Archive of Our Own

No law less than ourselves

"There are moments when one has to choose
between living one's own life, fully, entirely, completely
-or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence
that the world in its hypocrisy demands."

                                                                              - Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan

1877

He is 14 and a man is bleeding out in front of him. It's not glorious and neither is it fast. It's ugly and drawn out and it takes everything in him not to vomit. It might not be the first guy he has killed but it is the first one he watches taking his last breath. He wants to turn away several times. He doesn't.

Arthur Morgan watches until the man is dead. And then he watches a bit longer, as if trying to see if something remains other than an empty shell of a human being. Hoping for something. Anything.

It never comes.

1890

The town stretched out beneath him when he turned the corner of the narrow mountain road. It was little more than a single muddy street with wooden buildings lining both sides and a couple of farms and warehouses scattered on the outskirts, but after an entire season so far up north that even the summer months brought new snow this seemed like the pinnacle of civilization. The air was still fresh and chilly like he had brought it with him from the snow-covered Frontier but the sun was strong and warm and Arthur had actually been sweating under his heavy overcoat for a while now.

As usual he was the one riding ahead of the rest and he had a couple of miles on the others, especially considering the cart's speed on these treacherously crumbling paths, so he gently pulled at the reins of his horse, bringing it to a halt next to the widening path that meandered down to the town. He lit a cigarette, inhaled the first tangy drag of smoke and leaned back on the saddle, his face lifted towards the sun, eyes closed, and the horse heavy and calm underneath him.

They had had to lie low for a while because of a heist gone bust but this had barely been anything new. For a while it had seemed most of the gang actually welcomed their involuntary vacation. Settlements in the north were sparse, the law mostly that of the wild and not men dressed in fancy uniforms. More often than not that meant it was just between your gun and the gun of the one you wronged, and there was rawness and simplicity in that. Only when Hosea had brought up that the only things lower than their laying had been their funds, they had started getting ready to move back to where there were people. People meant money, after all.

Arthur flicked the butt of his cigarette over his horse's head into the grass and looked back over his shoulder to where the mountain road appeared behind a harsh cliff. When he saw no trace of the others yet he lifted himself out of the saddle with a sigh. He shrugged the heavy coat off his shoulders and pushed it under the rope strapping his bedroll to the back of the saddle. The simple shirt and vest he was wearing underneath were slightly damp with sweat, clinging to his skin, and he shivered, just once, in the cool breeze.

He was thinking about lighting another cigarette when he heard the creaking and groaning of the old wooden wagon rounding the corner of the path. He recognized the two horses pulling it first, then Hosea high up on the bench with Davey riding shotgun next to him. They seemed to be engaged in a lively conversation, Davey chatting excitedly, a rifle loosely on his lap, and Hosea nodding along. Arthur tipped his hat at them when they passed, waited for the others on their horses to turn the corner as well while he climbed back into the saddle. When he saw Dutch he pushed his heels into his horse's flanks, urging it forward, and slowly caught up with him.

"Took your time," he said, matching Dutch's pace.

"Path was too narrow, we had to go slow."

Arthur grunted. "Wasn't sure if you wanted to go into town or not," he said. "Thought I'd wait for your input."

Truth was, Arthur knew that it would not be a good idea to ride into the settlement with their whole crew. Big groups of people these days were either a circus or a gang of outlaws, and they sure as hell weren't looking like clowns. Well, most of them at least. But although there had once been a time when Dutch had encouraged the members of the gang to think for themselves, he had been weird about that kind of thing lately. Maybe that last botched heist had been one too many and his trust had finally wore thin.

As expected, Dutch seemed pleased with the fact that Arthur hadn't made the decision himself. "No need to make the law suspicious. Let's stay away from that town for now, find some place to set up camp first, then ride back with a smaller group to check things out. See if the town is worth our time at all."

Arthur hummed approvingly. "I'll go ahead again then, look for some place safe."

Dutch nodded but just before Arthur could click his tongue to speed up his horse, he added, thumb pointing behind, "Arthur, take the kid with you, will you. Teach him what's what. So he can be the lookout next time. "

Arthur sighed and barely managed to avoid rolling his eyes, instead he quickly nodded, and Dutch chuckled, deep and humourless.

He found John at the back of the group together with Mac and Sean. They were supposed to keep an eye out for anyone trying to sneak up on the group from behind but of course none of them was paying attention. Instead, Sean was telling one of his stories, his eyes wild and bright, his gestures as big as his mouth. Mac seemed unimpressed; he was too old to fall for the cock-and-bull stories of a 19-year-old and simply looked like he regretted being the one who had to look after the children for today. John on the other hand, not much younger than Sean, was almost falling off his horse from laughing. He had always been easy to entertain.

"Marston," Arthur called and saw the kid visibly flinch, and for a second it looked like he might actually fall off the horse for real before he caught himself. He stared at Arthur, wide-eyed. "You're coming with me. Dutch wants us to go ahead to find us some place to camp."

"Sure, Arthur," John said.

Arthur saw Sean and Mac exchange some quick glances but when they realized Arthur was watching them they quickly averted their gazes, coughing nervously.

"You two should do your job," Arthur grumbled but there was no venom in it, just the same tiredness they all must be feeling at this point, so he understood and left them without any further hassle.

When he sped up to the front and eventually broke away from the group entirely to follow the path down towards the town, he saw John following him out of the corner of his eye, easily keeping up with his speed. Even when he made a quick unexpected turn to the right, trying to avoid the town centre and instead circumventing it through the outskirts, he couldn't shake the boy.

He did, after all, teach him well, it seemed.

"So, where are we heading exactly?" John called out to him, levelling his horse with Arthur's so he didn't have to scream against the wind too much.

"You tell me" Arthur said and he could see the kid's brain working behind his thick skull, a confused look on his face slowly shifting into determination.  Arthur chuckled.

They flew along the road, leaving the angry shouts of farmers on their carriages behind, and John stood up in his stirrups a bit, trying to get a better look at the valley in front of them. There was a rocky cliff far in the east with a steep path leading up to a plateau. On their right, the great plains stretched outwards with sheep and cows grazing in the open, black and white and brown dots in between lush green. And in front of them, at the deepest point of the valley, a small stream disappeared into a bright forest filled with mossy oak trees and tall beeches.

It was an easy choice.

John didn't exactly answer, he just gave Arthur a small nod, then a wide smile. And then he pressed his feet hard into his horse's side, grip tightening around the reins, body leaning forward, and with a shout and a laugh he sped away.

***

They pitched their tents in a small clearing in the woods after breaking through the shrubbery with the wagon and the horses in tow. The place was quiet and secluded, a good distance away from the more frequented roads, with a small but clear creek close by.

The sun was slowly setting, casting long orange streaks of light through the forest. Arthur and John were still trying to set their tent up when Dutch approached them. He gave Arthur a pat on the back, a wide smile on his face, lopsided since he already had one of his trademark cigars between his lips.

"Good job finding this place, Arthur. It's damn near perfect."

He gestured around the place like he owned it. Behind him, people were still busy setting everything up; taking care of the horses and making sure they were hitched safely; bringing in dry wood for the two campfires already having been lit; stowing away their last crates of food; hiding their weapons somewhere dry but easily accessible.

Arthur, while holding up the tarp so John could climb underneath it to position the pole, cleared his throat. "Yeah, the kid actually found it," and he nodded at John who beamed a smile at him from underneath the tent.

Dutch barked out a quick laugh. "About time some of the stuff you teach'm sticks." He looked at John who stopped pushing the pole into the wet dirt to stick his head out under the tent. And Dutch's smile disappeared from his face, he picked the cigar from his mouth, tapped the ash off of it once, twice. "Might be useful after all," he continued, looking at John but clearly still talking to Arthur. And then, as fast as it had gone, the smile was back though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well," Dutch said, already half turned around, "don't let me interrupt you any longer, Arthur. Hosea and I need to do some talkin'. Get that tent pitched and then eat some. Take that first guard shift, will you?"

And with that he was gone. Arthur sighed, feeling the tiredness aching in his limbs. "Sure, boss," he mumbled, scratching the stubble on his chin, over the scar that Dutch had once given him, an eternity ago. He looked at John who still hadn't moved out from under the half-built tent but instead had a white-knuckled grip around the pole, staring after Dutch with a hard-set jaw. Arthur could practically see the anger wafting from the kid.

"Why does he do that every time?" John pressed out.

Arthur shrugged, moved to fix the ends of the tarp to the ground. "He was the same with me when I was your age," he finally said. "He just wants you to push yourself. To be better."

"Doesn't feel like it. Feels like he just doesn't liking me all that much. Like maybe he wants me to be something else." He finally stepped out from under the tent, uncertain what to do with his hands, watching Arthur secure ropes to the ground with wooden pins. "Like he wants me to be you."

Arthur, still on his knees, paused, then sighed. Knew, in a way, that John couldn't be more wrong. But he was too tired for this conversation. His body yearned for rest, wanted just lie down for a while, and it didn't help that he was facing yet another couple of hours of staying awake. And still, he slowly pushed himself up and turned around to face John who in return seemed suddenly very interested in his own boots, his body tense, a slight tremor in his breathing.

"Listen," Arthur said and he didn't want to sound as tired as he felt but he couldn't help it, "I get it, kid."

John's head snapped up at the word, his face scrunched up in a pained grimace.

"Stop calling me a kid," he hissed but Arthur just chuckled at that.

"You're what, 17? You are a child."

John threw his hands up in frustration. "Y'all keep doing this to me. You, Dutch. Hosea. I wanna do more, Arthur, I really do! But you're not letting me. I wanna go out with you on the dangerous jobs. I can ride. I can shoot. Hell, I even killed before. But every time I ask, Dutch just brushes me off. But the next second he tells me I 'need to be a man' about things. Can't be a child and a man at the same time, can I. It's bullshit."

And Arthur watched him standing in front of him, tears of frustration and anger in the corner of his eyes, his hands folded into tight fists, and he remembered being that kid. He remembered never being enough but always wanting to be better. Because that's what Dutch van der Linde did to you. He made you wanna become better so much that you kinda forgot what better even was. He challenged you, manipulated you, hurt you, and then he gave you a simple pat on the back and made you think that it was all worth it. And all of a sudden you would find yourself begging him to risk your life, to finally be allowed to go out there and rob someone, beat someone, pull the trigger on someone.

Even though you were just a kid.

He wanted to tell John that there was still time. That he didn't have to impress nobody, just himself. That maybe it was a good thing that he didn't have to go out there with them and that maybe there was something more in life than the questionable glory of violence. That he had once been thinking just like John did but that after over ten years running with Dutch the violence had lost its novelty and all it had become was a part of his life, of himself, something so deeply ingrained in his personality that he sometimes thought he wouldn't exist anymore without it. That all the talk of being free and helping the downtrodden had gotten tired real fast and had become something else that Arthur was too afraid to question.

He wanted to tell John that maybe it was not too late to get out.

But Arthur was tired. Had been for a while now.

So instead he said: "I'm gonna talk to Dutch, okay?"

And John's face lightened up a bit and he nodded, his fists slowly opening up, tapping against the side of his legs, suddenly nervous, giddy even.

"Yeah, alright," he said, and then "Thanks, Arthur."

And Arthur grunted, pushed the last pin into the ground with his boot, and then he left to get something to eat before he had to spend the first half of the night leaning against a tree in the dark, waiting.  

1891

They spent almost a year in that forest. Winter was not nearly as unforgiving and harsh as it had been up in Montana, and the surrounding towns and homesteads gave plenty of opportunities for the occasional job– legal and not so much. Dutch had sent Mac and Davey, the Callander twins, out to work at a farm only so they could quietly sell away the livestock bit by bit; the twins had been gone before the farmer realised that most of his sheep hadn't quite made it back from the mountain pasture come winter. A nearby rather idyllic town mostly frequented by city slickers out on a foolish trip to reconnect with nature had become a paradise for Karen and Tilly, with plenty of full pockets begging for a hand to slip in. And when Arthur had become too bored or antsy while waiting for an easy opportunity to make some money, he would ride out to collect some bounties.

Today had been the first day that had felt like spring and its careful warmth was still stuck between the tents, the wet ground steaming with it. Red-faced and sun-warmed the gang had come together at the main campfire, huddling closer now that the sun had dipped down behind the horizon, drinks in hands to rekindle the warmth of the day.

Some of the girls were missing from their usual places at the fire; they had gone out to that sleepy tourist town a couple of days ago and hadn't come back yet. Sean and one of the twins, Arthur couldn't always say who was who, even after all this time, had also been gone to scope out a place near the coast, a good two day ride away from here. That was what tipped Arthur off that maybe their time in this secluded forest was about to be over soon. While they had reached out further and further to find the money Dutch was looking for, it seemed they had reached their limit. They milked the land around them as dry as they could without alerting too much attention to them, and Dutch said exactly that when he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking down at the others sitting close to the fire.

"It was nice while it lasted," he said and Arthur and Hosea nodded in unison. "But you need to have ambitions to succeed. There is money out there, I know it. Big cities are sprouting at the coast and with it are people with their pockets lined with riches. No petty change, mind you, but the big money."

Arthur always wondered just how much money it had to be for it to become big; there didn't seem to be a definite answer to that, just that it had to be more than what they had. Figured. The grass was always greener, as was known, and the same apparently applied to money.

"We're living good," Hosea supplied, but Dutch was having none of it.

