreement with Arthur’s choice. Arthur clears his throat self-consciously. “It’ll be a surprise. The look on his face… ” Arthur shakes his head. He’s glad that Charles doesn’t ask him to explain himself any further.

He intends to contact John. He really does.

But being presumed dead gives him some small ounce of freedom that being alive hadn’t. He’d like to stay gone a while, not see anyone from the old life. Getting mixed up with any of them again would probably cause further complications— and further pain.

He wants to drift. Figure out how to go on living, and what it means.

________________________

“I got better,” is all Arthur tells him.

“You got better?” John scoffs in disbelief. “Arthur, you were dying.” They’d all seen the signs, especially towards the end. His skin sticking to his bones, cheeks hollowed out, so pale sometimes it had seemed translucent. It’d made John sick to see and to remember.

“I almost did,” Arthur answers. “Charles found me. Guess… He willed me better.” He laughs humorlessly. “Best I can figure.”

“Charles knew?” John asks. All Charles had told him was where to find Arthur’s grave.

“John, it weren’t his fault.” Arthur presses his lips together. “I asked him not to tell anyone. Made him promise.”

“Why?” John pleads, standing up. He wants to demand answers, to ask Arthur if he has any idea what John’s been going through. Maybe he’d thought that John would be alright with a family to occupy his mind, help him move on. But John hadn’t been. Not at all.

“John, I’d have eventually come to see you,” Arthur says, as if that sentiment could fix anything. John glares at him.

“Eventually. Eventually?”

His legs wobble slightly as he shuffles to the rickety cot. It creaks under his weight as he slumps down. Arthur watches him from the hearth with a guarded look.

“Just needed time. Were real dicy there, for a while. Almost bit it more than once.” He stokes the fire and adds another log. “And then… I was just tired. Sort of tired that’s hard to come back from. Knew I needed to keep my head low, anyhow, and I just figured it’d be best for me to stay gone. Keep out of everyone's way while they made new lives for themselves. I weren’t about to put anyone at risk just because I felt a little homesick.” His face has gone hard again by the time he turns back to John. “It ain’t because I didn’t want to.”

“But…” John swallows thickly. He has so many questions, and he can’t take his eyes off Arthur.

“Look. After everything that happened with— with Dutch, I just wanted to be alone.” Arthur says, gaze low.

Even the mention of Dutch’s name makes John grit his teeth. The betrayal still hurts for John. What must it have been like for Arthur?

“I been moving around. Staying here and there. Keep to myself.” Arthur stands, resting against the opposite wall, hip cocked to the side, arms crossed over his chest. He’s still wider in the shoulders than John could ever hope to be.

“Micah… Dutch. Those two are still out there.” John says quietly.

“That’s fine by me,” Arthur says, ducking his head.

“I’ve thought about hunting them down, for what they did,” John says, voice dark. “For… what I thought they did to you.”

Arthur's gaze narrows on him.

“That would have been mighty stupid. What with you supposed to be taking care of your family and all.” He scowls, hand resting along his gun belt as he looks over John with a critical eye. “What’re you doing down here anyway, Marston?” He asks, some of that familiar put-outness returning, finally. “Thought I’d never see you in this country again.”

John frowns, wondering if that’s what Arthur had really wanted. Had he stayed here so he would never run into anyone, into him? It hurts, even if Arthur had tried to give him some half-baked explanation as to why.

At least John has grown immune to the pain Arthur deals, by now.

“Abigail cut me loose,” he admits.

Arthur’s face goes blank. “What… you unfaithful? Or just that bad of a father?” He huffs. He looks disappointed, and damn him, John has always hated disappointing Arthur when he hadn’t meant to. When he’d been really trying.

“Bad father, but that ain’t why,” John says flatly. “We… just ain’t cut out for each other, after all,” he says, hoping that it’s enough to put the conversation to rest. He should know Arthur by now, though. He won’t just let things go so easily.

“Ain’t cut out for each other?” Arthur repeats dubiously. “What the hell’s that mean?”

John didn’t think he was cut out for anyone, in all honesty.

“We tried for two years…” It’s only been two years since I lost you. How could he have moved on? He’s been grieving the man.

“Exactly, two years. How do you know if it could have worked out? These things take time and dedication—“

“It just wouldn’t have, Arthur,” John says. “I promise you that. Not this.”

“I swear, Marston, you never been able to stick with things. How do you—“

“I just do.” John wishes he would just shut up about it. He’s not up for talking circles to keep his own self a secret. He’s too tired for it, and it’s the last thing he wants to do with Arthur.

Communicating like this is familiar, at least.

“Well, that’s why I didn’t contact you.” Arthur sighs, finally seeming to simmer down. “Was tryin’ to let you have your family. Put distance between you and this life. I’d have contacted Charles and come to see you.”

Eventually. The word echoes in John’s head. He doesn’t believe it.

“You’ve been living out here, then?” John asks, wanting to put the focus on something present. He looks around.

The derelict cabin doesn’t paint a pretty picture of comfort and homeliness. There are holes in the roof, covered by packed in snow. Holes in the walls where small rodents probably scurry in and out.

“Naw. I been moving around. Just found my way to Colter… decided to see if this place was still standing.”

“No one’s after you?” John asks. He finds it hard to believe, when the Pinkerton’s and sheriffs have so many of the Van Der Linde men’s faces plastered over their bounty boards.

“They think I’m dead. I got a grave down southeast of here. And I guess it’s doing it’s job. I never seen my face on a bounty board. But then, I don’t go into towns often anymore.”

John looks away at the mention of the grave, a curl of shame in his belly at how he’d fallen apart on top of it. He wishes he never had to think about it again.

“You think someday they’ll forget about us completely?” He asks, voice quieter.

A moment of silence stretches out between them. When John looks, Arthur is watching him with a softer gaze.

“Dunno. Maybe. Hopefully.” He gestures to the cabin around them. “M’gettin too old to be moving camp every other day.”

“I been roughing it, too. For over a month, now.”

“Right. Since Abigail ‘cut you loose’.” Arthur says skeptically, face falling flat.

“Yeah. I been up in Montreal, before that. You’d’ve hated it.”

“Well… you’d be right about that.” Arthur finally chuckles. “It turning into a big city?”

“Sure. Even saw an automobile, there.”

“How was that?” Arthur asks, shifting from one leg to the other.

John swallows, eyes following the line of his body under his belt and shirt without thinking. He looks away.

“Was interesting, at first. Then I just hated how noisy it was.”

“So… you come back this way to— what? Play gunslinger again?”

“Seems to me we weren’t really playing, was we? We just were.”

Arthur stares at him a long moment, finally conceding with a nod. “S’pose that’s right.”

John ducks his head. He can’t remember ever being the focus of Arthur’s attention for this long, and after the shock of seeing him, he wants to curl up and go to sleep.

“I’m dead tired. You mind sharing this cabin for the night?” There was never any doubt that Arthur would agree, but he thinks the man would appreciate him asking regardless.

“Course,” Arthur sighs, removing his hat. “But— you need to wash up.”

John stiffens, face twisting.

“None of that, Marston. You stink, don’t know if you realize. That pot’s full’a clean water. Go out on the porch.”

“It’s freezin’ out there,” John protests.

“Yeah. And you can sleep out there, too, unless you go scrub up, boy.” Arthur says, voice falling into a familiar tone that has John’s stomach twisting up. He’s 28, far from being a boy. Maybe Arthur will always see him that way, though.

“Alright,” He agrees as Arthur tosses him a rag that had been drying by the fireplace. Arthur watches him as he leaves.

John knows that he stinks, and truthfully, up until an hour ago, he hadn’t cared one lick. But Arthur Morgan is alive, and if John plans to share a cabin with him, he wants to give him every reason to tolerate him. Any reason to like John just a bit more.

He’s still in disbelief that Arthur just hadn’t bothered to let him know. He ought to be indignant and aloof. He ought to stay angry a while, but that isn’t an option, now. There isn’t any place on earth he’d rather be, and he's too tired to pretend like there is.

He scrubs up and then some. Once he starts getting clean, it’s hard not to keep going, rubbing the rag in furious circles over his skin, layers of grime sliding away with each rinse. He continues scrubbing until his skin feels raw and the cold air both stings and soothes it. When he’s done, he stands, bare-assed, looking out at the white lake frozen over in the moonlight. He takes a deep breath, listening as the wind blows through the peaks, trees cracking all along the ridge line.

He feels new. It's an odd thought that makes him laugh at himself. Then he turns to go back inside, to try to find the cleanest pair of clothes he can scrounge up. Arthur will be making him do laundry tomorrow, no doubt.

*

Sleep never comes easily to Arthur, but on this night, it feels like it will never come. He lays awake in his cot for hours, only the sound of the fire crackling and soft flurries of snow against the cabin walls to remind him that it’s probably close to the negatives outside.

John, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead. Like he hasn’t slept in a whole week.

Arthur doesn’t remember doing it, but he rolls over at some point to stare at the shape of him on the floor under a thick blanket, wrapped in his bedroll. He’s outlined in a thin, warm tendril of light from the fire, stretched out on his belly, one leg curled up to the side. It’s such a familiar sight that it makes his chest twinge oddly at the memories it dredges up.

Finding John Marston standing in his cabin had made him feel faint for a moment. He’d thought maybe it was a figment of a lonely mind. But then John’s fists flying in rage had solidified his realness.

He brings a hand up to touch where John’s fist had slipped. It smarts, but the pain reminds him of nights under the stars. Of years of stuffed-up emotions coming to a head between them when the liquor poured too plentifully. Too many times they’d fought, and Arthur can’t really remember any of the reasons why.

He can’t make sense of why John is here, of all places. Why he isn’t in Canada, with Abigail and Jack.

He’d be lying if he said he weren’t glad to see him, though. He hasn’t seen a soul in weeks— except for the two kids he’d come across on his way here. The pair of them seemed to be on a hunting trip. He’d seen signs of them around the mountain, a makeshift deer-blind, two pairs of horse tracks side by side.

The last town he’d been through was Strawberry, and only very briefly. That had been the most people he’d seen in four months prior.

John’s snuffling breath draws his attention back to the cabin, and he watches his back rise and fall.

Sitting across from the man for a meager meal before bed, John all washed up and smelling leagues better, had felt like being in a dream. He’d had a few off dreams about the man. More than anyone else from back then, at least.

He would never tell John that, though. It would go straight to his head.

By the time the sun comes up, his back is aching, and his muscles are sore from the poor condition of the cot. He gets up to mill about the cabin quietly. He thinks about leaving to hunt, stretch his legs, to do anything to release some of his nervous energy. But he suspects that after John’s big reaction to finding him alive, letting John wake in the cabin alone would be a bad call.

Just then, John jolts up from his bedroll.

“Arthur?” He asks loudly, fearfully, looking around with wild eyes. His hair sticks up in every direction.

A bad call, indeed.

“Mhm,” Arthur hums, drawing his attention to where he sits next to the fireplace, polishing up his rifle.

“It’s really you,” John says, hand scrubbing over his face, his shoulders dropping. “Thought maybe… well, never mind.”

“It’s me. Really and truly.” Arthur says facetiously. He pushes off the back of the chair with his shoulder, frowning as he watches the other man. “I was thinkin’ of goin’ hunting in a little while. You can keep sleeping. Wanted to ask, though… What’s with that thing on your face?”

“What? What thing?” John asks, hands coming up to pat over his skin.

“This,” Arthur says, running his finger along his own jawline. “You ain’t never liked a beard, far as I knew.”

“Hides the scars, some.” John grunts. It doesn’t seem entirely truthful.

“Right,” Arthur says.

John bites his lips together. “Was thinkin’ of taking some of it off, though. Getting tired of it.” He shrugs. “You have a shaving kit?”

“Sure. Where’s yours?”

“Don’t know. Think it’s sittin’ on a tree stump somewhere between here and the Cumberland’s.” John sighs, standing up.

Arthur gets his first real look at him in the daylight, clad in just his red union. He only looks for a moment before he begins rummaging around for his blade and mirror. John hasn’t grown any in height, but his chest looks a bit more padded out. Maybe from some consistent form of physical labor.

Despite that, something about him is rangy. Arthur wonders if he’s been eating well enough. He looks like he’s been living on the road, which is to be expected. More than that, he looks tired. The kind of exhaustion that doesn’t go away after only a few nights of decent sleep.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing off his kit to John.

John takes a few stiff steps towards him, taking the kit and looking down at it, and Arthur sees the way his eyes have hollowed, deep blue shadows beneath dull skin. Too pale for John, his usual golden tawny turned cool.

“When you’re done, get some food and coffee in you,” Arthur grumbles.

Chapter Text

Three

Freshly shaven and caffeinated, John sits out on the front steps of Cairn cabin and the world feels different-- new and fresh despite his tired, burning eyes. The sky is bluer, the cold, colder, the air full of pine and wood.

The door swings open behind him and there’s a pause before Arthur’s boots thunk heavy on the deck. He sits down next to him, his own steaming cup in hand.

John chances a look at him, still stunned to see his face alive and healthy. He drags his eyes away to look out over the frozen lake, not wanting to get caught up staring too long.

“Can’t believe you.” John sighs, taking a long sip. The coffee burns his throat on the way down, the heat making his chest ache.

“You’ve said that, already,” Arthur rumbles. From his peripheral, John can tell Arthur is observing him, and he pointedly keeps his gaze far off. “Thought you were only taking a bit off,” Arthur says.

John blinks, then self-consciously rubs a hand over his jaw. A simple trim had turned into a full reshaping. His beard is short enough now to see his skin through, including his scars. It will draw more attention if he goes into a town with a dedicated sheriff's office.

To obscure his identity had only been half the reason he’d grown it out in the first place. He’d thought that maybe the change in appearance would help some part of him to move on from his past, from Arthur. To make him feel like a different person, who had different thoughts and ideas. It hadn’t been working out very well. But now, well, he was eager to see it gone.

“Look like your old self,” Arthur says, quieter.

John hopes that’s a good thing.

“You know, Marston,” Arthur says after a long few moments sitting in silence. “Suppose you could stick around for a few days. If you wanted.”

John snorts. He’d never had any plans of leaving. Not anytime soon. And they’d both known it. Arthur’s offer is more of a formality than anything.

John had known from the moment he’d laid down in his bedroll that first night that he was going to hang his hat for a while. Beyond that, he has no plans of going anywhere else. All he knows is that Arthur would have to start shooting at him to get him to leave.

“Why you up here in the mountains, anyway?” John asks.

“Just knew about the cabin from a past trip,” Arthur says with a shrug. “Figured it was a good a place as any to stay a while. Think the weather’s turning, though.”

“Just by chance, then,” John murmurs.

“And you?” Arthur questions. “Can’t for the life of me imagine why you’d come up this way.”

“Came to see Colter. The old camp.” John swallows nervously. “Silly as it sounds. Thought I might pay my respects to the dead, or see the Adler’s old place.” He frowns, hoping it’s enough of an explanation. “Er… Where you goin’, next?”

Arthur watches him, face unreadable. Then he shrugs a shoulder noncommittally.

“Don’t know. Hadn’t planned it out, yet. You?”

He hadn’t planned on anywhere, either. He’d thought he might never leave, once he got here. Didn’t know how far he’d get, roughing it in the cold, but it had felt like the end of the line.

Now, he knows exactly where he’s going.

“Reckon I’m going wherever you’re going.” He holds Arthur’s gaze, daring him to challenge him. Arthur only blinks.

“Really, now,” Arthur says, looking down into his coffee. John can see the quick flash of upturned lips before Arthur schools his face, and his own heart thunks happily against his ribcage.

Arthur is pleased. Arthur wants him there.

“We just gettin’ our merry band of thieves back together, then, that it?”

“Band of two,” John says. “Unless you know of any other wayward outlaws.”

The silence they sit in is palpable. John’s nerves prickle under his skin with how close Arthur sits to him. That might have bothered him when he was younger and full of doubt and longing. Now, he’s grateful that he even gets to feel this nervousness, again.

“You miss it?”

John frowns. “What?”

“The life,” Arthur stresses.

John presses his lips into a thin line.

“Thought I wouldn’t. Thought I didn’t, for a while. Think maybe I just didn’t miss getting shot at.” He laughs nervously. “I’ve been gettin’ real bad. Think maybe I’m not cut out for any other way of living. Couldn’t stop gettin’ into trouble. Putting Jack and Abigail at risk.” He swallows, guilt gnawing at his chest. “You ever worry that you’re broken for this world?”

“Broken?” Arthur considers this. “Yes. Worry about being an outlaw? Not really.” He sets his coffee down on the step next to his hip. “Used to. Dutch spouted his fair share of horse shit. But… I think he were right about one thing. Bein’ an outlaw don’t always mean doing wrong. Just means… you’re outside the law. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.”

It sounds a lot better coming from Arthur’s mouth than it had Dutch’s. Warm, true, almost honorable. Something John can get behind. He’d always liked the way Arthur said things better than Dutch, anyhow.

_____________________________

When John is twenty-two, he ruins his relationship with Arthur for the first time.

They’ve only just started running jobs together with some regularity, now that John’s proved himself to be a worthy addition to their group. He thinks they’ve finally started to find the right groove, able to operate in tandem without stepping on each other's toes.

He thinks that maybe Arthur might actually be starting to like him, too. Or at least tolerate him beyond their encounters at camp. He might be starting to see him as a worthy comrade. They’ve become a team. Even Hosea praises how much they’ve grown since they started working together.

The job they’d done that day would never really matter in John’s memories of the night. Only what follows that evening.

They get drunk around a fire, pockets heavier and shoulders lighter. They’ve routed their path back to camp for tomorrow, but tonight, they’ll relax and enjoy their job well done.

The moon’s bright and the weather’s perfect, not too chilly, just warm enough to sit comfortably in front of a fire.

John had stolen a bottle of whisky out of the carriage of the wagon they’d held up— some governor's advisor moving between state lines. It’s a good brand, only the sort that you can find in the city that’s sold to the upper echelon.

What they talked about, John couldn’t tell you without making a few guesses. That part would never matter to him, either.

First, they're laughing, and then they're leaning shoulder to shoulder, and John thinks to himself that joining Dutch’s group was the best thing that could have happened to him. He gets to earn everyone’s respect and be rewarded with moments like these, with a man like this.

Arthur is everything anyone could ever want and is blind to see it himself, making him all the more alluring. Maybe John is too blind to see otherwise, too. There must be a reason that Mary Linton left him, though Arthur never divulged to him why. A reason that he doesn’t have a new lady every off-day they have. Lord knows that women watch Arthur as closely as John does.

He doesn’t pay much mind to any of that, though. Not on nights like tonight, when their attention has nowhere to go except on each other.

Before long, they’re pushing, then wrestling, the light kind with no anger that they gravitate towards when the alcohol hits right. John imagines if he’d ever gotten any proper schooling, he might have learned to wrestle properly. Instead, he’s got a scrappy, street-learned way about him that takes Arthur by surprise each time. The bigger man laughs heartily between hiccups, and it makes giggles bubble up out of John in a way he’d be embarrassed about if Arthur weren’t looking at him with such warmth.

John pins him on his back, straddled over his stomach, a rare victory in their scuffles. Then, before he can think better of it, he kisses him.

Arthur goes still, and John realizes what he’s done. When he pulls away just barely and stares, Arthur stares back in bewilderment.

Panic nearly sets in, but John holds his gaze, as serious as he can make himself in his intoxicated state. He knows he’s misstepped, but he also wants Arthur to know that it isn’t just drunken confusion. It’s something he’s thought about before.

His heart flutters like a bird when he feels Arthur’s lips press back tentatively.

It’s exactly as good as John had thought it might be. He’s been imagining it for the better part of a year, since he’d realized that Arthur was one of the best looking men he’d ever met. Better looking than any of the men who proposition him out behind bars when he’s alone in town. Better looking than almost anyone, man or woman.

Arthur’s lips are real and hot, and pressing more insistently than John could have hoped for. Their five o’clock shadows scrape together, and John shivers, imagining what it might feel like to have that stubble scrape along his jaw or his throat.

His pants had become uncomfortably constricting when they’d been in a tussle, but now, with his cock growing harder by the second, he just wants them off.

Arthur’s hands settle on his lower back, pressing gently like a question, and John rolls his hips down in reply. He can feel Arthur’s own erection pressing back hot through his jeans, and John moans softly.

Then, he’s shoved back and dumped into the dirt.

Arthur grunts, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He tries to stand, but he’s too wobbly, so instead he crawls back to the fire, looking disgruntled and red in the face.

John is too embarrassed and sad and stumbling drunk to join him. He’d be worse off than Arthur if he tried to get up. Instead, he lays back in the dirt where he landed and covers his eyes with his arm. The whisky makes it easier to fall asleep.

*

The next morning, Arthur is cold towards him.

“That can’t happen again,” He says over the cookfire. John keeps his face carefully neutral, sipping slowly from his coffee. “It was a fluke. We was both drunk.” Arthur reasons.

“I wanted to do it,” John tells him plainly. It had seemed like Arthur had wanted to, too. He remembers the hot shape of his dick pressing into his hip.

“We ain’t like that.”

“Who says I ain’t?” John scoffs, but the severeness of Arthur’s face quiets him.

“You ain’t, John.” He fixes John with a hard glare. “You know what happens to folk like that? Men who go messing around with other men?”

John hesitates. He has some idea. He’s been messing around with men for a lot longer than Arthur Morgan has been in his life. You learn a few things along the way.

“Nothing good,” Arthur goes on. “They get killed, and that’s the best-case scenario.” His jaw works back and forth, apprehension in his eyes. “I seen it, few times. They don’t give folk like that a fair shake. Public lynching. Worse. Take 'em out into the backcountry and torture ‘em, cut off—“

“Stop it,” John pipes up, his gut twisting uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to hear anymore. He levels Arthur with a stare. “I don’t care about none of that. We’re outlaws. Killers. We got plenty of other reasons to worry about our skin.”

“Other things don’t make people mad like this does. Makes them act crazy.” Arthur says, brow pinched up.

John frowns and wonders what Arthur’s seen that he hasn’t. When he makes a wrong call about a man in the saloon, the few times it’s happened, he gets his ass handed to him and tossed out.

“You’re naive, Marston.”

That always makes John bristle up. He prepares to launch into an argument, but Arthur stands abruptly, pointing a finger at him.

“Don’t ever let something like that happen again. Don’t let nobody have that over you. You ain’t like that, and I ain’t like that.” He says.

John wants to argue that he is like that, has known he was like that since he was at least sixteen. Women are lovely, a lot easier to get along with, and more discreet to sleep with. But something about a man…

Arthur mounts up, yanking Bodecia’s reins to turn her around, and John climbs to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“To wash. Start cleanin’ up,” Arthur says dismissively, nodding at their campsite. John folds his arms, glaring at the back of his head as he wheels around down to the river.

He’s known Arthur for a couple of years now, but only well for one. Still, he can recognize fear on any man’s face.

Arthur isn’t angry with him, or at least, that’s not what has him so rattled. He’s afraid. It gives John a frustrating mix of satisfaction and anxiety. Arthur had wanted him, at least for that moment. It’s obvious, though, that he’s more afraid than he is interested in whatever this is.

John dumps the rest of the fresh coffee out in the name of spite.

They never talk about it, directly, again.

__________________________

John finds a treasure map in the wall of Cairn cabin.

His eye catches the glow of the edge of a metal lid reflecting the firelight, wedged behind some loose boards on the far wall. He pauses in the cleaning of his pistol and then gets up to investigate.

“You know anything about this?” He asks, setting the metal box down in front of Arthur at their small table.

“Naw. Ain’t searched the place that well.” Arthur replies, brows lifting in intrigue as he turns the box around.

They’ve been coexisting in the cabin for a couple of days, and they’ve fallen back into an easy sort of routine. Instead of a camp of twenty, they are a camp of two. With meat stored, they’ve spent their days warming themselves by the fire and speaking idly of things in the past or present, but never delving too deeply into any of them. Arthur spends time out riding, and John has caught up on some much-needed sleep.

Under the calm, there’s a growing restlessness between them that John’s been able to pick up on. They are two people feeling each other out, not quite on the same page as they used to be.

There at least seems to be an unspoken truce between them. They don’t talk about Dutch. John doesn’t hint at the depth of the heartache that had consumed him for two years, and Arthur doesn’t talk about whatever he’s feeling, though John can sense that there’s a deep sadness to him, stronger than it had ever been before. Arthur’s disappointment in John’s life choices is countered by John’s righteous anger at Arthur’s lie. It seems like Arthur feels guilty enough about the whole thing to not pick fights.

Picking fights had used to be John’s thing, anyway.

Presently, John uses his knife to wrench the lid of the box open. Arthur’s hand goes in first and pulls out a bottle of deep, rich-colored whisky, drawing appreciative whistles from both of them. John takes it from him as Arthur goes digging around further.

He pulls out a roll of parchment, spreading it out on the table and pulling a lantern closer for light.

“Looks like a map,” Arthur says, eyes scrutinizing the dark lines. “Hmm…”

“A map to what?” John asks distractedly, fingers picking at the cork of the bottle, hoping it won’t crumble.

“To… a face?” Arthur squints. “A rock that looks like a face. Think I remember something like that.” He pushes up from the table, going to his cot to dig around in his satchel.

In the lantern light, John gets a better look at the label casing of the bottle. His stomach swoops at the familiar name. It’s the sort they only sell to upper-class folk in the city. He uncaps it and takes a whiff.

“Whoo,” he hoots and takes a long swig. It’s warm and goes down smooth as any whisky he’s ever tried. He’s glad for this new distraction, sure to take some of the nervous edge off of the both of them.

“Ah-hah,” Arthur says quietly, his finger hovering over his own map. “Knew I’d seen that place before. S’all the way down in Lemoyne, though.”

John pushes up, coming to sit next to him on the cot.

“You think it’s worth looking into?” He asks, leaning close to look over the spread of the map. Arthur eyes him warily, maybe a bit put off by his nonchalance, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the whisky bottle from him.

“Who knows. I’ve followed a few maps like this before. Yielded a pretty penny, most of the time.”

“Maybe we ought to check it out, then. A new destination.” John says, eyeing Arthur’s throat as he tips the bottle back, taking a long drink.

“Whooo boy,” Arthur says, looking down at the bottle. If he recognizes the brand, he doesn’t give any indication. “Strong stuff.”

*

When Arthur settles into the cot to sleep, John watches his back for a long while, still sipping at the whisky. He admires the man's shoulders, the way he’s built— big and broad. The toned muscles of his arms are visible even through his soft union suit. The curve of his pecs and the firm softness of his middle. Further down, John knows he has a bit of a gut, soft and furry, hiding a firm core he’s built over a hard life.

After John had gotten over the shock of seeing him alive, his body had started to react to being in Arthur’s presence the way it'd used to.

Except his arousal seems worse, now, like his body has been kickstarted. Brought back from the dead.

There’s nothing to do about it, at least not now. So John takes out the journal and writes, instead. He’s been remembering the past more clearly as they rehash it. He feels if he writes some of it out, it might prevent it from festering in his mind, making him go crazy. Tonight, he writes about that whisky bottle and that kiss. 

He thinks further back and writes about meeting Abigail, about how her arrival in his life both made it better and worse. 

He writes until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.

______________________________

Arthur never joins the men in Dutch’s gang when they go into town with the intention of picking up women.

John knows it’s hypocritical to think, when he sleeps with prostitutes himself to pass the time, but he’s pleased that Arthur, apparently, isn’t the sort. He still has his suspicions— the man must get off, somehow. Maybe he has a secret lover he visits once in a blue moon, or maybe he is fine by his own hand. More than likely, he makes his getaways on his long trips alone.

Either way, John is glad that Arthur isn’t there to witness him partake in debauchery — or to catch him selling his own flavor of debauchery out back.

Getting men off, either with his hands or with his mouth, makes decent enough money. Since joining up with Dutch, he’s been leagues more careful with how often he does it, but despite the danger of being found out, something about it keeps drawing him back into the fold.

It’s easy enough for John to play straight. He likes women well enough, and he’s fairly popular with them, too. The men in the camp don’t think twice about inviting him to saloons in whatever town they’re holed up near, knowing that he’ll pull attention.

When the night drags on, and he gets a certain hankering for a certain kind of attention, he’ll feign drunkenness, or maybe even trail off after a woman, before slipping around to the side alleys to moonlight his own services.

Letting men bed him is far too dangerous of an ordeal, and he’s never met a man worth the trouble. They’ll ask, of course, and sometimes, he’s even tempted to let them, especially when they offer to buy him a room and a hot meal. Once, a man, drunk out of his mind, begged him a little too loudly out behind a bar in Deer Creek. He’d had to leave in a hurry before a crowd gathered to check on the noise.

Many things hold him back. Perhaps the voice of his father in the back of his mind, degrading and promising violence. Perhaps the risk of someone from camp walking in on them. More secretly, there’s the idea of a very specific man being the one to have him that way— as unattainable as that idea is.

They all cause him to hold back.

His encounters aren’t often, and they aren’t ever exactly what he’d prefer, or who he’d prefer them with. But they are enough for John to get his fill. Enough to make the itch for a man go away.

*

Running tricks like this is how he meets Abigail.

Somewhere out past New Haven or New Hartford, he spots her the moment they step into the saloon to assess their new prospects. She’s the prettiest woman he’s ever seen, and he can’t figure out exactly why she’s working saloon floors instead of marrying some rich man in the city.

It becomes apparent soon enough that she probably wouldn’t fare well in a place like that. She’s got sticky fingers and she’s too smart for her own good. To a fault, actually.

She picks up on the underworkings of John’s mind and trade fast as a whip, and it nearly sends him running before he realizes that she’s amused by him, rather than disgusted.

*

When he’s known her a month, he thinks that, for all intents and purposes, they’ve become honest friends. They talk about more than the shady dealings of the townspeople. They talk about the art of theft and the business of selling sex.

“Are you only interested in the menfolk, then?” She asks him quietly one evening as they linger in a dusty corner of the second-largest saloon in town. It's a Friday evening, and business has been good for them both.

He’d talked a man into giving him two extra dollars for some head and then doubled the money at the poker table within the hour. She’d picked the pocket of the town treasurer as he’d flirted outrageously with her— in front of his own wife, no less.

John had been roughed up by his last endeavor before he’d escaped back inside.

He hadn't meant to seek out another patron. One a week was more than enough to draw unwanted attention. But this man had been handsome— big and strong looking. Too strong. John had broken a few of his own rules by making him an offer when he should have just let him pass by. But it had been too tempting. He’d been blonde and blue-eyed and—

And anyway, it didn't matter why he had caved into his own desires. It had been a mistake, and now he has a bruise forming on his shoulder for the trouble.

“Nah,” He shakes his head and takes a sip from his beer. “I like ladies, too.” It’s the truth, and whether he sways one way or the other more frequently is inconsequential to the conversation. At least in his opinion.

“You ever think about settling down with a woman, then? Leave all these grimy towns behind. Start a homestead?”

He can hear the slight hope in her voice. He feels guilty almost immediately because he can tell that he’s become a real friend to her, as she has to him. And as much as he likes her, he doesn’t think that he can give her exactly what she wants— an idyllic life away from men and towns and being dirt poor. He can’t see himself ever settling down. Something about the idea makes his legs prickle uncomfortably, makes him itch to take a walk.

“Not sure,” John lies, not wanting the conversation to end on a sour note.

Conversation with Abigail is easy. As much as he can’t be what she wants, he's still attracted to her.

Things get looser, they get drunker.

John gets them a room for the night. He intends to let her have the bed while he takes up his bedroll on the floor so they can both sleep off their drunkenness away from the crowds of men at the bar.

When he wakes in the night, feeling more sober and warm and less hazy and mixed up, Abigail is smiling down at him from the bed in the low lamplight like he’s made of gold. She’s beautiful, and her eyes sparkle as she asks him to join her.

He has a bit of hope that things could work out.

*

A few weeks later, Abigail’s monthly never comes.

“Mine ain’t never run on a schedule,” She tells him, though John can see the pinch of worry in her face.

Another two weeks go by before she comes to him in a panic. She’s young and nearly homeless, and he knows what’d happened to his own mother. He doesn’t think twice about going to Dutch.

*

“We have to help her.”

He’s gathered both Dutch and Hosea into Dutch’s tent, feeling like a scared little boy asking for help from parents he’s never had.

“This gang is no place to raise a child,” Hosea says worriedly.

“The life she has now is worse,” John insists. “Here would be better for her. She wouldn’t have to sell herself anymore. She’d have protection.” He nearly starts begging, a vision of her dying in some dingy alleyway prominent in his mind.

He gets the strange, acute sense that Arthur’s eyes are on the three of them from halfway across the camp. He can’t pay that any mind, though, because for once, he feels he’s doing the right thing. The honorable thing.

“Alright, John,” Dutch assures him, a fatherly hand to his shoulder. “It’ll be alright, son.”

*

When Abigail comes to stay with them, he promises her that things will be good.

John thinks he could be in love with her. She’s fun to be around, caring, beautiful. She’s a breath of fresh air in this world of stealing and killing and dying in the dirt.

Two evenings in, fueled by alcohol, he gets down on one knee in front of all his friends, his family of outcasts, and proposes. He doesn’t plan it out, just has a drink, and decides that if they're telling everyone that he’s the father, they may as well make it official.

She’s surprised, but real excitement shines in her eyes.

Swanson is sober enough to perform a spontaneous ceremony, right there around the campfire. It’s a clear evening, the sun beginning to cast gold onto the hills they’ve found themselves in. Good weather for a wedding, no matter its legitimacy.

He kisses Abigail after their I Do’s, and he thinks, for the first time, that everything is going to be okay, now. He’s in love with a woman. He can get used to this. His thing for men can slowly fade into the background. Maybe it’ll go away altogether.

Tilly and Mary-Beth gather Abigail around the campfire that same evening, trading stories about life before the gang while the rest of the camp descends into celebration.

John takes a moment away to smoke out on a bluff, considering everything that’s happened in such a short span of time. He’s a “married man” with a child on the way, and whether that child is his or not is inconsequential. He’s trying to talk himself into being as excited about it as Abigail seems to be.

That’s where Arthur finds him.

“Congratulations, Johnny.” The man’s voice, jolly and loose, surprises him with how close it is to his ear. He can smell him, dust and familiar sweat, breath drenched in alcohol.

“Thanks,” John grins, pulling away to get a better look at him. They haven’t said more than a few words to one another directly in months. Things had gone to shit since John had messed it all up. “You celebratin’, too?”

“Sure,” Arthur says, giving him a lopsided grin. He holds up a bottle of whisky, and John’s heart thuds just a little faster at the sight of the bottle. Arthur offers it to him, so he takes a long swig of it. It warms him immediately, and his eyes trace along Arthur’s jaw, still too close to be comfortably platonic.

“M’proud of you,” Arthur says, his gaze sincere and full of an emotion John can’t quite categorize. “You’re gonna be a good father. And husband.” He’s drunk as a sailor, but Arthur’s always been able to string sentences together better than anyone, even drunk. “You’re fun an’— an’ a good man.” He hiccups.

John barks a laugh. Arthur’s never said anything remotely like it to him, before. John is convinced, half the time, that the man hates his guts— especially after John had gone and kissed him. “You think so?”

“Mhm.” Arthur nods, slinging an arm around him, and takes the bottle back. He takes another long draw from it, and John frowns.

“You’re drinkin’ more than usual, tonight.” He observes quietly.

Arthur looks back at him, too close, blue eyes staring into his own, half-lidded.

“Just celebrating,” He murmurs, eyes casting down to his boots between them. He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Y’alright?” John asks.

“Just hittin’ me wrong, s’all.” Arthur slurs, letting his arm drag off of John’s shoulder. He wanders away, back towards camp, but John sees the bottle glint in the last of the light as he knocks back another swig, then two, disappearing behind one of the canvas supply tents.

Something ill sets in his stomach. His shoulder positively burns where Arthur’s big arm had sat just moments before, and he has the sinking feeling that maybe everything won't be alright, after all. Not for him.

Not when he feels want in the pit of his stomach stronger than he’s ever felt for a woman, for Abigail. All for a man who, lately, will barely look at him unless he’s stumbling drunk.

Lust is only the beginning of what he feels.

*

“You might be the father,” Abigail tells him, though they both know how unlikely that is. She’d had multiple new clientele almost every evening, and John had been far from the only one slow on the draw.

“It don’t matter.” He promises her. “We’ll say it’s true. The other men will leave you alone.” His name carries some weight around camp, these days.

Only Dutch and Hosea know how flimsy the truth actually is.

*

When John had first ruined things with Arthur, the man wouldn’t come near him but for business. They still worked jobs together when Hosea or Dutch asked, still the two most talented men in camp. But everyone had been able to tell that they were at odds with each other.

Since Abigail’s been around, Arthur has slowly but surely begun warming back up to him.

He isn’t stupid— he knows exactly why. Arthur thinks that John is over whatever thing it is that made him kiss him. Maybe he thinks that John is cured of his attraction to men. And god, does John wish he were right.

He’d been hoping more than anyone else that that would happen.

It had taken less than a week from being “married” for him to figure out that that was not the way things were going to go.

Despite the flawed reasoning behind it, he’s glad that Arthur has started to warm back up to him. He’d sit down next to him at the fire now, on occasion. Would play poker with him, or even find him and give him an extra bottle of hooch he’d found on the road.

Slowly, things settle back into some semblance of normalcy between them.

Normal… except for the occasional slip up.

*

The first time it happens, John thinks that they’re both equally surprised by it, though neither of them show it.

Arthur sips whisky by the fire, and John, already tipsy, snatches the bottle from him. He’s on his feet and darting away; a playful show that he hasn’t put on since he was twenty. A grin breaks on Arthur’s face as he rises from the log he sits on to give chase.

John feels light as air as he dances away.

It’s been a good run, lately. Fruitful jobs. Abigail is settling into camp well. She gets along with most of the girls, who nearly all have some sort of past experience in sex work.

Things are good. Things are great, even. 

Arthur’s chasing after him, not quite a run, and he’s got that same jovial look on his face that makes John’s belly twinge with excitement. He ignores it— they’re only playing like friends do.

He makes for the trees, but Arthur’s already got him pinned, a hand closing around his upper arm snuggly, sliding down to reach for the bottle. He tries to weasel away, ducking under one of Arthur’s hands, but runs face-first into a tree. Arthur follows him with a deep chuckle, pressing him there so his chest pushes uncomfortably into the bark, a hand on each wrist as he tries to get John to give up the bottle. He’s laughing in John’s ear, warm and drunk and his chest is hot through the back of John’s shirt.

John presses back, boots searching for ground, and Arthur’s hips bump into his own. His drunken mind takes over, and without considering the consequences, he rubs his ass across Arthur’s crotch. Arthur groans in his ear, hips pushing against him insistently. 

Something close to a whimper leaves John’s throat.

He suddenly feels how dangerously close to a line they are, but before he can do anything to rectify it, Arthur’s hands slide from his wrists and down his sides, landing on his waist, just above his jeans, only a thin shirt between his palms and John’s skin. He squeezes, hard, and John feels like he’s going to melt right into the ground. His hips roll back into Arthur without a thought, and he feels, in that moment, the strongest urge to be taken that he’s ever felt.

It shocks him, and he realizes that nothing will ever be able to take this particular facet of want from him— not marrying a woman, not being a father. This is what he wants, and this man is who he wants it from.

Arthur’s hands jerk away like he’s been stung. He takes a few faltering steps back, and John turns to look at him warily. Arthur is decidedly blank. John’s mind races for a solution.

He hadn’t wanted the moment to end, but it has, and now he has to fix things before they break again. He takes a swig of the whisky, thrusting the bottle back at Arthur with an air of nonchalance.

“C’mon, Morgan. Stew ain’t gonna eat itself.” He says, forcing a depreciating laugh that’s a bit too loud for the occasion. He brushes past him, showing no indication that he’s been affected by the moment.

If Arthur is angry or thankful, he doesn’t show it.

The following day, his face is carefully neutral, and John second guesses if the moment had even happened like his drunk mind remembers it. Maybe Arthur had been too drunk to remember it, too.

Either way, it’s easier to pretend that it had never happened at all.

Moments like this are the only things that keep John sane for a long time.

They don’t happen nearly at all. But one small moment like that will last him months. A little touch that slides across his shoulders or down his arm. One of them standing too close to the other, shoulders or chests brushing.

Other than these moments, things remain the same. An unsure camaraderie between them, a return to friendship.

To the outsider's eye, things are, mostly, normal.

*

Only, things aren’t normal. Not for John.

Abigail begins showing, and John begins to get antsy.

He isn’t prepared for the way Arthur starts treating him. He starts talking more and more about women and child-rearing. He talks about John, encourages him to be a better father than any of them had ever had. He wants John to be better than this life, that expectation is clear.

When Abigail is fit to burst, it’s also clear to both her and John that their timeline isn’t quite matching up. The baby probably isn’t his. But that’s alright.

It has to be.

He’d said that from the start, and it’s still something he’ll stand by. It’s only fatherhood. He can pretend.

When Jack is born, Abigail is so happy. Happier than she’d let on to being during her difficult pregnancy. John is happy for her, too. Watching a life come into the world is nothing short of miraculous, and he can’t hold back tears when he holds the small infant in his arms.

There are congratulations all around and many people are prepared to help. It’s a much happier occasion than John’s own birth had been, that’s for certain. Watching Abigail hold her son, face pale and tear-streaked but smiling, safe, and among friends, John feels relief.

Arthur seems happier than any of them. Happy for John, at least.

The anxiety doesn’t leave.

*

Nine months of acting like a husband, and now nearly a year of acting like a father, and that’s still what it is to John— acting.

He feels in the pit of his stomach. This will never set in for him.

He had slept with Abigail some, at the beginning of her pregnancy. It had been fun, not worrying about the consequences that had already happened. But it became clear a few months in that they worked better as friends. His sexual interest had teetered off, and she hadn’t complained.

“Plenty of folk marry when they aren’t in love,” Abigail reasons, and John agrees. Most folk, in fact, marry for convenience. He just always thought he’d get to be in love with the person he was married to. It had been a nice idea in his head since he’d been a boy.

*

Now that Jack is here, things get predictably harder.

They’re both up with him, and some of the other men groan and grumble about not being able to sleep.

What John doesn’t predict getting harder is being around Arthur during it all.

Arthur begins to treat him differently, yet again. He seems happy that John has some semblance of a “real family”, as he calls it. He prods questions at John about becoming a family man. He talks to him like John will eventually settle down, leave the gang behind, give a good life to Abigail and Jack.

John isn’t going anywhere. He’d rather die than leave this life.

*

John hates it, every second of it. Arthur is talking to him again, but in a way that isn’t real— because none of it is real. He knows that Jack isn’t his, and he knows he isn’t in love with Abigail, and more than all that, he knows who and what he actually wants, at least in a physical sense.

He feels terribly guilty about it, too. Lust shouldn’t get in the way of a family. And that’s all it is with Arthur, isn’t it? A guilty little want. It has to be.

Regardless, his life is not his own, anymore.

Abigail is happy, and Arthur is happy, and John feels like nothing will ever be alright again.

“M’leaving,” he tells Abigail one night, just over a year in when he can no longer bear the way things are anymore. He knows he’s doing wrong. Jack may not be his, and he and Abigail may not be in love. But he’d promised to take care of them, swore a duty to them. And even if they aren’t really married, he knows the right thing to do is stick by them.

And he’s too much of a coward to do it.

She’s rightfully furious. But she has the gang now to help her, to keep her safe. Hell, she has Arthur, in a certain sense. He’s a better man than John will ever be, and this act of leaving that John is about to commit proves it.

He can’t stand it here anymore. Even if she hates him, he hopes she at least understands him.

He wishes Arthur could understand him, but he knows that he never will.

________________

John’s eyes flutter open, greeted by the shadowed cabin wall. It’s still dark out, and behind the crackle of the fireplace, he can hear a steady snowfall pattering down on the sides of the cabin. The wind howls further to the north.

Whatever he’d been dreaming of is just out of reach, but he’s sure it had been about Arthur. Any dreams he remembers usually are. He’d used to dream about Abigail and Jack, about protecting them from some unseen evil lurking in the dark. Sometimes, more rarely, his mother, the way he remembers his father describing her in sloppy slurred speech. But these days, it’s Arthur.

The light inside the cabin is warm and golden. A shadow shifts minutely, and John rolls over with a stifled yawn. A lantern is lit next to Arthur’s cot, and in John’s half-asleep mind, he looks aglow like an angel. He’s sat cross-legged, book open in his lap as his thumb and forefinger rub the corner of a page absently between them.

It’s such a calming, achingly familiar sight, John lets his eyes fall shut again, a relaxed smile pulling at his mouth.

Safe and warm in a cabin with Arthur, he can’t think of many better places to be.

He turns the image over in his mind as he begins to fall back asleep. Brown beard, soft eyes. Pretty bridge of his nose. Freckles across his cheeks. Large, steady hands holding open delicate pages. His mind lands on the book again. It had been familiar, the same roughed leather, the knife-cut strip for a fasten. The same journal he’d gotten so used to pulling out on lonely nights.

John’s eyes fly open and he shoots to his feet, veins flooded full of icy fear.

Arthur jerks back, his brow pulling up in bewilderment. John’s breath trembles in his lungs.

Arthur holds his journal— his old journal— the one John’s been writing in for the better part of two months. Not just about himself, but about all of it. About Abigail and Jack. About his darkest feelings. His most aching secrets. About Arthur.

So much about Arthur. About the kiss. About each small moment John has been able to recall, all in excruciating detail.

“T-That’s private,” John stammers, voice weak, and Arthur raises a brow.

“My old journal?”

“I… I been writing in it,” John admits. He wonders how long Arthur’s been looking through it, if he’s seen anything, how much.

Arthur considers him a moment, but he looks only confused and not angry or disgusted. “You been writing?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t know you knew how,” Arthur says, the corner of his lips quirking up.

John’s too afraid to notice or react to the teasing insult, his eyes boring down into the journal. Its pages are open to a drawing. He catches the jagged lines of the scars on his own face. His portrait.

Arthur frowns, taking notice of his lack of retaliation to his jab. “Here,” he says, closing the journal and holding it out to him.

“You didn’t read any of it?”

Arthur’s face twists in further confusion.

John knows his reaction is suspicious, but he’s scared. He isn’t sure anymore how Arthur would react if he found out. If he found out how much John is still painfully attracted to men, or that he’s been heartsick about him for two years.

He doesn’t think Arthur would ever react violently towards him. He hadn’t the one and only time they’d kissed, and he thinks that might be a good indicator.

Still, he isn’t sure that Arthur wouldn’t ask him to leave, wouldn’t shun him. That can’t happen, not now that John’s just gotten him back.

“No,” Arthur replies. “Was just looking through my old sketches.” He pushes the book at John again. “I didn’t read anything. Take it.”

When John takes it, the tremble in his hand betrays him.

“What’s the deal, Marston?” Arthur asks, folding his arms over his chest. “You detail some grizzly murder spree in there?”

“No,” John says, averting his eyes. “Just put down some private thoughts.”

“I see,” Arthur gives him one last look and then waves his hand. “Alright then. Carry on.” John swallows, sitting back on his bedroll and tucking the journal away under his bag, not bothering to hide it. Arthur can be a hard-ass sometimes, but he’s not a snoop.

“What are you doing up, anyway?” John asks, trying to lighten the mood and calm his own nerves.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

John nods, but watches him, waiting. Arthur looks to the fire.

“Thought maybe looking back through some of my old things might settle me. Didn’t help.”

“You still draw?” John asks. His heart finally slows in his chest, and he takes a breath to calm it further. He can run through a firefight with a smile on his face, but when it comes down to Arthur and his feelings, suddenly he’s scared shitless.

“Sometimes. Find it hard to be inspired these days.”

“Did you used to get inspired? Back then?”

“Sure.” Arthur shrugs. “Back then… lots of things inspired me. Felt like I had the whole future ahead of me. Good things to come.”

John frowns, pressing his palms over his knees absently.

“You don’t feel like you have the future, now?”

Arthur’s eyes flick to him, more green in the gold firelight.

“Not especially. Ever since I woke up… alive… I don’t know. It’s been hard to see anything but the next day or two. Hard to muster up any good feelings. There ain’t much to look forward to.”

John frowns. The feeling is all too familiar to him. Only, it had begun fading as soon as he’d found out Arthur was alive. It was like his body had suddenly started to wake up, like the world had opened back up for him.

“You just need a goal, is all,” John says.

“Sure,” Arthur scoffs.

“What about that map?” John asks, eyes flicking to the table where the parchment lays open. “We could start with that. Maybe it’d turn out real lucrative.”

“What’s money?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s money, John?” He says harshly, scowling. “What’s it all for? What the hell am I gonna do with gold?”

“What are we gonna do with gold,” John corrects, narrowing his eyes. “We’re splittin’ it.”

“Alright, fine. And then what? What’s the point?”

“The point is, we can do stuff with it.”

“And what’s the point of that?”

John grimaces. “Jesus, Morgan, did your sense of adventure die with you?”

Arthur slumps back against the wall next to the cot, staring at John.

“Maybe. Or maybe I just wised up.” He waves his hand at the door as if it leads to the past. “We used to go after money to give the gang— our family— a better life. Your family, Abigail and Jack. Now? Well, you say they have a better life. And there ain’t no gang anymore. So… it’s just you and me, now.”

John wants to know why that isn’t enough. Maybe now isn’t the best time to ask, though. Arthur wouldn’t understand what he meant, anyway.

“Well, then I guess we gotta focus on giving ourselves a better life.”

Arthur’s face shifts minutely as if considering the words. John clears his raspy throat, thinking on the fly.

“If you had some money, what would you do with it?”

“I do have some money.”

“Really? How much?”

“Jesus, it don’t matter. The point I’m trying to make is—“

“I know your goddamn point, Arthur.” John rises to his feet, pacing a few steps, anger boiling down in his belly. “You don’t have a reason to go on. Sorry, I don’t know what to say about that.” He throws his hands in the air. “All I know is, you got a second chance at life, and you’ve just been moping around for two years!”

“You don’t know what it’s like, John,” Arthur’s throat bobs. “Thought I was gonna— gonna get to rest. Finally. And then… This, again.” Arthur motions around him. John knows what he means, what he feels. This world that’s never been kind to them, that’s now pushing them out. “I’m tired. And I’m homesick. And there ain’t no home to go back to.”

John’s heart twinges. “I do know what it’s like. I been homesick too.” Arthur blinks at him, then rolls his pretty, annoying eyes.

“You can go back to Montreal, John. I’m sure Abigail would take your sorry ass back.“

“That ain’t what I mean, you dumb bastard,” John scoffs, pressing his thumb into one of his eyes. “That weren’t home, neither. I ain’t been home for two years. And—And then suddenly I find you up here in the middle of nowhere, alive, and breathing easy and you been brooding. And I’m— I’m just so glad to see you,” John says, voice cracking. He swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. “But you’re just sorry to be alive.”

Arthur watches him warily, but John thinks he can finally see some small amount of guilt breaking on his face.

John sighs. “I’m sorry you feel like you don’t got nothing to live for, but goddamn… You still got me.”

Arthur blinks at him, face falling from scornful to blank.

“I mean it,” John goes on, voice shaking, afraid of what Arthur will say to that. “I know I ain’t Charles or Lenny, or—or someone brighter, or braver, or more honorable.” I ain’t a woman. He holds his hands out. “But I’m here. And I’m glad you lived, you stupid—“

“You sure do insult your friends a lot, Marston.” Arthur scoffs quietly. John deflates.

“When they deserve it. I’m trying to say that… You just got to find a new purpose. And I’ll help.”

“You’ll help, will you?” Arthur chuckles, but it isn’t unkind the way John had expected.

“I’ll drag you around the entire country until you got a reason to keep on breathing.” Arthur stares at him for a long moment, shaking his head in disbelief. John ignores him. “And if we gotta, we’ll hop on a boat and go somewhere else. Maybe your purpose just ain’t local anymore.”

Arthur finally looks less miserable. He’s staring at John with an unreadable expression, and it makes John want to shrink away. He stands his ground, instead.

“Alright.” Arthur finally sighs. “Fine. We’ll wait for the weather to blow over, though.”

Chapter Text

Four

Arthur would never admit it to John’s face, because he would never let it go, but he hasn’t been so glad to see anyone since he was a much younger man.

They make plans to visit the destination scribbled out on the parchment map, and Arthur estimates that it'll take a couple weeks of hard riding, or up to a month if they take their time. Crossing multiple states is rough business, no matter how you go about it. It’s also impossible to do, currently, given the amount of snow that’s coming down each night.

*

The night before they’re set to leave, clouds roll in overhead and layer the already white ground with another two feet of snow.

In the morning, when it hasn’t stopped coming down, John stands out on the front porch glaring at the sky in a way that reminds Arthur of a jaded old-timer.

“It’ll pass in a day or so,” Arthur assures him.

The snow doesn’t quit until midday, and by that time, it’s too late to set out. In his opinion, it’s too early for this sort of weather, but he also won’t be telling John that.

The same thing happens the next day and the day after that. They try to utilize their time. One day, John takes stock of their supply while Arthur goes hunting in a window of clear weather. He only comes back with a few rabbits he picks up from snares, but John looks pleased enough to skin and cook them.

That’s another thing Arthur won’t admit aloud— it’s nice to be splitting the work. While it leaves little to do, being holed up, it’s preferable to be dozing around the fire than worried if he’s got enough clean water, enough food stored, if his horse is taken care of.

For all of John’s firecracker will, he’s always been competent when it matters.

On the third day, it doesn’t stop coming down until mid-afternoon. Three days spent lingering around the cabin isn’t the worst, but Arthur can tell that John is getting antsy.

“M’goin’ fishin',” John announces when the clouds clear up enough that afternoon to see blue through.

Arthur watches him disappear out the door and then sits only a full sixty seconds in front of the fire before he wanders out after him.

He perches on the front steps, sipping what will be his third and final cup of coffee on account of his nerves becoming jittery, and watches.

He’d be inside packing for their trek— hopefully happening tomorrow— but watching John slink around the edge of the lake trying to hack a hole into the ice deep enough to drop a line through proves a touch more entertaining.

John’s curiously named thoroughbred, Rachel, and Arthur’s own Rowan stand shoulder to shoulder under their own shelter, probably thankful to have a non-human companion, their ears pointed toward the sound of John’s hatchet thwacking away at the ice.

“You need to go out further,” Arthur finally calls on John’s fourth attempt to find a suitable spot. He’s laid out on his belly across the safety of a large rock at the lake's edge. His head snaps around to look at Arthur over his shoulder, a scowl etched into his face.

“Not a dog’s chance!” He shouts back.

Instead of feeling annoyed, Arthur chuckles. He tosses his remaining ground-filled sip of coffee off the side of the porch and then picks his way through the snow. He walks up on the ice as gracefully as he can manage, only slipping twice, and looks down at the back of John’s dark head of hair.

John squints up at him against the bright afternoon sun.

“Might wanna watch your step. I’m diggin’ a hole, here.”

“You ain’t diggin’ shit, Marston. The water is probably frozen through, here. C’mon.” Arthur says, snatching the hatchet from him and venturing out further.

The lake itself isn’t very big, but Arthur’s sure if there’s a place to fish, it’ll be near the center. John gripes under his breath as he follows, feet slipping and sliding as he balances.

Arthur finds a decent-looking spot, kneeling down to disperse his weight evenly. He doesn’t wait for John to arrive before he starts hacking into the ice. It’s thick here, too, but Arthur finally makes some ground with the blade.

John stands a few feet off, looking like a newborn fawn with his legs spread to balance.

“Swear to God, if I fall in—“

“You ain’t gonna drown, Marston,” Arthur huffs. “This lake is frozen nearly all year. I’ll bet there ain’t even fish in it.”

Arthur finally breaks through and peers down into the depths. Dark indigo laps at the edges, and after a while of looking, he’s surprised to see a flash of scales reflecting back sunlight. Hope ignited at the thought of sizzling fish, he makes the walk back to the cabin to retrieve his own fishing pole.

John gives the hole a wide breadth of room as he assesses it, his own pole in hand, and Arthur bites back a grin as he baits up his own line with crickets.

*

It’s easy falling into silence with John.

Despite how they can be when they're at each other's throats, the two of them have always been able to fall into quiet harmony— and typically at the oddest of times. Like during shootouts. Or, alternatively, on quiet, late nights at camp. The most intense or the most relaxed of moments. Arthur had always put this down to the fact that, no matter how much they fought, they were essentially the same sort of person. They understood one another. Arthur rarely had to guess at the way John's mind worked

Ice fishing can be added to their list of harmonious tasks.

At one point, John disappears to relieve himself and to bring out coffee and two wooden chairs for the both of them. He tiptoes across the ice like he thinks he can outwit it into not cracking, and Arthur finds it begrudgingly endearing.

They likely make a humorous picture, two grown men bundled in winter coats, huddled around a small hole in the ice, perched on small wooden chairs. No one seems to be around for miles, so Arthur doesn’t give it much more than a passing thought.

The longer they sit, the more his chest decompresses. He takes a glance at John and lets his eyes trace the familiar shape of his nose and chin. He remembers, years ago, studying the side of his face, searching out angles to render on a page. The familiarity of the face before him spreads a soothing warmth through his chest, and for the first time, the solitude here doesn’t feel so much like isolation and despair. Dare he say, it feels a bit like freedom.

When he looks up again, the younger’s eyes dart away, and Arthur raises a brow.

“What?”

“Nothin,” John mutters.

“What is it?”

“Noth—“

“Marston.”

“You looked happy, is all,” John says. “Just for a minute.”

“Oh well,” Arthur says. “If it were only for a minute.”

John scowls. “Is there a sincere bone in your body?”

“Me?” Arthur sputters.

He knows that he’s fallen back into the old pattern of ribbing John for every little thing, even all these years later. It'd used to be the main mechanism of their relationship, especially when they were still getting to know each other. Then it had been for show— a little play they put on for the sake of everyone else at camp. John wasn’t the only one he’d done it with, but John was the one he’d done it with most consistently. It had been fun, at the best of times. Less so at the worst.

Now that they’re utterly alone, he wonders why he does it so constantly, even when the need has gone.

He presses his lips together in a sigh.

“Alright. I was just thinkin’…"

“‘Bout what?”

Arthur’s fishing bobber bumps into John’s with a small breeze of wind. The simple movement causes the wood to knock into each other, a light click. Arthur stares at the space the two touch.

“Just that… I been feelin’ a little better, today. This last hour.”

John watches him quietly, face carefully neutral. The corner of his mouth quirks up, though. “That’s good. Right?”

Arthur hums his approval. He gets the urge to kick John’s boot with the toe of his own, make his foot slip on the ice just a bit, to tease.

His bobber dunks underwater suddenly, popping back up.

“Hey,” He mutters, standing and yanking up on the pole.

John mirrors him, and they both crouch over to look down into the dark water. Arthur begins pulling, furiously cranking the reel.

Whatever it is, it’s big and strong. Maybe he’s a bit out of practice, but he’s putting up a fair fight.

“Hope the hole’s big enough,” Arthur grunts as he pulls up on the rod. “Jesus.”

“Hey Arthur, you believe in lake monsters?” John asks, touch of amusement in his voice.

“Don’t know… But this is more of an oversized puddle.” The fish begins to fight in earnest. “How big could it be?”

The rod nearly slips out of his hand, and John jumps into action, scrambling to get his gloves around the line, the both of them pulling up.

“Holy hell,” John exclaims, peering down into the hole. Arthur keeps reeling, taking faltering steps back.

Out through the ice comes the biggest salmon he’s ever seen. Now he knows that this lake must connect elsewhere under the ice. There’s no way that that beast could live only here.

“John, get the line,” he urges, yanking the rod back to drag the fish across the ice. John is a step ahead, though. He’s pulled off his gloves, knife clutched in one fist, and he leaps over the salmon, one arm slipping around it to hold it steady as he tries to cut the line from its mouth.

Arthur scrambles for the hatchet where it’d been discarded on the ice. The salmon is so big that he isn’t sure how they’re going to keep it steady for butchering.

He doesn’t have to worry about it for long.

With one wild flop, the fish slips through John’s arms. Arthur lunges for it, sliding on his belly, hands closing around its tail, but it proves too slick. The beast slip-slides back towards the opening in the ice, a wide round eye watching them as it sails over the edge, as if it had brains enough to plan its own escape.

Arthur stares long and hard at the hole in the ice, dumbfounded.

John scrambles onto his hands and knees, a similar look on his face. “Goddamn…” he mutters, before looking down at himself. His face twists in disgust at the freezing lake water and other questionable fluids that’ve been left behind on his coat and jeans.

The wind blows a little whistle around them, and they finally look at each other. John’s hair sticks up at odd angles, and Arthur huffs a laugh.

John’s shoulders shake to match, a silent chuckle turning raspy and warm. John sits back on his heels, clean hand bracing against his stomach, sucking in a breath. Before Arthur knows why they’re laughing, he joins him. The look on John’s face sets his heart at ease.

“Shit,” Arthur sighs. “I guess if it wants to live that badly...” He chucks the hatchet away onto the snow bank and pushes up to sit next to John.

A hand brushes along his cheek, warm and dry, and the laugh fades abruptly from Arthur’s lips. John's hand cups down over his jaw, thumb on his chin, pushing lightly into his scar, and he looks at him with no small amount of reverence.

“God, you’re alive,” John breathes. His dark eyes flick about Arthur’s face, open and awestruck, and very close, just like the first night he'd shown up.

His gaze makes Arthur’s heart flutter so violently that it scares him. He feels like he’s about to throw up or fall right into John’s hands, all at the same moment. John’s hand is calloused and warm, and then it drops away, abruptly.

“M’sorry,” John mutters, standing up and shuffling away. Arthur has to stop himself from following after.

John’s face has become stricken, confusion sliding into guilt.

That night six years ago Arthur tries so hard not to think about steps out of the shadows into the front of his mind. Every detail, clear as crystal, down to the way John’s chin had scraped against his own, the dry feeling of his lips, cracked from days of riding in the wind and nights out in the cold. A mouth welcoming, warm, and eager.

That, and every little fleeting moment beyond. Flashes of eyes and brushes of shoulders or hands. And all the ways Arthur had dismissed them.

The facade crumbles in only a few seconds.

Arthur stands, taking an unsteady step back. John picks up his forgotten fishing pole off the ice and fiddles with the line, untangling a loop in it, and Arthur can see the red tint of his cheeks even from the side. His shoulders have drawn up higher, tense. His fingers pluck at the line, a slight shake to them

John glances over a shoulder at him.

Arthur knows there’s a question there, silent but fearful, and he’s expected to answer it.

Once upon a time, he’d have answered in anger, maybe yelling or maybe going quiet and distant. Once upon a time, he had done all those things. And he’d spent no small amount of time since regretting it.

All these years later and so far away from everything he’d been scared of losing, he can see no good reason not to be a better man than he was.

He takes a few steps to follow after him, reaching out and taking the rod from John’s hand gentle but sure. John’s eyes bore into the side of his face, and he feels the tension roiling off his body like a deer ready to flee.

“I’ll reset your line and keep an eye on it,” Arthur says tranquilly. His eyes flick up, brow raising at the state of John’s coat and shirt underneath that have become soaked. “You go change before you catch a chill. I ain’t nursin’ your sorry ass back to health.”

The tension between them dissipates a touch, and John’s shoulders drop, just enough to signify relief. His throat bobs, clicking with a swallow. Arthur decides to have mercy.

“Hurry up, Marston. We’re burnin’ daylight. And we still ain’t caught dinner.”

John huffs a small, nervous laugh. It must be an acceptable answer because his face relaxes down into a subdued smile.

Arthur watches his retreat, his own chest twisting in unusual ways.

He could let this go, as they’ve done before. But with so much time and distance between then and now, a larger part of him doesn’t want this to go the way it’s always gone.

*

Arthur knows.

Goddamn him, he knows.

John isn’t sure what to do about it. He’d gone and let himself get carried away, gotten lost in a happy moment and set the train off its rails. Arthur’s skin had looked so flushed, and he’d looked so happy, and John’s fingers had been itching to touch him since that first night.

It might have all been alright, except that Arthur isn’t trying to hide the fact that he knows.

He and John sit perched on their chairs again, but there’s a new awkwardness to their movements. Arthur hums under his breath at times, eyes focused on what he’s doing— too focused. He speaks pointedly to John, and it all feels very intentional, and it’s driving John crazy.

For once in his life, he’s desperate to put it all behind them. With the threat of Arthur’s rejection and potential exile, John would love nothing more than to follow the usual course of action of pretending like everything is nothing.

He’s so desperate, in fact, that he starts to crack bad jokes. He tries to jeer Arthur into chastising him, biting back, but it doesn’t work. It only serves to make the looks Arthur gives him all the more perplexed and searching. John feels like a carnival attraction under his gaze. Under the worst sort of scrutiny.

They bring in a few decent-sized fish by the time the sun goes down— a trout and two largemouths. Arthur offers to bleed and descale them if John prepares the fire and heats the cast iron.

John keeps himself busy, thankful for a few minutes to himself. He still senses that Arthur is being generous to him. His tasks don’t take him long, and then he’s left to sit and stew.

This is a good thing, he tells himself. Arthur is treating him nicely. He hasn’t gotten angry or put off.

The longer John sits, the more his mind spirals, and he has a vision of Arthur saddling up and leaving in the night, snow be damned. Somehow, that idea is the most upsetting of all— worse than being asked to leave, being left himself—

The man in question finally comes in, and John fends off the anxiety roiling in his stomach.

Arthur carries a wooden plank full of pale fish filets balanced in one hand. He lets the door close behind him, eyes shaded under his hat but still trained on John as he shrugs his coat off. John can’t decipher what the man is thinking. Arthur hands the plank to him before stooping to clean up in their washing water.

John wordlessly begins to lay the fish out onto the hot pan. He imagines that it would all taste nicer if they had some olive oil or butter to fry it with, but they’ll have to settle for the salt and pepper that John sprinkles over it.

Arthur appears next to him after a moment and lays a few sprigs of what looks like thyme over the fish. Then he settles down onto a chair and lights up a cigarette.

“It snowin’ out there?” John asks, noticing the thin layer of frost that’s accumulated on Arthur’s jeans, beginning to melt.

“Uh-huh,” Arthur confirms. John thinks maybe that’s all he’ll say, and that maybe Arthur will be giving him the cold shoulder after all, but then Arthur offers more. “Started up as I were comin’ in. Looks like it's gonna be another one of those nights.”

John’s never been more relieved for idle chatter.

“Didn’t think the weather would be that bad this time of year,” John says quietly. “Hope it’ll clear up. Don’t wanna be stuck up here for the season.”

Arthur hums, nodding, and John chances a quick glance at the side of his face once more.

“We’d be alright,” Arthur says. “I’m sure we’ll get some clear days. But, if we didn’t… we’d be alright.” He looks to John, and John freezes, caught staring. “We survived plenty worse.”

“Gimme that,” John says, reaching out and plucking the cigarette from between his fingers. “Shouldn’t be smokin’.” He takes a long drag of it himself.

“You’re probably right.” Arthur sighs but doesn’t look too perturbed.

The sizzle of fish flesh fills up the silence as it grows darker outside. The cabin begins to smell like dinner, and John’s stomach begins grumbling. He realizes how hungry he is.

As they eat, he imagines days spent gathering snow to melt and filter and boil. Hunting and fishing and storing meat in holes dug into the frozen earth. Forging for green things and nuts and seeds.

All difficult things, but things John thinks he’d enjoy if he were doing them with Arthur.

Arthur surprises him by offering to put on coffee, to which he accepts. Feeling calmer, he thinks about changing and rolling up into his bedroll for the night, maybe moving in closer to the fire, when Arthur clears his throat, still sat on his chair a few feet away.

“Didn’t know,” he says, and John looks at him, brow drawing together. His eyes are on John.

“Hm?”

“Didn’t know you still felt that way.”

John’s heart thuds to a stop. He wishes Arthur would just drop it, forget about it like he's always seemed so apt to do. John can play along with him, but he doesn’t want to be confronted directly. Mostly because he can’t lie about it anymore.

Arthur seems to be waiting for an answer, though, and John closes his eyes.

If he knows, he knows. There’s no putting that cat back in the bag.

“Thought maybe I’d gotten over it,” John says, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “But when I thought you was dead… Realized I hadn’t.”

Arthur’s gaze is heavy. John can’t meet it. He stares into the flame instead, afraid of what he’ll see when he looks at Arthur’s face.

Arthur shifts, chair legs scraping along the floorboards. John fears that he may be getting up, to leave or to yell, or—

His palm slides under John’s chin, passing up the side of his face to turn it.

“What—“ John startles, staring in surprise at Arthur’s face, so close it takes up all his vision. His heart feels like a hummingbird. Arthur looks over his face, from eye to eye, gaze flicking downward to his mouth. His palm urges him closer, just a nudge, and John follows it.

Arthur fits their lips together just so, a light touch. John lets his eyes fall closed.

A part of his mind begins to furiously catalog each and every sensation, committing it all to memory, acutely aware that this could be the last time he ever feels something like this again. He’s incredibly grateful to be sober, this time around.

Arthur’s full bottom lip fits between his, slightly chapped but plush. The beard on his chin is just long enough to not be prickly, and John rests his own chin along it. Arthur’s hand pets across his cheek lightly.

When John’s eyes crack open, he can see Arthur’s have fallen closed too, and his heart flips. He pulls away, realizing he hasn’t been breathing. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“That does it for you, huh?” Arthur murmurs, eyes sliding back open. John can’t tell if he’s needling him or if it’s a genuine question. Either way, it feels bad.

“Jesus, Morgan. Do you have to mock me over everything?” John says, turning to pull away. “Don’t be cruel if you’re just gonna—“

Arthur grimaces before shushing him. “Weren’t trying to be.” His expression is heady, at least, like he might kiss him again. His cheeks are flushed in the firelight. He lets John’s face go.

“Why now?” John asks.

“Don’t know. You’ve always confused me.” He says quietly, folding his arms over his chest. “Still got… reservations. Maybe it’s just that all the old reasons don’t matter no more.” Arthur looks at him, frown pulling at his lips. “After all this time, though, still don’t understand why.”

“Why?”

“Why me?”

John hesitates.

“Don’t know. Christ, just when I think you hate my guts—”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “I don’t hate your guts.”

“Not even now?”

“No, John. Just don’t understand what it all means.” He sounds crestfallen, and John wants to say so much, but he doesn’t know how to. “You like women. I’ve seen you flirt with ‘em. Take ‘em to bed.”

“Sure, I like ‘em just fine. But, never was the same as how I like men.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in front of him, and despite the kiss they’d just shared, John feels self-conscious about voicing his attraction aloud.

“If you like women, maybe you just ain’t found the right one yet. There’s plenty of 'em out there, you could still have a normal life. Maybe it ain’t Abigail, but maybe—“

“Don’t want a woman, Arthur,” John says bluntly.

Arthur shuts his mouth.

“Right. Because you want me?” He scoffs, staring down into the fire.

“I get that that probably makes you uncomfortable.” John hesitates. “M’sorry. Believe it or not, I didn’t choose it.”

“You didn’t?” Arthur laughs humorlessly.

“No,” John frowns. “You think I’d choose to fall over some miserable bastard? Just never been anyone else like you. You act all prickly and mean, but really you care more than anyone else. You help strangers. You saved me, more than once…” Arthur looks away with a frown, and John falters. “ Shit, I ain't never been good at talkin’.”

He tries to think of what he can say, and only one thing comes to him.

"When I’m around you, I ain’t never felt safer.”

One of his most guarded secrets. A day ago he couldn't imagine telling Arthur such a thing. Now, it feels like the only thing he can say that makes any sense.

It grabs Arthur’s attention back, but instead of looking pleased, he looks pained.

“Don’t deserve your admiration, John. I ain’t as good a man as you think.” Arthur says, voice sullen.

“How do you figure?”

“Well, for starters, the last time we was in Colter, I didn’t wanna look for your sorry ass after two days,” Arthur says, as if this definitively proves it. And yes, that had stung at the time. John’s come to understand why he’d done it, though— or rather, not done it.

“I forgive you.”

“Well… Well I don’t.” Arthur says, looking away. “You woulda been dead if it hadn’t been for Hosea and Javier. And Abigail.” He shudders

“We’d been fightin’ for years. You couldn’t know I hadn’t just run off— I even thought about doin’ it. I wouldn’t have come to look for me, either.” John says. “But you know what?”

Arthur only meets his eyes.

“None of that mattered. We was so angry at each other for a long time. Everything we said to each other was— was to hurt. But then, as I were sittin’ there, freezin’ and starvin’ and afraid of dyin’, I just kept thinkin’ about seeing you again. Realized all the fightin’ was just foolish. I thought, if I ever got out of that, I’d tell you just how I felt. I mighta kissed you if Javier hadn’t been there. Think I’m glad he was… I were half outta my mind.”

Arthur stares at him, his expression stricken. John decides to put a nail in this coffin.

“When I saw your face, I knew that everything’d be alright. When you picked me up, I knew I’d make it back to camp.”

Arthur ducks his head, clearing his throat loudly, face all twisted up in a blur of emotion. John watches him, the rosy tint to his cheeks, and feels vindicated.

“Well… I weren’t happy to see you in such sorry sorts, if it makes you feel any better.” Arthur admits.

“It does. After that… I never stopped trusting you, Morgan. Coulda fought until kingdom come, but I always knew when it came down to it, you’d never turn on me. You’d always have my back. And you did. Right up to the end.”

Arthur is quiet, but by the look on his face, perhaps he’s finally put at a bit of ease.

“So you ask, why you? There ain’t no one else.”

Arthur finally looks at him, really looks, his face more open than John can remember seeing.

“Thought you wasn’t good at talkin’,” Arthur murmurs. His eyes trail from John’s eyes down to his mouth, and John reads the signs as they come, second by second.

He leans closer, his own hand coming up to pull Arthur in by the jaw, the other gripping into the collar of his shirt, drawing him in. Arthur’s breath comes faster, rougher, held between them. In his eyes, John sees the same dawning want that he recalls from some distant memory of a starry night.

“Can I—“

Arthur tilts his face, kissing him hard. One of his big hands curls around John’s neck, sliding to the back of his head to hold him.

John’s breath shudders to a stop, the cabin falling away with all the rest of the past and pain. He presses closer, lips aching, teeth clicking into Arthurs painfully. His nerves sing, his heart hammers.

Arthur’s hand is firm, strong, fingers laced through his dark hair, and John wants to push back against it and also let it take him apart, subdue him. Never have two warring instincts felt so harmonious together inside him.

They pull apart after what could be minutes, just a bit of room to breathe between them. John keeps his forehead pressed into Arthur’s.

“John,” Arthur says breathlessly. “What's it you want? Just— Just wanna know so—“ Arthur cuts himself off.

John falters, confused.

“What do you mean?

“What exactly are you askin’ for?” Arthur asks, voice low and quiet. His boots scuff against the floorboards as he shifts, making a bit of space between them. John doesn’t let him get far, holding onto his shirt. “You askin' if I’d get frisky with you for a night? Maybe two? Bit of fun between good friends?”

John frowns, his brow pulling together. Arthur stares at him strangely, as if trying to pick apart John’s reaction to his question, searching for answers. He obviously can’t read John’s mind, though.

“You don’t get it, do you.” John murmurs.

It had never occurred to him that he’d have to clarify what he wanted.

“Don’t want a night,” he says, voice raw. “I’ll take as much as you want to give.” Arthur’s tilts his face, just slightly, watching John’s expression. “Maybe it don’t seem normal, or natural. Maybe it don’t make any sense to you. Hell, it barely makes sense to me.” His stomach churns nervously. “I wanna be there with you at the end of the day, in front of a fire. Wanna camp with you. Ride from here to there. Be around you. Be your friend. Be… more.”

“Friend,” Arthur repeats. “Friends who kiss, hm?”

“Well, sure. Friends, lovers… We just be what we are. It don’t have to be one or the other, does it?”

Part of him wants to ask if Arthur had ever considered himself friends with Mary Linton, or even Eliza. Or had it been purely lust and romance? A bigger part of him doesn’t want to know. He’d rather not bring either of them up right now.

“S’pose not,” Arthur murmurs, rubbing his other hand across the back of his neck. His arm under John’s grasp shifts, but instead of pulling away, he catches John’s hand, holding it hesitantly. “Don’t know how any of it’s supposed to work.” His face eases up, and he stares at John’s hand in his, thumb working across his knuckles gently. “But… I’d try it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Arthur nods, finally a clear answer. “Still think you’re wastin' your time on me, but… We both know I were interested back then. And now.”

John turns his face into his shoulder to hide his beaming grin. His other hand reaches up, settling on Arthur’s sternum, and he closes the space between them once more.

The last mouth John had kissed had probably been Abigail’s, and it had been chaste and hesitant. This is anything but, Arthur’s lips parting just a bit, tips of tongues meeting shyly.

Arthur’s hand settles on his waist like it was made to sit there and John stands abruptly, reaching out to drag Arthur up with him.

Arthur hesitates, crease between his brows.

“C’mon,” John says breathlessly. “I’ll make you feel real good,” He promises, tugging Arthur to him to reconnect their mouths.

As he slowly begins backing Arthur across the room with the aim of the cot, he begins to become self-conscious. He’s likely the only man Arthur Morgan has ever kissed, much less fooled around with. He needs to make this good— needs to show Arthur just how good being with a man can be.

The backs of Arthur’s knees hit the edge of the metal bed frame, and John pushes him to sit, climbing onto his lap seamlessly, mouths never parting.

He can feel the line of Arthur’s cock through his pants pressing into his own, and when he rolls his hips down, Arthur groans, both hands shooting up to clutch at John's waist. John shivers at the sound.

He begins working open the buttons of Arthur’s shirt, fingers fumbling with a few. He eventually pulls it open, shucking it down his shoulders, thankful to find no undershirt. Arthur’s pecs are curved muscles covered in a smattering of dark hair that grows denser towards the center of him. It leads in a line down his middle and John reaches out to touch, dragging his palm along it, his fingers through it.

"Feels like m'dreamin'," He says faintly.

The muscles in Arthur's abdomen are firm, the cut line from chest to belly shuddering at John's touch. He's got a strong core, and when John's hand passes over it, a thin layer of softness gives way to his fingers, hard, thick muscle pushing back beneath.

Arthur's hands hold him around the waist, thumbs rubbing light circles through John's shirt and union. He wants to tell Arthur that he can touch him too, anywhere, but he doesn't want to be too presumptuous. Behind the incredible lust that threatens to engulf him, he's acutely aware that this is entirely new territory for them.

His fingers brush the softness just under Arthur’s naval, and John's mouth waters. He decides he ought to get onto the main attraction before Arthur grows too tired or bored of his awestruck exploration.

He shimmies back off Arthur’s lap, knees hitting the floor, a resounding thud echoing through the cabin. He presses his body between Arthur’s legs.

Arthur grunts, staring down at John with a mix of lust and apprehension as John presses his face into his belly, nuzzling his hair, dragging his mouth down over faintly visible abs and skin nicked up in old scars. His teeth nip and bite at the softness of his pelvis.

“John,” Arthur gasps at the feel of his teeth, shivering as John’s hands begin to rake down his sides. He drags them to his jeans, begins to pop the buttons open and reveal his half drawers beneath.

“Let me—“ John starts, beginning to pull open his underwear with shaking fingers. “How long’s it been for you?”

“Since… Since Mary.”

John stills. “Mary?” He exclaims, dropping the cotton fabric of the underwear.

Arthur scowls at him.

”You… You mean when you met her in Saint Denis, that last time,” John says. 

“No.” 

John stares at him.

It’s only that John finds it difficult to believe. Impossible, even. Arthur hasn’t been with Mary since before the gang began falling apart, since before Blackwater, before they came this far west. Back before Annabelle and Bessie had passed.

“Never... Not— Not all those times you was away from camp?” He’d thought that Arthur had to get his kicks somehow. Even when John had been heartsick over Arthur’s rejection, he’d been sleeping with women.

“It ain’t really something I go seeking, Marston,” Arthur says, voice faltering, cheeks turning red. He shifts his gaze away. “M’happy enough takin’ care of myself." John can tell he's embarrassed and trying to hide it. "Don’t know, maybe I’m broken, somehow.”

“You ain’t,” John says hastily, reaching a hand up to press to Arthur’s neck. It draws his attention back down to him. John swallows. “You… you want it now, though?”

“Yes,” Arthur stresses, both hands coming off the bed quickly to settle over John’s shoulders, like he might be about to leave. “Ain’t that I never want it. Just— Just—“ His face contorts in frustration. John gets the feeling that this conversation might be too nebulous for the moment. “Don’t really want it with just anyone.” Arthur finally settles on.

John can’t help but grin at that. Arthur doesn’t want it with just anyone. John isn’t just anyone.

“Alright,” John says softly, continuing to work open the buttons. Arthur's hands run down over his shoulders, rubbing hesitantly down his back, like he’s nervous to touch. Goosebumps rise over John’s skin as he goes, despite the feeling being muted by his shirt.

If he’d given it more thought, he might have taken some of his own clothes off before getting this far. But now he can’t be bothered to stop. And besides, it's still a bit cold in the cabin.

He finally tugs Arthur’s drawers and jeans apart. He leans closer, nosing into the thick hair at Arthur’s groin. His thickened cock brushes against his chin, and when John pulls it out entirely, Arthur’s hips jerk unexpectedly. He can smell him now, heady and musky. Each one of his nerves light up as he breathes in Arthur’s scent.

Arthur’s cock twitches in his hold, pink head peeking out of his foreskin. John gives it a firm stroke. His mind buzzes at the thought of getting to taste.

Looking back, maybe Arthur had only been expecting him to use his hand. But when John's lips finally close around the head for the first time, tasting salty and a hint of sweet, Arthur nearly comes flying off the bed with a grunt, and John narrowly misses taking a knee to the shoulder. He reels back to look up at him.

“John, you— You don’t need to—“ Arthur huffs, face broken, looking torn between shame and want.

John splays his hands over the sides of his stomach, petting, easing him back down as he chuckles quietly.

“Anyone ever done this for you?”

