Chapter Text
Dutch comes into camp that evening, all sly smiles with the brim of his hat tipped down. Arthur hasn’t been back for more than twenty minutes himself, still busy with wiping down his forearms and the back of his neck.
The West Elizabeth dust has this habit of dyeing everything it touches a sort of copper-gold, particularly with Arthur’s fairer hair. The sticky sweat brought on by the heat doesn’t help things much. Arthur is trying, and failing, to get to a decent state for dinner. To not offend the girls too badly with his stench.
Pearson doesn’t have the stew up off the fire yet, the big metal spoon still distinctly clinking against the sides of the pot, and Arthur has has half a mind to try and shave his face a little before eating. But if he waits too long all he’ll get is the dregs from the bottom of the slop.
Like always, though, Dutch comes into camp with a flourish that can’t be ignored. Molly darts out from Dutch’s tent to greet him, the laces on the front of her cream-colored bodice a little loose. Arthur doesn’t have to look at her that good to know that the tops of her breasts are darted through with freckles. What he hasn’t settled on yet is whether or not he thinks they’re attractive. She, shockingly, burns less than Arthur does, though.
Dutch isn’t alone, a thick-built, dark-skinned man with his hair swept back and tied up off his face settling in comfortably at his side. The stranger crosses his arms over his broad chest, saying nothing as Dutch tries to move Molly along. With the stranger’s sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Arthur is pretty certain that he’s well acquainted with manual labor.
Raising his hand, Dutch motions for Arthur to meet him at his tent and Arthur puts his pot of shaving lather down. Seems like he’s destined to only get the scraps of dinner after all. He doesn’t really mind the crispy bits that stick to the side of the pot. The real problem is how chewy the game ends up when it sits too long in the heat. Talent or no, Pearson can’t avoid that.
Dutch introduces the man at his side as “Charles Smith,” to the rest of the camp as they hurry for the tent, dropping promises that they can all talk about their newest addition to the family over dinner. But he’s got to speak with Arthur first on some business. “Patience, patience,” Dutch soothes. And like the freckles on Molly’s breasts, Arthur doesn’t have to look to know the smile that’s across his mentor’s mouth.
Through it all, Charles doesn’t say a word, following Dutch into his tent, Arthur close on their heels. While Dutch has the largest tent in the camp, it still doesn’t offer much in terms of privacy. Dutch drops the flaps on either side, hiding them from view but doing nothing to muffle the noise. At most one of the girls might be eavesdropping. But there’s really no point in keeping secrets in the camp. More than anything, Dutch is just trying to avoid distractions, not obfuscate what they’re doing.
“Arthur, Charles Smith. Charles, Arthur Morgan,” Dutch makes his introductions and Arthur offers his hand without hesitation. This isn’t some sort of trial. Dutch has clearly made his mind up already regarding Charles joining the gang. Arthur’s opinion doesn’t matter. At least not yet.
“Pleased to meet you,” Charles speaks for the first time, his voice low and soft. There’s a weight to it that Arthur likes already. Not nervous or evasive, but a quiet caution.
Arthur assesses the size and quality of Charles’ hand as they shake. It’s a good way to learn something about a man. A better way to make a judgment than who a feller’s parents were. On that topic, Arthur isn’t even about to guess when it comes to Charles. But Charles’ knuckles are broken up, with fresh scabs on the second and third joints. Palms calloused, probably from heavy use of the bow slung over his back. He stands about three inches taller than Arthur, and broader by more than that. Arthur has never been inclined to slimness himself, at least not since reaching the other side of thirty, and he’s long ago stopped worrying about his shorter stature when it comes to most other men. He more than makes up for that with other qualities.
“I have a job for the two of you. Tonight,” Dutch doesn’t waste any time. Wastes plenty of time, really with most people, but Arthur can fill in all the charming bits himself, without Dutch giving a grand performance each and every time. “Consider it a welcoming gift, Charles.”
This is typical of Dutch, giving a new man a plum job right off the bat. Shows that Dutch’s information is good, that his planning is good, that the gang will keep him safe and with enough money in his pocket. Arthur doesn’t mind in the slightest. Dutch’s favor of him makes sure he’s well taken care of too.