"We could live better," he was quick to retort, and the way he said it made something in Arthur feel heavy. Dutch always sounded so convinced of himself that you could just not not believe him, and maybe the secret was that Dutch himself was his biggest believer after all. But Arthur had watched and heard that man talk about his grand plan for over a decade now, and he had him all figured out. They had moved almost from coast to coast in their search, and while the world around them grew up and grew bigger, more modern, more civilized and in order, they were staying the same. Constantly on the run, hunted while they were hunting the big prize themselves.

He would never tell Dutch but Arthur did not believe in the big money. He heard it talked about too much and never even seen a glimpse of it, so he just concluded that it didn't exist in the first place. But he soon had figured that he didn't care, not anymore. What bound him to Dutch and the others was something else, something more. Loyalty, family, maybe, but also guilt and the complete inability to imagine himself doing anything else. He had been to big cities, Boston mostly, Chicago once, and he had seen the arms of modern life stretching out and changing the land. Chasing the big money was simpler, easier, than trying to settle down, especially when there was a bounty on your head in most states.

But sometimes, when Dutch's face grew tired and dark at the edges when he talked about this dream of his, Arthur felt that the chase was starting to get away from them. Arthur knew Dutch. He knew men like Dutch, their words big, their ambitions bigger. If you let these men chase a dream too long they became desperate. And there had always been something unhinged about Dutch, something that told Arthur that when it came down to it Dutch would unravel at the seams trying to reach the unreachable.

But now it was spring and the gang was loud and happy, and he was sitting with Dutch and Hosea above them, content for all it was worth.

"A couple of days," Hosea said, and then, "Please, they deserve it."

And Dutch nodded, a hand outstretched towards Hosea like they would shake on that promise. "Yeah, alright," he said, and then his gaze drifted to the future again, always planning.

Arthur got up, nodded at Hosea who had his book in hand even though it had become too dark to read. His thumbs hooked behind his gun belt, Arthur slowly trudged toward the campfire where the gang was singing and drinking. He decided to stay back in the shadows to roll a cigarette, the warmth of the fire barely reaching him.

"Look who finally decided to join us," a voice slurred, and then someone pressed past him, not without bumping into his shoulder, seemingly by accident even though Arthur knew better, making him spill the tobacco he was trying to line the paper in his fingers with. It was one of the twins, and the dim light didn't make it easier for Arthur to figure out which one it was. It was still bright enough, though, to see the look of subdued displeasure on the man's face.

"We having a problem here, Callander?" Arthur grunted, not really looking at him but fishing out some more tobacco from a small pouch in his satchel.

"Dunno," the Callander twin said, swaying slightly, quite drunk already, something that apparently made him cocky since he continued, "Thought you was maybe too good to sit with us, is all."

Arthur stopped rolling his cigarette and slowly looked up at the drunken man. The others weren't singing anymore and he could feel their gaze on him and the twin, nervous anticipation in how they coughed or shifted on their seat or licked their lips or set down their drink. But also something else, giddy excitement, probably. Maybe life had been too calm for too long.

"Wanna elaborate on that?" Arthur said, voice low in his chest, dropping his hands with the forgotten husk of a cigarette, and before he let the man speak he continued "Think long an' hard about what you was gonna say, boy."

He wasn't much older than whichever twin was standing in front of him, both just a couple of years shy of 30, but Arthur had a habit of calling the others "kid" or "boy", though more often than not it was ignored as a quirk of his. Being with Dutch and Hosea the longest came with a certain amount of respect and most people here accepted Arthur's position as a given.

But some men had ambitions. And grievances. Some of these apparently tied to a simple three letter word spoken from a high horse.

The Callander twin dropped the bottle he was holding and jumped forward, hands outreached, ready to sink them into Arthur's collar. But he was drunk and therefore slow and foolish, and Arthur was sober and smart, and he simply stepped to the side, leaving the twin to miss him and tumble awkwardly to the ground.

The others gasped, and then laughed. "Leave it be, Mac," Uncle chuckled, as unimpressed as the others who already started to turn back to the fire, thinking the altercation had been cut short. But the twin, Mac apparently, was having none of it. He spit on the ground and pushed himself up with shaking hands, pointed a crooked finger at Arthur's face, grimacing.

"They're all thinking it, Morgan," he shouted, and there was something deeper and darker in his voice this time.

"What would that be, then?" Arthur said, trying to sound casual but his shoulders had become tense. 

"You're not like us. Dunno if you think you're better than us or jus' different. But something's not right with you. Makes a man uneasy," Mac drawled, and then he chuckled ugly, raising his hands in a non-committal gesture, "And yeah, you're Dutch's favourite, don't we know it all. Your own tent and everything. What did you do for the privilege, get on your fucking knees?"

Mac barely had time to finish that last word before he got hit in the face, hard. The sound of his nose definitely breaking made most of them cringe and gasp, this time not in delight. The twin stumbled backwards before he fell, surprised, one hand stretched out defensively, the other pressing against the mess of his nose, blood seeping through his fingers. And above him, John Marston, holding his hurting fist, spat on the ground in front of Mac's shuffling feet.

No one spoke a word or dared to move. Mac whimpered, clearly shocked by the amount of blood running down his face. "Pathetic," John said and for a moment it looked like he was going to lean down and punch him again but seemed satisfied with the way Mac flinched at the movement.

That was when Arthur grabbed John's shoulder, yanked him around violently and began dragging him away from the others. He didn't say a word, just made sure they were far enough away, somewhere in the shadows of the wagons.

"He had it coming," John said, clearly still angry but not resisting Arthur from pulling him along. Behind them Arthur could hear the others talking, some voices hushed, others laughing, loud and nervous, trying to get rid of the heavy atmosphere.

When they reached the edge of their camp, close to the horses, Arthur finally stopped, turning around to face the other. "What the hell, Marston," he pressed out between clenched teeth, trying to get his own anger under control.

Not missing Arthur's sharp tone, John's rage seemed to suddenly vanish, and he shrunk down a bit. "Shouldn't let him talk to you like that," John mumbled. He rubbed his right hand nervously, his knuckles already a bruised blue and red from the punch. When Arthur tried to reach for it, John flinched. "'S nothing."

Arthur sighed, his anger slowly retreating back into the pit of his stomach where it usually sat. "Just...cool it when you get back."

"Not the first guy I punched, Arthur."

"I know."

They stood in silence for a bit, John awkwardly shuffling his feet while Arthur peeked over his head back to the campfire, noting with a bit of satisfaction that Mac was still sitting on the ground holding his face, with none of the others trying to help him up.

"Things he said," Arthur eventually said, unsure, "they true? You all think like that?"

"He's just jealous," John said but couldn't meet his eyes which told Arthur all he needed to know.

He slowly exhaled. "Well," he said and then stopped because he didn't know what to add. What was there to say?  Arthur knew he was different, and it frightened him how close Mac had come to the truth. There was something inside him that seemed hard to pin down sometimes, something dark and broken. He felt it in the way he became restless when he stayed in one spot for too long, how he ached for a fight, unable to sleep until he felt that rush of energy. Felt it in the way violence seemed to follow him. Or how it maybe was the other way around.

He had been an angry kid, forged by a history of abuse and neglect, and when Dutch and Hosea had picked him up, plucked him off the streets, they had not only taught him reading and writing and shooting and stealing, they had also taught him to embrace that anger, to let it consume him from time to time instead of working through it. It had left him sleepless many nights, the thought of the things he did and the man he was, and he wondered if life could've gone differently, if he could've become someone different.

"Get back to the others," he eventually said after they had stood in silence for almost a minute, both unsure how to break it. "And don't go fighting other people's fights like that," he added.

John rolled his eyes and shot him a quick smile, unsure if the mood had been lightened enough or if Arthur was still not done giving him the talk. But Arthur smiled back, tired but honest and even gave him a quick clap on his shoulder. "I mean it, though," he said, chuckling.

"Can't promise," John said, already turning around, one hand raised as a goodbye. Arthur watched him slowly walk back to the camp, his body no more than a gangly black silhouette against the flickering fire. Watched him reach Mac still sitting on the ground, offering him a hand and pulling him up. They shared a quick laugh, arms reaching around shoulders. Together they stumbled to the others who were back to singing and drinking and shouting.

Arthur saw John look up at where he had left him, his wide smile illuminated by the camp fire, his eyes narrowed to peak into the darkness. But Arthur had already stepped backwards into the darkness, pulling his horse after him, ready to disappear into the woods.

***

The night was almost black, even after Arthur left the expected dimness of the forest, the valley opening up in front of him. The only thing visible was the road directly ahead of him, and in the distance, sometimes dipping behind the hills while Arthur moved forward, that small settlement they had first seen when they had come down from the north almost a year ago.

Since it was so close to their camp they had decided to not do any illegal business there and mostly visited to get provisions in the resident general store. The town, its name rather uninspired a simple Jacksonville, also had a saloon but it was mostly frequented by local ranchers and the occasional hunter on his way further up north so the gang quickly lost all interest in it, barely visiting the town at all and rather opting for bigger cities for a night out.

Arthur on the other hand had spent some more time in Jacksonville, mostly to do bounty hunting for the local sheriff, a man so bored and uninterested in the things going on around him that he had not recognized Arthur each time he had brought in a new outlaw. And with most of the gang avoiding the place Jacksonville had become his favourite spot to go to when he felt too crowded, too antsy, too himself.

Sometimes Arthur would feel it deep in his bones, the restlessness. He didn't know what triggered it. But he knew how to cure it. He thought back to Mac, holding his nose, shocked, and Arthur's hand on the reins twitched.

The truth was that Arthur had wanted to punch Mac, had actually been itching for a fight for a couple of days at this point and had almost been relieved that it had rather found him than the other way around. In the end, John had simply been faster, and the suppressed anger Arthur had directed at him afterwards was more about his missed opportunity and less about the boy picking fights that weren't his to pick.

When he reached Jacksonville he slowed his horse down to a casual trot. It was close to midnight already and most houses sat dark to the side of the road. The saloon, a narrow three story building nestled between the general store and a carpenter business, felt like an afterthought to the town. The building had probably once been home to something else until townsfolk realised that hard working people needed alcohol to get through the discomfort of life. Now it was often the busiest place in Jacksonville, with people hanging around the front porch, smoking, talking, laughing – or fighting.

Arthur hitched his horse around the corner near the sheriff's office so it wouldn't get spooked by the sounds of the busy saloon, and also in the hopes people would rather not steal a horse so close to any lawman. But then again, this town was as harmless as they got, most people were hard-working and honest, and any outlaw that walked into town by accident would quickly learn that there was nothing to gain here.

Getting closer to the saloon it became clear that it was a slow night. A single drunk, humming and swaying, passed him, and when Arthur politely tipped his hat at him the man almost toppled over from the effort to answer the greeting. On the porch of the saloon two men were leaning on the railing, staring into the otherwise empty main road, cigarettes in hand, locked in a heated discussion while the sound of a slightly off-tune piano spilled out muffled through the entrance behind them. Other than that, Arthur couldn't see another living soul outside.

When Arthur finally entered he got momentarily overwhelmed by the swell of the piano paired with the voices of dozens of men and women chatting and laughing. He blinked, made his way to the bar and quickly got himself a glass of whiskey before he rested his back against the wooden counter to turn around to the room. Arthur wasn't here to get drunk, the first sip of whiskey did feel good though. It cleared his head a bit, calmed down the dark heavy thing in his stomach.

He scanned the room, trying to figure out how he would best get his fix for tonight. In one corner of the saloon stood a table with five people sitting around it, loudly arguing about a game of poker but it seemed it was in good spirit, seeing that the prize money was barely worth the mention. Close to him, at the bar, two men were ambitiously flirting with a woman who was clearly a whore trying to earn twice the money for half her time. People were dancing on the dusty floorboards, making the whole building vibrate with it. They were sitting on benches and at tables, trying to have conversations over the noise, shouting into each other's ears. Others seemed to just enjoy the view, sitting in silence and alone with nothing more than a stiff drink in front of them, watching the crowd with a faint smile, as if they were just relishing in the miracle of human existence.

It seemed to be a calm night, much to Arthur's annoyance. He preferred not to be the one to start a fight but rather the one who finished it. Usually he would try to wait it out; while most men got tired from too much alcohol, some would actually become high-strung, easily insulted, an itch for violence in their fists. All it took then was a wrong word or touch to set them off. But the patrons tonight seemed easy and tired, maybe sated from the warmth of the first spring day; it would take some creativity to get one of them to agree to a brawl.

His elbows resting on the counter behind him, Arthur glanced around a second time, trying to figure out who seemed drunk enough to be an easy target for some hassling, but he came away empty other than one of the card players who glanced in his direction sometimes, but Arthur wasn't sure if it was interest or just that weird feeling of knowing someone without remembering from where.

He scoffed in annoyance, reached into his satchel to get some tobacco and paper to roll a cigarette when, for the second time this evening, he got bumped into, almost spilling the tobacco again. Ready to start a fight over something so trivial he looked up, only to have the whore from before apologize with a jaunty smile before she continued to lead the two men who had been chatting her up towards where she most likely had her own room. 

Arthur watched them climb the stairs, his gaze lingering on the two men, both wrapping an arm around the woman's waist, touching each other's hands behind her back, like a secret.

He swallowed.

It wasn't always violence that cured him of the restlessness. It was something far more dangerous that worked just as well, maybe even better.