“Naw I— M’not out payin' for sex, Marston. And it ain’t somethin’ I ever got around to askin’ for from… well.” Right. Because Miss Linton wouldn’t have done this for him, would she? She was probably too much of a lady, whatever that meant. All the better for him, he supposes. He gets to be the first to do this with Arthur.

“Alright then. Well, it’s a specialty of mine. So lay back.” He grins coyly, giving Arthur’s shoulder a small push.

Arthur falls back, landing on his elbows, a pinch of worry between his brows.

“Relax, Morgan.”

John takes him down again, slowly this time, more gently, and Arthur’s breath shudders in his chest, a low moan pushed through closed lips.

Once John's gotten his bearings, he lets his eyes drift up the cot to watch Arthur’s face. Arthur stares at him with a heavy-lidded gaze, pupils blown wide and dark, covering blue. John blinks languidly, sealing his lips halfway down the shaft and sucking.

Arthur’s stomach contracts and a wilting moan falls from his mouth. His hand lifts, a slight tremble to it, and he presses it to the side of John’s face, index tracing the soft skin above his ear. John presses his cheek into the hand on instinct.

He closes his eyes, focusing in the way he knows how, tongue working in tandem with his lips, using his fist to grip what he can’t fit. It’s a task he knows well, but his body trembles knowing it’s Arthur he’s giving this to. He gets lost in it, hands pressing to Arthur’s thighs, feeling grizzled skin on the outside, turning soft and fuzzier towards the inside.

He feels Arthur shift, and when he cracks his eyes open, the man is sitting back up, looking down at him. His big hands come up to hold John’s face between them, and John falters, suddenly reminded of men who hold him in place to fuck his mouth, make him gag. He shudders, instinct firing off warning shots in his brain.

Except that Arthur's touch is light and gentle. Instead of clutching at his head greedily, his thumbs rub at the stubble of his beard and up over his cheekbones. He brushes some of John’s shorter hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear, and repeats the motion when a strand falls back down. His palms are warm, and they hold John like he’s precious.

John shivers, eyes briefly closing again. He’s been in this position a hundred times with a man looking down on him. None have ever touched him like this. Maybe they’ve tried, been gentle to show their appreciation. He’d always favored those sorts, or respected them, at least. Too many others had been rough, held him down or forced him on and off before he’d retaliated.

He doesn’t worry for a moment that Arthur would do something like that.

When John looks up again, focus regained, Arthur’s blue eyes stare down at him with unmistakable affection.

No stranger could replicate this.

Objectively, he knows that Arthur must taste like a thousand other men. But to John, he couldn't be more different. He may as well be a gourmet meal, salt and soft and musk. Like how Arthur has always smelled to him, except more.

The soft touch of Arthur’s hands has him sliding on and off voluntarily, keeping the suction strong, something he knows from experience can feel heavenly. He lets himself make small noises as he goes, wanting Arthur to know just how much he likes this. Loves this.

“God,” Arthur huffs, breath shuddering in and out of his nose. “That’s… Christ, John.”

John pulls off for a moment to catch his breath, licking his lips and stroking Arthur with a loose fist. Arthur shudders in his hold. John pokes his tongue out to lick the clear bead of liquid that pools at the near purple head of his cock.

“Good?” He asks.

“Better than good,” Arthur says, voice stilted. “It’s the best— D-Don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” John promises, energy renewed. He swallows him again, working his mouth up and down, faster, deeper. He tries pushing his tongue out, a raw feeling in the back of his throat.

It feels like they are there for hours, but John knows it's only minutes. Arthur doesn’t last long, and he hadn't expected him to. His hands wander over Arthur’s torso, touching and kneading at his muscles. He scratches through his chest hair, down his abs, and all of that sensation on his fingertips is enough for John to be on the brink himself.

Soon, Arthur is pushing on his shoulders, panting John’s name in warning. John batts his hands away, pushing himself down more insistently, maybe a bit more than is comfortable, until his nose nuzzles into the wiry hair at Arthur’s pelvis. He breathes in, Arthur’s scent intoxicating, making his own dick throb.

Arthur shouts, holding onto his shoulder with one hand, the other gripped in the back of John’s hair. John swallows around him, and Arthur’s voice breaks as he moans, thighs shaking, hips quivering in aborted thrusts.

Arthur sighs his name as he falls slack against the bed. John doesn’t let him go until Arthur shudders, whimpering a please. He pulls off, a few strings of saliva slipping away from his mouth as he sits up.

He wipes his lips on the back of his hand, and Arthur stares at him, looking barely conscious. John feels more pleased than he’s ever felt, despite not having come.

He feels that he could die, if not happily, then at least satisfied.

The vision of Arthur only tides him over for a few moments, though, before his own dick throbs and demands attention.

“You mind if I…” John says, fumbling the buttons of his own jeans open. He gets his union spread and his own cock falls free.

“Sure,” Arthur pants, bringing a hand up around John’s side, drawing him in as John lays out across him. He hitches his hip over Arthur’s, uses the angle to grind himself against his bare skin. The warmth and friction is more than enough to have John in ecstasy.

Arthur catches his breath after a minute, and finally looks down at John, at the place where their bodies press. John’s cockhead appears between them on every upstroke of his hips, and John watches the look on his face shift from curiosity back into lust.

“I…” Arthur hesitates, licking his lips. “I wanna taste you, too,” he says quietly, and that’s all it takes for John to groan and spill over his hip. Arthur gasps quietly, his hand tightening around John’s waist, holding his hips to him, helping him grind. John whines, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck and breathing deeply.

Arthur’s hand runs over his back soothingly, and John all at once wants to cry.

He hadn’t expected to feel like this. His nerves buzz in residual energy, as usual, but more pronounced is the frantic pattering of his heart, the ache in his stomach tied directly to Arthur, to how strongly he feels for him. He cycles through the pain of missing him, the relief of finding him, the happiness of being around him again.

His eyes prick painfully, but he blinks the sensation away. The sudden rise and fall of emotion has him feeling far too open and raw. He shudders with each breath he heaves in, but Arthur holds him close. His hand runs over his back, up under his shirt, soothing his trembling body. He feels Arthur’s nose and mouth brush along his temple, settle against his ear.

“That was good, John,” Arthur whispers, sounding thankful, and John closes his eyes, breathes in the leather and musk and smoke that clings to Arthur’s skin.

When he comes back to himself only a little while later, self-consciousness raises its ugly head once more in the front of his mind. He wonders how Arthur feels now, in the afterglow and clarity. If he’s started to have any second thoughts about him.

John rises slowly from the bed. He stumbles to the fireplace, taking one of the clean rags left to dry and dunking it into their warm water. He wipes himself off quickly, tucking himself into his union and removing his soiled shirt and jeans.

Arthur watches him as he returns. He wipes up his cooling mess off of Arthur’s hip and stomach. It’s a bit embarrassing, now, but Arthur doesn’t look very perturbed by any of it.

He hesitates as Arthur pushes himself up the cot. The man tucks himself back into his underwear, toeing off his boots and pushing his jeans down his hips. As he buttons up his shirt, John wonders if he ought to go lay down on his own bedroll, give Arthur some space to think things over.

Before he can think down that path any further, the back of Arthur’s hand brushes along his forearm. He opens an arm, a wordless invitation, and watches John expectantly.

John slips down onto the cot next to him. Arthur’s arm tucks around his shoulders, bringing him back in close, and John presses his cold nose into his neck, breathing deep and curling his body into his side. Arthur brings the long edge of the bedroll up around them both, a soft sheepskin interior sealing in their body heat.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, which might worry John, except that he realizes that Arthur has already begun to doze off, jaw slackening and brow unfurling a touch.

He expects to lay awake thinking, overthinking, but it’s so warm, and John’s so filled with relief and a growing satisfaction, that his sleep comes quick and dreamless.

*

He wakes for a brief few moments when the light in the cabin has lightened only a hair, signifying the coming dawn.

He's on his back, now. Arthur lays on his side, face wedged against John's bicep. John lifts his arm, making room for Arthur to draw in closer, which he does, even still asleep. He can feel the cold tops of Arthur's feet tucked under one of his calves. If the man were properly awake, he'd never let himself do that, John knows.

The faint pat of snowflakes against the window lets him know that it will be another one of those days. For once, he's incredibly thankful for the weather.

Chapter Text

Five

______________________________

Arthur had only meant to catch a buzz, sitting in the sand with his back against a log. The shoreline faces west, and he drinks from a half-full bottle of rum.

Flat Iron Lake reflects the sky, pinks and peaches broken up by clouds the color of purpling bruises. The moon, a thin crescent, steadily trails after the sun.

One bottle had turned into two, and he’d gotten caught in the ebb and flow of the tide pushing and pulling on the sand. The low hum of conversation behind him grows steadily louder as the night draws nearer. It sounds like a party may be starting up at Clemens Point.

He feels at home among this cacophony of sounds; nature and people. He can’t remember a time before it all except for flashes of dirty streets and alleyways. He thinks he’d be happy anywhere in this country as long as he has a few trusted people and wide stretches of open land away from towns and cities.

His eyes close at some point, mind wandering to warm days laying in fields, grass softened by recent rain and mushrooms growing on cow paddies. He’d like to live in that sort of place, he thinks. But this lakefront is quite agreeable too.

A booted foot steps over the log, a body sitting down next to him. Arthur opens his eyes.

“Morgan,” John greets quietly.

“Hi John,” he says, voice brighter than he’d intended. It gives away his drunkenness, and John gives him a lopsided grin in return.

“How much’ve you had?

“This much,” Arthur says, measuring the side of his bottle between two fingers.

“Right. And is that the first bottle or second?”

“Been finishin’ up a few…”

Dutch’s phonograph kicks on to the joyous cheers of a few women. Music drifts over the beach.

“Guess it’ll be another night to remember.” John chuckles. “Sadie were talkin’ by the fire about your all’s trip to Rhodes. Sounds like she can handle herself.”

“Sure enough,” Arthur says. “Hell hath no fury. My mama used t’say that.”

“Did she?” John asks, dark eyes watching him. Arthur stares back at him, aware that he’s only doing so because he’s too far gone on rum to stop himself.

“M’hm. She used to talk about… about…” Arthur falters, mind fuzzing up. He licks his lips, closes his eyes. Those memories feel painful, like pressing down on a bruise, and he’s sure they’ll feel even worse if he goes poking around in his mind to recall them. “Well, never mind what she’d talk about.”

“Maybe if we need, we could start cuttin’ Sadie in on some jobs. Could use a competent gun.”

Arthur nods along, thankful for John to direct the conversation. Their words meander over Sadie and future prospects. Then over Dutch, and Micah’s return. John seems particularly interested in Charles, and what he and Arthur had got up to recently with Trelawny.

Talking with John feels easy, almost like it used to, and as Arthur watches John’s mouth move, mind losing track of what he says, he wonders why things went so sour between them in the first place.

The year gone. Right.

Arthur is about to ask John to repeat himself when another body appears on his left. The two of them go quiet, turning to look.

Molly’s full scarlet skirt flaps in the breeze before she drops down to sit in the sand next to him. She bunches up the fabric and fluffs it around her legs.

“Evenin’, boys,” She says, her voice rough, just slightly off-kilter.

“Miss O’Shea,” John says, tone even. He watches her with a quirked brow.

Molly arranges herself as she crosses her legs out in front of her at the ankle, back straight, pushing her chest out. Arthur can tell by the flush of her round cheeks that she’s been drinking as well, but even so, she’s poised, the way she holds herself entirely calculated.

“John, your woman might be lookin’ for your company,” Molly says. She leans forward to set her green eyes on him. “Maybe she’d like a dance.”

Arthur feels off, like there’s something amiss his drunk mind can’t quite pinpoint. It’s the same feeling he gets when a deal is about to turn sour, or a shady stranger approaches him out on the open range, catching him unawares.

“S’alright. Lenny likes to dance,” John answers easily. “They’re good dance partners.”

Arthur thinks to point out that he’s never seen Lenny and Abigail dance even once, but he knows John must be lying for a reason, so he stays quiet. His mind swims, the alcohol still building up in his blood. He’s woozy, now that he’s not looking out at the landscape. He looks slowly from John’s face to Molly’s.

Molly bites her red lip, eyes narrowing just a touch on John before she turns her gaze back to Arthur. He feels naked.

“Just came down for a breather,” she says, leaning back against the log. “You two looked lonely out here. Thought maybe you could use the company of a woman.”

“We was jus’ catchin’ up,” Arthur says, voice sloppier than he’d realized it would be.

John’s shoulder touches his, just a brush, and Arthur doesn’t know when he moved in closer, but he’s glad for it. He suddenly feels too cold, and John is a welcomed warmth.

“I see,” Molly nods, eyes flitting up and down his face for a moment. “Well, maybe you’d like a dance, Mister Morgan?” She questions.

“Naw,” Arthur says quickly, waving a hand. Molly catches it out of the air, holding it between her own, and John turns full-bodied to stare at her. Arthur frowns, not wanting to wrench away from her rudely but not wanting the touch, either. “I mean it, Miss O’Shea. I’m…” He hiccups, forgets what he’d been about to say. “And m’sure Dutch’ll be lookin’ all over… for you.”

“He ain’t,” Molly says sullenly. “He’s off flirtin’ with every other woman in camp.”

“Oh. M’sorry to hear it,” Arthur says earnestly. He hears the way they fight, and he doesn’t think that Dutch appreciates what he has. Poor Molly had only gotten caught up in his honeyed words, the same as Miss Grimshaw, the same as Miss Annabelle.

Hell, the same as him, even.

He feels badly for thinking that way about Dutch, but the alcohol emphasizes all of the unsteadiness and unsureness he feels.

John’s shoulder presses more insistently into his, gaze intense as he stares past Arthur at Molly.

She leans her weight into Arthur’s other shoulder, her chest pushing against his arm, breasts pushed up and out the top of her emerald blouse. Arthur falters, confused by her physical forwardness when she’s never acted this way towards him before.

“We never did get to know each other, when I first came to stay,” Molly says, voice dropping.

Arthur stares at her dumbly. He knows logically that she’s coming onto him, but he can’t make sense of it when Dutch is only just a few steps away in camp.

More than that, her body pressing against his is repelling. He imagines that any other man in camp would be glad to have a woman such as Molly pressed up against them, no matter whose woman it was.

Not him. This body isn’t one he’s ever imagined bare, and the woman it belongs to is someone he doesn’t know. Not in any meaningful sense.

Without thinking, he leans away from her, bumping into another warm body as he does. His drunk mind can’t coordinate to think not to crowd them, only focused on putting distance between himself and her.

“Shall we get to know each other, Mister Morgan?” She says, voice sultry, and Arthur knows that she must be nearly as shit-faced as him, only hiding it better.

“Alright, that’s enough,” John barks, jarring Arthur.

He’d forgotten he was sitting to the other side of him, but now that he’s remembered, he’s grateful that John hadn’t left. He’s obviously not nearly as drunk as either of them, at least.

“Miss O’Shea, you’re inebriated,” John tells her, stern and thinly kind. “He’s half-shot, and it ain’t wise to be out here tryin’ to proposition one of Dutch’s sons, besides.”

“You ain’t his sons,” She says crudely, dropping Arthur’s hand. “This gang’s barely a family, far as I see it. Ain’t no loyalty, not really.”

John doesn’t argue but keeps his eyes on her. Arthur can tell that he’s only a few moments away from snarling.

“What, are you lookin’ to get familiar, instead?” She sneers, turning a green glare onto John. It’s equal parts angry and considering, and when Arthur sees her look him up and down, eyes landing on the place where John’s shirt opens at the top, a few buttons loosened to let the cool night air in, Arthur’s brain flickers back on.

“Now, hol’ on a minute,” He says, his hands coming up between them. “Jus’— wha’s goin’ on?”

“Miss O’Shea was wisely leaving,” John says sternly. “We’re relaxing from the day, Molly. Please. We’ll keep this between us three.”

Molly scoffs dejectedly but gets up, eyes avoiding them as she leaves, her head still held high and proud.

Arthur looks away from her receding figure to John. The younger man is fuming. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and strikes a match more aggressively than necessary.

“You—“ Arthur says, hiccuping. “You protectin’ my honor, Mars’on?” He asks, trying to lighten the mood back up.

John scoffs, but his face eases a bit. “Does it need protectin’?”

“Dunno,” Arthur says sullenly, unable to stop looking at John’s mouth. The world recedes, and it feels like no time has passed between then and now, and lord almighty does he want to give in, lean forward to see if John’s lips feel the same.

But that ship has sailed— John’s a married man. Or as good as.

Arthur is thankful that he’ll probably forget about this come morning.

“Jesus,” John scoffs, taking a puff from the cigarette before offering it to Arthur. “Nerve of that woman.”

“Ain’t her fault…” Arthur frowns, taking a long drag. “Dutch ain’t treatin’ ‘er right. She's jus’ tryin’ to make him… jealous.”

“You’re too understanding when you’re drunk,” John mutters. “Still though, being Dutch’s paramour… comin’ onto you? To me? Just seems low, is all.” John folds his arms over his chest, reminding Arthur of a bristled cat.

They both stare at the sky, turning cool and blue at the start of the night.

“You ever have any of the ladies here at camp?” John asks.

The question startles him. Arthur blinks, taking a moment to understand what he means.

“Huh? No,” he answers shortly.

There had been a time that Karen had drunkenly offered a night, and he can tell that Mary-Beth is interested, but nothing in Arthur has ever considered starting something with either of them. The rest of the men had ribbed him for turning down Karen.

He knows they’ve all noticed, by now, his lack of interest in going to town with them. It’s just that he never quite feels like pursuing someone for a night. Secretly, the idea is abhorrent to him. The few women he’s been intimate with, he’s considered unusual circumstances.

“Good,” John scoffs. “Ain’t worth any of the trouble it brings gettin’ involved with someone you see every day.” If John has any more questions about his love life, he keeps them to himself.

“Look out there. Blackwater.” John says, pointing at the lake. Arthur clears his throat, swinging his head around to look at the faint, small lights across the water, only visible for how clear the air is. “Our money, just sittin’ out there, waitin’.”

“Yeah.”

“When we get it, we can go anywhere we want,” John says.

Arthur doesn’t know if that’s true anymore, but it sounds nice all the same.

“Mm.”

“Can get Abigail and Jack a home. Maybe… maybe more of us could stay there.” He swallows. “You could come. I know she trusts you. Maybe we could all have a home, together.”

Arthur swallows thickly, thinking about John’s mouth and his pretty eyes that sparkle black in the evening dark.

The idea of home sounds lovely, too, somewhere warm and sunny, with soft grass and trees and clouds that change shape.

Arthur is drunk, so he nods along.

“Yeah.”

________________________________

There’s something warm under his cheek.

Arthur’s hand curls against it, joints sticking, stiff from years of trigger pulling. His fingertips find warm skin, and a bit of cotton fabric. Body hair tickles his nose and eyelashes. The scent that he picks up is rounded, faintly sweet, and familiar. It makes him want to nestle back down and drift off again.

He feels a huff of breath against his hair, and he opens his eyes instead. John is beneath him, Arthur’s head pillowed on his chest.

“Mm,” Arthur tries to say, pulling his lips apart, dry and stuck together from a hard, deep sleep. “John.”

“M-hm,” John hums. He’s obviously been awake for a while. One of his hands comes up, knuckles curling against some of Arthur’s shorter hair across his forehead.

“So. Last night weren’t a dream, then.” He hadn’t thought it was. But it still winds him to think of how drastically things have changed in one night.

“You ain’t gonna skip out on me, are ya?” John asks, tease to his tone. When Arthur looks, he catches a hint of deeper concern hidden in his expression.

Right, Arthur thinks. Because that’s what Arthur had done last time something like this had happened. He’d run away, like a coward, down to the river to douse himself in cold water for the better part of an hour, trying to wash away all the foreign new feelings that John had suddenly made him feel.

He still feels guilt over it.

“Would it turn you onto the straight and narrow path of ranching in Canada?” Arthur asks, teasing back.

“Nah. Don’t reckon there’s anything that could do that.”

“Guess I won’t bother, then,” Arthur says.

He’s itching to get up, to dispel the tension that has risen between them. Old habits. He has to remind himself that this sort of tension isn’t necessarily bad.

“It a good day to leave?”

“Don’t think so,” John answers quickly. A hand slides up Arthur’s back, traveling up his spine slowly, and then dragging across his shoulders through his shirt. “It were snowing most of the night, I think.”

“That’s too bad.” Arthur sighs. “We ought to think about heading out anyway if it don’t clear up.”

“Well, maybe we could wait another day. Just to see.” John says, and Arthur catches the hopefulness there. He looks up at John’s face, an entirely new angle he’s never been privy to before.

“You just want a day in bed, don’t you.” Arthur accuses softly. John glances down at him, huffing out a breath.

“Can’t say it sounds all that bad.”

Arthur’s groin twinges at the suggestion, and he stares at John’s jawline, studying this angle of his face like he would if he were going to draw it. He imagines tracing his tongue up the line of his throat, over his Adam's apple.

“We need to tend the horses. But… maybe there’s one thing we could do first.” Arthur says. John looks down at him, lashes thick and dark.

“Yeah? Like what?”

*

John smells like a man.

Arthur had wondered, since that first kiss years ago, about the intricacies of his scent, but he’d never gotten the pleasure of sampling it up close. It’s what he’s thinking about as he begins to take down the buttons of John’s union, tugging it down his torso, stopping just short of his pelvis.

John’s skin is only slightly paler under his clothes. His dark hair dusts out over his chest, down his belly. The thick wedge of it that continues down into the crotch of his union makes Arthur stare. He’d thought of himself as hairy, but John might be even more so. Or perhaps it’s just the nature of dark hair, he isn’t sure. He’s eager to find out.

He can smell him now, is the point.

As it turns out, John smells good. Intoxicating, even. Like wet earth and pine, faintly of fruit, salt, of good things that remind Arthur of warm days spent in soft fields with little for the mind to worry about except for what shape the clouds have taken.

He spends an indeterminate amount of time nosing all around John’s neck and chest, smelling and tasting, making John’s breath come short. It feels nice to be the one doing this to him, instead of the other way around. He’d been under the other's control last night, and John has handed the reins to him, now.

He roots out a few sensitive places below his ear, along his sternum, and bites at them to make John shiver.

“Gotten bigger here, haven’t you?” He asks coyly when he palms over John’s pectorals, appreciating the slight broadness he’s gained.

John watches him as he goes, looking more worked up by the minute.

He gasps when Arthur bites along his pecs, mouths over his nipples, gives them small, sucking kisses.

“Real sensitive, ain’t you,” he observes as John falls apart beneath his hands and mouth.

This sort of lust is different from what Arthur's experienced before.

Mary had been more timid than him. He’d not wanted to step on her toes or make her uncomfortable, so they’d taken things at a snail's pace. Their lovemaking had been fine enough, but the intimacy had been stilted. Hosea had told him that that sort of thing came with familiarity. That one built up to it.

He and she had never gotten far enough to find out.

This thing with John, though, might be the most familiar thing to him in this life.

He’d convinced himself that he might not be capable of feeling this sort of desire any longer, with how elusive it had been for years.

But the lust that curls in his belly at the sight of John in bed, writhing around beneath him, is so strong it practically winds him. He’s unsteady and out of practice, but more eager than he’s ever felt.

He wedges a thigh between John’s legs and John presses his hard cock back into him, hips working in small circles. It makes Arthur’s decision about what to do next simple.

He remembers how John had gone about it the night before, and he rolls off the end of the bed, taking a blanket with him. He uses it to cushion his knees against the wood, and when John sits up to look at him in bewilderment, Arthur grabs him under the thighs and drags him to the edge of the bed.

John yelps, eyes wide and cheeks turning red. When Arthur pulls his union the rest of the way off, his dick bouncing back against his belly, John tosses his head back and covers his face with his arm, a whined, “Oh my god,” falling from his lips.

Arthur’s mouth waters as he pushes John’s thighs apart, bringing him closer. He lifts one of John’s knees, settling it over his shoulder.

Arthur hasn’t done a lot of imagining of cocks in his life. The offhand thought that flies in and out of one’s head, sure. A strange man with a bulge at the bar, an old man pissing behind the saloon, these incidents have him thinking abstractly about genitalia and how odd it really looks.

He’d never gone out of his way to imagine them, though— that is of course, until John had rolled his hips against him once upon a time on a clear summer night under the stars.

Since then, he’d done a great deal of exploring— in his mind, at least.

After a few years, he’d come to the conclusion that the only cock he’d ever cared to try to imagine was John’s. And then he’d only felt guilty and ashamed for having such ideas and put it all out of his mind until he was too drunk to ignore it.

All this to say, none of that had prepared him for the real thing.

John’s cock is entirely hard when he pulls it away from his belly, head shiny and moist when Arthur pulls his foreskin back. It’s nestled in a thick thatch of dark hair, and it’s the same pink-flushed color as John’s cheeks and neck. Arthur loves the look of it almost immediately.

Which is a bit amusing to him, considering just how unremarkable he’s found every other dick he’s ever seen.

He decides he’d better take it in his mouth before he loses his nerve. When his tongue slides along the spongy head and down the underside, tasting musky flesh for the first time, John’s voice rises and falls into a series of tapered-off sounds that start and end with his name.

Arthur licks him carefully, his glans bumping against the roof of his mouth. He keeps his teeth out of the way when he closes his lips. Only an inch or so in, and Arthur’s mouth already feels overwhelmed.

He’s bigger than John, but John had made taking him down look easy. He worries for a moment that his lack of experience will make this bad, but John’s stuttering cries spur him on.

“P-Please,” he pants, his hips already starting to push off the bed.

Arthur has to grip his waist, hold him down firmly to keep from getting choked. He gives an experimental suck to the head.

“Ah—ahh,” John whines, body straining as he struggles to writhe around.

John’s leg pushes against his cheek, his facial hair dragging against John’s soft inner thigh. Arthur gets the feeling that that’s what John’s seeking, and he holds John’s leg tight against his cheek and jaw as he bobs his head shallowly.

A rough moan rips from John’s throat. He squirms before pushing up on his elbows to look down at him.

“Arthur,” He pants, and Arthur lets go of his leg. Instead, he gets his hands around the rest of John that won’t fit in his mouth— which is most of him— and begins sucking in earnest, focusing on the head, running his hands up and down, bobbing as he’d seen John do.

It’s a surprisingly short time later that John begins pushing on his shoulders hurriedly.

“M’gonna— M’gonna—” He pants, and Arthur pulls off, continues massaging his fist up and down, up and over the head until John tenses, curling over on himself, hips jerking erratically. Arthur doesn’t let go, looks up at John’s face twisted in ecstasy.

Maybe it shouldn’t be attractive, but it’s captivating, knowing that he’s done this to John. John curls over him, bent in half, resting his cheek on Arthur’s head as he pants.

The hot spray of spend that coats his fingers and hand draws his attention back down. He keeps jerking slowly until John is shuddering, but John never asks him to stop.

Without thinking, he leans in to suck the head clean.

“Ahh,” John gasps, twisting away but only managing to fall on his back. Arthur takes mercy, letting him go, and savors the taste in his mouth, unusual as it is.

He finally sits back on his heels, giving his knees a much-needed break.

“How was that?” He asks, looking down at his hand.

John’s chest heaves, muscles expanding and relaxing, and he looks down at Arthur from under his forearm with bleary eyes. “What do you think?”

“Careful, or I won’t do it again.”

“It was real good.” John pants, head thunking back against the bed, stretching his arms out. “That’s the first time you done that, I presume?”

Arthur snorts. “Course. I ain’t ever wanted to do it to a man before.”

John licks his lips, sighing.

“Would you mind getting me a cigarette?”

“Get it yourself, Marston,” Arthur huffs, standing up, though he’s not actually angry. “We have shit to do, today. I’m gonna go see how the horses faired and look at the path out. Why don’t you at least get up and get some coffee started. We need to see about headin’ out.” He searches for the rag from the night before, wiping his hand down.

“Well, wait—“ John says, sitting up abruptly, brow furrowed. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

John blinks. “Could I do you, now?” He asks, eyes traveling down Arthur’s front to his underwear. Arthur looks down, sees that he’s half-hard as well. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to take care of it for the moment. He’s overwhelmed with new feelings, and he wants the cold air.

He’s also a bit nervous to be seen bare in the daylight.

“Naw, I’m good,” he says. John looks unsure, if a bit disappointed, but nods. “Maybe later,” Arthur adds, though it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.

The look on John’s face might warrant some type of conversation or reassurance, but he’s not exactly sure what to say. He only nods in return before buttoning up the top of his shirt and beginning to pull his coat and boots on.

*

Since the perimeters of their relationship had expanded, Arthur has gotten off more times in twenty-four hours than he has in weeks of past relationships.

John is happy to follow their usual routine, albeit with a little smile permanently etched onto his face and a pep in his step. Arthur can’t blame him— he feels more chipper, too.

The weather has improved, with only a few flurries coming down. In the far distance, the skies are clear, and they ought to be able to head out in the morning. Arthur thinks they should no matter what the weather looks like.

Come lunchtime, they gnaw on cured venison and share one of their last three cans of green beans. John wants to open the last can of peaches, but Arthur thinks they ought to save it, just in case.

When they’re finished eating, he catches John’s eyes on him, curious but hungry for something else, and his stomach dips in nervous excitement. He isn’t used to someone looking at him like this so openly.

John ends up backing him into a wall with a small breath, asking Can we? And Arthur's returned Please. He has his jeans halfway down his thighs and his drawers unbuttoned in a matter of moments. As he pulls his cock out, John drops to his knees.

Arthur doesn’t even consider protesting, doesn’t think about being self-conscious, doesn’t think about what his father or a friend or a preacher might say. Whatever he’d been about to do falls by the wayside, and he falls apart under John and his sinful mouth.

He’d thought once or twice about receiving head before— mostly when he’d been with Mary, his longest courtship. She’d shot him down, in a manner of speaking, before he’d even had the chance to properly ask, informing him that she was raised like a proper lady. Arthur soon learned that “proper ladies” didn’t partake in lewd, "depraved" sex acts.

He thought she would have thrown out all that nonsense in the face of love. Maybe she would have, eventually, but they’d never gone long enough to find out.

John’s small moan draws his attention, and Arthur looks down to watch. John’s fist runs up and down the length of him quickly and he holds his mouth open wide, the tip to his tongue, dark eyes staring up at him.

It’s the most obscene thing Arthur’s ever seen, and the wave of his orgasm overtakes him without time to hold it back.

“John,” he hisses, a hand reaching down to steady himself on John’s shoulder.

John’s face twists up as Arthur’s seed hits his mouth, and Arthur thinks to apologize before he realizes it’s because John’s come too, his other hand down his own pants, jerking quickly.

John sits there, shuddering, and Arthur, holding himself up against the wall, reaches down to rub a hand over his hair, sliding down to cup his cheek. He’s never done tender things like this before, not to another man at least, but how can he not when John’s done this for him?

John presses into the touch, and Arthur suddenly wishes they were lying in bed so he could hold him.

He does the next best thing, reaching down to take both John’s hands and pull him to his feet. John shifts, unsteady, nervous looking.

Arthur pulls him flush to him and kisses him. John presses back eagerly, and Arthur knows it was the right call. He tastes himself there in his mouth, but it isn’t nearly as off-putting as he thought it might be.

“Thanks,” John says breathlessly, and Arthur chuckles.

“What do you mean? You’re the one who done all the work.”

“Yeah, but you let me.”

Arthur chews on his cheek, turning that over in his mind.

“You like it?” John asks, brow bunching up. “When we— when I…?”

“‘Course.” Arthur huffs, chuckling. “Yeah. Ain’t it obvious?”

John shrugs noncommittally. “Just makin’ sure that you… you know, you like it. Don’t want you to feel obligated.”

Arthur remembers the disappointed look of confusion on John’s face this morning.

“I like it a lot,” he says quietly. Still unused to holding him, he lets his arms settle around John’s middle and squeezes lightly. Arthur’s softened cock presses against John’s through his jeans. He feels his cheeks turn warm, despite what they’ve just done. “Sorta even like you.”

John ducks his head, pulling out of Arthur’s hold, but the small smile on his mouth is enough to put Arthur’s nerves at ease.

*

They lay together on the cot that night.

It’s dark and moonless outside, but the stars shine through clear. They’ll set out, come morning, for Valentine and then further, back south. Arthur doesn’t savor the thought of going back to Lemoyne, but with the prospect of money and where it can take them, he agrees with John that they ought to try.

They’d rutted against each other after dinner, slow and steady. Arthur had pressed their dicks together in his fist as John sat atop him and rucked his hips back and forth. It had been good in a different kind of way than using their mouths. John had looked in his eyes as they’d come, and that had quickly made it Arthur’s favorite thing they’d done.

He feels that things are shifting between them at a breakneck speed. He tries not to feel afraid of the change.

John lays pillowed on his chest afterward, an arm stretched over Arthur’s middle. They’re still cooling down, lying exposed on the bedroll to the air of the cabin.

John grunts, shifting.

“My father always told me he’d kill me if he ever found out I were an invert,” he says quietly.

Arthur had thought he was already asleep.

“Yeah?” He answers.

“Amongst other things. Guess that all stopped mattering when he up and left.”

“How old were you?” Arthur asks.

“‘Round twelve, I reckon.”

Arthur lifts his arm high, allowing John to tuck in closer. He molds himself into Arthur’s side like he’s been doing it his whole life. It’s nice, Arthur thinks, to lie close to someone like this. Especially in the cold.

“Never knew exactly when my birthday were. He wouldn’t tell me. Just… few times, he made it seem like maybe it were in the winter. He’d always get distant and meaner, ‘round then.”

“He a drunk?” Arthur questions, though he knows the answer. Most old men are. Judging by how John talks about him, it isn’t hard to guess.

“Yeah. Mean son of a bitch, too. Hated my guts, or at least it felt like that most of the time. Can’t blame him, entirely. After my… my mother. I’m sure he blamed me.”

Arthur runs a hand absently over his shoulder. The fire cracks, but the light it casts has dimmed, and Arthur stares at the darkened crossbeams of the ceiling.

“He used to go on rants. ‘Bout everything. Inverts, immigrants. Anyone who didn’t look like him. Seemed like he hated the whole world. He’d throw things around, shout just to shout. Get into fistfights with people who came calling. He smashed an old piano we had. Don’t know why, it were outta tune and some of the keys were missin’ but we coulda sold it. He broke all our plates, once.” John’s fingers curl around Arthur’s waist, and Arthur gets the feeling he’s holding on instead of caressing.

“He hurt you?”

“Sure.”

Not a surprise, but it’s still disappointing to hear. Arthur’s own father hadn’t been much different.

“What happened to him?”

“Don’t know. He just walked out the door, one day. While later, heard he might’ve died in a bar fight, ‘nother town over, but I never saw the body to check. Either way, he were gone.”

“Twelve… must have been scared,” Arthur says, rubbing his thumb against the rounded muscle of John’s shoulder.

It’s comfortable in a way he wouldn’t have suspected. He’s been observing John for nearly a decade, his shape, how he moves. It feels like a natural progression to now want to feel his body under his hands.

“I were. Cried for two days straight.” John chuckles. “Finally got too hungry and left our house. Shack. Whatever. Got a bit of food from the neighbor, but then they wanted to put me in an orphanage. I seen how them kids were treated, so I ran away. Hitched a ride with a farmer going south and… well, the rest is history.”

“That’s young to be livin’ on the street.”

“I turned out alright, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” Arthur asks. John glares up at him, but Arthur’s lips quirk. “A degenerate outlaw, robbin’, killin’, sleepin’ with men? I s’pose all things considered… you could’ve turned out worse.” John pinches his side lightly, making Arthur flinch. “Could’ve turned out like Micah Bell.”

They both chuckle quietly.

“Think I knew I were different, even when I were little. But… was too scared of my father to realize it. Think…” John clears his throat. “Think I was glad when he died. Even though I were scared… weren’t scared of him, no more.”

“Your mother… she was a prostitute?”

“M-hm.” John nods, the shorter hair around his temple brushing Arthur’s chest, tickling. He spares the details that Arthur already knows. A young woman who’d died giving birth to her only child. “Nobody ever drew her. Obviously. But… my father would talk about her, sometimes. She were a small lady. Black hair. Green eyes. Could sing.”

Arthur hums, trying to imagine a young woman, younger than they are now, who'd looked a bit like John. When he has her pictured for a moment, he turns his face into the top of John’s head. “She sounds pretty.”

“Mm.” John nods and tucks his face into the crook of Arthur’s arm where it meets his torso. Arthur wonders belatedly if he smells there.

If he does, John doesn’t seem to mind.

*

In the morning, they load the mares up with supplies. John tosses a bit of snow over the remaining embers of the hearth. Arthur has a suspicion that the place will cave in over the coming winter, so they say their goodbyes to it. It’s bittersweet, closing the door behind them.

Not that Arthur had had any love for the place, but a lot had happened there in such a short time.

“I figure it’ll take a few days to get off this mountainside. Then a week, maybe two to make it to town. It’ll be nice to be somewhere warmer.” Arthur says as they begin the trek out through the buildup of snow.

The horse's high step, taking their time, ears attentive to every creak and groan of the trees, every elk call and far-off howl.

“I were out there a few weeks ago,” John says, scratching at his beard absently. “My poster were up on the wall of the sheriffs. All the better to camp. You do the shopping.”

Arthur chuckles to himself. “When we find a stream, we can have a proper bath, too. Freshen up a bit.” He sniffs for effect, and John glowers at him.

“I washed this morning, Morgan.”

“Sure.” He’s only teasing, and only because it’s so easy to get under John’s skin. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it,” he says more sincerely when he notices John sniffing the inside of his coat discreetly.

*

The first days and nights are a slow trek through the high peaks.

Arthur thinks he may have underestimated how long it would take them to navigate the accumulated snow. He wouldn’t have attempted it on his own, but with John there, they both feel more secure.

At night, they make a fire with what they can procure from the trees, and cover the horses with blankets.

When they’re cuddled up that first night inside a tent, both of their bedrolls and sheepskins tucked around them, John rubs his ass back against Arthur and Arthur can’t help laughing in his ear.

“Marston, it’s fuckin’ freezin’. Ain’t no way you’re askin’ for anythin'. Even you couldn’t get it up in this weather.”

“Guess you’re right,” John sighs sullenly. “It’ll be nice to get to a town. I got a few ideas about what we could do, with the right supplies.”

Arthur’s mind wanders over what he means. He knows what some men get up to, but he’s never had the chance to ask about specifics. Some of the things he’s heard about sound painful or unappealing. He thinks to talk to John about it, but now probably isn’t the right time.

“Well, keep it in your pants until we’re out of the snow, at least.” Arthur huffs, letting an arm snake over his waist. The warmth they both produce is enough, at least, to keep them living through the night.

*

“The Lagoon is just off to the east,” John says when they stop one afternoon a few days in.

They’ve fallen into another routine, by now, throwing a small camp together in a matter of minutes, practiced and precise from years of living on roads. Arthur couldn’t ask for a more competent travel partner— aside from Charles, maybe.

When Arthur leads their ride, he can feel John’s gaze on him. When he turns to look, though, John is always looking ahead or out, eyes scanning the trees, and Arthur begins to wonder if he’s just imagining things. When John leads, Arthur lets his own eyes linger on the shape of him, as at home in a saddle as Arthur is.

He can’t believe that John found him all the way out here, holed up in the snowy mountains. All because of a little cabin on his map that he’d marked years back.

Now, they stand at a crossroads, Barrow Lagoon to the east, the way out straight ahead. It’s been a hard day, but they’re nearing the pass out of the mountains, and they have a decision to make.

“Looks like there’s a cabin on the north side of the lake. Another few miles out of the way, though.”

“I know the place,” Arthur grunts. “Nicer than Cairn, last time I seen it. But it's pretty out of the way.”

“We camp on this side of the lake, then.” John says, folding the map back up “I’m thinkin' just in there, past that cluster of trees,” he says, pointing up the path.

“Sounds fine.”

He’s dead tired, hasn’t ridden these sorts of long days in weeks. His ass is already starting to bruise from being back in the saddle.

“Do you hear that?” John asks, and Arthur stills, listening.

“Tucker! Tucker!” A voice calls, echoing off the trees.

To the east, down the trail, they spot a figure trudging through the snow bank, wrapped in a long, grey winter coat. He trudges up the side of a drift, stumbling and then steadying himself before cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Tucker, where are you!?” He shouts, voice pitched high in fear.

“That’s one of them kids I saw on the way in,” John says, urging his horse into a trot. Arthur knows the same kids he’s talking about.

When the boy sees them, his face falls, but he comes bounding down the drift anyway.

“You there, please stop a minute!” He calls, waving his hat at them.

“What’s the problem?” John asks, pulling Rachel to a stop.

“I’m lookin’ for my friend,” the kid says, looking from Arthur to John and back as he puts his hat back on his head. His brown hair, a bit shaggy and in need of a cut, pokes out from under it at messy angles “You… You fellas came up here separate, didn’t you?”

“Turns out we know each other,” Arthur says, leaning over the horn of his saddle to rest his lower back. “What about your friend, now?”

“We was campin’, up by the cabin on the North side. Lookin’ for elk, but— my friend, Tucker, he went out to gather more firewood. I think he got lost in the storm.”

John frowns, looking over his shoulder at Arthur.

“I’m gettin’ real worried. I’ve searched everywhere but… His horse is even gone.” He wrings his hands together, brow bunching up, and Arthur can see how glassy his eyes are becoming. “I’m sorry to ask, but could you please help me look for him?” He looks between them.

John sighs, shoulders dropping in seeming defeat. Arthur already knows the answer they both will give.

“We’ll go out further into the hills,” Arthur says, pointing off the trail. “You stay down here, boy, in case he comes back.”

“Thank you, misters, really,” He says, hurrying back to his own horse.

Arthur gives John a look, and John shakes his head once. They send Rachel and Rowan up the side of the hill.

“Don’t like these odds, Morgan,” John says. “Damn. They barely got beards. What’re they doing way the hell out here, hunting in the mountains alone?”

“It’s usually good weather, this time of year,” Arthur reasons. “I met ‘em, when I first came up this way, too. They came to the cabin to see if it were empty, but I’d already took up there.” The horses begin high-stepping again as they hit a drift.

“Terrible, losin’ your buddy up here.” John sighs, eyes scanning along the tree line.

Arthur’s mind mulls over what he knows, whether or not to tell John what he suspects. Considering what’s transpired between them as of late, he doesn’t see a reason not to.

“You know, Marston… I think them boys is together. Like… like you and me, sorta.” He murmurs. He feels suddenly awkward, referring to them as one thing, but he supposes it’s true all the same.

John whips his head around to stare at him.

“Shit. Really? How you know that?”

“Like I said, I met ‘em. They came knockin’ on the door. Too polite for their own good.” Arthur grumbles. “They apologized for disturbin’ me, but I could just… tell. By how they moved around each other. Looked at each other. I sent ‘em on with some food, at least.”

“Shit,” John repeats, quieter. “Didn’t even realize. I’m usually good at that sort of thing…” He seems perturbed.

“If… if the other boy fell down, hurt himself… he could be buried under four feet of snow, by now,” Arthur says gravely.

“Freezin’ to death…” John shudders. “I really hope he’s waitin’ in some hollowed-out cliffside somewhere.”

Arthur frowns, picturing John sat on a ledge up in the cliffs, bleeding and starving.

“You got lucky, John,” Arthur says quietly. “Other people don’t get that lucky, most of the time.”

John frowns at him, looking like he wants to say something more.

Arthur spots something up ahead, shining out in a clearing of the trees-- bloodied snow.

“John,” He says, pointing and sending Rowan into a canter.

They approach the large patch of red ice. Not too far from it, there’s a body heaped over a large rock. The coat it wears is grey and soaked in blood.

“Aw, hell,” John says as Arthur dismounts.

Up close, it looks even worse, blood dripping down the side of the rock, frozen in rivulets before it reaches the snow. He tries to pull the body up to look at its face, but some of the blood on the coat is frozen to the rock, and he has to wrench it away with a sickening crack.

“Ah,” Arthur grimaces, recognizing the face of the body as the other kid.

He’s got a bit of scruff growing on his chin and jaw, at least the side that hasn’t been torn up, but the youth in his face makes Arthur’s heart twist up ugly. His wounds scrape down his neck, but pick back up in severity along his torso, coat split open in a few places by claws, blood seeping out and frozen.

His eyes are closed. His hair is long and dark like John’s.

“It’s him,” Arthur says faintly. He feels a bit ill. “He’s been attacked by… by somethin’. You might ought to go let the boy know, before he wanders off lookin’. I’ll… I’ll try to bring this one back down.” He sighs heavily.

“Alright,” John says, sounding off as well. He pulls Rachel’s reigns around, sending her back down the hill, and Arthur looks once more at all the blood spilled out over the icy snow. There are no other tracks around aside from the boy's boots, so he must have walked here. He’d been only a quarter mile away from Barrow Lagoon, from his friend.

“Nn,” a voice gurgles, and Arthur whirls around. There’s only the body slumped over the rock, and Arthur’s heart picks up in his chest.

“Jesus Christ, boy, you still alive?!” He hisses, reaching out to hoist him up by the shoulders. He removes one of his gloves, pushing past the boy’s scarf and pressing his fingers to his pulse. His skin is cool, but not frozen. Very faintly, he can feel a heartbeat.

Without thinking, he begins stripping off Tucker’s coat, replacing it with his own.

*

John’s heart is in his throat as the kid runs toward him. His face is more terrified than it had been before, and he uncomfortably recognizes the emotion there.

“Did you find him?” He asks, hope in his voice. John’s pushes a breath out through his nose harshly.

“Uh… yeah. He’s up the hill a ways… Listen, friend.” John hesitates. “You might not want to see him.”

“W-What?” He staggers a step, face falling blank. “Oh, god,” He gasps, turning and running for his horse. Before John can turn Rachel around to stop him, he’s taken off in the direction John had come from. John races after him, only praying that Arthur’s gotten the body laid out more dignified by now.

He doesn’t have to imagine what the kid must be feeling, to find his loved one dead. It makes an ugly fear rise in John’s throat. He doesn’t want to watch this scene play out in front of him, not at all. He also wants to see Arthur, immediately, to hold him, make sure he’s still real and alive. He spurs Rachel on faster.

In the clearing, Arthur has the body in his arms. But his coat is off, wrapped around the kid's body. John blinks, hope blooming in his chest that maybe they’d been wrong.

The kid jumps from his horse, stumbling through the snow as he races to Arthur’s side.

“Oh, god, Tucker—“ He gasps, and John’s throat tightens.

Arthur meets his eye, frantic, calling for action, and John leaps down.

“He’s alive,” Arthur says. “But just barely. We gotta get him someplace warm, and fast.”

John’s pulse quickens as he jumps into action, racing to Arthur’s other side to help carry the kid— who isn’t so much a kid than a young man— to the horses.

A loud snarl stops them all in their steps, and John turns to see something crash through the trees.

A grizzly, big as a horse, wide as it is tall, comes seemingly out of nowhere, plowing through the snow like a train on a track, heading straight for them. It heads for the other boy— the first body in its path.

“Christ!” The boy shrieks as the bear's muzzle closes around his coat, slinging him around and down into the snow.

“Hey!” John shouts without hesitation, charging at the beast as its muzzle snuffles around like a hound dog looking for its prey in the snow.

John brings his boot down on its head, once, twice, connecting heavily with its snout. It barely seems to touch the massive creature.

“Hey!” He shouts again, and the bear looks up, one grizzled eye staring him down. John takes a step back, trying to draw it away from the kid.

“John!” Arthur bellows, anger and fear all balled up into one word.

John can only keep his eyes trained on the bear in front of him, afraid if he takes his eyes off it for even a moment, it could take his hand— or his arm.

His plan works— the bear abandons the boy in the snow, charging straight for him.

He’d dodge out of its way, if not for his boot toe snagging in a raised root poking out of the ice just underfoot. He goes down, his arm just enough in the way to catch the bear's full mouth of teeth.

The sound of his coat ripping fills the air, and he can feel the flesh in his forearm being shredded. He shouts in fear.

The bear lifts him a few feet, standing on its hind legs as it tosses him around into the snow. John howls in pain, his arm hot and bloody against the ice. He uses the same arm to shield his face and neck, his other hand scrambling for his pistol, his knife, anything, please, but he’s not sure at this point if it’s any use. It’ll take a shotgun with how massive this beast is— it’s got him pinned, all he can see is fur and teeth—

A rifle goes off just a foot from his head, and John reels back. The sound of it makes his teeth buzz together as his hearing fades out entirely, leaving only a shrill ringing in his head.

The bear goes still.

John feels something warm and wet, and when he looks down, he sees the insides of its head sprayed out across the snow and his clothes. It staggers a step before slumping over right onto him. It doesn’t crush him only thanks to the snow compacting unevenly around them.

He scrambles to get out from under it, but strong hands grab him under the shoulders, dragging him out the rest of the way, and he shouts in pain as his forearm scrapes against hard chunks of frozen snow.

Arthur brings him to his feet, turning him around to face him. John watches his mouth move, speaking to him, lips forming words to sentences. It takes a few bated moments before sound finally fades back in, and John releases his held breath, thankful. Some men never get their hearing back at all.

“John,” Arthur stresses, not for the first time. He’s panicked, voice running haggard.

“Yeah,” John finally returns.

Arthur reaches for his arm, pulling it up to look at it. John’s coat is shredded through, and underneath it, deep gashes from teeth and claws glisten and ooze. It’s a bloody mess. But his arm is intact, and a cursory test shows that all of his fingers still work.

“Christ, John, Christ,” Arthur huffs, gripping both his shoulders almost painfully as he stares at him wide-eyed. John stares back. “What in the goddamn hell was you thinkin’, you—“

“Tuck,” the other kid gasps, flailing out of the place he’d fallen in the snow. He stumbles and sprawls toward his unconscious friend.

“C’mon,” Arthur says, voice stilted and tight. “Need to get him— and you, someplace warm.”

John winces as he rotates his shoulder, making sure he can still move.

Arthur heaves Tucker onto the back of his horse, securing him as gently as he can. The other kid is beside himself watching before Arthur orders him to mount up and stick close.

John climbs atop Rachel and lets her fall into line behind Rowan, a natural trail horse, and he’s thankful he doesn’t have to direct her with his one working arm.

The kid rides next to Arthur, staring at Tucker nearly the entire way, eyes wet in the corners as he tries not to cry.

“What’s your name, kid?” John asks.

The boy glances at him briefly, blinking away his tears.

“Hunter, sir.”

“I’m John. That’s Arthur,” John says, but the kid doesn’t seem entirely focused enough to hear him.

They’re near enough to the cabin on the north side of Barrow Lagoon. John can see from a ways off that there’s a tent set up outside the cabin, a small fire smoldering next to it.

“That fire yours? Is someone in the cabin?” Arthur asks, urging Rowan forward when the snow begins to thin. John can see some muddy ground breaking through.

“No,” The kid says. “It were sealed shut when we got here. Didn’t— Didn’t want to risk breakin’ in, so…”

“Alright,” Arthur climbs down when they've reached the camp. His boots echo off the deck as he climbs the stairs and assesses the front door.

John winces as he slides from Rachels's back, hissing as his arm wrenches against the horn. His skin burns, and he hopes that it’s only a reaction to the tearing and not some sort of sickness setting in.

Arthur stands back and brings his foot down twice against the door, the handle twanging as the bolt bends in, and the door bursts inward.

“Jesus…” Hunter mutters, watching wide-eyed.

“C’mon, kid,” John says, grabbing his attention. “Help me get your friend down.”

Tucker is heavier than his thin frame appears. He must be more muscle than he looks.

“It’s dry,” Arthur calls, coming out of the cabin. “And clean enough.” He takes over for John and Hunter, lifting the boy all on his own.

_____________________________

When Arthur is six years old, his father trips him as he’s running past the front porch of their small house. The way his father stares blankly at him after the fact, waiting to see his reaction, will stick in his head for a long time after.

Arthur cries.

He’s scraped his elbow and skinned both of his knees. There’s dust in his eyes, but he can clearly see the way his father scoffs and rolls his own.

His mother comes hurrying out of the house to scoop him up, calming and cooing. As she carries him back inside, he can see the dark look that his father sends after them.

He doesn’t have to know what hate is to know that his father feels it for him. And he seems to dislike him even more when his mother tends to Arthur’s injuries, or wipes breakfast crumbs from his face, or sits by his bedside telling stories at night.

When Arthur’s supposed to be asleep, he can hear his father’s harsh voice from the next room arguing with his mother, calling Arthur a pansy and a petunia. He doesn’t understand what flowers have to do with anything, but he thinks he does understand the terms ‘mama's boy’ and ‘soft’.

Arthur is six. And he doesn’t understand why the man who is responsible for him doesn’t like him.

____________________

“Keep that lantern steady, boy,” Arthur instructs as he begins to thread up a needle.

“Y-yes sir,” Hunter stammers.

John tends the wood stove in the middle of the room, his arm throbbing all over, and watches the three huddled bodies at the bottom bunk of the two stacked beds.

Arthur had put Hunter to work straight off, gently instructing him on how to help clean Tucker’s wounds and bandage up the lesser of them.

It had been the first and only time John had seen any life from Tucker’s body, the boy jolting off the bed when iodine was splashed over the cavity in his chest, making a shrill, broken sound. Hunter had startled, looking horrified, but then he’d been right back on him, speaking softly but hurriedly into his ear.

“How long you two been travelin’ together, Hunter?” Arthur asks, voice strangely serene as he works on sewing up the worst of Tucker’s chest.

“Four years, sir,” Hunter stammers.

Arthur whistles appreciatively. “Four years, that’s a long time.” He keeps his eyes on what he’s doing, entirely focused.

“We met when we was fifteen.” Hunter continues. “And we been best— best friends ever since.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, nodding. “You been travelin’ together all that time? Makes you, what, nineteen? Pretty young to be this far out on your own, ain’t you?”

“Well… we lived in Strawberry, before. That’s where we met. We was friends, for a while. But… but then we had to leave.” He falters, and John sees a mask go up over his features. “And anyway, we decided to stick together. And we been on our own ever since. It’ll be five years, in a few months.”

“It’s nice to have a friend to go through life with,” John pipes up. Arthur glances at him over his shoulder, flash of blue eyes in the lantern light.

The stove finally begins to burn steadily, and John scoots his chair closer to it, holding his arm near to try to take the chill away from his aching bones as his other hand riffles around in his satchel for something to help.

“Yeah…” Hunter trails off. “He—He’s gonna be alright, ain’t he, mister?”

Arthur is quiet for a moment. John can see his mind working. Then he nods, once but firmly.

“Think so. We’re doin’ what we can. Tucker’s pretty strong, ain’t he? Takes a lot to get away from a bear and survive a cold night with these sorta wounds.”

“Tuck’s the strongest man I know,” Hunter says with absolution. “We… we been lookin’ after each other. But Tucker’s stronger.”

“I’m sure. Look, his eyes are openin’.”

John turns to look, then.

“Tucker?” Hunter says, pressing a knee onto the mattress to lean over him, holding the light up. “Tuck, you’re gonna be alright.”

John finds it hard to look at, again. Thankfully, he finds the clear bottle he'd been looking for— a strong moonshine. He takes a big swig of it before he begins pouring it over his arm. He grits his teeth, grunting, despite the alcohol easing up his nerves from the inside.

He’s sipping from the bottle again when he catches Hunter’s eye on him.

“What?”

“Just… thank you, mister. You got that bear off me before it could do any harm.” His voice is quiet but sincere.

“Ah…” John waves his hand, feeling self-conscious. “Well, I’m just more accustomed to animal attacks, is all.” He points to his face, trying to grin nonchalantly. He catches another flash of Arthur’s blue eyes directed his way. “We been friends since we was younger, too,” John adds, waving a hand at Arthur.

“I don’t really count those early days, though.” Arthur says without missing a beat, shaking his head in over-exaggeration, for Hunter’s sake. He turns back to the bunk, tying off a knot in the thread. “On account of him bein’ a half-wit reprobate. Barely a human, honestly.” John can’t see him, but he can hear the smirk in his voice. “Some rangy nineteen-year-old, skinny as a post.” It makes Hunter huff a laugh, which had been the point.

“Yeah, well. Better than bein' a big, brainless lug, I’d say.” John quips back. He watches Arthur’s shoulders shake once.

“Probably right.” Arthur stands from the bunk at long last. “Right. Hunter… you mind keeping your— your friend here warm for a while? He could use the extra heat.” Arthur says.

Hunter nods hurriedly, beginning to pull off his coat and boots, and working on his outer layers. He climbs onto the cot.

Tucker can’t speak, but he tilts his head, just slightly, to look at him.

“Now you,” Arthur says admonishingly, coming to stand over John.

John groans as Arthur drags up another chair, needle and thread in hand. He hates getting poked and prodded at.

“That’s what you get,” Arthur says gruffly, thunking down in front of him. “When you play stupid games with a goddamn grizzly bear—”

“Yeah, yeah,” John sighs, letting his head fall back. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Arthur works quietly, and John doesn’t make a sound as he laces up the gashes in his forearm. It won't heal pretty, not unless they make it to a doctor in time, and that’s all only if it doesn’t get red hot and sick with puss before then. John hopes he doused it in enough moonshine.

When he chances a glance back at the bunk, he catches Hunter only a few inches from Tucker’s face, a finger resting on his chin. He wouldn’t see it if he weren’t looking for something like it, and he turns away to watch Arthur’s face.

“Funny, ain’t it?” John whispers.

“What?”

“What you think the chances are of two pairs of queer men bein’ all the way up here on the same trail?”

“Oh,” Arthur swallows, his brow furrowing up. John realizes that perhaps Arthur hadn’t considered being a queer man until this moment. “It is... odd, I guess… But outsiders of all sorts find keepin’ to themselves easiest. Easy to keep to yourself, up here.”

“S’pose.” John sighs. “Well, either way… they’re lucky we was ridin’ by when we was.”

“Very lucky. And you’re lucky that bear didn’t leave you with one arm. Or worse— no face.” Arthur says, voice hardening.

John snorts at him. “No lips to kiss.”

Arthur’s eyes snap up at him. “Quiet,” he warns.

“What’re they gonna do?” John scoffs. They both chance another look at the two, but it seems that the boys are in their own world. “It's hard to be that young and on your own. Least they got each other.”

“Yeah. If they can make it 'til they’re bigger and meaner… they’ll probably live long lives. Even with that sorta hardship.” Arthur says.

John wants to kiss him at that moment. Doesn’t.

With John’s arm sewn and wrapped, they both begin moving around the cabin, setting up a small, makeshift camp-- checking windows and holes in the walls, setting a pan over some hot coals.

Hunter watches them from his spot in the bunk, Tucker’s eyes long closed, the boy presumably passed out.

“Thank you, both,” Hunter says in a lull of movement. “I mean it. More than I can say.” His voice is thick with emotion.

John waves a hand, and Arthur folds his arms, both shying away instinctually from the gratitude.

“You’ll have to wait until he’s well enough to travel before you move him. Maybe a day or so. And then, he needs to get to a real doctor.” Arthur starts.

Hunter’s face goes a shade paler. The expression on his young face reminds John of a kicked puppy. Arthur must notice it too because he grunts.

“Don’t worry, boy. We ain’t gonna leave you to fend for yourselves.”

Hunter closes his eyes momentarily in relief.

“I’ll get some supper started,” Arthur says. “Marston, maybe you ought to make up some beds on the floor.”

“I’m the injured one of us, ain’t I?” John says with no real seriousness. Wrapped up and liquor beginning to warm and soothe his aches, he can handle retrieving the bedrolls, at least.

As John begins to loosen up the girths on the saddles, Hunter joins him, hurried movements as he begins to help.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” Hunter tells him. “Mister—er, Arthur, he told me to come out an’ make sure you don’t exert yourself.”

“I’m sure,” John scoffs.

Hunter’s face is pinched, but he keeps himself quietly busy. Anxiety rolls off his shoulders. When he begins unloading supplies from his own horse, John pities him enough to approach him.

“Look, kid,” He starts, keeping his voice down. “You— You ought to sleep next to Tucker tonight. It’s cold, after all.”

Hunter’s head snaps up to look at him.

“Naw, there ain’t no need for that,” Hunter says, “He seems to be warmin’ up just fine with the fire, and all. Cabin’s airtight.”

“Sure, but…” John frowns. “Kid, it’s alright. You understand?”

Hunter stares blankly at him.

John is afraid, in a frantic, abstract way, for both the boys. He has a vague, awful daydream of Tucker passing in the night, either from the cold or his wounds, and Hunter asleep on the floor, unknowing until morning when they find his body, lifeless in bed. It’s an awful thought.

“It’s all fine. He just survived a bear and a blizzard, for Christ’s sake. You ought to spend as much time with him as you can.”

Hunter’s face falls in trepidation, the realization of being caught. He looks suddenly ashamed, standing there in front of John.

“M’sorry, mister. Don’t wanna make ya’ll uncomfortable.” He says, voice quiet.

“You don’t,” John insists. “It ain’t that strange, alright?”

“It ain’t?” Hunter doesn’t look convinced.

“I mean… maybe it’s unusual. But… It ain’t that unusual. I… I mean, I’m…” John swallows, brow quirking, hoping that it conveys something.

It takes Hunter a moment, but his eyes go round like plates before he quickly schools his face.

“No way,” Hunter huffs in disbelief as John begins unbuckling the girth of Rachel’s saddle.

“Sure don’t look it, do I?” John teases.

“What’s a queer man look like?” Hunter shoots back softly, and John pauses.

“Don’t really know, come to think of it.”

*

They eat a meager dinner of cured meat and some canned beans that Hunter has tucked away in his bag.

When they all trudge to their beds, Hunter hesitates at the end of the bunk, looking at Tucker before looking back between Arthur and John. John can practically see the anxiety still rolling off of him, and he’s really too exhausted to be worrying about the boy, tonight.

“Arthur,” He barks, grabbing Arthur’s attention as he makes up his bed. “Hunter’s gonna keep Tucker company in the bunk. That alright by the doctor’s orders?”

Arthur glances between John and Hunter. He sighs deeply, pressing his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose. John knows they’ll be having words about him meddling, but John’s too tired to care about that, either.

“‘Course, it’s fine.” Arthur nods to the kid.

Arthur double-checks the latch on the door, makes sure the smoke is piping out through the roof properly and throws one more log into the stove before laying down a few feet from John, their bedrolls laid out side by side.

“You better not be tellin’ some kid our business,” Arthur says quietly, turning on his side to face him.

“Sure, Arthur.” John scoffs, staring at the ceiling.

“I mean it, John,” Arthur warns. “It’s dangerous havin’ anyone know, even friends, even other—“ He quiets himself, glancing over at the two cuddled up on the bunk. The sound of fire crackling in the stove does a bit to help cover their voices.

“Look, don’t you think they deserve to know they ain't alone?” John insists. “Hell, I wish I’d known anyone when I were a kid. Other than you, of course.” Other than the men he’d serviced, though he’d never really counted them, considering they all looked at him with shame if he ever did see any of them again.

“I weren’t like that when I was a kid,” Arthur says, voice softer, anger quelled. “I didn’t even know I were capable of— of feelin’ that way until you.”

“Me, huh?” John asks. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Yes, with you. You think I made a habit of goin’ around kissin’ men?”

“No,” John laughs quietly. “Thought you were such a stick in the mud, you weren’t interested in no one, least not that you gave away. Other than— well, you know. Misses Linton.”

“I… I really weren’t interested in no one.” Arthur huffs, turning onto his back. “When we… we did what we did, that’s the first time I’d even considered the possibility.” He trails off. “Well, anyway.”

“It’s alright, Arthur.” John reaches over and pats his chest with his good hand, almost patronizingly. “I like that you don’t like just anyone. I had to work to get you to even see me as a friend.” He chuckles. “Feels like an even sweeter victory.”

Chapter Text

Six

“Mister?”

John wakes with his face pressed between Arthur’s shoulder blades, fingers curled into the hem of his overshirt. It’s barely light out. Arthur snores, arms crossed over his chest where he lays on his side. It’s icy cold in the cabin.

“Mister,” Hunter repeats, standing over them.

John pulls away from Arthur and stretches his legs. Arthur sits up, visibly uncomfortable with how close they’d been.

“I’m helpin’ Tucker outside— he’s got to piss,” Hunter explains.

John looks and is relieved to see Tucker sitting up in bed, dark hair disheveled and face looking like he’s been hit by a train, sure— but breathing and alive.

“You pulled through after all, boy,” Arthur says, pushing himself out of his bedroll. He looks over the bandages across Tucker’s face and chest. “How you feel?”

“Like hell warmed over,” Tucker says with a thick, rough drawl. His voice is a few octaves deeper than John had expected going by his youthful appearance. He looks between Arthur and John. “But… Hunt says you saved both our lives. Thank you. Thought I were dead for sure.”

When the two of them hobble out the door, Hunter tucked under the other's arm, holding him around the ribs, morning sun streams into the cabin and Hunter exclaims, “Look at that! Delilah came back in the night.”

John sets water onto the metal oven top for coffee, and when the door shuts behind the boys, he strides up to Arthur, grabbing him by the collar of his over-shirt and dragging him into a kiss.

Arthur looks stunned when he pulls away.

“I ain’t goin’ a day without it. So you’d best get used to it.” John says.

Arthur scoffs, brushing a hand across his mouth, but then takes John's chin between his index and thumb.

“Fine. But perhaps, Mister Marston, you ought to think about lettin’ your beard grow again. Never know if those boys mighta seen your picture, somewhere.”

He sighs, then nods. “Fine.”

John steps out for a piss after a while of the boys not coming back.

He stops short at the sight of a fourth horse standing in the lineup, saddle and bridle still on and covered in a thin layer of frost. It must be Tucker’s horse. She and Hunter’s stand shoulder to shoulder, familiar-like.

He rounds one corner of the cabin and nearly runs into Tucker and Hunter, connected at the mouths. The two jump apart, and John holds up his hands.

“Hell. I didn’t see nothin',” he mutters and marches back around the front deck to the other side. He hears hushed, panic driven voices echoing quietly off the trees as he relieves himself.

“It’s alright, Tuck, it’s alright. I promise—“ He listens to the hushed voices of the boys and doesn’t envy the fear that they must feel constantly. It’s no wonder they are hunters, out alone in the quiet of the mountains.

*

Back inside, he looks over their rations and contemplates how long it will last them all.

“We ought to hunt today, just to pad out our supply. Four mouths instead of two. We’ll see what them kids have on ‘em in terms of food.” John says. “I’m goin’ out first thing—“

“You’ve got a massive bite taken out of your arm,” Arthur interjects. “You’re gonna stay put in this cabin. And I’m gonna go out and get us something.” Arthur says, already pulling on his jeans over his long underwear.

“But—“

“Marston.”

“Christ, you remind me just of Abigail,” John mutters, and Arthur barks a humorless laugh.

“Unfortunately, I will not be as lenient as Abigail.”

John thunks down into a chair to wait, crossing his arms, wincing and then uncrossing them.

He watches Arthur fasten his suspenders and slip on his gun belt. Holding his rifle, he steps out onto the porch to look it over in the daylight, and a flurry of voices erupts.

From the left of the deck, Tucker whimpers harshly at the sight of Arthur’s rifle in hand, and Hunter doesn’t sound very sure either, stumbling over his words as he asks Arthur what’s going on.

Arthur quickly shoulders the gun, scowling in exasperation, and John bites back a grin.

“Christ, relax. M’just goin’ huntin’. For deer. You two get inside, make sure John don’t burn the place down. We’ll really be screwed, then.”

John’s getting tired of being the butt of the joke. Even if it is to put two kids at ease.

“I might do it just to spite you,” he says, and Arthur flashes a toothy grin at him before disappearing down the steps.

Hunter helps Tucker hobble inside quickly. Apprehension is still etched into both of their faces. John doesn’t blame them— Arthur can make an intimidating figure, even at the best of times.

“Throw that latch,” John says, scooting his chair up to the stove to pour some coffee.

*

He’s just about finished scrubbing bear blood out of his coat when a quick knock comes at the cabin door. Tucker bolts upright at the sound and then lets out a pained moan. John goes to let Arthur in.

The afternoon is blinding white behind him, and Arthur shakes his coat off before stepping inside. He heads straight for the stove.

“Anything good?” John asks.

“A big buck.” Arthur grins at him. He pulls off his gloves, holding them close to the stovetop. “It’ll feed us a few days and then some. We can cure the rest. Boy.” He says to Hunter. “You know anything about dressin’ deer?”

“Sure,” Hunter says, sitting up straighter, suddenly confident. “I been doing it my whole life.”

“Good man. Help me dress this one.” Arthur says, slipping his gloves back over his fingers.

Hunter follows Arthur out, standing a bit taller as he goes. It reminds John of himself when he’d been eager to impress Arthur and Dutch and Hosea, and whoever else was around to notice him.

Back on the bunk, Tucker looks all but beside himself, watching the door swing shut. He turns his gaze on John, and despite the fierceness of it, he's strained from his injuries, barely able to hold himself upright.

“He’s safe, ain’t he?” Tucker asks, the fear evident. John’s heart breaks a little. “Arthur, he— He wouldn’t—“

“Arthur would sooner jump in front of a train than harm a kid like Hunter,” John assures him. “He’s safe as can be with him. Probably safer than bein’ in here with us.” John laughs. Tucker doesn’t look so amused though.

John can tell that Tucker is cut from the same cloth as him— like a caged animal when he’s hurt. Like Arthur, too— the muscle, the protector. Keeping Hunter from the bulk of the dirty work.

“Look,” John sighs. “You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. You and your boy are safe here. Ain’t nothin’ gonna befall you, not from us. You got my word.”

“Well, that don’t mean a lot, mister, if you’ll forgive me for sayin’,” Tucker says stiffly.

“Well… I’m sure Hunter told you ‘bout me.” John says, quieter. Doubt crosses Tucker’s face. “He weren’t lying.”

“I s'pose…” Tucker strains to pull himself into a sitting position, leaning against the backboard of the bunk. “Lotta men might try to kill us for it. Some have tried, already.”

“Ah.”

“Couple men came sniffin’ around our camp, year or so back, out on the Dakota.” He grimaces. “Some of them Laramie boys. We didn’t know they were there. And they seen us. We was just kissin’, nothing obscene. But they dragged Hunter out of our tent. They were gonna drown him in the river. And I— I shot ‘em with my hunting rifle. One shot, clear through both of ‘em. Bang.” He whispers, eyes drifting to the door of the cabin. “In cold blood.”

“Well…” John sniffs. “That ain’t cold blood, kid. You were protecting someone.”

“I mean, mister, that I didn’t care one bit that they died. I didn’t flinch, didn’t even hesitate. They didn’t expect it outa me. Some kid.” He scoffs. “I was glad they died.”

Same cloth. “I’m glad too,” John says, matter of factly. “Don’t need men like that walkin’ around. Cowards who would try to drown a kid… just for lovin’ someone.”

Tucker meets his eyes, flash of something other than doubt or fear, this time. Possibly respect.

“Agreed.”

John doesn’t tell Tucker about the first man he ever killed.

*

“We’re eatin’ good tonight, boys,” John crows as he uses a poker to turn over the cuts of venison sizzling on the cast iron. Hunter had pulled a few bundles of herbs from his satchel and told John they’d pair well, and dinner had been smelling mighty tasty since then.

“You good at cookin’?” John asks, doing as he’s told with the seasoning.

“Naw. That’s Tuck. He likes cookin’.” He chances a little look back, and they both watch Tucker flip through one of Arthur’s books, brow furrowed in concentration. “He ain’t learned how to read from his parents. So I been teachin’ him.”

“I didn’t learn to read till I were nineteen, neither,” John says.

“Did Arthur teach you?”

“Nah, it were mostly—“ He stops mid-sentence, scene flashing in his mind of Dutch and Hosea perched on stools over him, sat on a log, book open in Hosea’s lap, arguing softly between themselves on the best way to teach John about punctuation. “Um. It were a couple of fellers I used to know. Took me in, taught me some stuff.”

“I see,” Hunter nods. “That was kind of them.”

“Yeah,” John feels troubled in the depths of his subconscious, so he shakes his head and turns to look at Arthur polishing up the barrel of his rifle. “Er, Arthur, crack open that whisky— the last of it.”

______________________________

John frowns down at the book laid open on the table before him.

The words “Sometimes With One I Love” are printed out at the top of the page. He’s been working on copying the poem onto his own piece of paper.

Nearby, a few of the men are gearing up to go on a day's journey south. John watches them from the corner of his eye. Davey, brushing his stallion, and Javier, their newest, telling about a time when he was twenty and blackout drunk on the border of El Paso and Juarez.

Nearby, Arthur is stuffing his satchel full of spare ammunition.

“Keep working on that, John,” Hosea tells him as he passes by, and John bites down on his lip to keep from snapping at him.

He’d just gotten back from his own job the day before— a high-stakes poker game in the town of Corey— but he’s already rearing to go on another. And it’s not only because Arthur Morgan is going on this one.

When he glances back again, Arthur is smirking at him, a little flash of teeth.

John scoffs, looking back down at the page of Whitman poetry and pushing his head into his hand.

“He got you readin’ Uncle Walt?” Arthur asks, sauntering over.

John tries to keep his cheeks from burning and shrugs to cover his embarrassment.

“Yup. Ain’t sure what good poetry’s gonna do an outlaw,” John says.

“Well…” Arthur hums, leaning his hip against the table. “Dutch likes for everyone to be well rounded. Says the arts help folk keep their humanity.”

“Ah,” John says. He’s never had the luxury of caring about ‘the arts’, before. “If you say so.”

“I don’t,” Arthur laughs. “Hosea and Dutch do, though.” He leans over, peering at the page. “That’s one of my favorites,” he drawls, then pushes off the table. “Good luck with your letters, cowboy,” he calls over his shoulder, and John watches him go.

It’s the first time John can remember Arthur being so openly friendly and conversational.

He studies the poem harder, trying to understand the significance of each word in conjunction with the others as he writes it out, wondering what it might be that Arthur likes about it so much.

_________________________

They have an early start, coffee warming their bellies along with leftover venison from the night before.

“I’d love some eggs,” Hunter sighs as he saddles up his horse. “All fried up in a pan with butter. Or even scrambled.”

“My ma always added cream to ‘em. Made ‘em fluffier,” Tucker murmurs from where he stands leaning heavily against the hitching post.

Arthur and John glance at each other curiously as they listen to the idle talk of the boys.

A shaky alliance has been drawn between them all, with the shared goal of making it out of the snow and getting John and Tucker to a doctor as quickly as possible.

They're faced with the dilemma of long, hard days riding that will get them to town faster but make healing more difficult, or the prolonged journey of short days with more time for rest but more time for sickness to set in.

Tucker can’t hold himself up in a saddle for longer than a few minutes, they find out shortly. With no wagon or cart, it leaves him sat up behind Hunter, leaning heavily into him for hours at a time. While Tucker seems miserable about this, Hunter looks almost giddy at the way Tucker leans into him, an arm loosely wrapped around his middle.

They switch off between their horses to save both’s backs and come mid-afternoon, Tucker looks sick in the face with pain, so Arthur calls it.

“Let’s set up for the night,” he says, finding a clear spot. “We go on any longer, the strain’s gonna start pullin’ on his stitches.”

The snow is beginning to become patchy, and John has hope that they’ll be seeing the last of it come tomorrow.

“Tuck’s pretty warm,” Hunter announces after he’s come out of one of the two tents they’ve set up. “Worried he’s gettin’ sick.”

“I’ll mix up some of that stuff Hosea used to make,” Arthur tells John, and John understands this to mean he’s to take over supper. He watches Arthur set about mixing up a paste with his mortar and pestle. After he’s got it boiling in some water over the fire, he sets it into a patch of snow to cool it and then hands it to Hunter.

“Make sure he gets all that down. It should help ease the heat, a bit. And take some of the sick.”

“Thanks, sir,” Hunter says, proper-like.

“I’ll take first watch,” Arthur offers when they’ve eaten. It’s a part of roughing it they both know well. With this many people and tents and a fire, keeping watch is necessary.

John sleeps in Arthur’s tent, and wakes briefly to two murmured voices outside.

“Mister,” Hunter says quietly. “I’ll take second.”

“You ought to get more sleep, boy. Get John up.”

“It’s alright,” Hunter says. “I slept some. That stuff you gave Tuck, I think it’s workin’. He’s sleepin’ soundly. Don’t feel as warm.”

“Good, good,” Arthur grunts.

“I’d like to take second,” Hunter repeats, and Arthur sighs through his nose.

“Alright. Shout if you hear anything.”

“Right.”

When Arthur crouches into the tent, settling down next to him, John throws his arm over his chest to pull him close. Arthur doesn’t chastise him a bit, only tucks his icy fingers into the crook of John’s arm.

*

They make it out of the snow at long last.

There’s slush on the ground, but after a few hours, it makes way for green things— shrubs and grasses, purple flowers bunched together in the mist. It’s still freezing, and now it’s a wet cold, but it’s preferable only because it means they’re heading for warmer terrain.

Arthur coughs a bit when they’ve been riding against the wind for a while, and John nearly breaks his neck whipping around to look at him.

Arthur stares at him confused before clearing his throat. Then he seems to understand. “Ain’t nothin’, John. It’s cold and wet out.”

John feels a sudden, sinking terror in his chest that Arthur’s sickness could come back. He doesn’t understand very much about what Arthur'd had, but he knows that all sorts of things linger in the body.

When they stop for the evening, he corners Arthur as he’s relieving himself a few steps from camp.

“M’alright, John,” Arthur huffs when John gets his fists in his lapels and pulls him close, chest to chest.

“You’re sure?”

“Mm. Very sure. If I weren’t, you’d be the first to know.”

“I’d better be,” John growls. “If you got sick again and didn’t tell me, I’d kill you myself.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur chuckles, and his voice sounds clear as ever. John swallows, willing his nerves back down. “Can’t explain how but… I’m sure I’m done with that mess.” Arthur says quietly, running his hands up John’s arms to his wrists.

“Still. Ought to kiss you,” John reasons. Just to make up some lost time, he doesn’t say.

*

“No way,” Hunter says in awe, taking the lion's paw from Arthur and turning it over in his hands. “Tuck, it’s real.”

“There ain’t no way that’s a real lion’s paw... Lemme see.” Tucker says, snatching it up and squinting suspiciously at it.

A few days out of the snow, back into dryer country, and they sit around a fire. Whisky has hit them all more potently than expected, making way for a relaxed, near-jovial air. John is struck with a strong nostalgia for the old days. He can nearly hear soft guitar music filling up the silent spaces between their talking, accompanied by a soft, smooth voice singing songs from Mexico.

To shake off the feeling, John had badgered Arthur to tell them all the tale of how he’d wrangled a lion in a barn in New Hanover; one of the more outlandish tales he’d read about in his journal.

Tucker stares at the paw for a long time, feeling over its old bones and rigid tendons, the rough pads of its toes, and his face morphs from disbelief to astonishment.

“Is it?” Tucker asks Arthur, a hint of hope on his face.

“Sure as sun,” Arthur says, looking over-smug.

“Damn,” Tucker exclaims, handing it back. “What sort of life you fellers lead to get into that sorta situation?”

“Well, I were really just doin’ a favor for an animal wrangler I happened upon…” Arthur says. “Come to think of it, don’t really know why I was doin’ it. Probably payment. Though...” He chuckles. “Didn’t look like the feller had a cent to his name.”

“Maybe you did it ‘cause you’re a nice person, somewhere deep down,” John says, poking his side. Arthur scoots away, scoffing at him.

“Fat chance. Maybe I just had to see what sorta animal he had dressed up as a lion.”

“Was you guns for hire then?” Tucker asks. He’s looking at them with curious eyes, almost starry in light of the whisky.

“Well, we just did a little bit of everything.” Arthur waves his hand dismissively. “Younger men… just got into trouble where we could find it.”

“Was you outlaws?” Hunter asks, and Tucker goes rigid beside him.

John looks to Arthur to see what he’ll say.

“If they was, you wouldn’t want to ask ‘em,” Tucker says hastily, though not unkindly, nudging his knee against Hunter’s.

“Ah… in a sense.” Arthur finally says, and John can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “I guess we still are, in some ways. Outlaws is just livin’ outside the law, ain’t it?” He raises a brow, eyeing the two. “I guess that makes you outlaws too, don’t it.”

In a lot of ways, Arthur sounds like Dutch. To John, he sounds better.

Tucker’s cheeks go red and he averts his eyes. John can see that ghost of fear return to his face.

“You know, I think you boys got the right of it.” John nods at them. “Just cause somethin’ is or ain’t a law don’t make it right. Does it?”

“Naw,” Arthur says. “You decide your morals.” He points at them. “Bein’ an outlaw can be a noble thing, I’d say. Be better than the law.”

“So you was, then?” Hunter asks.

John laughs. “Sure, kid.”

Tucker watches them with renewed interest, but whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself.

“We’ll go east tomorrow. I suspect you all want to steer clear of Strawberry. Y'all got any family to go to?” Arthur asks.

“No sir,” Tucker says, straightening.

“We ain’t got no family but each other,” Hunter adds, matter of fact.

Arthur nods in understanding. “In that case, we’ll head straight for Valentine. S’closer anyway. There’s a doctor there, he can make sure you’re doin' alright.”

“You’d take us all that way?” Hunter asks, slight frown. “You already done so much. Tuck’s doin’ a lot better, now. I’m sure we’d make it just fine on our own.”

“I’m sure you would,” Arthur answers. “But well, we’re headin’ that way anyway. We’re sorta on an errand of our own. Sides, there’s safety in numbers.”

Tucker stares solemnly at them both. “Thank y'all. Really.”

“Ain’t no thing.” Arthur says, standing up. “I’m gonna go out, make sure the perimeter’s quiet.” He nods at John.

John decides he likes watching Arthur take care of others.

“C’mon, Tuck,” Hunter urges him towards the tent. “Oughta get to sleep. Need the rest for the mornin'.” He helps the other up, sliding into place under his arm to help him into the tent.

John stands from the rock he’s perched on and stretches, a few bones popping back into place.