It’s a stagecoach job, should be simple enough. Lady and her husband heading from Saint Denis to Blackwater to start, then out all the way to New Austin to look at a piece of land. Spent last night in the hotel in Blackwater, overslept and didn’t head out until early afternoon to try and reach Tumbleweed. There’s a narrow window to intercept them, so “you boys better eat quickly and be on your way.”
Charles shakes his head, arms still crossed over his chest. For a moment, Arthur thinks that Charles is going to be one of those men questioning Dutch at every turn, too stubborn and willful to accept that someone might know better than he does. But instead of talking back, Charles simply states, “I’d rather go now, than risk missing the coach. If that’s agreeable to you, Arthur.”
“Sure,” Arthur drawls. Dinner is a lost cause at this point. And maybe, if the take is good, they can bother the saloon in Blackwater about some dinner later. He may not be terribly fond of civilization in all its forms, but even Arthur makes an exception when it comes to a hot meal.
Charles nods, “I’ll wait for you by the horses.”
And with that, Charles slips from the tent, the flap folding back down behind him.
Arthur chuckles, shaking his head, “Where did you find this one, then?”
“Might say he found me,” Dutch slaps Arthur on the back. “Walked right up to me along the river docks. Heard I was a man to run with, if you’re interested in regular meals and some company. Didn’t even ask about percentages.”
Arthur can’t help but smile a little in response to Dutch’s good cheer, “They all ask, once it’s time to part with half the take.”
Dutch shrugs, “I’ve got a good feeling about a man willing to work hard.”
Excusing himself, Arthur stops only long enough at his cart to grab his rifle and repeater. Never did much care for the shotgun. True to his word, Charles is waiting for him where they have the horses hitched, brushing down his stallion.
Lately, Arthur has preferred fillies, but he’s using a horse Hosea “acquired” last week, no papers. Still a temperamental boy, a little wild. And while Hosea is a skilled rider, he’s past the age that taking a fall from atop a full-grown horse is something to easily shake off. Dutch is past that age too, but won’t admit to it outright. So it’s fallen to Arthur to try and break the horse well enough to fence it for a decent price. Hell, after the amount of work he’s put into it, he’s liable just to trade him in for something closer to his preferences.
Charles asks Arthur to lead the way, that soft tone creeping back into his voice. Arthur wonders about the history of that voice, the progression that lead Charles to speak too softly. Maybe because he’s that big, tall and broad and thick all around. People are likely to be scared, whether you say something or not. Don’t need to be too loud.
They ride in a silence that edges just towards awkward, at least for Arthur. He’s not a chatty person, by any means. Anyone else, and he might be grateful that they’re bothering to keep their mouth shut. Not the girls. Because if Arthur is with the girls it’s because he wants to hear them talk. But the men. They never really have much worth listening to. But he sort of thinks, right now, that Charles might be decent at conversation. Might be interesting.
The daylight runs from them as they approach the ridge where Dutch told them to wait for the stage. While the couple inside are looking at a piece of land, Dutch doesn’t have anything concrete about the money being on them. What he does have is that the lady has a mighty expensive necklace on, big stones in her earrings too. Never easy getting a lady out of her finer pieces if she’s already wearing them, but Dutch already has a fence lined up to carry the jewels across the southern border.
“You done this before?” Arthur asks, pulling his handkerchief up over his face.
He watches as Charles copies him, pulling the slip of fabric up off his neck and over his mouth. The last remnants of the setting sun give Charles’ dark hair the same sort of copper tinge that Arthur gets from the dirt. And for a moment, Arthur thinks it’s pretty important that he remembers what this looks like. That maybe, when there isn’t the pressing matter of an armed robbery, it might be in his best interest to get a good sketch down of what Charles looks like in three-quarters profile.
“Yeah, once or twice. But don’t worry,” Charles assures Arthur, pulling his sidearm from his waist rather then the bow from his back, “other people aren’t accustomed to telling me ‘no’ when asked nicely enough.”
Arthur can’t help but laugh, shake his head, because he believes it. Charles asking sweet as can be to put all your valuables into this sack, please and thank you, and ladies and gentlemen alike bending over backwards to conform to his wishes.
“Maybe not so good at getting the coach to stop,” Charles admits, and Arthur can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s smiling under the bandana, “I’ll leave that part up to you.”