Arthur slid the empty glass towards the bartender, giving him a quick shake of the head when he was offered another whiskey. Instead he finished rolling his cigarette, tucked it behind his ear, looked up to see the man at the poker table look at him again, smiled, and then went to walk out to the front porch. The two men he had seen earlier had disappeared; maybe the rapidly cooling air had forced them back inside, or they had made the smart decision to end the evening before it escalated. Arthur took their place at the railing, resting his elbows on the wood, his body slightly leaning forward. He exhaled slowly, his breath a cloud in the dim light. The main road of Jacksonville lay empty and quiet in from of him. He reached for the cigarette behind his ear.

Someone stepped out onto the porch behind him, careful and deliberate. The noise from inside shortly swelled with the opening of the door, just to be muffled again once it clicked shut. Arthur lit his cigarette, put the lighter back into his pocket. A man slowly walked up to him, stopping at the railing, resting his hand on it. Arthur looked up at him from underneath his hat.

As expected it was the man from the poker game. He was young and tanned, likely a farmhand, his clothing simple working pants and a red plaid shirt, a worn black hat. His dirty boots had no spurs on them.

"You got fire by any chance, Mister?" He had an unlit cigarette between his lips, giving him the hint of a smile.

Arthur straightened up and half turned towards the man. He watched him carefully. The man's hand, awfully close to his on the railing, twitched slightly.

Arthur thought about the lighter he had just put into his pocket.

"Sure," Arthur said, and then he leaned forward, tilting his head slightly, leaning into the face of the other man who didn't flinch. He touched the glowing tip of his lit cigarette to the unlit end of the man's, raised his hands to cover the space between them to shelter the endeavour. He took a deep drag, the cigarette flared up, shortly illuminating both their faces. They held each other's gaze.

Arthur had learned this dance over the past decade. It was much more delicate than the ugly tumble it took to start a fight. Finding out if someone was itching for violence was simple, the signs often plain and in the open. It was expected of men to have the urge sometimes, as if they had a build-in affinity towards bloodied knuckles and bruised skin.

But the other dance was more complicated. It worked through small gestures, lingering gazes, fleeting touches. It had taken Arthur years to learn the intricacies of it.

He had also learned the prize for any misstep.

Once the other cigarette was lit the man leaned back. Arthur watched him inhale the smoke, blowing it out of the corner of his mouth. They smoked in silence for a while.

"Saw you come in," the farmhand eventually said, "watched you look 'round for a bit. Didn't seem to find what you was looking for, though."

Arthur snorted. "Was actually looking for a fight. But people seem awfully calm so I gave up."

The man chuckled. "Been a hard day?"

"Somethin' like that."

The farmhand flicked his half-smoked cigarette over the railing onto the street. For a quick second he looked at the door of the saloon, then back to Arthur. "Can't offer you a fight," he said, carefully.

"Didn't think you would." Arthur put his cigarette out, pushed back from the railing, walked towards the stairs that led down from the porch and onto the main road. The man followed quietly.

It wasn't the first time he picked someone up in this saloon even though he usually wouldn't be so daring so close to their camp, the risk of running into one of the other's too high. But Jacksonville felt save, felt like his town, with the others not really acknowledging its existence.

They had barely reached the alley, no more than a narrow gap between two buildings, wooden walls leaning heavily towards each other, when Arthur reached for the man, fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt. He didn't resist, not when Arthur first pulled him into the dim shadow of the alley, and not when he pushed him against the wall, the space barely wide enough to fit both men. Instead the man put one hand up against Arthur's chest, flat and warm, pressed the other to Arthur's side, his thumb pressing into the dip of his hipbone.

Arthur pushed closer, head tilted so he wouldn't knock the other man's hat off, finally pressed their lips together, one hand sliding around the farmhand's neck, the other one still gripping the shirt. The other man sighed into the kiss, suddenly sounding desperate, eagerly opening his mouth, letting Arthur lick into him. He tasted raw and bitter, like smoke and cheap alcohol.

When Arthur pressed his thigh between the farmhand's legs, feeling the other man's hard dick straining against his denim pants, he received a low moan in return, the hand on his hip twitching.

"Christ," the man cursed into Arthur's mouth. He let his head fall back against the wall, his hat tumbling to the ground after all, eyes closed, already struggling for breath. Arthur mouthed at his exposed throat, his fingers pressing into the man's collarbones, hard enough to leave bruises; the other hand slipped down to reach for the man's hardness, cupping it through his pants.

The man hissed, bucking his hips forward into Arthur's touch, his hands first trying to find support on Arthur's shoulders, and then eventually sliding down along his broad chest, down to Arthur's pants where he blindly fumbled with the buttons for several seconds.

Arthur huffed out a short laugh. It was meant to be sympathetic – Arthur had been the one clumsily fumbling in the dark often enough – but the farmhand suddenly stopped, eyes wide, nervous he somehow screwed up.

"Sorry," he pressed out awkwardly, finger's hovering.

Arthur put a finger underneath the man's chin, tipping his head up a bit so he would meet his gaze. "Don't be," he said, voice husky, rough. He kissed him again until the man started to relax against him. Then he put both his hands on the farmhand's shoulders, not breaking the kiss yet, and slowly pushed him down, forcing him to his knees. The man went willingly, and, once Arthur pulled back, looked up at him, eyes hooded. Arthur reached down, stroking a thumb over the man's wet lips.

"Shit," Arthur breathed, feeling his dick twitch at the sight. He undid the buttons with just one practiced hand, pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. The man underneath him licked his lips eagerly, watched Arthur stroke his dick once, twice, groaning with each tug.

The farmhand didn't seem inexperienced, only nervous, just like Arthur had been for the longest time. After all, people got hanged for something like this, and while for Arthur that just meant yet another offense on a long list of crimes he had no intention to swing for, for someone like this man, honest folk whose biggest crime was maybe missing church once a year, it meant a much bigger risk.

All the more fascinating that even straight and honest folk who would spit on a petty thief for the sins they had committed would then fall to their knees in a dark and dirty alley.

Unsure where to put his hands, the man had opted to put them on Arthur's hip, his grip hard, digging into his muscles. He sat underneath Arthur, a lopsided smile on his face, eyeing Arthur's hands wrapped around his dick, almost impatiently.

Arthur groaned, shoving a hand into the other man's short hair, barely long enough to get a grip, but holding tight none the less, and finally pushed forward, his dick pressing against the man's lips, and then, when he opened his mouth, inside. He held the man's head in place while he slowly pushed forward, the man's lips stretching around him almost obscenely. The farmhand hummed, eyes fluttering closed, fingers twitching at Arthur's hips but not stopping him. So Arthur pushed deeper inside, careful at first, a heavy warm feeling in his lower stomach, and when the man swallowed around him, thumbs stroking his hips like an invitation, he started to thrust in in earnest.

Considering how nervous the man had been he took Arthur's dick surprisingly well. Arthur, unable to hold back any longer, thrust in long and fast, his fingers digging into the man's scalp, holding him in place. The farmhand moaned, deep in his throat, chocking and gagging on every other thrust, eyes closed, one hand desperately holding on to Arthur's thighs, the other pressing against his own erection in his pants.

Arthur soon felt the heavy heat in his stomach growing, spreading out through his body, sitting low in his balls.

"Gonna...," he panted, thrusts becoming erratic, his hands shaking with it, and to his surprise the man underneath him opened his eyes to look at him, really look at him, and then simply nodded.

Arthur came with a broken moan, spilling deep into the man's throat, folding over. He felt the farmhand swallow around him again and it nearly made him collapse on top of him. Instead he pushed against the wall to hold himself steady and slowly pulled out. The man coughed, short and wet. Arthur just breathed.

When he looked down again, the man, still pressing his hand hard into his own erection, watched him from underneath. Arthur kneeled down with shaking legs, swatted the man's hands aside and pushed his own into his pants, curling around the man's dick. The farmhand made a choked sound, reaching for Arthur's neck to pull him forward into a filthy kiss. Arthur let him, not thinking too much about how he could taste himself on the man's tongue, thinking instead more about his hand around the man's dick, his tight, fast strokes. About how the man eventually stopped kissing him, his shaky breath ghosting over Arthur's face, until he eventually, with a strained whimper, came undone.

Their limbs finally giving in, they sat down on the dirty ground, catching their breath. Arthur pulled his hand out of the man's pants, wiped it on his own dirty pair, and then proceeded to put his dick away. His head was buzzing with the aftershock of his orgasm. He started to feel the cold air around him, the wet dirt he sat in, the utter silence of the night. He leaned back against the wall, exhausted.

He let his head roll to the side, one hand lazily reaching for his satchel, eager for a shared smoke but not sure if his shaking hands could still enough to roll one up.

The farmhand nudged his knee with his own, and when Arthur looked at him, he held a lit cigarette out for him to take. He accepted it thankfully, took a deep drag, let the smoke burn for a bit in his lungs. Watched the farmhand put the lighter he apparently had with him back into his pocket.

Huh. A delicate dance, indeed.

After their shared smoke they finally stood up awkwardly, the cold and wetness becoming too uncomfortable. When the other man leaned in to kiss him again, Arthur accepted it even though it felt almost too sweet. Then they stepped out of the alley onto the main road and parted ways wordlessly.

Arthur's head buzzed warm and content. He suddenly felt very tired but knew he still had to get back to camp. He shoved his hands into his pockets, slowly walking towards his horse.

He paused. His horse was still hitched where he left it but next to hit stood another one, a dark brown Hungarian half-breed with an almost snow-white mane. Arthur recognized it immediately. He felt his pulse quicken, a subdued panic in his stomach.

Behind him the owner of the horse stepped out from the shadow of a building he had been waiting in, and Arthur slowly turned around to meet him.

"Marston," Arthur said, carefully, "what are you doing here?"

John looked pale in the dim light of the town. His fingers were visibly twitching, hands loosely hanging on his sides, apparently unsure what to do with them. He had trouble to meet Arthur's gaze, opting to tilt his head down so his eyes were hidden underneath the brim of his hat.

Arthur felt his pulse pounding in his head but the panic he had felt seconds before had disappeared. Instead, a familiar calm overcame him not unlike what he felt before he rushed into a gun fight.

"Speak up, kid," he said, gruff, through clenched teeth.

"You were so angry when you left," John said, voice shaking slightly, "Dutch thought you might do something foolish."

A short ugly bark of a laugh forced itself out of Arthur's throat and John visibly flinched at the sound. "You spying on me now for'im?" Spitting the words out more than said them. He stepped closer to John, one hand scratching his chin, over the pale scar hidden underneath the stubble that still reminded him of all his broken promises, and it made him clench his hand into a tight fist low at his hip.

John held his ground but still didn't look up. "Might start somethin'", he murmured, "get into trouble, he said", and wasn't that just like Dutch, to send the kid eager for love to spy on the one that had lost its way.

Arthur reached for John's collar, grip tight, and pulled the boy towards him. John yelped, looked up in a slight panic, his hands folding around Arthur's arm but making no attempt to actually escape the hold.

"Listen, boy," Arthur hissed, close enough to John's face now that he could smell traces of moonshine on him, to see his blown pupils staring at him in utter fear, "Let's stop pretending and get to it. Don't know what you saw and honestly don't care. Just know that if any of this gets out to anyone, you are dead."

If possible, John's face got even paler, and he started struggling against Arthur's hold now, real primal fear in his eyes. For all Arthur could tell, John was actually scared for his life of him. Something inside his stomach felt dark and heavy about how it had been the other way around too many times, but he couldn't think about that too much now, not when everything was on the line.

"I didn't see nothin', I swear," John stammered; a lie, obviously, it was written all over his face. John had always been a terrible liar.

Arthur hooked his leg behind John's, pushed the boy forward so that he tumbled to the ground, head hitting the dirty road painfully. He coughed in surprise, his hands coming up in defence, but Arthur just pushed them aside, put one knee on John's chest, bearing down with his entire weight. He could hear the air leaving John's lungs in a pained wheeze.

"Arthur...?" John panicked, hands desperately trying to reach for him, unable to breathe in or to push Arthur off of him.

Arthur leaned down closer, digging his knee into John. Gripped John's chin, held him still and forced him to look at Arthur. John had started to cry silently, gasping in pain, breathe coming in short shallow huffs. 

"I'm not messing around, kid," Arthur said, dark and calm. "Could kill you right here, right now. Would probably be better. But that would mean wasting all those years we dragged you along, all the food and drink and money you cost us. So I'll be generous tonight." He hated how much he sounded just like Dutch in this moment.

John whimpered, his body going really still underneath Arthur. "Please–," he croaked, tears and snot running down his face.

"Did I make myself clear, Marston?"

John managed a small nod, his face still in the tight hold of Arthur's fingers. "Y--yeah."

Arthur grunted, satisfied with the answer, patted John's cheek and then, finally, got up. John underneath him, once the weight lifted from his chest, coughed violently, desperately gulping in precious air.

Arthur looked down at him, feeling empty and exhausted, remorse somewhere deep inside but carefully repressed. He couldn't afford to be lenient. Not with this.

He willed himself to turn around, walk to the hitching post and pulled himself into the saddle of his horse, fighting the exhaustion every step of the way. He didn't wait to see if John got up or if he mounted his horse. He just clicked his tongue. His horse sped up.

The night was dark and cold and lonely, and in a way, Arthur didn't feel any different.

1880

He is 17 and he is waiting to be hanged. It's ironic, really, how this is what finally gets him.

The cell is small and dirty. He has tried every corner of the barely two by one square, pushed his fingers into every crevice and gap, hoping for a loose brick. All to no avail.

It is not the first time he is in jail. He has beat up, robbed, killed people before. But that was when he looked more like a child out of his luck, when he was still living on the street, a scrawny orphan, and a slippery one. Now that he has been running with Dutch for a couple of years, getting his fare share of food, growing broader, he doesn't look the part of the innocent kid anymore.