He pulls his bedroll closer to the fire, opting to sleep under the open stars next to Arthur now that the ground isn’t covered in snow. He waits, scratching at the skin around his arm. It’s begun itching as it stitches itself back together. It's starting to turn from horrid red to a pink color, which he takes to be a good sign.

Arthur returns a short while later, and John is already tucked into his sheepskins. Arthur takes his place on the rock John had sat on, just a foot away.

“I’m jealous of those two,” John tells him quietly. Arthur looks down at him, and then at the tent, drawn closed.

“How come?”

“They’re so young and they already found each other.”

“Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

“When I were that age, I barely knew I liked men. Or. At least, barely knew what it meant.” Arthur smiles, staring into the fire. John clears his throat. “If we was the same age, and we met when we was fifteen…?”

“We’d have tried to kill each other. Ain’t no doubt.” Arthur chuckles.

“S’pose you’re right.”

John snakes his good hand up to touch Arthur’s forearm. He stretches, slipping his fingers between Arthur’s.

“Ah, don’t be gettin’ soft,” Arthur grumbles, trying to untangle their fingers, but John holds on tight, squeezing until it hurts, and grins when Arthur hisses, finally letting up.

“Tonight were nice,” John says. “I don’t remember feeling so nice in a while.” He nods at the tent. “They’re so full of life, makes me feel younger too.”

“You’re only twenty-eight, John.”

“You ain’t much older. But… we feel old.” John sighs. “Twenty-eight hard years.”

“Yup.” Arthur sighs. “But, we go on.”

“Yup.”

*

“What’s wrong, Marston?” Arthur asks.

He’s looked back a few times and seen John’s dark, keen eyes shifting around the woods and down the path behind them. He can tell by the crease between his brows that John is perturbed by something.

They’re still in the woods, but their breath no longer shows in puffs in the daytime. It has evened out into hilly land, the mountains far in the distance behind them, snow-capped and beautiful.

They are thirty miles from Valentine.

“Ain’t sure…” John frowns. “Keep thinkin’ I hear somethin'.”

“What like an animal?” Hunter asks. Tucker stirs from his shoulder, groaning miserably.

“Like I said, ain’t sure.” John frowns. “Sun’s gettin' low, though. Ain’t sure it’s wise to stay on the road.”

“What’chu think, boys?” Arthur asks, looking to Hunter and Tucker.

“I’m alright,” Hunter says.

“I ain’t,” Tucker mutters. “Feels like my stitches are pullin’ somethin' fierce.”

“Maybe we ought to stop for the evenin’.” Arthur frowns. John looks at him over the boy's heads, but he can’t discern his feelings on the matter.

“Alright. Marston, hows about you take them further into the woods, get camp set up.”

“What about you?” John asks, eyes narrowing.

“I’m just gonna wait here on the road… see who comes along.”

John gives him a knowing look and a nod.

“See you in a while, then,” John says more solemnly. As he passes Arthur up, he pats his holster, and Arthur understands the sentiment. Stay safe.

John and the boys disappear into the thick of trees, and Arthur dismounts, setting his horse after Rachel. He props himself up against a trunk, leaning comfortably and stock still.

*

A short while later, when the setting sun’s begun to turn the sky a brilliant orange, he hears a few horsemen coming down the path. He slips around the trunk, just out of sight, and listens.

“Them feller’s seem to’ve come this way too,” one of them says. Their horses walk easy, heads low. When Arthur chances a look, he sees two country folk, unhurried and soft in the face.

“Yeah. Guess they was in a hurry. Don’t see ‘em on the trail in front’a us, no more.”

“Fine by me,” the first drawls. “Didn’t like the look of them two. You can tell bad un’s by how they ride.”

Arthur imagines that they mean he and John.

“You’re talkin’ nonsense, now,” the other laughs. “Your brother were the worst man I ever met, and also the most proper. Were into that English bullshit.”

“Sure enough. Still, the one with the black hair… He look familiar to you?”

Arthur slips around the back of the tree as they pass, growing weary.

He picks his way through the brush, following the light tracks of horses, and emerges onto the meager camp being set up.

“Arthur,” John greets stiffly. “How goes it?”

“Couple fellers passed by. Normal enough, but they seemed to know you.” Arthur says, pressing his lips together. He can tell both Hunter and Tucker are listening to them even as they attempt to appear busy. “They passed on to Valentine. Probably won’t cause no trouble if we get in and out of the doctor’s in the mornin’.”

*

“I’m a poor lonesome cowboy,” John wails as the fire begins to burn up the new log he’d thrown on.

“Here we go,” Arthur mutters, though he feels nothing but fond. They sit next to each other on a fallen tree. His thigh presses into John’s, warm and unusually close in the presence of others, mostly due to the new bottle of bourbon that Arthur’d found down in the bottom of his supply bag. It warms him from the inside, and watching John’s profile from this angle of the firelight makes his belly flip happily. He has to look away to keep the feeling from spreading southward. “Don’t start singin’, Marston.”

“Aw. You ain’t no fun.”

“Hunter can sing,” Tucker says.

The two of them sit across the fire on a few flat stones Hunter had found, their sheepskins spread over top.

“No I cannot,” Hunter laughs.

"Aw c'mon," John pesters him, voice quieter. "Just one song."

All of their voices go softer like they might break some magic that’s befallen the camp if they speak too loudly. “My mammy taught me to sing when I was small,” he admits after a moment.

“Mammy? You Irish, kid?” John asks.

“Father was a Scotsman,” Hunter says, shrugging. “Taught me a few old tunes. You know Loch Lomond?”

“Sure,” Arthur answers easily. “Hosea used to sing that one, some nights,” He adds, looking at John.

Tucker goads the other into singing finally, and John, bless him, joins in at the start to take the heat off.

Hunter’s voice isn’t as deep as Hosea’s, but it does bring back visions of days long past that Arthur hadn't expected. Hosea's arm around his shoulder, Dutch laughing as he leans into Annabelle. Comfortable nights with friends.

John swats gently at his shoulder with the back of his hand, reaching for the bottle, and takes a long swig of it. Arthur watches his throat bob, realizes that he can’t wait until they have some alone time again. It isn’t right that they’ve only had a day and a night together, so far.

In some moments, he might forget their relationship has shifted at all, riding long days, manning camps, all with an audience.

Other moments, when John's eyes linger on his or travel down his chest, Arthur remembers. He’s got a craving, unfamiliar but extremely welcome.

Hunter’s singing turns softer and softer, fading into the background, and Arthur can’t take his eyes off John, tracing up the scars in his cheek that cut through his short, dark beard. He swallows.

John chuckles at something, and Arthur realizes that Hunter’s voice has faded to nothing, and when he looks, he snorts a laugh. Hunter’s braced himself against Tucker’s good shoulder, their mouths no doubt pressed together behind Hunter’s hat that he’d pulled off hastily to cover their faces.

Arthur looks away, but John is right there in front of him.

“C’mere, fool,” he murmurs, barely audible, and cups the side of Arthur’s face, pressing in close.

Arthur lets his arms go slack as John kisses him. He gets lost in the feeling, just for a moment, of being wanted, sought after. He pulls back when he feels John’s tongue swipe across his bottom lip, humming in warning. He’s contemplating if he can haul John up and cart him off into the woods for a moment or two alone when Tucker or Hunter giggle about something.

Then one of them cuts off in a sharp gasp, and Arthur pulls away from John to tell them to knock it off when John is suddenly wrenched backward off the log.

Someone else yanks hard on the back of Arthur’s jacket, sending him sprawling.

“Well, lookie here,” a man’s scratchy voice drawls, long and mocking. A face appears in front of Arthur’s, framed by scraggly, black hair streaked with grey. “What are the chances? A whole camp of queers enjoyin’ a night under the stars.” His brow furrows up as he looks over Arthur’s face.

“Oh-ho, John Marston,” The other man says, hands hoisting John to his feet. Arthur struggles, throwing his weight back, but the man who has him dodges, keeping a firm grip on him and tossing him with his own momentum.

“Calm down, son,” the black-haired man says, his double barrel pointed straight at Hunter and Tucker. “If you don’t want them boys blown to kingdom come, you’ll hold still.”

“If we was bounty hunters, we’d get ourselves a pretty penny for you, John Marston,” the other says, spitting in John’s face. “Who’s that one?”

“No idea. Face looks familiar, but I ain’t seen him on any wall.” The man scoffs, shoving Arthur down.

“If you ain’t bounty hunters, who are you?” John questions. “You ain’t O’Driscoll’s. They’re all dispersed.”

Arthur chuckles darkly, trying to keep the men’s attention. “These are Laramie boys. Look at them bandanas. Paid thugs, is all.” The man holding John looks at him darkly over John’s shoulder. “What'chu doin’ this far South? Weren’t aware your jurisdiction came all the way to New Hanover.” Arthur directs at the one holding him. “Old timer like you—“

The black-haired man brings the butt of a pistol down on the back of Arthur’s head.

His vision goes spotty and he falls forward out of his control. He fights to stay awake, and he can hear John struggle, boots scuffing in the dirt, shouting now.

“Son’ova bitch, I’m gonna kill you—“

The tussle is just out of the corner of his eye, and when Arthur finally gets his head up, the butt of the pistol comes down again across his nose. He shouts, blood instantly spilling over his mouth, seeping between his lips, copper and warm.

“Shit, shit,” Hunter gasps, panicking.

“Run, Hunt!” Tucker shouts.

It’s chaos, and Arthur is only just recovering all of his faculties when a shot rings out. His chest leaps, and he twists around on the ground sloppily, eyes searching out John to see if he’s hit.

It’s the man holding John who goes down, the back of his head torn away with the shot. His deadweight slumps into a heap in the dirt.

When they all look, it’s Hunter who holds his rifle, eye still lined up down the sight, smoke rising from the barrel.

“Little piss ant,” the other man snarls, hand fumbling as he turns his pistol on the boys. Without a moment to spare, John draws and fires from the hip.

Two shots ring out, so close together that they might be mistaken for the same one.

The man goes down and Arthur scrambles to his feet, shaking his head to straighten his vision. His eyes run down the length of John, searching for wounds.

“Christ, Hunt,” Tucker cries. He’s clutching him, holding most of his weight as Hunter holds his gloved hands to his side, blood blooming across his shirt from a bullet.

“Shit,” John hisses, holstering his revolver and leaping across the fire. He rucks up Hunter’s shirt, only briefly glancing at the wound before snatching up Hunter’s hands and pressing them back in place.

“We ain’t got the supplies— that needs a doctor,” John says, meeting Arthur’s eyes. Arthur understands— some wounds can’t simply be sewn back together on the open road.

“You take Rowan.”

She’s the fastest horse Arthur’s ever had, and she’ll be even faster with John on her back instead of him. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“Your face okay?” John asks, looking pale as he takes in the blood running across Arthur’s mouth.

“Fine, just my nose. Hurry up, now,”

“Shit,” Hunter says, voice wobbling, eyes wide as he looks down at himself. “I ain’t never been shot, before.”

“Hunter, why—“ Tucker’s voice fails him. Arthur joins John in pulling Hunter away, hoisting him up onto the back of Rowan. “Wait—“ Tucker manages to croak.

“Love you, Tuck,” Hunter says, his own eyes wide with fear as John leaps onto Rowan in front of him.

“Hold on, kid. Keep a hand pressed to that, hard as you can,” Arthur says before smacking a hand down on the flank of his dark thoroughbred, sending her into a gallop. “And you, boy, c’mon,” Arthur instructs. He keeps his voice level as he braces a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “You’ll see him soon enough.”

He begins kicking dirt over the fire and Tucker stoops where he stands, staggering a step, holding a hand to his own wounds as he watches the dark, distant figure of John and Hunter disappear over a hill.

“We’ll leave these tents,” Arthur mutters, mostly to himself because it seems that Tucker has checked out. He snatches their bedrolls, at least, securing them haphazardly to the saddle of John’s horse, and gives the place a once over for any more of their personal belongings.

“Alright,” Arthur says, pulling Rachel off the hitch. “C’mon boy, keep your wits,” Arthur says soothingly, taking Tucker by the arm and pulling him to the horse. He heaves him on with a hand to his backside and then they’re off. Arthur whistles for the other horses and they fall into step behind Rachel with practiced ease.

“Christ, I feel like I’m dyin’ all over again,” Tucker says, voice a gasping sob.

“Were you hit?” Arthur demands, looking back over his shoulder.

“No,” Tucker sucks in a breath. “No, but if Hunter dies, I’ll— I’ll—“

“Okay, boy,” Arthur says, pushing Rachel as fast as he dares. Tucker’s wounds are still a great risk. “You just think about what you’re gonna tell him when you see him next. Think about somethin' you can give him. Somethin' that’ll make him happy. He saved all our lives, after all.”

“I’m gettin’ him a ring, for starters,” Tucker mutters. Arthur whistles lowly.

“A ring, huh?”

He’d never thought about that sort of thing, concerning men. He’d gotten one for Mary, once. When she’d turned him down, he’d sold it and given the money to Dutch to fund their next adventure. That rejection is a sore spot in his memory.

“Well, that’d make him happy. Right?” Arthur really doesn’t know, but Hunter seems more the sentimental type if he had to pick between the two.

“Sure would. He wanted to wear ‘em before, but I told him it were dumb.”

Arthur chuckles. “I’m sure everything seems dumb when you’re nineteen.”

“I’m gettin’ him one. Shiny silver band. He always liked silver better n’ gold. Not that we’ve ever owned anything made of either.”

“Good. You find him a nice band in town when you’re healed up.” Arthur says, eyes mapping their path through the dark foothills in front of them.

“You ever think about gettin’ a ring for yours, mister?” Tucker asks, and Arthur’s back goes rigid. He’s glad that Tucker can’t see the embarrassment on his face at the acknowledgment of his and John’s— whatever you’d call it.

“Naw. Ain’t sure it’s for us.” Arthur says, and at least he’s being honest. He’s never thought about it until this moment.

“Hm.” Tucker nods against his shoulder. “John and you… you’re outlaws. Real outlaws, ain’t you.” Not a question, but a statement.

“Why would you ask me that if you thought it were true?” Arthur scoffs, staring out ahead of them.

“Cause you’re good men.” Tucker sighs. His voice sounds more tired than ever. “I ain’t afraid of you. Not that I shouldn’t be. But… you musta had a good reason for doin’ whatever it was you did to become outlaws. Maybe just lovin’ another man. Maybe more. But you’s good.”

Arthur sucks on his teeth.

“Not near enough good reasons for doin’ half the things we did, boy. That’s the truth. I’m sure… we thought we was doin’ good, at the time.” He falters, frowning. “And who said anything about lovin’, anyway?”

“You two do love each other. That’s plain to see.”

“Well, sure, but… we was friends for a lot longer than we been… this. It’s that you’re pickin’ up on.” He insists.

“Whatever it is, it sure seems strong.”

*

It’s almost surley past midnight when they reach Valentine, but the town is still bustling— mostly around Smithfield’s Saloon and the hotel across the street. Keane’s down the road is also lit up, but the main road out front of the doctor's office is fairly quiet for the moment.

Arthur hitches Rachel and the others off next to where John left Rowan. He gives her a brief pat in greeting.

He helps Tucker up the stairs, though the boy barely seems to need it with how fast he’s moving.

Inside, John sits in the front room alone. He looks up at them, relief flooding his face.

“Kept my head down,” He tells Arthur. “No one but the doc saw me. He ain’t who were workin’ here last, anyway.”

“Good,” Arthur says, watching Tucker slump over on the wooden bench. “And— the kid?”

“He were still awake when I took him back there. Doctor’s workin’ on gettin’ the bullet out without…” He swallows shrugging off the rest of it. He looks at Tucker instead. “I told him his brother were comin’ after us soon to see him. So no—“

“Mister, we been at this since we was fifteen. We know how to keep a low profile in town.” Tucker says wearily, scowl on his face. Arthur suppresses a chuckle. He reminds Arthur of John when he was young— indignant and ornery.

“Fine.” John sighs. He stands before Arthur, stooping to look up at his nose. The overhead light helps them to see each other clearly, and John winces at the state of Arthur’s face.

“Not good?”

“You're gonna look like one big bruise tomorrow.” John clicks his tongue. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out an old bandana and presses it to Arthur’s top lip under his nose, making him hiss. “Lotta blood.”

“Ain't nothin',” Arthur insists, taking the bandana from him and beginning to wipe at the mess on his face.

They sit out front for what feels like an hour. John steps out briefly for air and Arthur sits. Tucker stares at the ceiling with a blank expression. It’s coming up on the two-hour mark when the doctor comes back out to the front room, stopping short at the sight of all the people suddenly crowded there.

“Well. Young man has family who care about him.” He observes.

“I’m his brother,” Tucker says quickly, standing. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. On some morphine right now, low dose. He took it like a champ.”

“Thank the Lord,” Tucker huffs, shoulders falling in relief. “C-Could I go back to see him?”

“Actually,” Arthur says, hand coming down on Tucker’s good shoulder. “This one here was attacked by a grizzly bear just over a week ago. Lucky to be alive. He could use some looking at, too.”

The doctor’s brows raise into his hairline, and he eyes the three of them curiously.

“Quite the bad luck for you lot, isn’t it?”

“We was up in the mountains,” Arthur shrugs. “Huntin’ and ice fishin’, mostly. Ran into a blizzard and a bear, and now some of them rotten gangs down here in the plains.”

“Yes, they have been causing a stir.” The doctor cleans his glasses off on his shirt with a heavy sigh. “You go back, son. I’ll see to you in a moment.” Tucker hurries through the door. “And you?” The doctor nods at Arthur.

“Oh— pistol-whipped by a Laramie boy, that’s all. Don’t think it’s broken. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s all?” The doctor shakes his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath as he retrieves more iodine from one of his shelves. “Gentlemen.” He nods, disappearing into the back.

Arthur finally lets himself slump down into a chair, and John settles next to him, pressing their thighs together almost forcefully.

“You know,” Arthur says after a few minutes in silence. “I been travelin’ around quietly for over a goddamn year before you showed up. Ain’t never gotten into any trouble, never stirred up suspicion. Never got involved with anyone.” He huffs, half-heartedly, looking at John.

John stares at him with dark, half-lidded eyes.

“And suddenly in the span of a few weeks, I get caught up in a whirlwind of drama. All because you came knockin’ on my door outta the blue.”

John stares at him for a long time, and Arthur can’t tell the emotion on his face. It looks partly like John is about to drift off where he sits, and part like he’s about to jump his bones.

“Yeah? Well, for two years, I been asleep, Morgan.” John says, voice low. “Been barely livin’, barely survivin’. Weren’t sure how much longer I could go on like that. And I can’t say I care a damn lick that I’ve disrupted your quiet, peaceful life.” He leans back into his seat, almost defiant in how he looks at Arthur. He presses his thigh closer again. “I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. You won't be gettin’ any apologies from me.”

“Yeah,” Arthur scoffs, a little smile sliding on his face. “Can’t say I regret any of it, either.“

*

When the doctor returns to the front of the office, both Tucker and Hunter are with him. To their surprise, Hunter looks in better spirits than his counterpart.

“Hey, Uncle Arthur, Uncle John,” Hunter says, glancing between them pointedly.

“Hunt. Tuck.” Arthur nods in greeting. “Doin’ better?”

“Sure am,” Tucker says. His face doesn’t look pinched anymore, and Arthur realizes that the boy must have been in pain the entire time he’d known him. “Got some of that morphine in me. Amazin’ stuff.” Tucker sighs.

“Boy’s stitches are a bit rough and ready. But after hearing how it all happened, I must say I’m impressed.” The doctor adjusts his glasses, looking Arthur up and down. “They’re healing up from infection quite nicely. I’ve disinfected them again, just to be sure. They both ought to come back in a few days to get looked at, though.”

“How’s the wound?” John asks Hunter.

“Nothin’ vital hit,” Hunter looks almost proud, even though he’d had no say in the matter. “Real lucky.”

“I’d say your family lives on luck— both good and bad.” The doctor says tiredly, slumping down into his chair behind the desk. “My day relief had better come early. This has been the busiest night I’ve had all year.”

“Well, there’s still time for something even worse to happen.” Arthur can’t help saying.

“Oh dear,” the doctor frowns, and the rest of them laugh.

“Doc, before we pay ya’, one last favor. Can you give me somethin’ for this?” John asks, pulling back his sleeve to present his own arm.

*

The street has quieted down in their time inside the office. It must be close to morning, only the drunkest of men left hobbling home or sleeping in alleys. It’s eerie but undeniably peaceful being in a sleeping town.

“You boys ought to stay in Valentine for a few days,” John tells them.

“At the hotel?” Hunter’s face perks and he looks at Tucker.

“I don’t know…” Tucker looks unsure. “It’d be dangerous, wouldn’t it?”

“Here,” Arthur says, reaching into his satchel. He pulls out a clip of bills, pushing it into Tucker’s hands. “Get yourselves a room with two beds, hell, even two separates, if you have to. Keep your heads down. Heal up.” He nods stiffly at them.

“Jesus,” Tucker says, staring down at the wad of money.

Hunter snatches it out of his hand, beginning to count it. He looks back up at Arthur. “You’d give us this?”

Arthur laughs at the looks on their faces, can feel John’s eyes watching him as he does.

“Just take a gift from an old feller who’s feelin’ sentimental. Before I change my mind. That’ll be enough for a new tent, and to replenish your supplies. And… anything extra, you might want to pick up.” He says, eyeing Tucker.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Hunter says, quickly pocketing the money.

Tucker’s face crumples briefly, an emotion Arthur’s never quite seen before passing over him. He straightens up after a long moment. “Thank you, sir.”

The night is quiet all around them, and Arthur feels the chill for the first time. He sighs, letting his shoulders fall. He knows what comes next.

“Guess… Guess we won’t be seein’ you fellers around, huh?” Hunter says, corners of his mouth turning down.

“Not for a while, at least,” John says quietly. “But hey. Sometimes you see each other down the road when you least expect it.” He and Arthur meet eyes briefly. 

“Well, if we never do…” Tucker swallows, holding out his hand. “You two were lifesavers. Actual, honest-to-god, lifesavers.” Arthur feels hesitant at such a strong show of respect but takes the boy's hand anyway.

“Yeah. Ain’t been for you… we’d probably both be dead on that mountain.” Hunter adds, shaking John’s hand. “You given us a lot of… Hope.”

Arthur sees a lot of youth in them, still some naivety and innocence. But also a great deal of resilience. He feels a familiar prickle starting up behind his eyes and brushes his hand over his face to clear it away.

“Well. You two just stay out of trouble,” he huffs.

“Thought we was outlaws, though,” Tucker teases, eyes flashing giddily.

“Well, maybe you are,” John drawls. “But you don’t need to be stupid outlaws. Be smart ones.”

“Good ones,” Arthur adds.

“Yes, sirs.” Hunter grins and turns to look down the street. “C’mon, Tuck. I can’t wait to sleep in a real bed again.”

“So long,” Tucker says with a long last look at them both.

They watch the two youths meander down the muddy lane slowly, keeping a foot of distance between them. But still, it’s almost as if Arthur can see the tether between them flicker in the streetlamp.

“C’mon, Morgan,” John says, drawing Arthur’s attention and pressing Rowan’s reins into his hand. “Take a walk with me.”

They head in the opposite direction, their boots kicking up moist earth as they go. They pass the sheriff’s office, darkened except for its yellow light out front. They don’t stop to look for John’s picture on the bounty board.

Keane’s Saloon looks just the same as it used to. They can hear drunken laughter bubbling out its door and windows, and Arthur almost wishes they could step inside for some whisky, to hunker down in a dim corner and talk, like the old days.

“Brings it all back, huh?” John asks as if he can read his mind.

“Sure does. Haven’t been back to Valentine since… since it all happened.”

The train station glows with more life up ahead.

“Think we got any mail?” Arthur asks, and John’s brows raise a fraction.

“Maybe.”

“What name?”

“Try Jim Milton.” John says. “Or maybe Rip Van—“

“Shut up, Marston.” Arthur scoffs. He hands his reins over to John. “You wait here. You’re the wanted man, after all.”

Inside, he doesn’t recognize any of the men working, so he assumes that they don’t recognize him, either.

“Checkin’ if there’s any mail for… Arthur Callahan or Jim Milton?”

“One moment.” The man says, looking through his organizing slots. “One for Milton,” The man says, handing him back a small, off-white envelope. When he looks at the address, he's surprised to see it's from Montreal.

There’s not many other names that anyone would contact them through. He's sure that if anyone contacted him through his real name, he wouldn’t want to see what they'd sent, anyway.

He nearly turns to leave, but then pauses.

“What about… What about a Tacitus Kilgore?” he asks finally, giving in.

The attendant's eyes flash up to him, just briefly, but he shakes his head.

“Oh, no. Nothing’s come for a Kilgore— Tacitus or otherwise— in… quite some time. Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thanks for your help.”

Outside, he sees the red burning end of a cigarette against the dark, and John turns to look up at him.

“Got somethin’ from Montreal,” Arthur says, handing the letter over before settling down next to John on the bench.

John’s brows raise into his hair and he takes it, using his thumb to tear into the side of it. He pulls it out, and Arthur looks pointedly at the stock pens in the opposite direction.

“You can read it too, Arthur,” John says, nudging him in the shoulder.

Dear Jim,

I’m writing this letter with the help of Samuel.

Thank you for the drawings. Jack loves them. He has hung the one of the horse on his bedroom wall.

Our old friend was a very talented artist.

From your last letter, I know you must still be in tremendous pain, and I hope that you are not taking it out on yourself too much. I would hate to find out that you passed away getting into trouble for no good reason.

Please remember what I said. He would not want you to mourn him so long and so hard that you destroy what’s left of your—

John flips the letter closed before Arthur can finish the paragraph, but it’s a bit too late.

“John…” Even in the shadow, Arthur can see his face has gone paler. “John, I—”

“S’alright. Just… let’s read it later.” He says, folding it back up. “It don’t matter, anyway. It’s old news, she— she don’t know that I found…” John swallows.

A quick look around to make sure they’re alone, and Arthur presses his hand into John’s and bumps his forehead into his temple.

“M’sorry, John.”

“It’s alright.”

It isn’t. Arthur can see that now. He’d known, sure, but he can see it now, in Abigail’s concern.

“Anyway,” John stuffs the letter into his own satchel. “I ought to think of writin' her back. It's been a while, and she might start to worry."

Arthur is impressed that the two have been keeping up. He has a few questions about their relationship to each other, now. He also wonders who Samuel is.

"I was thinkin’…” John says.

“Oh no,” Arthur teases, trying to salvage the mood.

“Har har. I was thinkin’… would you mind if I tried cluing her in? About you?” He meets Arthur’s eyes, unsure. “I wouldn’t spell it out. But… I don’t know. She’s a smart lady. I think she’d get the gist.”

“Sure,” Arthur agrees. If there’s any other person on earth he’d like to know of his existence, it’d be Abigail Roberts.

John opens up the journal and begins scrawling out his own letter to Abigail, cigarette hanging between his lips.

Arthur would ask John for a smoke of his own, but then, he’s not supposed to be smoking at all. He settles for leaning back against the bench seat and listening to the pen scratch against the paper.

“You know,” John says after a long while of silence. “Last time I were here… Think I was lookin’ for stupid ways to die. And, well... gettin' men off for money.”

Arthur snorts, watching the side of his face.

“Feels a world away, now.” John sighs, voice lighter. If Arthur could, he’d lean over and kiss him, just something small on the cheek. The idea makes him laugh. He settles for nudging his shoulder against John, and the man grins without looking up. “There.” He says, scrawling his pseudonym at the bottom of the letter. “Have a look?”

He passes the journal to Arthur, and Arthur’s eyes flit through the few paragraphs he’s scrawled.

One apologizes for the delay in contact, one tells her about the physical places he’s been. Another tells her about visiting Horseshoe and Colter, though not in so many words. The last one is what Arthur reads over a few times. It ends in:

I have found something unusual up in the mountains. I have found exactly what we talked about, and I am doing very well for myself.

We are heading south to Lemoyne for a short while.

All my love,

J. Milton

“What’s that mean?” Arthur asks. “‘What we talked about’?”

John takes the journal back from him, standing up. He tears out the page and digs around in his satchel for an envelope. It becomes clear to Arthur that he has no intention of answering him when he winks and heads around back to the service window.

Arthur mutters under his breath and follows after him. He gets an idea as John is folding up the letter to slip inside. He digs around in his own satchel for his new journal.

He tears out a drawing he did of the cabin at Cairn Lake. Another that’s a quick sketch of John leaning over a hole in the ice that he’d done a few mornings ago from memory.

"One more," He says, flipping towards the front of his journal. He tears the fine detailed drawing out and hands it to John.

“Wow,” John says, holding it in the light.

It’s a detailed sketch of his own grave marker, sunbeams bursting out from behind it, overgrown with flowers. At the time, Arthur had felt numb doing it. Now, it takes on new meaning.

“That might do it,” John says.

“Here. Gimme that pen.” He turns the page over, writes Hello Abigail on the back in his scrawling penmanship.

“She’s gonna lose her damn mind,” John hoots, smacking his thigh. He folds up the drawings and the letter and slips them into the envelope. After he places postage on it, he hands it over to the clerk.

“Shall we find someplace to camp, Mister Milton?” Arthur asks as they head back for the horses. “We’ll have to do our shopping when the general opens up in the mornin’.”

“I suppose.” John sighs. “I’d curl up right now in the middle of the street, I’m so beat.” He pauses, staring off into the distance. "Aw, hell." He gestures at the sky. "Goddamn sun's comin' up."

"We can just go shopping before it closes, then," Arthur says.

He imagines they'll be sleeping most of the day away.

They find the horses, and John glances at him again. “No other mail, then?”

“Naw. Didn’t really expect there to be. Everyone thinks I’m dead. And you might as well be too, all the way across the country. No… I don’t think anyone is lookin’ for us.” He still feels frustrated. “Kinda… Kinda hoped though.”

“You did?” John asks.

They mount up, letting the horses wander to the east. They'll find a little place to tuck away while they rest.

“Sometimes… I miss him, John.” Arthur admits. John watches him quietly, and Arthur keeps his eyes on the horizon line where the sky begins to lighten.

“Him?” John repeats warily. “You mean— Dutch?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says faintly. “I know… I know he were a lost cause by the end. Hell… I’m not even sure he were ever who we thought he was. But… I miss thinkin’ he was. And followin’ him.”

“I know what you mean. I miss Hosea.” John says sullenly. “Dutch were an idealist… larger than life, you know. But Hosea— he were like a father.”

Arthur would have to agree. Sometimes he misses when it was just the three of them— He, Hosea, and Dutch. Dutch had been— well, he’d been Dutch. But he’d been reachable. Understandable. Compassionate, empathetic. At least, Arthur hopes he’d really been all those things, at some point.

The sky turns robin's egg blue.

“You think you'll get tired of this life? On the road, runnin' from the law?” Arthur asks.

“Sure,” John answers easily. “Got tired of the other life, too, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Figure… it ain’t really about the life— the where and the what. Far as I can tell, it comes down to the who.”

Arthur snorts. “You read that in one of them greeting cards, Marston?”

John smirks. “Came up with it all on my own, thanks.”

“Well, it sounds pretty smart to me. That ain’t sayin’ much, though.”

Chapter Text

Seven

“Mister, how much you askin' for that vest in the window?” Arthur asks as he approaches the counter.

The open-faced clerk of Valentine General glances towards the front of the shop. “Which one? The leather or the jean?”

“The jean,” Arthur clarifies.

“Ah,” the clerk leans back, gripping his suspenders like a caricature of a prospector. “That one’ll be fourteen and a quarter.”

Arthur sighs. He normally only spends up to five dollars on something like clothes. “I’ll take it in a forty-two,” he says anyway.

The clerk’s brow quirks. He glances Arthur up and down.

“Think you’ll need the next size up at least, sir.”

“It ain’t for me,” he snaps, irritation growing. “S’for a friend.”

“Alright, alright,” the man sighs, stepping back from behind the counter. “You want it gift-wrapped?

“Does that cost extra?”

“I’ll just put it in a bag.”

Arthur watches the man step into the stock room and shakes his head. He looks around at the fine hats and gloves arranged neatly on display.

They plan to head out as soon as they’re done in town. They can make a short ride out, sleep light for the first few nights to make up time.

He’s already exhausted, thinking about the miles and miles of land that stretch between them and Lemoyne. Part of him wishes they were able to take a page from Hunter and Tucker’s book and settle down for a few days rest. However, every minute they spend in town is another minute they could be recognized.

Arthur is to fetch the shopping, and then they’ll depart.

He has a list written out on a little slip of paper that he and John sat compiling over a late lunch. It has mostly things like carrots and beets for the horses, candies for John, pears and celery for Arthur.

He tries not to feel self-conscious glancing at the last item on the list— vaseline.

John had written it out himself when Arthur had been packing up their gear onto the horses. He hadn’t said a word when he’d handed the list back to Arthur, and he hadn’t needed to. Vaseline has plenty of practical uses. The boys out at the oil pumps use it on cuts and scrapes, ladies use it on dry patches of skin.

He has a fairly good idea of what John’s plans are for it, but Arthur has a bit of a hard time finding the right moment to ask him outright what he expects. The entire topic is exciting and stressful in equal measure. Arthur partly wishes that the whole thing would just go away.

“Here you go,” the clerk says as he steps back into the room. He sets a paper bag down on the counter. The dark, cutoff vest is folded neatly at the bottom of it, string wrapped around it and tied in a little bow to keep it together.

“Thanks,” Arthur clears his throat, sliding the paper list across the counter. “Wondered if you could get these things together for me.”

The clerk looks down the list line by line, whistling.

“Sure, don’t mind a bit. It’ll be a big bill, though.”

“I’m good for it.” Arthur nods, passing over the fourteen dollars and some change for the vest and taking the bag. He folds the top down, tucking it securely under his arm.

“Just gimme a little while to get it all together,” the clerk says with relaxed patience.

Arthur decides maybe the man isn’t so bad. He’d like to be that calm when he’s older.

“Thanks.”

He steps out front of the shop to wait. Afternoon light paints the buildings in a bright, pleasant glow, and the horses doze at the hitch past the clamor of the town around them. Perfect weather for napping on the bench, he decides.

Before that, he wants to see how John’s getting on. He’s meant to be keeping a low profile around back, and making sure there’s no law waiting to take them by surprise.

Before Arthur rounds the building, he hears voices.

Looking around the edge of the building, he spies John perched up against the siding looking lanky as a cat. A man stands, far too close to him, and John leans away, face twisted in a grimace.

“Suuure you is,” the man says, his voice uneven with drunkenness.

Arthur starts down the alley. He has no doubt John can handle himself, but it’d be better if they didn’t end up with a body that looks like a stuck pig.

“Say, how’s about a repeat? I was wantin’ to pull on some o’ that hair, las’ time.” The man continues, and Arthur’s gut dips. He’s got a good idea what this is about.

“I’m tellin’ you, friend, you got the wrong feller. You’re embarassin’ yourself. Just go home.” John’s voice is rough and he squares up his shoulders.

“What, you too high and mighty for it now?” The man laughs loudly, and John shifts uncomfortably away from the sound. “You ain’t nothin’ but a two-cent whore, boy,” he drawls on. “Pro’lly a whore’s son, to boot.”

John bristles, flicking his cigarette into the mud angrily.

“I’m gettin’ sick of your fuckin’ face,” John spits, his fists balling up.

“Whoa there, partner,” Arthur says placatingly, swooping up behind the drunken stranger to ease him out of range of John’s fists. John deflates instantly, his face going pale. “You ain’t gonna waste your time fightin’ behind a bar, are you?” Arthur asks. “Feller like you’s certainly got more important things to do. A property to manage. A woman waitin' at home?”

“Yeah…” The man says sullenly. “Yeah, maybe. But…” He looks between Arthur and John, eyes narrowing. “You his new squeeze?” He spits at Arthur. “How much you payin’ for him?” He turns to John. “I’ll pay double.”

“Just get,” John barks, lunging at him. The man startles, tripping back into Arthur, and Arthur carries him the rest of the way to the street.

“Best do as he says,” Arthur chuckles into the man's ear, lowers his voice. “Unless you’d like an unfriendly visit in the night. Reckon that’d be an easy trip for him. Or me.” He gives him a shove into the road. The man catches himself before he tips over.

“Naw… Naw…” The man mutters to himself, brushing his clothes down and looking back fearfully at Arthur. His shambling feet turn over mud and rocks as he goes.

When Arthur returns to John, the other looks furious.

“C’mon, John,” Arthur says easily, a hand to his shoulder, urging him around the front of the shop.

“I want him fuckin’ dead,” John mutters, spitting at the dirt of the alley.

“I know. But he's just a horned-up drunken old fool. Probably got a family. Ain’t worth causin’ a stir over.” Arthur says.

John fidgets, his fingers flexing and a knee bouncing. Arthur wishes he could reach out to touch him, just on the arm, or run his palm over the back of his neck, soothingly like John likes.

John looks past him, and his face falls.

“That drunken old fool’s headin’ into the sheriffs,” he snaps.

“Shit,” Arthur mutters flatly following John’s gaze. The sheriff's door swings closed.

Arthur ducks into the shop while John takes the steps down to the horses, unwrapping their reins from the post.

Inside, Arthur finds the shop empty. A few of the things he’d requested sit out on the countertop, but he can see the keep through the back window of the shop, a few paces away, relieving himself into a bush.

“Shit,” Arthur spits again.

“Arthur!” John shouts for him.

He scoops the few things that’ve been collected into his satchel and makes for the front door.

John’s mounted up, and down the way, the sheriff and a deputy make their way hastily towards them. The drunken man follows them, pointing a knobby finger at John.

“Bastard’s takin’ a piss break,” Arthur shouts, swinging his leg over Rowan’s back.

"You two, stop there a minute," the sheriff calls out.

They send the horses racing down the road south out of town.

“So we ain’t got shit?” John asks over the sound of their horses.

“Not most of it.”

He can see John staring at the side of his head as they leave town.

*

“The hell we gonna do, now?” John mutters.

The horses plod along at an easy walk down the trail, heading south from Valentine.

They’re a few cans of vegetables richer, but John is unsettled. The deputies in Valentine hadn’t given them much chase past the tracks, but it’s clear they won’t be welcomed back in town for quite some time.

John hates that it feels like his fault.

“Well… I s’pose we could pray we run into a trader.” Arthur says as his eyes trace over his map, folded into thirds for ease as he plots out a decent route to Lemoyne. When he sees John’s sullen face, he clicks his tongue softly. “We’ll be alright. We got plenty of meat. We can stretch the vegetables and beans to last us. Worse come to worst, we go foraging.”

“I ain’t too good at foraging.”

“Don’t worry. I am.”

John frowns at the back of Arthur’s head. He’s felt horribly strange and tangled up inside since the altercation with the man in town. He’d come out of nowhere and John had nearly lost his cool. He hadn’t wanted anyone, especially Arthur, to witness any of it.

He wants to apologize, to defend himself, to ask Arthur for forgiveness, though for what, he couldn’t exactly say.

“Can feel you thinkin’, Marston. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hardy har.”

“What is it?” Arthur looks back at him

“Nothin’.”

“It about that feller back there?”

John feels his cheeks heat again. He bites down on the instinct to deny and clears his throat.

“I didn’t— I didn’t offer him nothin’."

Arthur’s brow draws together.

“I know,” He says. “Were pretty obvious he were the one botherin’ you.”

“Right.”

“Alright.”

They walk in silence as the sun beats down on them.

“What’s in the bag?” John asks, eyes landing on the brown sack poking out of one of Arthur’s saddle bags.

“A gift,” Arthur says casually.

“A gift? For who?”

Arthur scoffs, glancing back at him over his shoulder.

“Who do you think, Marston?”

John sits back in his saddle, eyes darting back to the bag. His heart thumps differently.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Goddamn, there ain’t no occasion. Just got you somethin’.”

“Well, can I see it?”

“I’ll give it to you later,” Arthur huffs, turning his back to him, and that’s that.

John bites back a grin and his anxiety about the man begins to ease up.

Arthur smacks both his legs lightly, grabbing back his attention.

“How about we stop by our old camp? Just for a minute.”

“What, you mean Horseshoe?” John asks.

“Sure, why not? Ain’t seen it since back then.”

*

“Nothin’ interesting last time I were here,” John says, kicking some small stones around with the toe of his boot. He doesn’t follow Arthur into the old camp, content with standing by the horses on the outskirts. He busies himself with checking saddles and bridles, retrieving some sugar cubes to feed their mounts.

He's eager to leave the place, and Arthur takes notice.

“What’re you so cagey for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You been fidgeting ever since we got here,” Arthur says. “You in a hurry to be somewhere?”

“No,” John huffs. “Just don’t much like bein’ here, is all.”

“How come?” Arthur calls as he skirts down the edge of a small bluff to the south where a few of their old camp commodities sit abandoned and dilapidated by time.

“Just never liked the place much.”

He’d both loved and hated it. He loved it once because it’d been the last time he could remember the gang feeling like a family. He hates it because he’d thought about flinging himself over the side of the cliffs just a month back.

He huffs as he skirts the perimeter and follows Arthur down to stand in front of their old wagon.

“Dutch used to draft some of his speeches out here. Did you know he spent weeks writin' 'em?” Arthur asks. “I found one of ‘em, back then. Don’t know why I didn’t put two and two together, sooner.”

“No crime in plannin’ ‘em out, I guess…”

“Naw… but I always got the impression that they were comin’ from the heart. In the passion of the moment. Now… I’m beginning to realize that he were probably just a good actor.” Arthur says, dismayed. “And if he were a good actor, I wonder what else he was lyin’ about.”

“Think he spent a lot of time lyin'. Don’t know how much of it were real, these days.”

A depressing thought. To see the true Dutch revealed had shaken John to his core. He wonders how much harder it must have been for Arthur.

He takes a look out over the bluffs at the Dakota that runs through the valley. The sun beams down, hazing the distant mountains with bright light. Shimmering white bounces off the water where it turns rough. He thinks of Hunter and Tucker, and whether they could be camping out there right now. One couldn’t ask for a better spot.

“Looks beautiful. When we find our fortune, we ought to come back and camp along that river.” John murmurs.

A hand touches his elbow, wrapping around his forearm and tugging him back a step.

“Hm?” John looks back.

“Don’t want you fallin’,” Arthur says curtly, averting his eyes sheepishly.

John’s chest constricts. He might be inclined to tease Arthur for showing such blatant care, but he'd rather just hold him. He turns and loops his arms around Arthur’s neck before he can get away, finding his mouth. His lips are warm and dry, and they form to John's without hesitancy. He grins into the kiss.

Arthur hums in surprise, but humors him, hands sliding down to clutch at his middle. He squeezes affectionately, thumbs rubbing light circles into his belly.

“Let’s get out of here,” Arthur says when John lets him go. “Place don’t sit right with me, neither. Sure had a pretty view, though.” He says, glancing past him one last time.

John’s relieved when they're back on their horses heading out. He lets Rachel trail Rowan again, happy to let Arthur set their pace. It feels good to be riding behind him, letting him steer the way, decide their path.

*

“Hey, fellers,” A man calls to them.

They’ve just passed a set of train tracks that split the land in two, following a deer trail south. Arthur's been watching the sun as it heads for the horizon, and John knows he's about to suggest that they stop for the evening.

He swings his head around to look for the owner of the voice.

A man sits under a tree— one of the only trees around. He waves an arm at them in greeting. Thinking quick, John lifts his hand in return.

They’ve been on the road for a few days, traveling long and sleeping light. There’s been little time for more than riding or rolling out a bedroll onto some flat ground. Certainly no time or energy for making fires or cooking or fucking, all to John’s dismay.

Arthur wants to keep moving, and not for no reason. More than once they've spied in the distance, through the binoculars, groups of men who are no doubt deputies of one agency or another.

Civilization and its laws close in on the land from all sides, even this far out into the wild.

This man under the tree is far from being an authority over anything, though. In fact, he looks sloshed. John’s tired. And he’s cold. His knuckles are stiff around the reins, even in his gloves. The warm glow of the fire on the cool, blue-shadowed hills around them is tempting. He looks after it a moment longer, considering.

A beagle lays on top of the man's bedroll in his tent, head resting on its front paws. It doesn’t even lift its head as it looks at them. The man's horse, a pale mare standing out against hills surrounding them, grazes quietly, saddle off.

“Y'all can sit for a spell if you need,” The man says, voice dropping towards the end. “Lord knows this fire’s wasted on me.”

John meets Arthur’s eye in question.

“Looks alright to me," Arthur says. “We don’t have to stay if it don’t feel right.”

“Sure be nice to get warm," John says and swings his leg down. “Alright, mister,” he calls and loops his horse’s reins across a low branch of the tree.

The man watches them, an expression of surprise on his face. Perhaps not so many people take him up on his offer.

As they come closer, weariness flashes in his eyes at the ruggedness of their clothes and faces.

“We don’t mean you no harm,” Arthur says with an easy tone as they sit down on the other side of the fire.

The man sits in a wooden chair, a strange sort of thing to have out at a camp for one. John wonders if he'd found or looted it, or if maybe he'd broken down somewhere and carted it here.

“Name’s Buckley.”

“Arthur. That’s Jim.” Arthur says, nodding to John.

The man offers them his bottle of whisky, already half gone.

John’s mouth waters at the sight of it, but Arthur holds a hand up. He retrieves a bottle of bourbon from his satchel. The cork pops as he pulls it out and he hands it to John first. “Won’t steal your alcohol, friend," he says to Buckley.

Buckley settles, seeming to decide he can trust them.

“Do y'all have regrets?” He asks them unexpectedly.

“Sure. Don’t everyone?” Arthur replies, leaning back onto one hand.

“I believe I got bigger regrets than most everyone,” Buckley says, his glassy eyes drifting down to the fire. “Been a loner a long time. Prefer it that way.”

John hands the bottle back to Arthur, waiting to see if the man will say something more. He doesn’t leave them waiting.

“My brother wrote to me and asked me if I’d help him and his family move out west. We hadn’t spoken in years. We’s two very different fellers.” He hiccups.

John supposes there are worse things than listening to another man's sins while he drinks. At least the fire is hot and keeps the chill of the evening plains off.

Buckley carries on, his voice gruff.

“I thought, this is something I can do. Try to… mend the relationship, as it were. I traveled out to meet them, rode out with the wagon train. Were them and a few other families. Forty-eight people, all soft-handed city types. A couple of days in, my brother is irking me somethin' rotten— asking me when I’m gonna settle down, actin' like he’s higher and mightier, and I remembered why we never got along, growing up. It all just went back to being how it used to be. Realized neither one of us would ever change.”

His expression turns darker.

“So, just when we start the climb to cross the grizzlies… I bolt. And I don’t look back. And you know what?” His eyes flick across both their faces. “They got caught in bad weather. Months, they was stuck up there. And they died. Every single one of ‘em.” His brow bunches up on his forehead. “Even started eatin’ each other. Or, that’s what them scientists said. Wish they didn’t put that detail in the papers.” He gives a long, wet sniff. “I’ll always have that on my conscious.”

John swallows, neck prickling with sweat despite the chill at his back.

“M’sorry, feller,” Arthur says with a deep sigh. “That’s a bad hand.”

“You could call it that,” The man says wetly, eyes on the fire.

They sit for a long time in silence, John feeling more on edge by the minute. He resists fidgeting, his fingers itching to pull on loose threads of his coat or reach up to tangle a piece of his hair around his fingers.

He thinks about saying they ought to go, or maybe even apologizing to the man.

“I been alone since then,” Buckley says. “I just… don’t see no point in tryin’ to move on with it all. Ain’t sure what the point of all of this is, other than drinkin’.” He punctuates this by taking a long swallow of the whisky.

“Well, feller…” Arthur hesitates. “I ain’t one to tell you how to live otherwise. We all got some sort of blood on our hands, don’t we? Wouldn’t be out here, otherwise.”

John thinks of the blood on his own hands. He’d always thought it was blood deserved, at least, for the most part. He'd always tried not to think about it much further than that.

“You can’t put all the blame on yourself, though, can you?” Arthur asks.

“Who else is there to blame?” Buckley looks back up at him, desperation on his face. “He asked me to come along— to look out for 'em.”

“One man can’t look out for forty people alone, can he? There were other men in the party, weren’t there? Hell, if you’d gone, it probably wouldn’t’ve made a lick of difference, and you’d have bit it too.”

The man stares at Arthur, chewing on his lip. John can see blood being drawn by his teeth.

“Maybe it were your fault. Maybe it weren’t. Maybe it were only partially your fault, or maybe it was just a goddamn act of nature.”

“Dying up there with them’s how I shoulda passed. Would’ve been more honorable.”

“Honor.” Arthur huffs a laugh. “You ain’t the only one in the world with survivor's guilt, friend. I can’t tell you what to do, or if it were your fault or not.” He stares at the fire. John watches one of his fingers subtly tap at his thigh. “Just that no amount of punshin' yourself is gonna change what happened.”

The man stares at him for a long moment. John waits with bated breath for what will happen next.

He doesn’t expect the man to slowly slump sideways, eyes falling shut as he passes out cold on the ground. His body lands in a heap, the chair clattering out behind him.

“Christ,” Arthur grumbles. He stands, and John follows.

The beagle lifts its head, watching them both stoop over the man.

“Well, he’s breathin’.” Arthur sighs. The man’s breath comes in soft snores, and besides a bump on his cheek, he’s probably uninjured.

“Well… we ought to put him to bed, I guess,” John says, hands on his hips.

“Bastard's lucky he didn’t fall straight into the fire," Arthur mutters as he rounds behind the man, lifting him by the shoulders. John grabs him by the calves, and together they stagger him to his tent. The beagle gets up without a sound, moving away.

Once they’ve settled the man down into his bedroll, flipping the upper flap of it over his body, the beagle returns, draping itself across his chest in a practiced familiarity.

“Good dog,” John murmurs. Arthur leans down to scratch it behind the ears.

“Well,” Arthur says as they mosey away from the camp, horses head’s low as they steer them down the deer trail once more. “That was… strange.”

“I read about that story,” John says, keeping his voice down. “In the Montreal Times.”

Arthur grunts in response, looking back over his shoulder at the camp.

“Poor bastard.”

The sun is long set now, only cool blue light glowing in the sky to guide their way. They'll need to find their own spot to hunker down in, soon.

“Think people can come back from guilt like that?” John asks.

“I hope so… For all our sakes,” Arthur murmurs, rubbing a hand over his beard slowly. John notices for the first time how tired he looks. Maybe as tired as John feels. “He don’t even know who he was talkin’ to.” Arthur chuckles.

“Reckon we’ve each killed more than forty people. Far more. Ten times over.” John mutters. “Though, the folk we was killin’ were tryin’ to kill us, first.”

“Yeah… most of ‘em.” Arthur murmurs, eyes casting out towards the western sky. “He didn't mean no harm to come to his family and them folk. I got more innocent blood on my hands than him.”

“Yeah?”

“I got sick, killin’ a man. Widowed his wife. He had a boy, too.” Arthur says faintly.

“You tried makin’ up for it, though,” John says, recalling the journal entries he’d read over again and again.

“Ain’t enough you can do to make up for that, John,” Arthur murmurs.

“You ain’t the same person, anymore.”

“Still did them things, though. And for all I know, I’ll end up doin’ harm again.”

John bites down on his lip. He wants to point out all of the things he’s done himself. The harm he hadn’t meant to cause. And some of it he had. It wouldn't be the right thing to say, though.

He wants to tell Arthur that he loves him despite it all. He thinks that might do some harm, too, though.

“I forgive you,” John says.

Arthur scoffs, looking over at him.

“It ain’t your forgiveness I need, Marston.”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t gettin’ it from most of the people we wronged, back in the day. And I ain’t either. So just take it.” John says. “We killed far more bad men than good men.”

Arthur stares at him in bewilderment.

“I’ll shoulder all your burdens with you, Morgan.” He looks down at the reins fisted in his hands. “Wish you could see all the good I see in you, though. Maybe you’d start to like yourself, again.”

“Ain’t sure I’ve ever liked myself, Marston,” Arthur says, turning away to watch the light fade.

____________________________

Arthur can pick John’s shape out of a hundred men, all of his proportions finely mapped out in his head. Years spent looking at John, and there he is, chained by the ankle to four other inmates.

Sweat pours down his face, tracing lines through layers of dirt and grime. He’s got a scuffed-up cheek and his lip is bitten through at one place, scabbed black. His knuckles look similar where they wrap around his shovel, one of them bandaged up tightly and stained brown. A guard bumps into him, seemingly unprovoked, and then shoves him. John goes stumbling, throwing a few of his fellow inmates off their balance. He catches himself before he lands in the dirt.

A surge of anger flares hot in Arthur’s belly from where he watches through binoculars, high above.

John turns, presumably glaring at the man in blue, but he doesn’t do much in the way of fighting back. Arthur imagines he’s already tried that in the month he’s been in, and perhaps the bumps and bruises across his body are the results of that. Maybe they’re the results of fighting other inmates, too.

John doesn’t belong in a prison yard. He has a family, people who care about him.

He has Arthur, whether he knows it or not. Arthur— who cares about him even if he’s reluctant to admit it most of the time. Who cares a great deal, and in a great many ways.

Ways that don’t matter as much, now that he knows he’s dying.

He’d have landed the balloon right there, if the guards hadn’t started shooting at them.

*

When they come back for him the following day, Arthur has spent the entire night awake, thinking of nothing other than getting to Copperhead Landing to launch their rescue.

“Alright, take ‘em out.” Sadie growls low when they’ve made land. “And let’s go get our boy.”

Arthur stares at the back of her head, caught off guard. She only flashes her teeth in more of a grimace than a smile at him before charging up the bank. Beyond, two guards stand watch over the prisoners.

As Arthur keeps hold of one of them, forearm wedged around his neck, wrangling him up to the front gates of the prison, he has the overwhelming sense of reclaiming something that belongs to him.

It stays with him through the negotiation, his senses sharp as a blade as he keeps his eyes on each of the guards.

“John,” he breathes, when the other is brought out.

John hobbles out through the front gates and Arthur watches the ones who escort him like a hawk. For the first time since his illness turned from bad to worse, he feels entirely tuned in, focused on one task.

John looks to him with dark eyes, and Arthur stares, taking him in. His face is ruddy, hair greasy. He looks haggard, like he’s been fighting. Eyes sunken like he’s not been sleeping. Skinny like he’s not been eating.

“C’mon, Marston,” Arthur huffs as the three of them hightail it through the fields, tripping over stones and each other. Arthur keeps his hand on John's shoulder, pushing him along. “I gotcha. Keep close.”

__________________

Arthur prefers this sort of land. Dry and temperate, easier to exist in. Being out of the mountains, he presumes that the worst of the weather is behind them.

They set up a proper camp further into the plains at the next midday. He can sense that John is more exhausted than he lets on. The tired hollows under his eyes have begun to show again, and his cheeks aren’t as full as they used to be.

His small waist is fun to hold, Arthur can admit, but the slightness of it mostly only puts him on edge. John ought to have more cushion in case the unexpected happens.

Rest and food are what they need.

John takes a short nap curled on his side in his bedroll in the tent. He snuffles and snores while he sleeps, and Arthur is quietly pleased to watch him as he builds up the fire.

While John’s asleep, he goes for a walk around the perimeter of their camp, searching out yarrow and ginseng, possibly sage or oregano, and discovers a turkey clutch in an indent in the ground between some shrubs. Over a dozen large, off-white eggs lay unattended. He takes three and cradles them in his hat as he walks back to camp.

There, he sets about making a large cake in the cast iron with the last of their oats, ground in his mortar, water, and the eggs. They’re larger than chicken's, richer looking too.

He imagines it would taste a lot nicer if they had anything else-- sugar, flour, soda, oil.

It will have to do.

As it cooks, Arthur fishes out the small jar of honey he’s been saving. Hosea had told him once that honey kept forever as long as you kept the jar clean. It seems as good a time as any to use it.

“John,” he barks when the oat cake's been set on a stone to cool.

John stirs in the tent, little snore cut short.

“Come eat,” Arthur says, and it’s another minute or two before John stumbles out. He stands, shoulders stooped, bleary-eyed, and looks down at the cast iron.

“What’s that?”

“Oat cake. Get to eatin’, while it’s hot.” Arthur says roughly, feeling the prickle of self-consciousness rise up needlessly.

“Alright then,” John murmurs, eyes brightening as he sits down on a folded saddle blanket. He uses an old, bent spoon to cut through the bland cake, scooping out a steaming serving onto a plate and blowing across it. He watches the honey ooze down the sides, soaking into the short crumb. “Ain’t you gonna have any?”

“Sure, I’ll get to it,” Arthur says, standing. “M’gonna go for a piss, first. You just eat.” He instructs, before wandering off.

He’s glad to see, when he gets back, that more than half the cake has been spooned away, and that John’s plate is entirely devoid of crumbs.

“You hungry still?” He asks, sitting back down.

“No,” John says, leaning against his knees. “Didn’t realize how tired I were. We been ridin’ hard for weeks, seems like. First the mountains, now here in the plains.”

“It’s good we stopped early, then,” Arthur says. “I figure we got another week until we reach Lemoyne. We can cut across the terrain, maybe shave some time off our journey. Avoid seein’ some people as well. Lot more deputies and state marshals out, these days.”

“Alright by me.” John says, scratching at his beard. “So... what about that gift?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I swear, you got no civility about you.”

“It's been damn near a week, and I ain't mentioned it once. 'Sides, what do you expect?” John laughs. “I were raised to be a gunslingin’ outlaw.”

Arthur had been planning to give it to him regardless, so he pulls the bag from their pile of things and hands it over.

“Weren’t nothin’ too special. Just thought—“ He watches with a nervous swallow as John pulls the vest out. He unfolds it in his lap, running a finger over the pale stitching. “Just thought you could use somethin’ lighter when we get down south. It’ll be hotter, and all, and cotton breathes—.”

“I love it,” John says, and Arthur shuts his mouth. John looks up, deeper meaning in his eyes as he grins at Arthur.

Arthur feels a swell of pride.

“Good.”

*

John sports just his red union and his boots, that night.

Arthur watches him as he putters around camp, polishing up his sidearms with a rag for lack of gun oil, and brushing down Rachel. He does some washing of their dishes, then does some looking through the binoculars.

Arthur is admittedly tipsy. He’s only had a bit, wanting to keep sharp while they’re camping out in the open, but it's enough that he lets his eyes wander more than he normally would.

“You know you walk with your hips?” Arthur asks him as he’s coming back over to the fire. He feels a bit like a pervert watching John, though the other man seems to be putting on a bit of show, regardless. Arthur’s been noticing things left and right— one of those things being the musical little circle-eight of his hips as he saunters around.

“You lookin’ at my hips?” John asks, knowing grin on his lips. He settles down closer than necessary to Arthur on the saddle blankets and wiggles his eyebrows.

“You’re worse than the ladies we used to run with," Arthur grumbles, but keeps his eyes on him.

“M’glad you like it,” John says, nudging his thigh with a bent knee. “You do like my walk, don’t you?”

“I guess.” Arthur shrugs nonchalantly, and John jabs his hand into Arthur’s side.

“You lumber around like some big brute. I like that.” John says. He lowers his voice. “Always liked it.”

“Alright, I like how you walk, Marston, Christ's sake,” Arthur grumbles.

He really likes it. He likes it now, in the soft, thin cotton of his union so that Arthur can see the movement of his body. Can see the way his small, perky ass interrupts the sleek line from head to thigh just so.

“What’chu thinkin’ about, hm?” John whispers, suddenly very close. His hand slips down between Arthur’s bent legs, hand cupping around his noticeable arousal. His lips find his jaw, slipping back under his ear. His hand is so warm and the pressure so welcome, Arthur groans loudly, leaning into him before he comes back to himself.

“John,” He murmurs, pushing him back gently. “Someone could see.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Don’t see no one around.” John says. They’re alone in these hills, as far as they can tell.“Want you.”

“I know,” Arthur says, more ragged than he’d intended.

“You want me?”

“You already know I do,” Arthur says, eyes running over the man's cheek, his lips, down to the V of his union collar.

“I’m gettin’ sort of warm. Think I’m gonna take this off before I go to sleep.” John says softly, standing and walking off. The swell of his ass passes right in Arthur’s eye-line, and he stares after John’s hips.

Arthur’s on his feet wandering after him before he can think twice.

*

“Please, please,” John whines sweetly, legs spread obscenely on either side of Arthur’s head. They’ve only got a bit of firelight coming through the crack in the tent, but that’s all Arthur really needs.

He’d only intended to come in and change into something warmer for the night, at least that’s what he’d said he was doing when he’d followed John inside.

But John had stripped down and suddenly they were in an enclosed space, and Arthur’s eyes had been greeted to the fuzzy, bare tops of John’s thighs and his nose had been filled with John’s musky scent.

In the end, Arthur had been the one to push John down onto the bedroll with a bruising kiss.

He’d been the one to slide down his chest, mouth over the hair on his sternum, over his toughened skin. To bite at his muscled stomach and the thin layer of fat that pads over his naval, make him gasp as he stoops lower.

It had happened without Arthur knowing he was going to do it, the arousal so strong and focused suddenly in the safety of the tent under that vast sky. John right there, wanting him just as much.

He nuzzles into the thick hair at his groin, mouth opening to taste. He huffs John’s scent like an animal. He’s never felt this out of control before.

Then he takes his cock in his mouth eagerly, without reservation, wanting nothing but to bring John off. It’s the second time he’s done this, but he has a better feeling now of how to make John see stars.

He takes his thighs in his hands, props them over his shoulders, presses them close to his cheeks and chin and John hisses as he bobs his head shallowly over the head, as much as he can reach from this angle.

“Mm, my god,” John gasps, thighs shaking, and Arthur chuckles, pulling off.

“You like the feeling of a beard?”

“Yeah,” John says, lifting his head to look down at him. Arthur loves the look on his face, broken and hazy and red and sweaty.

“You like knowing it’s a man doing this to you?” Arthur asks, voice going lower as he rakes his nails down John’s thighs.

John whines again, brows bunching up at Arthur’s words. “Uh-huh.” He nods and gasps at the way Arthur traces his tongue around the widest ridge of his cockhead. “Like knowing it's you,” He sighs, head falling back to the ground.

Arthur’s chest shudders.

Despite everything, he still has the vague sense that this could all end. They’ve been friends before all this, and he thinks they could go back to being friends if they tried hard enough. As horribly repulsive as that idea sounds.

When he thinks about the future, he feels hot and sweaty, nervous. He wonders what his life will look like in a year— or two. Will John still be there, and will they still be doing this? There isn’t a roadmap for outlaws, or queer men, and all the maps he’s tried following before feel mismatched to this situation.

“Quit thinkin’,” John demands, and Arthur finds his dark eyes staring down at him. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothin,” He lies, and lets John’s legs fall from his shoulders so he can swallow him down further. It has the intended effect of sending John flopping back down with a groan. Arthur focuses, getting back into the groove.

He has to push John’s hips hard into the bedroll to keep the rolling under control, and it’s fun in a way he hadn’t expected it to be. Like wrestling, but with the added benefit of nerves on fire and bringing John immense pleasure.

Arthur uses his hand to jerk him while he gives his jaw another break. John's panting is quicker, flushed chest heaving, and Arthur knows he's nearly there.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he coos.

John moans loudly, his toes curling, and he throws an arm over his eyes.

“You like that name, do you?” Arthur hums.

“Yes,” John gasps.

“So good, John,” Arthur says before swallowing him back down.

“Want you to fuck me,” John says breathlessly, and Arthur tries not to choke at those words.

He wants it, too, but he’s never brought himself to ask John for it, mostly for the fact that he can't stand the thought of hurting him. He has an idea, from long ago, about that sort of pain.

“Wish we— ahh,” John’s fists tug on the blanket under him, his hips jerking in aborted thrusts. “Wish we... coulda got that vaseline. I’d let you... have me, right now. I’d use anythin’— cookin’ oil, pomade.”

Arthur’s cock aches against his own jeans. He pulls off a moment, his chest shuddering uncontrollably.

“Ain’t got nothin’,” he says, roughly.

“Spit,” John pants.

Arthur takes him back down, unwilling to entertain an idea as foolish as that. He aims to bring John off quickly, to sate the desire in his belly before he goes hurting himself.

John comes after just a few seconds more when Arthur gives him a strong suck and palms under his balls, fingers tracing behind them at the place his ass meets his thighs. John's hands fist in his bedroll at his hips, his thighs spreading wide and twitching as he tries not to overwhelm Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur swallows his spend this time, curious about how it feels. John had made that part look easy, too. It’s not like food, but he hadn’t been expecting it to be. It’s more visceral than that, and even though it doesn’t taste good, per say, it makes him feel drunk and lofty with lust.

“You’re gonna be as good as me, soon.” John says faintly. He shivers in the cool air.

“Naw.” Arthur hesitates. “You’ve got years more practice, I reckon.”

Arthur sits up between John’s parted legs, looking down at him. He smooths his palm over his hip, running it up his side and over his chest. He’s never been so privy to someone else’s body, before.

The reminder of John’s years of experience feels cold.

He clears his throat, and John must notice the change in his demeanor.

“What is it?” He asks, a hand reaching out to run over Arthur’s pec.

“Was gonna ask… If you could hold off on… on that sort of thing, while we’re doin’ this.” Arthur says awkwardly. He feels embarrassed to be asking for exclusivity, even if he has no idea what sort of expectations he should be having.

John’s mouth quirks down. “Hold off on… what?”

“You know… the thing you do, in town sometimes?”

“Hold off on… suckin’ cock. While we do this.” John repeats the words like they don’t all fit together.

“I mean… I know it probably don’t mean nothin’ to you, to do that, but just… just if you could.” He falters. “At least until you get tired of— this thing.” Until it’s run its course. He regrets saying it almost as soon as it’s left his mouth. "Not that— I ain't tryin' to say that your feelin's for me ain't strong... I just—"

It had all stemmed from that self-deprecating place inside him, a thought that feels like the truth. That women will tire of him— that John will tire of him.

That this is temporary.

Some old habits don’t seem to die, even with time. He waits for John to get angry at his feckless regard for their relationship.

Instead of looking dejected, John only snorts.

“You foolish man,” John mutters. “This thing. You mean our thing?” John reaches out for him, taking him by the shoulders and tugging him down. Arthur sprawls across him heavily, unbalanced. “This ain’t a short-term thing for me, Morgan.” He rolls Arthur onto his back, swinging a leg over to straddle him, reminding Arthur that he’s just as strong and probably even more agile.

He feels the balance shift, John suddenly looking down at him. Like he's gotten smaller, though no less powerful. Like he's being held in the palm of someone's hand.

“I’m done with all that stuff. Weren’t even a thought in my mind.” John says, pressing his chest into Arthurs to lie across him.

“No?”

“No.”

“You ain’t gonna be disappointed to be… tied down?”

“Christ, Morgan, bein’ with you ain’t like bein’ tied down.” John scoffs. “Swear to god, for bein’ so big and intimidatin’, you got the worst confidence I ever seen in a man.”

“Just… know how a lotta men can be,” Arthur says quietly. His hands run up and down John’s bare sides, soothing himself more so than John. “Seems like damn near every man I ever known ain’t been satisfied to settle. My father fooled around on my momma until...” He pauses, shakes his head of all those memories. “Don’t want there to be any resentment on your part, but I… I don’t like the idea of you bein’ with anyone else when you’re with me.”

John frowns. “I thought that were a given. Don't you worry that I’m longin’ for other people or gettin’ bored. I wanted you for too long to ever get tired of you.” John says, leaning closer, lips brushing Arthur’s as he speaks.

I hope so, Arthur doesn’t say.

“I ain’t interested in that sort of thing no more. I got exactly what I want, now. So you’re stuck with me.”

The tension in Arthur’s chest eases, and that warm feeling of being held spreads through him into his limbs, to his fingertips.

John’s hand trails down Arthur’s front, palm pressing into his crotch. He clicks his tongue softly. “You’re barely hard, now.” He grins, pressing closer to kiss him again.

Arthur feels breathless, like his entire being is focused on only the places they touch.

“I’ll just have to fix that,” John murmurs, shimmying down his body.

He takes Arthur apart with his mouth and hands, reducing him to writhing limbs and cries like no one else has.

For the first time, Arthur begins to realize that he’s done for. He never imagined he would find something like this in another person. Never imagined he might get to deserve it.

________________________

“Dutch ain’t himself, right now,” Arthur says as they sit together around the fire. “Or maybe… Maybe he just ain’t who we thought he was.” He adds, quieter.

It’s late in the heart of the forest.

Despite being cleared of its vermin, Beaver Hollow carries a heavy darkness to it that Arthur can’t seem to shake. It bears down on them both, but leaning nearer to John in the firelight eases it, some.

John scoffs, pulling the cigarette butt from his mouth and flicking it into the fire.

“Guess we don’t gotta worry ‘bout who’s his favorite, no more.”

Arthur lets his shoulders shake in a half-hearted laugh and meets John’s eyes.

“What’s wrong with you, Arthur? You… don’t look so good.”

“I’m alright,” Arthur lies softly. He stares at the side of John’s face as he picks another cigarette from his pack. He’d taken for granted how pleasing John’s face was to look at. It’s no wonder Abigail fell for him.

He wishes he had more time to sketch out all of its angles, to learn them like the back of his hand. To draw them over and over, year after year, log each new line and weathered scar. To learn how John's face ages.

“I’ll help you get your family out of this,” Arthur promises him.

John stills, turning his brown eyes on him once more. They watch each other for a long moment.

“Alright,” John agrees. “The boy surely don’t deserve what’s comin’. I’ll do whatever it takes to see him safe.”

Arthur's chest aches.

"I'm... real proud of the man you've become, John." He says quietly.

John stares at him, dumbfounded.

"I mean it."

"Jesus, Arthur. You're gettin' soft." John teases.

"Maybe."

“But,” John continues. “You’re family, too. You’ll come with us, won’t you?”

Arthur swallows, his chest aching. He remembers his favorite daydream of a little house, soft fields, a blue sky. He imagines now that John is there in the scene, somewhere.

John looks so hopeful, and Arthur suddenly wishes with all his might he weren’t going to die. He wants to see what lives in those eyes, what it means to be a part of John’s family, even if it isn’t in the way he might wish it were. He’d take what he could get from this wretched life.

“I’ll do what I can.” He settles on saying.

John doesn’t look so sure about that answer, but he nods.

_________________________________

A sound wakes him in the early hours.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He’s supposed to be outside watching over the camp. He and John are exposed to danger.

He turns over, hand on the butt of his pistol where it lays in his gun belt next to his head. He listens again.

There's nothing, not even the sounds of their horses stirring. A breeze blows some weeds up against the canvas of the tent.

Arthur begins to think that a dream must have woken him, but then John mutters in his sleep.

His shoulders tense, jumping. He speaks urgently under his breath, and Arthur moves closer, reaching a hand out to his waist.

As soon as he touches him, John's eyes fly open.

“Arth—” he gasps, voice choking off, hand coming down on the ground, hard. He’s halfway to his feet before he realizes he’s awake and plummets back onto the bedroll with a thud.

Arthur sits up, hand coming up to press to his heaving chest. “S’just a dream.” He says, quietly, and John turns over to look at him, face haggard.

He doesn’t say a word, reaching out to press his rough palm over Arthur’s cheek and run down his neck.

Arthur wipes the sweat from his brow, tucking his hair behind his ear. “You’re alright,” he murmurs hesitantly as John’s hands find the sides of Arthur's face, holding. “I’m alright.”

John lets out a breath like a dry sob, letting his head fall back onto the bedroll. Arthur goes with him, hesitantly curling a hand around his side, drawing him closer until their faces are together. He runs his palm up John's side, massaging it back down.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as John closes his eyes.

The regret comes on strong as he watches John's lashes flutter. The corners of his eyes glisten. He leans closer, pressing a kiss to the tear that sits lodged in John's eye.

If he could, he'd take all his mistakes back.

He'd tell John he was alive as soon as Charles had him breathing easy again. Take a train up to see him, lay the truth out.

He'd go further back, tell John at that campfire in Beaver Hollow just how strongly he felt just so John could know after he was gone that he hadn't been alone in his feelings.

Further back still, back to the night John had first kissed him. Arthur would hold him tightly, let John have everything he'd always wanted. Who knows where they would have ended up, after that.

John's hands wander up, slipping beneath Arthur’s arms to clutch at his sides and pull him into a hug.

"I'm sorry," Arthur repeats.

"You'll make it up to me," John murmurs sleepily. Arthur's mouth quirks up, despite his tremendous guilt.

"Alright."

*

Near the border of Lemoyne, there's an old-looking tree with gnarled, pale branches and deep black leaves. Amber and clear whisky bottles hang from it, either a stranger's long-time art project or a spot for passengers on the road to leave something behind.

It’s pretty, up against the sun, but glass litters the ground beneath it and they don’t take the horses across it.

“I like this,” Arthur says after they’ve sat in their saddles and looked at it for a while.

“Do you? It’s only bottles.” John says.

“Sure, but…” Arthur waves his hand at it. “Look at the sun, and how it comes through each one. Some of ‘em look like rainbows.”

John chuckles, leaning over the horn of his saddle to rest his back.

“I think that must be your artistic sensibilities.”

“My what?” Arthur says, grimacing at him.

“You got ‘em, don’t try to deny it.”

Arthur scoffs, nudging Rowan along with his heels.

“If we ever settled down somewhere long enough, I reckon you’d be good at paintin’.”

“Fat chance,” Arthur scoffs, but John can see when he brings Rachel to match Rowan's step that his cheeks have risen a bit, a smile in his eyes.

*

“What'chu’ think?” John asks him.

New Hanover is behind them.

They’d crossed over the Lemoyne border that morning. The destination on the parchment from Cairn Lake is close enough to taste, though Arthur is sure it will be more complicated than a trip from here to there. Regardless, he’s hesitantly optimistic.

Or, he was, before they’d paused to look through their binoculars and found a camp of probable Lemoyne Raiders lurking in the trees, directly on the path between them and the rock.

Three figures sit like dark smudges under the trees, highlighted by the orange glow of the campfire they sit around. From the sounds of pans clanging and voices murmuring, there are more elsewhere, perhaps behind one of the few wagons that sit in a semicircle.

“Well, there’s at least six of ‘em,” Arthur says, passing the binoculars to John.

His mouth twists up in concentration as he squints one eye to look.

“If we head south,” Arthur continues. “We can cut down the tracks and back up through one of them washes comin’ off the hills. We stay quiet, they’ll never know we was here.”

“But then we’d be lookin’ for treasure in the dark,” John says.

“Well, we’ll just make camp somewhere nearby and go search out the spot in the mornin’.”

“Or,” John drawls, passing him back his binoculars. “We could take out the entire camp of ‘em ourselves.”

“Now,” Arthur folds his hands with faux patience over the horn of his saddle. “Darlin’, can you tell me why that would be a bad idea?” He says like a teacher talking to a young student.

John scowls at him. “It ain’t bad odds for us,” John says. “We taken out camps of more. Ten times over, in our day.”

Arthur grimaces. “We’re tryin’ to keep a low profile. Keep our heads down, let the heat cool off our trails, ain’t we? Even if we manage to take out every one of them bastards unscathed, there’ll be more. And they might just trace it back to us. On top of all that, what if the law’s nearby, and they hear the firefight, come themselves? We gonna kill all them too? We only been in the state a day. No.”

“I just don’t like lettin’ them control how we live, is all.” John scoffs.

“They ain’t,” Arthur insists. “We’re just takin’ a detour. We can get back on track in the mornin’.” He rolls his shoulders, the long day's ride wearing on him.

He knows John’s feelings by now on groups like the Raiders. Men going after anyone different from them and theirs, terrorizing the towns and even the cities in the south. Not only folk who aren’t white but women who dress like men, men like John and him.

John hates bigots above all else, and so does Arthur. But in a place like Lemoyne, all of Arthur’s worst fears become a much more real possibility.

It scares him shitless, the idea of what might happen to John if he were caught unassuming, unguarded. Arthur’s spent no small amount of nights in his life lying awake thinking about things worse than death. He finds now that he fears for John’s well-being even more than his own.

“We’re leavin’ it be,” Arthur says sternly.

“Fine.” John sighs. He doesn’t seem inclined to push the matter anymore, but Arthur notices the little quirk to his shoulders.

“What?”

“I’m tired of campin’. It’s been weeks since we slept on a mattress. What say you we head down to Rhodes for a night?”

“You think it’s any safer?”

“Goddamn, Morgan, it could be. We’ll keep our heads down. I want a proper bath that don’t involve a pot of water or a swift current. And there’s a store. We can pick up some supplies.” He eyes Arthur. “Just for a night. The law probably ain’t even after us anymore this far south. Long as we behave, what’s the worst that could happen? Least we’ll be able to sleep safe and sound— together, instead of worryin' about cyclin’ through endless watches.”

Arthur shakes his head, pressing his thumb into one of his eyes, feeling as foolhardy as he thinks John is most of the time for even considering the idea. He finally concedes that it would be nice to wash up properly and get a hot meal. Maybe, in this instance, it would be safer to be in town than out in the wilds.

“You drive a hard bargain. I’ll humor you, Marston.” He finally says.

*

“I’m headin’ 'round to send some mail,” John tells him when they see the 'Welcome to Rhodes' sign swing in the breeze."You get a feel for the place."

The town looks much the same as it had two years ago. The Parlour House is the main hub, and Arthur takes a look at the swaths of people gathered out on the front steps.

Finely dressed folk, men in top hats holding pipes, women in large dresses holding champagne flutes. 

Further on, a few of the storefronts have new washes of bright paint over them, but it is still a one-road town.

Rowan plods along the quieter main street, and Arthur eyes the sheriff's bounty board out front. He slides from the saddle to take a look.

Only Dutch’s face is there amongst the other criminals, ghoulish eyes peering out from under a black cap. Arthur spits at the base of the building and continues on foot towards the general store. He hopes it’s still open at this twilight hour, and is pleased to see the lights on inside.

The door dings as he pushes it open. He spots bright red apples on the table by the front door, tinctures further in.

He stops short at the familiar face of the man who stands behind the counter.

“Arthur Morgan,” Pearson says, his hands smacking down on the countertop. He looks Arthur up and down, eyes wide as plates.

“Mister Pearson,” Arthur drawls, a grin spreading out on his face.

“I read you was dead, Morgan!” Pearson exclaims, finding his legs and marching around the counter. He takes up Arthur’s hand before Arthur can say otherwise and shakes it profusely. At the last moment, he pulls him into a short, hearty hug. “Christ, it’s good to see you, son, how are you?”

“A lot better,” Arthur says when he’s let go. “Had some fight left in me. Someone fanned the flames…”

Pearson nods, his hands hitched high up onto his wide hips. “Can’t believe it’s you."

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you this far south. Thought you’d go back to New York.” Arthur says.

“Nah. Hopped the train and this is where it took me. Married a little gal, ‘bout a year back.” Pearson says. His brow raises. “Say, you’re not on the run, are you?”

“Not expressly,” Arthur says. “Nobody knows I’m alive. We hope to keep it that way.”

“We?” Pearson asks.

Arthur falters and wonders whether he ought to tell the man about John, but then the shop door dings open behind him.There’s a pause, and then John’s astonished, wheezing laugh fills up the air and Arthur's relieved of his duty to make a choice on the matter.

“Pearson, you old bastard!” John exclaims. He breezes up next to Arthur, nudging into his shoulder before shifting away.

“Mister Marston,” Pearson’s brows raise towards his hairline as he glances between the two. “My my. You two found each other after all? Never did know what became of everyone after I left.” He looks bashfully down at his feet. “Tried to leave it all in the past. Read what I could in the papers but…”

“For the best,” Arthur reasons.

“Found each other by chance,” John interjects. “Didn’t know he were alive until a few months ago.”

“I see,” Pearson nods, looking between them still. “Well, you two were always Dutch’s best. I’m glad for you. You need friends, you know, to get through this life.” He nods to himself, eyes shifting around the store.

Arthur feels a bit uneasy with the implication. He's probably only reading into the reaction, his nerves on high alert.

“For me, and some of the others— Swanson, Mary-Beth— we could take or leave the life. But for you… Dutch, Hosea. Williamson. I didn’t think you’d ever really adapt. To civilization. Laws.” He nods to himself. “Just don’t steal from my store.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Arthur huffs.

“Uh… How’s Abigail, John?” Pearson asks, eyeing John tentatively.

“She’s well. She and Jack… they’re up in Montreal. Got some real nice people around ‘em.” He explains, hands on his hips. “They’re happy.” Arthur is glad to hear John sound like he’s starting to believe it.

“That’s good to hear, son. Give me their address. I’ll send them something.”

John stiffens, shifting around on his feet.

“Unless…” Pearson starts.

“It ain’t nothin’ personal. It’s just… the less people know about ‘em, the better.” John explains.

“I understand.” Pearson nods. “You boys pick up whatever you need. I’ll close up the shop so you get your privacy.” He says, walking to the door to lock it and turn the sign over.

“Thanks, Pearson,” Arthur says gratefully as the man returns to his post behind the counter.

John’s already in the back shelves of the shop looking over bags of candies and chocolate, and Arthur heads for the produce. Apples, pears, things he’s missed on the road. Fresh food.

In a few minutes, they’ve bundled up what feels like half the shop onto the counter, and Pearson barely glances over it all before nodding. “That’ll be five dollars.”

When they’ve got it bagged and wrapped, Pearson gives them a small sendoff on the deck of the shop.

“You boys, be careful. It’s safe enough in town, but there’s always raiders. Even here.” He nods at the small street. “Nothin’ you two can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“They’d make my day,” John says, and Arthur knows it’s all too true.

"The saloon alright?" Arthur questions.

"Usually. But on weekends, it can get a bit rough and rowdy. Never usually any shootouts, though."

"Right," Arthur says nodding, then pauses. "Er... What day is it?"

"Christ, you boys've been out in the wild too long. It's Friday, son. Don't be a stranger."

Seeing Pearson feels like a good omen. Someone from the past doing better than expected. Arthur hopes that it means it was the right choice coming to Rhodes.

“No mail?” He asks as they carry their loads back to the horses.

“Naw…” John frowns. “Been long enough, but maybe she just didn’t figure we’d be heading to Rhodes of all places.”