“My pleasure,” Arthur concludes.
They wait another ten minutes until they hear the coach, then see it as it comes up over the ridge. Arthur pulls on his horse’s reins, bringing the boy up to a trot, then a gallop. Charles follows after and within seconds they’re up to full speed, looping around behind the stagecoach with enough noise that the driver knows exactly where they are.
The driver snaps the reins, trying to bring the two work-horses up to speed, but they’ll never outrun the stallions. They’ll wear themselves out too quickly and Arthur is already gaining ground on them as he starts to loosen his foot from the far-side stirrup. He doesn’t look back to see if Charles is keeping up. Doesn’t need to, he can hear the horse behind him.
Just as the coach starts to slow down, the driver turns sharply, shotgun drawn and ready to fire once the dastardly outlaws get too close.
But he never has the time, too slow on the trigger as Arthur pulls up in line with the coach, launching himself off the horse and tackling the driver down onto the box bench. Arthur hisses at the driver to behave, realizing now that he is barely more than a boy, his blue eyes wide and frightened as the horses keep barreling at half-speed down the trail. Even if they’re exhausted, the horses will crash and kill them all out of fear if Arthur can’t calm them.
He has to turn his attention from the driver back to the reigns, urging the horses to slow down, easy now. The boy keeps on shaking and behind them in the coach Arthur can hear the couple frantically arguing about what’s going on. The wife is admonishing the husband on not hiring a shotgun to travel with them.
Charles pulls up beside the coach, slowing his horse to a trot, then a full stop.
“Show me what you got,” Arthur smirks, even though he knows Charles can’t see it.
Climbing off his horse, Charles keeps his sidearm drawn as he knocks on the coach door, “Best you open up, jewelry, cash, valuables, and we’ll be on our way.” His voice is just loud enough to be heard through the door.
Arthur keeps his ears on their interaction, rather than his eyes. Everything is going smoothly enough, and his priority is making sure the driver doesn’t do anything stupid. He hears as the couple opens the door, just wide enough to toss out their valuables in the dirt. Charles must be satisfied with the take, as after that he gets back up on his horse.
“Now listen,” Arthur tries to soothe the driver, same as he did with the horses, “count slowly down from thirty, then you can pull away. Understand, boy?”
The kid nods frantically, “Yes sir, I will, sir.”
“Good kid, see. You listened, and everyone got what they wanted.”
Arthur whistles sharply, but only half expects his horse to come running. Blasted, stubborn thing. When no horse materializes, he barks at the kid to count down from sixty instead, and hops down out of the box.
Once his feet are on the ground, the kid starts counting, and Charles circles around. He offers a hand up to Arthur, so that he can climb on the back of his horse. Not too proud to take the help, Arthur swings his leg up over the back of Charles’ stallion, and they take off in the vague direction of Arthur’s horse.
They find the goddamn wretch a good quarter mile away. At least the beast has the sense not to run when Arthur gets off of Charles’ horse and mounts his own instead. Riding out a little further, side by side, Arthur pulls his handkerchief down off his face. Breathing in too deeply will just pull more dust into his lungs.
Charles suggests they stop within sight of Blackwater. If Arthur doesn’t mind, he’s got venison jerky and some flatbread already in his pack. They can stop and eat something, then veer back towards the camp without going into town.
That all sounds fine enough to Arthur. The only reason he was about to take them into Blackwater was to eat. And if Charles wants to keep away, that’s not something Arthur is about to push.
Charles starts a fire, just enough for a little light and warmth. Doesn’t matter how hot the days are, this time of year, once the sun goes down, the chill sets in. Both of them are too hungry to talk much during dinner, but Arthur at least explains that half the take will go to the gang, and they split the other half. It’s a little more complicated with the fence involved, but Dutch hasn’t once cheated him out of his share. Dutch is fair. He cares about the people he rides with. Until the end.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Charles responds.
He offers Charles a cigarette, as they sit next to the dying embers of the fire. Just a few more minutes and they’ll ride on to camp. Arthur is sure now that they’re not being followed. Charles declines the cigarette, but Arthur notes how he still sits close enough to breathe in the smoke, each time that Arthur quietly exhales.