In addition: The law of the land is willing to forgive a lot for the right amount of money; what he has done, though, seems to be a luxury no one can afford.

Arthur has never feared for his life; for that, he has always reasoned, you had to have a life in the first place. But now, running with Dutch and Hosea, it finally feels like he has a chance at one, and it hurts to think that he threw it all away.

It's getting dark and the deputy keeping watch over him is getting tired. The man sometimes gives him a disgusted look, but other than that he barely talks to him. Other times Arthur has been in jail have been different; lawmen would mock him, threaten him, beat him. This time they seem like they don't even want to touch him.

Arthur hears the jingle of spurs first, before the lawman does, and then a shot rings out right in front of the door of the sheriff's office. The deputy, his feet propped up on the desk in front of him, jerks up, almost tumbling out of his chair, desperately tries to scramble for his gun. The door flies open and Dutch bursts in, a wild angry look on his face, scanning the room. Arthur jumps from his cot, presses against the metal bars of his cell, a big wide smile on his face.

Dutch sees him first, then the deputy fumbling with his gun, and raises the hand with his revolver and shoots the fool right between his eyes, his brain blowing out in a wet red mist. After Dutch, much calmer, a rifle casually slung over his shoulder, Hosea walks in, carefully closing the door behind him.

Arthur has never been this relieved in his life.

They get the key from the dead lawman and while Hosea opens up Arthur's cell, Dutch goes to rummaging through the desk, looking for cash.

"Nice place you got here, kid," Hosea says and Arthur snorts.

"I had better," he quips, and then more serious, "Thanks for picking me up."

Dutch, leaning over a cash box he has produced from somewhere, curses quietly when he finds its contents to be nothing but loose change. "Poorer than we are," he says annoyed, smashing the lid shut. With a sigh he rounds the table, leans back on it, sits where the deputy had his feet propped before. He reaches into the breast pocket of his vest, pulls out a cigar and lights it, flicking the burnt match into the room. He looks at Arthur, head slightly cocked. "So tell me, Arthur, why did they wanna hang you, anyways?"

Arthur's stomach drops. "Does it matter?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"Was just wondering. They don't hang people for nothing these days. Not without a trial at least. But you they picked up, what, two days ago? Been sitting in here ever since, no trial, no bail, no nothing." He takes a deep drag from his cigar, squints at him. "I sent you to work the Anderson farm, figure out how to best get those horses. Didn't hear anything about anyone getting themselves killed or some kid forcing themselves on some unsuspecting lady."

"Dutch," Hosea says and it sounds like they talked about this before, exasperated, tired.

"Just wondering," he says again, "why they were so keen then to see you hang."

Dutch and Hosea are the closest thing to a family Arthur ever had. They picked him up from the street, fed him, taught him reading and shooting, damn well did more than his real father had done in the 14 years prior. He had sworn to himself, one night, lying awake, thinking about how he got where he was, that he would never disappoint them.

But life is rarely that easy. And he can't change who he is. A part of him, at least at this moment, thinks that maybe they will understand.

So he says, voice thick with guilt: "They caught me with one of the stable boys."

Hosea next to him exhales heavily, like he had been holding his breath up until now. Dutch just stares at him.

"We'd been careful, I swear. But someone must've seen us, tipped us off to Mr. Anderson, and he told us he would make sure we would hang. When the sheriff came he said it ain't the law anymore but he would find a way." He laughs bitterly. "Apparently he did."

It's quiet after that. Arthur awkwardly shuffles his feet.

"Listen, kid-" Hosea eventually starts, but as if that had been a secret signal, Dutch chucks away the cigar and stands up.

"So you are telling me I picked up a fucking invert, fed and bathed him, raised him like my own son?" he says, dark and vile.

Arthur stands still, unsure what to say, if he is even allowed. "Dutch, I- I don't-," he tries, but Dutch cuts him off.

"I don't even wanna think about what you and that boy did but I swear to God, Arthur, if I ever hear anything like that about you again, I will leave you to rot."

Arthur nods, feeling nauseous.

"You're a smart kid, a damn good shot, and I really don't want my dedication to go to waste like that. So. Bury whatever part of you that was deep, deep down and never look at it again, you understand me?"

He nods again.

"Good. Wonderful. Then let's go home," he says coldly and with that he walks out the door.

Arthur feels sick, his shame burning through his body. His hands tremble, he can't move. He swallows heavily, fighting the urge to vomit.

He always thought nothing could hurt more than a gunshot wound, a deep cut from a knife or a hard punch in the face. His father had beat him up regularly for the most benign thing and there were times when he would lie in bed, red and blue all over, that he thought he would die from the pain.

But this is worse.

He is standing alone in the room with Hosea. It has started to smell sweet and coppery. The dead deputy is slowly leaking blood all over the floor.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says to Hosea, voice shaking. He means it, even though he doesn't know exactly if he can be sorry for it.

"I know," Hosea says, as if he has it all figured out. "Dutch is just worried," he continues, and when Arthur just nods, he says, "but he is right. You can't...it does not work like that. There is no future in it. So you best forget about it."

"Okay," Arthur says, small and quiet. And then he follows Hosea out of the sheriff's office to where Dutch is waiting with the horses.

                                                                              ***

When Dutch wakes him the next morning, the sun has barely gone up. He makes him dress up, eat some stew from last night and then mount his horse. They ride for an hour, the sun rising behind them. Dutch doesn't tell him where they are going and Arthur is too afraid to ask.

When they get close to the town, Arthur immediately recognizes the name. It's where the sheriff said they would bring the stable boy, and everything in Arthur tells him to run. But he keeps following Dutch who calmly rides on. They find a post near the general store where they hitch their horses, and then they walk towards the town square. A crowd has gathered around the gallows where the stable boy, thin and dirty, stands with a noose already loosely around his neck.

They tell the crowd about all the heinous crimes the boy has committed – none of them real, Arthur knows – and folks cheer and boo and scream for his death. The boy is calm, almost proud, looks up into the sky as if he is expecting judgement from above.

Arthur remembers his voice, remembers sitting in the barn with him, listening to him reading out his favourite bible verses, a soft smile on his face. Arthur has never believed in God but in these nights he has felt like he maybe could.

All he can do now is pray to whoever will listen that the boy doesn't see him in the crowd, doesn't recognize him, and in the end, he doesn't. Not when the sheriff pronounces his sentence, not when he pulls the lever, not when the boy finally falls. His neck snaps fast and then it's over, his empty eyes staring out into the crowd.

"Take a good look," Dutch behind him says, a heavy hand on his shoulder.

And Arthur does.

1895

The entire thing had been a disaster from the beginning, really, and Arthur wished he had insisted on his intuition. But as usual, hindsight was easier than foresight.

They sat perched behind the rotting remains of a hunting lodge, heads kept low while bullets whizzed overhead, sometimes hitting their cover, sending wooden chips flying shrapnel-like all around them. Arthur looked over to where Dutch sat, guns in both hands but waiting for some kind of opening to return fire. Behind Dutch, Hosea was bandaging his left arm where a bullet had grazed him earlier, his face serious with concentration. Arthur also knew Mac and Davey were somewhere else entirely, always the first ones to run, but at this point Arthur was mostly glad some of them had made it out alive.

The only ones he wasn't sure about were John and Sean. They had been the ones sitting on the wagon when the O'Driscolls had sprung their trap; half a dozen packs of dynamite carefully buried underneath the dirty road, exploded just when the horses stepped onto where they were hidden. Arthur, who had been riding in front as usual, barely had had time to turn around to watch the horses being ripped apart. The sheer force of the explosion had sent the wagon keeling over and for all Arthur knew it had buried both John and Sean underneath. But before he had the chance to go back to look for them bullets had been flying past his head and all he had been able to do at that point was lead his horse down from the road and into the forest, eventually jumping out of the saddle and scrambling for cover.

For the past half hour they had been chased further and further into the woods. Dutch and Hosea had at one point caught up with him but they also didn't have any clue about what happened to John and Sean, they just knew that the twins, tasked with securing their back, had taken that fortunate positioning to turn their horses around as fast as possible and flee in the direction they had come from. Dutch sounded rather bitter about that, Hosea on the other hand chose to believe they would come back with reinforcement from camp soon.

For now, all they could do was keep their heads low. It had become apparent pretty soon that the entire thing wasn't just a couple of O'Driscoll boys out to rob whoever came across their little trap, but had been a carefully planned setup, targeted specifically at them – or rather at Dutch.

"Colm's still pretty pissed at you, huh Dutch?" Arthur said.

Dutch gave him a grim smile. "And here I was thinking we'd been square. Didn't think he would be holding a grudge for so long. For all I know, I should be the one angry at him."

"I thought he didn't even like his brother that much anyway," Arthur laughed.

"Yeah. I personally thought I was doing him a favour," Dutch quipped, but he suddenly seemed to remember what followed after, seemed to remember Annabelle, and he knitted his eyebrows, a bit lost in memory.

Sometimes Arthur wondered if Dutch regretted killing Colm's brother, or if, like everything else, even that and the consequences following were part of a bigger plan. He must have, Arthur thought, at least in the moment they had found Annabelle, barely recognizable, her body charred. Arthur surely did.

The tip about the wagon filled with a month's worth of salaries had come, of all things, from Uncle, the lazy bastard. He on the other hand had heard about it from a couple of drunken fools he had been playing Blackjack with. Arthur had, of course, laughed at him, then dismissed the idea entirely. Too vague for his taste.  But Dutch, desperate as always, especially as their funds were running low and their feud with the local O'Driscolls kept them from scoring the big money, once again, Dutch had pulled up a chair next to Uncle and asked him to go on, if he so pleased.

Considering that the O'Driscolls had just blown that wagon apart it was either empty or Colm was willing to sacrifice a whole lot of money for revenge. Both seemed equally plausible.

"What are we gonna do, Dutch?" Arthur said through gritted teeth. He was starting to get annoyed even though his pulse was still beating in his throat. But the familiar calm was slowly bleeding through, making his senses sharper, his breathing shallow. Like his body, over all those years, had adapted to being in gunfights.

Dutch, surprisingly, looked out of his depth, and it made Arthur worry. It wasn't that Dutch always had an answer to every situation they found themselves in but more often than not he did, and even when he didn't he at least had the courtesy to pretend he had . But now, all Dutch did was look at Hosea who just looked back at Arthur who looked at Dutch.

He really, really should've have listened to his intuition.

And then, suddenly, came a loud scream from where the O'Driscolls had taken cover behind the trees, followed by a massive explosion that vibrated through the forest and made Arthur's ears ring. Wood and dirt and rotting leaves rained down on them, and with a loud splintering sound a giant tree slowly toppled over close to where the shots from the O'Driscolls had come from. It landed on the soft forest floor with a remarkable thud.

The silence that followed was almost deafening. Then Sean McGuire, that fecking bastard, appeared out of the underbrush, dynamite in both hands, howling with glee, and behind him, a bit worse for wear, blood running down his face from a sizeable cut on his brow, came John Marston.

Arthur had never been happier to see those two fools alive.

Apparently having recovered from the initial shock of being flanked, with a hand full of dynamite no less, the O'Driscolls took the chance to continue their assault, but their numbers seemed a bit more even now, with at least two of them blown to bits. With bullets hitting left and right, Sean and John ducked down and slid behind the tree they had just felled, both with a crazy look in their faces, laughing like they had lost their mind.

Only when Dutch yelled at them from behind their cover did they acknowledge them which should've worried Arthur since it meant that the boys had started throwing dynamite before even knowing where the rest of the gang was sitting. Fortune really did favour the fools, apparently, Arthur thought and started to grin from one ear to the other, taken as well by their misplaced delight at their situation.

From there it was easy. Hosea, level-headed as always, split them up quickly, making them flank the remaining O'Driscolls that were scattered and hurt. While the giggling fools took to the left, Dutch and Hosea snuck to the right, and Arthur, loading his last remaining bullets into his rifle, decided to wait in the middle for anyone trying to run.

And run they did. Once they realized that the battle had turned, some O'Driscolls tried to take off, mostly into the direction of the road where their fight had begun, only to be taken out by a couple of well-placed shots by Hosea. The old man wasn't fast but he was precise. Arthur had never seen him miss a shot he had time to line up.

Almost disappointed Arthur stood up from behind his cover, when suddenly a straggler broke through the undergrowth in front of him, a panicked look on his face, his hands wrapped around a carbine repeater. They both lifted their guns at the same time, the O'Driscoll wild like a cornered animal, and Arthur calm, tense.

It was like timed stopped for a second, sound muffled, and then the shot echoed through the forest. Arthur breathed out. The man in front of him looked at him in surprise, confused. Then he dropped his rifle, grabbing at the bullet hole above his heart in disbelief. He sank down to the forest floor.

Arthur looked around, on high alert, but all he could see and hear were the others yelling at each other, asking about their position and status. Eventually, Arthur slung his rifle over his back and looked at the twitching body in front of him. The O'Driscoll was still gasping and gurgling, his chest bleeding red into the forest floor, seconds away from dying. Arthur meanwhile was still buzzing with energy, a high-pitched noise in his ears.

He saw the others stepping out from the undergrowth, making their way towards him. Arthur's hand, absently going for his satchel where he hoped to find a pack of cigarettes, strangely started to tremble.

"Boys," he heard Dutch say from afar, loud booming voice of a man that had just defied the odds, hugging Sean and John close to his chest in a rather uncharacteristic show of affection, "you magnificent fools, you!"