“Sure,” Arthur says. “We didn’t figure it out until an hour ago.”

They tether the horses outside the Parlour house, and already they can hear the roar of people inside accompanied by a tinny-sounding piano. The fancy women on the front walk part to let them through, and they skirt the wraparound to head to the back entrance where the rest of the cowboys are gathered. It's rowdier there, a gathering of ranchers and fieldhands. There are prostitutes about, chatting up potential clientele.

The two of them are used to this crowd. They move through it like water passing over rocks. A few cowboys stand leaned up against the wood siding of the saloon, cigarettes hanging from their mouths, looking nearly too drunk to be vertical.

"This many faces about, no one'll be lookin' at us," John says chipperly.

They push their way into the door, and the back hall of the saloon is no better than out front. Women prowl the halls, men trailing after them. A couple stands connected at the mouths, the man's hands hiking up her skirt.

"Jesus," Arthur mutters as they push through the half-saloon doors into the main floor.

It's just as loud and rambunctious as it sounds from outside, people crowding both floors of the establishment. Arthur can see John's eyes light up.

"We ain't here for pleasure, Marston," Arthur reminds him as they round the bar to find the tender.

He's pouring shots for a group of high-end-looking cowboys, silk shirts and fine coats, hats that haven't seen a day out on the fields or trails. Estate owners.

"'Scuse me, feller," Arthur calls to the tender while John takes a long look at the two floors. The tender finishes pouring drinks and leans over the bar top to hear Arthur. "You got any rooms?"

"Hourly or for the night?"

"Er, the night," Arthur says with a grimace. "Two beds, if you can spare it."

"Sure, got a two bedder. 'Fraid I'll have to charge extra for a full night– we'd get much better rates for hourly."

"Fine, fine," Arthur says as the keeper rummages under the counter for keys.

"Fair warnin' to you fellers, the harlots 'round here charge triple for pairs."

"Pairs," Arthur repeats, confused.

"And they don't like the rough sorts, either, for that sorta thing, so you may be hard-pressed to find one willin' to take both of ya'."

"We ain't here for that," Arthur says, feeling a nerve in his temple begin to twinge.

"Ain't my business," the tender says, waving him off. "Here's the key. That'll be five dollars."

"Five dollars, for a room?" Arthur scoffs.

"Like I said, nightly rate."

"Christ," Arthur says, digging through his satchel. He pulls five bills from a pocket and chucks them on the counter. "Damn highway robbery, is what it is." He mutters, taking the key.

"It's on the second floor." The tender says.

"How about a bath?" John asks, appearing next to Arthur.

The tender sighs.

"A bath is a dollar."

"I'll get one for each of us," John says, fishing his own money out.

"What?" Arthur questions.

"Yeah, we surely need it," John says, tossing over the bills.

"I'll let the attendant know," the barkeep says. "There’ll be a short wait between, while they warm the water."

"That's fine," John says, nudging Arthur with his shoulder. "Lead the way."

Arthur feels the back of his neck prickle as they move through the main floor to the spiral staircase. The fancy breed of men who occupy the front room scrutinize them as they go, and worse, a fair bit of the escorts take an interest in them both.

"Lookin' for company, handsome?" A dark-haired woman lets her hand trail across John's arm.

John laughs, and Arthur looks to watch him shake his head at her. "Nah, ma'am, thanks."

The top floor of the room creaks under their steps as they shuffle past folk.

"That's the room," Arthur points to the door on the far corner. "Looks like the bath is across the hall."

"Alright," John says, staring distractedly in the other direction. Arthur frowns, following his gaze and half expecting to see another attractive stranger making eyes at him.

Instead, he finds the blackjack table, a crowd of people gathered around it to watch.

"You go get that first bath," John tells him. When he looks up at Arthur, the thrill of a good game already lights his eyes. "I'm gonna have some fun out here."

"Marston," Arthur warns.

"Quit worryin', Morgan. I ain't gonna win too much."

"Just don't blow all your cash, either," Arthur sighs as John trails off into the throngs of people. He blends right into the crowd up here, and Arthur tries not to worry as he heads for the double room.

Inside, the beds are both disheveled, probably been used recently, and he grimaces in disgust as he pulls the linens from it into a heap on the floor.

He locks the door behind himself when he heads for the bathroom.

He strips all his gear off, button by button, buckle by buckle, and it’s heavenly to sink into hot, sudsy water. He takes a minute to let his muscles soak in the heat.

Then he starts scrubbing the grime from his skin.

He runs soap through his hair and uses the clean buckets to rinse.

He realizes that John might want to take advantage of their privacy, and he begins to clean his nether regions more thoroughly. He's not sure that they can even safely get up to anything with this many people around and such thin walls, but he wants to be prepared, just in case.

There’s a knock on the door, and it opens a crack.

Arthur freezes, spying one eye with large lashes peeking through. “Need any help in there?” A woman’s lilting voice asks, and Arthur huffs a startled laugh.

“No, thank you,” He calls, and the door closes abruptly. His heart pounds in his ears as if someone had been able to tell what he’d been thinking. “Get a’hold of yourself, Morgan.” He mutters.

He spends far too long in the bath, and he's sure someone will come soon to tell him to vacate, so he dries and slips into the cleanest clothes he has.

Back in the room, he stops short at a figure sitting in the wingback chair in the corner.

It's John, his nose pressed into a newspaper.

"Finally. Took you long enough." John mutters though he doesn't look particularly upset. "You know they're bringin' automobiles down to the south, soon?" He scoffs, folding the newspaper and chucking it onto a side table.

"How the hell did you get in here? I locked the damn—" 

"Give me some credit, Morgan." John flashes a sharp grin at him. "Lookin' clean."

"Feelin' clean," Arthur says, stuffing his old clothes into a canvas bag for later cleaning. "How'd you make out?"

"Won back all the money we spent for the room and baths. And supplies at Pearson's." John says, holding out a stack of bills to Arthur. "No one the wiser, and they all were more focused on one of the head honchos who came to take my place, after."

Arthur's heart begins to soften at the look of happiness on John's face.

"That's good, darlin'. Real good." He says, taking the bills. "Thanks."

John looks up at him through his lashes for a moment, and Arthur's heart beats faster.

"S'too bad we can't share a bath, huh?" John sighs wistfully.

"Jesus, John," Arthur huffs, ducking his head to hide his flushed cheeks. "Is your mind ever not in the gutter?"

"You love it," John says, matter-of-fact, and Arthur is hard-pressed to disagree. "'Sides, I think it'd be sort of romantic."

"Just go take a bath so I can stand to be within a foot of you." Arthur scoffs.

John laughs as he slips past him, neither phased nor convinced by Arthur's jabs.

Arthur watches his backside as he saunters out, his eagerness for the night growing despite his apprehension about the throngs of people around.

Even if he doesn't know exactly what John is planning to get up to, how far they'll actually get, Arthur knows based on everything they've done so far that he'll probably be just fine with whatever it is.

Chapter Text

Eight

_________________________________

John knows that Arthur and Hosea had run some sort of scheme around here just a few days ago. Something to do with Braithwaite moonshine and disguises. John would have paid good money to watch Arthur serve up drinks behind the bar.

The Parlour House has only been open for a few hours, sunshine still coming down hot through the windows. John sits alone at the bar counter. A few ladies sit in one corner having afternoon tea, large, colorful hats on their heads. Two men sit in another booth, going over some line of numbers in the paper that don’t mean much to John himself.

His current lead is a bust. The man who works the general store is a hardass— but he isn’t, in fact, hosting any illegal gambling rings in his upstairs lodgings.

John’s nursing his metaphorical wounds at the saloon before he heads back to Clemens Point empty-handed. The tender had taken one look at his downtrodden face and handed him a glass of iced sweet tea. Then, he’d filled it the rest of the way to the top with bourbon.

John’s had three of them, so far, and he’s beginning to feel better about the whole, rotten day.

“You’re an alright feller,” the tender tells him, tossing his rag over his shoulder. They’ve been shooting the shit, and it’s easy to sway him to John’s ambiguous woes. “Don’t know why you’re strapped for cash. Seems like someone like you could do well enough for themselves.”

“I’m dishonest,” John admits sullenly. “Can’t seem to do right by the people who need me.”

“Well, if dishonesty is your sin, you might do well joining the local militia.”

“The what?”

“Yeah, them Raiders.” The barkeep laughs.

“Oh. Yeah, I come across them before.”

“Sure. They’re a dishonest bunch, but they’re fightin' the good fight down here. I’m sure they’d whip you into shape.”

John feels the smile slip from his face, brow pinching together in confusion.

“The good fight?”

“You know. Them lawmakers up in Washington. They ain’t want us to decide our own laws. The raiders are a rough bunch, but they’re fightin’ for us to keep our traditional values.“ The tender says.

“Yeah, I know what you mean by the good fight,” John snaps, pushing himself to stand. “And I don’t take very kindly to it. Ain’t nothin’ good about it.” He says, trying to blink away his drunkenness. He suddenly doesn’t feel like socializing.

He feels the eyes of the day crowd on him, and he realizes that this place, as nice as it had seemed for the last hour, isn’t very nice at all. The tender’s face has faltered, closing back up to John now that he realizes they don’t share convictions.

“This feller causin’ a stir?” One of the men from the other side of the bar asks gruffly.

The tender looks to the man, a rough sort, missing teeth and one eye part closed. His lip raises as he looks John up and down.

“Just leave it be— we ain’t need any more innocent blood on our hands,” the tender warns him, and John can tell they’re more than acquaintances.

“Ain’t nothin’ innocent about bein’ a traitor.” The man snarls. “He don’t like our cause? He can take it up with me.” The man says, stepping around the counter. John can tell by his cut that he’s a raider.

John’s fought plenty more men, plenty drunker.

He slips out the back door of the saloon when more people gather off the street to see the body laid out across the Parlour House floor.

He lets Old Boy plod back to camp leisurely after they’ve crossed the tracks. He decides that he doesn’t like it here very much. He’ll be happier when they move on. Maybe out to the west, like Arthur’s been talking about.

__________________________

Presently, Arthur feels that he is living within layers upon layers of plans.

The broad, overarching plan is nebulous, stretches out beyond the borders he can see. He’s becoming convinced that John takes part in it, at least, and that makes him a lot less fearful of the future.

There is the plan to find the rock that looks like a face, to find their fortune. This is more immediate, more sure. The rock exists, and they know how to get to it.

Beyond that, he isn’t sure where he and John will go next, only that they’ll go together, as long as Arthur can help it.

The plan for tonight is... well.

The idea of getting up to serious fun with John looms overhead, and Arthur feels nerves like waves down in his stomach.

He paces the length of the room waiting for John to return, and then scoffs at the image of himself he conjures, like a schoolboy waiting for the girl he likes to come down the lane.

He looks over the newspaper, down the line of articles about automobiles and new-fangled industrial machines. The stock market and Wall Street.

Then he looks out the window into the back alley of the saloon, watching the crowd of rowdy workers and cowboys ebb and flow from the bar's interior, some with women, most without. A few are passed out drunk in the weeds or up against the stable.

He spies a larger group of men all together, looking very much like trouble. They roar with laughter loud enough for Arthur to hear through the smudged-up glass of the window. One of them stands out for his rich, blue overcoat and expensive-looking dress shirt beneath it.

This man isn’t like the other brutes, and Arthur wonders what sort of big shot surrounds himself with such rough-looking lackeys.

They disperse eventually, some coming inside, most mounting horses and riding away from town.

A train rumbles past slowly on the tracks, loudly shaking the windows in their frames, and Arthur suspects that they might not be getting as good a night's sleep as he’d hoped.

Finally, he looks for his pocket watch and realizes that he’s only been stewing for five minutes. If John takes even half as long as he did, Arthur is going to implode on himself before his return.

The plan for the moment, he thinks, is whisky.

*

He cracks the door to the bathroom across the hall open, averting his eyes to the floorboards stained over from trailing water of past baths.

“Hey,” he says gruffly, and John yelps with a splash and a clatter.

“What the hell, Arthur?” John says contemptuously. “What do you want?”

“What’re you doin’ in here?” Arthur questions, eyes trailing up. It’s a decently lit room, and he can see the tops of John’s knees rise, ruddy pink from the steam, as he shrinks down into the water. His dark eyes watch Arthur from over the rim of the ceramic tub, edging on a glare.

“I’m washin’, what’s it to you?” John scoffs. “What are you doin’ in here? Quit actin’ like a peepin’ tom.”

“Calm down. I were just gonna tell you I’m goin’ down to the bar for a few minutes.”

John blinks, brow drawing together, and he straightens up.

“I’ll join ya,” he says.

“Naw, you take your time. Just wanted you to know.” He says, letting his eyes linger on the bare tops of John’s shoulders, draped in dark hair that goes loose and liquid where the ends touch the water.

He grins to himself as he lets the door shut, heading downstairs for the bar.

*

He gets the barkeeper’s attention with a dollar bill raised in the air.

The lights have lowered, sconces on the wall and chandelier over the bar casting warm light over patterned emerald wallpaper and dark, hardwood floors. It's a cozy atmosphere that Arthur might enjoy if he didn’t feel like such a stranger in the South.

He takes the shot that’s given to him, amber whisky tasting finer than the stuff they’d had before.

He notices the tender watching him emphatically as he polishes some of the nicer crystal glasses he keeps on display behind the bar.

“You seem the rough and tumble type,” the tender tells him, and Arthur huffs a laugh.

“You could say that.”

“You from around here?”

“Naw. Only passin’ through.”

“I wondered,” the man says, lowering his voice and leaning towards Arthur. “Wondered if you’d heard anything unusual about our establishment, here. You know, anything related to… well, political violence perhaps? All rumors, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur drawls, eyes flicking over the barkeep's face dubiously. “Can’t say I do much talkin’ to other rough and tumble types. I ain’t heard nothin’ about this place, either way.” He says, tapping his shot glass on the counter to ask for a second.

“Good,” The tender says, brows lowering in pleased relief. “Very good.” He fills up Arthur’s glass with more whisky, tossing his rag over his shoulder. “Well, you ought to come back in a few months, then, too. They’re talkin’ about paving the road out front. Cobbled stone, the whole works. They say that someday Saint Denis could expand all the way up to our front door. Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine a city that big.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods. “Sounds uh, sounds excitin’.” It sounds horrendous. If that ever happens, they’ll need to stay far away from Saint Denis and Rhodes— not that they’d had any plans on coming back ever again, after tonight.

Arthur glances over the two-item menu propped up on the bar counter, his stomach stirring at the idea of food. He hasn’t eaten much since that morning, and even then it hadn’t been cooked. A meal might calm his nerves more efficiently than alcohol.

“You lookin’ for any company, handsome?” A feminine voice croons, passing him by. A gloved hand traces his forearm lightly. The woman is red-haired with freckles splashed across her nose, and she offers him a seductive little grin.

“No thank you, ma’am.” Arthur nods curtly.

“You sure? Smells like you’ve had a bath. A lady appreciates cleanliness.”

“Ain’t nothin' personal, ma’am.” He says. “Maybe next time.”

“Alright,” she says with a nod, wandering off to search out her next mark.

The tender laughs. “You and that other feller have any luck, here?” He asks conversationally.

“You mean with escorts? We ain’t really in town for pleasure.” Arthur says, unwilling to spin any yarn about his sexual exploits. “We’re mostly restin’. Been on a long journey.”

“Well, I’m glad you found some relief at our little oasis, then,” the keep says, smiling amicably.

Arthur feels a tingle on the back of his neck, like he’s being observed. Another woman approaches.

“Howdy, big boy,” she chirps as she passes him by, green eyes flashing warmly at him.

He swallows, eyes shifting back to the bartop.

The words have him feeling oddly in his belly, and he tries to pin down why. He can imagine someone else saying those same words to him in a decidedly deeper, scratcher voice. The idea of that makes him feel warm all over.

“You seem popular,” the tender tells him.

“Yeah, well they’re gettin’ paid to make you feel special.” Arthur shrugs.

“Still, ladies have a type.” The man points out. “I’m sure they’d rather take certain clients over others.”

“They’d all be disappointed, I think.” Arthur laughs.

Still feeling watched, he turns to look over the room behind him. Men and women dance, someone sits at the piano playing, toned down and restrained. Cowboys mingle with soft-handed bankers.

No one is looking his way, and he turns back to the bar, perturbed.

“Could I get some of that catfish?” He asks, his stomach winning out.

When he’s got a plate, he stands at the bar to eat it for lack of open tables and feels the same tingle once more. He takes a few bites and then turns to look, eyes cast upward this time.

He finds John, leaning over the balcony of the top floor, eyes watching him, a slow grin spreading out across his mouth. Arthur scowls at him, watches as he slinks along the railing and leisurely down the spiral staircase, looking like a cat.

“Howdy, big boy,” John murmurs teasingly as he slides up next to him. Arthur ducks his head, wonders if John really can read his mind.

His skin looks brighter, streaky trail dust washed away, his hair clean and a bit fluffy in the places that it’s begun to dry. His facial hair has been shaped up and he wears a pale, off-white shirt that billows slightly around his frame, too large in the chest and waist. It tucks into his jeans at the hem.

Arthur is reminded briefly of a Renaissance painting depicting noblemen and princesses in soft light. If Arthur had seen him drawn out in one of his childhood storybooks, he’d have no doubt that John was a prince.

He recognizes the small oil stain on the front pocket of the shirt from when he himself spilled venison grease down the front of it. John must have gone snooping through his things and found something he liked.

“Marston,” Arthur murmurs, eyes flicking over his shoulders and away.

“Morgan,” John muses, leaning over the bar to grab the tender’s attention. He looks languid and loosened up from his bath.

It’s surely the whisky that has Arthur’s eyes sliding quickly down the line of his body where he bends at the hips.

John orders a shot of his own and leans back onto the bar with his elbows as he takes it, right next to Arthur’s plate of catfish. The line of his throat looks intentionally long as he swallows. Arthur stares.

“How is it?” John asks, looking him in the eye.

“Huh?”

“The catfish.”

“Oh. Pretty good… You want some?”

“Nu-uh.” John shakes his head. “I ain’t up to eatin’ just now.” He tapes his glass on the counter. “Could I get another?”

“Makin’ some good money, tonight,” the tender chuckles, taking his glass and refilling it.

“Told you to take your time,” Arthur hums. “Not every day you get a bathtub. Thought you was lookin’ forward to it.”

“Yeah well…” John shrugs. “Didn’t want you to get lonely.”

“Sure,” Arthur scoffs. “You’re just afraid I’d take up one of these fine ladies on their offers, ain’t you?” He teases.

“Right. That’s it.” John says, eyes flashing in amusement.

John takes his second shot and then sighs heavily through his nose.

“Got a look at myself in that bedroom mirror. Look like a goddamn coyote.” He scoffs, dark eyes flashing up to Arthur’s. He shifts, tugging at a wrinkle in his— Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur barks a laugh. "You do not. You look fine, Marston.”

“M’gettin’ lanky again. My skin’s all grizzled.“

A quiet voice greets John from the other side. Arthur cranes his neck to look and sees one of the men who’d been leaning against the wall, now propped up on the counter next to John. He’s a bit older than the both of them, salt and pepper mutton chops, weathered hat loose on his head.

“We know each other?” He murmurs to John. His expression is soft, but Arthur recognizes the hunger in his eyes.

Arthur bristles, but keeps his head down and shovels catfish into his mouth.

“Nah, don’t think we do, partner,” John says amicably.

The man looks sorely disappointed but nods in acceptance. He drains the last of his beer, leaving the bottle on the counter and nodding to the tender before wandering off for the front of the saloon.

John fiddles with his empty shot glass, running his thumb around the rim of it absently.

“That happen to you often?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Only occasionally,” John says, giving him a wry look, and taps his glass on the counter for one more shot.

Arthur has more questions, but most of them he wouldn’t dare ask in public. John would probably be stingy with his answers, anyway.

“Somethin’ seem a little off about this place to you?” Arthur asks.

“Mm. You mean aside from there bein’ no one but white folk around?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Some strange folk comin’ and goin’ earlier.” John’s eyes shift around the place. “Feller who took my spot in blackjack. He weren’t like the rest of polite society here. Real edgy air about him.”

Arthur blinks.

“Were he wearin’ a blue coat?”

The door in the back hall of the saloon opens, loudly smacking against the siding before John can answer. They both turn to watch, men and women giving a wide breadth of space to the three men who come through the saloon half-doors.

“Y’all in here dancin’ the night away?” The biggest man says loudly. He’s taller than Arthur and twice as wide, and folk nearby turn to look warily.

Arthur looks at John sideways and wonders if they can make it back up to the room before a fight breaks out.

The largest man smacks his hand down on the wooden bar counter, causing it and all the glass bottles below it to rattle, a booming echo followed by a shimmer.

The piano falters, and a hush falls over the bar.

Working women look down over the banister from the second floor, eyes narrowed warily on the three. Men inch their way toward the exterior doors.

Behind the largest man, Arthur sees the one in the blue coat. He stands back, eyes calculating as he watches the entirety of the bar, as well as his two associates.

“We’re out there every day fightin’ to keep our rights. And you country aristocrats are just here, rollin’ over, showin’ your bellies at the first sign of resistance.” The second brute says.

“Fellers, please don’t come in here startin’ nothin’ tonight,” The barkeeper pleads, holding out his hands placatingly. “We surely appreciate the work you do, but we can’t keep cleanin’ up your messes.”

“Think the party’s over,” Arthur whispers to John, turning to usher him away from the bar, hoping to make it to the stairs without incident. If things manage to simmer down, he thinks they might could barricade themselves into their room tonight with a chair and the wardrobe. Still salvage their sleep.

“He were the one at the blackjack table,” John mutters, looking over his shoulder, and Arthur knows he means the man in the rich, blue coat.

The largest man takes notice, eyeing them as they ease back from the bar.

“You want a piece, buttercup?” The largest man snaps. Arthur can see the reddened whites of his eyes, his pupils large and black. He’s agitated, inebriated on something more than alcohol. “Don’t like the looks of you,” he says to John, glancing him up and down and sniffing loudly.

“Please, fellers, why can’t y’all leave it at the door?” The barkeep says abysmally. “This can’t keep happening!”

“Raider’s a reoccurring problem, are they?” John snarls at the bartender. “Maybe if you didn’t let scum into your fine establishment, there wouldn’t be a need for fightin’.”

“John,” Arthur hisses.

“These men ain’t sons of Lemoyne,” The man in the blue coat says, voice quiet but commanding as he steps to the forefront. He pulls his knife from his belt, a slim blade. “Can’t let folk like this come in, infect our towns with their novel ideas of tolerance. Teach ‘em a lesson. Startin’ with you.” He says, pointing his knife at John.

Arthur strikes before the man can take a step, across the bar and fisting one hand into his blue coat, the other hand landing on his wrist. The man has the decency to look surprised by Arthur’s quickness, and his face twists up as he puts up a fight. Arthur wrenches his arm, hears the knife clatter to the floor and slide.

Before he can stoop to retrieve it, something big and solid barrels into him from behind, bowling him down.

Chaos erupts in the saloon, some alarmed, some cheering, though for who, Arthur couldn’t say.

Somewhere behind, he hears John’s scratchy voice goading, and he knows the other has joined in the scrap.

The large man who’s taken hold of him tosses him straight into the banister of the staircase. The wood splinters, giving way to his shoulder that bursts in throbbing pain.

The man stalks toward him, and just past him, Arthur can see John, hand to hand with the man in the blue coat, holding him half over the bar counter as they struggle for control.

The large man fills up his vision and lifts his foot up to bring it down over Arthur’s chest. The force of it knocks the wind from him. He fears that one of his ribs could break with the next blow, and in a moment of panic, Arthur closes his arms over the man's foot.

He holds it tight and rolls into him, bringing his legs out from under him. He keeps rolling, putting all of his force into the movement, holding tightly to the man's boot. When he meets resistance, he keeps rolling until he hears a faint, sickening pop. The man howls.

He finally lets go, pushing himself onto his knees as he sucks in air. He staggers to his feet, gasping as he looks around for John. He spots him, still at odds with his opponent, and begins to wonder about where the third man has gone. Before he can find him, the man on the ground reaches for his leg, clutching at it weakly to draw his attention.

With an angry growl, Arthur reaches down, fisting his hands into the man's shirt and dragging him up. The man stands with a pained whimper, and Arthur wrestles him to the window. Shards of glass break off and shatter to the ground as he drives him face-first through it.

He hears John growl loudly, and when he looks he sees the flash of a knife in John’s hand, a thin, silver blade. Arthur knows this to mean that the fight is about to be over.

“John!” Arthur warns sharply.

John either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care.

He strikes, and the man in blue looks equal parts terrified and surprised. He's realizing that he's severely underestimated his opponent's tenacity. Arthur has seen that look on many a man's face, right before John kills them.

John drives the knife into the hollow of his throat, both hands fisted on the hilt. The onlookers left in the building gasp as he pulls it free. The man staggers, rough, gurgling sounds bubbling from his mouth. Arthur curbs his own surprise when John swings again, blade stabbing in quick succession through the man's jugular. The artery bursts, blood pouring forth down his throat, over the collar of his blue coat, and across John’s hand and wrist.

True panic erupts around them, shrieking and shouting, crowds bottlenecking at the doors to escape the room.

Arthur makes for John, grabbing him around his ribs and tugging him back as the man begins to gasp and spasm, collapsing to the ground. His hands blindly reach upward toward his throat, but go limp before they ever reach their mark.

“He’s dead, John,” Arthur huffs in his ear, and even still John thrashes in his hold. “C’mon, we gotta get!” He heaves John away from the body. Shouting begins out the front of the saloon, calls for the law.

“Son’ova bitch had it comin’,” John pants, pointing the bloodied knife at the man gone still on the floor. It’s the man's own, thin blade that John must have snatched off the ground.

“We gotta go, now,” Arthur exclaims, hastening to the back hall. It’s entirely empty, a stark contrast to just a few minutes ago. He pushes out through the exterior door into the back lot, John hot on his heels, and when the crowd there sees them, they make space, a buzz of hesitating voices all around them. One look at John’s pale shirt stained red has men moving away from them, wary eyes flashing.

The sound of heavy footfalls echoing off the boardwalks down the length of the Parlour House alerts Arthur that they are out of time.

“Shit,” He hisses, snatching up John’s sleeve at his wrist and taking off through the lot, dodging and weaving past men.

“Stop there,” a deputy shouts, and the buzz of voices grows around them. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

That gets everyone moving, bodies running left and right, and Arthur makes a beeline through them all toward the white picket fence that encloses the lot. They take it in a single leap, and then the first shot whizzes over their heads.

Arthur ducks on instinct.

“Split!” He shouts as they go sliding down the rocky slope towards the tracks, and John takes off straight across them as bullets begin flying. He hightails it up the other side, disappearing through a dense row of barberry shrubs.

Arthur whistles loudly and then heads straight down the tracks, further south, as he begins making noise. Shouting and panting, sliding on the gravel, desperate to be followed. He only streaks off onto the other side of the tracks when he hears the shouting coming after him.

After a few moments of sprinting for the tree line, he hears the familiar sound of Rowan’s hooves thundering up behind him. He takes hold of the horn as she passes his shoulder, heaving himself up and ducking low as they break through into the trees. Her coat blends straight into the dark of the woods as they fly away.

________________________________

The night that Annabelle is taken is one of the same, rare nights that Mary Gillis comes to stay in camp.

She rarely does, mostly out of a lack of comfort and privacy. But also for a quieter, closely held belief that Arthur is better than all these people he calls friends. She tells him this, sometimes, when they lay together on a picnic blanket or sit next to each other on her garden wall.

On this night, she’s only in camp because they’d had to take cover, on account of the storm.

*

For the entire day, a ring has been burning a hole in Arthur’s pocket.

Today is the day, he thinks. The day he can propose, and Mary will say yes.

It’s warm, mild, nothing but a light, pleasant breeze. Spring is blooming. It’s romantic, if Arthur had to put a name to it.

He picks Mary up on the outskirts of Chicago proper. By now, she’s used to riding side saddle on the back of his horse, arranging her skirts in a practiced way. He likes that she refuses to wear something more appropriate for riding. Her mother passed her down all these dresses, she tells him, and she refuses to go a day without wearing them, thank you very much.

He’d bought her a pair of fine riding gloves that she does wear, even though her hands never touch the reins. She grips around his middle, clutching against his shirt and belt as she holds on. She’s warm against his back, a comforting weight leaning into him.

He’s taking her to camp at a little spot he’d found out in Cherry Hill woods along the river. A pretty fall— or less of a fall and more of a place in the river that dips downward, creating a bit of foamy spray. Not many people out this way that he’s ever seen, and he thinks they’ll have privacy.

They sit together in front of a trickle of water that seeps down over a rocky outcropping. Mary is as relaxed as Arthur’s ever seen her. She likes birds, and she’s pointed out to him a few of the brightly colored ones that come to sit on branches near the water.

The timing of it all seems perfect.

He’s thinking about pulling the ring out then, but something wet lands on his cheek. When he looks up, the sky has clouded over in grey, and little droplets begin to fall.

“That came out of nowhere,” Mary comments.

When they hear drops begin to bounce off the tops of their respective hats, Arthur pulls her to her feet and into the canvas tent where they wait for the weather to pass.

And for once, Mary is the one to kiss him first, warm and sweet. She invites him to lie down on top of her and holds him tender when he does. She hikes up her skirts and sighs pretty when he’s gentle and sweet with her.

For all intents and purposes, everything is lining up perfectly for them.

He thinks that he can propose in the morning. Sunrises can be romantic, can’t they?

But before morning comes, the rain shifts from a drizzle to an all-out storm. Wind knocks their tent around, lifting it off the ground a few times until they grab onto the corners. Pinecones and small branches rain down on top of them. One look at her, and he knows that he ought to take her back home as soon as there’s a lull.

Their window comes and they pack up quickly, and she holds onto him tight as he takes Boadicea down the muddy trails as quickly as he dares.

He’s disappointed that it’s turned out like this, but it had still been a good getaway. He hopes it further cements their feelings for each other.

The storm picks back up before they make it even close to the city limits, and Arthur warily suggests that they go back to where his gang is holed up, just for the night. A little out of the way clearing along the farm roads.

Mary begrudgingly agrees.

She’s met a lot of the people staying there, before. She doesn’t get along with most of them, only for the fact that Arthur knows she can come off a bit high and mighty. He knows she isn’t— it’s only how she seems when she’s anxious and putting on a brave face. How she’s been able to survive, the only woman left in her immediate family, dealing with all of those rich people in her neighborhood.

Matters aren’t helped by the other ladies in camp, who don’t trust her.

No matter.

He takes her straight to his tent, faring much better in this weather being attached to a wagon and staked down along all its edges. He lets the walls of it down and seals them inside.

Mary seems pleased enough to lay with him on his cot, his arm tight around her to hold her snug as they try to get a bit more sleep.

Not the worst, he thinks. He can still salvage this situation. In the morning, along the way home, perhaps he can find a pretty place to stop and pop the question.

*

The ambush comes in the early hours when the rain has only faded partially, the wind still howling, the sky still quilted in dark clouds.

Arthur is awoken by stampeding hooves and shrill horse screams. He recognizes Karen’s voice, and then the camp erupts into shouts and cries.

Arthur flies up from bed, his arm tight around Mary. She asks him what’s happening as he pulls his boots on, eyes full of terror.

“Wait here,” he tells her. “You hide under that wagon if you think you need to.”

When he steps out of his tent, the camp is in pandemonium. Unfamiliar horsemen ride the perimeters of camp, dark figures in the trees. Karen opens fire on them with a shotgun from around the wheel of a wagon where she and Tilly crouch. He can hear Dutch, somewhere across the camp, hollering loud enough to be heard over the storm.

“Arthur!” Mrs. Grimshaw gasps, appearing at his side. She’s in her dressing gown, her hair damp and falling out of its tie. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” He says, bracing his hand on her shoulder a moment, brushing rain from his own eyes.

The horsemen retreat, sounds of gunfire from all around the camp driving them away.

“I heard Annabelle screaming,” Mrs. Grimshaw says. Arthur swallows, starting across camp, barely able to hold himself back from running. He dodges puddles that settled during the storm, fallen branches of evergreen. It’s a shame that the air smells so fragrant and good on a night like tonight.

He finds Hosea and Dutch.

Dutch paces, shouting incoherently. Arthur tries to pick out words, but it just sounds pained, and the man wrings his hands through his black hair.

“What happened?” He demands, and Hosea turns to him, face fearful.

“That gang— Colm’s gang, the Irish bastards.”

Dutch pulls at his hair, his body roiling in rage and despair. Arthur is disturbed by the look of madness on his face, eyes wide as they roll around to the treetops.

“Annabelle… Annabelle’s gone,” Hosea says quietly. Arthur stares at him, stunned.

“She was taken? Or…?”

“Her body was taken…” Hosea hesitates. “But… she’s passed.” His eyes shift back to Dutch, and Arthur notices the blood. Ripped pale fabric laying half in the mud, a lot of blood pooled on the ground, being muddled and washed by the rain.

The wind howls through the treetops. Arthur feels cold down to his core.

He looks around and finds many sets of eyes watching him, waiting for some sort of instruction. The Callander brothers, Marston, Hickory, their newest additions, all look shellshocked, especially at the sight of Dutch’s frenzied behavior.

“I need to take Mary home,” Arthur says gruffly, turning and stalking back to his tent. Hosea follows after him, saying something Arthur can’t hear over the wind and rain.

When he pulls back his tent flap, he finds Mary already pulling her boots on, her clothes fastened and her things gathered.

“I want to go home, Arthur,” She says severely, bottom lip trembling, and he nods, unable to argue but still pained to hear her so desperate to leave.

“You should take some men with you,” Hosea says from behind him. “Take Marston and one of the others. Davey. Colm’s boys could still be around.” He adds quieter.

Arthur turns to look him in the face.

“Is Bessie alright?” Arthur asks, and Hosea’s shoulders drop.

“She’s in our tent. Shaken up, but she’s got her shotgun at the ready.”

Arthur nods, feeling empty as Mary brushes past him hurriedly, heading straight for the horses.

“Marston, Davey,” Arthur calls as he follows after her. “Come with me to town,” He says roughly, and he doesn’t need to ask twice.

The ring has gone cold in his pocket.

Mary holds onto him in a death grip all the way to town. He can tell by her stiffness and the way she wipes tears from her cheek onto his shoulder that this night has changed things.

As they ride up her street, her hands loosen from his gun belt, and he glances back to see her wipe tears from her face with her gloved hands.

In front of her large house, Marston leaps down from his horse first and takes both his and Arthur’s horses by the reins. Arthur slides from the saddle, helping Mary down with a hand.

“Ma’am,” Marston offers when he accidentally looks her in the eye. Arthur can appreciate that for all his unruly boisterousness, he’s trying his best to be civil and decent in front of her. The kid’s brow pinches up at the sight of her teary face.

Arthur walks her to the door of her family’s home, a light hand on her back while the other two men stay back.

He can already predict what she’s going to say when she turns to look at him, shadowed in her doorway.

It’s not the first time Mary’s seen his life for what it is— but it’s the first time she’s ever been caught up in the middle of it.

He’d be more distraught about where he sees this train heading if he weren’t thinking the same exact thing,

“I can’t do this anymore, Arthur,” she says, her voice trembling. New tears form in the corners of her eyes, cheeks blotchy red. The look on her face is enough to break Arthur’s heart all on its own.

“I know,” he says, voice tight.

“I really do love you.”

“I know.” His throat aches, and he tries to swallow. “I love you, too.”

She turns, hand on the knob of her fine, oak door, and then pauses. “And I don’t suppose you’d ever willingly give it all up.” She says softly, only for him to hear.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Some days, he thinks he might be able to stomach leaving everything he knows behind. Other days, he thinks he’ll never belong anywhere else but there next to Dutch.

His lack of response is answer enough for her, and she nods. Maybe this helps her, in some small way. She stands straighter, shoulders falling back, looking very much the same as she did the first time Arthur laid eyes on her.

“I love you, Arthur. Goodbye.” She turns, stepping into her house, shutting the door behind her, and Arthur understands from those simple words that she doesn’t want him to contact her anymore.

For all that Mary Gillis is different from him— high class, wealthy, pampered— Arthur appreciates that she is cut and dry.

He runs the back of his hand over his eyes, swallowing down the pain blooming in his face and throat. He walks hollowly back to his horse, pulling himself into the saddle without a word, and sends her trotting back down the lane. He can feel Davey’s and Marston’s eyes on him.

Like a final joke, the rain dissipates into nothing. For a few long moments, Arthur childishly blames it for all his woes. If only this, if only that.

Then he realizes that this could be the best outcome he could hope for, for Mary Gillis. She’d leave him, eventually. If not today, it would have been later. And if not by her own volition, then by someone else’s violent intent.

“Did… Did she leave you?” Marston pipes up when they’re on the main road out of Chicago. The sun’s started to rise in the east, bouncing off the distant storm clouds and illuminating their path in a pink, hazy glow that won't last long.

“Christ, Marston,” Davey mutters. “Obviously.”

“But…” John’s voice falters. It’s gotten scratchier in the months Arthur’s known him.“But I thought you was gonna marry her.”

Arthur’s head snaps around to glare at the kid.

“Who the hell told you that?” He demands, and John sits back in his saddle, pressing his lips together.

“No one,” Davey murmurs. “We just… assumed.”

“Yeah well…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “You see now, what happens to folk who run with us. To women who run with us. You can’t live this sort of life and expect good things to happen to you.” Arthur says. “You can’t fall in love and live happily ever after. Women will leave, and that’s the best case. Sometimes, they’re taken from you.”

I’m lucky, he thinks, remembering the look on Dutch’s face. He wonders what state they’ll find him in upon their return.

“Fallin’ in love’s for chumps, anyhow,” Davey scoffs, and Arthur isn’t inclined to disagree with him.

When they’re closer to camp, Davey rides ahead of them, eager to get back to his brother to make sure nothing more has happened in their absence.

Marston stays behind with him. Pink tendrils pull away from the clouds, beginning to turn yellow in the light of dawn. Marston matches his horse's pace with Arthur’s.

“M’sorry, Morgan,” he offers, and Arthur looks at him suspiciously.

John is young, been running with them for just a few months. He’s foolhardy and eager to prove himself to Dutch and Hosea. Freshly twenty, but he has a look about him that some of the others don’t. His skin is relatively unblemished from his youth, tawny and clear, but there’s a hardness around his eyes.

Arthur knows the look. Someone who knows real hardship and who knows they’ve found something worth clinging to.

He looks sincere in his sympathy, at least.

“Yeah, well… thanks, I guess.” Arthur grunts.

Marston is supposedly competent with a blade. Reflexes like a cat, quick as lightning, vicious as a snake, Dutch had said, but that’s all he’d said. John’s origins are hazy.

Hosea had told him, when Arthur had gone poking, that John had been living on the streets of Racine for a long time before he’d been arrested for the murder of a farmer, and subsequently rescued by Dutch from the hands of the law.

His dark head is turned, watching the horizon line change colors by the second.

“I thought you two was good as married,” John says. “Can’t believe she’d just— just—“ John shuts his mouth, looking sheepish.

Arthur stays quiet. He can believe it just fine.

He’d rather Mary stay away and stay safe than end up like Annabelle. Or Eliza. Arthur thinks that he’s destined to be alone. If he can’t keep the person he loves safe, then he ought not to be with them.

____________________________

Arthur only knows of one place that they might both think to go.

Face Rock is too far away, its exact location still to be determined, and with too many camps of degenerate bigots between here and there, he prays that John is of the same mind as him.

He only needs to glance at his compass to set himself west. He rides under the cover of the forest for nearly an hour before he breaks through to the shores of Flat Iron Lake. Then, he begins picking his way up the coastline, eyes constantly on the woods around him, listening for the sounds of other horses or voices.

None come, but he keeps his lantern tucked away regardless, not wanting to be seen or followed by any curious folk.

He hopes that once the law figures out that it had been raiders killed in the saloon, they might ease up on their search, at least until morning comes. There’s is a darker, more insidious thought that the law could have raiders tucked away into its own ranks.

No matter, the goal is to avoid both.

*

A figure stands up against the trunk of the largest tree in Clemens Point.

Arthur wouldn’t see them if not for the way their white shirt stands out a dusky grey against the shadowy dark.

He slides from his saddle wordlessly, and John pushes off the tree, striding quickly to meet him, pulling him straight into a bruising kiss.

“You took a while,” John murmurs when they pull apart, and Arthur hums. “Were gettin’ worried.”

“Had to head south. Were careful comin’ back up.”

Arthur clutches his elbows, pulling him back in, the calm of relief seeping warm through his veins.

He’d been thinking, on the long ride up, of all the what-ifs. Of if they never found their way back to each other, if he read about John’s arrest in the paper, or if they wouldn’t bother to arrest him and simply executed him on the spot. He’d thought about the possibility of reading a short obituary about the criminal John Marston, found and brought to justice at last in the south of Lemoyne.

The kiss feels like drinking from a cool spring after being lost on a dry road for days.

Arthur finally lets him go and looks down at his body, lit only by what moonlight there is sifting between the clouds and treetops. There are patches of dark blood, dry on the sleeve of the shirt, more speckled across the body of it.

“Made out alright? You hurt?” Arthur asks.

“Nah,” John ducks his head. “Were mostly that other feller. Law chased me a long time, though. Had to double back four times before I got them off my scent. That were back closer to town, though.” He says, then turns to look around them. “Home sweet home, huh?”

“Yeah.” Arthur casts his eyes about. Like Horseshoe bluff, this site is secluded. “Bit of bad blood here, too,” he says.

“Maybe more for you than me,” John murmurs. He clutches at Arthur’s sleeve, giving it a small tug. “Started settin’ up camp a little further north, through them trees.” His hand slides down to Arthur’s wrist, fingers pressing into his palm for a moment until Arthur accepts the embrace, lacing their fingers together loosely.

John starts north and Arthur follows easily, tired legs trailing after him without much thought.

“Wonder if our faces will be up on posters tomorrow,” John says, dropping a look over his shoulder at him. “You think anyone got a good enough look at us?”

“That bartender might'a.” Arthur sighs. “We ought to be movin’ on as soon as we find that damned rock. Damnit, we were doin’ good. Ain’t caused no suspicion, until now.”

“They had it comin’ Arthur,” John says, a hard edge to his voice like they are about to argue. “Fellers weren’t gonna let us go without a fight, and—“

“I know,” Arthur says, voice going hushed. He braces a hand to John’s shoulder, stopping him. The last thing he wants is to fight, now that they’re both safe and sound. “I ain’t mad, darlin’,” Arthur murmurs, and John softens under his touch, turning his way again. “I know it ain’t right, them comin’ in there like that. It were necessary. It were us or them.”

The fight drains out of John’s shoulders, and he looks down between them.

“I ruined your shirt,” he says sheepishly.

“You didn’t ruin nothin’,” Arthur chuckles, leaning closer to peck the corner of his mouth. John’s lashes flutter, and satisfaction blooms in Arthur’s belly, an unexpected tendril of lust sliding down through him. “Violent little thing,” he murmurs against John’s lips, making him shiver.

“Did it put you off- what I did to that feller?”

“‘Course not,” Arthur says truthfully. “I know what you are. And I knew what he were, too.”

“Good,” John says. “Damn them… they ruined what was gonna be a real good night.”

“It ain’t ruined,” Arthur says, the dip in his stomach turning to full, radiating arousal. He tugs John closer. “Maybe it were just a little change in plan. Reckon… this place is nice enough as any to do whatever we might want to do.”

“Yeah?” John asks, eyes lighting up.

“Sure. I ain’t never liked them stuffy hotel rooms, anyhow. Much prefer the rugged outdoors.”

John takes his hand firmly, tugging him along through the forest. Rowan’s steps follow a few paces away. They emerge into a little patch that John’s begun setting up in. There’s no fire, but his bedroll is laid out on a flat patch of grass. Rachel’s saddle is set out across a rock.

“Got myself cleaned up in the bath,” John says nervously, looking back at Arthur. “Got a bit roughed up again, though.”

“S’alright,” Arthur says, letting go of his hand. “Don’t gotta do nothin’ special for me. I just like bein’ with you.”

“It ain’t really special,” John shrugs. “Just wanted to be ready… wanted it to be good.”

“It,” Arthur repeats.

John shifts over to his saddle and digs around in one of the bags. He pulls something out in his fist, handing it over to Arthur.

He stares down at it, knowing. A tin of vaseline.

“Want you to use it on me, tonight,” John says quietly, and Arthur had been expecting it, but his breath still catches in his throat. His gut aches with want, and he closes his eyes a moment before looking back up at John.

“Where’d you even get this?”

“Stole it from Pearson’s store,” John says with a toothy little grin.

Arthur clicks his tongue softly. “Why’d you go stealin’ from him? He asked us not to.”

“That’s why I had to,” John explains. “He were daring me to try. ‘Sides, it were only seventeen cents, and he undercharged us for everythin’ else.”

“Marston,” Arthur murmurs affectionately.

“So will you?” John asks, interrupting whatever Arthur had been about to ask. ”Will you fuck me?”

Arthur takes a steadying breath. Maybe his face betrays some of his trepidation.

“You know it won’t hurt me, don’t you?” John asks suddenly, and Arthur falters.

“Won’t it?”

He’s fairly sure fucking John won’t be a walk through the daisies. He knows there are certain precautions to be taken to make it bearable, but he doesn’t see how it can be anything other than John putting himself through something uncomfortable, only for Arthur’s benefit. It doesn’t sit right with him.

“It might, for a moment,” John says quietly, leaning up to kiss Arthur on his ear. “I do it to myself, sometimes.”

Arthur’s throat clicks as he swallows.

“You do?”

“M-hm. Like it a lot. Can never get deep how I want it, though.” He murmurs against Arthur’s ear. “You’d be doin’ me a favor.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. John grins, kissing him along his pulse, slow and sucking, and Arthur's cock fattens up in his pants just a bit.

“Christ, John. Okay.”

John looks thrilled as he pulls away. “You go take care of your horse. I’m gonna freshen up.” He says, eyes shifting toward the shoreline. He begins undoing the buttons of his shirt from the top. Arthur watches distractedly for a moment, dark hair at the center of his chest revealed.

He pulls his eyes away.

His chest quivers, his brain a hazy mess as he pulls the saddle off Rowan, setting it down next to John’s. He removes her bridle and turns her out next to Rachel, vowing to give her a decent brush down come morning.

Then he turns back to camp, watching John’s handsome shape as he wades out into the shallows.

______________________________

It’s sometime after John kisses him for the first time that Arthur tries to pick up a hooker. Tries.

“Arthur, you’ll come with us tonight, won’t you?” Dutch asks him, as he does every year.

Nearly the entire gang is heading into town for Dutch’s birthday. A celebration drink, they call it, but Arthur knows that the night will devolve into drunken mayhem, singing and dancing, card counting, and possibly even a shootout. Dutch’s birthdays always do.

Still, he’d be remiss to stay in. Even Hosea goes out on these rare occasions.

There’s a joyful air about the group, and even Marston is smiling at him, and he has no choice but to smile back because they’re trying to get along again. Trying.

It doesn’t much matter how everyone’s feeling, once they get to the saloon. They turn the place into their own playground when they all get together like this. The ladies work the men, getting free drinks and tips about local opportunities, and sometimes even going for a little roll in the hay if the man’s attractive enough.

Arthur sits at the bar next to Javier and Williamson and feels on the verge of peaceful.

Prostitutes come around, as they always do, and Javier disappears with one. He returns to buy them a round, and then he’s off again, ever popular.

“That Marston,” Bill comments, and Arthur turns to watch John at the poker table. There are a few women hanging around him, oohing and aahing at his skill and luck. “He don’t even have to try to get women.”

“Yeah,” Arthur murmurs. He watches John’s face, eyes alight as they deal out new hands.

With as much alcohol running through his veins as there is, Arthur’s eyes linger on his lips, bitten pink, and on the curve of his cheekbone. He imagines holding his face, for a moment and then turns back to the bar, perturbed down in his gut.

“Bet they don’t even charge him for the pleasure,” Bill mutters. He finishes off his beer in a long pull and stands.

When Arthur looks back, John’s eyes flit away, and Arthur knows he’s been caught. Or has he done the catching?

He feels equal parts sick and elated.

*

A bit later, Hosea finds him in the same spot.

“You seen John?” He asks, and Arthur scoffs.

“I ain’t his keeper.”

“Sure, but…” Hosea's brow raises. “Usually when I find one of you, the other isn’t far.”

“Maybe it used to be like that,” Arthur mutters, too drunk not to be so open.

“Right.” Hosea frowns. “Well, whatever happened between you two, anyway?”

“Nothin,” Arthur scoffs. “Why would something have happened?”

“Just that you two seemed to be working well together. Getting along. And now…”

“Well, what can I say? Maybe we ain’t cut out to be friends.”

“Oh. There he is.” Hosea says, and Arthur automatically turns to look, perhaps giving away how much he still cares. At least it’s only Hosea here to witness it.

John stands in a corner, a prostitute standing in front of him. She’s pretty, dark hair, freckles on her little upturned nose. One of the prettiest women he’s ever seen, really. She laughs at something John says, and John laughs too, and they look far too familiar for having only just met.

Arthur feels sick.

John leaves with her, out the front door.

Arthur’s going to vomit, he thinks.

He stands, making for the back door. He just barely makes it off the side porch before he throws up everything he’s eaten or drank.

“Lightweight,” someone mutters as they pass, and Arthur groans. He usually isn’t. A lightweight, that is. It’s just that this night isn’t being very kind to him.

He decides he ought to go home.

Rounding the side of the saloon, he runs straight into the prostitute John had left with. She’s alone, a cigarette between her fingers, and she looks up at Arthur thoughtfully.

“Hey, handsome,” she winks at him.

He stares dumbly at her.

“Don’t talk?” She asks.

“Er… the feller you was just with. J—John. Where’s he?”

Her brow raises, and she looks him up and down once.

“Had to leave. Said he weren’t feelin’ well.”

“Which way’d he go? I… I need to talk to him.” Arthur says. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s the alcohol making him say these things. But he wants to see John.

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” She says, decidedly short in her answer. She swallows, and Arthur gets the feeling she’s not being entirely truthful. “But I could keep you company.” She says quickly, a practiced little grin sliding back into place. “Handsome man like you, I’m sure you don’t need help finding a lady to spend time with.”

If only she knew, Arthur thinks, how difficult it is for him to find a lady to spend time with. His own dumb brain can’t seem to want anything more than conversation. The only two people he’s ever begun to feel anything more for have left him, in one way or another.

Now, the third person he wants isn’t someone he can have.

Arthur swallows, considering her offer a moment. She sees his hesitation and slides a hand down his arm. Her hands are small and sturdy. She blinks dark eyes up at him.

Dark eyes, dark hair. Arthur wonders for a moment if he could pretend, just for a few minutes. Pretend that the person he’s with is someone else.

He could pretend she’s Mary. That would be easiest. They’re both women, both have dark hair.

There’s someone else who has dark hair, too, and Arthur’s gut clenches at the thought of them asking for something like this from him.

It would be a lot harder to pretend that this woman is John. He feels guilty even thinking about it.

Goddamn alcohol.

“I…” Arthur swallows. “I… No.” He shakes his head. “Naw, I can’t. Not tonight.”

She frowns at him, brow drawing together in confusion. But finally, she nods in acceptance, blowing a little puff of smoke in his face and grinning anyway, almost playful.

He staggers out of the alley, back to his horse. He wants to go back to camp, sleep off this awful drunken stupor he’s fallen into.

He only realizes halfway home that she’d stolen his pocket watch— the one Hosea had given him.

*

He’s horned up the entire ride back, his mind filled with images of John, little flashes of memory and some imagined all from Arthur’s head.

They fester in him as he unsaddles his horse, turns into his tent.

No one is around, save Mrs. Grimshaw, already asleep, and Reverend Swanson, passed out drunk.

He tries to go straight to sleep, but the feeling in his gut never goes away, only grows stronger. He ends up closing up his tent, turning onto his belly, and pushing his hand down his pants. He tries to think about Mary, or some other faceless body to get himself off.

All his mind comes back to is John’s face. Dark eyes, toothy grin. Jaggedly cut hair. The curve of his shoulders that Arthur’s seen when he’s bathing in the river. He imagines John’s waist, his hips, the shape of his ass in his union suit when he walks through camp in the middle of the night.

He tries to imagine what his cock might look like, hard, and then makes a mess in his own pants. He’s embarrassed and ashamed, but too tired to get up. He falls asleep in it, feeling pathetic.

*

A few months later, John brings home that very same prostitute. She’s pregnant, and there’s talk of marrying them.

Arthur is conflicted on all fronts, and when Abigail meets his eyes, she looks a bit confused, herself.

On that first night, he finds his pocket watch nestled on his pillow. That’s something, at least.

_________________________

Arthur stares, mesmerized by the small hitches in John’s breath as he works his finger slowly in and out of him. His insides are burning heat, soft like a flame. Arthur feels drunk and hazy. He could happily stay like this forever, just making John’s breath come short and shuddering through his lungs.

John is beautiful laid out on his back, legs spread wide, holding one of them back by the knee. He flushes all the way from his cheeks to his chest, eyes half-lidded as he watches Arthur’s face.

No one has ever offered themselves up to him like this, even when he’d been the most in love he’d ever been.

Arthur pulls his finger out, John gasps quietly. He rubs the pads of his fingers over the furled muscle, vaseline easing the way. The hair along the cleft of his ass is dark, but the ointment smoothes it out of the way. 

Arthur’s dick throbs, standing full mast against his belly. He’s never felt such a physical draw to anything as he does to John, like a string linking his pelvis to him.

Arthur eases the tip of a finger back in, and then another paired next to it, slowly testing the give.

“Oh my god,” John breathes, head falling back against the ground, eyes shutting.

John’s muscle is softened, opening up around his fingers as his chest heaves. The tightness of him is unlike anything Arthur’s felt before. He eases them in, pushing gently against John’s walls, eases back out, pushes back in just a hair quicker all the way to his knuckles. He watches John’s toes curl on his foot suspended in the air.

“Real tight, darlin’,” Arthur swallows thickly. John hums loudly, hips giving a little kick. “You ain’t hurtin’?”

“No,” John shakes his head, eyes cracking open to stare at Arthur, pools of liquid night sky. “Feels nice.”

“Yeah?” Curiosity blooms down in the depths of Arthur’s mind. “What’s it feel like?”

“Full…” John breathes. “Like my insides are all lit up. Rest of me is…” He swallows, and Arthur catches sight of a few droplets of sweat beading up on his throat. “Tinglin’ all over.”

Arthur becomes a bit braver, working up a slow, steady push and pull with his hand. Slowly, he shifts, leaning over John, across his leg spread out on the ground to lick the sweat from the hollow at the base of his throat.

John whimpers, hips rolling at the angle change.

“Alright?” Arthur breathes.

“M-hm,” John nods, turning his face to ask for a kiss. Arthur obliges him, kissing him long and deep as his fingers work their slow, steady rhythm.

He drags his mouth back down his throat, sucking little strawberry-colored marks into his skin.

John’s breath goes quick again as Arthur makes his way down his chest, kissing over one of his nipples. He gasps, head thunking gently against the bedroll. Arthur follows the movement, lips sealing over the nub to suck.

“Arthur,” John whines, voice gravely. “Fuck, please,” he begs, a hand curling into the back of Arthur’s hair, running through it and then pulling him closer.

John’s sensitive all over, and it only seems heightened now that he’s used to the fingers up his ass. Arthur decides he ought to take advantage. He closes his teeth around the bud, gently nipping, and John nearly comes off the bedroll crying out and squirming under Arthur’s hold, hips kicking even as Arthur holds him down.

Arthur chuckles, letting him go.

“M’gonna lose it right now if you don’t cut it out,” John pants.

Arthur pulls back to look down at him and can see by the moonlight a thin trail of liquid that John’s cock has tracked across his belly.

“You’re real pretty, John,” he says quietly, mystified.

“Shut the hell up,” John scoffs, turning his face away.

“I mean it,” Arthur presses his face into John’s skin, breathing deep along the crook of his neck. John’s arm winds around his shoulders, holding, brushing his nose and lips through Arthur’s hair.

“M’ready,” He murmurs, and Arthur eases his fingers from him, the balmy Lemoyne air suddenly feeling cold compared to his insides. Arthur sits up on one hand, looking down at him, searching his face out for any bluff. “Do you want me to roll over?” John asks.

No, absolutely not, Arthur thinks, then thinks better. “Would it be easier for you?” He asks, instead.

“Maybe,” John pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. “Don’t care much about easy right now, though. Much rather look at you.”

“Okay,” Arthur breathes.

“C’mon then,” John huffs, pulling both his legs back and exposing himself. “Don’t make me wait anymore.”

Arthur’s stomach trembles as he pushes himself to his knees, nestling right up to John’s hips, cradling him between his thighs.

He runs his hands up over the backs of John’s legs, rolling him back and then pulling him closer. John’s legs shake as they fall wide over Arthur’s thighs. He’s pulled tight like a bow, and Arthur slows all his movements, running his hands over John’s legs, up between them, thumbs working into his muscles, hoping to ease some of the tension out of him.

John groans under his touch, shoulders melting back onto the ground slowly but surely. His chest rises and falls, his breath becoming heavier, and Arthur watches his cock bounce against his belly with each shift of his hips.

He smiles and retrieves the tin, taking a fair bit more of the ointment and working it over his own prick. It’s a strange feeling, sort of blocks the sensation of the air, but as he fits the head up to John’s hole, they both groan softly. He lets it sit there, returning to massaging up John’s thighs.

“You tryin’ to tease me or somethin’?” John asks, voice strained.

“M’just easin’ into it,” Arthur says defensively. He takes hold of John’s cock, palm heavy as he massages it with the excess vaseline.

“Wait, wait,” John pants, a hand coming down to Arthur’s wrist to still it.

“That worked up, are you?”

“‘Christ,” John scoffs, looking away.

Arthur nudges his hips forward, the head of his dick bumping firmly against John’s muscle. He pulls his foreskin back, watching more intently as he repeats the motion.

“God,” John gasps, eyes snapping back to Arthur. “More of that.”

Arthur stares down now, a sliver of moonlight slipping through the treetops around them and gets a good look at where the two of them meet. He wants to ask if John’s sure about this. The size of him and the size of John’s hole don’t look compatible to him in the slightest. But then John’s hips start rolling, working against him, and Arthur holds his prick steady, pushing it gently against John’s entrance, easing up, pushing again. He can hear John’s sharp intake each time he does, rubbing the head back and forth to introduce the feeling.

He gives another firm, gentle push of his hips and his head breaches, slips in slow, John opening up around him. John groans, and when Arthur looks up at him, his head is flat on the ground, eyes wide as they stare up at the moon where it disappears behind another grey cloud.

“John,” Arthur shudders, the sensation of even this nearly too much for him. “Alright?”

“Mmm,” John hums, eyes shutting. He breathes a slow breath out through pursed lips. “Gimme a minute."

Arthur focuses on not moving, bypassing the urge to push forward, frame John’s hips between his own, hold him open and rut into his body. His own legs tremble and he runs his hands up and down the backs of John’s thighs. He stares down at him, gaze running over his handsome face, watching each little change in his features as he adjusts.

“M’alright,” John says, looking back at him. The tension has slowly ebbed from his face, leaving behind rose-tinted cheeks and hazy eyes. “I’m good.”

“Swear?” Arthur asks, shifting on his knees. John’s breath shakes and he nods, a hand reaching up to run over Arthur’s chest. His eyes follow his own hand distractedly.

“Barely even pinches,” John says. “Mostly just… just feels big.” He shifts a leg, hooking one of his heels around Arthur’s back and nudging him forward. “C’mon.”

Arthur lifts just a bit, sliding in another inch without meaning to, and John’s mouth falls open, lips pulled into a breathless smile. “Yeah,” he sighs.

John’s body opens around him as he eases in and Arthur can’t help the groan pushed from his mouth. John’s impossibly hot, and if Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d be worried about being burned.

“You feel like velvet,” Arthur breathes as he pauses. John only hums in return, both hands reaching up to cup at Arthur’s face, pet down his neck. His thighs tremble, but Arthur feels how he loosens around him, gradually letting him in.

Arthur gives one more small nudge forward and comes to rest against John’s hips. John’s voice cracks as he stammers out a jumble of words and Arthur’s name. With how he’s moaning, hips twitching, it’s obvious that he’s enjoying himself.

Arthur has half a mind to tease him— a comparison to an animal in heat would be apt— but when he stares at John’s face, he can’t bring himself to. He looks too vulnerable, open, and wanting, and Arthur would feel like a fool for insulting him when he’s letting Arthur see him like this, letting Arthur do this.

He leans over him, planting a hand next to John’s head, the shift making John whimper.

“Arth—” John pants, hands brushing down Arthur’s damp chest. “Please.”

“What is it,” Arthur hushes, leaning in close, spine curving to keep himself inside. “What’chu need, darlin’?”

“I—I don’t know,” John says, eyes half-lidded and drunk looking. “You.”

“You got me,” Arthur huffs softly. “Anythin’ hurtin’?”

“No,” John sighs, giving his hips a little roll.

The sensation it pulls along Arthur’s cock makes him grunt and stagger on his knees. His hips are doing most of the work to keep John’s thighs apart. John’s hairy shins curl up next to his waist, squeezing and trembling.

“You’re so big,” John sighs wistfully, eyes falling shut. Arthur’s cock gives an unexpected jerk and John winces, grinning slow. “Felt that.”

Arthur pulls out only an inch, hips kicking back in on instinct. John gasps, eyes opening. He whines, his hands running up Arthur's sternum, fingers curling in his chest hair.

“Please, again,” he asks, and how could Arthur refuse him when he sounds so sweet?

He pulls out again, only a bit, sinking back in slow, letting John adjust to the movement. His instinct to rut and fuck is subdued, his mind more occupied with watching the little minute changes on John’s face, shifting through a pinch to a gasping breath to a wilting moan, mouth dropping open in awe. He can feel John loosen with each moment, and the tightness before had been intense and delicious, but knowing John is opening up to him, body welcoming, is better. More gratifying. 

The little rhythm he works up with his hips has Arthur feeling like he could blow at any moment, his brain fighting with his body to hold on just a bit longer.

Maybe it’s that he hasn’t had sex with another person in years, or maybe it’s the simple fact that he knows John better than he knows anyone else. But this might be the very best thing he’s ever felt.

John isn’t being quiet, either. If Arthur were more in his right mind, he might care about being heard or found, but all he can think about is how to draw more noise from John.

Without thinking, he pulls out a bit further, pushes back in a bit harder, a bit faster, and John’s heels curve around his back, a little yeah punched out of him on the next thrust in.

“Feels real nice,” John pants, a hand leaving Arthurs's body to travel down his own torso. It fists loosely around his own cock and begins pumping, and Arthur doesn’t know whether to watch that or to keep his eyes on John’s pretty, flushed face.

On one stroke in, John writhes and cries out, and Arthur fears he’s caused some sort of damage, but John’s hips only roll harder to meet him, and he stares at Arthur through bleary, pleasure-soaked eyes.

“Good?” Arthur asks again.

“Good.”

Arthur has the sudden, distinct feeling that this is the most natural thing in the world.

He can’t believe that he’d ever had any quiet, secret misgivings about it. That he’d let himself be swayed by talk from men around campfires or at loud bar counters. Ideas placed in his head by his father or a preacher or a teacher, that this sort of thing with another man would be anything other than what it actually is, what he now understands it to be. Lovemaking, by the simplest definition.

John’s loud cry and subsequent babbling as Arthur brushes up against something inside him again on the in-stroke has him second-guessing everything he’s ever been told about a man’s body.

John whimpers between strokes, free hand scrambling across him for something to hold onto, shoulders, sides, his neck, his face. Blunt nails run over his pecs and ribs, his face twisted into something sweetly broken.

Arthur had been afraid of hurting him. That John wouldn’t be getting anything out of this. It’s plain to see by the pleasure rolling across his features that Arthur had been sorely mistaken.

“Yeah, John, that’s it,” he whispers, hips picking up in speed, a bit of muscle memory and raw instinct kicking in. He lowers down onto one of his elbows anchored next to John’s head, the other hand sliding beneath him, curling up his back to his shoulder blade to hold him. John’s lower back curves upward to meet his thrusts, and it can’t be comfortable, but John doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other.

“Don’t stop,” John whines, and Arthur’s gut dips in ecstasy. “Please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” he promises.

He suddenly can’t picture John any other way than this, spread out and wanton, giving himself entirely over. Arthur had been a fool to think of him as some family man working fields and herding cattle and coming in to the abstract idea of a sweet little wife with dinner ready on the table. John had never been like that. Even when he’d given his honest try with Abigail, he’d not been that way.

“Arthur,” John draws his attention, brushing his nose to Arthur’s temple. “M’close,” He gasps, the hand on his dick speeding up. Arthur swallows thickly. “Please, don’t stop,” John asks, voice breaking.

Arthur’s heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest. There are a dozen things he wants to tell him— he’ll never stop, he’ll give him anything, do anything, be anything John ever asks him to be. The feeling embeds itself into his mind, a new commandment etched in stone.

He vaguely recognizes the feeling as loyalty, though it’s not the same sort he’s felt before. Not a rigid allegiance to a man he’s indebted to.

No. Arthur feels that his heart is being split open, flayed and bared before John.

It would scare him if John weren’t looking at him just the same.

“I got you,” Arthur huffs softly. A hand returns to the back of John’s knee, pushing it wider. “C’mon,” he encourages.

His hips are out of his own control, rocking them at a bruising pace, and he hears John curse, feels a bloom of warmth streak up their bellies. Knowing John’s gotten there makes it easy to fall into his own faltering rhythm. He barely knows when he starts to come, the pleasure already too intense that it feels like he’s skirting the crest of a large wave up and over. Down he comes. 

John clutches tight to him, around his cock and around his shoulders, holding on as Arthur presses his face into his throat and shouts, hips pushing flush against John’s and holding as his abdomen convulses.

The other continues shuddering beneath him even as he tugs him down to lay over him. He takes Arthur’s weight as if it’s nothing, thighs clutching around his hips, holding him as they both pant. Postcoital haze settles over them both and he tries to ease his erratic heartbeat, his shuddering lungs. When he breathes, it’s only John’s scent there.

He’s not sure how long he lays, barely conscious, John’s hands running up and down his slick back in alternating circles. The sweat cools on both their bodies and soon Arthur is shivering from the air against his back.

He has his first thought unclouded by lust.

“John?” He asks, pushing up on his hands to look down at him. John blinks languidly up at him.

“M’alright,” he says quietly.

Arthur pushes some of his dark, damp hair from where it sticks to his sweaty face, tucking it behind his ear. John stares at him with an inexplicable look. His eyes look a little misty.

“M’real happy, is all,” John says before Arthur can ask again. “Think I might'a died and gone to paradise, actually.” He adds with a hint of humor.

Arthur’s eyes run over his jaw, down his slick neck, still enraptured by every inch of him. He leans down, kissing at some of the sweat from his throat, and John’s breath hitches.

Arthur knows with perfect clarity that he’ll never feel this way with anybody else. It frightens him more than nearly anything.

It also makes him feel like he’s found the grand secret to life. Like God and all his angels, if they’re really up there, have decided that he gets to be the luckiest man alive. Like the universe has pointed all of its favor down upon him.

Or maybe it’s just the rush of love that washes through him giving him all those queer ideas.

John notices.

“You ain’t thinkin’ of leavin’ now, are you?” He asks teasingly, but Arthur doesn’t miss the unsure waver to his voice. He’s mistaken Arthur’s existential revelation for something else.

“No,” Arthur answers, chuckling softly. He pecks him on the lips chastely. “‘Course not, you fool. M’stayin’ right here.”

Chapter Text

Nine

________________________

“So, Marston,” Micah says. He clears his throat, taking his time about it, and spits on the grass next to John’s knee, a brown color from his chew. John’s face twists up in disgust, and he turns the look up at Micah. “You and Morgan been two peas in a pod.”

John scoffs and flips his knife around in his hand to bring the blade up over his small strop a few times. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” He says harshly.

They’ve been there waiting for half an hour for Bill and Arthur to bring them back a wagon of supposed quality dynamite from Van Horn. John doesn’t understand why the dynamite needs to be good quality— wouldn’t any old dynamite do enough damage to a bridge with a train on it? Either it blows a hole in the structure or blows the train off it’s rails.

He half suspects that sending Arthur on needless jobs is part of Micah’s plan to dispose of him.

By now, John can tell that something is wrong with Arthur, but the man won’t tell him what it is. When he asks, Arthur only brushes him off, changes the subject. John has wanted to haul him aside, demand answers, but there hasn’t been time. At every turn, Dutch has a new harebrained plan that sets them even more off course than the last.

Micah must notice his general disdain because he scoffs and spits again into the bushes.

“Don’t know where you get off on despising me, golden boy. We want the same things, don’t we?”

“Do we?” John scoffs. “I ain’t sure, sometimes.”

He resumes polishing his knife, running the leather strap up over the blade. He squints closer at it, searching out any burs or nicks. None since the last time he’d done this.

Micah paces between where John sits in the grass and the birch tree closest to the road.

“Course we do. We want money to escape our lives. By any means.”

Not by any means, John thinks. There’s plenty of things he’s unwilling to do to get by. He suspects that telling Micah this though will bring only more unwelcome commentary, so he keeps quiet.

“For the life of me I can’t figure why you and Morgan are so hellbent on throwing hitches in Dutch’s plans. He’s only ever wanted the best for us, ain’t he?”

John bites down on whatever he’s thinking. He can tell when he’s being set up.

“Cat got your tongue, Marston?” Micah laughs. “That’s new. It’s nice. Can hear myself think, for once.”

John scoffs, nibbles on the side of his cheek, keeping focused on his knife.

“Thought you only behaved this well for Morgan.”

John’s polishing hand only pauses for a fraction of a second, but he senses that Micah has caught it.

“What else you do with Morgan then, huh? You makin’ your own plans behind Dutch’s back?”

“No,” John spits. “We ain’t the double crossin’ snakes, here.” His eyes flick up to Micah, and Micah doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest.

“But you do keep secrets from him.”

“No.”

“Sure you do, Marston. Don’t play coy. Everyone keeps secrets, even when there’s loyalty involved.”

John shoves his strop back into his bag, taking a cloth out to wipe down the blade one final time.

“I know all sorts of secrets,” Micah continues, pacing again to the tree and turning to look at him. “Dutch tells me things, sometimes. See, he trusts me.”

“Good for you,” John mutters as he slips his blade back into his holster. He looks up the road to Van Horn, waiting to hear the sound of the wagon coming down the road. He wishes the two would hurry up, relieve him of this misery.

“I know all about Bill’s discharge,” Micah chuckles, waving his hand around like he’s organizing papers on a desk. “I know about Javier’s lost love. Know about Karen’s unfortunate upbringing with her distant relatives.” He smirks.

“What’s your point, Bell?” John barks, growing antsy. He doesn’t like where this conversation is heading.

“You say you ain’t keepin’ secrets from Dutch. Do you think you and Arthur keep secrets from each other?”

“What?” John shakes his head. “The hell is it with you and secrets?”

“There’s power in knowledge, Marston. That’s what Dutch always says. And I like power. I’ll bet I can think of a few things you keep from Morgan.”

John turns his eyes on Micah, assessing. The man’s face holds his coy little grin, eyes flitting between John’s searching out his reaction.

“Sure,” Micah continues. “Does he know about your little past-times in town?”

“Everyone gambles and sleeps with prostitutes,” John scoffs, neck prickling, running down the center of his back.

“You know that ain’t what I’m talkin’ about, golden boy.”

He feels cold all over, but John keeps his face even, neutral. Poker, he thinks. This is only poker.

“‘Fraid I don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Morgan know about what you let all them fellers do to you?”

John shrugs, a picture of nonchalance. He leans back onto a hand, chest open, relaxed.

“Don’t know what you mean. You drunk, Bell?”

“I seen it myself, Marston,” Micah says, voice dropping. “Few times, now.”

John stares at him, unsure how to play it. He’s never noticed Micah around before. He usually loses track of him in bars, if he comes at all. And he’s certainly never seen him around when he’s working.

“Yeah. Noticed it, once. Saw you leavin’ with a whore at some place back in Oak Creek. Followed you out, thought I were gonna go back and let Abigail know all about your infidelity.” He chuckles, eyes turning dark. “But you didn’t leave with a whore, did ya? You slipped away to some dingy back alley to go whore yourself.” Micah’s voice is rough, hard. “Why's that? Don’t make enough money runnin’ jobs for Dutch?”

John feels ill down in his stomach.

“Watched a feller use your mouth. Even swallowed his seed.” Micah says, his face twisted in disgust. “What’chu think Dutch would say about that?” Micah's steps slow, boots crunching down over bits of dried twig as he circles around behind John.

John keeps his eyes forward, unwilling to show an ounce of give.

“He thinks you gone straight since he picked you up. He’ll wonder why it is you whore yourself out now that he’s given you a better life.” Micah sniffs. “Oh, yeah. He told me… ‘bout before. That’s another secret I know. Must’a been hard, growin’ up on the streets. You could almost forgive a kid for doin’ what he had to, to get by.” Micah laughs. “But now… now it’s just odd.”

John lets his eyes shut momentarily, imagines leaping back and slipping his knife right through Micah’s gut. Tearing his throat out with his hand. Disposing of the body somewhere along the Kamassa. He imagines it so vividly that his fingers clench, nails biting against his palms painfully as he pictures red blood and the fleeting surprise on Micah’s face.

But Dutch already suspects him of being a rat. Arthur might back him up, but no one else will.

“Well. Then, I thought I was gonna let Abigail know that her husband were some sorta invert. Imagine my surprise when Dutch tells me Jack ain’t even yours.” Micah’s laugh wheezes. “I figure tellin’ her ain’t gonna do much. I hold onto my secrets, you know. Don’t show my hand too early.”

Cold sweat beads up on John’s brow.

“So as I’m thinkin’ of how I can use what I know… it comes to me. Morgan and you been plannin’ some sort of stunt to exit our little congregation, I’ll bet. You and that woman you keep ‘round.” Micah hums from somewhere behind him. “What'chu think Morgan would say if he knew, hm?”

John blinks, staring up the road, doesn’t turn to look at him.

“How you let them men use you,” Micah sighs. “Your mouth…” John stiffens abruptly as he feels the toe of Micah's boot nudge at the seat of his pants. He shifts away from it. “You let them use you here, too?” Micah scoffs disdainfully. “Your entire body, just… ruined.”

John wants to snarl, demand that he get to the goddamn point so that this conversation can be over and done with. John just might kill him anyway. Everyone would be better off. John could skip town to save everyone the trouble of exiling him.

“If he knew how filthy you actually were, Marston, how many times you been tainted by men? He’d leave your ass in the dust. He wouldn’t lift another finger to help you.”

It isn’t true, John thinks. It can’t be.

Arthur— John’s not sure what Arthur would say, but he wouldn’t just leave Abigail and Jack to their fates. John knows that for certain.

Maybe Arthur would never be able to look at him again, though. He thinks that might be the case with Dutch, too.

John hears the sound of wheels and hooves coming up the road, and Micah chuckles brightly behind him.

“Perfect timing,” Micah says. “Say, Marston. You take that wagon up to Ambarino. I’m gonna have a little chat with Morgan. Don’t make a scene, now.” Micah says, a little smirk sliding back onto his face.

As John drives the wagon North, he looks back over his shoulder to watch the figures of Micah and Arthur standing together, growing smaller and smaller.

There’s a very good chance that Micah isn’t telling Arthur a thing. A good chance that he’d only said all those things to John to get him to slip up, to scare him.

He isn't scared. He isn’t. 

He might be ashamed, though. 

________________________

There is an image of Micah's smirking face burned into John's brain. It rises up out of the black to taunt him, sometimes, when he dreams.

He struggles in his sleep, feeling as if he's sunken down deep into a pit of molasses.

Old words and threats, things John hasn't thought about in years, echo in the air, bounce off the walls like he's sitting in an empty room. The cold dark fills up his nose and lungs. John is certain that he's going to drown in it, going to die, whatever it is.

“Arthur?” He calls desperately, though there’s no hope Arthur will find him here. He can’t see his own body, his own hands out in front of him— how would Arthur be able to find him? “Arthur?” He calls again. He’s afraid that he might be stuck here forever, that he’ll never find his way back. This must be what hell is like.

Where had he last seen him?

That mountaintop. The disappointing last look. All of the realest, truest things left unsaid between them. This is what his nightmares are.

A hand cups his shoulder, burning along his skin. The grip pulls him back from the black. Cerebral light trickles over his mind. For a moment, he thinks it must be Abigail, her hands pulling him back from the edge of a bed as he mutters in his sleep from night terrors about memories.

“John,” someone says from far away. Yes, he thinks, he must be on the road between the Yukon and Montreal. Somewhere on that road, Abigail held him like this a few times. Before they got to Brighthaven.

His heart aches raw and cold at the thought of being back on that long road. He doesn’t want to go through it again.

“John?” The voice says again, right against his ear. “John, it’s alright.”

Someone big and warm stretches out along his back, knees pressed into the hinges of his own, the tops of their feet curled behind his heels.

That long road of sadness fades and then he remembers it’s already happened. He’s already lived it, already arrived in Montreal, and already left.

“Wake up, Johnny,” a voice murmurs low and sweet. “S’only a dream.” Abigail never calls him Johnny.

A kiss presses to his head just behind his ear, and John melts back into the feeling, his nerves tingling all over. A warm chest is tucked up behind him, big and furred. An arm curls around his side.

“Wake up,” Arthur hushes. John opens his eyes.

It’s light out, the brightness such a stark contrast to the dark he’d been consumed in that it makes his eyes squint closed again.

The lake stretches out before him. He can hear it, water lapping at the beach, the weak tide pushing pebbles to and fro. He cracks his eyes open again and can see the blue of the water between the low branches of a shrub bush.

It’s warm. The Lemoyne air is balmy and he’s slightly damp where Arthur’s bare skin presses into his own along his back and hips and thighs.

“Mm.” Wetness pricks at the corners of his eyes, leftover from a dream. He brushes the tears away.

“There,” Arthur says huskily, lips pressed to his ear. “S’alright, now.”

John shifts, muscles aching something fierce. He’s sore from head to toe, but especially down in his backside. He clenches, remembering what they’d done, and his stomach dips in delight. He looks over his shoulder at Arthur’s face.

“Nothin’ to be afraid of,” Arthur hums in his ear, sleepy-sounding. He tucks his face into the back of John’s neck, hair pushed aside.

“Who’s afraid? I ain’t.” John murmurs, resting his head back onto his thin pillow.

“Sure. What was you callin’ my name for, then?”

“Was I?” John asks.

“M-hm. Sounded scared. You’re all clammy, too.” Arthur says, brushing fingers along his hairline. “You gettin’ sick?”

“Nah,” John frowns. “Were just dreamin’ I think.”

“What about?”

John rolls onto his back and Arthur props himself up onto an elbow to look down at him. He’s got crust in one eye, cheek blotchy from where it rested against the bedroll.

“Think it were about Roanoke. Micah. All that mess. Then… it were just dark.” All of his nightmares end in cold darkness.

“Micah, huh?”

“Were rememberin’… or dreamin’, I guess, something he said to me, once.”

Arthur watches him, a hand brushing over his ribs gently. His eyes are bluer than the sky, John thinks.

“He knew ‘bout my... inclinations.”

“How’d he find out?” Arthur asks softly.

“Saw me in town with some fellers, few times. Least, that’s what he said. Don’t know of anyone else who would'a known or told him. He were threatenin’ to tell Dutch and you.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah… He said…” John feels foolish for telling him now, for still being bothered by it. “Said you’d think I were filthy if you knew about all I’d done.” John looks up at him carefully. “Guess… part of me were always scared that might be true.”

Arthur huffs and leans in, pressing his nose along the hinge of John’s jaw. He kisses him there, then drops another against his mouth.

“Micah Bell don’t know the first thing about me, or you, or anyone.” Arthur scoffs. “It don’t bother me none, what you done. Long as it were what you wanted to do.”

John swallows.

“Guess it weren’t always what I wanted, in a way. But a lot of times, it was.” He sighs, pushes back on one memory that hurts sharper than all the others. “It were all I could really have, back then, to tide me over.” He chuckles. “Never did anythin’ like what we did last night, though.” His lids lower as he gazes at Arthur. “You’re the first one to ever fuck me. And it weren’t half bad.”

Was more than half good, even. Much better than good. 

Arthur rolls onto his back. Dappled sunlight falls across his face from the trees filtering in the morning sun.

“I s’pose you’re gonna tell me I should be honored,” Arthur says, and tucks a hand behind his head. He looks at John sideways for a moment, a little grin spreading across his mouth. “I am.”

John shoves his shoulder.

“Loved it, too,” Arthur adds, and John pushes himself up to sit, mostly to hide his grin against his shoulder.

*

Arthur stokes their newly made cooking fire and watches John wade down into the lake. The mid-morning sun makes his skin glow, tawny shoulders and back fading down to the lighter skin of his haunches. He hesitates in the shallows and then steps out a bit further than Arthur knows he’s comfortable with. He squats down until his shoulders are submerged and begins scrubbing at places Arthur can’t see. He slowly rotates in the water until his dark eyes land on Arthur.

“Eyes to yourself, Morgan,” he calls wryly, and Arthur laughs.

“Bit late for that.”

There’s a small cast iron sitting over the coals, and Arthur cracks a few eggs from Pearson’s store into it. They’ve only got a few, too difficult to transport long term, so Arthur tries to make the best of them, dropping them into some pig grease to fry.

“Bacon sounds good,” John says, later on, when he's squeezing water from his hair a few paces away, freshly washed.

“Want me to go find some poor sod’s pig to butcher?” Arthur teases.

“Guess it’s venison again,” John says, padding for his own bags.

“Go put some pants on,” Arthur says, averting his eyes from his pale ass. “Someone could come around.”

John snorts. “Who the hell’s gonna be out this far?”

“You’d be surprised,” Arthur murmurs as he gently turns the eggs over in the grease, recalling fishing trips from long ago on this very lakefront.