The fools never looked prouder than in this moment , and when Dutch let them go, John shot a beaming smile down to where Arthur was standing above the dead O'Driscoll. Arthur gave him an approving nod in return, and it felt a lot like it used to be between them.

Things had been weird in the years since Jacksonville. For the longest time Arthur had feared that John would either rat him out to Dutch or find a way to blackmail him about that night. But either John had really been afraid enough of Arthur to believe that he would kill him if he talked – and Arthur had been sure he would've done it, killed the kid, that was – or he felt, in a sense, some kind of loyalty towards Arthur, enough to keep his secret at least .

They had never talked about it after that night, and the open animosity had turned into doubt and fear, and then into an uneasy awkwardness. But now that he was looking at John who in turn looked at him with a sense of pride, like he was glad he had impressed Arthur, things seemed lighter between them than they had been for almost four years.

But, of course, things never were that easy.

John, smiling at him just a second ago, suddenly knit his brows together and looked at him in confusion. Arthur, in turn, did the same, a bit dumb-struck.

"Arthur?" John called out to him, shoving Sean to the side to rush towards him, and Arthur, still not sure what was happening, wanted to ask what the problem was, why he was being so weird.

And then, he suddenly felt the pain. It started as a sharp hot point in his stomach and spread out like fire. He gasped at it. He looked down at himself. The blood had already soaked through his entire shirt, the fabric heavy with it. The pack of cigarettes he was holding in his shaking hands was dripping with red.

He felt dizzy. Drained. Tired, mostly.

"Huh," Arthur said. Smart, he thought.

He fell just like the tree had.

***

His dreams were bright and sharp and loud. They hurt like an open wound.

The first time he opened his eyes again, when he thought he was opening them, he saw a stag standing above him, antlers branching out endlessly. The animal looked at him, flanks shivering with energy coiling underneath the skin, ready to jump. He tried to lift his hand to touch the stag, to make sure it was real, but his limbs were heavy and hot, and everything was constantly in motion. When he blinked, the animal was gone and everything was black around him.

The next time he woke it was to Dutch sitting next to his bed, reading out of one of his books, but no matter how hard Arthur tried, he couldn't understand the words. His entire body was on fire, his stomach a bright red burning pit, like someone had opened him up completely. Maybe that was what had happened, he couldn't remember. He drifted back to sleep.

His dreams after that became easier, softer, calmer. Maybe his body was shutting down, slowly draining away until nothing was left, and while part of Arthur urged himself to fight it, to cling to life with all he had, a bigger part told him to just let go. That it would be peaceful. That he could, finally, sleep. And Arthur liked the thought of that, so he let himself drift.

He dreamed of the stable boy at some point, of soft bible verses whispered in the night. Of hands entangled in hair, of lips on lips, of promises made. And he looked at the young man he once was, foolish, love-struck, full of a new-found belief in a life to come, and he wished that he could go back to tell himself to run, to never look back, to find peace somewhere else. And in his dream he wished that it would be easier for this boy, for him, for any man coming after him. If nothing else, he thought desperately, let it be easier.

And then the stag stood above him again, closer now, looking down at him, tilting its head, as if it was waiting for him. And he wanted to follow it, he wanted to feel empty and calm and whole, no restlessness, no wrath, no violence left in his bones, just a white noise, just peace.

But he couldn't. And when he realised that he had to go back, that he had to continue living, he cried, long and pained and angry.

And eventually, he woke up.

***

He came to after over a month at Death's door. Most people in camp had already said their goodbyes at that point, and the fact that Arthur couldn't remember any of them visiting showed how close he had been to dying. He also didn't remember the two times his fever had gotten so out of control that Hosea, in a desperate attempt to save his life, had carried him to a nearby lake, frozen over with a thin layer of ice, and had let him slip into the water, hoping it would cool him down enough to survive. Which, all things considered, it apparently did.

He was still running a fever and the angry red gunshot wound in his stomach still burned, but with each day he could stay awake a bit longer, could eat and drink a bit more, and slowly, very slowly, he felt his strength returning to his body.

They explained to him that it must have been some kind of survival instinct that had kept him upright after that fight with the O'Driscolls. Arthur remembered the buzzing feeling he always felt during a shoot-out, his heightened senses, and he thought that it made sense.

Arthur slept through most of the days, but often times it was no more than a hazy pain-riddled slumber. The Reverend had awkwardly offered him morphine at some point but Arthur had seen what the drug could do to people so he refused, determined to bear the pain.

Other people visited him as well now that he was mostly lucid. Dutch and Hosea would tell him about the things he had missed during the weeks he had been in a coma, the most interesting bit being a young Mexican they picked up while trying to steal chickens. Mary-Beth would sometimes sit at his side for hours while stitching up clothes, just talking softly to him, about nothing in particular, not expecting an answer. Pearson must've also visited him from time to time but always seemed to make sure Arthur was fast asleep when he did since Arthur never caught him bringing in the salty broth and soft bread rolls he would later find at his bedside. And sometimes, when Arthur would wake up shaking from a fevered nightmare, Ms Grimshaw, her face uncharacteristically soft around the edges, would sit next to him, pushing a cold hand over his hot forehead, calling him a good kid like she used to do when he still was one.

Eventually, even Abigail came by one evening, the baby perched high on her hip, cooing at her. She stood uneasy in the entrance of the tent, unsure if Arthur was even awake.

Something between them had always been off, both finding it difficult to put a finger on it. Arthur suspected it was his fault. She had joined them over a year ago, and as a former prostitute helped the camp in the only way she knew. When Arthur had refused her she had seemed oddly offended, something he didn't quite understand to this day. She settled with John soon after, a poor choice but probably the safest, and became pregnant within the same year. But things never lightened up between her and Arthur, like there was something holding them back. Maybe it was the way things between John and him were still raw and shaky. Or maybe it was that John had shared Arthur's secret with someone after all.

"Glad you made it," Abigail said after she was sure he wasn't still sleeping.

Arthur slowly opened his eyes, tried to sit up and did a miserable job of it. "Yeah, me too," he more coughed than said.

"You look terrible, by the way," she said but she smiled now.

He gave her a weak smile back. "Nothing changed, then."

She chuckled. "You should give yourself a bit more credit, Mr. Morgan."

The baby tried to grab her hair, she carefully pushed its little hands away. Arthur stared at her, probably a lot longer than was necessary, before he said: "How's Marston? Hasn't shown his face yet."

Abigail sighed and she suddenly looked very tired. "I think he... He thought you would die. And thinking that really rattled him. He's not been himself, really."

"Sorry that I caused you and the little one trouble, then," Arthur said, looking at the roof of the tent uncomfortably. "Marston's a stubborn fool. But he will come around."

"Yeah," Abigail said, hollow, "I hope he does." She watched the child in her arm, swaying softly back and forth. She looked like she was about to cry. "I love that man, Mr. Morgan. I just wished he would love me and the child half as much."

Arthur watched her, his throat dry. "I'm sure he does," he lied because he couldn't possibly know.

Abigail just stood there and chuckled, cradling her child to her chest. She probably knew it was a lie but she seemed determined to believe it anyways. In this moment, she looked like she would never give up that fight to earn that tiny bit of dignity this world was willing to give her. She was so young, Arthur thought, watching her stand there. Men had controlled her most of her life and now it seemed the first and only choice she had made herself, trusting in John Marston, had been the wrong one. But she still hoped, somehow, because maybe that was all she could do in this life, in this world that wasn't build for her.

Perhaps, Arthur thought, it had never been about him at all, the way she seemed to not like him very much. Perhaps, after everything she had seen in this world, she had become wary of any and all men, and he really couldn't fault her for that.

"I should put the child to bed," Abigail said, the baby drowsily blinking in her arms. She looked at him like she wanted to say more but then shook her head. "Get well soon, Mr. Morgan," she just added.

Arthur thanked her for stopping bye and bid her goodnight, watched her leave his tent. In another life, he thought, they could've been friends, maybe even lovers. But as it was they were stuck in a world that went on without them, each trapped in their own way.

He fell into a dreamless sleep for a couple of hours after that, lulled by the sounds of the busy camp; someone chopping wood to get the campfires started, Tilly and Karen gossiping while washing up, Sean humming while he tended to the horses, Hosea laughing, loud and bright.

When he woke up again it was in the dead of the night, the camp had gone quiet, moonlight was falling into the tent through the open entrance, everything seemed black and white and grey and silver, like distant memory, or a dream hours after waking from it.

Next to him, sitting on his bed, still like a ghost, was John Marston.

Arthur felt too hot and too cold at the same time, his skin covered in sweat from a fever he couldn't quite get rid of. He groaned when he tried to shift underneath the heavy blankets, sitting up painfully.

"You okay?" John said, like the fool he was.

"No," Arthur said, "but I will be." He pushed the blanket down from his chest and he sighed at the feeling of cold air. "Thought you forgot about me, never showed your face since I woke up."

John watched him, his gaze intense like Arthur had never seen before. He looked older, tired, nothing like the bratty boy he had been for the longest time. His hands, carefully placed on his own lap, were slightly shaking. "I thought you'd die," he finally said, voice heavy with memory, "we all did, said our goodbyes, it was real emotional."

Arthur chuckled, humourless. "I bet," he said.

"I've been a real mess, y'know," John continued, finally looking away from Arthur to stare at his own hands. "Whole camp's saying it, that I am losing it. That I didn't do good by Abigail and the kid, like I should've."

He sounded irritated, like he was just realising it. But the fact that he had taken so long to finally show up, and then only did so in the dead of the night when no one was around, told Arthur that John had struggled with the shame for a while.

"You have a son now, Marston, so start acting like it," Arthur said gruffly. "This world really doesn't need more bad fathers."

John huffed a short laugh. "The kid might not even be mine."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "She said it's yours, didn't she?"

"Half the camp had her before she'n me became a thing. Now, I ain't good at math but-"

"What, you got any suspicions?" Arthur asked, irritated.

"Well," John said, bitter, and he looked back at Arthur, "all I know, it sure as hell ain't yours."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and held John's gaze. It was quiet between them for a while.

"Sorry," John pressed out eventually.

"Did you tell Abigail?" Arthur asked, not specifying what he meant but John understood.

"Of course not," he hissed, looking back at the entrance of the tent but no one was there, the camp still eerily quiet. "I promised you."

It felt like an eternity ago that Arthur had knelt on John's chest, threatening to kill him. Back then John had been nothing but a scrawny boy, breaking under the pressure. But he wasn't that boy anymore, and he wasn't afraid of Arthur anymore either, at least not like he used to be.

And Arthur wanted to laugh at the absurdity of John's statement, that it had been an agreement between friends rather than an honest death threat by Arthur, but it came out as more of a cough, pain spiking upwards from his stomach.

John looked at him, brows furrowed, a bit worried. He waited patiently until Arthur caught his breath again.

"I always wondered," John then said, "do Dutch and Hosea know? I can't imagine they don't."

Arthur scoffed. "Oh, they know," he said, not hiding the bitterness, "but as far as they're concerned I stopped acting upon my misguided urges 15 years ago."

"Shit," John breathed, shaking his head slightly in disbelief, and Arthur understood his irritation all too well.

Even though there was almost a decade between them, they had both been orphan kids living rough with absolutely nothing but a sizable rap sheet under their belt when Hosea and Dutch had taken them in. And suddenly, they had felt like they owned the entire world, the law just a thing made to be broken, the country vast and full of opportunity, and the gang a family full of people who would have your back no matter what. 

That was probably why it had felt so much like betrayal, back then. Still felt like it most days, even though Arthur wasn't sure sometimes who had betrayed who, and looking at John in front of him, brows knitted together, it seemed like he didn't have an answer to that either.

"I tried...being different," Arthur said slowly, trouble finding the right words for something he had never talked about but felt the need to explain. "Dutch and Hosea, they are the only people that ever gave me a chance, that thought I was worth something. So, I owed them that much, didn't I? Trying to be better, I should've owned them that much."

John didn't say anything, just stared at him. But Arthur didn't expect to be absolved. He sighed, covered his face with sweaty hands. His body felt raw and vulnerable, his skin itching with shame he had been suppressing for a long time now.

"So I tried, for the longest time, I really did but...I can't change it," he whispered through his fingers. "I can't change who I am. And I am suffering for it every day."

He shuddered with the truth of it, a sob deep in his chest, but he refused to cry, too weak and too tired for it. Had cried tears over this enough, had hurt and been hurt for it even worse. So, instead he lowered his hands, breathed in and out, long and shaky, until he felt calmer and the moment passed. Only then did he dare to look back up again.

John watched him carefully, calculating, as if measuring the width of a gap he wanted to jump. His fingers on his lap were still twitching nervously. He looked haunted. But then, his mind apparently coming to a conclusion, he leaned forward, reached one hand for Arthur's jaw, and pulled him into a kiss.

Arthur gasped against his lips, shocked. It only lasted a second. And then he shoved him back violently, almost pushing him off the bed. "What the hell, John," he cursed, eyes wide in horror, his hand covering his mouth.

John seemed equally startled. "I don't know," he said, and again, "I don't know."

"You have a wife and a child," Arthur hissed and now it was his gaze darting to the entrance of the tent, panic rising in his chest. "You don't want this."

John caught himself fast. "You don't know what I want, Arthur," he snarled.

"You have everything I wish I had, John," Arthur spit out, "Why would you throw that away? Because what? You feel sorry for me?"

John, clearly surprised by that, stared at him open-mouthed. Then he got up angrily, buried his face in his palms, his shoulders shaking with despair. Not letting his hands fall from his face, John said, muffled: "What if I want you?"

Arthur sat pale and weak in his bed. He looked up at John. "You don't want me," he said, calmer now, "You just want to be like me." He sighed. "Just like I wanted to be like Dutch. And Dutch probably wants to be like one of the men he reads so much about."

John finally dropped his hands and stared at him, no longer angry but uncertain. "There are worse men one could try to be like than you," he said.

"All I know," Arthur said, ignoring him, "is that maybe men are not meant to be each other's shadows. Not men like we are at least. It ruins us. Has ruined Dutch and me already. But it's not too late for you. You could still take your wife and kid, and run. Be your own person."

John shook his head slowly in disbelief. "So what do I do, then? Be a fucking farmer somewhere, become honest folk? Play father to a child that probably ain't even mine?"

Arthur looked at him with a blank expression. "You could be happy like that, happier than any of us. Abigail's a good woman, you fool, you should be glad she chose you."

He seemed to think about that for a while. "What if I can't love her enough? Or the child?" he asked then, almost too quiet to hear.

Arthur gave him a sad smile. "You are just afraid. But it'll go away," he lied.

 And John stared at him for a long time, desperately searching for a way to convince Arthur of something, anything. He looked more like a boy again, with a whole life ahead of him and no way of knowing how it would go. Arthur saw him think through it all, every emotion plain and simple in his face. In the end, he just looked defeated.

"Go to sleep, John," Arthur eventually said, his body heavy and hot with exhaustion and fever.

"Sure Arthur." John nodded slowly, walked towards the entrance of the tent. Before he left he turned around one last time, not saying anything, like he hoped Arthur would call him back. He didn't.

Once John was gone, Arthur slid down underneath his blanket, warmth embracing his shivering body. The wound in his stomach pulsed with his heartbeat. And the scar on his chin, pale, barely visible after all these years, itched, reminding him of a promise he had made, down on his knees, with a mouth full of blood. It felt so long ago, like it had happened to a different man.

Falling asleep afterwards felt more like passing out.

***

John, it turned out the next day, had taken his advice to leave. His horse, his weapons and part of their rations were gone with him. Only Abigail and the child remained, with nothing more than a short letter as excuse. Arthur saw Abigail read the damn thing, watched her curse and scream and cry, and then, eventually, like she had done her whole life, accept the cards she had been dealt.

***

Over a year later, John returned, waltzed back into camp like he had never been away, his only punishment a hard slap in the face by Abigail which he took wordlessly. He never explained where he had been or why he decided to return, just that he wanted to be there for his family.

While Abigail had forgiven him fast, Arthur couldn't. Hosea implored them to set aside their differences, but something fundamental between them had been shattered and neither awkward words, bottles of alcohol or bouts of violence could fix that.

Ultimately, it turned out, it was easier to just accept that broken thing between them. Easier at least than admitting the truth about why Arthur felt so desperate and angry towards John. That it wasn't so much that John had left, without his family no less, but the fact that he had returned at all, dooming Arthur to watch him helplessly stumble down the same cursed path Arthur had been stuck on for so long.

In the end, it seemed, they would all stay trapped exactly where they were, redemption nothing more than a distant fever dream.

1885

He is 22 and he fucking hates the new boy.  

It's not the kid's fault, really, it's just the way they found him, a noose around his neck, awkwardly balancing on top of a crate, with an angry crowd of homesteaders around him. It reminded Arthur too much of something he was working really hard on to forget.

This time, though, Dutch went and rescued the kid. His name is John and the first thing he did after Dutch cut the rope and lifted him up from the ground was bite him. That Arthur can respect. What he can't respect, though, is the fact that now the kid is sleeping in his tent. The tent that Arthur has saved up for months to buy so he could finally have his own.

He lies on his back on his cot and stares at the tent's roof above him, listening to Dutch and Hosea sitting at the campfire and talking quietly. He doesn't understand the words but it sounds a bit like they are having an argument but don't want him to know or hear.  

Arthur sighs, rubs both his hands over his face. Then he looks over to where the kid is curled into a ball in the corner of his tent. His back is turned towards him. They didn't have a spare bed roll so he is lying on the cold grass with nothing but his own bulky coat wrapped around him. He is shivering wildly.

First, Arthur thinks it's because of the cold. It's spring, the days are already warm but the nights tend to be harsh. But then he hears a sob, a choked sound, and the shaking gets worse for a second. The kid is crying.

Arthur sighs again, watches him, unsure what to do. Children confuse him, and John really isn't more than that. He's 12, at least that's what he says, thin like a stick, dirty, wild like an animal. Has killed a man before, he says – as if – and stole enough money from the homestead to find himself almost strung up. But now, here in the darkness, he doesn't sound like a thief or a killer or an untamed beast. He just sounds like a child, desperate and afraid.

Eventually, Arthur gets up quietly. He is usually sleeping under a heavy wool blanket but sometimes he puts an old wolf pelt underneath to protect himself from the cold of the ground. He picks that one up, it's dusty but warmed up by his own body. John on the ground doesn't seem to hear him, and when Arthur kneels down next to him, carefully touching his shoulder, he flinches hard, his head whipping around to look up at Arthur with wide frightened eyes.

"It's okay," Arthur whispers, holds up the pelt for John to see. It's not much but better than nothing. But instead of taking it, John just narrows his eyes, red and swollen from crying, and stares at him with suspicion. He is still shaking, and up this close Arthur can actually see that his lips have already turned slightly blue. "Take it," Arthur says.

John finally moves, sits up a bit, takes the pelt with shaking hands, pauses, unsure what to do with it, if he should lie down on it or use it as a blanket. Arthur sees his mind working at the problem, brows furrowed, teeth worrying his lower lip, like only a child really can, and then he sees the angry red mark left by the noose that was wrapped around his neck earlier today.

The decision to rescue the kid was made in a split second. They were actually just passing by, wondering what the crowd of people was about, and when they were finally close enough to see the kid the angry mob had already kicked the grate away from under his feet. Thankfully, Hosea still was an excellent shot even when aiming for nothing more than a piece of rope.

Eventually, John decides to lie down on top of the pelt, just coils into himself again. He says nothing, not even a thank you, and Arthur wants to be angry about it but really can't. Instead he gets up, moves over to his chest where he keeps his clothing, neatly folded and stacked, and pulls out his winter coat. It smells of horse and pine needles and smoke.

Arthur kneels down next to John again, this time not bothering with making him turn around, just spreads the big coat over the small body. The kid freezes and then instantly relaxes once he realises it's not a body but just a coat wrapping around him. He turns around again, but just a bit so he can lie on his back and look up at Arthur hovering above him. His hands come out from under the coat, pulling it higher up towards his chest.

"Thanks," he finally says, but it's barely audible, his voice scratchy and raw, probably a result from the hanging. It must hurt a lot, Arthur realises. Tears are welling up in the kid's eyes, he closes them in an attempt to hide them from him. "Sorry," he croaks, wipes at his face with the back of his hand.

"'S okay," Arthur says. "Does it hurt a lot?"

John looks at him, than down as if he could look at his own neck – which of course he can't – and then nods carefully. "Yeah." A sound barely more than a breath. "How bad is it?" he adds, coughs from the strain, short and dry.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. John lifts his chin, leans his head back, and Arthur understands. It's dark inside the tent but the night is clear and the moon high above them almost full, so it's bright enough to see the rope marks. Arthur carefully pushes against John's jaw, turns his head left and right to get a better look. Everything is in greyscale, the wound dark, almost black, and the surrounding skin lighter, bruises that now seem grey but are probably red and blue. In some parts the rope has cut deeper into his skin, the wounds barely scabbed over. It will leave a scar albeit one that will slowly fade with time.

Arthur opens his mouth to tell the kid just that when he hears a cough behind him, and when he turns around it's Dutch's silhouette standing in the entrance of the tent, his face hidden. Arthur looks back down to where his fingers are brushing against the kid's neck. Thinks about how it must look to Dutch. Something curls hot and heavy around his heart.

"Arthur," Dutch says coldly, "why don't you come with me for a second?"

He gets up slowly. John watches him in confusion but all Arthur can do is shake his head at him. Then he steps outside the tent into the moonlit camp, his whole body shaking just like John's had earlier. Dutch is standing in front of the dying fire, next to the log they use to sit on, the rest of the camp is quiet and empty. Arthur wonders where Hosea has gone to, wonders if Ms Grimshaw is already asleep.

"Come here," Dutch says and Arthur does, steps right in front of him. He is taller than him now, heavier too, he's been working hard.

And still, when Dutch's fist connects with his head it knocks him down completely. He falls to the side, shocked, no time to raise his hands properly to catch himself, and his chin connects painfully with the log before he tumbles to the ground completely. His ears are ringing, pain is exploding along his temple where Dutch hit him, and over his chin where he can feel the skin split open and blood gushing out of the cut. He must have also bit his lips or the inside of his cheek, he tastes the blood inside his mouth, groans and rolls to the side to spit it out.

But Dutch isn't finished, sees him turn to the side, uses the opening to kick him in the stomach, once, twice, three times, until Arthur can only curl up, wrap his arms around his middle, wheezing and coughing, begging "Please" and "Stop".

Dutch lets up, stares down at him, his face half hidden in shadows, the moon bright above him, spits on the ground next to him.

"Get up, on your knees," he says, and when Arthur just winces in pain, he kicks at him again, at his ribs this time, and that makes Arthur comply, slowly pushing himself on his knees, bend forward slightly around the pain in his stomach.

"Dutch, please-" Arthur says, blood from the cut chin smeared across his face, his body pulsing with pain.

Dutch slaps him, hard but not enough to topple him over again. Arthur gasps, resists the urge to raise his hands to protect himself, knows that it will only make it worse.

"I told you what would happen," Dutch says, his voice heavy with disgust.

"I didn't- I don't!" Arthur sobs, hates himself for it, how weak he feels.

He is probably stronger than Dutch, could try to fight back at least, might even win. But he can't. Not when he thinks he deserves it.  Because yes, this right here is a terrible misunderstanding but it doesn't change the fact that Arthur hasn't been good and true and honest. Doesn't change that even though he promised Dutch to bury that part of him he still catches himself looking and wishing and wanting. That he still thinks about the stable boy, how they kissed in the hay and how it was the happiest Arthur had ever been. That one time, long after, when Dutch and Hosea and him got so drunk in a saloon that they had lost each other, he had gone with a man that had been giving him a knowing look all night long, and then when he had pulled him into a side room, Arthur had let the man fuck his mouth, and it had felt good and right and insane.

So Arthur sits there and says nothing and does nothing, just looks up at Dutch, begging that he forgives him. And Dutch stares down at him, looks at Arthur on his knees, beat and broken and sobbing, and Arthur can't be sure, of course he can't, but for a moment it seems Dutch is almost drunk on the power, drunk on the possibility, the position they're in.

And he would, Arthur thinks, almost laughing, feeling himself go crazy a bit. If Dutch would take his dick out right now and tell him to suck it, just to feel that rush of power and maybe to teach him to hate it, to always remember it when he was thinking about doing it to someone else, he would do it. Because what else would he do? What else was there? He hasn't left, not after everything that happened, and he won't after this. He has given this man everything he has and he will continue to do so because frankly he doesn't know how else to be.

But Dutch doesn't do it, might not even have thought about it like Arthur assumed, might just hate and despise him in a normal way.

"When I ever see you touch the boy again," Dutch hisses, "I will slit your fucking throat."

And Arthur nods and sobs again. "Yes," he says, and "Of course," and then, breathless almost, "Thank you."

For a second it looks like Dutch isn't finished yet or maybe has changed his mind after all, ready to kill Arthur , right here, letting him bleed out and rot, just like he promised, leaving him for Ms Grimshaw and Hosea to find the next morning. But Dutch just huffs, spits onto the ground in front of Arthur's knees again, shakes his head, his face a grimace of disgust. And then he turns around, leaves Arthur kneeling, and disappears into his tent.

The cut on Arthur's chin is deep and still bleeding, it drips down onto his union suit, soaks into it. His head is spinning, roaring, humming with the aftershock of the punch. Eventually he manages to get up, stumbles to one of the water barrels to at least wash the blood from his face, and then shuffles back into his tent. John has his eyes closed, he might be asleep but more likely he's faking it but Arthur can't think about that right now.

He slowly crawls back under his blanket. His whole body is aching with pain, sharp on his chin and dull and thrumming in his temple and heavy in his stomach. Arthur closes his eyes, tries not to cry. Thinks that Dutch is right to hate him. Wishes he could be better. Wishes things would be easier. Wishes he was back in that barn. Wishes he believed in God.

1898

Winter in the Northern Grizzlies was harsh. Not just was everything trapped underneath layers of snow and ice, the piercing cold made it almost impossible to stay away from the warmth of a fire for too long. Money was also hard to come by. Most folk would migrate south for the winter months, leaving the already sparsely populated region empty and ghostlike, forcing most general stores, butchers and saloons to close as well.

That Dutch had led them up here in the first place showed how paranoid he had become. His fear of the law seemed to outweigh his obsession with the big money, at least for a while.

They had stirred up some trouble over the past years, mostly with a rather successful string of bank robberies. But while their earnings and the number of gang members had been growing, so had their bounties, and this type of fame had meant that people would recognize them more often. At some point the price on Dutch's head had reached such a ridiculously high level that they couldn't step foot into any town anymore without being pestered by bounty hunters. This was when they had decided that a change of scenery was in order.