They eat breakfast sitting side by side, and though they’ve seen each other day in and day out, the air is charged differently between them now. Arthur feels something like a tether hanging off his heart. Weight and responsibility, though for what he isn’t so sure.

“You look spooked, Morgan.” John’s brow raises as he chews on a piece of cured meat. “Something botherin’ you about last night?”

“Not at all,” Arthur says, blinking. “Last night were… can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything like it.”

“Me either,” John says.

“I’d like to do it again.”

John ducks his head, grinning, and Arthur knows he’s saved whatever discomfort he’d been causing him.

“Soon,” John says. “Maybe not today. Bit sore.” He explains.

“Course. We can wait weeks if you want."

As they linger around the fire, they wonder whether they ought to stay put or take a gamble and make for the rock and then the border.

John, fully dressed in a pale undershirt and his new vest, polishes up his knife. Arthur watches how he looks over the blade with a critical eye, first taking it over a small whetstone and then a strip of leather.

He eventually pockets the knife, but then pulls another out to look over more inquisitively. Arthur recognizes the thin blade from the bar fight the night before.

“Expensive looking, ain’t it,” he comments. John’s dark eyes flash up at him.

“Real fine craftsmanship,” John nods, running a finger up the center of the metal. He balances it at its base on the end of a finger, then tosses it into the air, catching it by the handle. He looks down the grip closely, across wood and leather until his gaze catches on something. “Little word carved here,” he says, squinting.

Arthur pauses in the cleaning of his cattleman.

“D. Wofford. Just along the bottom here. And there’s a W inlaid with gold on the bottom of the handle. Real nice shit.” John mutters, turning it over and over in his hands. “Feller looked wealthier than all his friends, didn’t he?”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur frowns as he works his rag over the outside of the barrel. “Wofford. Feel like I’ve heard that name before.”

“In the south?”

“Ain’t sure,” Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t one of them French names from the bayous or out in Saint Denis…” He can’t place his finger on where he’d have heard it before. “Guess it don’t matter much who he was. He weren’t a good man, and now he’s dead.”

“And I get a souvenir,” John says darkly, tucking the blade away into his bag. He looks perturbed as he turns back to the fire. He massages one palm with his thumb and then the other, staring at his fingers thoughtfully. “You think we get punished for killin’ bad men same as we do good?” John asks, looking up at him.

Arthur frowns. “Punished? You mean by the law… or…”

John shakes his head, just a quick gesture.

“Ah.” Arthur chews on the inside of his lip and sighs deeply. “My momma always said the good men go to heaven. The bad ones go elsewhere. Think she were mostly tryin’ to keep me good, though.” He stares down at his own gloved fingers. “I ain’t sure anyone gets punished at all, John.”

“That’s what them preachers and padre’s say though, ain’t it?” John squints out over the water. Flecks of white sunlight glitter back off the surface. “You get punished for the bad, rewarded for the good. I saw one of them tent revivals once, and them folk say it all come down to what you believe.” He looks back at Arthur, face unsettled. “Don’t think I can make myself believe somethin’ I don’t.”

“Ain’t it a little late to start carin’ now?” Arthur sighs. “We both done a lot of killin’, either way.”

“Yeah…” The tips of John’s teeth poke out from his top lip as he pulls the bottom one into his mouth. Arthur dislikes seeing him troubled.

“Look,” Arthur swallows. “You know… I sorta think maybe it don’t matter, when we’re done here. I ain’t no authority on it… but maybe when this is over, it don’t depend on what you did or didn’t do. Think maybe you’re just supposed to do your best… and then move on to the next thing.”

“The next thing? So you do think there’s more?”

Golden planes. Love so achingly familiar he can almost taste it. He remembers just an instance of the feeling, like a photograph captured in his mind. Most days it feels like a dream he had once long ago, but sometimes when he first wakes or he’s falling off to sleep, it comes on stronger, like a memory.

“Maybe.”

“I hope not,” John sighs. “I’m tired. I want to rest.”

“Maybe there’ll be rest, then,” Arthur chuckles softly. “Whatever it is, at least we’re goin’ to the same place.”

A grin slowly spreads on John’s face.

“Now though, think we ought to get movin’.”

*

They take the horses out through a deer trail, following the coast North.

John sits forward in his saddle as indiscreetly as he can, back arched awkwardly. He hisses when Rachel trips over a stone, and he knows Arthur has taken notice when he chuckles.

“Hurtin’?” He questions, smirking at John when he looks back at him. John huffs at his smugness.

“Well, you gave it to me pretty good, and you ain’t small,” He says wryly, watching Arthur’s face fall into embarrassment.

“Does it get better?” Arthur asks quietly after another few minutes of John wincing.

“Think so… Hope so. Ain’t done nothin’ quite that venturesome before.” He chuckles. “Really ain’t that bad when I ain’t sittin’ in a saddle.”

John certainly hopes that it’s a thing one gets used to. He’s eager to do it again, and this time more rigorously and thoroughly. He suddenly wishes he knew someone to ask, someone who's done it before, knows the ins and outs.

“The petroleum work alright, you think?” Arthur asks, and John looks at him curiously.

“Think so. Bit thick, I guess, but it did the trick, didn’t it?”

John isn’t so particular, but Arthur is nothing if not thorough in his learning of things. John imagines that he’s trying to eke out any problems before they begin.

“Just want it to be comfortable for you,” Arthur tells him.

John thanks his lucky stars that he’s been given Arthur this lifetime. Any woman out there would be spoiled to have him, his care and consideration. His selflessness.

“It was,” John assures him.

As they find their way to the nearest main road, John sits straighter, on higher alert.

“Where you wanna go after the rock?” He asks as they send the horses in a trot onto the straightaway. They’ll be able to stick to it for a while before they have to take off east into the wilds again. John hopes that they’ll make it before sundown. He doesn’t want to have to camp another night before they find what they’re looking for.

“Well, assuming it’s the last destination, I was thinkin’ we’d head North. Get outta the South.”

That sounds just fine to John, except—

“Last destination?” He questions, mouth twisting up.

“Well, sometimes these maps lead to more maps. Can get a little finicky.” Arthur says with a shrug of his shoulder.

John clicks his tongue.

“So we’re on a scavenger hunt?” He sighs deeply, but Arthur only laughs at him. “Will it at least be worth it, in the end?”

“I once found two gold bars following a map like this,” Arthur says.

“Two? Whole gold bars?” John turns to stare at him, eyes wide. “What happened to them?”

“Used part’a that money to bail Williamson out. Then some for a new rifle. The last bit of it were stolen right outa my bag. I always suspected one of Micah’s old crew were to blame.

“Damn,” John says. “We could do all kinds of things with that sorta money. We coulda made it to Tahiti, back then.”

“Ain’t so sure that were ever gonna happen. I don’t think Dutch ever really had a plan to follow through.” Arthur sighs. “Besides, if we ever did make it to Tahiti, we’d’ve been well and truly screwed.”

“How do you figure?”

“Think about it. Trapped on an island with men like Dutch and Micah? Micah’s men? Would’a been chaos. We’d have been swimmin’ with the fish soon enough. It was never gonna work out, no matter how much money we got.”

John believes it, but he’s surprised to hear Arthur say it so plainly.

“Well, if we find money now, I’m goin’ straight to the poker table to double it,” John says to lighten the mood.

“Careful, Marston,” Arthur chuckles.

“I’m good at poker, you know.”

“I know you is. But I’ve seen you lose a few times. All it takes is that one time to be shit outta luck.”

“Well, what would you do with the money then?” He asks.

Arthur is quiet as he thinks a few moments.

“Mm. New saddle, for starts. Maybe a new hat— one of them suede ones. I’d get my Springfield inlaid.

“So... just normal stuff?” John squints. “You wouldn’t buy a mansion or somethin’?”

“A mansion? What am I gonna do with a mansion?”

“Thought gettin’ money was to make it outta this kind of life.”

“Well, maybe I just want money to ease the way. I ain’t gonna go changing how I am, am I? You was the one supposed to take up normal livin’ anyway. And we see how well that all turned out.” Arthur says. “Naw.”

“Well… maybe we could buy a piece of land somewhere.”

“Land, huh?”

“Yeah. Little spot, just to call ours.” John stares at the road before them. “That could be nice, couldn’t it?”

When Arthur doesn’t reply, he turns to look at him, and finds a soft look on his face as his blue eyes run over John’s.

“What?”

“Nothin’. A piece of land sounds practical. And…” Arthur trails, tilting his face to the side. “Don’t think I’d mind takin’ one of them fancy boat trips. The legit way, I mean.”

“A boat?” John wrinkles his nose. “What, one of them gambling boats? With the dress code and the French food and the escorts that charge twice as much as on land?”

“What, that don’t sound like fun to you?”

“High-stakes gambling sounds fun.” And maybe some of the food. “But the dancin’ and sitting around schmoozing and pretendin’ to be all high and mighty and above everyone else? I can leave that.”

“Maybe I just like the idea of sittin’ out on the deck with a drink and watchin’ the world drift by,” Arthur says. “Man needs a break sometimes.”

“A break… on a boat.”

John’s shoulders hunch with all this talk of watercraft.

“Look, you don’t have to come, Marston,” Arthur huffs a laugh. “You can wait on the shore and wave to me.”

“What a sight that would be.” John scowls. “Course I’m comin'. If I’m doubling my money, I may as well do it on a fancy boat. ‘Sides, can't leave you to all them grand dames. They’ll jump you soon as you clean up and step foot on deck.”

“Ah, there it is.” Arthur chuckles. “You’re jealous. Thinkin’ I’m gonna get around some of them mature wealthy women and leave your ass in the dust.”

“No. I’m afraid you’ll get taken advantage of.” He sniffs. “By a lady out for her own kicks. You’ll get duped into lettin’ her win at bridge or somethin’ and then we’ll be shit outta money.”

“Sure, it’s about the money.” Arthur grins at him.

As John pushes Rachel ahead, Arthur reaches out at the last moment, his thumb and forefinger pinching the back of John’s thigh where it meets his ass. John yelps without thinking, jerking around to look at him wide-eyed.

Arthur gives him a warm, suggestive grin and John’s tongue darts out to wet his dry lips.

“Don’t start nothin’ you don’t intend to finish, Morgan,” He warns, voice rough.

“Let’s find that damned rock, first. Then we’ll see.”

*

“Which one of these dead trees do you think?” Arthur says, eyes scanning the stumps all along the outcropping.

John is staring up at the rock distractedly, a hand hitched up on his hip. From head-on, the rock’s nothing special. But standing out to the side of it reveals a brow, a nose, lips and a chin.

“You think someone carved it to look that way?” John asks. “Or you think it’s natural?”

“I don’t know and it don’t matter,” Arthur says irritatedly. “Get to lookin’ for this goddamn tree, boy.” John grins to himself, readjusting the grip on his rifle and toeing around a few roots before scrambling after Arthur.

They’d made good time heading north on the road, and then east to the general location marked on Arthur’s map. Any camps that'd been visible from the road the night before have been abandoned. They’d found a single, smokey fire ring in the middle of an empty clearing.

Arthur isn’t the best tracker, but he’d wager that it looked like they’d headed back down south.

Still, they carry rifles out of caution.

“Can’t wait to get away from all these bastards,” John mutters as he kicks a rock, sending it sailing into the underbrush.

“They got some pretty land, you gotta admit,” Arthur says casually.

“What, swamps and marshes? I guess some of them pink cranes are neat. Ain’t nothin’ worth stayin’ over, though.”

“Spoonbills,” Arthur says.

“What?”

“They’re spoonbills. Not cranes.”

John’s brow raises into his hat and he looks Arthur up and down with consideration.

“Thought you were some self-proclaimed lughead,” John says. “Seem pretty smart to me.”

“Oh please,” Arthur scoffs in amusement.

“I meant—“

“Ah-hah!” Arthur says, eyes landing on a tree that sticks out from the rest for its split top. He finds an opening in the bottom and crouches down, pushing his gloved hand up into the eves of the small hole. “And… Voila.” Arthur grunts, pulling a little scroll of parchment free. He rubs his hands over it, brushing away dust and old cobwebs, and holds it up in the sun.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” John says, shouldering his rifle. He snatches the rolled parchment out of Arthur’s hand and spreads it open. “Another goddamn map.” He announces, holding it out for Arthur to see.

This page’s sketch is even more cryptic, a snake and a pile of rocks, and not a thing more.

“Yeah, well,” Arthur straightens up, wincing as his spine pops. “These things can take time. Let’s hope that all the work goin’ into it is because it’s leadin’ to something worthwhile.”

“Yeah, or it’s some hick with a rotten sense of humor, sendin’ people on wild goose chases all over God’s green earth.” John barks, eyes flashing at Arthur.

“We won’t know until we go find out, will we.”

“What if they never end?” John says, throwing his hands in the air. “What if we’re just followin’ map after map for the rest of our lives? Out of some sick curiosity.”

Arthur laughs heartily, taking the scroll back from him to look it over more closely.

“You’re bein’ dramatic. But, I suppose if that happened, well then, at least that’d be a purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“What, followin’ a useless trail?”

“All trails are useless in the end, Marston,” Arthur scoffs, folding the map and stuffing it down into his bag. “They all lead to the same place, eventually. A hole in the ground.”

John’s mouth snaps shut. “Can’t tell if you’re bein’ wise or morbid.”

Arthur snorts and turns to trudge off back toward the rock.

“What’re you doin’ now?”

“Saw some herbs I wanted to pick,” Arthur explains. “Need to keep the food interestin’ if we’re gonna keep roughin’ it.”

“Amen,” John mutters.

Arthur stoops to pick a few sprigs of oregano at the base of the rock. If they had a camp, he’d lay it out to dry, but he has to tuck it away into his satchel instead. He thinks for a moment about the herbalist he’d met once and decides that he might should pick up a book about plants, learn more things that can spice up their cooking.

“Hey, Morgan,” John says from above. Arthur cranes his neck up to see John stood atop Face Rock. He’s got his rifle up, looking down the scope of it toward the West. “You ought to come up here. The view’s pretty, sun fixin’ to set and all. Can see all the way across Flat Iron. Can even see Blackwater, way out there. Tiny buildings.”

Arthur watches him from below, John lit up in gold, and feels sentimental. If he had the time, he would sit down and draw John just like this. If he were a painter, he thinks this is what he’d like to paint.

“What?” John barks, looking down at him suspiciously. “There somethin’ up my nose?”

“Naw,” Arthur laughs. “Naw, were just admirin’ my own view.”

“Sap,” John scoffs, looking back through his scope. “You know, maybe once all this is done with, we could head out that way. Maybe they’ve forgotten about us by now.”

Arthur hums, turning to look west as well. He’s been wanting to go back that way as long as he can remember. Now that he has the will and the strength to do it, the prospect of going with John is sweet on his mind.

“Yeah alright. That sounds like a plan, Marston.”

In Arthur’s peripheral, a flock of ravens flutters up from the tall grass in the distance, dark swirling smoke up towards the sky.

Something unseen knocks into John, sending him reeling back a step. Arthur whirls to look up at him, just as the sound of a rifle shot reaches his ears a hair later.

His mind puts it all together in a matter of moments as John lurches over, a yell caught in his throat. His hand flies up to clutch at where he’s been hit, his vest beginning to turn a darker shade under his palm.

“John—“ Arthur starts, watching John stumble down a step from the crest. He makes a pained groan and does his best to catch himself before he falls from the steep ledge, but his balance is off, and he stumbles down the side of the rock face with a curse.

Arthur barely has time to open his arms, and he doesn’t catch John, not by a long shot, but he takes his weight and uses his momentum to roll them to the ground, down the next slope, his hands reaching up to curl around the back of John’s head to protect it from the sharp stones that line their descent.

Rocks dig into his shoulders and back, pushing painfully into muscle and bone. His jeans shred open at one knee.

“John,” he says louder, thrusting his boot out to catch them and bring them to a rough, skidding stop. “John?” He huffs, pushing John's limbs and hair out of the way to see him.

John’s eyes are wide open, his face a full grimace, but his hands clutch at his shoulder tightly.

“Arth—“ John grits out, eyes squeezing closed.

“Alright,” Arthur puffs, shoving off the ground. “Sit up, Marston,” he commands and John tries. He can only rise part way up without crying out, only able to hold his hand to the wound in his shoulder. There's real fear in his eyes when they roll around to land on Arthur. "Okay,” Arthur mutters, resisting the urge to fall into panic.

As he sits John up himself, the sound of many hooves fast approaching reaches his ears from the West, demanding his attention. He yanks the bandana from his neck and folds it into messy squares, then pushes John’s hand out of the way to press it to the hole in his vest. He presses John’s hands back over it.

“Hold tight.”

John nods jerkily, his knuckles white around the fabric. His jaw works as he grinds his teeth together.

Arthur draws his sidearm and doesn’t wait to see who exactly it is coming around the rock from the west. It doesn’t matter who— Lemoyne Raiders, lawmen, bounty hunters. It could be Dutch Van der Linde himself. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference to Arthur in these few fleeting moments. He squints against the low sun, breathes steady through his nose once, twice, and then holds his breath as he looks straight down the site of his revolver, firing two shots in succession as the figures round into view.

The first rider goes down, a bullet through his chest and another between the eyes for good measure.

The second one falters at the sight of his fallen comrade, pulling his horse back so hard that it rears up, but it’s too late for him, Arthur can see his face, the whites of his eyes, and that’s all he needs. The second rider’s throat bursts in a jagged, fleshy tear with Arthur's shot, the spray of it carried away in the breeze. His body falls limp to one side of his saddle, his horse fleeing in the opposite direction.

Arthur can hear two more changing course, having seen the first of their party go down. To the other side of the rock, Arthur runs and skids to a stop behind a large stone, pulling his rifle from his shoulder and propping it along the jagged edge of it.

He stares down the scope and lines a bullet straight up with the third rider's temple as he comes into view. His horse bucks his corpse, kicking and writhing and then streaking into the trees.

The last rider turns tail and runs.

Rage flares hot in Arthur’s chest at the sight of the coward fleeing. He leaps the stone and sprints around the slope of Face Rock to see. He brings the rifle up, bracing it against his shoulder, breathes out, and lets his mind fall silent, squeezing the trigger. One hundred yards away, the fourth and final man falls from his horse, head half gone. Arthur feels righteous triumph for a single moment.

John rasps behind him, and all sense of accomplishment vanishes. He shoulders his rifle once more, returning to John’s side on his knees.

“Ar—“

“Can you breathe?” Arthur asks, voice tight.

John nods stiffly. “Hurts.” He grits.

The bandana he clutches is already soaked through. Arthur doesn’t know whether he should take John’s vest off, sew up the wound, or if the bullet is lodged somewhere that will spill blood into the rest of his body. Arthur had seen a man once, bruise blooming across his skin and puffing up. He’d died, no one knowing how to help. 

The sounds of more horses approach from the West, maybe regular folk come to see what the commotion is, or perhaps more Raiders come to avenge their brothers. Arthur makes a split second decision— they don’t have the time to wait and see if it’s friend or foe. 

“C’mon,” Arthur says, voice far calmer than he feels. “Rhodes is closest.”

”Rhodes don’t have a doctor,” John pants as Arthur loops his arm under his ribs. 

“There’s got to be someone there who can help,” Arthur reasons.

John shouts as Arthur pulls him up to his feet, face sickly pale and sweat beading on his brow. Blood has soaked down the left half of his vest. “C’mon,” Arthur repeats, whistling for the horses and walking John to them. “Can you sit in a saddle?”

John nods, but Arthur can tell by the way he sags heavily to the left, hunched inward and favoring his arm, that he won’t be able to ride on his own.

Blood has begun staining his pale shirt beneath, red spreading down his arm.

He pushes John towards Rowan, arms wrapped around a thigh as he lifts him up. He goes with a cut off cry, hunched heavy until Arthur mounts in front of him. John trembles against his back, brushing his forehead along Arthur’s shirt, sweat soaking through.

“Hold on,” Arthur says, nudging Rowan into a gallop down the side of the hill, Eastward, away from the approaching horsemen. Rachel follows like one train car attached to another. He can hear voices shouting somewhere behind them.

As Arthur tries to navigate them South, another group appears through the trees in the distance, cutting off their path. He realizes with apprehension that they're being rounded up.

“Christ, Arthur... think I’m bleedin’ out. Ain’t stoppin’.” John says thinly.

New voices shout from the North. When Arthur looks, at least two dozen more men ride in a wedge formation across the wide fields, rifles and muskets raised.

A shot rings over their heads. Panic fights for control in Arthur's mind.

Someone near the front of the small battalion begins shouting orders, and if Arthur didn't know any better, if these men weren’t sporting a line of yellow neckerchiefs and old confederacy caps, he'd think the United States Army themselves were coming after them.

"What the hell did we do to them?" John murmurs close to his ear. He's leaned up all the way against Arthur, and Arthur can feel warm, sticky wetness seeping through John's vest, soaking into the back of his shirt. He takes a shaking breath.

He can't ponder questions, only keep his eyes on the ground in front of them, terrified of taking Rowan through a hole that would snap her leg out from under them.

A round of bullets flies at them, sloppy and scattered from this distance. All it would take is for one to pierce through his horse. He has no doubt that if the fall didn’t kill them, the men after them would waste no time in forcing them to their knees and executing them, firing squad fashion.

They're being pushed East from all sides, and Arthur glances briefly ahead, searching for any others waiting to cut off their only exit.

There aren't any, but there is the Kamassa, deep and wide and full of danger lurking just beneath the surface. The slowness of swimming will be a death sentence, either way.

"John..." Arthur says, dread filling up his chest. Fear grips him tightly, world closing in from all sides down to the stretch of open space in front of them rapidly growing smaller. He can't see a way out of this, can't see how to save them.

He feels John tuck tightly to his back, one hand wedged against his chest wound, the other curling against Arthur's belly.

"It's alright," John says weakly. "It's alright, just breathe." Quiet and solemn. 

Arthur lets his eyes close briefly, feeling John’s lips brush the shell of his ear. It can’t end like this, chased down like foxes. 

There's a long moment of nothing but the sounds of gunfire, bullets whizzing over their heads as the horsemen draw closer. Just a few more paces and their range will be too close, it will be impossible for them to not hit their targets.

A horse grunts, shrill and cut off. Arthur's chest seizes as he waits for Rowan to go down, but she stays steady. He looks back, and Rachel's haunch has been nicked, red blood streaking across her dark coat. If anything, it sends her running faster alongside them.

"Bridge," John murmurs and Arthur swings his head around both ways to look. He sees it, a stretch to the left, covered and run down, shrouded in moss, deep red paint difficult to see in the dying light.

Arthur’s vision tunnels and he leans down against Rowan's neck, John following him without choice. His hand clutches tightly to Arthur’s gun belt. 

Arthur gives her the reins, and she could lose her footing at any moment going this fast over uneven ground, but if Arthur doesn't let her run to her full potential they won't make it before they're overrun.

Rowan's legs extend fully before her, the stride of a racehorse taking shape beneath them. Rachel matches her gate, closing the distance to race alongside them on instinct, and then flying past them for lack of a rider. As fast as their pursuers may be, they don’t have horses like these.

A bullet takes his hat, and Arthur curses, breath trembling in and out of his lungs.

"John," he says, a comforting word in his mouth, and feels John's hand squeeze at his middle. He can hear the distinct hoofbeats of a rider fast approaching, an angry voice crying out wildly for them to surrender to justice.

Arthur can see the inside of the bridge now, inky black. He urges Rowan along with his voice and his heels, praying that she doesn't spook at the black, narrow passage they're heading for.

She tosses her head as he spurs her into the covered bridge, sounds of her footfalls echoing hollow and unnatural all around them, open air and water rushing just beneath them. Rachel falls back with a frightened squeal, but her hooves join the thundering chorus.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that part of the noise is from the bullets that blow through the wooden walls, blasting wood chips at their faces.

He closes his eyes and only opens them when he hears Rowan make new ground on the other side, hooves digging into the packed dirt road.

He wheels her to the right, praying that it's the way to Saint Denis.

He only hears a few riders follow them across, but by then, Rowan has set a long stride again on the straightaway.

The gunfire slows and then stops altogether, and when he looks back, a single rider stares after them from the mouth of the bridge. He disappears from sight as they make the wide curve in the road, and Arthur dares to feel hope for the first time.

"We might be in the clear," he pants, reaching around to feel for John. His arm has gone weaker around his middle, and Arthur feels the weight of his body shift behind him, looser. "You awake back there, Marston?" He asks nervously.

John doesn't reply, and Arthur lets Rowan go another few paces before he feels John's arm fall away from him entirely.

"Hey," he shouts, snatching up his hand and bringing it back around, holding onto it tightly.

He uses his other hand to yank the reins back and they all skid to a stop. He reaches around with his other hand for John's hip, tugging him back against him. Rachel flies past them but comes to her own stop, prancing in a nervous circle as her wide eye watches them.

"John, wake up," he says, voice wavering. He repeats his name as he searches around for a length of rope. "You stay awake, Marston." He uses the rope to fasten John's hands together around him, pulling him tight as he dares. He uses the rest around John's middle, pinning him to his back.

He sends Rowan onward, relieved for once in his life to see clouds of black smoke pluming up in the sky ahead of them.

He knows a doctor in Saint Denis.

"John," he barks harshly.

"Mm..."

“Stay awake,” Arthur demands, reaching back to pat a hand on John’s thigh where it hangs limply off the side of Rowan. He squeezes his leg, memorizing the feeling of it, the size, anything. “John, you’re right. We ought to visit Blackwater when we find that money.”

“Mm.”

Arthur can’t tell if it’s meant to be an agreement, or if John is simply acknowledging that he’s still alive.

“Yeah. When we’re done makin’ a fortune, we’ll head out that way.” Arthur says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, grey in the twilight. He squeezes his heels into Rowan’s side, spurring her forward on winding swamp roads. “Lots of places I wanna show you. We’ll visit some old haunts, sit in on one of them barn dances. Find a little place to hole up for the winter, just the two of us. That sounds nice, don’t it?” He asks. When John doesn’t reply, he swallows thickly. “John?”

John’s head rests against his shoulder, lolling about, and Arthur chokes on a breath, his stomach clenching tight.

“Hurry girl,” he says to Rowan, voice weak as he leans down along her shoulder, more of John’s weight distributed along his back, more of his blood soaking through.

Chapter Text

Ten

________________________________

John’s shoulder feels like fire. It spreads down his arm, seeps through his chest like poison. Rocks are embedded in the skin of his back from the fall and tumble down the slope. There are bits of his shirt that've been torn through by dry sticks. He’s still trying to catch his breath, but at least he hadn’t hit his head.

He’d lost his hat in the fall. When he turns stiffly to look, he can see it lying in the grass a few feet away.

The sky is pristine above him. His skin is warm where the sun touches it directly, but the rest of him is cold, the chill of the mountain seeping into him through the ground with the promise that it'll be even colder come nightfall if no one comes to get him.

The train is long gone. Arthur, Dutch, Sadie. He’d stopped counting seconds in his head when its rumble had faded into nothing in the distance.

His entire body aches. Every part of him is sore and bruised. He’s afraid that some real damage has been done to him, this time. Blood seeps through his dark shirt where the bullet had struck him, turning cold with the breeze.

He really hopes that someone will come back for him.

The train is no doubt deep into the mountains of the East Grizzlies by now. He hopes to God that they make it out, that the train isn’t overrun with federal agents.

He has been holding onto the sound of his name in Arthur's mouth when he'd called out for him. He hears it over and over in his mind. It brings him some sick comfort.

He tries to move, his shoulder twinging sharply. He can feel his pulse beating around the bullet lodged in his flesh, and he settles back in the dirt, taking measured breaths to ease the pain.

Horses approach, and John stills, waiting to see if it will be Milton or his own gang.

He recognizes Dutch's familiar visage, dark hat and mustache, pristine white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, on a white stallion. He leads the way for Micah and a few others, men of Micah's that he doesn't know.

"Dutch," he groans, raising his hand to be seen.

Dutch slides from his horse, walking to John with no real haste.

John swallows nervously, already picking up on the tells that this isn’t a rescue mission. He tries to keep his breath calm.

“Dutch?” He asks, when Dutch is nearer. His face is pensive as he stares down at John, mouth a hard line, eyes cold. John feels small. He looks past Dutch to Micah, speaking to his men. “Could… Could you help me up?” John asks, pressing a hand into his shoulder. “M’bleedin’ pretty bad.”

Dutch looks at him as if he’s a stranger he found on the road.

“I’m sorry, John,” Dutch says finally. John’s heart sinks in his chest. Dutch leans down, pulling John’s revolver from its holster and pushing it into the waistband of his own trousers. “Your wounds… are just too great. And I’m afraid we just don’t have the resources to sustain you any longer.”

“Resources?” John repeats faintly. “I… I’ll go to a town doctor myself, Dutch. Won’t take any of your resources. Just… please, help me up, Dutch.” John swallows, holding out his good hand.

Dutch stares at it for a long moment, before turning his face away.

“It’s nothin’ personal, Marston,” Micah says. “Well, it is. You’ve been stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.” He sidles up next to Dutch, his face more scornful than John’s ever seen it. “You been whisperin’ in people’s ears? Causing doubt?”

“No,” John ignores him, trying to meet Dutch’s eyes. “I didn't— I never—“

“Causin’ Dutch’s most trusted to turn against him?”

John knows he means Arthur.

“He ain’t turnin’ on you, Dutch,” John pleads. “He— He loves you more than anythin’, he’d give his life to—“

“But that ain’t true anymore, is it, golden boy?” Micah sighs heavily. “He’s more interested in helpin’ you and your woman skip out on your real family.”

John’s eyes shift between the two before Dutch finally turns, trailing away.

“Well, it won’t be a problem after today,” Micah says, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and crouching to look John in the face. “Abigail just needs a stronger hand to guide her. Luckily, I’m willin’ to take up the role in your absence.” He chuckles to himself. “Not that you was ever really in a position to lead her, was you, cocksucker?”

John spits, the wad of it landing on Micah’s face, dripping from his cheek.

Micah blinks, surprised for only a moment before he strikes out, hitting him square in the cheek.

“Little bitch,” he snarls. “And don’t you worry about Morgan, either. I’ll give him your fond farewell. Tell him you cried for him as you was bein’ executed by Pinkertons.” Micah stands, his boot coming down on John’s shoulder. “And then, I’ll make sure he joins you, real soon.” He says for only John to hear, putting all his weight into his boot.

Pain radiates through John's arm and chest, making him cry out blindly.

“Micah,” Dutch barks harshly, his eyes on Micah’s boot.

Micah lets up immediately, stepping away and shoving his hands into his pockets. For one fleeting moment, John thinks he might be able to sense some shadow of care in Dutch’s eyes. Then it slips away, gone, along with the man he thought he knew.

“Joe,” Micah says to one of the men who have dismounted their horses. “You’ll make sure our friend here passes peacefully, won't you?”

“Dutch,” John says desperately. Dutch mounts up onto his horse, eyes downcast as he turns away, heading West after the train. “Dutch, don’t do this,” John’s voice runs worn. He knows his pleas fall on deaf ears. “Don’t leave, Dutch!”

Micah follows suit, along with one of his two men.

The last, Joe, stays behind, arms folded across his chest.

They stare at each other for a long time, until the sound of the others has faded and all they're left with is faint birdsong and the sound of the wind blowing through the higher mountains.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” Joe says, swinging a boot out and approaching slowly. His eyes appraise John, looking him over. “Heard you was an invert.” He raises a brow, and then picks up his foot and brings it down over John's crotch. John yells, lurching upward, but the pain in his shoulder sends him back down. He yelps as the man digs the toe of his boot in.

Cold boredom falls over Joe's face. He sighs, standing back and shaking his head.

“Too bad you ain’t a woman. Been too long since I had some fun.” He scoffs down at John and pulls a blade from his belt.“I can’t get it up for just anythin’ though.”

John’s own hunting knife sits tucked into his belt, just behind his revolver holster. Dutch hadn’t taken it.

“Maybe I’ll cut your pecker off,” Joe laughs. “Choke you with it before I scalp ya.” He crouches next to John, a hand reaching out for his belt.

John thinks of Arthur back at camp. Of Abigail and Jack waiting for them both to come and take them away. He remembers Micah’s promise to kill Arthur.

Like a cat, Dutch had likened him to when they’d first met. John had taken offense to it, back then. He likes the idea of it now.

He grits his teeth through the pain, arm slipping up and pulling his own knife free by the hilt. He strikes before the man even sees him moving, slipping the blade right into the man's calve above his boot, and pushing back with all his might.

A guttural cry fills the air, and Joe falls away from him, scrambling backward, his eyes going wide and white heavy. His knife clatters to the ground, and John scoops it up with his other hand, his shoulder flaring in white-hot pain.

John pushes up through it, through the lightheadedness, nothing but Joe's shocked face fueling his ascent.

He feels mindless like an animal as he pounces, knives leading the way, fists clutching them, and nearly out of his own control. He’s only attached to the other ends of them, a bystander. He sits on Joe’s legs to hold him down.

The sound that leaves Joe is the closest to a shriek that John’s ever heard from a grown man, but he doesn’t think anyone will hear it this far out. His voice goes dead when John takes aim at his throat, and then his eyes go wide and cold, and John carves him up just a bit more to be sure.

John goes still himself, arms sagging and fists loosening, the sound of him taking in air there to fill up the silence that the lack of birdsong has left behind. The wind continues to howl through the mountains.

He raises his shaking hand to his shoulder, pressing hard, and the pain wakes him out of his stupor. He thinks of Abigail and Jack again, of Arthur.

A chestnut horse stands in the tree line, stamping nervously, eyes rolling around as it watches John.

John pulls his bandana from his own neck, wadding it up and stuffing it into the hole in his chest. He whimpers as he does, the pain making his knees go weak. He sees stars.

When he’s regained himself, he takes Joe’s coat, slipping it on and shakily making his way for the horse.

He isn’t sure how long he is for the world, or how long the rest of the ones he loves have. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t die trying to make it back to them.

____________________________________

Arthur knows the way to the doctor's office by heart. He’d never forget it in all his days.

John slumps against him as he takes the last corner. He sees the green pharmacy sign hanging off the top balcony, and there’s a light glowing onto the sidewalk from inside.

As he pulls Rowan to a halt, he begins unfastening John’s hands from his waist, wincing at the sight of a rope burn that’s already begun to chafe his wrists.

He swings his leg over Rowan to sit awkwardly to the side, hugging John to him as he slides down.

“Johnny,” he hushes in his ear as he gathers him up, arms around his shoulders and under his knees. John’s eyes remain closed, a small consolation only in that it’s better than being wide and unseeing.

He bursts through the front door of the clinic, the glass of the windows rattling in their frames. The doctor leaps back from the counter, blinking wildly at them for a few shocked moments. His eyes run up and down their gore-soaked clothes.

“He’s been shot,” Arthur wheezes, underestimating just how out of breath he’d become.

The doctor only stares a moment longer before leaping into action.

“Bring him this way," He says, hurrying for the back doors of the lobby. He holds them open for Arthur, directing him to the exam room. “Harriet, man the front desk!” He calls to the nurse stationed behind the glass window at the end of the hall.

“Of course Dr. Barnes!” She replies in a mousy voice.

“Put him on that back table,” the doctor instructs.

Round sconces on the walls flicker with dim flames, but a large electric bulb buzzes over the table, casting John in stark, sickly light. Arthur feels queasy at the sight laid out before him, red, slick blood stemming from a dark hole in the shoulder, far too close to vital organs for Arthur’s comfort. He pushes some of John’s hair back from his pale face, lines of thick lashes resting on his cheeks.

“Just the one shot?” The doctor asks as he rinses his hands in the sink, drawing him out of his focus.

“I— I think so,” Arthur swallows, eyes flitting down John’s body. “We was runnin’…”

The doctor looks at John from behind his spectacles—definitely the same man who treated Arthur, he'd never forget a face telling him such news. The entire room feels like a bad memory.

“And… what about these?” The doctor asks, lifting one of John’s wrists, looking over the red lines rubbed raw and then at Arthur with guarded suspicion.

“I tied him to me,” Arthur says. “We— We was runnin’ away—Raiders— and he couldn’t ride so I—“

Arthur’s mouth snaps shut and he closes his eyes, willing himself to calm and breathe, to make more sense.

“Raiders, huh?” The doctor says knowingly with a click of his tongue. His face softens as he sets John’s hand down on the table. “I see. Alright. Help me get his clothes off, son.”

Arthur wastes no time in pulling John’s vest open. He hesitates with his pale shirt but then pulls it apart quickly. A few of the buttons go flying, but Arthur will buy him a new one— five new ones— later. Now, they can see John’s entire torso in all its bloody glory.

“Christ,” he hisses, stepping away. It's too much blood. He runs his hands down his face, breathing deeply, trying to reconcile the situation. His stomach churns dangerously.

When he looks back, he watches John’s chest rise, just a hair.

“Shot through the front?” The doctor asks. Arthur nods faintly. “Good, good, it’s still in him, then.”

“That’s a good thing?” Arthur rasps.

“Of course. Had it gone through him, he’d have already died of blood loss.”

“Right.” He’d known that, remembered the day that Hosea had taught it to him. Never dig the bullet out, never pull the knife free, without a way to stop the bleeding. “Right,” he repeats faintly. He needs to get a hold of himself.

“I’ll have a listen to his lungs.” The doctor says, removing his spectacles to look up at Arthur. “I’ll see what I can see. Do what I can do.” He narrows his eyes, brow furrowing. “He your friend?”

“He— Yes. No. Yes.” Arthur sputters. He’d meant to call them brothers.

He’s so angry and scared he could shout.

“He’s my best friend,” Arthur says because at least that’s the truth.

“Alright,” the doctor nods. “Sit down over there.” He points to a wicker chair in the corner. “Don’t get in the way.”

“Y’sir,” Arthur mumbles. He knows he’s being granted the kindness to be able to stay. He sits, slumping over his knees to watch with weary eyes as the doctor sets to work.

“He’s lucky,” the doctor says once he’s done listening. He begins cleaning up the outer skin of blood. “His lung doesn’t seem to have been hit. He’s not entirely in shock, yet, either. I presume you two had a long day before all this happened.” He takes a long look at the hole in John’s chest, pulling the skin apart and Arthur grimaces. “It looks as if infection may be starting to one side. Possibly contaminated ammunition, or maybe just being out on the roads for long periods.” He looks at Arthur over his shoulder. “I can stop most of that before it starts, once I dig the bullet out. The main issue is his blood loss.”

Arthur takes a shuddering breath.

“Couldn’t— Couldn’t you give him one of them tran–…” He closes his eyes, trying to remember the word he’d read. “Transfusion? Read about ‘em in the paper.” Arthur swallows. “I’d give mine.”

The doctor sighs heavily, but he looks at Arthur with compassion.

“There’s certainly some interesting research coming out of Europe. But I’m afraid you’d have little luck finding anyone outside of Baltimore or— or Harvard that’s able to test for compatibility. Definitely not in Saint Denis.”

“Compatibility?” Arthur breathes.

“Indeed. Siphoning your blood into him without knowing if you’re a match would more than likely just kill him.”

Arthur deflates, staring at the side of John’s pale face. He feels like he’s been caught up in a horrible nightmare. He feels sick.

He’s going to be sick, he realizes, and shoots to his feet, heading for a wastebasket sat next to a writing desk. He reaches it just in time, heaving. Not much comes up but what little is left in his stomach from breakfast, and then sour, yellow bile.

The doctor stares at him strangely.

“Apologies,” Arthur grunts, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

“You’re not ill, are you?”

“No— just, a little stressed,” Arthur says quietly, eyes passing back over John’s face before he trudges back to his seat.

“I recognize you,” the doctor says as he selects a pair of forceps from his tray of tools. “The last time I saw you, you were on death’s door.” He clicks his tongue. “You look better. Much better.”

“Guess I’m lucky.”

“I’d say that barely begins to scratch the surface. It’s not typical to recover from tuberculosis. Especially as progressive as your case was. We don’t have a record of it, in Saint Denis. Probably nowhere south of the Grizzlies.” He huffs a small laugh. “Yes, very lucky indeed.

Arthur doesn’t feel lucky.

Last night, he’d felt like he and John were on top of the world.

Now it’s like the universe has slipped the rug from under him. He’d ask it not to do this to him, but he’s afraid that that might just be daring it. Now, it feels as though his life is laid out on a table under the hands of a doctor.

John would probably make fun of him if he told him so, and then kiss him silly.

“I’ll dig this bullet out, then clean and cauterize. Sew him up.” He looks at Arthur. “Then I’ll have you bring him to one of the inpatient rooms. He can stay a few nights to see if he starts recovering.”

“Okay,” Arthur says faintly, running a hand down his face. “Guess I’ll see if that saloon up the way’s got any rooms.”

“They won’t,” the doctor tells him as he looks down into the hole, digging with his forceps. “It’s midnight on a Saturday, son.”

“Oh. Would you know of any other places nearby? Don’t wanna be too far…” Arthur frowns as he picks at the tear in the knee of his jeans. The skin beneath it is scrapped and scabbed, but he can barely feel it.

“Sure. You can stay here.”

“Here?”

“There are few spare gurneys around. Afraid I can’t give you your own room, on the chance we have others come in. But you can stay in your friend’s room for the night.”

Arthur presses his hand across his eyes for a moment, letting out a slow, relieved breath.

“You’re kind.” He says earnestly.

“Of course,” the doctor says, waving a hand at him without looking up from his work. “Now quiet, so I can concentrate.”

*

Strange afternoon light seeps in through the windows of the front lobby of the office. Arthur shields his eyes from it, the Southern sun warming his booted feet where it falls across them in bisected squares.

The doctor must be out, the room big and empty. The clock ticks sluggishly on the back wall. He gazes around at the jars sitting out on the counters, glasses filled with herbs and liquids and powders that Arthur can’t pronounce the names of.

He realizes that he isn’t alone when he notices the shadow in the corner.

It’s cast by a man stood there at the back wall looking over a shelf of powders. He wears a fine suit tailored perfectly to fit and a top hat.

Arthur wanders over to him before he can think better of it. He looks past his shoulder at the large, red-tinted jars that line the shelf. Cassia Fist, Amylum, Arsenic.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” The man says, and perhaps Arthur should be startled by the abruptness of his voice, but he feels calm, almost sedated. The man turns and meets his eyes. “Most of these can be used to treat or kill someone.”

Arthur gets a better look at his face. A well-groomed mustache, long sideburns. Handsome eyes, and though he isn’t particularly wrinkled, his face is akin to ancient, grey stone.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees hesitantly.

“I heard our mutual friend John Marston is staying here in town,” the man says, eyes flicking to the door leading to the back hall. Arthur’s stomach dips. Whoever this man is, he knows John’s full name.

He speaks with a strange cadence like he just stepped off of a train from somewhere else.

“You from New York or somethin’?” Arthur asks.

“I’m from all over,” the man says easily. “But I mostly go where my work takes me.” His brows lower just a hair. “About your friend,” he says, taking a step towards the back hall.

“He ain’t seein’ visitors, for the moment,” Arthur says tightly, holding up a hand to stop him. “See… he’s in a bad way.”

“So he is,” the man says, not unkindly. He looks over Arthur’s face with an expression he can’t read. “There’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be just fine in my care.” The man says, again taking a step.

“Stay the hell away from him,” Arthur grits, pressing his palm into the man's chest. He tamps down on the fear quelling in his belly. The man pauses, looking from him down to his hand in placid observance. “Please,” Arthur stresses. “I’m sure he don’t know you.”

“He knows me,” the man says, matter of fact. “You know me, too.”

“Well, either way…” Arthur swallows, shaking his head to clear the fear. He speaks before he knows what he’s going to say, the words pouring from his mouth being realized as they come. “Maybe this’ll sound sorta strange to you, but… see, he’s mine,” Arthur says. “You can’t have him. Not yet. Maybe one day. And maybe not even then." He shudders. "Please, just leave us be.” He pushes against the urge to get down on his knees and beg. He holds his head back, jaw tight.

The man looks down at the place Arthur's palm presses to his chest. Arthur’s hand feels warm.

The man decides with a nod.

“It might sound strange to other men. But I’ve heard it more times than you’d know.” He says, stepping back. “I see that I’m not needed today.” He adjusts his suit lapels, and then his hat, calm and precise in each movement. “Until we meet again, Arthur Morgan.”

“We won’t if I can help it.”

The man's mouth quirks up, finally a shadow of emotion. “You certainly wouldn’t be the first to try to outrun me. But, well… If anyone could.” He turns and steps through the front door, the light seeping in like liquid.

Arthur holds up his hands against the light before the door swings shut, too bright to see which way he goes. He settles as soon as he’s alone in the lobby once again. A haze fills the shop, but it doesn’t smell like smoke.

He sighs with relief.

Then he opens his eyes to the dark of a room.

He rolls over, a gurney creaking under his weight, and shoves a blanket off of himself. He feels around blindly on the floor for the oil lamp and picks it up. He pulls matches from his pocket, and once he’s got the small flame burning, the vision of the man in the lobby begins to fade as quickly as it had come.

Arthur peers around, relieved to find the room empty aside from the medicine cabinet by the door, a wooden chair, and the small window over John’s bed on the opposite wall.

John looks pale, even in the warm fire light, and Arthur rises to stand over him. He holds the back of his hand to John's forehead to check for fever. He feels normal, if not a bit cool. Arthur leans down to listen for his breath and feels it coming in small, shallow puffs warm against his ear.

“Christ, Marston,” he sighs, resting a hand along his neck, looking over the bandage wrapped around his torso. “Nearly made it out of the state, too. Just a few more hours. Would’a been home free.”

He glances at his pocket watch and knows he won’t be getting any more sleep this close to sunrise. Not until his body forces him down, anyway.

He pulls the blanket off his gurney, tucking it over John, and then leans down, kissing him gently on the cheek.

“Pull through, darlin’,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back soon.”

He asks Harriet the nurse, stationed in the small room down the hall, to check on John as frequently as she can spare while he steps out. She promises to do so, and Arthur heads out the side door to tend to the horses.

____________________________________

“Pa,” John calls as he steps over the threshold of their house, panting and sweaty. “Got some meat for supper.”

He sets the cut of beef down on the kitchen counter, dusting away a few ants that have trailed indoors. Blood has trickled out of the parchment wrap of the meat, and he wipes it away from his hands on a dirty dish towel. He looks around the small shack and listens.

He seems to be alone, for now, so he settles onto the old rickety couch in the corner. The tufted buttons of it have mostly come loose, some hanging and most others entirely gone. He rests his head along the back of it to finish catching his breath.

He’d stolen the bit of meat from the town market and then he'd run the entire way home.

John had been on his way from a day spent out in Chapel Hill Woods with the Barker brothers. They’d been showing off the knives they’d been given by their father as a gift the past weekend, all small but shiny-bladed.

John’s never been given a knife by his own father, but he’d stolen one a few years ago from the shop window of the general, the same day he’d gone to pick up willow bark for his father’s hurt foot.

He’d felt guilty about stealing, afterwards, but having a knife was no small thing. It allowed him to whittle at wood, build little figures from sticks, even though he wasn’t very good at it. It also allowed him to kill small game that he caught in the snares he’d been setting up. The Barker brothers had taught him how to do that, and he’d brought home rabbit a few times for supper. His father never bothered asking him how he went about killing rabbits.

Today, John had played too long and hard and forgotten about setting up snares, much less checking them.

They’d all been practicing knife fighting, and they’d been howling and hollering all day. Then Boone Barker had gotten cut for real and they’d all decided to go home. John had remembered on the way that he’d forgotten to set up snares, so he passed through the town square. He’d seen the butcher set up, but it had been easier to slip a cut of meat out of an old matron’s paper sack than take it directly from the table.

Now, here he is, and he’s glad that his father isn’t home yet. If he were sober, he would have questions about where John got the beef, and then John would have to lie or tell him the truth. Then, he’d either get congratulated or whooped, depending on what sort of mood his father was in.

If he got to cooking the meat now, though, and buried the paper in the backyard, his father might not even question how he’d come by it. If he were drunk enough, he wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between beef and rabbit.

John pushes off the sofa and drags his feet to the other side of the room. He chucks a few logs into the wood stove and crouches in front of it to light the kindling settled on the bottom. He sits there and watches it catch, flame slowly beginning to eat up twigs and bark.

Then he finds the cast iron, still a bit dirty from the last time it was used. He scrapes it clean as best he can and sets it over the stovetop.

The sound of the beef searing as he lays it carefully into the pan makes his stomach growl. It's been years since he’s eaten beef, he reckons.

They have a can of beans in the cabinet, and in John’s haze of hunger, he uses his knife to pry the top off of it.

He eats half the stake and half the beans. The meat is still a bit pink on the inside, and he delights in the juices that run down the corner of his mouth. He leaves the other half of the stake sandwiched between two plates on the counter to keep the flies off.

When he’s fed, he begins to think a little clearer, and he realizes he’s probably going to get a beating for opening the last can of beans.

It begins to grow dark, and John begins to wonder if his father isn’t coming home tonight at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stayed out too late gambling and drinking, pissing away what little money they have.

John sits on the sofa to wait, not wanting to fall asleep and have his father catch him unawares.

He sits for a long time before his eyes begin to droop. Before he can help it, he curls up on his side to wait, and then he’s asleep.

Sunlight through the living room window wakes him, hot on his face, and when he sits up to look, the plates are still sandwiched together perfectly. No one has come in.

“Christ,” he sighs, standing and stretching.

He eats the rest of the beef himself because it’s probably already started to go bad anyway. He finishes the beans as well and takes the empty can with him out the door to dispose of along the way. Maybe his father will be so blackout drunk that he won’t even know John had come and gone the night before, either.

He spends his day out in the woods again, this time without the Barker brothers.

He walks the well-known trails, knife a solid weight in his pocket. He carries a long stick that he thwacks away at small bushes and low branches of trees.

He’s been imagining, lately, what he’ll do with the rest of his life.

One of the older Barker brothers that John hadn’t known so well left home a few weeks ago. The younger brothers all seem equal parts thrilled and sad about this. They’d told John about his fancy new job in Chicago at the Tribune, writing articles about politicians in Washington.

John doesn’t know much about any of that. As far as he can tell, politicians are about as real as the men on wanted posters in the town square or fictitious heroes like Robin Hood that the brothers sometimes tell him stories about.

He can’t read, so the newspaper they bring to show him is equally as meaningless.

But the idea of Chicago is intriguing to him. He’d wanted to see the big city ever since the brothers had started talking about it. He imagines tall buildings and people packed into blocks, living practically on top of each other in places called tenements. John imagines that you’d never get lonely living in a building with so many people. There would be something to do every day.

He wonders about the jobs you can get in Chicago, and if you need to be able to read to get them. He’s come to the conclusion that if he hasn’t learned how to read by now, he probably never will. But there are plenty of jobs to do with your hands, like blacksmithing and butchering. Maybe he could work with horses, be a cowboy, though he doesn’t know how many cowboys live in Chicago. Never mind that he’s never ridden a horse or held a lasso in his life.

All problems for the future, he figures.

A sound catches his attention as he’s walking along an old fallen tree and he stills, turning to look out over a field to the West. A herd of deer graze quietly in the sunshine. Their small hooves step unhurriedly through the tall grass. John eases himself into a crouch to watch.

He’s seen plenty of deer, but never in a big herd. Usually, when he’s in the woods, he’s with other people making noise.

It’s mainly does, a few with white speckled fawns. They prance around on spindly legs in playful circles, and John finds himself grinning.

He notices a herd of bachelor bucks grazing on the outskirts, eating at berry bushes. One raises its head, a large rack of mature antlers shining against the tree line. He imagines how proud his father might be if he were to bring home a kill like that. It would feed them for a long time, he reckons, and if they couldn’t store it properly, they could at least sell off the meat to make back the money.

He watches it take a step, turning its head slow in the other direction, and the daydream fades. He doesn’t think he could bring himself to kill something like that.

The little fawns prance around their mothers, ducking their heads under their bellies to nurse.

He wonders if they are all a family, mothers and children, bachelor herds lingering nearby. He wonders if animals can love each other.

Then, he thinks he’d like to have a family that big, someday. A group of people who love you.

*

When he gets back home, he eases into the front door.

“Pa?” He calls.

No rabbits had come to his snares today. On his way through the town square, the butcher had chased him out of the market with a cleaver raised in the air, and while John hadn’t really thought he would kill him, it’s clear that he isn’t welcomed there, at least not for a long while.

It’s alright. He’d eaten a few stale biscuits he’d had stored in a box hidden in a tree out in one of his favorite spots. Besides, if he doesn’t bring anything home, his father might be compelled to buy them a few new canned goods. His stomach isn’t feeling well, and he thinks he may need to eat some sort of vegetable.

There’s no reply from within the house, and the living room is already dim from the evening. He fishes a box of matches from one of the kitchen drawers and lights one of the lanterns in the kitchen, looking around. No sign of anyone having been back home. He checks the back two rooms just to be sure but finds them empty.

He sits down on the couch to wait again, a small hint of apprehension starting to take root in his belly.

His father has only rarely been gone for more than a day, mostly because he has nowhere else to go.

John lays down on the worn cushions, the light from the lantern not doing much to keep this side of the room lit.

It’s hard to sleep that night, every little sound stirring him awake.

In the morning, he sits up quick.

“Pa!” He shouts, and though he doesn’t have any real hope of a reply, it still comes out of him desperately, like if he shouts loud enough, his father will suddenly hear him and come out from hiding in the wardrobe, somehow appearing out of thin air.

Silence.

John pulls his legs up onto the sofa, crossing them under himself and holding onto his ankles, unsure of what to do.

He searches every cabinet for anything there might be to eat and comes up empty-handed. They’d never had a full cabinet as long as John could recall.

He should head out, set up snares. But there’s a part of him that’s scared, wants to stay put, wait for his father to come back. He’s afraid that he'll miss his father's coming and going if he leaves. He feels like if he stares out the front window long enough, it will magically bring his father stumbling up the walk after a few day's bender.

*

John cries more in the two days following than he thinks he ever has in his life, save for when he’d been too small to help it.

He’s thirsty. He’s hungry. He ought to go out and fetch water.

Anything caught in his snares has likely started to rot or been eaten, and he feels badly thinking of something left to die, but he feels a bit like a rabbit caught in a snare, himself. Bone deep scared.

The house is suddenly big and yawning and echoing. John had used to find comfort in that because it’d meant that his father wasn’t around to yell or hit or throw their things.

Now, it makes him feel like he’s all alone.

Which he is.

He’ll fetch water, he’ll set up snares. But first, he thinks he ought to go talk to someone— someone who might know what’s happening.

He heads for the nearest neighbor— the Barker residence. He’s only been up to the house once or twice before.

Boone opens the door when he knocks and seems surprised to see John. He grins, opening his mouth about to start in on a ribbing, but he must see the look on John’s face because he goes quiet.

“Your folks in?” John asks quietly.

Missus Barker sits across from him at a little kitchen table. She’s a tall woman, weighty in her limbs, and her hair is curled. She wears a dress covered in an intricate pattern of flowers. She listens to John with a kind look on her face as Mister Barker sits across the kitchen polishing up a hunting rifle, pipe in his mouth.

When John finishes telling her what’s happened over the last few days, omitting the beef he’d stolen, she nods and reaches across the table, patting one of his hands.

John’s a bit uncomfortable around women, only because he doesn’t have a lot of experience interacting with them. Missus Barker seems very kind though, and the soft look in her pretty eyes puts him at ease.

“You look starved,” she tells him. It’s only been two days that he hasn’t eaten, but it’s been a lot longer since he’s eaten well. She brings him a glass of water and a plate of roast beef and gravy, bread and butter.

John’s mouth salivates continually as he eats. It might be the best thing he’s ever tasted.

She brings him a glass of milk, afterward, thick with cream and cool from their ice box.

John’s belly hurts for how much he eats.

Mister Barker puts a hand on his shoulder a bit later on, and John startles, but the man looks at him with equal kindness.

“We’ll find out where your pa is, son,” he tells him.

John sleeps on their couch that night. It’s newer than the one in his own house by at least a decade. It’s comfortable, and Missus Barker drapes a blanket over him and rubs a hand over his head even though his hair is unwashed and greasy, and tells him goodnight.

John’s never known what it might be like to have a mother, but he imagines that if his ma was anything like Missus Barker, he would have liked to have a mother very much.

*

The next midmorning, Mister Barker sits down across from him on the couch to tell him that his father was last seen getting on a carriage heading South for Chicago and that the people who had seen him got the impression he meant to leave town. He asks John if his father had said anything about taking a trip, or if they had any relatives that lived in Illinois.

John tells him that he doesn’t think they have any relatives at all.

When John is supposed to be washing up in their bathroom, with a real tub and water warmed over the stove, he hears the sound of Missus Barker crying in the next room and he presses his ear to the door.

“How could he?” She asks, and John wonders if she means his father, or him, or someone else entirely.

“He ain’t never taken care of his house. Or that boy.” Mister Barker says quietly. “It ain’t a surprise. If he ain’t back by now… I don’t think he intends to come back at all. He ain’t never left town before.”

“How could you treat your own child like that? He’s skin and bones.” She sniffs loudly. “How could he abandon his own son?”

Mister Barker sighs heavily. “Some boys have to grow up quicker than others…”

“Edwin,” she warns.

John pulls away from the door, feeling hollowed out.

Abandoned. He’s been abandoned.

He sits himself down in the warm water, the heat making him shudder all over. He uses the bar soap they’d given him, a cloth to scrub weeks' worth of grime off of him. He runs it through his hair and dunks himself under the water just briefly.

That night, he sits on the couch across from Missus and Mister Barker. He can see Boone and his brothers peeking around the kitchen doorway, but he ignores them.

The two adults tell him that they’re sorry for how it’s all turned out. They can keep him fed for a few days, but in the morning, Mister Barker is heading down to the orphanage in Waukesha to inquire about taking John to live there. He says they might be able to find him a new family to live with.

John wants to ask them why he can’t live with them. He’s met a few orphans before, and he knows the stories about those places.

He doesn’t ask them, though, because if they aren’t offering, they obviously don’t want him staying in their house.

He feels empty as he says goodnight to them once more. He lies in the dark on the couch cursing himself. He should’ve stayed home, gotten water, gone to set up snares. He should’ve never breathed a word of this to anybody. And who would have known, anyway, if his father had never come home?

But he’d been too scared. A scared kid.

Now they want to take him to one of those places where you share rooms and can never be alone, and the adults treat you badly.

He gets up in the night, packs his few things away into his pockets.

He thinks about taking some food, but after all the kindness they’ve shown him, he can’t bring himself to steal from them.

So he slips out the back door into the night and starts walking to his house.

He stops there to retrieve a few of his clothes and then thinks to take some of his father’s, too. He puts them all into a gunnysack and slings it over his shoulder, and when he leaves, he doesn’t look back at their house.

If he has to leave home, he’s doing it on his own terms.

He’s abandoning the house, and his father, and his old life.

________________________________________

Arthur dips a clean rag into the warm washing water Harriet had brought him.

He runs it gently over John’s face, over his brow and cheeks. He pulls it lightly across his eyelids, his lashes shining moistly. He dabs at the corners of his eyes, under his nose, through his beard. He rinses the rag in a separate bucket, squeezing and twisting it clean, dunks it back into the washing water.

He’s meticulous about it, the monotony of it comforting in a meditative sort of way.

He rubs the rag in circles over John’s collarbones and sternum, over his pecs. He lifts his arms and gets thorough in the dark hair there.

He cleans him as well as he knows how. His skin is warm, and Arthur likes feeling the muscle beneath it to remind himself that John is strong. He can pull through this.

For three days he’s sat by his side, dripping water from a rag into his mouth many times a day to keep him hydrated.

Dr. Barnes had told him last that they might need to think about tube feeding if he doesn’t wake soon. Four days without food is a lot for the body when it’s recovering blood. Tube feeding comes with its own dangers though, and Arthur doesn’t want to think about those, right now.

He rubs circles across John’s belly, down his arms and wrists. He picks up his good hand, rubbing the rag over each knuckle, cleaning away any dirt or dead skin he might have missed the first time he’d done this.

John’s index finger twitches in his hold, and Arthur blinks, eyes darting up to his face.

John’s dark eyes look back at him, cracked open just barely.

“John,” he breathes, dropping the rag. He brings his hand up to his face, thumbing across a cheekbone.

“Mm,” John hums, mouth opening and then closing.

Arthur lets out a deep, whooshing breath and picks up the rag from his glass of drinking water. He drips some between John’s lips, and John smacks his mouth, blinking rapidly and finally looking at Arthur.

“You alright? How you feel?” Arthur asks.

John swallows thickly, opens his mouth.

“You ever have dreams that feel real?”

Arthur huffs a relieved sigh, pressing his fingers into his own eyes.

“Sometimes feels like the past and present run together.” John blinks slow up at him.

“Don’t they by definition?” Arthur asks, pulling the wooden chair up to sit down next to him.

“Guess you’re right…” He frowns. “Feel like shit.” He reaches up with his good hand, feeling lightly over his bandaged shoulder with a hiss. “My lungs, are they…”

“They’re fine.” Arthur nods, reaching to take his good hand and holding it.

“Were you hit?” John asks, eyes running down his body.

“Naw. Just you. Standin’ up there on that stupid rock.”

“Right.” John sighs. “Horses?”

“Stayin’ in the stables on the South end of town” 

John looks down at the bucket next to the bed, at the rag abandoned at his hip. “What’re you doin’?”

“Er... washin’ you up,” Arthur says. “You been out nearly four days.”

John’s frown deepens, and he turns his face away to look up at the window above his bed. Sun filters in through the smudged glass.

“Washin’ me, huh? Thought you wasn’t gonna play Nursemaid.” He laughs.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. He runs his thumb over John’s knuckles one by one, slow. John makes to sit up.

“Hold on,” Arthur says, pushing gently back on his good shoulder. “Doc stepped out, but he’ll be back soon. Just wait a minute, would you?”

“M’starvin’,” John groans, head thunking back down onto his pillow. He winces, eyes squeezing shut at what must be pain. “Head’s killin’ me.”

“Here,” Arthur says, rummaging around in his satchel. He takes a can and his knife, pulling the lid back on it. “Peaches,” he says, offering the can to him.

John takes it with a trembling hand and brings it to his mouth, carefully tipping it to let the juice run between his lips.

Arthur sits back in the chair, watching his throat bob, his chest rise up and down.

“Enjoying the view?” John asks wryly, more haggard than suggestive.

“The view of you bein’ alive? Yeah, I sure as shit am.” Arthur mutters. John has the decency to look embarrassed as he begins picking peach wedges from the can with his fingers. “Thought you was done for.”

“Nah. Like you say. I’m lucky.”

“John…” Arthur’s voice catches. He feels as if he’s finally able to catch the breath that had been knocked from him when they’d fallen down the hill together.

John stares at him, eyes wide and doe-like.

The thing between them had been pulled taught for three days, to its very limit. If it had snapped, Arthur is sure that he would have, too.

The relief is nearly painful.

John holds his gaze before nodding in understanding.

“I know,” he says quietly.

While they are alone, Arthur tentatively leans over John, asking with his eyes, and John seems surprised by his boldness but pleased all the same to be kissed, tilting his head to slot their noses together as Arthur kisses him long and deep.

They’re sitting a few feet apart when the sharp rap on the door comes.

Doctor Joseph Barnes steps in, eyes landing on John.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says like he’d been expecting it.

“So I am,” John says warily.

The doctor busies himself looking over John’s wound site, peeling back bandages and dousing the area in disinfectant that makes John grit his teeth and growl.

“It looks pretty good,” Dr. Barns announces as he’s re-bandaging John’s shoulder in new wraps. “All there is to do is keep it clean, and keep you fed and watered.” He raises his brow at John. “I expect you’ll be weak for a while, still.”

“So, what we thinkin’?” John asks. “Another night here, and then we’ll get outta your hair?”

“Hardly,” Dr. Barnes scoffs. “You’re going to be out of commission for a bit more than a day, son. At least a week. Probably three.”

John stares at him lamely.

“Three? Weeks?” He clears his throat. “You sure?”

“Well, it’s hard to say exactly how much blood you lost. But judging by how much was all over you and your friend, I’d say it’s lucky you woke up as soon as you did.” He glances at Arthur, and so does John. John has an odd look in his eye. “You don’t have to stay here, mind you. At least not after another few days of observation.”

“You mean we’re stuck in Saint Denis?” John asks.

“Well, unless you’d like to get a carriage to the next town with a doctor… then yes.”

“A carriage?”

“You’re not up to riding in your condition.” The doctor adjusts his spectacles, brow furrowing up at John as if he’s dumb. “It’ll be a few weeks before you should even think about getting on a horse. You were shot.”

“So I’ve heard,” John grumbles, displeasure written all over his face.

The doctor turns to Arthur.

“I suggest that you find a place to stay.” He gives John a tired glance before standing and wiping his hands on a kerchief. “I’ll leave you to discuss, gentlemen.” He says, turning and leaving briskly.

“John—“

“Can you believe that horseshit?” John scoffs. “He just don’t know who he’s talkin’ to. I been shot before. Got half eaten by wolves. This ain’t nothin’.” He says, making to sit up.

“John,” Arthur says, rising up. He gathers a few pillows off his own gurney and pushes them down behind John’s back to prop him up. “Maybe, in this instance, we ought to be takin’ his advice.”

“What? But…” John frowns. “We need to get out of here, Arthur.” He says quietly. “That treasure is out there, waitin’ for us. We have things to do—“ He says, pushing his good hand down behind him to try to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

“John, quit tryin’ to get up,” Arthur says exasperatedly, hands landing on his legs to push them back onto the bed. “You nearly died, you goddamn fool. If you try to stand, you’ll get about two feet from that door before you pass out cold.” John’s eyes narrow, but Arthur presses on. “I’m goin’ out to find us a place to stay. Just for a little while.” He stands, shouldering his satchel. “You go easy on that doctor. He ain’t all bad. He saved your life, and he let me sleep here with you the last three nights.”

John deflates, the fight leaving his face. He slumps back against the pillows, looking like a kicked puppy.

“Just rest, darlin’,” Arthur says softly. “And you better stay put, or I’ll tell that doctor to shoot enough morphine in you to knock out a horse.”

“I could go for some morphine,” John sighs miserably before laying back to stare up at the window.

Arthur makes his way out to the lobby, seeking out the doctor. The man looks at him warily as he approaches.

“He’s just hotheaded, is all,” Arthur explains. “He hates bein’ down and injured.”

“I do understand. But I hope he understands that I’m only trying to do what’s best for him.” The doctor folds his arms.

“He does,” Arthur lies. “I actually wanted to ask you, doc, if you knew any places to stay ‘round here. Maybe close by for… well, just in case.”

“Well, you know Bastille Saloon, down the block to the West.”

“Sure,” Arthur swallows. “But well, we was thinkin’ of tryin’ to avoid the most popular places. Hundred people come and go from that spot in a day. We sorta like peace and quiet, keepin’ to ourselves…”

“Keeping Raiders and the law out of your hair, you mean?”

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek.

“I might mean, yeah.”

“Well… seeing as you’re a walking miracle… I suppose I don’t mind helping a few travelers out.” He sighs. “There’s always La Riviere. I know the owners. They’re a good family. Hate the law. But it doubles as a restaurant and it’s further West than Bastille.” The doctor removes his glasses to rub his kerchief over them. “You know, just across the street on the North side is The Lamarque Hotel. They don’t usually have rooms if you don’t reserve them. But they do offer a few apartments in the corridor behind them. You talk to them, tell them I sent you. They might give you a decent rate on one of them. Private, quiet, discreet. They recently got plumbing on their ground floor. They’ll even keep your names off the books if you ask.”

Arthur raises his brow.

“Sounds like we may not be the first fellers you helped out before, doc.”

“Well sir,” Dr. Barnes says, pushing his spectacles back on. “I’m a doctor, not a law enforcement officer.” He eyes Arthur pointedly. “Now go see about that room so I can get back to sitting in peace.”

*

Arthur takes the stairs up the corridor that runs through the middle of the block across the way. In the archway, there are fliers posted up advertising traveling shows and music being played on various blocks across the city. It seems like there’s something to do every night of the week here.

Arthur finds the backend of the Lamarque, a few large, arched double doors that presumably lead into little apartments. A poster on the wall advertises fully furnished rooms, at a price only a bit more than staying at the saloon would cost.

“Excuse me, feller,” he says to a man who uses hedge clippers to trim away at some of the vegetation that climbs up the walls of the Lamarque. “You know who owns these places? Wanted to see about renting one of ‘em. Somethin’ short term.”

“That’d be me, sir,” the man says, propping the hedge clippers up against the brick wall. Arthur gets a closer look at him, a shorter man, outfitted in a work apron. He wouldn’t expect the owner to be out back trimming the bushes, but he sees the Lamarque name embroidered onto the breast of the apron.

“We have one and two bedrooms. Mind you, I take payment upfront.”

“That’s fine,” Arthur hums. “Which is on the ground floor?”

“That’d be the one bedroom.”

“Alright. I’ll take it. Two weeks?” Arthur says, pulling out a bit of money from his satchel. “Doctor Joseph Barnes sent me over here.”

“Dr. Barnes? I see.” The man nods. “That’ll be twenty dollars, then.” He says, and Arthur passes it over.

The landlord's eyes light up. “I’ll get you the key.”

Once Arthur has procured their room, he takes a quick look around and determines that it’s better than any hotel they’ll find that doesn’t cost an arm and leg.

Before heading back to the office, he takes a stroll around the block, getting a feel for the place, mapping out all of its passages and exits in his mind.

It’s amazing what can be wedged into one city block as opposed to an acre of rural land. Hotels, saloons, law offices. Sign printers, a palmist, and a clothing outfitter.

He finds a shop called Geisenheimer’s Booksellers and pauses, peering through the window. He can’t help ducking inside. He’s never seen so many books all in one place, stacked in tall towers and wedged at odd angles into shelves. He spots a woman standing behind a desk, jotting away with a fountain pen into an open notebook.

“Excuse me,” he says. He doesn’t think he’s ever said ‘excuse me’ so much in all his life as in the last few days.

The woman looks up at him, her brows raising.

“I’ve never seen you before,” she says in a German accent. She flips her book closed. “I would remember. You looking for anything in particular? We have all the newest releases. Straight from the publishing house.” She motions around herself. “And a lot of older titles.”

“That’s the thing,” Arthur clears his throat. “I ain’t really up on my current titles. Were wonderin’ if you could recommend somethin’.”

“Well, what do you like?”

Arthur tries to imagine what John might enjoy. Probably not tales of gunslingers. Mysteries or romances? He doesn’t know.

“Somethin’ exciting.” He settles on.

“Exciting? Hmm.” She touches a finger to her chin. “Exciting like a legendary hunting trip? Or exciting like monsters in the dark?”

“Er… scary.” he settles on. He doesn’t imagine that there’s much in a book that could scare either one of them.

“I have something.” She says simply, disappearing into the stacks.

*

When Arthur returns to the doctor's office, he can hear John and Dr. Barnes bickering back and forth at each other before he even pushes into the room.

He finds John sat on the edge of the bed, the doctor tidying up the ends of the bandage on his shoulder. Arthur can see the old bandages on the floor, a fresh spot of blood on them.

They both look up at Arthur, clearly irritated, each in their own way.

“He pulled a stitch trying to get up to put his shirt on—“

“I was just stretchin’ my legs, weren’t nothin’—“

Arthur waits for the doctor to settle John back onto his bed.

John looks possibly even more down than when he’d left him there.

Dr. Barnes gives him a small shot of morphine into his shoulder and a sharp look before he leaves them alone again.

“Nearly passed out,” John mutters. Arthur clicks his tongue.

“Like I said.” Arthur pulls the chair back up to the head of the bed and sits. “Found us a nice place. Just across the street. Got a tub and one of them new-fangled water heaters’.”

John nods, mouth wry.

“What is it?”

“Just… ain’t even well enough to enjoy any of it.” John sighs. "A decent bed, a tub. Privacy. Ain’t fair, is all.” He chuckles, but the feeling doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It ain’t the last time we’ll get to have any of them things.” Arthur offers.

“No?”

“Course not. Hell. When we get whatever money’s at the end of this hunt, I’ll bet we have enough to stay anywhere we want, for a whole month.”

John’s face eases at that prospect.

“We could go to California or Oregon or Washington State, or hell, even Tahiti for all I care.”

“I ain’t ever been as far as the West Coast,” John says. “Just into quartz country. Never saw the forests or the ocean.”

“Well then, somethin’ to look forward to.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s got everything. Deserts and beaches, mountains and forests. It's got them redwood trees. I ain’t never made it down to the beaches, myself. We were runnin’ in the opposite direction. Were some wild times.” He says, recalling being with Dutch and Hosea and only a few others.

John is quiet a moment, eyes downcast at his hands.

“You should go,” he says.

Arthur blinks. “What, to California?”

“No, fool. To find the next location on the map. Keep on the trail.” John shrugs. “You know, once I’m well enough to walk from here to the outhouse. You ought to hop on your horse and head North. Do some askin’ around, scope it out. Someone along the way will have heard something and know where to point you. What if someone else finds it first?"

Arthur lets out a breath, dropping his voice into something soothing.

“For starters, ain’t no one else got the maps but us. No one else knows it exists but us and the person who put it there.” John watches him wryly as he counts off the reasons on his fingers. “Second, it’s leadin’ us all over the damned country. So if it’s real, then it’s gonna be well hidden. I’m sure no one out there without a clue could just stumble upon it.”

Arthur scoots his chair closer, and some of John’s irritation falters.

“Lastly… I ain’t just gonna leave you here all on your lonesome.” He reaches out, tucking a piece of John’s hair behind his ear. John brushes his stubbly cheek into Arthur’s hand, and Arthur scratches his fingers through it. “If I did that… you’re liable to burn the whole apartment buildin’ down.” John scoffs, batting his hand away. “I think we’re better off stickin’ together,” Arthur says carefully.

“You do?”

The question takes him by surprise. Arthur frowns. “Course I do. What’chu mean?”

“Just… feel like I’m holdin’ us back. Ain’t the usual tactic to split up and regroup later?” John asks. He looks Arthur in the eye, all the leftover fight melting away, something raw left behind.

“That’s for groups of four or more,” Arthur says, and he’s not sure if it’s true or not, but that isn’t the point. “For groups of two… you stick together.” He doesn’t hold himself back from leaning forward to press a kiss to John’s wrist.

Arthur expects John to say something smart when he pulls away, but instead, his expression looks split open. He chews on his lip, eyes a bit misty.

“Darlin’?”

“Nothin’, it’s that goddamn morphine,” John says. “Makes me feel crazy, I reckon.” He turns his face away, looking at the warm light coming into the room. “Alright, yeah. Let’s stick together.”

Arthur shifts, pulling out something from his satchel.

“I got ya somethin’ while I was out.” He says, holding up a yellow book, red writing printed out over the front of it.

“What is it?”

“Novel. Lady at a bookstore recommended it. Said it was scary.”

“How scary could a book be?” John says, scrubbing his good hand over his eyes. “Let me see.”

Arthur hands it over, and John’s eyes flit over the cover. He watches John’s lips move silently as he reads each word, his chest swelling with fondness.

“What sorta name is Bram Stoker?” John scoffs.

“It’s short for Abraham. He’s Irish. Lady said it were about vampires. Published just a few years ago.”

“Vampires huh? Sorta fittin’.”

Arthur hadn’t thought of that, and he nearly laughs. “You want me to read it to you?” He asks, reaching for it.

“I can read just fine,” John says defensively.

“Goddamn, I know you can, Marston. Were just offerin’ so you could close your eyes, get a little more rest.” Arthur says, snatching the book from him. “Now sit back. And listen up.” He says with faux surliness, clearing his throat and opening to the first page.

“‘Chapter one. Jonathan Harker’s Journal.’” Arthur starts. “Hey, he’s got your name, Marston,” Arthur says with amusement, eyes flicking up. He stills, seeing the line of silent tears that  catch the light along John’s cheek.

“John?”

“Nothin’.” John holds up his hand, and when he meets Arthur’s eye, it isn’t sadness on his face. His lips quirk upward despite his tears. “M’just… nothin’.” He says quietly.

Arthur picks up his hand where it lays on the bed, folding it into his own as he holds the book open with his other.

“Alright.” Arthur nods. “Shall I continue?”

“Please,” John says with an indelicate sniff.

“‘Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.’”

Chapter Text

Eleven

Arthur thanks the postal clerk and tucks away a letter from Montreal into his satchel.

He’d been half surprised to find it waiting for them at the Saint Denis station, but maybe he shouldn’t have been. They’ve been in Saint Denis for just over a week in total and it’s the first time he’s stopped to check for mail.

He’s nearly done with the morning’s errands. Down to the stables to check on the horses, bring them some apples lest they forget who their favored people are. He’d picked those up from a produce stand in an open-air market, along with some other necessities they’d need during their temporary stay.

Not a bad morning, as mornings go.

He passes a paper stand out front of the station. It advertises mail catalogs and pamphlets, as well as cigarettes. The daily paper is propped up catty-corner on one end facing the street and Arthur stops short when he sees the large photo plastered across the front page.

“Can I get a copy of this?” He asks the man working the booth. He pays the fifty-cent fee and rolls the paper up, slipping it into the top of one of his paper grocery bags. Then he runs to catch the trolly heading back up Courtenay Street.

His mind is stormy as he climbs the steps back into the corridor made up of patios. He sheds the feeling off best he can at the sight of all the green and morning sun streaming in through the gaps in the buildings. It feels safer here.

A dark curly-haired woman stands on one of the balconies slouched over the railing in an easy fashion, a cigarette balanced between two fingers. Arthur accidentally catches her eye as he’s searching his satchel for the key to the apartment.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he murmurs just loud enough for her to hear, and she smiles a little pearly grin at him with a silent wave. He feels minutely better as he steps into the apartment.

John isn’t on the couch where he’d left him. Arthur sets the paper bags down on the counter, his attention drawn away from his worry about the newspaper.

“John?”

“In here,” John groans from the bedroom.

After Arthur’s gotten the perishables put away, he wanders to the bedroom door to look in.

The apartment is sparsely decorated, beige walls with dark hardwood floors and trim. A couch barely long enough to stretch out on sits against the wall under a window. A coffee table and a single oversized wingback chair across from it. In the bedroom, a mattress a little larger than a double sits on a boxspring and metal frame. There’s a wardrobe in one corner, and a tall skinny mirror in the other, along with a window on the exterior wall facing the patio area.

The Venetian blinds on all the windows cast bars of light into the rooms, some of which fall across John’s shirtless form curled up in bed. His tawny skin glows gold.

He’s sandwiched between all the pillows they’ve been given, his jean-clad leg hitched over one of them. Though it looks comfortable, Arthur knows he’s laid up like this because he’s in pain.

“Look like you’re livin’ in the lap of luxury.” Arthur teases. His boots thud softly over the hardwood and he toes them off before stepping further into the room. He rounds the bed to stand in front of John.

John peeks out from under his curtain of hair, half his face pressed into a pillow. He looks miserable.

“Hurtin’?” Arthur asks gently.

“Mm.” John lets his eyes shut. “Shoulder feels like a knife. Rest of me… feels like I pulled every muscle in my body. Layin’ around’s only makin’ it worse.”

“Doc said it’d be that way for a while,” Arthur hums. “Took a mighty tumble.” He reaches out, runs his fingers through John’s hair, soft from the bath he’d had the night before.

“Would’a been worse if you hadn’t been standin’ there to break the fall,” John murmurs with a hint of amusement, though his eyes stay shut. “Couldn’t sit up on that couch no more.”

“M’sorry. Shouldn’t’a left you there for that long.”

“My legs work, don’t they?” John scoffs tiredly.

They’ve been in the apartment for just under two days, and John can theoretically walk, though it’s more of a shamble with his twisted ankle and bruised-up body. Arthur secretly can’t stand to see him wince at every move he makes so he’s always there to deposit himself under one of John’s arms to ease some of the strain.

He’s been up half the night with the pain from his shoulder, and he’s lightheaded whenever he rises to stand.

Arthur had reported all this to the doctor when he’d stepped out that morning. Dr. Barnes said that sounded about right. In the meantime, he’s given Arthur a list of iron-rich foods to buy— some of which now sit in the bags on the counter— and a rudimentary lesson on blood pressure and elevation changes.

“Barnes said he could give you somethin’ more for the pain if you need,” Arthur tells him, twirling a strand of his dark hair around his finger.

John frowns, opening an eye to look at him.

“Thought I could do without. Don’t wanna get started on nothin’ I don’t have to…” He huffs out a breath he may have been holding. “Been thinkin’ about my Pa… he were a lot like Swanson. What if I am, too?”

Arthur cups a hand to John’s cheek. “I’d help you. Wouldn’t let you catch a bad habit.”

“Ain’t sure it’s up to either of us.”

“Still,” Arthur says as John’s eyes squeeze closed for a moment. “You gotta be able to get some sleep… How about a bath?”

“Bathed last night.”

“I know. But for your muscles. No rule sayin’ you can’t just take one. Heat might help.”

John agrees, carefully rolling onto his back and wriggling his way to the edge of the bed. He slings an arm around Arthur, lets himself be lifted with a groan as he goes and they stagger out to the small washroom.

Arthur runs the tap and the pipes on the wall rattle to life. They watch as the tub fills, already steaming hot from a heater that lives somewhere else.

John grins, running a hand along the surface of the clean water. “Comforts of the modern era.”

“Guess it ain’t all bad,” Arthur says. “Speakin’ of bad… got some news for you.”

“Great,” John sighs, but then they both go quiet as Arthur reaches out, fingers tucking down into the front of John’s jeans. He undoes the top two buttons, and John can do that just fine on his own but he lets him, watching his hands intently. Arthur enjoys the rough feeling of the wiry hair below his naval before pushing John’s jeans down his hips, careful to avoid his soft prick and balls.

He gets a quick look at him and a twinge of lust in his gut for the trouble that will never stop feeling new and exciting. He puts that all on the shelf for now though as he helps John step out of his jeans and into the tub.