Even though the Grizzlies seemed rough, the resources were plentiful, even in winter. They had set up camp near Mount Hagen, close to rivers full of salmon and not too far from a snow covered plateau riddled with wild life. No one seemed to mind their lack of money too much, content with living from what the wilderness gave them. They had even found shelter in an abandoned logging camp and while most the houses had been burned down, a large building that had once been a community centre was still intact enough to serve as makeshift sleeping quarters.

But as usual, Arthur hadn't lasted long cooped up like that with the others so he had volunteered to go hunting. They still had plenty of canned food left and Hosea would regularly bring fresh fish from the near-by river but no one had complained when Arthur had packed his things and enough food for a week's worth of travel. They all had known that the occasional lonely smoke outside in the cold or a short ride away from camp weren't enough to keep the restlessness out of his fists, and that sooner or later Arthur would have started to lash out like a caged animal.

He had been away for five days now, and honestly, Arthur still wasn't ready to return. He hadn't even started to look for game before day three, had just aimlessly followed a stream upwards the mountain, relishing in the silence and emptiness of the snow-covered land around him, in the vast star-filled sky above him at night and the easy familiarity of his horse.

Even though the weather had been perfect for the most part, blue skies and bright sun, the cold was still painful and he had to rest several times a day at a hastily put together fire or find shelter in abandoned cabins to warm himself and his horse up. Right now, he was sitting in the ruins of a barn, the roof caved in by snow but still giving enough shelter from the wind that had recently picked up.

 Arthur sat in front of a small fire, leaning against the saddle he had removed from the horse. As usual during these downtimes he occupied himself with his journal, writing a couple of sentences about the things that had happened before they had moved to the Grizzlies, and then when he ran out of things to talk about he started to sketch; Animals he had encountered, people he had met, trying to remember the ones with interesting features, and then studies of his horse, something he always fell back to when he couldn't come up with anything new.

Sometimes he tried to draw the stable boy's face. But he never got it right.

Hosea had bought him his first journal more than a decade ago, not too long after Dutch had forced Arthur to watch the boy he loved being hanged. At the time it felt cruel, like clean white pages bound in fine leather could in any way replace what Arthur had lost. But even though Hosea was a con man, had always been one as far as Arthur knew, something had felt honest and raw about how he had given the book to Arthur one night without saying a single word, secretly, like he was afraid of Dutch finding out.

Arthur had thought about burning it, back then, right in front of Hosea. In the end, he hadn't. Instead he had started to write, his letters still lopsided and his sentences awkward. And after a while, when he had felt the limitations of his vocabulary, he had started to sketch the things he just couldn't describe with words anymore. It had helped more than he had been willing to admit, to himself but mostly to Hosea. At least he had never given the old man the satisfaction of thanking him for it.

After all this time, writing or drawing in his journal had become a habit just like saddling his horse, pitching his tent, lighting a fire, something he could do without thinking too much about. It worked like an anchor, grounding him in reality. But it could never relief him of his restlessness. Not like violence could. Or sex.

Arthur gently touched his fingertips to his recent drawing, careful not to smudge the lines. It was a rough sketch of the surrounding landscape, snow covered trees, a frozen lake, the mountain top still towering high above it all no matter how long Arthur seemed to climb upwards. He kinda liked that drawing. It felt cold and peaceful. Soothing.

He sighed, his breath like white mist in front of his mouth, even so close to the fire, then he closed the journal, binding it with its long leather strip, and put it back into his satchel. He looked at the sky above him through the destroyed roof and frowned at the dark clouds quickly piling up. The wind was still howling through the gaps in the wooden walls of the barn and it clearly smelled like fresh snow.

"Shit," Arthur cursed, annoyed more than frightened.

He had spent enough time in the wilderness to recognize when a storm was coming, thunderstorm or blizzard or tornado, it didn't matter, the signs were mostly the same. The wind would pick up, the sky would turn dark quick and the air would feel heavy all of a sudden, like there was not enough space in it anymore, like you could drown in it.

Arthur slowly got up, thinking about his next move. He probably had another hour or two before the blizzard would get strong enough to make it hard – if not impossible – to travel safely in it. It was still early in the day so at least he wouldn't have to deal with the darkness of the night just yet but he knew that he had to make his way down the mountain fast, trying to reach one of the abandoned cabins he had used for shelter on his way up. Being this deep into the wilderness meant waiting out the blizzard was smarter than trying to outrun it.

He looked around, considering for just a second trying to hole up here in the destroyed barn but quickly came to the conclusion that the caved-in roof would not give him the shelter he needed, so he begrudgingly saddled up the horse and put out the fire with a handful of snow. The smoke rose up lazily through the roof before it got whipped away by a harsh breeze. Arthur followed it with his gaze, saw it dark against the light grey of the storm-heavy sky before it dissolved into the wind.

And then suddenly, it got very still. The wind stopped pushing against the wooden walls of the barn, the rattling and creaking ceased and all that was left was the silent echo of an empty room, and the humming of a storm far far in the distance. Arthur just stood there, holding the reins of his horse in his left hand, ready to lead it out the barn but stunned by the sudden silence. He stared at the sky, confused, surprised.

And then, like everything always did, the calm ended as fast as it had come.

Behind him, in the open entrance to the barn where a tall gate had once been, he heard a growling, deep and feral. His horse let out a high-pitched whine, started to pull on the reins. Arthur turned around slowly, his free hand moving towards the revolver on his hip, wrapping the leash tighter around the other one.

In the entrance, teeth bared, claws braised against the ground, ready to jump, stood a wolf.

The horse started to panic, pulled backwards, neighing loudly. The wolf snarled at the sound, a twitch in its legs, but apparently not daring yet to get closer. Arthur thought about the rifle neatly tucked in its holster on the saddle on the opposite side of the horse, unreachable. He then thought that maybe, just maybe, his revolver could be enough to kill the wolf should he decide to jump him.

The horse still tried to get away from the entrance and Arthur let it pull him with him, trying to calmly get some distance between him and the wolf. But the animal followed them into the barn, slow deliberate steps toward them, still emitting a low growl, a threat. But something about how the wolf moved seemed off, and just then Arthur saw the arrow sticking out from the wolf's flank, the fur around it blood-soaked.

Suddenly it made more sense why the wolf would come so close to him. Up here in the mountains wild animals were less used to humans – and less threatened by them as well – so they mostly avoided them, going after easier and smaller prey. But this wolf was panicking, much like Arthur's horse was, both fearing for their lives. Cornered like that, Arthur suddenly thought, still awfully calm about it, this animal would not be stopped by a shot from his revolver. Just like Arthur had not felt the bullet from that O'Driscoll all those years ago, this wolf would fight for its life ignoring the pain right until the end.

With a sudden intensity the wind picked up again, pushing against the groaning wood of the barn, howling and whistling. It spooked the horse so much that Arthur couldn't hold the leash any longer; it unfurled and then got snatched from his hand, twisting it painfully with an audible snap. With a loud whine the horse skidded backwards and when it met the back wall of the barn it reared up in sheer panic, eyes wide and black. Arthur cursed, pressed his hurting hand against his chest, and then made the mistake of looking back at his horse.

The wolf saw its opening and lunged forward. It crashed into Arthur with full force, smashing him against the ground, claws and teeth snapping after him. Arthur yelped, huffed out a short scream when his back connected with the floor, pushing all the air from his lungs. He desperately raised his arms, trying to hold the wolf back, pressing against its neck and head, felt teeth biting into his shoulder, thankfully hindered by the heavy coat he was wearing, but still reaching the skin underneath, tearing into it.

Pain now shot through him, this time not suppressed by any survival instinct, but raw and hot and real. Arthur wheezed under the wolf's heavy weight, blindly trying to get a better grip at the animal, to push it back out of reach. His hand, the one that was not sprained, suddenly found the arrow still sticking from the wolf's flesh. With an angry cry he tried to pull it out but the arrowhead seemed to be lodged deep into the muscle, so he opted to snap the thin shaft. With a satisfying crack it broke apart, its new tip splintered and sharp.

The wolf was still trying to bite through Arthur's coat, blood had started to soak the shirt underneath where its teeth had reached the flesh of his shoulder. Arthur tried again to push the animal away but his left hand was swollen and hurting and useless, and the animal so heavy on top of him that he was barely able to breathe in properly. Stars started to dance at the corner of Arthur's eyes, pain and lack of air mixing together.

In a desperate last attempt, Arthur raised the hand with the broken arrow and then brought it down on the wolf's head, sticking it deep into the animal's eye. The wolf immediately howled, a high and ugly sound, and reared back, clawing at its own face, trying to get the arrow out. Arthur, suddenly able to breathe again, took the chance to crawl backwards, but he was slow, dazed, and the wolf was now nearly delirious with pain and fear.

Once it had dislodged the arrow it lifted its head again, looked at Arthur, one eye a bloody mess, the other dark and feral, and braised itself to jump at him again.

Maybe this is it, Arthur thought, time seemingly pausing. All he heard was his own raspy breathing and his pulse hammering in his ears. He always thought he would welcome it, in the end, when Death would finally catch up with him a second time. But instead right now all he felt was sorrow and regret.

And then time seemed to move again, and when the wolf pressed against the ground, ready to pounce forward, there was suddenly the sound of another arrow whirling through the air and with a low thunk it drove right through the wolf's skull, stopping it in its tracks. It collapsed to the ground, dead in an instant, and Arthur let out a long, wheezing breath, almost a laugh.

"Shit," he said, unable to think of more words, and then he found another one after all, "Fuck," he added for good measure.

Behind the wolf, slowly lowering his bow, stood a black man in a heavy pelt coat, the hood hiding most of his head, his face barely visible.

"You okay?" the man asked, voice low and flat.

Arthur grunted, tried to sit up properly, rolled his aching shoulder and then looked at his swollen left wrist. Right now, everything hurt, but all in all he seemed to have survived without any critical injury.

"Yeah, I think," he said, voice slightly shaky. "My horse still there?" he asked while he pushed his coat open slightly to check on the wound in his shoulder.

When he looked up again, he could see the man raise his eyebrows under the hood, then look around. He nodded towards the back of the barn, way behind Arthur, but said nothing else. When Arthur turned around with a groan he could see the horse still standing in the back, nervously shaking its head, eyeing the stranger. Arthur exhaled in relief. He had feared that the horse had bolted while he was fighting the wolf which would've made it even more difficult to outrun the storm.

Fittingly, the stranger suddenly said: "We can't stay here." He stared up into the sky, uneasy, where clouds were slowly shifting into something bigger and darker.

"Storm's coming, I know," Arthur said and tried to push himself up but failed when he realized that his hurt wrist couldn't hold his weight. He hissed with the pain and fell back down again.

The man slung the bow over his shoulder and walked up to him, reaching out a hand. Arthur took it thankfully, not too proud to accept the help, and let himself be pulled up.

"'Preciate it," he mumbled, and the stranger simply nodded.

Now that he was closer and the shadow from his hood wasn't as deep, Arthur could actually see the man's face better. His skin was a dark brown, rough from spending a lot of time outside. His features were rugged but handsome, with a scar branching out like lightning up his right jaw and a smaller one cutting through his brow. His clothing was a mix of typical cowboy attire – heavy leather boots and saddle pants – and a dark fur-lined coat with a wide hood and a pair of fingerless gloves, both clearly hand-made. Besides the bow still slung over his shoulder and a quiver on his back, the man seemed to be unarmed, but something told Arthur that he probably just knew where to properly hide a knife.

For a second they stood in front of each other, both cautiously measuring up the other, trying to figure out what kind of risk they posed, Arthur awkward and careful not to stare too long, the stranger with a clinical calmness. In the end, the stranger seemed to come to the conclusion that Arthur didn't pose a threat, at least not an immediate one, and then turned away with a low hum and went to kneel next to the dead wolf.

"Get your horse," he said, less a command and more a suggestion, "we really should be going."

"Sure," Arthur said but didn't move. Instead he watched the man pick up the heavy wolf and lift it onto his shoulder with nothing more than a soft grunt. He then stared at Arthur, one eyebrow raised, clearly waiting for him, which made Arthur finally move to fetch his horse.

When they stepped outside the barn they were met with a sharp wind carrying little shards of ice in it, and Arthur winced in surprise. The stranger didn't seem to mind as much and Arthur envied him for his lined hood protecting his ears and face while all he could do was pop up the collar of his coat a bit and hope the wind would not rip the hat away from him.

The stranger's horse, a small and sturdy spotted Appaloosa mare, had been hitched to a tree and now patiently waited while the man strapped the wolf's carcass to its back. When he was done he easily climbed into the saddle, leaned forward to pat the horse's neck and then watched as Arthur mounted his own horse, his twisted wrist giving him a hard time.

The sky above them looked heavy and dark and threatening. Arthur tried to remember all the places he had passed in the last days on his way up the mountain. His hand and shoulder both throbbed with different kinds of pain, his horse nickered nervously, and Arthur couldn't say he felt much different.

As if sensing Arthur's uncertainty, the stranger guided his mare closer and looked straight at him. "Come with me," he said against the loud wind, "I know a place not far from here."

Arthur gave him a quick nod in return, and when the stranger spurred his horse on, speeding through the thickening snowfall, all he could do was to try to keep up with him.

***

They reached the low overgrown hut at the same time as the blizzard. The sky had become progressively darker, the heavy snowfall around them swallowed up the sunlight, turning the world into an icy grey haze. At some point the stranger had taken out a bright lantern, not so much to lighten up the path ahead – he seemed to have a pretty good idea where to go, apparently knowing the surrounding area very well – but to give Arthur behind him something to follow in the growing darkness.