John hisses as his nethers submerge under the hot water, but relaxes into the sloped back of the tub, head resting along the edge.

Arthur shuts the water off as it rises up John’s chest. They’ve been leaving his wound uncovered in the day now that it’s stopped oozing, but Arthur will rewrap it before they go to bed each night for the next week, at least.

“Keep that outta the water,” Arthur says, and John sighs heavily.

“I know. Now, what’s the bad news?”

Arthur steps out of the bathroom and retrieves the newspaper. He drags a stool from the kitchen counter with him to the washroom to perch upon as he unrolls the paper and holds it up for John to see.

John stares, blinks. “Shit,” he groans, rubbing his good hand down his face. “That who I think it is?”

“Our friend in the blue coat. Says here his ‘slaying’ is an ongoing murder investigation. Entire state’s involved.” Arthur turns the paper around to scan down through the article.

“Who the hell was he that he gets on the front page?” John mutters, letting himself sink down an inch more into the water.

“Says here his name’s Daniel King. He’s an up-and-comin’ politician, looks like. Runnin’ for governor of Lemoyne. Says he likely had plans of tryin’ to get up to Washington, eventually.”

“Governor?” John rolls his eyes. “He may as well have been a Raider, how friendly he were with ‘em. You think everyone in Rhodes just turns a blind eye to that?”

“Town that small… Who knows.”

John frowns. “Maybe the entire state of Lemoyne wouldn’t even care. Maybe it’d get him elected faster.” He spits.

“Hey now,” Arthur murmurs. “There’s some good folk here, too. Look around us. Entire block is immigrants. I’m sure they don’t got no love for him or them Raiders.”

“S’pose you’re right.”

Arthur thinks for a long moment, looking back at the photograph. “That knife you got off him got the name D. Wofford on it, don’t it?”

John’s gaze narrows. “You think he’s got two names?”

“Could be. Maybe it ain’t hard to change your name if you got the right connections. And Daniel King seems like he has all the connections you could want in the state of Lemoyne.”

“Daniel King and D. Wofford…” John hums, letting his eyes fall shut. “Wish we could change our names.”

“Speaking of— they got descriptions of his killer and killer’s accomplice.” Arthur taps the paper.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Says, ‘King’s killer was a menacing man between five feet ten inches and six feet. Untrimmed dark beard. Possible injury to the right side of his face. Dark hair and eyes.” Arthur rubs a hand over his beard, frown deepening.

“Well… Least they ain’t put my name to it.”

“They might,” Arthur says after a long pause. “They got your photograph in Sisika, didn’t they? All it’ll take is one overzealous officer in the Saint Denis police department lookin’ back through old cases. One trip out to Rhodes to verify it.”

John stares down at his feet below the water’s surface.

Arthur continues reading. “‘His associate was between six feet and six feet three inches. He had blue eyes, dark blonde hair, and a short beard. The bartender of Rhodes Parlour House, where King was staying for a weekend away, told deputies that the men sounded like they were from out of town. They were decent and sociable enough until a fight broke out suddenly and without warning. The dark-haired man then brutally stabbed King with a hunting knife five times, slitting his throat in front of a crowd of onlookers. The Rhodes Sheriff’s Department has yet to determine a motive for this senseless killing. The two criminals are still at large, and considered to be extremely violent and dangerous.” Arthur finishes blandly. “It don’t even mention the Raiders. Figures.” He scoffs.

“No motive? Fight broke out ‘suddenly and without warning’? Were we at the same saloon? Whole crowd of people saw the same thing— they was the ones who came after us! Goin’ on about their goddamn rights.”

“Just press. They don’t wanna paint him in a bad light. He had a lot of supporters.” Arthur murmurs.

“M’sorry, Arthur,” John says thickly, and Arthur’s mouth quirks down in confusion. “When they figure out who it were who killed him… they might well find out you was the one with me.”

Remorse has doused John’s anger, his face twisted up as he stares at the back wall.

“John,” Arthur says, easing to his knees as he tosses the paper away into the corner. He sidles up to the side of the tub to lean on it. “No tellin' who they’ll think it were. Nothin’ to worry about just yet.”

“I just—“ John grits his, hand coming up to clutch at his shoulder, just shy of the wound. He squeezes. “What if that’s it? That one mistake is what gets us caught. They’ll know you’re alive, and me… they’ll never stop huntin' us down if we pop back up now.” He looks sick to his stomach.

John’s deep-seated anxiety does his healing no favors, and Arthur wishes he could take it from him. “However it turns out, we’ll be alright.”

“Maybe.”

“Here,” Arthur says, corner of his mouth quirking up. “You still hurtin’? I know what’ll get your mind off things.”

“Thanks but… I don’t think I got enough blood to go to my brain and my dick.”

Arthur’s eyes nearly roll out of his head. “I ain’t talkin’ about that you goddamn horn-dog,” he snaps, reaching across John to the ledge on the opposite wall. He pulls a bar of soap and a clean rag down, sudsing them both under the water.

“You don’t have to,” John murmurs, though he watches Arthur’s hands with an almost yearning. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to stop him.

“Ain’t no problem,” Arthur says, rubbing the soapy cloth over the back of John’s neck first. “You only got one good arm, after all.”

John gives in, sitting up and curling gently over his knees so Arthur can rub down the back of his shoulders and spine. He lets his eyes fall shut as the steam of the water rises into his face, turning his ears and nose pink.

After he’s gotten his back, Arthur slides the rag around the front of him to work along his abdomen.

“Alright, that’s enough,” John says, sitting up and reaching for the cloth.

Arthur clicks his tongue playfully, holding the rag out of reach, a teasing little smirk on his mouth. “Just enjoy the attention, Marston. I ain’t gonna show it to you all the time.” And whether that’s true or not isn’t the point.

John eases back into the tub with a defeated little puff.

Arthur works the cloth over his chest, sure to avoid sensitive nipples lest he give John’s body the wrong idea. John lets his eyes slip closed as Arthur drags the rag back down towards his hips.

“Feels nice, don’t it?” Arthur asks as he rubs over John’s sides.

“Sure. You’re a regular old bath maiden.” John says. “You ever gotten scrubbed down by one of them ladies?”

“Once or twice…” Arthur says sheepishly. “‘Till I figured out what they was really there for. I mostly just talked their ears off.”

“Only you, Morgan,” John chuckles tiredly.

Arthur works down John’s thighs, careful to avoid his groin. He massages his calves one by one. Runs circles over his ankles, going lighter over the one that's still slightly swollen from the fall. John shivers as he digs his thumbs into the arches of each foot, works the rag between his toes.

When Arthur glances up, John watches him with red cheeks and a hint of embarrassment, but no small amount of affection.

“Sit up.” Arthur instructs, moving behind the tub. John does, curling over his knees again, and Arthur works soapy fingers through his hair, lathering and massaging his scalp. John shudders once more as Arthur massages either side of his neck with his index and thumb.

“How come you’re bein’ so good to me?” John asks, barely a whisper.

Arthur grins at the back of John’s head. “What’chu want me to do, hm? Smack you upside the head and call you an idiot?”

“Well… not really.”

“That’ll cost extra,” Arthur says and draws an unexpected guffaw from John.

The water doesn’t turn much of any color at all for the fact that John’s been keeping cleaner than he’s ever had the privilege to. Nice to have a tub, Arthur concludes.

“I’ll see the doc again for somethin’ for the pain if you’ll let me.” Arthur says as he helps John out of the tub.

“Okay.”

John leans heavily into him as he rubs him down with a towel and squeezes the water from his hair. Then Arthur eases him back to the bedroom. They don’t bother with new pants. Arthur can tell by his sleepy expression that John will want to lie down for a while.

The sun has warmed the sheets, and they may need to crack a window in a few hours to let the heat out, but for now, it’s comfortable.

When John’s situated on the bed, he looks a touch more relaxed, languid as he arranges himself amongst the pillows. He reaches for Arthur’s hand before he can go back to the other room.

“Would you lay with me a while?” He asks, voice muffled by a pillow.

He makes a fetching sight stretched out on top of the covers, skin all on display, pale fading into buckskin tan, scarred and nicked and furred thickly in some places. Prettiest lashes and eyes Arthur can remember seeing, but maybe that’s just the thick haze of fondness taking over his feeble mind.

Arthur swallows around a lump in his throat and nods. He tugs his shirt off and unbuckles his suspenders, climbing in and tucking himself up behind John. John sighs as he presses back into Arthur’s chest, skin to bath-warmed skin.

John’s neck still smells very much like him despite the soap.

“I’ll wake you for lunch,” Arthur tells him quietly as he noses along the top of his spine and back behind his ear.

“Okay,” John murmurs.

Despite a whirlwind of problems out there, Arthur basks in a few single moments of peace and calm here in bed. A quiet space all their own. No one in the next room waiting on them.

Somewhere far off a train sounds its horn. Someone down the block plays a trumpet low and smooth and it penetrates the apartment only enough to be soothing.

Arthur’s eyes slip shut.

*

“Dear Jim,” John reads aloud once they're done with lunch. He holds Abigail’s letter, creased in thirds after he spreads it open. Arthur leans into him on the couch where they sit to read along. The letter is written in Samuel’s simple hand.

Your last letter was confusing and alarming to me. I do not understand what you mean. I do not dare to hope you mean what I think. I also hope you are mentally sound. Please explain.

If you mean what I think, send more drawings.

Abigail tells them of things happening at Brighthaven, plans for building expansion, and plans for livestock expansion. Another step closer to becoming a train stop. Samuel's brothers came to visit, and they treated her and Jack very well. She asks what business they could possibly have in Lemoyne and warns them to stay out of trouble.

All my love,

A.R.

“This Samuel feller… you approve of him?” Arthur asks, leaning back into the couch cushions.

“Sure,” John says with a half shrug. He eases himself to lean against the arm Arthur has stretched out behind him. “He’s one of them fellers who go back to the store to return extra change the clerk gave ‘im on accident.”

“Ah."

“He reminds me of you a bit,” John says, mouth quirked.

“How so?”

“Givin’ the horses sugar cubes when the foreman ain’t lookin’. Stoppin’ to pat the dogs on their heads. He’d been teachin’ Abigail how to read better than I ever could.” John sighs wistfully through his nose. “I’m surprised Abigail went for him. Thought she liked the damaged sorts.” John laughs. “He’s one of them one outta a hundred fellers. He ain’t even go to the saloons anymore. His daddy drunk himself to death, so I heard.”

Arthur watches the line of his throat bob as he swallows. He wants to lean forward, let the tip of his tongue trace over his Adam's apple. Instead, he pulls his arm from under John’s head gently and gets up. John watches him half-lidded as he fetches his journal from the bedroom.

“We’ll write her back. Maybe she’ll recognize my handwriting.” Arthur says. “What’chu wanna say?’’

“Dear, sweetest, Abigail,” John says facetiously, and though he’s teasing, Arthur writes it down anyway.

_______________________

Arthur is ten, and he’s just watched his father hit his mother at the end of a fight.

When it’d happened, she’d met Arthur’s eye and looked ashamed, and then she’d screamed at her husband to get out and leave them alone for the night.

Arthur’s father had left, and Arthur knew that he’d be down at the saloon until the early hours, getting drunker. He may even get into a fight.

If they’re lucky, maybe he won’t come home at all.

But for now, they’re safe, he and his mother in their little house. He's sat at the kitchen table with a catalog from the general store that neither he nor his mother can read, but she lets him look at the pictures all he wants. He uses a pencil to doodle on an old envelope from a piece of mail they’d gotten from the bank, a letter that only his father can make any sense of. Arthur likes to copy the drawings from the catalog, try to make his own look as close to them as he can.

It’s something he’ll hide away when he hears his father coming through the door. By now, Arthur understands what he means by the names he calls him. Drawing, apparently, is another sign of Arthur’s inferiority. His mother assures him that it’s only that his father doesn't have an artistic bone in his body and is jealous.

His mother stands at the stove, glancing over at him periodically, a crease between her brow.

“Momma,” he says, when she looks at him for the fifth time. “I don’t gotta go to school no more. If it upsets Daddy so much.”

It’s what the fight had been about. Arthur’s father insists that he doesn’t need schooling anymore if he’s dumb as bricks and only going to work with his hands anyway. His father tells his mother that he ought to start doing jobs now to earn his keep. He insists upon this so firmly that he and his mother had gotten into an argument over it.

Arthur worries his hands together as he watches the side of her face shift from anger to sadness, back to anger. He doesn’t worry that she’ll yell or hit him— his mother doesn’t do that, would never. His father is the one who can’t use words. And she’s not angry at him, anyway.

She wipes tears from her cheeks with her tea towel, tosses it down onto the counter, and turns to him fully. He can see the bruise already forming on her cheekbone. It’ll probably blue up her eye come morning, but she doesn’t seem fazed a bit.

“But you should, baby. You go to school, and you learn, and you get smarter. And you leave this place and go somewhere better.” She tells him, voice hard around the edges. “You’re already so smart, Arthur. No matter what that man says. You could do whatever you wanted.”

“I don’t want to leave, though,” he says, his voice small. “I’ll stay right here with you.” He tries to smile, but she doesn’t smile back. Her frown only deepens, as if he’s broken her heart.

“You make me so happy,” she says, her shoulders dropping. “You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever seen. Don’t you ever let anyone change that.” She tells him sternly. “Not me, or the teacher, and especially not your father. You stay sweet. Someday, you’re gonna make a girl real happy.”

Arthur chews on the inside of his lip. He doesn’t know much about women or romance, or the want of it. His mother tells him it’s only that he’s young, and someday soon, he’ll understand better.

“You’ll get married to a smart girl and you’ll be real happy.” She says pointedly as if by saying it, she might be able to will it into existence.

Arthur doesn’t like the idea of marriage. His parents are married and he can’t see the appeal.

“Momma… If I get married, am I gonna turn out like him?” He asks quietly. “This ain’t what it’s supposed to be like… is it?” He hates to ask it, doesn’t want to insult her.

His mother stares at him for a long time, her bottom lip between her teeth. He nearly apologizes, but finally, she rests her wooden stew spoon over the pot on the stove.

“Listen,” she says, approaching him. She stoops in front of him, taking his hands in hers. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’ because I think you’re old enough to understand. Don’t breathe a word of it to your father, though.” She says out of habit. He nods solemnly, because this is something he understands completely, has been since he could think strings of thoughts together; it’s he and his mother, a united front in the face of the man that lives in their house.

“You should know this, and never forget it.”

He waits.

“Your father and I… we ain’t in love. Maybe we was, once… I ain’t sure, no more. But this—“ she points at her cheek, red and turning purple under her skin, trailing into the outer socket of her eye. “This ain’t love. And the only reason we’re here is because your grandaddy and me-maw passed a long time ago. And we don’t got no other family, or money. And…” She sniffs, rubbing the back of her long-fingered hand across her eyes as she resists crying. “And I’m tryin’ to work up some extra, in town. I’m trying Arthur, because…” She sighs, mouth shutting.

Arthur understands in his own way that the only reason they're here is because his father hasn’t laid a hand on him. He knows instinctually that if that were to happen, it wouldn’t matter how much money they had saved up— his mother would take him and run.

He thinks his father knows this, too, that that's what’s held him back when he looks at Arthur with malice.

Arthur wishes that she cared for herself as much as she does him. Sometimes, he wishes his father would give him a shiner just to give her the strength to walk out the door.

“I could try, too,” he says. “Sometimes the general needs things delivered. We could put our money together.” He likes the idea of getting on a coach with her, going someplace new, without his father.

She reaches up, petting her hand over his cheek.

“Maybe. We’ll see. Want you to promise me somethin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” He’d promise her anything to see her smiling again.

“You’ll fall in love, someday. And when you do, you never ever treat her how your father treats me.”

Arthur couldn’t imagine treating anyone the way his father treats her. Especially not someone he loves.

“This ain’t love. Love is…” Her mouth twists up as she thinks. “Love is when you care for someone over yourself. When you want them to be happy and healthy. You make sure they always feel loved. That they’re always safe.”

He wants her to be happy and healthy, and he wants his father to disappear forever.

“I promise,” Arthur tells her.

_____________________________________

Arthur wakes in the morning perturbed. A dream about his mother leaves his mouth tasting like ash. It’s one of the last memories he has of her. His promise to her feels weighty in his mind.

All of their worldly problems also come creeping up. A murder investigation and the potential pinning of it on John. Arthur begins to wonder if coming down this way to find treasure had been a mistake. It wouldn’t be worth it if the law catches up to either of them. He’d rather they have stayed in the mountains.

He’s sure that John would swing for Daniel King’s murder. Arthur might too, or worse, he could be put away for the rest of his life to live with the grief.

He rolls over to watch John sleep a while, barely light enough to make out the curve of his cheek and lashes. His breathing carries fragments of his voice on the exhale, little sounds he makes in his sleep. Arthur imagines kissing him awake for a moment.

His beard had been shaved away the day before by Arthur, too hot for the Lemoyne heat as long as it had been. Trimming to a centimeter had just made his scars all the more noticeable, lines cutting white valleys into a black desert.

“Just take it all off,” John had sighed with a tired wave of his hand. And at least his scars have faded enough to blend with the color of his skin from a distance. Up close is another story.

John had asked if he should take some of his hair off, too, and Arthur had frowned, ran his fingers through it, and told him, no, not if he didn’t want to because lots of men have long hair and it looks good on him besides. It’s taken years for John to grow it out this much and a selfish part of Arthur wants him to keep it that way, though he’d never say.

John has a touch of morphine in him, just enough to help ease his sleep. The doctor had come by the night before to administer it himself. John had finally slept the night, aside from flopping onto his back at one point. Arthur hates to wake him now.

John’s sound enough in his sleep for Arthur to rise slowly from the bed and pad across the floor to collect his clothes and boots and shut the bedroom door behind him. He dresses in the dim twilight in the next room.

He leaves a note on a torn sheet from one of their journals that reads “Running errands. Be back in a little while. Eat the liver in the ice box, if you can. It’s good for you.”

He leaves it on the kitchen counter and collects his sidearm and belt and bag. He locks up behind himself and feels more at ease with John tucked away inside.

If he can’t distract himself with John, he can at least take a walk to fend off old memories.

The blue morning bathes the corridor in cool hues and long shadows. The kerosene lamps along the paths that someone lights each night have burned out by now, leaving him plenty of cover to slip away unnoticed.

Out on the street, he breathes in the only cool air the day will get and thinks about which way to go. He heads south, come to stand in front of the largest Church he’s ever seen— the Church of the Holy Blessed Virgin. It sits at an odd angle on its lot like it’d been one of the first things built once upon a time before they had to plan the rest of the town and city around it. A cornerstone to usher in the rest of civilization.

He can remember days of distant past, meeting the Sister here to return her crucifix. He wishes suddenly that he could speak to her again, a wise woman who might know what to say to him to get him feeling better.

Instead, he walks through the church grounds and tries to think of what she might say if she were here, or even what his mother might say. This leads into what Dutch might say, and then into what Hosea might say.

He pauses on the east side of the churchyard, a sudden idea blooming to life in his mind. He stands staring blankly at the sky growing lighter above the buildings, wishing he could smoke to have something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“What do you want, Mister Morgan?” Sister Calderon asks in his head. He likes to think that she’d want to know what’s come to be important to him, now; what he’s figured out with his second chance.

He wants to protect the man asleep in his bed. He knows that much without having to think about it.

“You take care of yours however you have to,” Hosea tells him in some long ago memory.

But the enemy isn’t in front of Arthur to use his fists or his gun on. The enemy is vast and nebulous, crawls the city and the countryside slowly but surely. There’s nothing to strike at that won’t then draw attention down on them.

“If you can’t use your gun, you use your wit.” Hosea reminds him. But wit had always been Hosea’s strength.

Arthur closes his eyes and tries to sort the cards out in his mind.

The most pressing threat to them at the moment sits somewhere in this city, tucked away in a dusty filing cabinet.

Arthur opens his eyes and starts down the street heading east for the open-air market, the only place he knows of to start his search for the things he needs. If he can make it that far into this half-baked plan, maybe there’s a chance to follow through on it and take some worthwhile action.

Men and women alike greet him along the way, much friendlier in the city than those he’d meet out on the country roads. They’re out for morning strolls or heading down to their honest jobs at the docks and stations. Arthur finds he likes the people he finds here in the city, only that there are too many of them packed into one place. He wonders what they’d think about him if they knew what sort of scheme he’s concocting in his head. He has to think that some of them might understand.

The market is only just starting to buzz to life. Farmers from the outskirts of town setting up the produce they’ve carted there into neat stacks and rows. Carpenters displaying their woodwork. Arthur says hello to an old Chinese man setting out pottery and sachets of tea, and then slips into a covered shopfront.

The fence is open for business. Arthur can hear the tail-end of a yawn as he comes through the shop door.

“Let me know if I can find you anything,” the man says gruffly, taking a sip of something. Arthur makes his way through a maze of odds and ends, lamps from faraway countries, and old biscuit tins. To the untrained eye, it looks like any other old thrift shop. He comes to a standstill in front of the counter. “Can I help you?” The man asks, looking him once over.

“Hope so. You got any old uniforms on hand?”

“What sort? Union, confederate?”

“Police. Saint Denis police.”

“Ah.” The man sucks on his teeth pensively. “I see. Had one. Sold it not even a week ago. And it was the first one to come through in a long while.”

Someone outside shouts jubilantly from below the windows, drunk sounding. Last night's crowd still at it even this far into the day.

“When do you usually… get that sort of thing in?” Arthur questions carefully.

“Well. When they’re donated. When an officer passes. Or… goes missing… the uniform may find its way here.” The man says with a shrug. “Hard to say when I’ll have another.”

The shouting out back turns into jeering, and the fence scoffs and peeks through the blinds next to his counter down onto the street below.

“Degenerates,” he spits. Arthur takes a glance through the blinds and sees a crowd of men gathered down on a side street.

“What’s happenin’?”

“Street boxing. Bets. Still going from last night, I’m sure.” The fence shakes his head, then looks at Arthur with consideration. “You should go look into it yourself. You look the sort. And…” He lets the blinds slip closed. “One of them’s who I sold my last uniform to.”

Arthur’s brows raise, and he goes to the window himself to take another long, careful look at the street below.

*

John rolls over when a beam of sun shines into his eyes. He reaches out to feel for Arthur but that side of the bed has gone cold. He frowns, cracks his eyes open, squinting against the sun, and looks around the room. He’s alone.

A slow test of his body tells him that the morphine is still doing some work. The sharp pain in his shoulder has dulled down into a distant ache that’s easier to ignore.

“Arthur?” He calls, then waits and listens. No one answers or moves in the room beyond. John figures that the other has gone out on one of his morning errands.

A bit disappointing, considering that John’s feeling better for the moment. He’d have liked to kiss him, maybe convince him to get some hot and heavy petting going.

He’s pleased enough in his sleepy state to turn onto his belly and hug a pillow to him, settle back down into the comfortable bedding to get another hour of shut eye.

He’d probably wake when Arthur came back, anyway.

*

The street boxing circle is a group of nearly two dozen men still smelling stale and drunk from the night previous. Arthur looks around at their faces, trying to determine which one might be in charge. The one in charge, the fence had said, is the one who’d bought the last police uniform he’d had stashed away.

Sounds of fists connecting with flesh are nauseatingly familiar to him and he watches with some disdainful curiosity for a few minutes at the fight. Two men, drunk or high or both, go at each other with little skill other than pure force of anger.

Arthur looks around until his eyes land on a man with a book open in his palm and a little bowler hat on his head that makes his ears stick out. He speaks to another fighter, obscured by the hat, and Arthur figures that this is the bet arranger. A good a place to start as any.

As he takes a step for them, the sound of a heaved sigh arrests his ears. He stops dead, looking around the man with the book to the fighter, a dark shirtless man covered in muscle, chest slick with sweat and blood. His hair is long, down to the middle of his back, and tied back on top to keep out of a face of full, handsome features.

“Charles,” Arthur says plainly, and Charles’ head shoots up, eyes meeting his blank expression with one of his own.

Then Charles pushes past the arranger and right into Arthurs's space, taking his hand firmly, almost painfully, and pulling him into a hug.

“Ho-ly shit,” Arthur mutters against Charles’ sweaty shoulder.

“You’re alive,” Charles grins, stepping back to look at him.

“Still breathin’.” Arthur takes his hand again, shaking it firmly. “Christ, it’s good to see you,” he says, and he means it.

A few of the men on the outskirts of the crowd watch them curiously, and Arthur takes in Charles’ appearance. He’s got a bruise blooming out on his ribs and a bit of blood streaked across his chest though it doesn’t look like his own.

“Where’s your shirt?”

“Was about to throw a fight,” Charles says, almost sheepish.

“Look like you already lost one.” Arthur frowns.

“I’m only on round two.”

“Jesus. The hell you doin’ that for?” Arthur asks.

“Need a few extra bucks.” Charles shrugs, looking away. “Tryin’ to work up the money to head north. Sort of slow going around here, for fellas look like me.”

Arthur folds his arms across his chest. “Where you goin’ north?”

“Annesburg, for a start. Think I’m goin’ through Montana, maybe all the way to Canada.” There’s more conversation to be had about that, but Charles turns a questioning eye on him. “What are you doing in Saint Denis?”

“It’s… a long story. Far too long to explain right now— but I wonder if you’d be able to help me with somethin’.” He says.

“What is it?” Charles asks. After all this time, he still has that way about him that puts Arthur at ease, makes him feel like he’s not the only one trying to make something work.

“I came this way lookin’ for a police uniform. Fence said he sold his last one to one of the fellers workin’ this outfit.” He motions around the street.

“Uniform? What d’you need that for?”

“Well… for what you might think. Need to get in good with the ranks for a few minutes.” Arthur says.

“Sniffing out information or…”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“You’re playing with fire, Arthur,” Charles says slowly, bringing him away from the crowd for a moment. “Guido Martelli has the police chief in his back pocket.”

Arthur scoffs. “Who the hell’s Martelli?”

“Mob. Was Angelo Bronte’s right-hand man until his, well, untimely demise. He runs the show now.” Charles' brow lowers. “You get caught up in that pretending to be an officer, they’ll take you in and you’ll never come out. Especially once they realize who you are.”

“That’s a real shame, considering the department were the next place I’s headin’.” Arthur sighs, rubbing a hand across his beard.

“Jesus Christ,” Charles drops his head, eyes shutting. “Is it worth it?”

Arthur's mouth presses into a thin line. “To me… it just might be,” he says regrettably.

“I guess I’ll have to help you, then.”

*

John finds Arthur’s note on the counter when he hobbles into the main room.

He blows out a puff of air, hair fanning out in front of him for a moment as he leans against the counter. He wonders how many things Arthur has to do, how long he might be. If John should wait for him to have breakfast or if Arthur might bring something sweet back for him to have with coffee.

He ends up slipping into a loose shirt, doing up only one side of his suspenders to keep from rubbing on his shoulder. He makes coffee over the stove and brings a mug of it outside to sit at one of the wrought iron tables on the patio where the sun passes through. It’s still cool enough to be comfortable, though there’s a layer of humid dew over everything and the air never stops being damp.

He wipes one of his sleeves along the lattice pattern of the table pushing droplets off and soaking up the rest. He pulls a deck of cards out and prepares to play a pathetic game of solitaire while he waits. He leans onto his elbows and begins to shuffle.

*

It turns out that the arranger-of-bets is something of a conman, himself.

Charles tells Arthur about their gig, something he’d found out on his own and gets a cut of, sometimes. The police uniform isn’t for the arranger, but rather for an associate who waits nearby as bets are being placed and the crowd is warming up.

After collecting all the money, in the middle of the final fight, the associate comes dressed as an officer to break up the ring, drawing his gun if he has to. He’ll take the arranger and ringmaster in, scare off the rest of the crowd, and when they’ve gotten far enough away, they’ll split the bets between the three of them.

They don’t do it so often and it doesn’t always pan out the way they want, depending on what part of the city they do it in.

“Might happen today,” Charles tells him. “Nice crowd, most real tired. Keep your eye out.”

Arthur stands back and watches as the fights carry on and the sun keeps climbing. Charles is preparing to step back into the circle when he catches Arthur’s eye with a little whistle. He tilts his head the way of an alley on the other side of the crowd, and Arthur heads for it, hand hot for his gun.

He takes the alley slowly, and at first, he doesn’t see anyone.

As he passes a deep doorway, he spots a little sliver of blue coat, and then the rest of the man leaned up in the shade, cigarette between his fingers. He has a handlebar across his mouth and looks too rough and ruddy in the face to be real law.

“Officer,” Arthur says, pausing to nod at him.

“Mornin,” the man says in a long, gruff drawl, not bothering to look up at him. Arthur knows he’s found his man.

*

Someone sits down across from John on his second game of solitaire and he looks up rigidly.

He knows he should be thinking more about staying hidden and keeping a low profile. Even in a low-traffic corridor like this, they’re still at risk. He’d only wanted some sun and air. He hates being holed up for so long.

A woman sits across from him, a pleasant, unassuming smile on her face. She’s got deep, mahogany skin and dark curly hair that frames her face. She’s dressed in a pale, loose button-down, and when John glances, he sees that instead of skirts, she’s in a pair of slack trousers.

“Uh… Mornin’, ma’am.” He says with a nod to her. If he had a hat, he’d tip it.

“Buenos Dias.” She grins at him. “Do you play poker, cowboy?” She asks in a thick Spanish accent.

John blinks.

“Do I? Yes.” A grin spreads across his face.

“Let’s play.”

“Alright, then,” John says, feeling a little giddy in his chest. “I’m Joh— Er, Jim. Well, John’s fine.” Someone ought to gag him, he thinks.

“Elena,” she touches her fine fingers to her collar and watches as John begins gathering the cards back up into a pile. “I was beginning to wonder if your big friend was keeping you prisoner.” She laughs.

“Oh,” John feels his face flush. “I’m recoverin’. From an injury. He’s been helpin’ nurse me back to health.”

“What is your injury?” She asks, pointing to his shoulder. He wonders if she’d seen them moving in that first evening.

“Lead up… by Raiders.” He sits back, shuffling the cards in his hands.

“Ah.” She nods. “I see. Enemy of them, friend of mine. Deal out.”

Not a bad morning, after all, John thinks.

*

Arthur dons the police uniform himself when he comes out the mouth of the alley. The man he'd got it off of sits in the shaded doorway trussed up and gagged, waiting for someone to come along.

Charles is in the circle and takes a hit to the jaw when he catches a glimpse of him.

“Alright!” Arthur says brusquely. He places his hand on his revolver in its holster and holds up a white-gloved hand. The hat’s chin strap digs into his skin, but he ignores the pinch. “Break it up, fellers!” He says, loud and commanding.

The crowd of men grumble and groan, a few throwing sneers in Arthur’s direction, but a look at his hand on his pistol is enough to get them dispersing.

“You,” Arthur says, pointing at the bet holder as he’s trying to skirt away. “Let’s see all the illegal money you got tucked away.”

“B-But—“ The man stammers, face falling.

“I don’t wanna hear it. Unless you’re keen on takin’ a trip down to the station yourself.” Arthur warns, reaching behind himself for cuffs he doesn’t have.

“Alright, alright.” The man sighs resignedly, pulling a thick wad of bills from his pocket. A few coins fall, rolling away, but Arthur doesn’t pay them any mind.

“May I at least keep my book?”

Arthur eyes him warily, mouth twisting in faux consideration. “I’m feelin’ generous,” he says and dismisses the man with a wave of his hand. He pockets the money given to him with a raised brow. “This’ll go right into improved roads, I’m sure.”

He keeps his hand on his gun as he leaves the side street, checking over his shoulder periodically for angry bet placers come to seize their earnings.

Charles finds him a few blocks away, a beaming grin spread on his face.

“That was… extremely satisfying,” Charles admits when they’re tucked away from prying eyes.

“Nothin’ like turnin’ a con back onto its artist,” Arthur says with a grin as he divvies out the money between them. “That oughta be enough for a boat ticket. And to get you further along.”

“Thanks. Really.” Charles says, eyes bright as he pockets the money. “Nothin’ more degrading than throwing fights.” He sighs. “Now. How can I help you, old friend?”

“Ah…” Arthur hesitates. “Think you’ve helped me enough. Don’t want you gettin’ caught up if my luck turns sour. I ain’t even sure what exactly I’m plannin’. Makin’ it up as I go.

“Well, start by explaining to me why you’re trying to get into the station. Then… maybe we put our heads together.”

*

“Ready to lose again?” Elena asks John as he deals out another hand.

There’s a bead of sweat on his brow that has nothing to do with the heat.

The few dollars that he’s wagered sit in the middle of the table under Elena’s control after she’d won them from him the last three rounds. It won’t be the end of the world should he lose them, but John feels like he has something to prove, now.

When he loses once more, he admits that she might have him beaten this time, but it’s only because he’s rusty. And injured.

“Maybe we play again,” she grins at him, taking her earnings. “I’ll wager this at the table tonight. In the saloon.”

“Oh, this were just practice, were it?” John grins, sitting back against the seat. He’s been bested, but he can’t say he minds so much at the thought of Elena swindling a load of men around a proper poker table with her disarming smile and discerning eye.

“Si. You take care, cowboy.”

She leaves him there, and though he’s a few dollars short, he feels lighter in spirit as he makes his way inside to escape the heat of the day.

He fishes his own pocket watch out of his bag and sees that it’s nearly lunchtime. He frowns, wonders what’s keeping Arthur. Maybe he’d stopped for a meal himself, enjoying commodities that they aren’t used to when roughing it out in the country. Or maybe he’s somewhere in a bookstore losing track of time. Maybe he’s sitting in a park, enjoying the day. Without him.

John sighs mournfully, feeling like a character out of one of Mary-Beth’s books. He opens up the ice box, poking around for something to eat. He avoids the liver for now, the idea of it making him sick, and goes for some beef cuts he’ll sear in a pan and some leftover vegetables that Arthur had cooked for them the night before.

When he’s done heating the pan and cooking the meat and sitting and serving himself lunch, Arthur still isn’t back yet.

He hobbles to the bedroom to retrieve a few pillows and then sets himself up on the couch with the copy of Dracula open in his lap.

A little pit begins to grow and widen in his stomach the longer he waits. He begins to think about the statewide manhunt for them and whether someone might be able to recognize Arthur if they’d been in the Rhodes Parlour House last week and saw him out on the street.

“Paranoid, Marston,” he mutters to himself, forcing his eyes down onto the open page.

But he doesn’t think that Arthur would just leave. Not now.

Which means that something might be wrong.

Chapter Text

Twelve

“You realize we’re crazy?” Charles asks from where they crouch behind a stack of shipping pallets. Arthur peeks around the rough edge of them, eyes on the front door of the Saint Denis Police Department. An officer meanders out, sleepy and subdued-looking, and makes his way down the road in the opposite direction.

“C’mon,” Arthur says with a shrug. “We get in, we act the part, we get out. We’re just a couple of cops and robbers.”

“We’re about to infiltrate a police station. You’re treating it like a day excursion.”

The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost to Arthur. The whole thing feels frighteningly familiar, is all.

Especially in those early days, running with Dutch and Hosea had felt like living in a fairytale. Maybe that’d been down to Arthur’s youth, or perhaps the way that those men could spin magic into anything they did. It had seemed to Arthur that anything really could happen. Like breaking into a police station or a bank really was just as simple as walking into a feed store and chatting up the clerk.

You could put any situation at ease with a bit of charm.

What Charles and Arthur lack in charm, they make up for in size. Arthur figures that they can use that to their advantage.

Charles rolls his shoulders slowly. “That south window showed only a few officers in the holding room. Look low on the chain— if looks are anything to go by.”

“Alright,” Arthur says, rubbing nervous hands across his black police trousers. He adjusts his cap and chin strap. “Get your mean face on… and get ready to throw one last fight.”

When the three officers stationed at their desks have to explain to their superiors later on why there’s so much blood on one of the holding cell floors, Arthur hopes that he becomes something of a legend with the department higher ups.

One sunny afternoon that three fresh faces had been left to hold down the fort. The same afternoon that a big, burly-looking police officer had wrestled in another of the biggest men any of the rookies had ever seen.

He hopes that they tell their superior that it’s lucky, in fact, that an officer of Arthur’s stature was the one to bring this formidable foe in because no one else on the force would’ve been strong enough.

When the two of them burst through the front doors of the station, no one is looking very closely at Arthur. No, all of their attention is on Charles, on the sheen of sweat on his skin, the dirt and grunge in his hair, the blood streaked across his chest, and the way he shouts and struggles like a mad man.

“Get one of them cells open!” Arthur shouts, orders, and he doesn’t need to ask twice.

One of the officers hops to, a cell door squealing as it’s flung open, shoes scuffing the floors as the other two try to help wrestle Charles. Arthur has no doubt that if he himself let go, and Charles were so inclined, he’d have these two officers on the floor in a matter of moments.

Charles gives one particularly hard shove and his sweat-slicked arm slips from Arthur’s hold, an elbow coming back in a direct hit to his nose. Arthur shouts, blood spilling from his face and onto the floor like a spout. He does let go, then, and the young officers all panic, using every bit of their strength to wrangle Charles into the cell themselves.

“Christ,” Arthur curses, hand flying up to his nose to stop the flow. It hurts like hell, but he couldn’t ask for a better reason to excuse himself from the room. “Keep an eye on him, men!” Arthur commands, making his way for the back room. “And don’t get trigger happy, he’s wanted alive by the state of Lemoyne.”

One good thing, Arthur thinks, about these so-called ‘urban forces’ is their size and ambiguity, their ranks separated by departments and rooms sectioned off from each other.

Their plan wouldn’t fly in a small town, one-room sheriff's department. But here, if he puts on the right voice and the right walk, and presents himself as a superior, these city boys don’t put up much of a fuss. The assumption that he’s someone more important than them is practically a given.

He passes the cell door and the officer white-knuckling the bars as he stares at Charles in undisguised fear. The man never notices Arthur slipping his ring of keys from his belt.

Now, it’s down to time.

In the back hall, Arthur reaches for his shirt collar to pull his bandana free and stuffs it up both his nostrils to stop the flow of blood. His white gloves are ruined, so he pockets those and then looks around the hall for the room he needs.

Offices with investigators' names etched into plaques. The washroom. The medical supply.

“Ah-hah,” he mutters as he finds the file and evidence room at the end of the hallway.

He finds the correct key after a few tries and then he’s inside, faced with a room covered wall to wall in filing cabinets, rows of them filling up the middle in grey painted metal sprouting up from dark hardwood flooring.

He curses to himself as he flips a switch on the wall. Electricity buzzes overhead as light fills the room. The lightbulb flickers ominously as he begins to look across the labels on each cabinet.

When he finally finds the M’s, he flings open the first drawer and thumbs through the endless green hanging folders until his eyes land on ‘Marston.’ He pulls it free and flips it open.

John’s Sisika mug stares back at him, and Arthur is momentarily shocked by the difference in his face. Though he’s younger, his photograph looks rougher, wrinklier, scars decidedly darker with freshness, scowl meaner. But it’s him.

He closes the folder and tucks it away securely in his coat, then goes through the other drawers until he finds his own name.

There’s no photograph of him in his file, and the stack of papers is even thinner than John’s. He’s pleased to see that they’d never really had much on him in the first place.

He finds Charles’ last and then stands in the middle of the room staring at the clock ticking away on the far wall. A few more minutes until the group in the other room either starts getting too antsy with Charles’ shtick or starts to see through it. But he can think of a few other names he ought to collect on.

By the time he comes back out to the holding room, Charles is on a roll, pacing the length of the holding cell and eyeing up the three officers who stand warily around, all eyes on him. He hurls insults and abuse at the room of officers so convincingly— and so unlike Charles— that Arthur stops to watch him for a moment.

“You,” Charles hisses, pointing at Arthur. “You better watch your back, when I get out of here—“

“You broke my nose, you son of a bitch,” Arthur growls as he stalks toward the cell.

“Sir,” one of the other officers stammers. “I wouldn’t, he’s—“

“I think our new friend could use a lesson in respecting the law, don’t you?” Arthur turns to the others, face fallen stern and angry. “One of you gonna try to stop me?”

The three officers stare at him wide-eyed. Arthur has half a mind to chide them because it’s obvious that they aren’t going to stop him. He grumbles under his breath as he uses the keys to open up Charles’ cell.

Charles tenses, bracing, and Arthur grinds his teeth together as he hauls back and hits him in his stomach, his muscles squeezed together to take the impact. Charles goes sprawling, a bit more than he would were he fighting for real.

“Up with you,” Arthur mutters, grasping Charles by the shoulders and hauling him off the ground. He wrestles his arms behind him. “Out to the alley.”

An officer makes to follow them and Arthur levels him with a glare. “I don’t need any help where we’re goin’, son.”

The man swallows, brow furrowing up. “Y-yes sir.”

“Good, good,” Arthur hums, pushing Charles towards the door harshly. “This one’ll be wrapped up nice and tight with a bow for the prison stage at the end of the day.”

In the back alley, Arthur frees Charles quickly, eyes scanning around the razor-wired fence for the exit.

“Was some good acting, Mister Smith.” He finds the gate and begins sorting through his keys.

“You’re joking. That weren’t even really acting— I do hate them all in there. You on the other hand…” He gives Arthur a toothy grin. “Maybe you ought to consider a career on the stage.”

“Maybe I hit you a little too hard,” Arthur scoffs. He finds what looks to be the right key. “You alright?”

“Sure. Get worse in the ring. Can’t say I’m going to miss any of it. What about your nose? It really broken?”

“Naw,” Arthur shrugs, though he isn’t really sure. “It were broken before, so maybe you just realigned it for me.”

“You get what you went after?”

“That, and then some. Covered my tracks. Won’t even know I was in there.” The gate swings open and they both hustle through onto the next side street. “Most of them files were dusty. They shouldn’t notice anythin’ missin’. They ought to come up with a better system.”

*

The apartment corridor is lit up once again by the time they make it back to their side of town.

They’d laid low for the last hours of the day, Arthur worried about being followed. They’d waited inside stoops and empty apartments as the setting sun cased the city in a smoky purple shadow.

He’d ditched the uniform partway there, wadding it up and chucking it onto a low rooftop where it’d no doubt soak up enough rainwater and dirt to become unrecognizable within the month.

Coming up the stairs to the entrance of the corridor, Arthur sees an older man stopping along the path to stoop and light the kerosene lanterns as he goes. Cricket chirps fill the muggy air and there's soft music coming from a few of the homes, clashing with each other but adding to the cacophony of comfort. He’s glad to be back.

Charles lingers behind him as he unlocks the door to the apartment, but when he pushes on it, it doesn’t budge. The deadbolt holds it tight in its frame.

He raps on the door gently with bruised knuckles.

“John?” He hushes.

There's a quiet thump from somewhere in the apartment. Then, the deadbolt slides out of place and the door creaks open, one dark eye looking out at him. Unhappily.

“John,” Arthur starts.

“Fuck you, asshole,” John spits. The door opens another three inches so that he can peer out at Arthur with a full face of anger.

“John—“

“The fuck you been? Nearly came out lookin’ for you, piece of shit.”

“Wait—“

John’s voice raises. “You can sleep out there, all I care—“ Arthur braces a hand on the door.

“John, we got company,” he hisses.

John falters, the door opening another foot as he looks past him. “Charles,” he murmurs, voice faint. The door swings open fully and John hobbles back a step.

“Hi, John,” Charles says, smile in his voice.

“Jesus,” John steps past Arthur, grasping at Charles’ hand and shaking it firmly. “Good to see you alive and well.”

“But not me?” Arthur mutters. John turns a withering gaze onto him and Arthur wilts. He clears the door and trudges into the room, laying the bundle of documents folded into one of Charles’ spare shirts on the kitchen counter.

“Sorry we kept you waiting,” Charles says as he closes the door, deadbolt slipping back into place. He takes his gunbelt off, hanging it up on one of the coat hooks, and looks around the place. John has a few lanterns lit to chase away the dark.

“That’s… alright,” John says, though Arthur can hear that it most definitely is not alright.

“I’m sure you were worried. But Arthur will explain everything.” Charles grins as he turns to look at Arthur.

“I’m sure he will,” John echoes the sentiment, arms folded over his chest as he turns a tight look at him.

Arthur looks between them and then slumps onto the countertop with a deep sigh.

“Sit, John. Everything’s fine. You eaten?”

“Ate some.” His gaze remains hard. “Were waitin’ for you.”

“I’ll make us all something,” Arthur says. “And I’ll tell you about the day.”

*

John holds his own file in his lap and Arthur watches. The younger man chews on his lip furiously. “How?”

Arthur can see now by the lamplight just how upset he actually is.

“How do you think?” Arthur shrugs, ducking his head. “Slipped in under their noses. Slipped out. None the wiser.”

John’s jaw works back and forth and he drops his eyes to the folder once more. He flips it open and snorts humorlessly at his mugshot. He thumbs through the few written reports about his interrogations and then comes to something else that makes him stop short— something Arthur hasn’t seen yet.

Charles looks over his shoulder and grimaces. “Jesus. That from Sisika?”

“Uh-huh.” John pulls another small, square photograph out of the file and looks at it hard. His face twists through a few different emotions before he tosses it down on the coffee table. “They beat the shit out of a lot of men in there. Don’t think it were part of their protocol or nothin', but who were gonna stop ‘em?”

Arthur picks the photograph up, flipping it around before nearly dropping it. He recoils at the sight of John curled up in a dirty cell on a dirty mat. His face is turned away, his hands secured behind his back, feet shackled together. The skin that shows along his forearms and ankles is mottled and filthy-looking. Arthur wonders if it’s all dirt or if some are bruises, captured in black and white shadows.

“Sick sons of bitches.” Arthur spits. “They take more?”

John shrugs. “Think so. Ain’t no more in the file, though. Might raise some brows if the wrong man saw. Think they just liked having a camera to play with.”

Arthur stands, holding the photo up and meeting John’s eye.

“You want these?”

John’s face is unreadably blank. “No.”

Arthur takes them all, the prison photo, the mugshot and the negative, and tosses them into the wood stove, the metal door smacking shut behind them. Wretched disgust has made a home down in his belly, a strong emotion he isn’t sure what to do with. Makes him want to punch and hit, but there’s nothing there to fight. John watches him strangely from around the side of the wingback chair.

“Somethin’ ain’t right about those big prisons,” Charles murmurs as Arthur sits back down on the couch. “Big places, no one can see in or out of. Worst sorta people workin' there.”

“Civilization, for you,” Arthur mutters, though he’s not sure if it’s that or just a certain sort of man. He looks across the rest of the files spread out. “Found Williamson. Escuella. Bell. And Dutch’s almighty tome.” He taps Dutch’s thick file with an index finger.

Arthur pushes another file toward John like a peace offering.

“That’s Wofford. But not D. Wofford.”

John picks it up and flips it open with quick fingers. "Lindsey… Lindsey Wofford.” John glances from him to Charles before scanning the first page of the document and then the second. “Leader of the militia group called the Lemoyne Raiders. Worked his way up and took over from Jackson Clod…” John swallows, mouthing the next few words, eyes popping wide. “Father’s Henry Wofford, mother’s Alice. And a brother named Daniel.”

“And now we’d know why they sent an army after us, wouldn’t we,” Arthur mutters.

“Daniel Wofford.” John clicks his tongue. “Daniel King.”

“Daniel King? The dead politician?” Charles’ eyes flick between John and him. “He’s a Wofford?”

“Sure was.” Arthur points at the file. “And John killed him.”

Charles shakes his head before letting it rest along the back of the couch. “Jesus. What’ve you two got caught up in?”

“Somethin’ bad. Got a habit of bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Arthur mutters.

“Don’t we all?” Charles returns.

John looks far too pleased with himself, despite the situation. “I’d say I threw a pretty big hitch into their plans.” He can’t hide the little grin on his face. “If anythin’ happens to me, Charles, you make sure the papers know I were the one who killed the militia plant.”

“Nothin’s gonna happen to you, or any of us,” Arthur cuts in before that conversation can go any further. “We’re lying low, and then we’re splittin’. Leaving the south far, far behind us before anyone pins this on you.” He levels John with a scowl. “No dyin’ a hero, or whatever other bullshit you’re imagining.”

“Course,” John says, mouth quirked apologetically.

“Well, I’d say good job, John.” Charles looks at Arthur. “But Arthur might send me away.”

“I might.” Arthur’s face softens in exhaustion. “Where’re you stayin’ anyway, Charles?”

“With a couple in the slums,” Charles says. “Was actually how I came to be in Saint Denis. Passing along the road on the other side of the swamps and got ambushed. Ain’t sure if they were Raiders or just common thieves. I got away, barely, but they killed Taima.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says.

“She was a good horse. Getting on up in years.” Charles clears his throat. “A man and woman, Mister and Missus Bennett, they were passing by in their cart, saw the whole thing. Came and picked me up. Gave me a ride into Saint Denis. I lost everything I had on me, but the Bennetts gave me a place to stay, food, and water. They have nothing, themselves.” He meets Arthur’s eye. “I’m givin’ them some of the money I earn.”

“Good people here, after all,” Arthur says. “You can stay here the night, Charles. I insist.” He meets John’s eye. “We’ll sleep in the back room.”

If Charles thinks anything about that one way or another, he doesn’t say.

“Here,” Arthur says, sliding Charles’ file towards him. “That’s yours to do with what you want.”

He picks up his and John’s folders and stands, stretching his spine out. He feels beat to the bone. “John?”

“Alright,” John says, pushing up from the wingback chair. “Got a lot of information to go over, here,” he says, looking out across the rest of the folders on the table. “Some catchin’ up to do.”

“Tomorrow,” Arthur says, his eye on John’s clavicle under his shirt. For the moment, he wants nothing more than to nuzzle into it, feel John’s chest hair tickle his nose, and fall asleep. “C’mon. I’ll wrap your shoulder.”

As soon as the bedroom door is shut, John’s hands fist in the front of Arthur’s shirt, his face a visage of a pissed-off rattler.

“Son of a bitch,” he snarls. “M’so mad at you, I could shoot you.”

“Sorry.” Arthur’s hands slide up to clutch at his sides, fingertips pressing gently into his lower back. “Darlin’—“

“Don’t ‘darling’ me,” John growls low and lets go of him. He takes a step back and Arthur sees just how angry he really is. The flame on the bedside lantern seems to flicker angrily, mirroring the mood, the shadows growing longer with their movement. “What the hell was you thinkin’? Walkin’ into the police department?”

“S’pose I wasn’t thinking… Or, I was only thinkin’ about how to protect us. Protect you. And felt I didn’t have time to waste.”

Arthur hears the way the other’s throat clicks when he swallows. He shifts from one foot to the other, unsteady.

“I thought you was captured, or dead, or—” He scrubs a hand over his face, flushed in irritation. “And I can barely walk two blocks. Thought I were the foolhardy one. Didn’t think I had to worry about you bein’ stupid.”

Arthur scoffs, his chest puffing out. “It weren’t nothin’ big. It was three officers who me or Charles’ could snap like a twig. I thought you’d be… well, not happy, but that you’d understand. I got them files, and now no one’ll be lookin’ our way for a bit. You don’t have to worry about swingin’, or going back to Sisika, because that obviously weren’t no walk through the park.”

“No. It wasn’t.” John sneers. “It was hell, and that’s why I’m angry at you.”

Arthur blinks.

“Christ, Arthur, you think you’re the only one doin’ the protecting? I worry every time you step foot out there without me to watch your back.” John’s hands fist at his side, shoulders raising to his ears. “About you bein’ shot or sent off to one of them federal prisons while I ain’t in any condition to follow you.”

Arthur deflates, arms dropping to his sides. He can see the past rearing up, the wild anger they used to hold for each other. It’s foreign and unwelcome here in the present, something he’d used to walk away from in a huff until there was enough distance between him and the problem to forget about it.

Not an option, now.

“I… I’m thankful you got my file, I am. But what if it weren’t worth it, and you put yourself in all that danger and got caught? What if someone else recognizes me?”

Arthur holds out a hand, palm up. John looks at it for a moment, his mouth a hard line. “You’re right,” Arthur says, and means it. “M’sorry. Truly am.”

John sighs deeply, the fight leaving him. His shoulders drop.

“Didn’t mean to make you worry,” Arthur says drawing him in when he takes his hand. “It won’t happen again. You got my word.”

“Don’t keep me in the dark.”

“I won’t. Weren’t my intention.” Arthur turns his head and kisses his neck under his ear. The flame of the lantern at the bedside settles, breeze from their motions gone still.

“You know, I think you miss bein’ an outlaw sometimes, same as me.” John murmurs against him.

“Maybe,” Arthur swallows, hating to admit it. He’d been the one directing them toward a straight path, a legit path, long off as it may be. He’d be lying if he’d said that today didn’t make him feel alive, more like himself. At least it had been a just cause.

*

A few days later, things have cooled off, and their world has stayed quiet. Nobody comes sniffing around.

They go through the four extra files Arthur had found. Charles comes round again out of curiosity.

Bill Williamson had been last seen by a mortally wounded lawman, in a pass between West Elizabeth and New Austin, before he’d disappeared into a canyon and escaped. He hasn’t been seen in months, but there’s a note in the file that both West Elizabeth and New Austin are wary of sharing information with Lemoyne, so it may well be dated news.

Javier was last seen even further south, crossing the border into Mexico, and other than his stint running with Dutch, there’s no other information.

Dutch’s file is a conundrum. It’s full of claims from all over the Americas, from Annesberg to Saint Denis, New York to Chicago. There are even a few sightings of him in Panama and Colombia, though none of the claims have enough detail to hold any water.

“He’s like a ghost,” Arthur mutters as they all stand around the kitchen counter. “Pops up in one place, disappears.”

“Boogeyman,” Charles comments with a bit of humor.

Arthur can’t tell who’s more put out about the lack of information— himself or John. He knows a bit of how John feels, of how it feels to be betrayed by the man you thought was your mentor. In some ways, their protector. Arthur had unconsciously put Dutch in charge of his fate. Had let him be the ringmaster of his life for too long.

Then there’s Micah Bell.

"He and his crew massacred a whole town," Charles says darkly. "Took a girl captive before killing her."

"He's an all-out child killer," John mutters, tossing down a few clipped obituaries from a newspaper in Strawberry. "Christ, don't know what Dutch ever saw in him."

"Some of their sightings roughly match up. You think they're still running together?" Charles asks.

"He'd be a fool to still be with him..." Arthur shakes his head. "But if he is, he ain't the same man who picked me up off the street."

They store the files deep down in a saddle bag and Arthur vows to forget about them. Any hope for information he’d thought they’d uncover has vanished, replaced by deeper disappointment. He knows when to leave well enough alone.

*

On one soft morning a few days later, Arthur heads out for some discreet shopping. He returns a while later juggling an armload of paper sacks.

“John,” he barks as he shoulders the door open. “Remember when you told me about them bringin’ automobiles down this way?” He asks loudly, figuring that John can hear him wherever he is in the apartment. “Apparently, one’s comin’ on a train this afternoon. They’re gonna parade it around the circle in a few days, down by the station. There’re cops on every corner. Were wonderin’ what had them all riled up, but I figure, maybe it’s just that—“

He stops short, greeted by the sight of John’s bare ass. The man himself is passed out with his face pressed into the back cushions of the couch, naked as the day he was born.

Arthur stares dumbly before thinking to let the door swing shut behind him, shield this unusual situation from prying eyes. He deposits their newly acquired smorgasbord of treats onto the counter— croissants and sweetbreads, jam sandwiched between short biscuits, frosted cookies.

He’d found a treasure trove on a narrow street corner down near the post office, the type of corner that you could spend an entire day on. Tucked into it was a bookshop, a French bakery, and Snowbergers Chocolate and Confection Company. He’d spent an hour looking over menus of chocolate, putting together a box that was sure to please. He’d been near giddy picking out chocolate filled with liquors, fruits and nuts, nougats and pastes, sweet or salty or both.

He’d passed through the bakery as well, picked out anything that looked flaky or came iced. Maybe he’d splashed out a bit with their savings, and maybe he’d come to regret it later, but all that had really mattered in the moment was imagining the look on John’s face when he brought in new, adventurous sweets for him to try.

Maybe he’d been enjoying taking care of John. Just a little.

He can also feel the tension drawn tight between them since his and Charles' romp through the police department. It's as if they're waiting for the other shoe to drop, though they've both spoken a few times about the event since. Part of Arthur hopes that food will somehow dispel the tension.

John’s out cold. One of his legs is bent up in a way that might be obscene to a stranger, but that Arthur thinks is quite beautiful. He can see the outline of muscle in his thighs and the softness of the fat on his flank, creasing where his ass meets his leg. The rough sole of an arched foot.

Arthur has more to say, but he can’t bring himself to wake him.

Instead, he settles down into the chair across from him, opens up his journal, and begins to sketch.

*

John wakes with his face pressed into the back cushions of the couch. There’s drool trialing out of one corner of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He hears a sound, like scratching on a board, and rolls over. Arthur sits in the wingback, one leg crossed over the other, journal laid across his thigh. His pencil moves in short strokes, and when his eyes flick back up, he pauses.

“Afternoon, princess,” he drawls, laying the pencil down. “Have a nice nap?”

John stretches his good arm over his head, ignoring the small ache in his opposite. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Time is it?”

“Round two in the afternoon.”

“Shoot.” John sighs. “I were waitin’ for you to come back. How long you been there?”

“Little while,” Arthur says, handing his journal over to John.

John blinks owlishly at the two-page spread, cheeks flushing. Perfectly rendered; the small globes of his ass at an angle he’s never been privy to. The notch above his hip, the cleft down his back between his muscles, a dimple above his flank, an old jagged scar in more than one place. Arthur’s taken care to capture the dark hair along his rump in a few short strokes.

“Jesus,” John says, handing the journal back.

“You don’t like it?”

“I mean, it’s good, it’s just… it’s me.” He feels a bit embarrassed by his body, to be seen so starkly.

“That’s why I were drawing it.” Arthur hums before closing it and setting it aside. “You wanna explain why you’re naked?”

“Were plannin’ to seduce you.”

“Seduce me,” Arthur laughs. “What, by waiting naked and hopin’ I’d jump your bones?”

“Well, somethin’ like that...” John smirks. “Thought I’d just do what felt right when it came time. Guess I's more tired than I thought.” His head thunks down onto the back of the couch.

“Maybe fallin’ asleep means you ain’t as well as you think.” Arthur points out.

“I’m well enough for a little fun,” John says quietly, rubbing his thighs together in a feminine sort of way. Arthur watches the movement with a careful focus. “Washed up a little while ago. C’mere.” John says lightly, pulling his legs up, knees to his chest and spread just so. “Please?”

“Shit.” Arthur closes his eyes before standing. “We ain’t gettin’ too frisky, Marston,” he warns but comes toward him anyway. John loves the way his gaze falls down his body, hungry, making John feel like he’s made out of gold. “You’re far too good at this,” Arthur murmurs, putting one jean-clad knee onto the cushions, the other staying steady on the floor. He crowds over John, captures his mouth.

“Mm.” John kisses him, his head pressing into the backboard. Arthur’s beard rubs against his skin, and he scratches his fingers through it.

“Brought you a few things. Peace offerings.” Arthur tells him when they’ve parted.

“Really? What sorta things?” His fingers pull the top few buttons of Arthur’s shirt open, sliding his hands inside to grope at his chest, feeling up his strong pecs like they’re women’s breasts.

Arthur noses along his jaw and downward. “Biscuits… Chocolate.”

“Guess that is the way to my heart,” John sighs.

Arthur pauses along the column of his throat, breathing deep, and John knows that he smells something different. He’d put it on after his bath; a bit of perfumed oil Elena had given him upon request at one of their morning card games. Arthur snuffles along, curious.

“What’s that, hm?” He asks when he gets to John’s sternum. “Smells like… Flowers… Oranges.” Arthur breathes deep. “Smell like a lady with all that on.” He sits back, gazing at John with a question in his eye.

John swallows. “That shouldn’t bother you none.”

In sitting outside, John had noticed just how many attractive people there were to be seen in a city as big as Saint Denis. Women wearing fine dresses, men in suits. He’d wanted to partake in some frivolous sprucing up, sure, but he’d also been thinking a bit darkly about keeping Arthur’s attention.

Arthur considers him carefully.

“It’s nice, John. Smells good on you. But you smell good on your own. Don’t need to go covering it up on my account.”

“No?” He frowns. “There’s a lot of nice lookin’ folk round here. Just… you’re nice lookin’ too. Thought I’d put in some effort, show I know what I got.”

“John.” Arthur’s mouth quirks. “I don’t look at other people.”

“You know, it’s alright,” John says. “All men do, I wouldn’t be offended or nothin’. I ain’t tryin’ to call you a cheat either, I know you’d never.”

Arthur pets a hand across his collar. “I know. But, I really don’t.”

“No?”

“Marston,” Arthur says exasperatedly. “I know it’s normal to… notice other people, alright? I’m tellin’ you… I don’t. I ain’t tryin’ not to, I just…”

“Ever?”

“Naw,” he says carefully. “I just… don’t see no one else I really want anythin’ from. You understand?”

“Sorta...” John doesn't want anything from anyone else either. But he can't imagine not at least noticing. He’s certainly been noticing, and it’s obviously put him on edge. Needlessly. "I ain't sure," he admits. “But, if you say so.”

“I do.”

John still isn’t sure he understands, but he imagines what Arthur is talking about is the same quirk that’d kept him from seeking out prostitutes in all the years John had known him.

He has a sudden realization. “Jesus, you must think I’m some sort’a pervert or somethin’,” he holds up a hand. “I ain’t lookin’ lookin’— just, you know, in a general sense, noticing— or, well—“

“Marston,” Arthur chuckles. “I think you’re real normal. Real healthy.” He grins, pressing his hips back into John gently, and John is reminded that they’re trying to get off. “I don’t think you’re strange. Think it’s me who’s a little bit… different. Just tryin’ to tell you, you don’t need to worry about me noticing anyone else. It won’t happen when I got you.”

“Okay,” John says before Arthur takes over his mouth again.

“And I like your manly smell,” Arthur adds in amusement, dragging away from John’s mouth. “You wear that if you want to, it’s nice, but…” He tucks his nose into the crook of John’s armpit. “There you are,” Arthur breathes, voice going husky. John groans at the feel of his breath on his ribs.

Arthur presses kisses along his chest, lightly over the new scar that’s settled from inflamed red to angry pink. His lips catch on a nipple and John shudders, back arching. Arthur lets him go quickly, brow raising, and John realizes he’d been moving too much for Arthur’s comfort.

“Could… Could you use your fingers on me?” John asks.

“Fingers, huh?” Arthur swallows but the lust in his eyes only deepens. “Got you one other thing, this mornin’. At the doctor.”

Arthur retrieves a glass bottle and sits down next to John on the couch to show it to him. He swirls a thick liquid around the amber glass. “Oil blend,” he clarifies, and John swallows thickly, taking the glass and pulling the cork. “Hold on,” Arthur murmurs, hand landing on his. “This ain’t our couch.”

“Then take me to bed,” John murmurs, running his hand up Arthur’s arm.

“It ain’t our bed either,” Arthur says, though he’s smiling this time. “But I s’pose we can take the sheets to be laundered in the mornin’.”

*

John dozes when he’s sated, limbs loose and skin ruddy. Arthur holds him, nose pressed into his neck, reliving the last hour in lazy scenes in his mind.

Wondering at the place inside John, a place he’d directed him to, instructing him on how to touch and stroke and prod.

For his effort, Arthur had gotten to watch him writhe and cry and lose himself. He’d tried to take hold of his cock, but John had pushed his hand away, had held his hand in his own instead, and Arthur had watched as he’d come untouched, squirming all the while, voice climbing uncontrollably and tapering off into whimpers as Arthur had worked that place inside him. He’d never known a man could sound like that.

“That’s the best thing I’ve ever felt,” John had told him breathlessly. Tears had gathered in the corners of his eyes, spilled in a few rivulets down his cheeks.

Arthur hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

He squeezes John around his middle gently, hips pressed together, holding him tight as he dares. The other had promised to get him off as soon as he came to, but Arthur doesn’t mind holding him until it’s time to wake him for supper.

He’s been thinking, wondering if that place exists in his own body, what it’d feel like to have John touch him there. He’s never wanted something like that before, has never even considered it. He’s considering it, now.

“What is that?” Arthur had asked him when he’d first found it, a spongy little bundle inside him that felt a bit different than the rest of his soft walls.

“Don’t know what it’s called—“ John had gasped as Arthur’s fingers pet over it. “But there ain’t nothin’ else like it.”

“How come no one’s ever mentioned it?”

“Anyone who knows is too ashamed to admit it.” John had told him.

Arthur is stirred from his thoughts when a rap on the door sounds from the living room. He sits up, leaving John covered with a sheet and pads to the other room in his jeans. “Just a minute,” he calls as he ducks into the washroom, quickly cleaning his hands.

When he opens the front door, Charles stands there holding a loaf pan.

“Evening,” he says, eyes flicking down Arthur curiously. “You two have some time? I come bearing news. And cake.”

Arthur grins, letting the door squeak open further.

“John, get up,” he calls as Charles comes in.

John comes padding out a minute later with bleary eyes and a goofy grin for Charles, union tugged on and jeans over top. “Smith,” he says in greeting, and Charles walks into the kitchen to set down the tin loaf pan he’d brought. “What’s that?”

“Butter cake. With rosewater.”

“The hell is rosewater?” John asks but lifts the tea towel from over the top of it.

“Hell if I know. But it’s nice. Missus Bennet made it, ‘specially for you two.” Charles says, pushing the tin to him. John sits down on one of the stools at the bar counter and Arthur sidles up next to him.

“What’s the news?” Arthur asks.

“News?” John questions, finding a stray fork on the counter and poking around the cake with it.

“Been doing some digging,” Charles tells them, leaning onto his elbows. “About Lindsey Wofford. Folk in my part of town say he’s the devil. He and his close seven are ruthless sons of bitches. Folk was also worried the Raiders might have some big overlap with the klan. That they’re all tryin’ to bring back more traditional laws to the south.”

“Well, King advertised as much in a public saloon.” John sighs.

“Maybe that’s why they had him running for office. Charisma can take a man far.” Charles shrugs. “Seems that now their bridge into office is burned, Wofford and his seven are out for blood. Out for you. And…” He levels a look at Arthur. “The police station was raided. Last night.”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. John’s fork stills halfway to his mouth.

“From what I heard from a few street rats, the file room was torn to pieces. Loads of information stolen, two officers killed and another three wounded. They got one Raider, injured, but he passed from his wounds before they could interrogate him very thoroughly.”

“Shit,” John mutters.

“The Raiders don’t come into the cities very often, or very publicly,” Charles says. “But to lay siege on the police station…” Charles shakes his head. “They seem pretty desperate to find out who you are. Maybe they figure the police have some leads on King's killer. Best to get out of the south as soon as you can.”

“No more goin’ out. Even to sit on the patio.” Arthur says, and John deflates. “We need to start plannin’ our next move.”

“Which is another reason I’m here,” Charles says, standing up straighter. “Was askin’ around one of the nicer parks, inquiring about what a snake on a map might mean. Met a man from up north, nice enough, and he said that his father grew up near a mound shaped like a snake, somewhere in New Hanover.”

“New Hanover is huge.”

“Somewhere between the Kamassa and Lannahechee.”

“Guess that narrows it down… a bit. Still hundreds of square mileage to cover, though.” Arthur mutters.

“Maybe we head north and start askin’ around, then,” John says around a mouthful. “Someone else’ll know. Someone else who grew up in the area.” He spoons another forkful of cake into his mouth and Arthur looks down at the loaf pan, two-thirds eaten.

“Leave some for me, you bottomless pit,” he snaps, snatching the fork out of John’s hand.

Charles watches them curiously, and Arthur has half a mind to be embarrassed about the outcry, but then Charles’ mouth cracks into a grin.

“We ought to travel together,” he suggests. “I’d prefer two old friends I trust to a boat full of strangers any day.”

“Arthur told me you were headin’ for Canada,” John says.

“Maybe. Mostly just getting away from the south” Charles folds his arms across his chest. “It’s pretty enough, but they still don’t like folk like me. And it’s too hot.”

“What you plan to do when you get up there, anyway?”

“I suppose… find some purpose.” Charles shrugs. “Been thinking. I got nothing in this life worth preserving.” He nods at John. “When I saw Abigail and Jack and their hosts in Canada… It made me start thinking, maybe it’s time I change that. Maybe I’ll find a woman, start a family of my own.”

“Well, that’s what makes the world go round, ain’t it?” Arthur starts. “You help us find the end of this map, a cut of the reward is yours. Maybe you could get a head start on some land or a house.”

“And there’s safety in numbers,” John agrees.

“It sounds like old times.” Charles grins. “I’d appreciate it.”

They sit in the living room then with fresh brewed coffee in mugs, talking until the sun begins to set.

“Abigail and Jack are still in Montreal. If you wanted to stay with them, I’m sure they’d appreciate seein’ you.” John tells Charles

“Sounds like a good an idea as any.” Charles’ mouth purses as he looks between John and Arthur. “This is a nice place,” He says, looking around the apartment. “You two lookin’ to come back to the city when you find this fortune?”

“Naw,” Arthur answers immediately.

John huffs a laugh in agreement. “There’s some upsides. Everything you need right in one place. Not much privacy though. Livin’ on top of each other…” He shrugs a shoulder. “Can’t hear myself think.”

“I like my privacy, too,” Charles offers. “Don’t think I’ll be livin’ too far into a city in my lifetime. Maybe the outskirts. Seems reasonable.” He looks at Arthur questioningly. “What about you?”

“Oh,” Arthur shifts, feeling a bit braver with the information he wants to reveal about them. “Don’t really know. Think John and I, we’re more suited to rural livin’. Maybe there’s something for us, out there, but we like moving around, for now. Makes life a bit more interesting.”

John looks pleased to be paired with him in their considerations, maybe even a bit proud. The look suits him.

Charles takes it all in stride as well, like Arthur had hoped he would.

“Can’t see you all living in even a small town. Maybe you’d do well at ranching?”

“Ranching?” Arthur barks a laugh. “Cowboying ain’t the life for me. And you ought to see Marston herd sheep—“

“I were the one doin’ all the work that day, thanks,” John pipes up. “I were better at herding than you— you shot off a round behind ‘em to get 'em goin’ faster.”

“We was rustling, we was in a hurry,” Arthur prepares to launch into a debate, but he falters when he sees Charles' shoulders shaking in a silent chuckle.

“You two are exactly the same as you were three years ago.” He sighs. “And somehow worse.”

*

John retires to the bedroom after Arthur comments that he’s been shifting around continually for ten minutes, in obvious discomfort. When they’re alone, Charles turns to him.

“John seems well. I mean… his body’s busted up. But he seems entirely different from when I saw him last.”

Arthur looks down into the black of his mug. “He is… He was real torn up about everything that happened. I made a mistake not going to see him. You was right.” Arthur looks back up at him with a deep frown. “He found me up in the ass crack of Ambarino. By chance. And… goddamn if it didn’t feel like I was dead before that.”

“I can imagine…” Charles watches him carefully. Maybe Arthur doesn’t need to say anything, maybe it’s all out on the table without having to. “Think you two always needed each other more than you thought.”

“Yeah.” Arthur glances at the bedroom door. “Feel more guilt than I can bear, sometimes. From… all of it.”

Charles' hand touches his shoulder lightly.

“But he… He helps me a lot.” Arthur wishes he could explain better, could put into words what John’s given him.

“I understand,” Charles says.

Arthur looks at him. “Do you?”

“I do.”

*

When Charles has gone home, Arthur makes sure the doors and windows are locked tight, that all the blinds are drawn. He comes into the bedroom to find John laid across the covers, good arm thrown over his eyes.

Arthur smiles as he sits down on his side of the bed, pulling his boots off. He swings his legs up, a tight fit, and squeezes in close to John.

“Mm,” John throws an arm across him. “You seem happy.”

“Guess I am. Nice to have Charles back, after all this time.”

“Yeah.” John agrees. His eyes open, looking up at Arthur in the dark. "You gonna say I told you so?"

"Hm?"

"Bout them files and the police station," John mutters. "Reckon you've likely saved us some trouble down the line. Guess we'll find out."

"Well," Arthur chuckles. "Can't say I were expectin' to protect our files from a militia raid... But I guess it's lucky all the same."

John kisses him softly on the mouth, and when he pulls away, Arthur can see something else brewing in his eyes.

“Listen. Way you talked about family earlier… you want that?”

Arthur blinks, trying to remember what he’d said exactly. “What?”

“I mean, a family. Is that something you’re aimin’ for?” There’s a pinch of worry in his voice. “You called it the reason the world goes around.”

“Oh,” Arthur frowns at the dark ceiling. “Guess it is, for some.” He tucks his hand around John’s back. “I gave that a try, though. Long time ago. Or… half a try. There were good parts to it. Parts I might could appreciate more with my age than when I were a dumb kid.”

Isaac’s little face appears in his mind. The happy face of a boy who had always been so excited to see him, even when Arthur had felt like he wouldn’t remember him from one time he came to see him and the next. The memory brings to light a little hollow space in his chest. He sighs, quieting it, settling it the way he’s learned how.

“Made a mess of all that,” Arthur murmurs.

John squeezes an arm around him. “I… I can’t give you that life.” John speaks barely loud enough to hear. “Feel like I’m takin’ it away from you.”

“Didn’t say I wanted it, did I?”

“Part of you does.”

“So what?” Arthur huffs. “Don’t part of you? Just a small part?”

John stares at him.

“Part of me also wants to write the next great American novel, or travel to France and drink those little coffees all day and recite Shakespeare in the park.” Arthur says.

John snorts quietly.

“Just cause there’s somethin’ that sounds nice… don’t mean it’s what I want or ought to be doin’.” He turns to John, curling over him possessively, crowding his face. “And it especially don’t mean I ain’t already got something that I know I want.”

“But you want me more than that?”

“I’m here, ain’t I? And I ain’t settling, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

John doesn’t look sure, but he nods.

Arthur, par for the course, doesn’t quite know what to say.

*

Charles meets Arthur the morning that the city parades the automobile around the circle drive south of the station. John stays at the apartment, pleased enough to sleep having already had his fill of automobiles in Canada.

Most of the city comes there to watch the spectacle, a demonstration put on by men from New York. More come from all around, Lagras and Rhodes and rural farmland, all wearing their best clothes and hats.

A band comes to play, strings and brass and a big booming drum. Flags and banners are flown, and Arthur thinks it’s sort of quaint how people here like to celebrate in masses together.

He quickly decides that John had been right— the machine is interesting for all of two minutes before the sound and implications of it are all a bit too off-putting for him to enjoy.

“Can’t imagine life if it ain’t on horseback,” he tells Charles as they walk away from the throngs of people. “Give me a saddle and an open road, and I’m happy.”

“You heading home?” Charles asks him.

“Soon as I stop by the station. May be something from Abigail there.”

“Give her my best if you think of it.”

Arthur does indeed pick up a letter from Montreal.

As he makes his way for the trolly to take him back up Courtenay, a childish snicker catches his attention at the mouth of an alley.

“Lost your way country man?”

It’s a kid, maybe fourteen, dressed in dirty rags and face covered in grunge. Arthur pauses, mouth twisting in a grimace at the sight of him. He isn’t alone; the alley is teeming with street kids, some younger, some older.

“Looking for the cheapest whore house?” Another of the kids sneers.

“As if he even likes ladies,” another pipes up. Arthur scoffs, feeling his shoulders bristle at the gall of children.

“Don’t make him angry… What if he’s a Raider? They’s everywhere today.” A smaller voice asks from further down the alley. A scared kid peering at him from around a trash bin where he’s crouched.

“He ain’t no Raider,” one of the others says. “He ain’t wearin’ their colors.”

“You seen Raiders?” Arthur asks with sudden interest.

“What’s it to you?” The first kid scoffs, folding skinny arms across a skinny chest. Arthur considers the lot of them for a moment. Hungry kids are never a nice sight, even if they’re being little shitasses.

“What’s it to you?” Arthur returns, reaching into his satchel. The kids all stiffen up, prepared to flee, but Arthur pulls out a fistful of bills. Not all of his money, but more than he’d be willing to part with normally. He chucks it at them, and the bundle comes apart in the air, fluttering down onto the dusty ally floor in an array.

The first kid’s jaw works as he stares at the cash suddenly laid out before him, then looks at Arthur suspiciously. A buzz of quiet voices fills the air behind him.

“You seen any Raiders?” Arthur repeats, voice harder. He folds his arms over his own chest pointedly.

“Yeah,” the kid finally admits, crouching to hurriedly scoop the money into a pile. “They’s been crawling the backstreets all mornin’. Lookin’ for something or someone. They were riling up that doctor, knockin’ on doors and—“

Arthur doesn’t stay to hear the rest of what the kid has to say.

Past the trolly, past groups of people heading for the automobile demonstration, he sprints.

Chapter Text

Thirteen

John stands at the kitchen counter, paring knife in hand as he peels an apple. It isn’t that he doesn’t like the skins, just that he hates when they get stuck in his teeth, and right now, there are no wooden picks in the apartment. He adds them to a mental list of things he’ll ask Arthur to pick up for them from the general.

A quiet thud thud jars him to a pause. He sets the apple aside and wipes his juice-covered fingers on his jeans. He heads for the door, imagining that it’s Arthur.

He sometimes uses his boot to tap on the door when he has his arms full. If not him, it’s likely Charles looking for them both, or Elena looking for John to see why he hasn’t come to play cards for a few days. He feels guilty having disappeared on her so abruptly. He'd like it if he looked out the window and saw her passing by so he could go to explain. He does plan to drop in to say goodbye before they leave Saint Denis for good, at least.

They’ve made a plan to set out in no more than a week, once they’ve procured a few supplies and Charles has found a decent horse to buy.

As he slides the deadbolt free, he hopes that it’s Arthur, come with something for lunch other than uncooked groceries. They’ve been eating roasted vegetables and meat they’ve been storing in the icebox, and though John’s body feels in peak health-- no discomfort in his stomach and his muscles feeling sore but strengthened and his head feeling clear-- he's hankering for something new.

Arthur had told him about a restaurant down the street called the Jade Dragon and claimed that there was a sandwich board outside advertising boxes of things you could bring home to store for a few days. It's Chinese food, and John’s never tried Chinese food before but by god, anything new would do at this point.

As he opens the door, mouth parting, prepared to say something snarky to his beau in greeting, he stills at the eyes that meet his through the gap.

Light colored and set into an old weather-beaten face. He’s John’s height, dressed ratty and rough with a cap on his head. Bristly dark beard due for a trim, reddened whites of his eyes from poor health or age or both.

A mustard yellow scarf tied around his neck.

The man takes him in in the same few moments, and John sees the instant that his eyes land on his cheek. This close, anyone could see the jagged pale lines that cut through his skin, across his lip.

The man’s eyes widen in recognition, his arms raising up, hesitating, perhaps not knowing exactly what to do now that he’s found what he’s so obviously been sent to search for.

He’ll call for help next, John knows.

John’s hands fly out quick as a cat and fist around the raider’s suspenders. He hauls him into the apartment, a breathless wheeze leaving the man's mouth. John swings him around into the room and kicks the door closed.

“You son of a bitch,” the man sneers at him. “Found you, asshole.”

“And I’m sure you’ll get a nice pat on the back for it.” John’s hands curl at his sides as he watches the man closely. John isn’t wearing his gunbelt and holster— they’re hanging behind the front door. But he doesn’t dare turn his back on the man, doesn’t dare even blink.

Any moment the man could draw, but hopefully he’s been tasked with bringing John back to Wofford alive. Wofford, John thinks.

“That good old Lindsey send you, then?” John asks. The man's eyes narrow. John swallows. “Cause I killed his brother?”

The man's face falters, just for an instant. It’s the distraction that John had been seeking. One small ounce of focus shifted away and John charges across the short distance between them, using his good shoulder to force the man into the opposite wall. They mow down a kitchen stool that goes clattering, its legs tripping up John’s feet. They collide with a solid thud, groaning as they both slide to the floor.

The raider hits his head, but it isn’t such a solid hit to knock him out. He’s still awake, scrambling and looking at John like a mountain cat. His hand scrambles for his gun, but John clutches him at the wrist, holding his arm down. The man's opposite arm raises to claw at John's face, and he's forced to take hold of that wrist too, and now they tussle in a mirror of each other, face to face and both snarling.

“The Raiders don’t let nothin’ go. They’re all comin’ for ye’.” The man barks in John’s face with stale breath. John squeezes his non-armed hand tightly, uses his nails to dig in. Through a pained cry, the man struggles harder. “You’re outmatched and unarmed, son.”

John pulls back and knocks his forehead into the other’s, startling the man silent. Then he uses all his strength in his injured left arm to wrench the man's pistol hand up and back into the wall. The gun clatters to the hardwood, and John finally lets go to shove it away. It goes sliding into the shadowy corner of the apartment.

“So are you,” John says, and his hands dart up to the man's throat to put all of his strength into blocking his windpipe.

Instinctual panic takes over the man, his hands scrabbling up at John’s to try to pry them away. They’re the same size, but John is younger and angrier by nature, and he’s picturing this man dragging him back to a camp where Lindsey Wofford will be waiting to exact revenge on him.

When the man realizes that he’s outweighed by John, his hands reach for John’s face, his breath starting to come in ragged wheezes. John dodges his dirty fingers and instead pushes him by the neck down the wall in an arc until his back is on the floor. John uses gravity to help hold him down.

A creeping repulsion rises in John’s gut. It’s as awful as it’s ever been, killing a man this way, slowly. Watching the limbs become uncoordinated, eyes wander, focus dulled by lack of oxygen. Swallowing, John feels momentarily horrified at himself.

Then he imagines this man pointing his gun at him, or at Arthur, which he will surely do if John lets him up now, no doubt about it. John takes a heaving breath, and holds on.

When the man has gone still, John keeps hold, wanting to make sure.

His opponent finally gone still, John stands up on shaking legs and stumbles away. His ankle and shoulder throb distantly, but he’s too full of flight energy to feel it. He looks from the body to the room around him, the need to make sure he’s alone paramount.

Any feeling of safety or comfort the apartment had brought him is shattered. His and Arthur’s nice spot tarnished, the real world come flooding through the front door this midmorning.

“Goddamnit,” he curses the man. Then stoops to take him by the ankles. He hauls him into the bathroom and strains his shoulder more than once maneuvering him into the tub.

He says a silent apology to the person who will find the man as he closes the bathroom door behind himself.

Then, he sets to work packing.

He doesn’t know how much longer Arthur will be, and part of him is worried that maybe he’s already run into more raiders who are no doubt out there now scouring the city for them.

He pulls on a thin cotton shirt over his head and pushes the sleeves up to his elbows, then clips his suspenders into place. He retrieves his gunbelt next, and buckling it around his hips brings him some minute comfort. His shoulder smarts with every move, but he has larger matters to worry about, and it fades into the background buzz of his mind. Pushing through is how he’s always dealt with hang-ups, and it feels most familiar to him.

He peeks through the shutters periodically as he begins gathering the few things that’ve been strewn around the room. He collects their respective journals and some discarded underclothes. Their little bottle of oil and a strop he sometimes sits in bed and sharpens his knife with, more of a habit than out of any need.

He stuffs it all down deep into saddlebags and pauses when he hears the front door creak open, slow, like someone’s trying to be quiet. He can’t remember suddenly if he’d locked the door in his haste.

His hand lands on his revolver, but he thinks better of it. If it’s a raider, he may not be alone, and the sound of a gun would bring the rest of his friends lingering nearby to the apartment. He pulls his knife instead and steels himself, angry at the intrusion into their temporary home and their lives. He stands to the side of the bedroom door, waiting and listening.

A boot steps inside, a floorboard creaking under their weight, then another, the door squealing quietly.

He hears a short inhalation, one he recognizes, and he chances a look around the door jamb.

It’s Arthur, looking wide-eyed around the apartment. Then his gaze narrows on the stool that’d fallen over in the fight, to the paring knife and apple left to brown on the counter.

“Arthur,” John says, coming out, and Arthur’s eyes snap to look at him.

‘Ya’alright?” He questions, stepping in and closing the door behind him, turning the handle to keep it quiet as a mouse. John takes that as a bad sign.

“Uh-huh,” John sheathes his knife. “Man came in. He’s er… he’s in the bathroom.”

“Dead?” Arthur asks.

“Uh-huh.”

Arthur nods, eyes flitting down John's body before he heads for the shuttered window over the couch. “Town’s crawling with ‘em. I came back here quick as I could. They’re trashin’ the doctor’s office.”

“Shit,” John breathes. “The Doc okay? Harriet?”

“They’re alright. Came out the side door. Told me them men are lookin’ for us. Figured there were the first place we’d go. Barnes tried throwing ‘em off the scent, but it won’t matter soon. They’re searchin’ every nook and cranny.”

“How come they’re comin’ now? It’s been weeks.”

“Don’t know…” Arthur chews on his lip. “Maybe someone saw us, me or you. Or… maybe they was waitin’ for the whole city to be down by the station watching the demonstration. Not many people walkin’ the streets right now but them boys. Even the police are mostly down there. We gotta get packing.”

“Already started,” John jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Nearly finished.”

Arthur leans in quick and plants a kiss on John’s parted lips. John blinks and then it’s over as Arthur pulls away.

“What’s that for?”

“Nothin’. Everythin’.” Arthur shrugs sheepishly. “C’mon. I’ll carry the bulk.” He makes for the bedroom.

“I’m fine, Arthur. Took a man out just a few minutes ago.” John insists, pushing past him into the bedroom. Arthur lingers in the doorway as John finishes securing the last saddlebag. When John looks up again, he's gone, and he hears the bathroom door creak open.

John gathers the heavy bags onto both his shoulders and heads out for the living room.

Arthur comes out of the bathroom paler than before, looking John up and down with more consideration.

“Ain’t any blood.”

“Choked him.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. “Jesus, John.”

“Mary and Joseph,” John says without thought, a manic grin stretching across his mouth. Arthur shakes his head.

“I’m serious.“

“I'm alright, Morgan,” John says, voice harder. “Ankle’s wrapped up, stitches are holding. M’sure my blood's all back by now, I just ain’t got as much stamina. Don’t worry about me.” John accentuates this by heaving two of the bags onto Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur takes them with a grunt, knees bending under the new strain. “You just get us through the city. I’ll be right on your heels.”

*

Going for the horses is out of the question.

Arthur had scouted the area out for over an hour before he dared return to their apartment, he tells John. Even the boys in blue are on edge. John wonders how many scraps they’ve already gotten into with the overrun numbers of militiamen roaming about.

Now that they’ve left the apartment behind, Arthur is more on edge than ever. He glances back at John every few minutes, eyes hard and assessing as they go.

They head east, intending to find Charles’ place in the slums. It’s in the direction they want to go, at least.

No matter how lonely he’d gotten during Arthur’s admittedly short jaunts through the city, John is thankful now that it’d meant the other was learning the territory.

Arthur leads him through back alley after back alley. When they get into the start of the slums, he kneels down to give John a knee up over a walled backyard. John is hesitant, but he climbs, and soon they’re weaving through old, run-down lots and streets dotted with bodies, drunk and drugged. A few mangy dogs bark at them, and a few more people say hello. They hurry along to the outskirts, the last line of houses before a fence separates them from the tracks.

Charles’ stay looks much the same as all the rest, a corner lot with a house slumped on its foundation. It’s a wonder to John that the structure holds upright. A scraggly old cat lays on the porch in a beam of sun and it picks itself up as they climb the steps.

John observes the overgrown yard, part dirt and part hardy grass up to your knees.

Arthur knocks on the front door and stands back to wait while John eyes up the street, watching the faces of the disparaged yet kind folk passing by. Raiders haven’t ventured this far in, it seems.

“Hello?” a woman says, voice hoarse with age. She’s got strikingly young looking green eyes set into deep skin spotted with age. She frowns at the sight of them on her porch.

“Ma’am,” Arthur says, pulling his hat from his head. John thinks to take his own off too, and rubs his hand over his hair to smooth it. “Is Charles Smith stayin’ here?”

She blinks at them and then her face relaxes into a smile. “Your Charles’ friends,” she says with a deep southern drawl, opening the door wider.

“Yes ma’am,” Arthur starts.

“Charles,” she calls, turning and walking back into the shadowy interior of the home. It’s warm inside, and John can see through the house to the other end where a door is propped open into the shaded backyard, letting heat out.

Arthur looks to John and then the two of them step inside the small living room.

Charles wasn’t kidding. It’s a slum house, small, creaking floorboards, a few windows that are cracked or smudged up with old paint. But it’s tidy, John notices, all the bare corners swept. It’s not the same as the filthy shack he’d grown up in.

It’s this room and two doors in the back. Charles comes out of one, stopping short at the sight of them stood there. He looks between them, at all of their belongings that they carry, and ever the sharp one, it dawns on him what’s happened.

“Must be bad news, then,” he says.

They sit at the Bennett’s little table and Missus Bennett brings them a cheap bottle of whisky that John is thankful for. He guzzles his first glass down lukewarm and pours another as Charles and Arthur talk about what they’ve both seen since leaving the automobile presentation.

“You’s injured?” Missus Bennet asks him, perhaps noticing the way he favors his ankle.

“Yes ma’am.”

She brings him a tin loaf pan with something familiar smelling. “That’s my momma’s recipe. I sell ‘em to the folk around here.” She points a thin bony finger around, indicating the neighborhood. “It won’t fix you. Make ya’ feel better, though.”

John swallows thickly and nods, taking the fork she hands him. He sighs as he shovels butter cake into his mouth.

“Eatin’ takes the edge off,” she says as she wanders back into the kitchen.

John knows it to be true. He catches Arthur’s eye on him once and thinks maybe the other might tease him or get onto him for not sharing, but it’s more of a watchful look. John offers him the loaf tin, but Arthur shakes his head, pushing it back toward him.

John nearly bristles at the gesture, feeling that he’s somehow being looked after, though he can’t figure how. It’s only cake.

Still, he eats.

It’s decided, come night, that Arthur will go and fetch the horses. Rather, Arthur and Charles decide it, and John puts up a fuss.

“Like hell,” he hisses at Arthur, keeping his voice down so he doesn’t wake the Bennetts from the other back bedroom. “You ain’t goin’.”

“You want Charles to go?”

“Course not. But why don’t we wait it out?” He doesn’t want Arthur to go at all. Maybe it’s childish, and maybe that’s because John’s had just a little too much of the cheap whisky. But he knows he’d feel the same way if he were stone sober.

Charles waits just inside the kitchen, a poor attempt at privacy for the house being so small.

“There ain’t no time for waitin’, darlin’,” Arthur murmurs at him, trying to touch his hair, and John scoffs, shrugging away from his hand. “We gotta leave. Don’t think they’re gonna leave any stone unturned. Don’t want them punishin’ the people here for housin’ us, either.”

“I don’t mind going,” Charles had told them, to which Arthur had responded, “Absolutely not.” John had been in agreement with that, at least. “You ain’t no safer than us. In fact, you’re less so. Ain’t sendin’ you out on our errands.”

Arthur checks over his sidearms, giving them a last-minute wipe down and counting his ammunition. John sits on the sofa watching him, chewing the skin off his inner lip and letting another glass of whisky burn the bleeding cuts.

Arthur glances at him a few times, face unreadable, and John bites down on any remarks he may be inclined to say.

“Alright,” Arthur mutters as Charles comes to let him out. “Don’t come out lookin’ until morning.” John bristles. “I’ll be back, soon as I can,” Arthur promises, throwing a look at John over Charles’ broad shoulder. John stares at him as he goes, doesn’t smile or grimace, torn between showing his unhappiness and not wanting Arthur’s potentially last look at him to see anger.

Then he’s gone, and Charles locks up behind him. He turns to look at John with a deeply critical gaze.

“What?” John asks.

“He cares for you, and he cares for his friends. Try to see it as a good thing.” Charles says, turning to wander back for the kitchen.

“I do,” John argues, though he doesn’t move to follow him. He wants to argue about Arthur’s self-sacrificing nature, and how angry it makes him, but in the end, it just isn’t worth it. Charles already knows.

The man comes back from the kitchen with a chipped bowl filled with water. “No more glasses,” he explains and hands the bowl over. John stares at it dumbly for a moment and Charles takes the glass of whisky from his other hand.

“Sober up. If he comes back soon, we need to be ready to move.”

John scowls at him as he brings the bowl to his mouth and sips. Charles grins wryly and downs the rest of the whisky himself.

*

Arthur returns a few hours from sunup.

A quick rap on the door and John jerks up from sleep, drool down the side of his mouth dripping onto his chest where his head had been hung.

Charles lets him in. Arthur looks beyond exhausted.

“Any trouble?” Charles asks.

“Not for me. City’s on high alert, though,” Arthur says wearily as he comes inside. He sees John sitting there and comes to him, thudding down gently next to him. He lets his head rest on the back of the couch. “Raiders, and cops out patrollin’ for ‘em. So’s the mob. And...” Arthur hesitates, eyes sliding from Charles to John.

“What?”

“Might’ve been Pinkertons.”

John jerks up. “You sure?”

“Well, they had them badges and golden watch chains and goddamn bowler hats on.” Arthur waves his hand at the door. “Whole city’s like a goddamn battlefield waitin’ to happen.”

Charles sighs deeply, folding his arms across his broad chest. He looks well rested, though John knows he hasn’t gotten any more sleep than him. “Who you think they’re here for?”

“Ain’t sure,” Arthur’s gaze darkens. “Ain’t no one should know John or I’s here yet, not by name. Gotta be a coincidence. Maybe they’s looking for Lindsay Wofford with all these raiders around.”

“Or maybe they’re lookin’ for King’s killer.” John mutters.

Arthur looks at him sharply.

Who hired who, John wants to know. He wants to know if someone’s recognized him, or if someone’s found the man back at the apartment already.

Mostly what he wants is to get out of Saint Denis.

“This has turned into a goddamn circus,” Arthur mutters. “M'sick of this city.”

“Did you get the horses alright?” Charles asks.

“Paid a few kids to go in and get ‘em for me.” Arthur nods. “They’re tied round back.”

“How we gettin’ out then?” John looks from Arthur to Charles. “Charles ain’t got a horse.”

“No. But I got an idea.” Charles says.

*

Out back of the Bennett’s house sits a dingy buckboard carriage with a bench seat and a small bed barely long enough to lay down in, meant for transporting supplies or personal belongings. It’s old and weather-beaten and hasn’t moved in a while. Arthur and John check the wooden wheels and the rusty iron axles and determine that they’ll hold.

Charles tells them that the Bennetts had sold their horses last month to get a little money. Now that they have no plans to leave the city, they’ve been talking about selling the buckboard as well.

“They won’t miss it?” Arthur asks.

“I intend to pay them for it,” Charles explains. “They can get a proper cart, maybe even a wagon. Once they have another horse, they’ll be better off than when I met them.”

Arthur rubs his hand along his beard thoughtfully, finally nodding.

“Alright. We’ll harness the horses up.”

As they’re loading the wagon hastily, the sky begins to lighten, and John starts to feel nervous that the men combing the city will soon converge on the slums.

Missus Bennett comes to watch them as Charles hooks up Rachel and Rowan to the tongue and yoke.

“Ma’am,” Arthur removes his hat once more, and John follows suit. “Thank you for the hospitality.” John watches sideways as Arthur fishes out a few bills from his satchel and gives them over to the woman. She looks surprised but pleased and wishes them a safe journey.

"Thank you," she says to John, patting him on the chest. John wants to ask what for, but Charles steps up to say his own goodbyes.

Once Charles has said his own goodbyes to his hosts, he has John and Arthur settle down into the back of the wagon.

When Arthur tries to argue, Charles shuts it down. “You been up all night,” He jerks his thumb at the cart. “Besides, they’re looking for you. They ain’t looking for me. Just take a rest until we’re out of Lemoyne.” Arthur looks wary but finally concedes.

He climbs up into the back of the cart, pulling the end of it closed and latching it. He stretches out between John and their packs and lays his head on his saddle, setting his hat next to himself. He tugs the canvas tarp over the both of them.

John shifts closer automatically at the semblance of privacy over them.

“Careful,” Arthur warns, deadly quiet, and John grins against his shoulder.

The cart lurches forward. As John attempts to lean up for a kiss, the cart hits a bump and John pulls away with a groan, having knocked his nose onto Arthur’s chin.

“Sorry about that,” Charles says quietly, and John settles onto his back, good arm thrown over his head to hold the canvas away from his face.

“You sure are a generous man,” John mutters to Arthur.

“What, you didn’t want me to pay ‘em?”

“Nah, it ain’t that.” John scoffs. Not that at all, in fact. He likes that Arthur is that way with money. It’s only that the last time he’d been giving away his money like that, he’d been dying. John wonders if it’s some sort of self-deprecating attempt at redemption. “It’s nothin’, sorry.”

The heat begins to build up immediately under the tarp, and John swallows down a sigh at the day ahead of them. Though he can see sweat begin to bead up on Arthur’s forehead, the other’s eyes shut and he’s out almost immediately, lips parting to take in air.

“So long,” Charles calls to the Bennetts, and John feels the cart turning onto the road.

It’ll be a long while still before the air starts to cool. More than a day. He folds his arms and settles in for the long ride.

*

A handful of hours north of Saint Denis, Bluewater Marsh appears in the distance, and John can barely take the heat anymore. Not a moment since they’d left has he not been sweating, and now he can smell himself when his clothes shift on his body. It’ll be a rough few days if they can’t find water to wash in.

His only consolation is that Arthur probably smells worse.

He folds down the tarp and stares at the sky. The sun has finally stopped beating down on them at least, gone behind a cloud on it’s descent to the west.

“How’s it lookin’ Charles?” John asks.

“All good. Real quiet.” He answers, glancing over his shoulder.

John doesn’t know whether to believe that trouble could’ve left them behind, but his body hurts something fierce and he can’t stand being in the bed of the buckboard a second longer.

“M’comin’ up there with you,” he grunts, pushing himself up. He gingerly eases the tarp from over Arthur’s face and torso. The man snores softly in his sleep, even as his cheeks glisten with gathered moisture.

Charles helps him over the backboard of the bench with a hand and John settles into the seat. It’s still uncomfortable as all get out, the suspension of the little cart nearly non-existent, but it’s better than laying horizontal. His spine pops as he stretches his arms out.

“Remind me to never go back to Saint Denis,” John says as he slouches against the bench. Charles tosses him a little smirk. “I mean it. Give me some simple folk, and wide open country.”

“Agreed,” Charles says, giving the reins a gentle toss. Rachel nickers quietly as the two horses trot on. “These are a fine pair of horses.”

“Yeah,” John grins at the back of Rachel. “She’s a gift from the Macleans, in Montreal. They breed horses. Fine horses. All sorts, too. For race, ranching, long distance. Even mules.”

“Nothing better than a good mule.” Charles muses. “You like her? Rachel?”

“She’s a good horse, fast, sleek. Loyal enough, but…” John sighs. “Don’t know if we got the bond that Arthur and his do.”

“He loves all his horses. They’re like family to him.”

John knows it. He’s had his fair share of horses in his life, some he’d gotten along with more than others. Some were more like business partners. Rachel is somewhere in between. They work together well, but John doesn’t think he’s ever had a bond with his horse like Arthur does.

“Well, she’s a good horse in her own right. Me aside.” John chuckles.

Charles pulls on the reins suddenly and John lurches forward. “What?” He asks, head swinging around in both directions, hand landing on his revolver. Charles looks shocked, and he stares past John to the other side of the cart. When John looks, his mouth snaps shut.

He reaches back over to the bed of the cart, hand finding Arthur’s shoulder to shake him awake. The man comes up with a grunt. “Where’re we?” He asks immediately, looking up at John.

“Near Bluewater. C’mon. Let’s pay our respects.”

The two graves sit just off the side of the road, nestled under the shade of a thick oak tree. John removes his hat as they approach.

Arthur looks down at Lenny’s grave for a long time.

Then, he pulls out the half bottle of cheap whisky and pours a generous helping over his plot. “If there’s a good place after, I’m sure Lenny’s there.” He mutters.

“Maybe we’ll get to see ‘em both again, someday.” John murmurs. He hadn’t wanted to think about an afterlife. This one was enough. But he wouldn’t mind going there if dear old friends were waiting for them. It would probably be worth the trouble, in that case.

Charles moves away after a moment, having not known any of them nearly as long as Arthur and John had. He leans against the wagon, standing watch.

John tries to picture the last time he’d seen Hosea alive. He can’t pin it, so instead he pictures him sat at a fire camp, when he was breathing easy and things weren’t nearly so dire. Smiling and laughing, and quietly encouraging John to better than he was. 

I found him, John tells Hosea in his mind. Won’t let him outta my sight. I’ll keep him from comin’ to see you too soon.

He doesn’t know if he can keep the promise, but he does know that he can die trying. And whether or not he tells Arthur that is inconsequential.

He wonders if Hosea would approve of him and Arthur, now. Of how their relationship has shifted. If he would find it strange or off putting, or if he would take it in stride as Charles has. He finally comes to the conclusion that it isn’t worth pondering on too long. The answer won’t matter, anyway.

Charles points to the clustering trees in the distant hills to the north as they make their way back to the cart. “I figure we camp just north of the marsh. ” He looks around and John follows his gaze across the marshes, through the cypress and willow trees. The swampy water reflects the sun beautifully, but in those distant trees, he fears all sorts of dangers. Hopefully, none are on horseback.

He turns away, keeping the scarred right side of his face pointed east where there’s nothing but sandy banks and the Lannahechee. A few lazy gators lay basking in the sand, deterring anyone from setting up a watch post there.

"Better get a move on," he sighs.

*

The camp they set up is small. They don’t dare build a fire, and there’s no need with how heated the nights are still, even hours after the sun’s gone down. They don’t unpack anything either, only letting the horses out of their harnesses and giving them rudimentary brush-downs and a good meal.

Padded with saddle blankets and their bedrolls, the back of the buckboard isn’t half bad as a bed and it keeps them away from the snakes that slither the Lemoyne woods, as well as any other strange, exotic, venomous creatures.

“I’ll take watch, Charles.” Arthur offers.

For once, Charles agrees without a fuss and climbs into the back with John.

The night is quiet, and John even takes up a third shift watch towards the early hours of the morning, letting Arthur clamber into the back for a few hours. The night is quiet, all sorts of insects and night birds that you don’t find up north filling the air with their strange song.

John finds it easy to settle against the bench seat and listen deep for anything human.

Nothing comes.

*

At the end of the next day, Arthur rides next to Charles as the cart rumbles over the state line. Sitting in the back facing the road behind them, John watches the sign that welcomes travelers into the state swing in the wind. It grows smaller and smaller the further they get down the road.

“You think that’s it, then?” He asks, looking up at the two broad men on the bench seat.

“Ain’t no tellin’,” Arthur murmurs, looking down at him with those clear sea-colored eyes. “Things is never as easy as they should be, though. Best to keep on our guard for a while still.”

“It’s cooler today,” Charles comments. “Maybe we can at least have a fire.”

They build out a small camp inside a tree line when the road becomes too shrouded in shadow to see. They unpack cooking pots and cutlery, and John sets about making a stew from an onion and two potatoes salvaged from the apartment. Charles goes out with his bow and comes back nearly half an hour later with a rabbit to add to the pot.

The night closes in and they decide to forgo tents once more. John’s seen a few bright-colored frogs and a half dozen types of spider he’s never seen before, and he has no inclination to sleep on the ground.

A loon calls through the woods, and Arthur settles down close to him as the strew bubbles away. He rummages through his satchel and pulls out a slip of cream paper.

“I have this.” He offers the envelope to John. “Got it from the post, but ain’t had time to remember to give it to you.”

John’s come to recognize the writing in the corner and he thumbs the envelope open excitedly.

Somehow, the thought of Abigail out there thinking of them lessens his dark thoughts about Lemoyne and cities and raiders.

Charles sits down across from them with a bowl at the ready, waiting for John to deem the rabbit cooked enough to eat.

In the meantime, John unfolds the letter, clears his throat, and reads it aloud.

Dear Jim (and friend,)

I hardly know what to say to your claims. Only that I hope to meet your friend, sooner rather than later.

I am sorry and dismayed to hear about your further troubles in Saint Denis. I do not know what possessed you to go back there, but I must believe it was for a good cause. Please tread carefully. I do not hold fond memories of that place.

John bitterly recalls the day she'd come into the city with Hosea and left alone.

She tells about a platform that has begun construction at Brighthaven. Contracts have begun to be signed by the local train depot and Mister Maclean about running a line southeast towards them.

Jack is the best reader in his class, much to everyone’s surprise.

I have news about myself. Samuel has asked me to marry him!

“Hot damn!” John exclaims, looking at his two companions.

We do not wish to be engaged for years, as is tradition. Next spring or summer is what we prefer. We would like you and your friend to come to Montreal for the ceremony. I would like for you to be there by my side.

John hands the letter over to Arthur, feeling a lump in his throat. “Shit,” he mutters, leaning his chin on his hand, smirk quirking at the corner of his lips.

“You musta done somethin’ right, Marston,” Arthur says.

“Yeah,” Charles agrees. “She wants you there.”

Arthur finishes reading the letter for him.

If you know how to contact Mister Smith, please also invite him. We hope very much to see you all sooner to catch up.

All my love,

A.F.

“F?” Charles questions.

“Finley is Samuel’s last name,” John tells them. He bet Samuel was grinning like a fool as he'd written that out for her.“Christ. Gettin’ married. Can’t believe it.”

“Looks like things turned out well for her and the boy then,” Charles comments as John takes the letter back to read it again.

“Guess you ought to write her and let her know we’ll come,” Arthur says. He picks up the ladle himself and serves some of the stew up to Charles.

“We will?” John asks, looking at him.

“Course we will, what you mean?”

“Just weren't sure if you wanted to go revealin’ yourself just yet.” John shrugs but feels happy all the same. The idea of Arthur and Charles and Abigail and Jack all in one place together.

They share a celebratory drink, and the night finally gives way to relieving coolness.

John, in his liquor looseness, leans against Arthur comfortably across the fire from Charles without fear, and it's one of the nicest feelings he can remember— where campfires are concerned, at least.

“When you get married, Charles, you gonna wear a suit and tie?” John asks lazily.

“What’chu mean? He ain’t even met a woman yet.” Arthur says, hand pushing against the back of John’s for the bottle.

“I just mean when he does,” John snaps. “Speakin’ of, we gonna have to find nice clothes between now and spring.”

“We find that treasure, we can afford some suits and maybe even a nice gift.”

“You’ll come too, Charles, won’t you?” John asks.

“She asked for me, course I will.”

“You know where Sadie Adler is these days?” Arthur asks.

“Nah,” Charles shakes his head, reaching for the bottle himself. “Ain’t been able to sniff her out. She seems to be sticking to her own pretty tight. Reckon she won’t be found less she wants to be. Things are working’ out for people.” He observes.“It’s good to see.”

“Sure enough,” Arthur agrees. “People livin’ longer lives than they were bound for back then. Least the ones settling down.” He shoots John a side glance, and John scoffs loudly.

“We’re livin’ just fine, Morgan. Longer than our parents, least. Ain’t never gonna die.”

Arthur laughs loudly. “Don’t start testing’ fate, Marston.”

John nudges roughly against his shoulder. “Ain’t testin’ nothin'.”

“Except my nerve,” Arthur hums, and John recognizes the warm look of want in his eyes.

“You two are like Mister and Missus Bennett.” Charles obverses. “And they’ve been together fifty years. God help the open country if you two make it to fifty.”

That gets a laugh out of them all, and John longs for times of peace when they could really let loose and drink. He misses the parties that Dutch would allow, the singing and dancing and feeling safe enough to do so.

Arthur rises after a little while and makes for the wagon where their guns are leaned up against. He picks up a rifle.“Headin’ to check the perimeter.” He looks between them once more and then disappears into the tree line like a ghost.

John looks after him a moment longer before turning back to find Charles's eyes on him.

“What about you two, then?” Charles asks quietly.

“What about us?” John drawls.

“You gettin’ married, too?”

“Married?” John scoffs long and loud. “Hardly. Don’t know if you know, but folk like us don’t get married.

Maybe Charles might take some offense to his belligerent tone, but they’re both eased by the drink. Charles sips and raises a brow at John. “Marriage is just a made-up thing, anyway. Don’t mean nothin’.” His dark eyes reflect the fire, and John watches them curiously.

“Pretty sure it means somethin’,” John replies, tilting his head. He knows Arthur had meant to marry Mary when her last name had been Gillis. John himself had meant to marry Abigail— the proper way.

“Only means as much as you believe it does, is what I mean,” Charles explains. “Seems to me, might just be a made-up thing that gotta be regulated. So it’s meaningless.” Charles tilts his head. “Law says this land ain’t my mother’s anymore. Far as I’m concerned, it’ll be ours til the day I die. And after.” He points at John, to his hand resting on the ground next to him. “If you two want to be married, I’d say that’s all there is to it. No one else needs to know. Ain’t no one else's business.”

Charles heads to bed soon after that, leaving John to sit by himself next to the small fire. He feels a bit spooked, a bit drained inside, at the idea of marrying. An owl hoots overhead, and John looks up to watch its body carve a dark shape through the starry sky.

Marriage had always felt like a sort of trap when he’d thought about doing it for convenience sake. Living with the gang had only strengthened that aversion in him.

He looks down at his hand for a moment, imagining that there’s a golden band across his finger, shiny and permanent. It feels like a foolish idea. And Charles has voiced something he’s always secretly felt to be true, deep down. Marriage isn't what they claim it to be in the churches and schoolhouses. He’s seen it turn sour and dark, turn on its head. He’s seen it in the stark green of a church graveyard.

His thoughts are queer with liquor, but that’s alright. He’d not wanted to get married, anyway, never thought it an option for him and Arthur, so screw the powers that be who won’t let them.

As he wanders off to join Charles in the cart, he can’t help but wonder, though, if they were allowed, would Arthur want to.

Chapter Text

Fourteen

_________________________

Quiet voices murmur after a long day, and Arthur stands at the campfire, gathered with a few of the other men. Uncle's inebriated and loudly cackling, but Arthur isn't quite paying attention enough to know what about.

John is sitting just outside of camp to the east, leaning up against a tree.

Arthur has been watching him as Uncle drones on about the stage that's coming down to collect money from the bank in Valentine.

He’d thought John was just watching the scenery, but based on how still he is, he thinks he may have nodded off.

It’s been nearly two weeks that they’ve been at Horseshoe. John’s done some proper healing on the journey down and being here out of the cold. His cheek still looks something fierce, but he claims that it’s starting to get better.

Arthur’s noticed that he’s taken to sitting out this way toward the western sky, watching the sunset some evenings or eating alone. Sometimes, though less often, flipping through the pages of a book.

Arthur wanders from the fire, setting down his empty stew bowl and picking his way through the grass towards the cliffside.

“Hey,” Arthur starts, already speaking before he knows what he wants to say.

John stirs from his slump, looking blearily up at Arthur. Arthur smirks, hitching a hand on his hip.

“You just lazin’ about, are you?”

John yawns, then winces and runs a hand up over the side of his jaw where his scar stretches.

“Hello,” John says, voice easy and chipper despite just having woken up. He pulls his legs up and crosses them under himself, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“How you feelin’?” Arthur asks, quieter. It’s not that he’s ashamed for the other men to hear him ask, only that if one of them got a wild hair to tease him for it, it would spread through the rest of them like the plague and go on for a week.

Arthur perches onto the stump log a few feet away from him.

“Little better,” John says, eyes drifting to the Dakota down below. His hand wanders to his belt and pulls his knife free, then his strop, and he begins passing the blade back and forth over it without looking.

When nothing is said between either of them, John looks back up at Arthur expectantly. Arthur swallows, figures he ought to think up something better to say.

“Charles and I went hunting,” he starts.

John nods. “Alright.”

“I thought— I don’t know. Thought you might want to come along next time. He’s good at hunting bison. And we could use the extra man dressing it.”

John’s face shifts subtly.

“Yeah, alright. Let me know. M’sick of bein’ stuck here.”

Arthur can imagine. He sees how John paces around camp restlessly like a yearling colt all penned up. He’s been doing some dishwashing and the like. Sometimes he carries grain sacks to and from Pearson’s wagon. He’d tried to lift a hay bale once and Arthur had seen the strain in his eye as his leg had no doubt twinged and wobbled under the pressure.

Arthur wonders if it’d be alright for him to ride, just a short distance out. He could ask John to come fishing.

There’s mounting tension between them, bad blood bubbling under the surface, but watching John heal, Arthur’s wanted them to get back to being friends like they once were. He just isn’t quite sure how to do it without embarrassing himself.

“You brought in a pretty big buck earlier,” John comments, and it’s Arthur’s turn to be stumped silent, if only for a moment.

“I did,” he confirms.

John tilts his head, just so, watching him with glittering eyes, and Arthur gets the feeling that they’re in the middle of some kind of dance he hadn’t known he was entering into. He swallows, scratches a finger along his chin. “It were one of the biggest I ever caught. It’ll feed the camp for days.”

He hadn’t known John had actually been looking, even though Arthur had brought it within eyeshot of him.

If he were being entirely honest— or if he were drunk— Arthur might even admit that he’d carried it needlessly closer to where John had been wiping down a saddle at a table, hoping the other would see the buck slung over his shoulder and would…. what?

Arthur hadn’t given much thought to why he was doing something like that, only that it had been his natural inclination. He’d wanted John to see; so he’d passed by where he’d be seen. If Arthur had wanted him to say something about it— congratulate him on such a nice, clean kill, or thank him, or indicate somehow that he was impressed— well, that was just something Arthur would keep buried deep down to where even he didn’t have to think about it.

“Well, it ain’t as big as the one I shot last year near Deer Creek,” John says.

Arthur feels ridiculous in an instant. He covers it up with a chuckle. “I ain’t ever seen you carry a deer even half that size,” he shoots back.

“Now that’s some horseshit,” John starts, dark eyes narrowing. “I bring in big kills all the time!”

“Not lately,” Arthur smirks, and John makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. Before he can retaliate, another man joins their conversation.

Williamson’s voice huffs behind them. “Morgan,” he greets, shuffling up to them. “You givin’ Marston a whipping?”

“Metaphorically,” Arthur leans back nonchalantly and rolls his shoulders. John rolls his eyes and goes back to running his knife over his leather.

“Yeah, well, give him one from me,” Bill scoffs. “Napping with his feet up, havin’ his woman fawn over him.” Bill folds his arms over his barrel chest. “When they ain’t fightin’. Makin’ a stir in the whole camp. Always like that, Marston, slackin’ off and takin’ all the credit with Dutch. Why, all you have to do is breathe and you get a pat on the back. I’ll bet—”

“Williamson,” Arthur barks in annoyance.

Both Bill and John look at him, surprise poorly concealed on their faces. Arthur feels surprised, himself. The men of the camp make a sport out of ribbing each other. Nothing Bill has said is anything that hasn’t been said before— most of it is things Arthur’s said.

He clears his throat, covering up the twist of confusion on his face. “You're givin' me a goddamn headache. Go on to bed before you make a fool out of yourself.” Arthur waves Bill off. He cushions the admonishment with an added, “You drunken idiot.”

“Hah,” Bill scoffs. He glances at John. “Lucky your goddamn hero were here, I guess.” Bill slinks away with an unhappy sigh. He looks as if he’s been doused with a bucket of water.

Arthur stands, feeling out of sorts and unbalanced now, not knowing why it’d even mattered in the first place. They all ribbed each other over everything. That wasn’t new. He’d snapped without thinking.

He takes another look at John and John is watching him with clear focus.

“Well, thanks for that. Probably won't let me live that down for weeks.” John says, but he doesn’t look particularly upset by it.

“Think I need a drink,” Arthur says awkwardly. “I’ll let you know about the hunting,” he adds as he makes for the fire.

“You do that,” John says. Arthur dares to think he sounds hopeful.

________________________________

The horses paw forcefully at the dark earth of the forest floor. Anxious breath billows out from their nostrils, making heavy clouds of moisture in the air. Rachel strains her neck away from her ground tie, the whites of her eyes rolling around to search him out in her fear.

Arthur swallows noiselessly, bracing a hand on her shoulder to settle her, but he doesn’t dare move a step or whisper words to her.

A few yards away, John is crouched down where he’d been folding up a tarp from last night’s camp. He’d frozen when the sound had first reached their little spot in the woods. Now, he looks back at Arthur with slow intent as they both listen.

It’s long and pained, almost sorrowful. It had started up just sixty seconds ago, but Arthur would swear it had been going on ten minutes if you asked him.

The forest had gone silent along with them.

Charles stands stock still toward the front of the buckboard cart. His gaze shifts between Arthur and John as the three of them listen to the sound making its way down the hollow.

A long, wailing cry that surely shouldn’t be coming from anything human. It must be some sort of animal. It’s a fair ways off, already an echo by the time it reaches them. If they’d already been in the wagon, they may not have ever heard it over the sounds of the wheels.

Rachel joins in pulling along with Rowan, prancing in place and twisting in her harness. If they weren’t still tied and the cart wasn’t wedged into place under the wheels, the horses would’ve surely taken off without their humans by now.

The sound finally fades, but still, none of them move for a long-held breath.

Arthur finally thinks that’s the end of it. Maybe a deer or an elk. It’s a bit early for mating season, the trees still in their summer greens, but it’s possible. They can make some of the most distressing sounds known to men when they get down to business.

He’s about to say as much when the silence is cut through once more by the same voice. No closer, but longer and somehow louder. Frightened, not like any animal Arthur’s ever heard.

Anguished, he thinks as the sound trails off into the gurgles of a man.

This time John doesn’t wait for the cry to end before he rises to his feet to make his way closer to Arthur and the horses, tarp clutched tightly in his fists.

It’s morning, technically daylight, but the forest around them doesn’t let in near enough light, and it’s overcast to boot. Peering too far between the trees into the long deep shadows is disorienting. Arthur’s eyes play tricks on him as he looks for movement.

The sound echoing off the trees makes him feel as if they’re surrounded by enemies.

Charles comes closer, too, his step lighter than John’s. The three of them gather close to the horses. John looks over his shoulder as the sound trails off into silence once more. They all look down the hill where the hollow runs deeper and darker, converging with others.

“The hell is that?” John whispers.

It comes a third time, much weaker now, someone’s voice grown too tired to carry.

Arthur pets his hand down Rowan’s shoulder placatingly. “God… damn,” he mutters, listening as the cry dies out pitifully. “Charles?”

“Ain’t nothin’ good. Someone being slain.”

“Slain… or tortured?” John mutters. He turns to look at them both from under his hat, then shrugs his shoulders so his coat falls further closed over his chest, long and dark over his gifted denim vest.

Fog rises from the Kamassa further down the hill. It’s cooler this far north, and though the air is dryer, he can feel the moisture from the nearby river like a wall. He tries to blame these factors for the goosebumps that prick along his arms.

They stand silent and listening, waiting to see if it starts again.

“Should we go see?” John asks.

Another beat of silence.

“It sounds like whoever it was is already gone,” Charles says solemnly. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do for them, now.”

John hastily stuffs his tarp down between two bags in the cart bed. “What is it that killed ‘em, you think?” He asks. They move quicker and quieter than before, a shared desire to vacate the area as soon as possible taking precedence. “Animal? Cougar?”

“Cougars are quicker than that,” Charles murmurs.

Then, Arthur thinks, maybe it was a pack of wolves that'd come down out of the Grizzlies and found someone sleeping and took their time tearing them apart. That explanation still doesn’t sit right with him, though.

Charles goes on as he jostles the wedges free from the tires. “Hate to say. But it was probably other people.”

“Jesus,” John mutters.

Arthur shares the sentiment. He finishes pulling the ground ties up from both horses, holding onto their reins tightly to keep Rowan from leading the cart off without them. “We best get the move on,” he says. His shotgun shifts on his back with a few metallic clacks as he climbs up into the driver's seat.

“What kinda people are out here doin’ that?” John asks.

Arthur reaches down a hand to take John’s and pull him up onto the bench next to him.

“The cruel kind,” Charles answers. “Not horse thieves or robbers. Maybe the man were deserving of death. Maybe not. Either way, I agree with Arthur. The sooner away from here, the better.”

Charles climbs into the back of the wagon, his rifle laid out across his lap. Arthur is glad that he’ll be the one watching their backs.

John’s keen eye watches the trees on either side of them, swiveling back and forth as he clutches a repeater in both hands.

Arthur tosses the reins and the horses are all too eager to trot for the clearing between the trees where the road lies a few hundred yards ahead. They toss their heads, ears swiveling around to take in the sounds of the woods that’ve slowly started to come back to life.

Arthur keeps his eyes on the path before them, prepared to spot all the usual landmarks that might suit a holdup or ambush long before they reach them.

They’d not been pursued in the days leaving Saint Denis— as far as they could tell, that is. Folks passed them on the road, most of them simple country folk, a few looking rough in dress and arms. No one had stopped to question them, though, and both Arthur and Charles had made well sure they weren’t being trailed.

It feels too good to be true, in Arthur’s opinion.

The very night before, the three of them had sat around the fire with some fresh rabbit stew, contemplating whether or not to head for the nearest town to start asking questions or stick around the woods for a few days.

It’d become clear early that morning that they’d get nowhere searching blindly through Roanoke Ridge looking for a snake-shaped mound.

The trees are too thick in number. The hills and hollows block their vision more than a few hundred yards in either direction. The binoculars are useless.

Hearing the haunting sounds of a long death only solidifies their decision to head for the Lannahechee.

*

Van Horn might be the most miserable place John has ever stepped foot in.

Near end-of-day, sun long gone over the west forest, their cart rolls down the main— and only— street of the town — if you can even call it a town. The sky has shifted from it’s pale, blinding grey into a dark boil of storm clouds. Thunder rolls in the distance to the east, threatening a long night of wind and rain.

John grumbles “How fitting,” at the sight of it.

Over the course of the day, Arthur and Charles had relaxed some. Their grips on their guns loosening, their shoulders falling.

Even the horses had calmed.

John hasn’t been so fortunate as to let his guard wane. The memory of the cry that morning hasn’t stopped playing in his mind. He’s been conjuring up images to go with the sound, none of them good.

Arthur teases him once “S’the matter, Johnny?” He’d nudged his side with an elbow. “You ain’t afraid of the woods, are you?”

John had scoffed and shoved him and Arthur had laughed.

But maybe the other could sense that he was more bothered by it than he let on because a few minutes later, he’d nudged his knee with a thigh and had left it there snuggly in apology, leaning close to brush his mouth over John’s temple when Charles wasn’t looking.

The trees had grown thinner the further east they’d gone, and soon it had opened up to short, rocky cliffs leading down to the shores of the Lannahechee. It’d gotten cooler still and John had dug through his things and found that his scarf had been misplaced somewhere between the journey down from Ambarino and the present.

The damp chill of the air is accentuated by briny salt and an offending, fishy odor.

It grows stronger when they round the bend and the town comes into view, and John scoffs aloud, waving his hand before his face to no use.

“Fishin’ town?” He questions.

“Something like that,” Arthur mutters in response. He seems as exhausted as John feels.

John’s never been to Van Horn, only in its proximity. He’d received word about it around the fire a few times from Bill or Javier, or Micah, when he’d been willing to share.

As far as he knows from his extensive study of Arthur’s journal, Arthur himself has only had a handful of short dealings in Van Horn, all of them ranging from criminally unpleasant to downright bizarre. He hadn’t gone into so much detail about the appearance of the place, though. John thinks it should’ve been better noted, now that he sees it.

Melancholic doesn’t begin to touch.

Gulls cry overhead, many heading for the old grey lighthouse that stands out on a lonely rock outcropping. It itself looks as bad as the rest of the town on first glance, which is to say, about as run down as a place can get without being abandoned entirely.

There’s a sheriff’s office, burned on one side and commandeered and transformed by the locals into something that looks a whole hell of a lot like an opium den. At the very least, there’s a few drunken men leaning up against the outside of it.

The rest of the buildings down the left side of the street are all in various states of decay. Painted onto the front of the Van Horn Inn is the claim that it offers furnished apartments, but by the looks of the boarded-up windows and doors and the flickering firelight coming from the top windows, John reckons that it’s also been taken over by squatters.

Further on, the Blackley Hotel looks much the same. It’s hard to imagine that anyone in Van Horn pays rent.

At least, John thinks, with the lack of a sheriff’s department, they won’t be hassled by any small-town deputies looking to swing dicks and assert authority.

“Well, it ain’t pretty,” Charles comments. “But from where I’m sittin’, it looks a cry better than down south.”

Arthur steers the mares down the right of the lane, halfway over a boardwalk. An electric bulb buzzes overhead, wired into the utility lines that look newer than anything else in town.

John’s boots thunk down onto the old wooden walk and he immediately feels that parts of it are spongy and rotted, others pale with salt buildup. A small crab creeps off the boards and into the grass.

John pulls a crooked cigarette from his pocket and lights up, hoping to stave off some of the hesitance that’s taken root in his chest throughout the day.

There are a few sunken boats at the old marina, and the street light shines down into the harbor where they’ve been submerged. John swallows, hating the look of the wooden structure disappearing into the inky blackness of the water.

“There’s the depot,” Arthur murmurs, pointing ahead. “Let’s see about somewhere to stay.”

John trails behind him as he leads the way. Charles hangs back with John, observing all the men who look their way with a passive expression.

Arthur steps up to the counter to speak with the clerk in a quiet voice. John can see past him that the clerk is an unusual fellow, pale white skin and hair to match.

Arthur hands him the letter that they’d jotted back to Abigail that explains their quick departure north and asks her not to send any mail with sensitive information for a while until they find somewhere new to settle.

“You know of anywhere to stay in town?” Arthur asks, and the man grumbles something under his breath. “Huh?”

“Got a room overhead, still empty. There’s some down at the saloon, but I wouldn’t recommend you take up there. The fellers in this town like ‘em to stay empty to take whores to.”

John huffs and turns to look at Charles, his voice lowering. “You think anyone here’s gonna know about a snake mound?” He asks

“You never know,” Charles says, ever reasonable. “Anyone could know, or know someone who knows.”

The map’s location had taken less precedence in John’s mind since they’d been to Rhodes. It feels like a far-off fantasy he’d let himself indulge in before being reminded what sort of world they actually lived in. Part of him wonders if they’ll ever find the end of the trail, or if it will have been worth it. They’ve come so far and seen more trouble than they’d ever meant to.

Still.

John realizes that maybe he’s overtired and cranky. The scream this morning had shaken him up more than he’d thought. He’s been on edge ever since, and this place does nothing to soothe it.

“They got somethin',” Arthur returns to them with a key held up. “There’s a stable a mile up the road. Don’t like the idea of keepin’ the mares that far out of the way, though.”

“We’ll hitch them right out here, then,” Charles says, looking at the hitching post to the side of the building.

Arthur looks to John. “There’s a bath, too. Gotcha one. You can clean up your shoulder, make sure everything’s lookin’ alright.”

John blinks, surprised but pleased. He clears his throat. “Thanks.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and they all look up at the swell of clouds turned darker. A few drops hit the brim of John’s hat.

*

John sinks into the tub and hisses at how the hot water chases the cold from his skin.

For once, he's glad to let Charles and Arthur take over the work unhitching the wagon and tending the horses.

He uses a clean cloth to scrub the better part of a week's worth of dirt from himself. He uses a bucket of warming water by the fire to dunk his head into and massage his scalp. It feels nice for his hair to lose its oily stiffness that'd become cemented with dirt.

When he’s done, he sits in the water a while longer, not caring that it’s a bit filthy, letting the heat soak him through.

He’s thinking about getting up to dry and dress when the door suddenly swings open boisterously and a man comes in, stopping short a few steps when he sees John sitting there in the tub.

He’s older, skinnier, and a bit scraggly in every way, his hair a brown mop on either side of his skull and balding on top. He’s got a drunken flush on his cheeks and a hazy look in his eyes that turns to confusion at the sight of John.

John stares at him, waiting for him to get the clue that he’s in the wrong room. The man looks around blankly and then looks back at him once more. His mouth turns slightly down in a frown.

“Do… do I know ya’ from somewhere?” He slurs.

John scoffs and fixes the man with a seething look. “Get lost, feller,” he barks. The man falters, his eyes narrowing on John’s face and then trailing over the rest of the tub with a curled lip. John grits his teeth and plants his hands on the edges of the tub, rising out of it. “I said get the hell out!” He demands again. He’s two feet from his gunbelt on the low cupboard and he makes to grab his pistol.

The man stumbles out hastily and the door slams shut behind him.

John rubs a hand over his face, feeling depleted once more. He decides that he’s had enough relaxing for one day and dresses.

Out on the deck, he lights another cigarette. The rain has started coming down hard.

Whoever the man was, he’s hightailed it away. John’s concerned that he might be the man staying in the room next to theirs, but then someone steps from that room, older and gruff, and only regards John with a short look and a grunt before turning to look out over the Lannahechee side railing.

The darkened town is more tolerable from up high, and John tries to imagine that he’s just a city man taking in the sights. Like an anthropologist.

Dutch had taught him about anthropology once, called it an “exciting new area of discovery” in universities. John had thought it sounded an awful lot like separating yourself from your surroundings, playing higher and mightier than thou. Or intrusion.

He shakes Dutch off his mind and squints through the downpour at a few figures who mill back and forth in the rain, inhibited by one inebriant or another.

He thinks he ought to be happy with things. They seem to be home-free, and no one pursues them. The death of Daniel Wofford can be left far behind them.

His skin prickles, and though he hopes it’s just the chill in the air, he recognizes it as the sort that comes when something is observing him— a bobcat or a coyote maybe. Less often, a wolf or a big cat. Maybe a person.

He shifts around, looking at the road coming in from the north. There’s no one there, as far as he can tell, nor further on up near the abandoned train depot.

He looks the other way down the top floor, but the man has already gone back into his own lodgings. John wanders closer to the riverside and looks out.

A thick fog rolls off the water, shrouding the dock below. The lighthouse in the distance is the only structure to be seen clearly, lonely and dark. It must be years since anyone’s run it properly.

He can’t see the docile water of the harbor, but he can hear it, sloshing against the columns of the pier and the sides of that half-sunken ship.

He wonders if anyone had been on it when it had gone under. Had anyone drowned, kicking and screaming just under the surface, their feet caught on a rope or a board or—

A foghorn sounds from one of the distant vessels heading up the river, and the deep, reverberating sound of it makes him jump. He curses, tossing his cigarette down and crushing it under his boot.

Don't be dumb, Marston, he thinks. If anyone had been on that boat when it'd started sinking, they'd have simply walked off of it onto the dock.

He trudges into the room where Charles and Arthur have been setting up a pallet of blankets and cooking over the fireplace.

Arthur takes one look at him and his brows draw together.

“What’s the matter?” He asks from the fireplace. He turns over a piece of meat on the end of his knife. A pot bubbles on some coals.

“Dunno,” John grumbles. “Can’t tell if this place is just spooky or if it feels like somethin’ else is wrong.”

“It’s your nerves,” Charles suggests. “We’ll wake up if anyone tries to break in here.”

“Yeah,” John sits down on the pallet of bedrolls and blankets that Arthur’s begun to set up for them on the floor. He looks around the room from this angle and sees a pair of boots under the cot, dusty and cobwebbed. In the corner lays a dead roach that makes John’s lip curl.

“Here,” Arthur says, standing over him and handing him a piece of bread and some venison stew. “Have some of that. We’ll all feel better in the mornin’.”

Charles lays back in the cot and Arthur settles down next to him, still looking a bit sheepish at being close together in the presence of someone else.

“Tomorrow, I’m heading down to that stable,” Charles says without looking at them. “We ought to try that saloon across the street, too.”

*

John wakes in the morning feeling not at all refreshed. The verges of familiar nightmares still tickle at his mind even as he pours the last of the coffee from the percolator someone had set over the hot coals in the fireplace.

Both Charles and Arthur have risen, already heading outside presumably to check on the horses.

Arthur comes in briefly to see if he’s woken up just as John’s taking his first sip.

“Charles wants to head to the stable,” Arthur tells him.

John nods groggily. “Alright.”

Arthur shifts from one foot to the other, boots scuffing the floor. He folds his arms over his chest. “I were thinkin’ someone ought to go with him.”

“Yeah. I think so too.” John agrees. “He can take Rachel. I'll stay here in town today.”

Arthur chews on his lip, and John can already guess the concerns brewing in his mind.

“I’ll be just fine, Morgan,” John grumbles.

“We could prepare the cart again. Or, you could ride on the back of mine.” Arthur starts, but John holds up a hand.

“Ain’t no need. Too much trouble. Just saddle up them horses and get.” He insists.

Arthur doesn’t look happy. “You could just stay here in the room,” Arthur starts, looking around the small dingy space. “Ain’t so bad. You could catch up on some rest.”

The last thing John wants is to catch up on sleep.

Being in the apartment in Saint Denis had been a welcome, if odd, change that had mostly made John’s nightmare recede into the background. Being back in the proverbial game has caused them to resurface, though, and he’s woken up sweaty for a few nights.

“I ain’t goin’ back to sleep, and I ain’t stayin’ in this goddamn room,” John says bitingly. Arthur’s face falls into a scowl. “I’m takin’ myself off bed rest.”

“John,” Arthur looks as if he’s about to chew his lip raw. “Know I give you a hard time when— when you’re injured. But you know I don’t think you’re a layabout or—“

“That ain’t what it’s about,” John says, trying to stifle his irritability back down. “Just want you two to do what you have to do. And I’ll do what I need to do.”

Arthur’s mouth closes and his jaw works for another few moments. He finally nods, just once.

John steps out onto the top deck with his cup of coffee to look down on Charles and Arthur as they prepare to depart. Charles adjusts Rachel’s cinch and stirrup lengths to his own bodily proportions and then looks up to catch John’s eye. John slouches into the railing and waves a lazy hand.

“Thanks, John,” Charles calls and climbs into the saddle.

Arthur looks up at the mention of his name and catches John’s eye. They watch each other for a long moment.

When John had first met Arthur, he’d thought that the man was solemn as stone, unreadable. Over the years, John had learned that that wasn’t quite accurate.

Now, having an entirely more intimate knowledge of Arthur’s mind and habits, he can read all sorts of lingering thoughts and feelings in his face.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid, Marston.”

And John sees fondness under the storm of frustration. John’s mouth pulls into a smirk.

“I’ll leave that to you.”

He watches the two ride up the way until they disappear from view and then turns his attention to the rest of the town before him.

John thinks he might’ve preferred it at night, covered in shadow and fog.

The buildings all take on the same rough hue of old board and salt. He can see the full extent of how broken down everything is. More than one pair of boots attached to legs are propped out in the alleyways, men asleep.

He finishes off his cup and decides that he’ll make some good use of his time while the other two are away. He’s going to make headway on their mission. It won't hurt to also remind the others of his own capabilities.

The Old Light Saloon looks to be possibly the only operational building in town aside from the mail depot. John figures that he ought to get a good bite to eat in before he starts picking and poking around.

On his way down the stairs, he spots the courier behind the counter— the same unusual man from the night before.

He stops short, thinking that a man who works the mail depot probably has a good idea of the place. He’d been too tired and cranky the night before to think of querying him.

“Get a good long look,” the man says gruffly when he catches him looking.

John’s face flushes. “Sorry, feller. Ain’t every day I meet someone who… who…” He swallows. “You albino?” He asks.

The man’s brows raise a hair on his forehead, his scathing demeanor easing some.

“That’s what they call it some places. Ain’t never met a feller here who knew what it was.”

“Guess I did a bit of reading about it, somewhere.” John shrugs. He feels a bit of pride swell in his chest for that fact. At one point in his younger life, he’d thought he’d never get to read anything at all.

“Well, that'd explain it. Ain’t sure half the fellers in this town can read. I make some extra money writing letters on the side.” He appraises John again. “What do you want, then?”

John hesitates and then figures that there can’t be much harm in showing the man the picture. Not when it isn’t apparent that it’s supposed to be a treasure map.

He spreads it out on the counter between them.

“I, er, found this in my pa’s study. Ain’t sure what it’s all about, but someone told me it might be a mound.”

The courier looks critically at the parchment laid before him and nods.

“Sure. Looks like an Indian mound. The Serpent Mound, probably.”

John’s heart picks up. “You’ve heard of it? You know where it is?”

The man’s mouth stretches thin. “Can’t say I know exactly, but you’re in the right region for it.” He thinks a moment, staring at the map. “Lot of old-timers know about it. Not so many old-timers left in Van Horn though. Try the Old Light. Might be a hunter or two who passes through, but there’s also an Indian girl there who might know.”

John looks quickly over his shoulder at the saloon. “Thanks for your help, feller,” he says, quickly folding up the map.

The inside of the Old Light is just as run down as the rest of the town, but at least there are people gathered there. Even in the mid-morning, there’s plenty of men drinking already.”

“Ain’t seen your face ‘round before,” a woman says. John’s only partially surprised to see her working behind the counter. She’s got a hat and men’s trousers held onto her small frame by suspenders. She stands polishing up a glass.

John blinks. “Ma’am,” he greets, stepping up to the bar.

“Name’s Etta, not ma’am. No need for manners, either. Ain’t no gentlemen in this town. They all get run out. You keep your hat on here, and everywhere.”

“Understood,” John says with a nod. She doesn’t look like the woman he's looking for, in his opinion, but one never knows. He leans an elbow onto the bar casually. “You happen to know where the Serpent Mound is from here?”

Etta scoffs with a humorous grin. “Shoot no.” She sets her glass down and hitches a hand on her hip. “You’d do well talkin’ to Richard Clems. But he ain’t been in here in weeks.”

“Oh,” John sighs. “Feller at the post said an, uh, an Indian lady here might know.”

“That’d be Leona,” Etta says. “She ain’t comin’ in ‘till later.”

“You know when? I’m real eager to speak with her.”

“I’m sure you is,” Etta chuckles humorlessly. “You can wait like the rest of these bastards. Leona will be in when she’s in.”

John’s mind ticks over that for a moment. “Leona— she’s a workin’ lady,” he concludes.

Etta’s scowl deepens. “Course she is. There ain’t no waitresses at this fine establishment. And I ain’t need any help behind the bar.”

“Right.” John swallows. He considers pressing further— maybe finding out where she lives or spends her time outside of work. But one more look at Etta tells him that that’ll get him nothing but the same answer, and possibly the boot out the door.

“You need anythin’ else?” Etta asks pointedly.

John looks around, spotting a little standing card advertising food propped on the counter. He grimaces at his options. The only thing he dislikes more than fish stew— the first option— might be lamb hearts, which happens to be the second option.

“Guess I’ll take some stew.”

“You want a drink with that?”

There’s a roaring fireplace in the center of the two-room bar. Neither the cool daylight from outside nor the fire does anything to make John feel warm. The place is mainly covered in fishing paraphernalia and fliers, many of them outdated from years past.

John settles down at a table near the fire and takes his gloves off to warm his hands up. He takes a sip of lukewarm beer and then faces down the stew that consists of chunky pale fish and a possible eye floating about.

John catches sight of a pair of prostitutes sitting together in the back of the other room, speaking quietly with one another. One’s eyes land on him and she gives a wave.

He averts his eyes, not wanting to send the wrong message, and continues picking through his stew.

He’s thinking about taking a walk around outside to wait for the woman to come in when he catches sight of something much more entertaining to pass his time; a blackjack table in the back corner, where a dealer and player are already seated.

When he’s finished off his stew, he makes a beeline for the table.

“Gentlemen,” He greets as he sits down. The other player grunts in response, but the dealer gives him a crooked little grin.

John doesn’t like that his back is to the door, but not enough to not play.

He gets handed an ace and a two right off the bat and sighs, taking a glance at the other man sitting at the other end of the table.

“You fellers like livin’ here?” He asks, unable to help himself from falling into the usual rhythm of information gathering. It’d been a good skill to cultivate, searching out new leads and jobs in a setting such as this.

The other player only grunts, once again, in response.

The dealer shuffles the remaining cards in the stack, looking at him curiously. “I live in Annesberg,” he says.

“And how’s that?”

“Well, Annesberg’s fine. Mostly miners.” The dealer says, shuffling the cards between his hands, perhaps more than he needs to. John gets the feeling he likes chatting. “Lot of ‘em used to make the trip down to Van Horn every weekend. But it’s just me, now. Journey’s too dangerous, but the money I make doin’ this is just worth the trip. What’s your bet?”

John pushes a dollar’s worth of chips forward.“Dangerous, huh?”

“Sure.” The man looks at John pointedly.

“Hit,” John says hurriedly, receiving another card— a four. He chews on his lip. “One more.” The next is a five — making twenty-two — and John sighs as the dealer gathers his chips with a pleased smile and turns to the other man.

“Why’s it dangerous?” John presses. “Gangs?”

“Sure,” the dealer scoffs. “Lots of gangs make their way through Roanoke Ridge. Posses of outlaws from everywhere. Don’t care what they say about the new century and civilization. There’ll always be bad men.”

“This town seems full of ‘em,” John comments as the dealer collects back the cards.

“Sure, they’s rough. Plenty of criminals here. It’s a lawless town. But not like them gangs. Them’ll string you up if they feel like it. Cut off your fingers, or your pecker, or your balls. Take your wife and do god knows what.” he sighs, lips pressing together as his face grows darker.

He hesitates as he shuffles again, lips parting and then closing.

“What else?” John leans forward on an elbow.

“Things worse than a posse round Roanoke,” the dealer offers. The other player’s head comes up, attention drawn. He glances between the dealer and John.

New cards are dealt out.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Just your old mountain man tales,” the other player pipes up scornfully. “Jameson here don’t know what he’s goin’ on about.”

“You don’t even leave town,” Jameson, the dealer, scoffs with a wave of his hand. “You wouldn’t know.”

John looks down at his new cards. A two and a five.

Then he glances over his shoulder. He tells himself he’s only looking for the woman, Leona, and nothing more. Droplets pat against the windows gently, still fairly bright outside despite the rain but John can guess it won't be that way for long.

He puts in two dollars worth of chips.

“My friends and I heard some god-awful wailing out in the woods yesterday morning," John says, deciding that it’s safe enough information to reveal.

The dealer’s brows raise, and the other player glances briefly at him. “That’d be what I’m talkin’ about. Them’s Murfree’s doin’.” The dealer says. The other player scoffs louder and more indignantly than the last time at this revelation.

“Murfree?” John asks. The name rings a bell.

“Families of men out there. Or, mostly men. Ain’t sure where they all come from, but rumor is they’s all in the same family. No one ever sees any women, though.”

“Jameson,” the other player sighs. “They ain’t all in the same family. They can’t be. ‘Sides, it ain’t them old hillbilly tales anyway. That’s all over and done with. It’s a normal gang of outlaws, out playin’ with some poor bastard that crossed ‘em before they kill him.”

Jameson ignores the other player and carries on. “Ever since I were a boy, and my pa was a boy, they been known about. And now, everyone round here knows they’s back, whether they like to admit it or not.”

“Murfree’s are all gone,” the other player insists, though he doesn’t sound sure of himself. “They been gone, and they’ll stay gone.”

“If that makes you feel better to say, go ahead and say it.” Jameson huffs. “Even the law don’t like to come round here no more.”

“Murfree,” John repeats.

He remembers then. That was the name of the gang that had taken up in Beaver Hollow before Arthur and Charles had run them out. Perhaps “gang” was a loose term for what they were, at least going by what John and the other men had had to clear out from down in the caves.

If the group had had a goal or prerogative, it was incomprehensible to John. It hadn’t been comparable to Dutch’s or Colm O’Driscoll’s operation— or even Micah Bell’s, which was saying something.

John had spent a few nights in Beaver Hollow thinking about them and the possibility of the rest of their numbers returning in revenge. Those thoughts had fallen to the wayside after everything had kicked off, though. And he hadn’t thought about them much, since.

“Murfree Brood?” John asks.

“Some call ‘em, yeah. Other’s call ‘em a clan.” The dealer shrugs.

The other player looks at John with a scowl, probably for having brought on such an uncomfortable topic of conversation, but the dealer goes on again, ever chatty.

“You go out to Butcher Creek— they’s an odd bunch of folk, but they’s alright— they’ll tell you all about ‘em.” He leans closer to John, as if sharing a secret. “My granddaddy told me, long time ago, the Murfree family broke off from Butcher Creek. Went out into the woods to live on their own. They said the land would take care of ‘em. And it did… But the woods is strange, that deep in. They get taken up by somethin’ dark. Start havin’ more children, but ain’t no other families around out there, so—“

“Jesus, enough, Jameson! Please.” The other man says. When John glances at him this time, the other man doesn’t look so much annoyed as he does flat disturbed. “Let’s just play,” he goes on, looking down hard at his two cards.

John does the same. He asks for two more cards— a six and a seven, and holds at twenty.

The other player strikes out with a curse, tossing down his three cards. He stands up, looking a bit like his afternoon has been ruined.

John turns back to Jameson.

“You think the Murfree family is causin’ trouble round here, again?” He asks.

“Sure enough. Folks thought they were gone for good, for a while. Roads became safer. You could go campin’ and fishin’ without much fear but for big cats. But lately, folk disappearin’ right off the roads. Whole stages sometimes. You find camps ransacked and slaughtered. Like it’s back to how it were before.” Jameson swallows. “And the things you hear, sometimes… out in them woods.”

“People?” John asks, the cry from yesterday echoing in his mind. “People bein’ hurt?”

“I’d say.” Jameson nods. “Them Murfree folk is all the way into the dark. And they bring anyone they capture down into it with ‘em.”

John doesn’t know what to make of all that, but it certainly doesn’t lessen his bad feelings about the region.

He will admit though that he’s a touch gladder to be in Van Horn. The rough men milling about suddenly seem more docile and preferable to whoever is out there, beyond the town limits.

A new player sits down next to John, joined by his friend, and John remembers that he’s supposed to be searching out information about the snake mound— serpent mound.

He takes another look around the bar but doesn’t see any new women who’ve come in.

When he looks back to the table, two new cards have been dealt to him. “Make a bet,” the dealer reminds him.

*

The trip up to and from the stable is uneventful, aside from the expected event of finding a horse.

Charles picks out a gunmetal grey stallion, uniquely bald-faced except for around its eyes, which gives it an eerie skeletal look from a distance. Arthur is nearly jealous over such a nice mount before one of the younger hands pulls them aside to tell them that it’s being offered at such a decent price because, while technically saddlebroken, the horse is ornerier than hell.

Charles watches the horse where he’s hitched down the middle of the aisle of the stable. The farrier has taken measurements of its first hoof and is hammering away at heated metal over an anvil.

The horse, already named Falmouth by its English handler, watches the farrier with a focused, scrutinizing gaze, ears forward as he listens to each strike of the hammer.

Charles seems taken by what he sees, and they agree to come back the following day after the stallion has been shod and run through the round pen a few dozen times.

“You sure?” Arthur asks him. “He looks like a wild bastard.”

“He’s smart,” Charles tells him. “It’ll be a rough few months. But Taima was smart too, and she were worth a hundred tame trail ponies.” Charles pauses. “You don’t mind, do you? That it’s a stallion?”

Arthur only thinks for half a moment before snorting and shaking his head.

“Naw. Those mares can keep a stallion in line. And they’s bigger than him, anyway.”

Before they depart, Charles sees a few fliers posted to the stable wall and pauses to look them over. When he takes one down, Arthur joins him, glancing over his shoulder at what he’s reading.

“Honorable men needed for a journey north. A troupe of women and children to depart for Calgary, Alberta from Annesberg at the start of fall.

The caravan seeks good, strong men to accompany them. Meals and accommodation provided in exchange for protection and hunting when needs arise.

Speak to Etta Bishop at the Old Light Saloon, Van Horn, for vetting and details.”

 

A wave of melancholy threatens to overtake Arthur at the thought of losing Charles. He doesn’t dare show it, though. Instead, he ducks his head and clears his throat.

“You thinkin of joining up?” He asks.

“Perhaps,” Charles says thoughtfully. That doesn’t sound so sure, but Charles takes the flier to keep, regardless.

They look over other horses and Charles even takes a few out into the round pen for a test ride. He always comes back to the Nokota stallion in the stable, though, who grows testier and testier with the farrier with each shoe that goes on.

“I’d let you take him now,” the man tells them. “But I want to check with his handler when he comes back from Annesberg this evenin’.”

Arthur is eager to get back to Van Horn.

The sky clouds over on their way back, which Arthur is starting to think is the normal order of operations here in Roanoke Ridge.

There’s no one on the road, and Arthur keeps his eyes on the woods to their right that grow darker with each passing minute.

“You remember clearin’ out Beaver Hollow?” He asks Charles quietly when they’re nearly back to town.

Charles glances at him doubtfully.

“Were trying not to.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything more; he doesn’t need to. He knows that that time has been on both of their minds— and likely John’s, too.

The first thing Arthur notices is that the window up to their room is darkened. Which means John hadn’t bothered to takeArthur’s suggestion. Arthur can’t blame him, really.

He’s always known how John is, always eager to be back in the game. And even Arthur has to admit that he’s healed enough.

“Old Light,” is all Charles says, and Arthur’s inclined to agree. A drink would do them good, and if he knows John, that's where they’ll find him.

True to form, John’s sat in the back of the saloon at a blackjack table. Three other players sit with him, and a small crowd has formed around the group.

Arthur takes a moment to gauge the mood of the room. No one is yelling or swinging, which means that John probably hasn’t made anyone too angry. Yet.

“Hah!” John’s raspy voice rises over the din of the rest of the patrons. “Ace and a jack.” He tosses his hand down on the table and the gathered bunch gives a small cheer. The dealer grumbles under his breath, passing over his won chips.

Arthur finds himself grinning in secret pride and eases through the small crowd to overlook the table. John’s surrounded by a pile of chips and more than a few shot glasses. The three other players watch him wryly from their seats.

“Another?” The dealer asks, brow raised.

Arthur butts in before John can answer. He sets a hand down on his shoulder. “Naw, he’s done mister,” Arthur says lightly.“Time to cash in, cowboy. Buy your friends a drink.”

“Morgan,” John looks back at him, cheeks ruddy and bunched up in a sloppy smile. “You’re back.”

“And you’re drunk,” Arthur says, barely able to keep the fondness out of his voice. “Time to come eat.”

“Alright,” John agrees easily, reminding Arthur of a jovial puppy. “Cash, please,” he says with a hiccup, messily pushing his chips at the dealer.

Arthur oversees the trade, making sure that the dealer doesn’t short him. He sees there’s no need. The dealer may be a bit terse, but he seems to like John well enough.

“Don’t come back for a while,” he tells John. “Give some of these other fellers a chance. Remember what I said, though.”

John stumbles as he steps away from the table, catching himself on a nearby chair. He pockets his earnings and turns a stink eye onto a few of the other men gathered around whose eyes linger too closely on his pockets.

Arthur eases a hand over John’s shoulder to help steer him toward the table Charles has taken up in one corner by the darkening window.

“John,” Charles greets. He’s got a plate of what looks like lamb hearts in front of him. Arthur’s stomach growls.

“Charles,” John’s goofy grin persists. He slumps down into a seat.

“Remember what?” Arthur asks, taking a seat next to him, and boxing him into the window.

John looks at him blankly. His eyes are glassy. “Huh?”

“That dealer told you to remember what he said,” Arthur says, a touch gentle. “What did he say?”

John blinks slowly. “Oh!” His face morphs into one of trepidation and excitement. “He were tellin’ me ‘bout all the trouble they been havin’ around these parts. Murfree brood, he said.”

Arthur sits back in his seat, a frown pulling at his mouth as he meets Charles’ eye. “Murfree,” he repeats.

“S’what he said. Said they rob folk, take them. Torture ‘em, even. I’ll bet that’s what we heard the other mornin’.” John says. His speech is a bit looser, but Arthur can tell he has a lot to say, that he’s been thinking about this for a while.

“Huh,” Charles looks perturbed. “Thought we finished them boys off.”

“Folk say they have a lot of places in the deep hollers.” He turns to Arthur. “They call ‘em hollers, round here.” He explains with a grin, and Arthur returns the expression.

“Thought that might be the case,” Charles sighs hollowly. He pokes around at the remainder of his lamb hearts and then pushes the plate toward Arthur.

“Did you find a horse?” John asks as Arthur finishes off what Charles has left on the plate. A few artichoke hearts accompany as a side, and Arthur is pleased to see that a pat of butter has been melted over them.

“I did. A Nokota stallion.”

“Stallion?” John whistles. “That’ll be somethin’.”

Arthur savors the bit of food while Charles tells John about the day's events. They go through one round of beers and then another. John has some more stew, this time with a large helping of bread.

A woman appears at the table next to Arthur, looking down at them all. The three of them go silent to look at her.

“Hi gentlemen,” she says.

She’s got a friend with her, with a deep shock of auburn hair, and Arthur can tell upon first glance that they’re both prostitutes. He’s about to wave them away, but the first woman’s eyes narrow in on John.

“I heard you was lookin’ for me, handsome.” She says to him, and Arthur looks back at him, brow raised.

Instead of looking bashful, John’s mouth falls open and a look of surprise flashes on his face. “Christ, I forgot,” he says, standing up abruptly. His chair scrapes back across the floor, and he braces a hand on the table, looking a bit dizzy. “You Leona?”

“Sure am,” she gives him a practiced grin. Pretty, Arthur can admit. “You come to spend your winnings? Heard you cleaned up that blackjack table.”

Arthur looks to John to see what he’ll say, but John is digging around through his satchel with drunk movements. He pulls out the parchment they’d found at Face Rock.

“Need t’speak with you,” John says hurriedly.

The red-headed woman’s brow raises suspiciously and one of her hands curls around the other woman, Leona’s, forearm.

“Please,” John says. “It’ll only take a few minutes. It’s real important to me.”

“I dunno, Lottie,” Leona says to her friend. “What you say?”

“Maybe he ought to pay you for your time, Le,” she drawls back. Arthur can appreciate the hustle, but he’s dying to know where this is all going. He looks back to John.

“I’ll get us all a round,” John offers.

And that has the two ladies smiling.

“Hell,” Leona says, her tone relaxing. “I’ll take a free drink any damn day.”

*

Lottie and Leona sit at the end of the table perched in chairs. Leona lets a puff of smoke out through the corner of her mouth and stares with a thick, raised brow down at the drawing of the serpent.

“Well, I been there before,” she says.

Arthur’s been filled in on the details, or at least the details that matter.

The man at the post office had directed John here.

Leona’s father, an Indian man, had passed when she was younger and her white mother wouldn’t tell her the name of his tribe. She's been working at the Old Light for nearly a year, now.

“Thinks she’s protectin’ me or somethin,” Leona says scornfully. “Like it’ll somehow change who I am.” She laughs at this and then points at the map. “I been here once when I were a little girl. But it ain’t because it were made by my tribe.” She shrugs. “We came from up north. ‘Sides.” She passes the parchment back, and Arthur takes it. “It weren’t made by anyone from this age. They’s made by people a long, long time ago.”

“Oh,” John deflates where he sits. Perhaps his inebriated state makes him feel worse.

“Why were you there as a girl?” Charles pipes up. He’s been especially quiet throughout the conversation, but Arthur can tell he’s observing the two women carefully.

Leona’s eyes snap up to Charles, narrowing. “My father took me to see it. Tried to tell me a little about his own people, but I can’t remember a thing he said.” She sighs wistfully. “It were mostly a day trip. I don’t remember him well, but he liked to try to teach me things about huntin’, fishin’. But that were a long time ago, too.” Her mouth twists in thought. “You know, I think it’s west of here. I were livin’ in Annesberg with my parents. And we came south to see it. I know it’s somewhere round here.”

“You ain’t ever been back?” Charles asks.

“Well, no,” Leona laughs. “Not cause I don’t want to, mind. It just ain’t worth tryin' to find it.”

“How come?” Arthur asks, keeping his voice passive.

“Woods is dangerous.” Lottie, the redhead, pipes up. She’s petite and lily-white in comparison to Leona’s warm olive skin, but the two of them seem like two peas in a pod. “You got that old fort out there. Some militiamen took up there. And then there’s the cult.”

A hush falls over the table, John, Charles, and Arthur all looking at one another.

“Militia?” Arthur questions.

“From down south. Lemoyne fellers.” Leona says.

“You gotta be goddamn joking,” John says, slumping onto the table.

“They don’t come here none,” Leona says. “They’s undesired in Van Horn, and they know it. Rest of these boys’ll shoot ‘em on sight.”

Lottie’s hair bounces as she nods in agreement.

“What’s this about a cult?” Charles asks.

Leona’s face darkens at this. “She means the Murfree family. That goddamn clan of degenerate animals.” She’s practically spitting venom at the mention of them, and Arthur leans back from it a bit.

Lottie stares at her friend with shared anger, then looks at the rest of them. “They took Leona’s sister. Outside Annesberg, few weeks back.” She tells them quietly. “Least, that’s what her mother thinks.”

“And those deputies at the sheriffs won’t even look into it. They’re all cowards.” Leona adds scornfully.

“They won’t look?” Charles asks, stern face wavering.

“They wouldn’t even look for a white girl,” Leona spits. “But I’ll bet they’re glad that Emma were taken.” She sniffs, betraying the fact that she’s about to cry despite her dry eyes. “They hate us down this way, and I hate them. The law and the Murfree clan.”

“Don’t say their name,” Lottie says, voice small. She shivers and glances out the darkened window at the other end of the table. Arthur glances too, but only sees the street in the dim lamplight and a man stumbling past.

“They ain’t ghosts, Lottie. They’s flesh and blood. They can’t hear us.” Leona says despondently.

“They can’t, but…” Lottie frowns, twirls some of her red hair around a finger.

“You superstitious?” Charles asks her.

“It ain’t just me,” Lottie says indignantly, her red-painted lip twisting in defiance. “Everyone thinks it. Them men’s like animals, and anyone who ever is lucky enough to get away from ‘em all say the same thing. They make these sculptures outta— outta people.” She seems to frighten herself and shrinks down in her seat. She looks between them all. “Why would they do somethin’ like that? It’s because they’s a cult. They’re talkin’ to demons out there, it’s the only…” She trails off, her mouth pulling into a frown. “Why would they do that to people, otherwise?”

Arthur doesn’t have an answer for her, but he looks to Charles.

“We seen some things like that out there, once,” Charles murmurs. John looks surprised by this.

“Really?”

“You shoulda seen the camp before the rest of the group got there,” Charles says quietly. “What you cleaned outta the caves weren’t nothing compared to what Arthur and I got rid of outside. What they had in broad daylight.”

Leona stares at Charles for a long moment before her face crumples, and Arthur realizes their careless mistake.

“I hope they killed her,” Leona says, voice raw. “I hope they killed Emma.” She sounds ashamed of herself.

“Don’t say that!” Lottie gasps, an arm coming around Leona’s shoulders tightly.

“I do,” Leona says, tears finally falling down her cheeks. “Only because I can’t stand the thought of what they’d do to her if they was keepin’ her alive.” She puts her forehead down on the table, shoulders rising and falling in a silent sob. Lottie drapes herself over Leona’s back, her own face pulled into tight sorrow.

Arthur feels queasy at the sight of such grief. His chest is uncomfortably tight, and he has a vision of two graves outside an empty house for a brief moment. He shakes the memory from his head and looks at John.

John looks possibly worse than Arthur feels, his eyes already glassy from the alcohol, threatening to water up. More than that, he looks angry.

“Hey!” Etta of the bar says sharply, approaching. “The hell's the problem here?” She eyes up the three of them, her hand on the gun at her hip. “These feller’s hasslin’ you?”

“No ma’am,” Leona and Lottie murmur together.

“We’re talkin’ about Emma,” Lottie says softly.

“Oh…” Etta’s hand falls away from her pistol and she sighs heavily with a hand on her hip. She looks to the men again, her mouth going wry. “You boys heed the warnings. Some of the men round here like to pretend there ain’t no boogeyman in the woods. But we know better.”

“Course,” Arthur says quickly. Etta wanders back to the bar looking more sullen than before.

Arthur can feel the bitterness fuming off of John in waves next to him.

“M’steppin’ outside,” he says. He looks apologetically at Leona, his brow bunching up. “Thanks for your help, I’m— I’m real sorry.” He swallows and scoots around Arthur’s chair, making for the front door.

Arthur itches to follow him, but he makes himself remain seated, instead looking at Leona who hasn’t been able to pull herself together.

“Ma’am,” Arthur swallows. “Your family lives in Annesberg? Do you need a ride back there tonight?”

Leona looks at him miserably. “I don’t live there no more,” she says defeatedly. “Them miners in Annesberg, their daddies and granddaddies were in the frontier wars. Most don’t take kindly to me. Or Emma.” She sniffs loudly, wiping her nose along her forearm.

Arthur glances at Charles nervously. Charles sits stock still, staring at Leona with a gaze Arthur has seldom seen.

“But thanks for the offer, mister,” she adds quietly. “I live here, now. Behind the bar. With Lottie.”

“And Etta,” Lottie adds quickly, glancing between the two of them nervously.

Arthur glances out the front window and sees John across the street standing on the boardwalk. Judging by his still form and the puff of smoke billowing out in front of him, he’s sobered up a bit.

“Do you know where they took her?” Charles asks.

Leona looks at him dejectedly. “No idea. They got caves all over these hills. A hundred miles in any direction.”

Charles’ frown deepens, and Arthur knows what he’s thinking because he’d already been thinking the same thing. But with no lead on where to start, they could be out here for years looking for a missing girl. By the time they found her, they might not even be able to tell if it was her or not.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says quietly.

Leona sniffs again, running her wrist across her eyes. She straightens up. “Didn’t expect to talk about her tonight.” She says. Her eyes run over his face, considering him. “Who's your tribe?”

Charles blinks and sits back in his chair with a shrug. “Ain’t really sure, myself.”

Leona’s face softens a touch and she composes herself enough to take a pull from her beer. “Look at us.”

*

Desperate to escape the overbearing sadness of the Old Light, Arthur makes his way outside.

The rain has subsided at least, but the fog rolls in off the Lannahechee in thick clouds. He looks around as he trudges across the street to where John stands. The other hears him coming and turns to look.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Alright?” Arthur asks.

The anger has melted off of John’s face, leaving behind exhaustion.

“Always feel like I’m bein’ watched round here.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, because he feels the same.

He looks at the buildings behind them, some of the windows lit up with lantern lights and faces peeking out, others darkened. The sheriff’s station is lit on the top floor, and Arthur knows he’d find a few people higher than kites strewn out there if he went looking

“Goddamn,” John mutters, shaking his head.

Arthur wants to reach out and run a hand over John’s neck but doesn’t. Instead, he bumps his shoulder with his and then pushes his hands into his own coat pockets. He stares out at the hazy darkness as a foghorn sounds.

“Ain’t know what to do when I meet someone like her,” John says. “Whenever I think I got it bad…” He chews on his lip. “There anything we can do?”

Arthur thinks. He isn’t sure where they’d start. “Not unless they rear their heads. Guess we could go lookin’ for signs but…”

“Too much land.” John sighs. “Too many of them, seems.” He looks at Arthur hesitantly. “You think it’s true what that girl says? They a cult or somethin’?”

Arthur snorts humorlessly. “I wouldn’t know. There’s stranger folk than even cults in this world, I reckon.” He looks at John, but John’s staring back at the dark, lonely lighthouse in the distance.

Arthur looks too. “You know, when I went with Sadie to get Abigail, I were up there with a rifle, pickin’ off Pinkertons.” Arthur’s mouth falls into a crooked grin. “Had a perfect view of the town and that dock.” When he looks back at John, John still looks forlorn.

“Yeah?” John asks, a faraway look on his face.

“Yeah.” Arthur pats a hand on his shoulder. “Y’alright?” He asks again.

John blinks, looking back at him. “Think I’m still a bit drunk. Feel… Small.”

“Small?”

“The world’s big. Feel… powerless.” John sighs wet and heavy.

“Nothin’ like the injustice of the world to sober a man,” Arthur sighs. “C’mon. Let’s go up to the room. Wanna be alone with you.”

“Ain’t sure I’m up for it…” John says faintly, not at all in a teasing mood. He looks a little appalled that Arthur would suggest such a thing.

“That ain’t what I mean,” Arthur murmurs quietly, giving him a little nudge. “Don’t want that. Just wanna hold you for a minute.”

“Oh.”

John shuffles easily down the boardwalk. Arthur watches him take another few long looks over his shoulder at the darkened road out of town, at the lighthouse, and at the Old Light.

Chapter Text

Fifteen

Arthur finds it difficult to sleep that night, mostly for the fact that John does, too.

Charles takes the bed again, wrapped up in furs to block the chill from beneath the thin mattress.

Arthur isn’t shy about sidling up next to John under their own thick blankets next to the fire, a little palette made up just for them.

John seems alright, at first, when they lay down. Arthur is beat and it’s easy for him to slip off with a hand settled against the notch above John’s hip, comfortable and familiar by now.

He wakes though when John jostles up and away.

Arthur cracks an eye to watch him.

The other man shuffles on his knees to the hearth, hands rubbing up his cotton-clad thighs for a moment. Then he reaches out and lays a few more logs onto the waning flame, stoking it back to life.

Then he gets up and, on near-silent feet, pads to the door to check that it’s locked. He stands back, looking at it for a long moment, and then pulls the wooden chair from the corner to wedge under the handle.

He leans into the window to pull the curtain back a sliver and peek out. When he’s satisfied, he lets it settle back into place and then crosses back the length of the room, past their spread of bedding and to the back window.

Arthur can see his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

John moves the curtain back and looks through the cracks of the outer shutter, pulled closed by Arthur earlier before they’d gone to bed. Past it, there is open land and then the trees once more, thick and dark. Arthur had surveyed them himself.

The moon shines in a little silver beam through this window, illuminating a strip of John’s face. Arthur watches his Adam’s apple bob and his eyes shift around.

He finally sets the curtain back into place and rubs his hands together apprehensively.

Arthur understands that things are up in the air, but he wonders what the other is so nervous for.

John finishes his perimeter check by crouching down in front of the fire once more, holding his hands close to the flame and blowing softly to feed it oxygen.

Arthur supposes, compared to how they’d lived the two years before meeting up again, things have taken an exciting turn.

They’ve both killed a few men and drawn unwanted attention onto themselves. Maybe being in Dutch’s gang had numbed them both to that way of living. But having taken a step away, it feels heavier now to be back in it.

Something bumps against one of the walls— perhaps their neighbor to the left or someone out on the balcony, out for a late-night walk. It makes John’s head jerk around silently, his long hair shushing over his shoulder.

Arthur’s mouth pulls into a frown at the severe look on his face.

Seeing the other on edge makes him feel on edge. Maybe John’s been under more stress than he’d let on.

Arthur finally reaches out, palm pressing over John’s lower back. He feels stiff for a moment, but then leans back against the touch and looks over his shoulder.

Wordlessly, Arthur pulls him down by the arm until he’s lying next to him again.

John comes without a fight, pushing his forehead into Arthurs's chest almost painfully hard. Arthur runs a hand down his shoulder preparing to nod off again.

There, John settles for all of five minutes.

Then, he tosses and turns. Sits up, pulls out his strop and knife from his belt and bag that’ve been set aside, and settles atop the blankets.

Arthur will have to make due by scooting closer and pressing his face into John’s hip. His underclothes smell faintly old but mostly like him, and Arthur focuses on that to try and get back to sleep on his own.

*

John has already dressed by the time Arthur wakes in the morning. Another overcast day spreads blue light into the room.

John’s boots thunk quietly from bag to bag as he looks over their things, and Arthur sits up groggily.

Charles isn’t present.

“Did you ever go back to sleep?” He asks, and John regards him with a wry look.

“Too restless.” He shrugs. “M’goin’ for a bath, I think.”

Arthur rubs a hand over his eyes and tries to get his bearings. He’d slept, but he feels as if he hasn’t. He squints against the light, looking at the tight line of John’s mouth.

“Y’alright?”

“Course,” John scoffs. Then his shoulders slump and he sighs. “Ain’t sure. Feels like there’s eyes on me, all the time.”

Arthur tries to determine what that means and what he might should say in response, but John steps out the door before he can figure it out.

The younger man has always had a good sense of his surroundings. Ears like a dog. He’s usually the first to know when they’re being trailed, but Arthur can’t figure how that could be in a place like Van Horn, so full of eyes and criminals already.

He hears John trudge down the steps, presumably to speak to the clerk about a bath.

Arthur himself could use a long soak, he reckons. But before that, he has the notion that he ought to pay John some proper attention.

*

John feels as if he’d become spoiled in Saint Denis taking baths nearly every day. Though he’d been happy to be on the road again, he had missed washing up frequently. It'd done a good deal to help his mind stay sharp.

Before their extended stay, he’d never used to go to town for baths all that often, preferring to wash up in camp, or worse, sometimes, head for a nearby stream.

Now, he closes his eyes and relishes in the warm water heated by a fire. He submerges his head and fights down the momentary panic that surges from the depths of his mind. It subsides, and he blows a few bubbles under the surface. The way it warms his eyes through his lids is particularly novel.

He comes back up, and there he sits for a long thirty minutes. The clock on the wall ticks on, and he starts to let his mind wander to the distant past.

He wonders what’s going on at Bright Haven.

It’s a nice memory that he sits in for a moment, recalling sitting out along the north fence and watching the scenery.

The sour memory is tinted by the pleasant events of the future. In reality, he’d been miserable in those moments. Heartbroken, more accurately.

Now, he thinks he’d like to go back and visit, sit out on that north fence next to Arthur, show him a few places in Montreal, go riding with him through the beautiful countryside.

Parade Arthur past the other hands, show off how big and handsome and gruff he is, though John doesn’t imagine many of the other men would be impressed the way he would want them to be.

He grins at the silly thoughts.

Charles would come to visit, be waiting for Arthur and John to come back from their country ride so they could all go up to the big house where Abigail and Ruth would be making something good to eat. Abigail and Arthur would embrace, two friends come back together. Jack would be laughing and playing with a farm dog out on the front porch. He’d remember Arthur, and John would probably tear up at the sight.

Even Samuel is there, somewhere in the peripheral, filling in all the places that John can't.

John would like for these peaceful moments to happen, he thinks. He looks forward to Abigail’s wedding, hopes that they can make it up that way in time.

When John eases out of the bath, a knock comes at the door.

“Occupied,” he calls in annoyance.

A moment later, the door creaks open and a growl grows in John’s throat, remembering the man who’d come in a few days before.

He snatches up his pistol and turns on the intruder, towel wrapped around his waist.

“Swear to god, you better get the hell out,” he snaps.

Arthur’s head pokes around the edge of the door, frown etched into his mouth.

“Sorry, Morgan,” John says gruffly, setting his gun down. Arthur pushes into the room and closes the door quietly behind himself. “Thought you was— well, never mind.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “Someone been givin’ you trouble?”

“Nah. Some feller interrupted my last bath is all. Sorta looked at me funny— but it weren’t— well, anyway.”

Arthur’s face sours further, his bottom lip curling.

“Weren’t nothin’ to get upset over, Morgan. He were drunk and confused, is all.”

Arthur eases down from his mood and then ducks his head, taking a step closer. “What’chu callin’ me ‘Morgan’ for, hm?” He asks.

John remembers his nakedness and presses his lips together. “What you doin’ in here, anyway?” He questions, shifting from foot to foot.

“Thought maybe you might be interested in a little stress relief.”

John’s abdomen twinges and he straightens up. “Did you, now?”

“Been a little while,” Arthur steps closer still, until his boots frame John’s bare feet. “I sorta miss you.”

John loves to hear that, loves to see the heat in Arthur’s eyes when he looks back up at him.

He thinks about Arthur most days— how could he not?

John enjoys traveling with Charles, but part of him has missed the ample alone time they’d become privy to on their own.Maybe that was why Charles had left before either of them had woken.

“S’pose… it’s been too long.” John says, swallowing thickly.

Arthur’s hands clutch at his waist, pushing his towel down and taking hold of his hips, giving him a little push.

“Good. Just lean up against the door here,” he says, softer, directing him back toward the door. “I’ll take care of you.” He presses his lips to John’s ear a moment.

The words thrill John down his spine, imagining hands sliding down and squeezing him, filling his belly with heat, fingers pressing at his most intimate parts.

But they’re in a washroom in a lawless town. And John wants to be truly alone the next time they get up to that sort of fun. He places his hands atop Arthur to still him.

He imagines Arthur wants to go down on him, but Arthur’s done enough.

“There’s somethin’ else I’d rather do,” he tells him.

*

Arthur lets John take him in his mouth, and John relishes every moment he gets to spend doing this. It’s normal, isn’t it, to want to please his lover? Arthur had come in wanting to please him, but nothing is more pleasing to John than letting Arthur have control over him in these moments.

When he’s brought Arthur to the edge and pushed him over it, John follows him without preamble and without the need to touch himself. All the while, he shudders and shakes, and he’s lightheaded as he presses his face into the crease of Arthur’s thigh, all the tension he’d been holding inside of himself suddenly dispelled. He’s warm and cold, all over.

Arthur’s hand unlaces from his hair and he runs them both down over John’s shoulders, petting down his back. He rubs at the top knob of his spine, breathing heavily.

“You ain’t human, John,” Arthur says faintly.

John huffs a tired laugh. What am I, then? He wants to ask but doesn’t quite have the energy to.

Arthur sighs. “You’re… somethin’ better, I reckon.”

Arthur looks as if he wants to say more, but John can’t let it go on. He pinches the soft inside of Arthur’s thick thigh.“Stupidest shit you’ve said, yet,” he huffs. His cheeks are warm.

Arthur reaches his hands down to thumb the wetness from John’s eyes, and John wonders what Arthur feels, holding him like this.

He gets the notion to tell Arthur what he’d thought about earlier, about showing him places in Montreal, about going there to rest.

A sharp knock interrupts that idea, though, makes him flinch back.

Someone tries to push the door open, but Arthur holds it closed with his shoulder. “Occupied,” he barks angrily at their would-be intruder.

John’s hand goes uselessly for his naked hip, gunbelt not to be found. Arthur squeezes his shoulder securely, though, and John feels for a moment as if they’re one being, a solid unit. He stares up at Arthur from the floor as the other’s mouth curls down.

It’s silent for a long, tense moment, and then someone grumbles. Their boots scuff on the floor as they shuffle away, descending down the stairs.

John relaxes back onto his heels. “Can’t get any privacy in this goddamn town,” he scoffs. “Help me up.” Arthur reaches down to pull him up under the arms. John’s knees throb momentarily. He presses into Arthur, kissing him firm on the mouth.

When John turns away to pull his new underwear up his legs, Arthur’s hands land on his backside, squeezing tightly. When he lets go, he brings one palm down quickly in a little smack, and John yelps, looking back at him in bewilderment.

Arthur’s lips quiver into a wide grin. “Too temptin’.” He explains.

John huffs. “Swear to God, Morgan. You’re gonna start somethin’ we ain’t got the time or space to finish.” The smack had gone straight to his dick, making it nearly jump to attention again. It’d also stirred a deep want in him, a little itch asking to be scratched.

“Oh, we’ll finish it,” Arthur tells him lowly. “You can hold me to that.” John swallows, and Arthur goes on. “Soon as we can, we’ll take a day away. Go campin’. Just the two of us. I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

John wants that quite a bit.

“Maybe I’ll give you somethin’, too,” John says with a deviant little grin as he pulls his underwear the rest of the way over his shoulders.

*

They go their separate ways once Arthur takes his own bath.

Arthur goes with Charles up the way, intent on buying a horse one way or the other. A silver Nokota seems to be Charles’ fancy, and John wishes them luck.

He himself stays in town, intent on staying busy so he doesn’t lose his mind to his anxieties once again.

Once they all have a horse, it’ll be easier to set out without the cart, make better time. Go looking for their serpent mound.

“Hey, feller,” the postal clerk greets him. He’s more chipper than he’d been the day previous. “You ever find out what you wanted to know?”

John shuffles up to the counter, leaning into it. “Sorta. Got a little closer, I think. Leona were helpful.” He taps the counter with a finger. “You got any mail for Milton, by chance?”

“I’ll check.”

As the man turns back to his rows and rows of slots, John’s attention is naturally drawn to the wall of the depot. There are old pages hung up advertising shows that’ve long since passed through, fishing vessels that’d been looking for new crew, set sail as far back as 1895.

He finds another of the fliers that Charles had picked up from the stable advertising the need for men for a caravan on a journey to Alberta, leaving in a few week's time.

John’s face sours at the sight of the poster, and he can’t help but feel annoyed at the prospect of it. It’s a good cause— a great cause. But it may be the thing that takes Charles away from them again— far away.

A good opportunity, though, and one he’d never discourage Charles from taking.

It wouldn’t be the last time seeing him, John reasons. Once they’d made a great fortune finding the serpent mound, they could be done with the whole business, and meet up in Montreal. They could all be together, again.

A photograph catches his eye on a piece of parchment nailed to the wall.

At the top of the page in large, bold letters, it reads: Proclamation! From the desk of the Saint Denis Police Department.

These aren’t the words that first catch John’s attention, though.

$1500 Reward for the capture, Dead or Alive, of Lindsay Wofford.

John tears the poster down, staring hard at the grainy, sepia colored photograph of a man standing against a brick wall, his face out of focus and partially hidden behind an old confederate cap.

John’s eye twitches.

“Nothin’ for that name,” the courier announces, returning empty-handed. He glances at the poster in John’s hand. “You a bounty hunter, sonny?” His brow raises. “Don’t see too many bounty hunters come through Van Horn. I’d keep that to myself, I were you.”

“I ain’t,” John says faintly. He pokes a finger at some print on the page. “Says he were last seen near Mossy Flats. Where’s that?”

“Well,” the man rubs a hand across his bare chin. “East of here. Few day's ride, less than a week maybe. Out by the Kamassa.”

“Let me guess; it’s near that old Fort, ain’t it?”

“Fort Brennand, sure.”

John’s mind darkens.

Maybe they ought to head for Canada now. Things get more complicated by the day, it seems. John is tired of trying to outrun things.

A new country, a new start. He’d talk to Arthur about it when the two men returned from the stable.

“Could I get a newspaper?” John asks, passing over a few coins.

“Sure. Looks like some mighty interestin’ things’ve been stirred up in Saint Denis, you know—“ he opens his mouth to go on but then pauses. “Say, what’d that feller want?”

John frowns. “Huh?”

“The feller that gone up there, little while ago? Old guy, sorta scruffy.”

John blinks. The image of the man standing in the bathroom doorway that first night pops into his mind. “Were he… bald, on the very top of his head?” John asks, the hair on his arms already beginning to rise even before he has an answer.

“Same feller. Looked like he might have some business with one of ya’.”

John swallows, turning to look over his shoulders, up and down the street, looking for the man. His fingers itch to pull out a cigarette, or maybe caress the butt of his pistol.

“He say anything?” John asks.

“Nah. Seen him hangin’ around here, before. Thought maybe you knew him.”

“You only just tellin’ me this now?” John demands.

“Hey,” the courier's eyes narrow. “You work in Van Horn, you make it a point to mind your own business.”

It surely makes enough sense to John, but now, what to do.

“See which way he went?”

“Naw,” the courier shrugs. “Only that he went walkin’ down the road south. Didn’t go in the Blackley, or the Inn, though”

John touches his gun belt to make sure it’s where it should be. “Thanks,” he offers, more kindly, and walks away.

The feeling of being watched has returned to him ten-fold. Every hair on his body stands on end, and he gets the feeling he ought to run. Maybe up the road. But the idea of being caught off guard without a mount is also not ideal.

John stands out on the boardwalk to look up and down the road at the few men milling about.

He’d thought he’d been overreacting to the feeling in his gut, that he’d been influenced by the plethora of problems that’d come down on them. Now, he’s cursing himself for ignoring his instinct.

He ducks into the Old Light for only a moment. Etta isn’t working behind the bar, and Leona and Lottie are nowhere to be found either. John would’ve liked to ask any of them if they’d ever seen a man like the one he’s searching out, before.

He heads out the back way of the saloon, to the run-down yards that butt up to the trees and rocky bluffs. All manner of men are to be found here.

Some ask him if he has any tobacco or booze to spare. A few give him leery looks that tell him he ought not to overstay his welcome. One asks if he knows when the next train is coming.

The man isn’t among them, either, and John heads on, moving more frantically by the moment with an urgent need to figure this out so he can end it.

He stops out front of the old sheriff’s department. Up close, it smells earthy and moldy. The boardwalk down the side of it creaks unsteadily beneath his feet, and he eases up to the place where the door had used to be and looks in.

A few men lay about the room, up against the mantle of an old fireplace. The top floor creaks above ominously and John chews on the inside of his cheek.

One man leaned up against a wall, the most sober looking of them all, looks at John with wide pupils and grins.

“You come lookin’ for relief?” He asks, taking a staggering step toward him.

John recognizes the lax look to his features, the ease of all earthly burdens.

The man digs through his pocket and brings out a dirty glass vial “Ten bucks and I’ll give you a shot. Even administer it for ya’.” He shakes the vial at John.

John swallows and ignores the throb in his shoulder. “Nah,” he says. “You… you know an old man with hair at his ears and none on his head?” He tries anyway.

“I know all sorts,” the man laughs, coming another step closer. John eases back from the doorway. “I met everyone in the world. Could introduce you—“

John walks away from the building, fingers twitching at his sides as he heads back for the street. Whoever the man is or was, he stays inside the darkened building and doesn’t follow John out. It’s just as well, because he doesn’t want to get a look at the man's despondent face, for fear of recognizing the empty look to it.

The tide laps gently at the shoreline, the wide river smelling fishy and humid.

John looks down the empty road south that they’d first come in on. There're not many other places to look, but he knows the man must be hiding somewhere. He could’ve been dodging John’s eye through his whole walk through town.

Or maybe he’d left for good, really just a leery old man whose interest had waned.

Water splashes, a fish breaching the surface perhaps. John looks out at the water, at the line of houseboats floating in the small harbor.

The dark shape of the lighthouse cuts through the pale, southward sky. John considers it for a moment.

It looks desolate and abandoned, like everything else in Van Horn.

He finds the path down to it, a set of boards laid into the ground, creating steps.

There are two viewing decks that ring the lighthouse, one near the bottom, and one at the top. The grated flooring is rusty with age, but the hand-railing looks to be intact. There’s a door, up top.

He could get a good look at town from up there, he reckons. Use his binoculars to see places he might not could’ve from the ground.

The rocky outcropping that leads out to the base of the structure is slightly slippery with moss or algae. The air here is moist and brackish, and makes his nose wrinkle up.

As he arrives at the ladder leading up to the lower viewing platform, he begins to consider that maybe he’s not the first one to have this idea.

As he begins to climb upward, he starts to feel foolish for never having considered it before.

“You goddamn fool,” he mutters to himself as a breeze hits the side of his face.

From this angle, he can see that the lighthouse had used to be painted in red and white sections heading up. Over time and with neglect, the place is covered in a layer of rust.

The landing creaks under his weight when he comes to stand upon it, and he frowns at the spray of water lapping up onto the rocks below. He hates to hear the sound of it, and from so high up, but now he has to know if his suspicions are correct.

The door to the lighthouse is unlocked, and he knows for certain that he’s about to walk in on something he ought to have backup with him for. But now that he’s here, it isn’t as if he’ll let himself turn back.

The bottom floor of the lighthouse is darkened, and John has to squint to see anything at first.

Some light trickles in from the windows that dot periodically up the column of the building, and once his eyes have adjusted, he can see that the floor is littered with debris. Old crates, and whatever’d used to be in them, scattered haphazardly around. Paper and wetness and the smell of something like mildew.

A dry space under the stairs looks more intentional than the rest of the floor, and there, John sees a bedroll laid out across a few old, wooden pallets. A few articles of clothing are wadded up around, laundry that needs doing, and there’s a rifle laid over an old, worn saddlebag.

If there’s someone on the top floor of the lighthouse, they’re being quiet as a mouse. John holds his revolver in his palm as he ascends the stairs, metal creaking, giving him away. Still, no one peaks over the edge, and no one starts shooting once his head breaches the gap to look in.

The top floor is blessedly empty, and there, he finds a second bedroll laid out, this one draped in finer skins and a slew of ammunition boxes stacked next to it. John unfolds one of the wrapped skins and finds the wooden stock of a repeater. He doesn’t have to guess that the rest of the skins contain their own weapons.

Goddamn armory, he thinks, and holsters his revolver.

He stoops to dig through the mess of belongings in the bedroll. Old overalls, rough worn clothes. Leather arms wraps and old Civil War garb. Some of it has hand-sewn patches made up, someone who had done a lot of killing on the battlefield.

He finds a yellow bandana, the thing he’d been looking for, and then decides he’s seen enough.

His skin crawls once more and he gets the urge to head back for the room, plant his ass, and wait for Charles and Arthur.

They’d do well to leave tonight, he thinks, Murfree Brood and Roanoke Ridge be damned. They ought to take their chances and head north, and keep going. Maybe they could wait to meet up with the caravan, make some money that way while they head for the border.

The treasure had been a far-fetched idea, anyway. Work was work, and they’d get away from everything that’d plagued them down in the States.

He nearly heads back down but remembers the idea that’d brought him here initially. He could still perhaps glean something from taking a look outside from the viewing platform.

He takes the last, short ladder upward to the door leading outside. A dozen squares of light from the window in the door shine down on gleaming metal leaned against the wall. Someone had left a long range rifle propped there.

“Son of a bitch,” John hisses, compulsively looking back down the ladder to make sure he’s still alone.

He eases outside onto the platform and reels from the cold breeze that hits his face. The door creaks and he steps out onto the grate.

This high up, a look over the edge at the water has his stomach dipping and his head spinning. Water laps gently all around the harbor, but even in its calm, John can feel its danger. The inky black water below is cold and very deep just a few yards out from the shore. If the fall didn’t kill him, the water quickly would.

It’s windy this high up, and something creaks up in the light tower as it catches the air, but he doesn’t pay that any mind. Instead, he takes a few more steps out to look.

As he pulls his binoculars out, he realizes he’s trembling from head to toe, and he’s glad that no one is here to witness it.

He takes a look through and breathes out.

Van Horn lays out before him in it’s entirety. From this high up, he can see all.

*

“C’mon now,” Arthur insists, giving a firm pull on Rachel’s reigns as she prances around in place.

He sits atop Rowan, where he’s been holding onto the other thoroughbred while Charles goes inside to complete the acquirement of his new horse.

When the other brings the silvery gray Nokota back to the mouth of the stable, he stops to adjust his stirrups and then climbs up onto the horse.

Rachel’s nostrils flare out and she snorts, her head turning acutely in the direction of their new addition.

A sinking feeling settles in Arthur’s chest, recognizing the sharp point of her ears and the arch of her neck as she assesses the small stallion.

“Now, don’t you go gettin’ excited,” Arthur grumbles, holding tighter to her reigns. “What’s John gonna think if you get smitten?”

“Huh?” Charles asks as he walks Falmouth out to them. His brow is raised inquisitively.

“Just, uh— m’talkin’ to the horse,” Arthur grumbles. “How’d it go?”

“Well. The owner was glad to be rid of him.” Charles' lip quirks.

“That worry you at all?”

Charles waits a long moment to decide but then shakes his head. “I think it’ll be a good decision.”

“You know best.”

He doesn’t miss the way Rachel turns her head, pushing her nose into the new horse's space to share breath in greeting.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Arthur grumbles, unwilling to wrangle a love-struck mare for the entire ride home.

He’d be more perturbed if Falmouth weren’t at least a good three hands shorter than the two mares. He won’t be forcing himself on them any time soon, at least.

As they start on the road back to Van Horn, the stallion takes a sniff at Rowan’s haunches and gets a swift kick to the chest for it.

“Jesus, sorry Arthur,” Charles says to him, but Arthur only chuckles.

“Don’t mind it. It’ll be good for him to get put in his place, I reckon.” He leans down with his free hand to pat at Rowan’s neck, one of her ears swiveling back to listen to him. “That’s a good girl,” he tells her.

Rachel kicks at Falmouth too, but with not near enough vigor for Arthur’s liking. John won’t be pleased when he hears about it.

When Van Horn comes into view, the window to their room at the depot is darkened, and Arthur wonders if he’ll find John asleep, or back at the blackjack table. All things considered, it’s the best-case scenario.

*

John uses his binoculars to take a long look at Van Horn from his new birds-eye-view.

From this distance, he can see the rooftops of each building down the main street, all the way out to the end of the pier where a man sits fishing with his dog.

It almost looks calm, like a normal town, from this distance. You can’t see the tired faces of the men or the weariness of the working women. The rattiness of the dogs or the bodies slouched inside the buildings.

He pauses when the courier is in view, looking at the top floor.

Two men are stood in front of their door. For a split second, he thinks it must be Charles and Arthur, returned from the stable.

He can tell quickly by the head of long, shaggy hair on one of the men that it isn’t either of his companions. One is crouched down, fiddling with the doorknob.

John bites down on his lip. He prepares to rush from the lighthouse to confront them down the barrels of his pistols, but then he sees three horses down the road from the north. Two large, dark horses, and a prancing little grey. Charles and Arthur.

John’s heart picks up pace and he looks back to the deck of their room in time to see the tail end of the blonde man disappear through the door. It swings closed behind them.

John’s hands quiver as he shoves his binoculars away.

There’s no way to make it back down the steps and up the road in time. No way to warn them of what they’re about to walk into.

He cups his hands around his mouth, takes a deep breath.

“Arthur!” He shouts, loud as he can. “Arthur!” He repeats it over and over, brings his binoculars back up to look.

Neither man gives any sign of hearing him as they tie the horses outside their lodgings.

“Fuck!”

He takes a shuddering breath, looking all around. He could take his pistol, start firing shots into the harbor. Maybe that’d get someone’s attention.

Then, from that spawns a better idea.

*

Arthur and Charles climb the steps up to their room, intent on changing into cleaner clothes and going to meet John at the Old Light.

Perhaps there’ll be someone else there with insight into the mound, or maybe they’ll just have a pleasant night of drinking and cards. Arthur wouldn't mind playing a few rounds of blackjack. Maybe he could even get the better of John, for once.

When they’re at the top of the steps, the door to their lodgings opens, and Arthur expects to see John come out.

Instead, a man appears, holstering his pistol into his belt. Another follows him, this one brandishing a bit of rope.

Arthur only pauses a moment, his brain coming to a quiet understanding as he takes in the scene.

Before he can tell his feet to, he charges the first of the men, the bigger one, hands finding a home fisted in the front of his shirt.

The man has the audacity to look shocked at their meeting, and he fumbles around for his pistol on his belt. Arthur doesn’t give him the chance.

“What’d you do?” Arthur demands lowly, shoving back on the man and wedging him into the banister. “Huh?”

Behind him, he sees the vague shape of Charles taking the other, smaller man down, in a full body tackle.

“Get the hell off—“ the large man growls. He’s big, but he’s old, and he doesn’t have the rage that Arthur does.

Charles curses and Arthur takes a glance at him. He’s got the smaller man locked hand to hand, and by all accounts that fight should be over. He can see that the other is younger, smaller, and frailer-looking. But he's feisty in his scrapping. Charles forces him back into the dimness of their room, out of view.

Our room, Arthur thinks. Had John been in there? He has to believe he hadn’t been. The two men had come out unscathed. It couldn’t be that they’d caught John unawares.

It can’t be that John’s in there, right now.

“There more of you?” Arthur demands, shoving back on the other man again. He intends to get him over the banister, dangle him, threaten him.

“Go to hell!” The man spits in his face. As Arthur pulls back his fist to hit him, the man jerks forward and cracks his forehead right into Arthur’s with a horrible sound.

The force makes Arthur reel, and he lets go of him. As he staggers to a knee, he can see in the room that Charles has the other man in a choke, just inside the doorway. He can’t see further than that.

He looks back to the man against the banister, who looks just as winded and shocked as he does. The skin on his forehead is split, and Arthur knows his own must be too.

Arthur fumbles for his pistol and so does the other man. He wonders where John is, if he really could be in there, slain.

The railing at the man's hip cracks away, and Arthur thinks for a moment that it’s broken under his weight.

Then, the thunderclap of a rifle reaches them and Arthur sees that the man’s hand has gone red and dripping, and the banister behind him is more than broken— it’s splintered to pieces and gone.

The man cries out, holding up his hand to his horrified eyes to look at the mangled remains of it. There is no railing to hold him back from falling over the edge of the deck in his panic, and he disappears from Arthur’s view, followed by a sickening thud. His cries don’t stop there, though.

Arthur crawls across the deck, still unsure of his own balance, and peers over the edge.

The man thrashes around on the ground, pieces of railing beneath him, but manages to push to his feet.

He stumbles away, west toward the road out of town. Arthur watches in bewilderment as he makes for the small junkyard behind the farrier’s building, tripping headfirst over the white picket fence just in time to miss the next shot, which blows through the corner of the building. Dust clouds up in thick puffs and through that, Arthur makes out the man stumbling onward, to the other side, his panicked cries growing fainter as he runs until he's out of sight.

Arthur turns to look around Van Horn but can see nobody standing in the street. Rather, everyone else is looking around, the same as him, many of them with their own arms drawn. Others run for cover. Eyes peer out of the Old Light to see what’s happening.

No more shots come, though, and when Arthur looks again, there’s no sign of the wounded man. He might have fallen or might have already made for the woods.

He crawls to the doorway of their room and looks in frantically.

Charles has the young man pinned in a headlock, but the two have gone strangely still at the sound of the shot. The stranger, who Arthur sees now to be only a kid, has gone wide-eyed and slack.

“John—“ Arthur asks, voice tight. “He in here?”

“Don’t think so,” Charles says quickly, and Arthur nearly collapses onto the ground in relief. Instead of doing that though, he slouches against the doorframe to catch his breath and slow his heart.

“The hell is goin’ on?” He pants, meeting Charles’ eyes again. He looks at the kid, whose mouth has gone tight and eyes gone narrow and cold. “Who are you?” He demands.

The kid averts his eyes in lieu of turning his face away.

“Asked you a question,” Charles growls, squeezing tight around the kid's throat.

“Ain’t tellin’ you shit,” the kid bites out, thrashing once more but giving up just as quickly.

They’d deal with the kid soon enough, but Arthur only has one question on his mind for the moment, which is John’s whereabouts.

He looks out over the edge of the deck again.

There is someone— the only person out in the open, now— jogging up the road.

Arthur does collapse against the deck, now, finally deeming it safe enough to rest. It’s John, coming to meet them.

Chapter Text

Sixteen

The man that Arthur had been tussling with goes tumbling over the side of the upper deck, and John follows him down with his crosshairs. He thinks for a moment that that’s it, that it’s over, but the man is still moving, still alive.

He flails about and staggers to his feet.

“Shit,” John hisses. He chambers his next round, and when he gets his scope back up, the balding man is heading across the street. As he attempts to vault the picket fence of the junkyard, John takes aim just before him. He sees the red dust of the brick building plume out with his shot, but the man keeps going.

John shoulders the sniper he’d taken from the top floor and takes the steps down the column of the lighthouse two at a time. He bails down the ladder, his fear of the height and the water all but gone. He tries not to trip over his own feet as he runs across the wet rock, slipping twice. He’d cut his hands up on the dark stone if he were not wearing his gloves.

The entire town has scattered from the streets, eyes looking all around for the assailant. It seems no one suspects him as he runs up the road, eyes still on high up windows. He tucks the rifle under his coat as he approaches the depot. 

“Say,” the courier calls when he hears John’s boots thump onto the boardwalk. He peeks over the mail counter, holding his hat on with his hand. “What was all that shootin’? You see anything?”

“Oh— No,” John says, only faltering a moment to regard the man. “Think it’s over, though.”

He takes the stairs and then comes to a halt when he sees Arthur there leaning against the railing, still out of breath. A place on his forehead runs with blood, down along either nostril and to his chin, but it seems to be drying already. All things considered, he looks clearheaded, and he’s awake. He meets John’s eye.

John comes to stand in front of him, stooping and leaning against his own thighs as he catches his breath.

“Please tell me that were you shooting?” Arthur says tiredly.

A breathless laugh crackles out of John, and he offers both hands to Arthur, who takes them, and he pulls him to his feet.

“Where’d that bastard go?” John asks, looking over the missing banister. The junkyard is empty, save for a few confused men milling about, looking at the chunk of brick missing from the farrier's building.

“Forest, I’m sure. If he ain’t bleedin’ out somewhere between here and there.” Arthur turns to him, looking him up and down. “You got his shootin’ hand.”

John’s fairly sure that he blew the thing clear off, or at least most of it. The man wouldn’t be drawing a gun anytime soon, maybe not ever again. At least, not with his right hand.

“Were he a raider?” John asks.

“Who else would he be?” Arthur scoffs. He points into the room. “Charles’ got one of ‘em, though.”

“Good,” John says, rolling his shoulders to dispel some of the tension bunched there. “Maybe he’ll have some answers for us.”

“Might be difficult,” Arthur murmurs, following him into the room.

John takes a look at the man Charles has got trussed up in a wooden chair and falters.

“This is just a kid,” John waves a hand.

“Like I said,” Arthur sighs deeply, letting the door shut behind them.

Said kid bristles up at all the attention suddenly on him.

He’s got a wily look to his young face, eyes a pale grey blue and ringed in dark, hollowed circles. He’s skinny as a rail and short to boot. His skin is fair, somewhere underneath the smudges of dirt or soot. His cornsilk hair hangs straight as a pin, greasy at the sides of his face. He can't be more than sixteen.

“Can we interrogate a kid?” John asks quietly, turning to Arthur for clarification.

“I ain’t a kid,” the kid says in an admittedly deeper voice than John had been expecting out of him. Deeper than his own voice, even. He second guesses if perhaps the kid is telling the truth. 

They ignore him, either way.

“You alright, Charles?” Arthur asks as he trudges to the cot to slouch down onto it.

The other man stands at the far wall behind their tied-up aggressor, his hands resting on his belt as he waits for the two of them to settle down.

“All good,” he says, glaring at the back of the kid’s head. He rubs at a little dark spot on his forearm. “Little shit bit me, though.”

The kid snickers, though there doesn’t look to be a shred of humor in his features. John stares at the boys face long and hard, at the downward curl of his lip and the whites of his eyes, the bit of sweat dripping down one of his temples despite the cool room, and determines that he’s scared shitless.

“Where were you?” Arthur asks, drawing John's attention away.

John takes one last peek out the window. Their neighbor and the courier are stood on the upper deck, looking in bewilderment at the place where the railing used to be.

“Were in the lighthouse,” John explains, letting the curtain fall back into place. He takes a seat next to his beau and bumps their knees together just barely.

“The hell were you doin’ up there?”

John waves a hand. “It’s a long story. But, lucky I were.”

“Dumb luck,” Arthur mutters.

“It’s the only sort I have.” John scoffs tiredly. Then he redirects his attention back to the boy, who watches them all with flitting eyes. “You,” he says, pointing. “You the one stayin’ up in that lighthouse? You and the old feller? You’re Raiders.”

The kid stares pointedly at the door, brow furrowed up in hard knots. His skin, if possible, has gone paler.

“I’m talkin’ to you, boy,” John says as he stands back to his feet, trying to muster up some of the anger he’d felt before.

The kid only blinks, eyes staying on the door.

“He ain’t comin’ back for you,” John says. The kid’s shoulders jerk upward in a silent scoff. “Jesus, what’re they doin’ sendin’ a kid to do their dirty work, huh?”

“I ain’t a kid,” the kid barks again. “I’s twenty-one.”

“Well then,” John says, slipping his knife from his belt in one fluid movement. He stoops down to the side of the chair. “You’re a man after all. S’pose I won’t have to feel too bad cuttin’ you up.” He gets his own grungy fingers around one of the kid's hands tied at the back of the chair.

“What’re you doin’?” The kid grits, jerking his head around to try to see over his shoulder.

“Start with the pinky? What say you?” John asks. He can feel Arthur’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his head, but he keeps his own on the boys.

“You won’t,” the kid says, though John can see by his expression that he’s already fallen into anxiety.

“Ain’t too bright, kid,” Charles sighs. “I were you, I’d’ve said I were fifteen.”

The boy’s expression is unreadable.

“I’d start talkin’, me,” John says, singling out the kid's pinky and bringing his blade to a knuckle. “Just tell us exactly what’s been goin’ on. Wouldn’t put my neck on the line for the likes of your party.” The blade touches, just barely, to the kid's skin, and his hand flinches back.

John reminds himself, for one repulsive moment, of Dutch van der Linde. The difference, he also reminds himself, is that he won't stoop to actually doing it. Not really. Not anymore. Even if he feels that the likes of this kid, who's supposedly a man, might well deserve it.

He wouldn't like how Arthur would look at him if he did, anyway. Wouldn't like looking at himself, little as he does.

The bed creaks under Arthur’s weight, but John doesn’t break eye contact with the kid.

“C’mon son,” Arthur says placatingly. “You know ‘bout what he did to King. Ain’t no reason he’d hold back for the likes of you.”

That seems to trigger something in the boy's mind. He hisses and lets his eyes fall shut in defeat.

“We’s Raiders, sure,” he murmurs. John doesn’t miss the hard, angry line of his jaw, despite his calm voice.

“And you’re here, why? ‘Cause you heard we was?”

The kid scoffs. “Warren found you, is all.”

Arthur speaks up. “That's your friend who went runnin’ with his tail between his legs?”

“We ain’t friends,” the kid spits, turning his pale eyes on Arthur. His jaw works back and forth. “He’s just one of the heads. He saw you, few nights ago. In the washroom.” The kid laughs. “Walked in and there you was. Fell right into his lap, far as he were concerned.”

John drops the kid's hand, his knuckles bumping into the wood of the chair.

“So, that were the balding man, huh? Alright, what else?”

The boy hesitates, eyes flicking between him and Arthur. He tries to look over his shoulder, back at Charles, but Charles has moved behind him, out of sight, prepared to overtake him should he try to escape.

“Fine,” he relents, his mouth turning downward. “M’dead either way. Fuck ‘em. The fort got word from Lemoyne last week. Sent scouts all along the ridge, after that. Here, Annesberg, even up near Amberino.” He meets John’s eye once more, gaze drawing down his scarred cheek. “S’posed to be lookin’ out for you. Bring you back to Wofford. Ain’t figure we’d actually come across you, though.”

“You come from that fort out near the Kamassa? Wofford’s there, ain’t he?” John demands, feeling his lip curl up in anger.

“John?” Arthur grunts.

John pushes up to dig through his things. He pulls the wanted poster out and hands it to Arthur.

“Wofford. Right here, the entire time.” He glares at the kid, even as he sits back down on the end of the cot. “You plannin’ to bring me to him alive, were you? To pay for killin’ his rotten brother?”

The kid scoffs nonchalantly, but gives away his unease as he pulls uselessly at his ties. “Weren’t me— Warren wanted to bring you in hisself. He’s on the down and out with Wofford. Guess he figured Wofford’d feel thankful to him, and that maybe he’d go back to bein’ his right hand again.”

“Ranks.” John rolls his eyes. “He got you thinkin’ you’re in some sorta war? Fightin’ the good fight?”

“I ain’t fightin’ their wars, or anyone’s— I fight for myself, mister,” the kid sneers.

“If you run with them, you’re fightin’ with them. That’s how it works.” John retorts. “What else?”

The kid’s frown turns gradually into a grimace. “He were comin’ to get you himself, earlier. Thought he could catch ya' in the washroom. But he ain’t know the two of you was in there, together.” His eye flicks to Arthur, and John can tell by the look on his face that he knows just what John and Arthur had intended to get up to behind the closed door.

John’s lip curls into a snarl. “What— you watchin’ us from the lighthouse? Little creep.”

The kid scoffs again, looking away, but he at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “Were just supposed to be observin’. Warren ain’t want to come up against either of you big‘ens on his own, so I come with him, this time.” He sighs. “Not that I’s much help,” he mutters, quieter.

The kids speech is all southern Lemoyne, thick, rural accent lacing through his words.

“And I weren’t watchin’. I coulda shot you myself, back then!” He hisses.

“Well, maybe you ought to have. Look where you’re sittin’, now.” John says darkly.

“What'chu gonna do, huh?” The kid's voice rises, and he knocks back against the chair, the front legs lifting off the floor for an instant. “You gonna kill me? Torture me?” He looks between John and Arthur. “Or do somethin’ perverse?”

John about flies off the cot in anger, but Arthur levels him with a look.

“No, boy,” Arthur sighs deeply. He stands, and the kid shrinks back into the chair at his intimidating size. “We’re gonna ignore you,” he says, and turns his weary eyes on Charles. “Need to discuss some things.”

Charles steps from behind the kid and heads with Arthur for the door.

“Watch him, will you, John?”

“Course,” John says, perching himself at the end of the bed and pulling out his strop.

“Ignore me,” the kid repeats, then snickers bitterly. “Ignore me. That ain’t nothin’.”

*

“Pretty cut and dry,” Charles murmurs as he puffs on a cigarette. He and Arthur lean against the side of the railing that’s still intact. Arthur wishes that he could have a little drag of the thing, himself, but abstains.

Van Horn seems to have settled back into its typical dreary self.

“He’s a kid, but he’s a Raider, too,” Arthur says carefully. “We… We could just kill ‘em, if you wanted.”

Charles gives him an incredulous look. “Do you want to kill him?”

Arthur bites down on his cheek. Because no, he doesn’t. The kid may be running with a nasty group of people, but there’s something about seeing the scrawny brat tied helplessly to a chair, weather-beaten and dirty, that inspires a hateful sort of pity in his chest.

“Looks like he weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet.” Arthur sighs. “Why we always get stuck with these kinda dilemmas?” He leans heavily onto the railing. “Why couldn’t we get stuck with the other one? Be easy to kill him.” The so-called Warren, the rest of his name still unknown. Someone who’d had his weapon drawn and ready to kill any of them. Who’d wanted to kill John when he was unaware in the bath.

“That’s life,” Charle says, offering a small grin. “I think we could dump the kid in the woods. Give him a chance to make it to a town while we make our exit. If he manages to tell Wofford or the law about us, we’d already be long gone.”

“Sure, maybe.” Arthur frowns, thinking of Wofford.

He knows with a clarity that’s been awarded him over the last few months that John is sitting in their room at the end of the bed, stewing over grand ideas about setting out to find the militia leader. After a confrontation such as they’ve had, Arthur is hard-pressed to blame him.

Arthur grunts. “You think we ought to…”

“Go after Lindsay Wofford?” Charles finishes for him. “I think the better question is, would you be able to convince John to let it go after that other one had you pinned?”

______________________________

“You know women ain’t allowed to vote?” Andy asks Arthur one evening after their schooling.

“Huh?” Arthur frowns down at a rock that he kicks out of the road. It goes sailing into the underbrush. “What you mean?” He’s only recently learned what voting is, himself.

“That’s what they told us in school today,” Andy says.

Andy is a boy who lives down the same road as Arthur. He’s a few years older, but he tolerates Arthur well enough to walk home together. Arthur thinks that they’re sort of friends.

Arthur likes Andy better than his other peers. While the rest of Arthur’s schoolmates grow with each passing year into people unrecognizable to him, Andy still makes sense. The boy still takes care of his little sister and helps his mother cook and clean, all while his father is away in the city, or so Andy says. Arthur’s begun to wonder about that last part, but he’d never question the other about it to save his pride.

“That don’t seem right,” Arthur comments.

“I’m glad to hear you say it,” Andy drawls, frowning down at his own old boots. “Don’t tell no one… but sometimes, I think my momma understands things better than anyone else 'round here. Why shouldn’t ladies vote?” 

Arthur thinks about that, and he’d have to agree.

He pictures her for a moment, standing in front of the kitchen counter, slicing into a loaf of bread and humming a hymn she’d heard in church.

“Your daddy’s gettin’ out of jail soon, ain’t he?” Andy asks, quieter.

Arthur sighs with regret. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. But… Since I started runnin’ deliveries for the general. Maybe… well, maybe soon.”

“That’s good,” Andy says.

Andy knows a bit about Arthur’s plan. To save up the extra coins that Mister Hillerman purposefully slips him, so that one day, hopefully soon, he and his mother will be able to leave together. He’d hoped he would be able to save enough so they could go before his father came home from jail, but it’s looking unlikely.

“I’m headin’ into the general, myself. You alright?” Andy asks him.

“Sure,” Arthur puffs his chest out a bit. He’s just fine to walk home alone, he’s nearly twelve, after all.

Andy works the general store, too, as a stock boy. Arthur sees him there when he comes to pick up deliveries, along with Roy, one of Andy’s peers.

Roy meets Andy out on the front porch of the shop as they pass, and Arthur watches the ease with which they move around one another. Andy and Roy have been friends for a while, Arthur knows.

They must be good friends, Arthur thinks, with how they smile and embrace so easily. He does think it’s odd that they only act that way after they slip into the alleyway when no one's looking. His young brain is mature enough to realize that it must mean that they’re hiding, but it doesn’t occur to him why until later on.

Months later, Andy doesn’t come to school one day, or any day after, and neither he nor Roy shows up to the general store. The word around the school yard and town is that the two were inverts, and had faced punishment for it.

Arthur’s father is out of jail by that time, and he makes sure that Arthur knows that they were killed off a horse trail one evening in the east wood. Arthur’s father had seen it himself.

The way Lyle Morgan tells it, you’d think he was the one who'd done it. And the details he gives Arthur, gory and larger than life, well, Arthur is fearful to disbelieve him.

Horrible business.

“That’s what happens to you,” his father tells him in a low, warning voice. “When you’re inverted. And you’d do well to remember it, boy.”

Arthur understands by now what his father thinks of him; too soft and too emotional. He teases Arthur for drawing, so Arthur hides all his paper and journals. He doesn’t like for Arthur and his mother to chat, so they stay quiet when he’s around. He tells Arthur what he thinks about it all when they’re alone. And that’s when he tells Arthur just what he thinks about inverts, too.

Arthur’d been too dense to figure that that’s what Andy and Roy had been, but now that he knows, he can’t see why it would be so bad. Bad enough to get killed over. They were good friends— to each other and to the other kids. Helpful to the general owner, to their neighbors. Andy had helped him with his spelling a few times on their walks home, pointing out road signs and lettering painted onto shop windows.

Arthur goes to Andy’s house one day on the way home from school to ask his mother about him.

“Andy ain’t dead,” she tells him with a hard line to her mouth. “He ain’t. I don’t care what your daddy says. He left town, is all. He and a friend. To make somethin’ more of themselves. And that’s more than I can say about your father.”

Arthur apologizes for bothering her.

He wonders who he ought to believe. He wonders if Andy’s mother is only lying to herself and to him, imagining a world where her son lives on with his friend in another town.

He wonders if his father is lying. Surely the man isn’t capable of killing someone, a couple of kids, no less. No matter what the kid had been up to with his friend.

His father was only in jail for cheating at cards and starting fights.

Still, Arthur’s young mind is haunted by images of Andy, disemboweled in a ditch somewhere in the east wood, buzzards swarming overhead, and maggots gathering in his skin. All pictures that his father made up to scare him. Surely. He doesn’t want to imagine that all those things could happen to someone over something as benign as kissing their friend.

He wants to ask his mother about it when he returns home, but talking about either boy seems to make her sad, but he isn’t sure if it’s because she knows that they’re dead or because they’d been queer. He wonders what she really makes of it all. The next time his father goes out drinking, he’ll ask her.

He chooses to believe that Andy and Roy are somewhere else now. Hands at a stable. Paper boys in Boston or Chicago or New York.

No matter what’s happened, Arthur knows deep down that something isn’t right about his father. Ever since he got back from his short stint in jail, he’s become worse.

______________________________

“You’re lucky you’re such a pitiful sight,” John mutters in the kid’s ear as he and Charles turn his chair to face a corner.

The kid has gone mostly quiet since their initial questioning, but John sees the thin tendons in his arms tighten around the back of the chair, pulling once on his binds and then giving up.

There’s not much more that they can glean from the boy, other than his name, which he refuses to give.

They already know that Wofford is holed up in Fort Brennand with the rest of his most trusted associates. They know that Warren is one of the high-ranking members, though they can’t tell if Warren is supposed to be his first or last name.

They know that tomorrow, they’ll set out for the fort, which they are all in begrudging agreement on. It would be a waste to let the vermin gathered at Brennand go uncalled upon.

John harbors plenty more questions for the boy in his mind, but it doesn’t seem like any use asking them tonight when the youth has gone so quiet.

He wants to know how a kid came to join the Raiders. He’d been under the impression that it was an old man’s club and that it was slowly but surely dying out. It and its bigoted opinions on all manner of living.

When he and Arthur lie down on the bed atop the sheet to try to catch a bit of sleep, John keeps his eye cracked on the back of the kid's head, wary that the youngster will try to pull something unexpected. Maybe he’d catch Charles unaware, slit his and Arthur’s throats in their sleep.

“He ain’t you, Marston,” Arthur had murmured in response when John had shared his worry with him in a quiet voice.“Go to sleep.”

Then Arthur had flipped onto his side and pressed a thick arm over John’s chest, blocking his view of the kid and making him feel decidedly more grounded.

John dozes, but wakes briefly when Charles’ voice murmurs in a low grumble.

“Don’t think they’re comin’ for you, kid.”

John’s brow furrows up and he listens to the long silence after Charles’ statement. Then, to his surprise, he hears the kid swallow thickly.

“I know they ain’t,” the kid murmurs, matter-of-fact. His chair creaks, but no other sound comes from him.

After a little while, Charles shifts to get up, and John listens to his quiet steps across the floor as he paces to the other side of the room. He rifles through some of their belongings and then picks something large off the floor, bringing it to the back corner where the kid sits.

John would sit up to look, but he’d risk waking Arthur. So he listens to what sounds like fabric rearranging itself.

Charles sits back down at his original post, and for a while, John thinks that might be it.

Then, quiet as a mouse, the kid’s deep, tired voice. “Thanks, mister.”

John nearly can’t believe his ears, and he does strain his neck to try to see over Arthur’s arm, but to no avail. It looks as if nothing’s changed.

Some time later, when he gets up for his own watch, he sees that Charles has placed one of his cases of luggage in front of the boy to prop his feet on. The kid’s head is tucked against his chest, finally at enough ease to sleep.

*

“C’mon boy, time to go,” Arthur says, hoisting the kid up from his chair the next morning.

The kid comes up with a little wobble to his step, and it seems his ornery energy has returned with a nights rest.

“You don’t think it’ll look suspicious cartin’ around a captive?” He sneers.

John gives him a little knock in the shoulder, and the kid hops to the side to keep his balance.

“Not if we tell them you’re a Lemoyne Raider.” John retorts. “You want that? They’ll tear you limb from limb.”

The kid seems to know it for the truth, and his mouth snaps shut.

“S’what I thought.” John sniffs. “C’mon.”

Charles had gone out early that morning to the lighthouse to retrieve what he could from the Raider's stash. He'd brought back a few fine weapons and a few extra clothes for the boy. There wasn't much money to take, but there had been a bit of whisky.

With Rowan and Rachel hooked once more to the cart, Arthur takes his place on the driver's bench, the suspension creaking under his weight.

“So long,” John says to the courier in passing. “We’re off.”

“Stop back through sometime,” the man says with a wave and an easy smile. John doesn’t have much love for Van Horn, but he thinks he might return one day to greet a few familiar faces.

“S’pose you can find good people wherever you go,” he says idly to Charles as he climbs into the back of the buckboard, across from the kid.

The kid looks more comfortable this morning, his feet loosely fastened together and his hands tied in front of him instead of behind. Perhaps having a bit to eat had helped his mood as well. A bit of venison jerky passed his way as the rest of them ate from the last of a loaf.

The kid had been suspicious of the food at first. When John had tried to take it back from him, he’d hurriedly stuffed his mouth full. Since then, he seems to have registered that he isn’t being disposed of— at least, not yet.

Charles sits atop his new mount, and when the cart starts rolling, Falmouth falls into step next to it, eager to follow after the pair of mares.

It doesn’t take but a few paces from the postal depot before Charles shifts uncomfortably in his saddle. Then, he and his saddle slip down off the other side of the horse.

“Whoa,” John stands to look over Falmouth’s back at Charles, who landed with a foot still caught in the stirrup. “Y’alright, big guy?” John asks.

“Shit,” Charles curses, untangling his foot and climbing to his feet. He scowls at Falmouth, who’s now preoccupied with keeping up with the mares. Arthur pulls the cart to a hasty stop.

“Seems that horse has already picked up a trick or two,” Arthur says, barely disguised humor in his voice. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Taima never puffed out her belly.” Charles sighs. “Maybe I ought to see about one of them double-girth saddles.”

“He just needs time to adjust. M’sure he’ll like you a lot more than that stuffy English feller.” Arthur assures him.

Charles sighs deeply. “Sure.” As he readjusts Falmouth’s saddle, he prods gently at his belly, making sure he isn’t puffing out as he cinches the girth.

John can see the kid hiding his amusement in his shoulder. He thinks about ribbing him, but then figures that that’ll get them nowhere. He looks to the front of the cart to see Falmouth sharing breath with Rachel once more, and a scowl works its way onto his face.

“Ya’ could put him in his place, you know,” John says haughtily. He has no hope that his horse will recognize his discontent.

“Sorry, John,” Charles grunts as he tries to lead Falmouth away by the bridle.

“Ain’t your fault. Think Rachel likes ‘em right back.” John huffs before settling back down into the cart. He sees the kid's shoulders jerk once in a scoff. “What?”

The kid’s grey eyes flash up to look at him, brow raised. “What sorta name is Rachel for a horse?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” John says through his teeth.

“You know, Marston, I were wonderin’ the same damn thing,” Arthur offers from the front of the wagon. He must be able to feel John’s seething glare on the back of his head, because he tosses a teasing grin over his shoulder.

John would scold him for making him look incompetent in front of their captive, but that’d just make the situation worse.

“A younger man named her,” John says, a thinly veiled request to keep Jack’s name out of the conversation.

“I see,” Arthur says. “I wonder where he got the name from.”

“One of them books, no doubt.”

“The name Rachel is in the bible, ain’t it?” Charles asks.

“Hell if I know. I ain’t read it, myself.” John says. He takes another glance at the kid and notices his eyes shift away, down to the worn baseboards of the cart. “Can you read, kid?”

The boy looks as if he can’t decide whether he ought to answer or not, but if John knows youth, it’s that they can’t resist bragging about their skills.

“Can read some,” he says flippantly, looking out the back of the cart at the road that’s started to recede behind them again. He presses his lips together, and John knows he’s got him thinking about something other than his predicament now.

“My momma used to tell me bible stories,” Arthur murmurs from the front, drawing both John and the kid’s attention back.

“I thought she ain’t know how to read,” John says, more subdued.

“She didn’t. But she remembered the ones her ma told her. Her momma probably ain’t know how to read neither.” Arthur says. “My momma had a good memory.”

If Arthur got his best traits from her, then she surely had, John agrees silently.

As they make their way up the road out of town, the shape of a person shifts in the shadow of the abandoned train station.

It’s Leona stood up against its old, worn wall, a lit cigarette in her hand.

“Hey,” She calls, waving a lithe hand at them. She walks out to meet them on the road. “Keep walkin’, don’t strain them horses on this hill.” She walks alongside them, looking over their cart, a little crease between her brows. “Y’all leavin’ town, then?” She asks.

“‘Fraid so, ma’am,” Arthur replies to her.

She looks from him to Charles and then to John in the back of the cart.

“Who’s he?” She asks, nodding her head at the kid, looking down her nose at him. She notices his wrists bound in front of him, and then looks between the rest of them once again, unsure.

John watches the kid’s eyes meet hers briefly. He might expect the kid to sneer at her, but to John’s surprise, he looks caught off guard, pale eyes wide, and then ducks his face back down so his hair falls into a curtain. John blinks, realization dawning on him.

“He’s a raider,” Arthur says humorously from the front seat.

“A raider?” Leona’s brows jump in surprise, and then she takes a longer look at the kid. A little grin spreads on her mouth. “They ain’t so scary then, is they?” She smacks a hand against her thigh in amusement.

“This is just a little one,” Arthur huffs. “But he’s gonna help us find the rest of ‘em. Whether he wants to or not.”

Leona’s face turns serious. “Y’all goin’ out to Fort Brennand then, ain’t you?” She says solemnly.

“Afraid so,” John sighs. “Got some personal business with them. We intend to finish it.”

“Well…” she bites down on her lip. “Be careful. Them woods…”

“We will,” Arthur assures her.

“What about…” She frowns, looking back up at Charles. “What about that caravan? You comin’ back through to go with ‘em?”

John takes a glance at Charles, noting his quietness. Charles watches her, his face a storm of emotion. He slows Falmouth to a plod, and then stops altogether. Arthur keeps the cart rolling, and John watches the two discreetly from his peripheral.

Leona steps closer, her mouth moving in quiet words. Charles’ face is severe in a new kind of way that John isn’t sure he’s seen before.

“I’ll be damned,” John mutters, looking to Arthur. “You think they’s sweet on one another?”

“They only met the one time,” Arthur hums, keeping his eyes decidedly on the road.

John looks back, less discreetly now, and even the kid has seemed to take renewed interest.

Leona reaches up and pats Charles' knee twice, then steps away. She gives them all a long last look and a wave, and then goes trudging back down the hill into Van Horn.

“I seen men fall in love in a matter of moments,” Arthur says with a shrug. “They’s usually fools, though. Charles ain’t no fool.”

The kid’s eyes blink slowly, watching Leona march back to town.

“What do you care, kid?” John asks. “You got eyes for her, too?”

“No,” the kid says, too quickly. John takes another look at him and laughs.

“You’re kiddin’ yourself.” He scoffs. “Ain’t no way a woman like that’d ever look at a kid like you.”

“I ain’t a kid,” says the kid. “And she’s a whore, ain’t she?”

“Whore’s have standards too, boy,” John says venomously. “And Raiders ain’t makin’ the cut.”

Charles catches up to them, Falmouth prancing under him.

“Everythin’ alright?” Arthur is the first to ask.

“Fine,” Charles says. “She were just asking about the caravan, is all.”

“She goin’ with ‘em?”

“She was,” Charles frowns, looking at the road ahead of them. “Before her sister was taken. She’d planned to go with Lottie and Etta. Start a new life. Now…”

“Shit,” Arthur sighs. “Can’t blame her.”

John can’t either. He isn’t sure he would be able to leave so soon. Not if someone he loved were missing, possibly at the hands of a sadistic family. Not if he still had hope of seeing them again.

“You wanna stay in Van Horn?” Arthur asks Charles out of the blue. It takes both John and Charles by surprise. “What if you miss the window for the caravan?”

“It’ll be alright. Think I’ll make it back in time.” Charles waves him off. “And besides. If there’s a chance of knocking Wofford off his throne… It’s worth taking. I wouldn’t let you two do it on your own.”

John watches the kid looking at Charles curiously through the corner of his eye once more. He thinks to say something snarky to him, but once again thinks better of it. It’s not worth the trouble.

He also wants to ask Charles if there is something between him and the woman, but he wouldn’t pry, especially in front of foul company.

“Taken?” The kid asks quietly.

John thinks of telling him to shut up, not appreciating a Raider of all people inquiring about other people's tragedies. He bites his tongue and looks to Charles.

“Murfree,” is all Charles says, watching the kid’s face closely.

John sees recognition there. The kid nods once, letting his eyes cast downward at the mention of the group.

*

“What’s your name anyway, kid?”

It’s the next day, and John sits in the back of the rumbling cart with the kid once again, slicing an apple with his hunting knife.

“You already asked me that yesterday,” the kid says with a faint scowl, but not near the same heat and hatred that he’d been brewing with up until this point.

John imagines that it’s hard to stay that angry for that long, even for a kid like him. Finally, the boy relents.

“Ivan,” he says with a heavy sigh.

“Ivan, huh?” John raises a brow, considering him for a moment.

The kid looks cleaner, only for the fact that Arthur had taken mercy on him the night before and wiped his scroungy face down with a damp cloth.

John had nearly laughed aloud at the look on the kid's face, perplexed and then indignant. He’d ducked out from under Arthur’s hand eventually, but not before he’d let him get the majority of the gunk off his cheeks and out from under his eyes.

“Ain’t anyone teach you how to clean?” Arthur had scoffed, tossing the rag away.

“Shut up,” the kid had spat, and then they’d all gone still— John and Arthur at the gall of the youth, and Ivan seemingly shocked at himself.

Then, Charles had snorted, and Arthur had cracked a grin and stood up.

“Ballsy little cuss, ain’t you,” he’d laughed and joined John on the saddle blanket set out before the fire.

Not much more had been said between them all, but John had been watching the kid closer and had seen the near imperceptible ease of the creased line between his brows as the evening wore on.

That next morning, they’d set out, and here they were, rumbling down one of the many forest roads, all looking the same as the last. John wonders how much longer it will take to reach the Kamassa and follow it south.

Bored, he takes to pestering the kid for more information.

“What’s your family name?”

“You think I’m tellin’ you somethin’ like that?” The kid looks appalled that John would even ask such a thing.

“Okay, well, are you actually twenty-one?” John tries.

Ivan glares. “Yes.”

“Your voice is deep enough. But how come you look like that, then?” John asks.

“Like what?”

“Marston,” Arthur says, tossing a look over his shoulder. John stills, frowning at the disapproval on his face. He’s about to ask what Arthur’d meant by it when the other’s eyes flick down to the knife and apple in John’s hand. “Put that thing away before you stab yourself in the eye,” he says blandly. The cart jumps over a particularly rough stone in the road as if to emphasize the danger at hand, and John growls under his breath.

Ivan briefly eyes the apple. After John slips his knife into his belt, he begrudgingly takes a slice and offers it across the small space.

Ivan looks down his nose at it, then looks at John suspiciously.

“What, you afraid?” John sneers. He waves the slice childishly. “It ain’t catchy, if that’s what you’s worried about.”

Ivan looks between him and the apple once more, and then turns away from it, grimace on his face.

That gets John’s goat more than anything the kid’s said or done so far. He begins to wonder if he can talk Arthur and Charles into dumping the boy somewhere along the way, after all.

When they stop briefly to relieve themselves and stretch their legs, John wanders away from the road at Arthur’s behest.

“What’s up?” John questions quietly.

“I know he’s a little piss ant,” Arthur begins, and John hitches his hands up on his hips.

“You got that right. Fuckin’ kid looks at me like I’s shit on his boot.”

“But maybe if you stop gettin' onto him about everything, he’d open up a little.”

“Open up?” John scoffs. “You want him to open up? He’s a Raider. Far as I’m concerned, he ain’t earned the right to open up.”

“I know,” Arthur sets a placating hand onto his shoulder, letting it slide to the front of his chest between the opening in his coat. His hand is warm through John’s shirt. “Try to see him in a different light. Someone who got caught up with the wrong people. Maybe he’ll turn on us first chance he gets, sure. But maybe he can be reasoned with. He reminds me a little of McGuire.”

John falters; he knows what that means. Because when Dutch had first brought Sean in, kicking and cursing up a storm, and held him captive for a few days until he’d been talked into joining them, Arthur had told John that the young Irish lad reminded him a little bit of John himself.

“Fine,” John mutters.

Arthur’s face drops. “His life don’t seem like it’s been easy, either. Think he looks that way cause he grew up hungry. Malnourished, it’s called.”

John looks away, toward the road where Charles stands propped against the back of the wagon, rifle laid across his arms.

Even from this distance, he can see the kid’s hollowed eyes staring glumly out at the empty path ahead. He doesn’t look happy to be heading west toward the Fort.

John growls in the back of his throat, turning away from the scene and Arthur. He doesn’t like feeling sorry for someone such as Ivan.

“You know,” Arthur says, following him and placing a hand against his side, pulling him in and squeezing. There’s a hint of teasing in his voice. “You was a bit on the scrawny side when Dutch brought you in off the street. You grew into a fine man.” Arthur’s hand slides along his slim hip, giving him a squeeze. John grunts, his irritation waning.

“Quit distractin’ me.”

Arthur chuckles low on his chest. “Just behave, will you?”

“Fine.” John shrugs. “But I’m driving for a while.”

*

That night, Charles sits a few lengths away from the kid with a bowl of stew. The sound of the kid’s stomach growling is heard over the crackle of the fire, and they all pause to look at him.

Charles scoots a hair closer and offers the bowl to Ivan.

The kid looks at the bowl for a long moment, and then takes it with his loose bound hands, balancing it in his lap and gingerly spooning it up to his mouth.

John has even more questions after that incident. He hadn’t guessed that the kid wouldn’t mind sharing a bowl with Charles; a black Indian man, someone John would assume the kid would dislike on Raider principles alone.

John recalls the quiet thanks that the kid had given Charles that first night.

Now that John is more used to the boy’s constant presence, he realizes that the kid doesn’t seem to mind Charles one bit. He’s still wary of John and Arthur, though.

John isn’t stupid. He doesn’t have to imagine what the kid thinks of him and Arthur after what he’d seen through the scope of his rifle, just briefly, before the washroom door had closed them in together. John had probably looked at Arthur with no small amount of lust.

John’s own father’s voice echoes in his mind from long ago. The phantom pain of a pop to his mouth demanding attention, and a warning to John about queer men and their “ways.” About being lured in, used, whatever else his father had been scared of. John hadn’t thought about it much one way or the other, because his father had been the one telling him. He’d learned early on that the things his father said had little bearing on the reality of the world around them. For that, John was thankful.

John wonders if his father had ever felt the things that John does for men.

He dashes that disturbing thought from his mind.

The men of the Raiders are no doubt opposed to men like him and Arthur. There’s no telling what Ivan’s heard his whole life growing up in the south.

*

On watch that night, John stands leaned up against a tree, watching the place where the kid sleeps on a bedroll laid out next to the fire. Charles and Arthur share a tent.

John keeps his ears tuned into the forest around them, standing just outside the camp in order to hear better.

There are only the usual sounds. Small animals skittering through the underbrush. Things taking off from tall branches. The sound of a pair of raccoons chirping together.

When he looks back at the camp, he sees Ivan’s pale eyes, now open and staring at him.

“Jesus,” John says, his heart jumping in his chest at the shock of it. He hesitates, then shoulders his rifle and paces back into the firelight. “Creepy little fuck, you know that?”

Ivan blinks, looking away and into the flame.

John wonders if he’d ever been asleep in the first place.

“You got me curious,” John says, bending down to rest on a knee. He holds his hands in front of the fire for something to do. “Why you runnin’ with them Lemoyne men, anyway?”

The kid looks back at him, eyes lazy and tired and glassy. His head is pillowed on a rolled-up saddle blanket, courtesy of Charles. He nuzzles his temple into it, sniffing.

“Father were a Raider,” he says quietly.

John thinks about that, removing one of his gloves to massage the knuckles on the palm of his shooting hand.

“That’s a shitty reason,” John decides aloud. “If you’ll forgive me for sayin’. And even if you won’t.”

Ivan laughs bitterly and quietly. He lets his eyes fall shut. “It sure is.” He agrees.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d say he sounded sad.

He wants to question him further, but he thinks he ought to let the boy sleep, for once. He stands silently, moving back to his post to keep watch and listen.

*

Arthur dreams about a bundle of wildflowers and a preacher standing over a hole in the ground. About a small gathering of people he knows. Neighbors, Mister Hillerman, Andy’s mother, and his own father standing somewhere out behind him. Arthur is too afraid to step closer, to look down into the hole.

The dream is so hideously terrifying that Arthur at first thinks he’s woken himself from it when he comes to sitting straight up inside the tent.

Charles sits up next to him, rubbing a hand across his face. Then, John’s voice sounds from outside, not for the first time.

“Get out here,” John hisses from close by.

Arthur scrambles up from his sleeping roll. The picture of the bundle of flowers still takes up his vision for a few moments, like an imprint in his pupils. He shakes his head, looking into the flame of the fire to clear his eyes.

The night is still deep-dark pouring in around their campsite, and he looks around until he finds John crouched near the kid, who has also sat up. They both look out at the trees.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, trying to see through the dark.

“Ain’t sure,” John says quietly. “Somethin’ big were movin’ out there close by.”

“Animals?” Charles asks, taking up the side of the tent, turning to watch their backs, his bow already drawn.

“Could be,” John swallows. He grips his rifle tightly. “Ain’t sure. Seemed more intentional than that.”

A person, he means.

Arthur heads back for the opening in the tent, retrieving his shotgun.

“I ain’t hear them, now,” John grunts. He sounds distressed. “Think they heard me and moved away.”

“You wanna follow ‘em?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” John hisses, turning hot, angry eyes onto him. Arthur knows better than to advise him against it.

“Charles, will you hold this place down?”

“Course,” Charles answers easily. He comes to crouch closer to the kid, who looks a lot more alarmed than Arthur has ever seen him before. He meets Arthur’s eyes briefly, but if he’s thinking something, he doesn’t say it.

Arthur is hot on John’s heels as they head into the darkened woods on the other side of camp.

John is quiet and light on his feet, ducking branches and hopping over exposed roots. Arthur is quick, for a big man, but he’s still stiff from a few years more of riding and being shot at. He’ll be damned if he’s left behind, though.

They’re both silent, and when John comes to a sudden standstill, Arthur is just swift enough to stop himself from barreling straight into him. He listens like John does.

Up ahead, there’s the sound of another crackling fire, smaller than their own.

John moves closer to him, pressing his lips right up to Arthur’s ear to murmur without being heard.

“Maybe they ain’t know they was walkin’ up on us. Could just be campers, got spooked." John says. “Let’s sneak up on ‘em to be sure.”

Arthur has to follow John’s lead this time, only for the fact that he can’t speak loudly enough to take control of the situation before John’s already taken off.

A tent comes into view.

It’s tattered, barely standing, and for a moment, Arthur thinks that it must’ve been abandoned or ransacked.

Then, a quiet shifting comes from between the loose flaps of the draped canvas.

The two of them share a silent look and then creep through the camp, past the fire. Arthur narrowly misses knocking into a pot set aside here, an empty moonshine bottle there.

The canvas of the tent is speckled with the brown remains of dried blood. It’s everywhere, in all the usual places of tent setting. It becomes apparent that the place hasn't been pillaged, but rather that whoever set it up was barely standing in the first place. Arthur begins to realize what this might be just as John pulls the flap of the tent open.

A small sound escapes the back of John’s throat, and Arthur steps closer to look in as well. He pulls the opposite flap open enough to let some of the firelight in.

It’s a gruesome picture.

Warren is feverish-looking, red and sweating, and one of his eyes is swollen shut. Arthur is only a little surprised to see that the whole of his hand is gone from the palm down.

He grimaces, his knees going weak at the sight. Whatever damage had been left behind by the rifle shot must've been pretty ugly. Maybe just bits and pieces. Pieces that the man had done his best to cut away and wrap up, though the rag looks dirty and blackened already.

“Christ,” John presses the back of his hand to his nose at the stench of blood and infection, possibly feces. “He’s barely conscious.”

Warren doesn’t even seem to register that he isn’t alone in his tent any longer. He moans quietly, staring up at the top of the tent with one wide, glassy eye. His good arm shifts, hand grasping at air. Another bottle of shine lies next to him, long dry.

“He ain’t been movin’ around for a while,” John observes, brow drawing together. “Which means…”

“We probably ain’t alone out here,” Arthur murmurs, turning to look once more at the dense, dark forest surrounding them.

Chapter Text

Seventeen

The forest takes on an odd light with the flicker of the campfire. It’d be disorienting if Charles didn’t keep his eyes trained on the place where John and Arthur first disappeared through. He takes a cursory glance over his shoulder every once in a while, but relies on his ears to alert him to anyone approaching.

He wishes he could snuff the fire out to let his eyes adjust to the dark, but he can’t when John and Arthur need to see it to find their way back.

“Mister,” Ivan hisses from next to him.

Charles can’t seem to get used to the depth of the youth’s voice. It betrays any sense of teenaged innocence his face might inspire when it’s all cleaned up. Charles had believed him at once when he’d said he was twenty-one. And he’d observed it in the cut of the kid’s shoulders, the wiry tendons and the nicks and mars along toughened skin.

The kid has old scars running up and down his back that they'd seen when they'd helped him change shirts once along the road. Lashes, judging by what Charles has witnessed before.

He doesn’t look at Ivan, only regards him with a short, “What?”

“Untie me.”

“Not a chance,” Charles says, nearly laughing.

“Please,” Ivan stresses. Charles can see him sat a few feet away, looking around the forest frantically, cornsilk hair tossing over one shoulder and then the other. “Don’t wanna get caught like this.”

“Caught by who, hm?” Charles questions. “Your pals? Never let you live it down, bein’ caught by a black man, would they?”

“It ain’t like that,” Ivan scoffs. “And it ain’t just them. Anyone who comes, they’d do me in in seconds like this.” He holds out his bound hands to show Charles.

Charles wavers only a moment, knowing that the kid is right. He’d be a sitting duck.

But they don’t know who or what is around, yet, and it’s not enough reason to set loose the most prominent threat to him, which by all intents and purposes, is the kid himself.

“Not happening,” Charles repeats.

Ivan growls low in his throat and then tosses himself onto the ground. At first, Charles thinks it’s in a fit of anger, but then Ivan scrounges his bedroll up, pulling it haphazardly over himself.

He watches as the boy arranges himself, trying to appear as nothing more than a pile of bedding. It isn’t very convincing, in Charles’ opinion, but his nerve softens at the small show of frantic vulnerability.

Sighing, he reaches through his and Arthur’s tent flap, pulling one of the thicker blankets out and piling it over the top of Ivan’s form, shrouding the shape of the young man beneath it.

“Just stay quiet,” Charles tells him, turning his eyes back on the forest.

There’s nothing unusual in the wood, now, aside from the flapping of what sounds like an owl overhead, going north. No other birds stir, and no deer take off further out, fleeing unknown lurkers.

Though there’s nothing unusual to his ears, he knows that John wouldn’t’ve startled at just anything.

The firelight eventually dies down enough for him to be able to see further out, and he wonders if he ought to stoke the flame back up so John and Arthur can see.

He imagines briefly what he’ll do if they don’t return.

He could track them easily enough in the daytime. But he wouldn’t want to waste time waiting for sunup. He could use a lantern, then, pick out the trail of their boots, and hope to God that they were just lost and hadn’t run into any nefarious parties, though he knows neither John nor Arthur would get lost so easily.

No sooner than he starts considering all these things does a low moan drift through the trees, faint and haunting.

A chill runs up Charles’ spine.

He briefly thinks, as he sometimes does, of stories his father’d told him, long ago, of corpses walking and cries of the dead. His mother had had different stories about the same things, but Charles hadn’t ever known which were true, or if they could both be true.

He shakes off the memories, unwilling to fall into childhood fears, least of all now when he’d like to stay focused. He laces an arrow into his bow and holds it steady, waiting, staring at the place John and Arthur had fled through.

The moan comes again, louder, trilling higher at the end.

Charles recognizes it better now as someone in pain.

There’s movement, two figures, shuffling at a halting, unnatural pace, a bigger mass stretched between them, and Charles squints, trying to make out the figure coming toward camp.

He swallows, lifts his bow up to aim.

Then, he hears John’s scratchy voice curse, one of the figures stumbling. The person drops their end of the thing between them, and it lets out a louder, pained cry.

“Shit,” John mutters. “Goddamn roots.”

Charles rises, meeting the two at the parting of trees, and stops short at the sight of the man that they carry between them.

It’s Warren, red and sweating and looking to be out of his mind.

*

Bringing Warren back to the camp had been a hard choice.

“Look, maybe we ought to kill him,” Arthur’d told John back at the tent, keeping his eyes on the forest around them as John had assessed the condition of the man.

“Maybe, or maybe we ought to take him with us.” John had retorted. Arthur'd looked at him, mind turning. “What if the Raiders have some sort of loyalty? Maybe they’d be more apt to not shoot at us right away with one of their members trussed up at gunpoint.” John reasons.

It’s a shaky plan, in Arthur’s opinion. If Warren even made it to the fort without croaking, his pals would probably recognize the state he was in.

Still, with all the unknowns, Arthur decides there’s no harm in going along with the idea. For now.

“Alright, grab his boots.”

When they make it back to camp at a plodding pace, Charles meets them and helps them carry the man the rest of the way.

“I don’t understand you two,” he mutters as they settle the man onto a rolled-out canvas. Charles rolls the man onto his side. “Look.”

There are dark places through the man's shirt that Arthur hadn’t seen before. Many tears where the banister had poked through. Blood has soaked and dried in blotches. It’s no wonder the man is mad with fever.

The kid, whom Arthur hadn’t noticed hiding under his bedroll until now, pokes his head out to look at the scene unfolding in camp.

“Who is it?” he asks, stumbling to his knees and craning his head up to get a look over John’s shoulder. His face pales at the sight of Warren, stretched out. “What…” He swallows thickly, pushing to his feet. “Why’d you bring him here?”

“Ain’t glad to see your partner?” John scoffs, eyes on his task of pulling open the dirty bandages around the man's missing hand.

Arthur watches the kid out of curiosity, at the sweat that rolls down his temple. The way he stares at Warren is anything but straightforward. He meets Charles' eye across the gap and knows that the other is thinking the same.

“Jesus, he’s half out of his mind,” John mutters.

“That’s infection.” Charles points to the man's stumped hand, at the mottled skin and veins showing through. His face twists in disgust.

“Need him to stay alive until we reach the fort. Think we could use him for leverage?”

“Maybe,” Charles says, but to Arthur, he looks doubtful. He looks at the kid. “What do you think?”

Ivan’s mouth is twisted up into a grimace as he stares at his former partner. His frown only deepens as he regards Charles. He backs away from the group of people, shrugging.

“I don’t know.” He hunches down on the furthest saddle blanket on the other side of the fire.

John stands back up from the man, looking hesitant. “Should… should we just kill ‘im? I mean, is it wrong to keep him alive in this state?”

“I ain’t know what’s wrong, in this situation, darlin’,” Arthur murmurs, eyes flicking over Warren’s sweating, delirious form.

“It wasn’t him out in the woods,” Charles comments.

“No,” John agrees. “But no one else were out there when we went looking. You seen anyone round here?”

“No,” Charles confirms with a shake of his head. “It all went quiet once you two left.”

“Maybe that means it were just campers,” Arthur posits.

Ivan looks over his shoulder into the woods as the three talk, pulling subconsciously at his binds. Arthur thinks they ought to think about setting him loose, but this close to the fort, he still isn’t sure if they can trust the kid not to go back to his old boss to seek forgiveness.

“In the morning, I’ll go looking around, see if there’s any signs,” Charles says.

“Might should,” Arthur agrees. “Kid, get back over here.” He motions for Ivan to come. Ivan hesitates, eyes flicking between Arthur and Warren on the ground. “C’mon, can’t protect you if somethin’ comes outta them woods over there.”

Ivan shuffles halfway to them, settling into the dirt near the mouth of the tent. It’ll have to be enough, Arthur figures.

“Don’t worry about him,” he says, motioning to Warren. “He ain’t even got the strength to sit up, and he’s half outta his mind.”

“That don’t mean much, where Warren’s concerned,” Ivan says lowly. “He’s always half outta his mind.”

They tend Warren’s wounds as best they can, changing the bandage on his hand, even as his voice rises in volume at the pain.

“Hate to waste whisky on him,” John mutters, but uncorks a bottle and trickles it into the man's mouth. “But it’s the only thing that’s gonna keep him quiet.

They tend the wounds on his back, but those are well and truly infected. There’s not much to be done about the man's twisted ankle, nor his swollen eye, other than packing damp yarrow over it and tying it into place.

“John, get some rest,” Arthur tells him as he’s stripping the man of any weapons. “You too, kid. Charles and I’ll keep watch for the rest of the night.”

“Tie his hands,” Ivan says shortly.

Arthur raises a brow. “Alright.” He'd been going to.

“Good.”

*

“There’s a lot of movement out there,” Charles says the next morning when he’s come back from investigating the forest floor around camp. “A lot of boot prints, some older, some new.”

“How new?” John asks.

“Probably from last night,” Charles says, sitting down on a blanket and taking the stew bowl that Arthur offers him. “They head back out the way they came. I tracked ‘em to the road, but didn’t go any further. If they were Raiders, I think they would’ve attacked, don’t you?”

“Seems logical. Murfree?” Arthur asks.

Charles shrugs. Without sending one of them out to follow the tracks further, which could prove to be a huge waste of time, they’ll be left wondering unless something further happens.

“Don’t like all these loose ends,” Arthur mutters as he pushes chunks of rabbit around in his own bowl. “We jumped outta the pan and into the fire.”

“It’s only a few days more,” John points out stiffly. “Then, we confront the problem. We take care of it. Then we’re free.”

Arthur doesn’t have the heart to point out that they aren’t free. There’s still the law, the possibility of Pinkerton’s. There’ll always be something.

Still, if it would make John feel better to put an end to Lindsay Wofford, Arthur is all for the attempt.

*

They make it to the Kamassa by midday. The river is heard before it’s seen, a swift current down the middle of it. It makes Arthur want to stop and fish, but he recognizes that now more than ever, they’re playing against time.

No one can tell if Warren is getting better or worse. His infections look just as bad, but he’s become more vocal as the day’s worn on, riding on his back in the bumpy buckboard.

Ivan spends the morning scowling at the man, whose eyes are closed as he tosses and turns in a fitful sleep, muttering under his breath things that none of them can understand.

“Makes quite a sight,” Arthur hears John say to the kid amicably.

Arthur takes a glance over his shoulder, sees Ivan consider John for a moment.

“He always liked makin’ a big show of things,” Ivan mutters.

Come lunch, Arthur thinks that they’re on the verge of the fort. This close to dark, he’s wondering if it’d be better to wait until morning or if striking at night would be better.

To everyone’s quiet surprise, Ivan asks to ride on the bench next to Arthur as the drive continues.

When Arthur looks back, John has begun to doze slumped against a few saddlebags, and Ivan does his best to climb over the backboard with a bracing hand from Arthur.

“Seems you ain’t got no love for Warren there,” Arthur comments quietly as Charles rides ahead.

“Nah,” Ivan mutters, keeping his pale gaze on the path. He's gotten quieter the closer they get to the fort.