The hut had a small shed attached to one side, probably once used to store gardening tools. It could barely fit both their horses but it seemed better than leaving them without protection from the storm. Once they had lead their horses inside, the stranger lifted the wolf carcass from his mare's back, slung it over his own shoulder and then stepped outside into the storm again, making his way towards the hut's entrance.

Arthur stared at his saddle for a second, at the weapons stored at the side of it, his rifle and the repeater. He knitted his eyebrows. He usually didn't trust that easy, would be stupid to do so in the world he was living in. Then again, the stranger could've easily let that wolf rip his throat out, or he could've left him in the middle of the storm but had decided against it both times. Arthur muttered a curse under his breath and then only took his bedroll with him. The revolver at his hip would have to be enough.

The wind almost pushed him into the hut and he had to slam his entire weight against the door to close it again. The loud screaming of the storm outside died down to a howling and whistling. Arthur sighed, his broad back leaning heavily against old wood.  

The inside of the hut was, as expected, small and mostly empty. Whoever had once lived here had been gone for a long time and had taken most of the furniture with them. The only things left were a narrow little fireplace, a couple of empty crates and the remains of a broken table.

There were also a couple of other things that told Arthur that the stranger hadn't just remembered this house from passing by it but had apparently lived here for at least a couple of days. Next to the fireplace – which for all Arthur could tell was still smouldering – was a stack of firewood and a small kettle blackened with soot. Against the wall closest to the fireplace lay a rolled-up bedroll and a thick-leathered backpack, hand-made like most of the stranger's belongings. Carefully placed next to it, on top of a wooden crate, was a heavy shotgun, its stock dark and worn, and two small cardboard boxes filled with shells.

For a second Arthur blinked nervously at the weapon, the fingers of his healthy hand twitching towards the gun strapped to his hip, but the stranger didn't even pay attention to the shotgun and instead dropped the wolf carcass onto the floor in the mostly empty corner of the hut, on the other side of the fireplace. After letting his hands wander though the dead animal's pelt for a second, an almost tender gesture, he found where Arthur had snapped the arrow shaft, and with a knife he produced from one of his boots he proceeded to carefully cut the pointed arrowhead out of the half-frozen carcass.

Arthur watched him in awe, weirdly entranced by the silent man and his practiced hands. "Why even bother bringing it?" he suddenly asked, mostly because he didn't know how else to break the growing awkwardness.

The stranger straightened and turned around. He pushed the hood back from his head, exposing long black hair, and looked at him, a bit puzzled. "I don't want its death to be in vain," he simply said.

"Huh," Arthur said, looking at the wolf.

"Its meat is a bit stringy but edible, and I might be able to salvage the pelt despite my first unfortunate shot into its shoulder," the stranger said, shrugging. He then knelt down next to the fireplace, blowing into the still smouldering ember, pushing a couple of dry pieces of wood into it to get a proper fire started.

"Yeah, I wondered who shot that beast in the first place, made it so angry," Arthur laughed.

The stranger looked at him over his shoulder, almost sheepishly. "In my defence, it was already angry when it got to me. I was out there to hunt for rabbits, became the prey instead. The winter has been harsh up here, the wolves are getting desperate. Can't really blame this one for doing the same thing I was doing." He shrugged again.

"Guess so," Arthur grumbled, feeling the pain in his shoulder and hand flare up again, like a reminder. He finally pushed away from the front door and moved forward into the room, uncertain what to do next.

The stranger, still occupied with reanimating the fire, said without looking at him, "Might as well settle down. We'll be stuck here for a while."

Arthur sighed and then walked towards the wall where the stranger had his stuff and dropped his bedroll next to it. His coat suddenly felt wet and heavy so he shrugged it off and went to drop it over one of the empty crates, hoping that it would dry in the growing warmth the newly rekindled fire was slowly starting to spread.

The stranger, apparently satisfied with his work, got up and pushed the kettle into Arthur's hands. "Go get some snow so we can melt it down."

Arthur took the kettle, nodded and then quickly went outside, immediately regretting having taken off his coat already. He stalked along the wall of the hut, pushing against the strong wind, and then behind it to where fresh snow had gathered underneath the overhanging trees, sheltered at least a bit from the ever-growing storm.

His nervousness slowly fell away from him while he shovelled snow into the kettle with one hand, the pain in the other one dulled by the freezing cold. There was a weird familiarity about that stranger, he thought, not entirely able to put a finger on it. He had the air of an outlaw about him, or at least of someone who was living way outside of so-called society, and maybe that was enough to feel something like kinship towards him. Enough apparently for Arthur to not only leave most of his weapons out of reach but also follow the man's orders without question, he realised with a irritated chuckle.

When he came back inside, the kettle filled to the brim, the difference in temperature made him hum appreciatively. The stranger had also shed his warm coat, underneath a long blue flannel shirt, a worn leather belt looped around his waist. The fire was flickering brightly, the man in front of it barely more than a silhouette. He had his arms raised, hands in his hair, trying to force the long black strands together and to the back of his head, the thin leather strip he wanted to use to tie them into a knot still between his lips.

Arthur paused, a familiar warm feeling pooling deep in his stomach. He let himself fall back against the door to shut the storm out again and the noise made the man look up at him, the slightest smile playing around his lips.

"Got the snow," Arthur said, like a fool.

Taking the leather strip from his mouth and tying his hair together with it, the man nodded towards the fireplace. Arthur shuffled towards it, attached the handle of the kettle to a hook inside and then sat down, watching the snow slowly dissolve. The stranger behind him rummaged through his backpack and eventually came up with a tin of ground coffee and a banged up percolator, both of which he placed in front of the hearth before sitting down next to Arthur, facing the warm fire.

They sat in silence, waited until the snow had melted down. The stranger then poured the water into the pot, gave a generous amount of coffee grains into it and then set the entire thing right into the fire, not flinching at the flames momentarily licking up to his fingers. Slowly, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the hut and soon the stranger poured them both a cup which Arthur took greedily.

The storm outside was in full force now, the hut shaking and groaning with it. But sitting in front of the narrow hearth, warmth slowly spreading through his bones, Arthur felt oddly save and content. In this moment it seemed like the rest of the world had stopped existing, had been narrowed down to this one tiny hut in the middle of a blizzard, to two figures huddled close to a flickering fire, and nothing else mattered. The stranger was a quiet entity next to him, calm and non-threatening, his face hovering above his steaming cup of coffee, patiently waiting for it to cool down. The silence between them felt comfortable, something Arthur had never experienced with the people in camp who always seemed eager, excitable.

The only one he had ever felt comfortable enough to share this kind of silence with had been Hosea, at least before the betrayal. Hosea had a talent for embracing the calm and more often than not he would actively seek it out. Back in the days, when Arthur had been much younger but already feeling the violent tug of the restlessness in his bones, Hosea would take him on short fishing trips to calm him down. Arthur hadn't enjoyed the fishing part, had found it boring and tedious, but something about Hosea just sitting and relishing in the utter stillness of the world, like nothing else existed for a while, had always got to him, and afterwards, when they would return to camp, most times without a single fish, Arthur would feel strangely at peace.

But, as Arthur had learned time and time again, nothing good ever lasted.

Arthur stared down into his cup, inhaled the bitter but welcome smell of the brew, and decided to take a sip, instantly hissing a curse when he burned his tongue on it. The stranger next to him chuckled, deep and warm, but said nothing, and Arthur could feel himself blush at the sound.

"Thanks, by the way," he said eventually, after taking some less scalding sips of coffee, "for savin' my ass out there, I mean."

The stranger huffed, then nodded. "Of course," he said, turned his head towards Arthur, his face neutral but friendly, and reached out a hand. "Charles Smith," he said.

Arthur stared at the hand for an embarrassing amount of time before his brain caught up. He carefully sat the cup down next to him and went to shake the man's hand. "Arthur Morgan," he said.

Charles hummed. "Thought I recognised you," he said and chuckled at Arthur's narrowing eyes. "Seen you on a couple of Wanted posters, down towards Strawberry. Weeks ago, maybe months. Before winter."

Arthur couldn't help the twitch in his fingers, his eyes darting towards his gun, just for a split second. Charles had seen it, of course.

"Don't worry," he said calmly, "Never been interested in bounty hunting. And even if I were, folks usually don't like to pay men like me, even for presumably honest work." He folded both his hands around the warm cup, taking a deep sip, leaving himself open, as if to assure Arthur.

"You're Native," Arthur said, watching him.

Charles nodded. "On my mother's side. Black on my father's."

"Couldn't've been easy," Arthur offered, honestly.

"Still isn't," Charles said, but there was no self-pity in his voice, no grievances, just a certain pride over having it made this far despite everything.

"That why you run alone?" Arthur asked even though he was just guessing. It could very well be that, just like Arthur Charles had been out on a hunting trip for a couple of days, his gang holed up somewhere else, waiting for his return. He might even be with one of the tribes that had been pushed further and further up north by the cavalry. But there was something about the man that spelled Lone Wolf. Maybe the practiced silence around him.

"Most gangs don't like running with folks like me," Charles admitted with a soft shrug of his shoulders, "Figured it'd be easier to survive on my own. Been pretty good at it so far."

"Better than me," Arthur chuckled, and then as if to underline the statement, winced when he felt the bite wound in his shoulder sting.

Charles set down his cup, looked at him. "How bad is it?" he asked, sounding actually slightly worried.

"I had worse," Arthur grunted, the phantom pain of the gut shot wound pulsing through him, even after all these years. "It barely got through my coat, anyways. The hand's annoying, though." He raised his left, the wrist still swollen and warm.

Charles inhaled in surprise, had apparently been unaware of the injury. He carefully reached for the hand, asked "Can I?", and when Arthur nodded slowly, pressed warm fingers into the swollen skin, bent Arthur's fingers, rotated his wrist. Arthur watched him do it, a concentrated look on his face, the touch feather-light and burning hot at the same time. He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

"It's not broken," Charles eventually said, his fingers brushing over him one last time before retreating and wrapping around his cup of coffee again. "Badly sprained, though. I can splint it for you tomorrow, helps going easy on it for a while."

"Sure," Arthur said, barely listening. His skin tingled where Charles had grazed it. He felt foolish, like a young boy, desperate and touch-starved, and he prayed that he wasn't too obvious about it.

Charles was an attractive man, there was no denying that. But it wasn't just his features, the long black hair, the dark brown eyes and full lips, the broad shoulders, the wide chest, rivalling Arthur's own. Even more so it was the certainty with which he moved, the calmness surrounding him, the way he seemed entirely unafraid of anything. And that shadow of something deep and dark in his eyes, something Arthur knew must lie in his own as well, something brutal and heavy and desperate.

He was entirely fascinating, and Arthur's heart pounded with that knowledge.

"So", Charles now asked, not looking at him anymore but into the fire instead, "You with Van der Linde still?" It came out a bit awkward though probably not because of lack of interest. Running alone for so long and only being met with animosity once he dared to interact with civilization apparently meant he was slightly out of practice when it came to communication.

Arthur couldn't help but find it endearing. He actually allowed himself to smile. "Yeah," he said, "have been for almost two decades, no point in stopping now."

Charles hummed. "He a good man?"

An innocent question, all things considered. The way the world was these days it seemed like a reasonable one as well. Society liked to put men in one of two categories, good or bad, law abiding or criminal, and beyond that, rich or poor, white or not. And Arthur's first instinct was to say yes, of course, Dutch Van der Linde was a good man, a good leader, an outlaw, granted, but only because of the way society was built around them. That he was a man with big dreams and ambitions and that even when push came to shove, he would always put the gang, his family, first.

But he couldn't say it. He had opened his mouth obediently, ready to praise the man, but the words died in his throat, remained as a thick vile taste on his tongue. He swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his face, over the stubble of a five day journey through the mountains.

Was Dutch a good man? A sane man, at least? A fair one? He honestly didn't know. Didn't know why he was still there, trying to impress a man that despised him and would drop him in a heartbeat would he know what Arthur was up to in some nights.

 "Everyone gets treated fair and equal," Arthur eventually said, his voice hollow and too cold to sound honest. It wasn't exactly an answer to Charles' question but it was all Arthur could bring out.

Either Charles didn't pick up on it or he chose to ignore it. "Is that so," he said with a slight chuckle.

"We have some black folks running with us, Mexican as well. It's actually one of the reasons we had a big fallout with other gang's we've been friends with." That part was actually true, Dutch had burned a lot of bridges over this. But Arthur assumed that was mostly because it was much easier to manipulate folk who society rejected than those who rejected society.

Charles just hummed again at that, seemingly impressed. "Should I ever find myself bored by solitude, I'll make sure to find you." And then he gave Arthur a soft smile, tired around the edges, the smile of a man who had been running his entire life and knew that he couldn't run much longer, not in the face of a society that kept on evolving and growing and changing, just not in the way it chewed up its weakest.  

And Arthur found himself torn, between extending a hand to someone in need, apparently hiding desperation underneath layers of self-taught composure, and pushing him away from a doomed existence that could only end with a hole in his head or a string around his neck.

He looked at Charles, his strong hands and broad shoulders, and then the rough stitches that held together his coat, the scars and calluses on his skin, the exhaustion in his eyes. The willingness to take in a stranger, turn his back on him, his shotgun forgotten in a corner. Thought about his hands pushing through the wolf's pelt, and then through his own hair to pull it into a knot. Thought about warm fingers around a twisted wrist.

Sometimes, Arthur thought, it was okay to be selfish.

So he said: "Once this storm has passed, you should come with me back to camp."

And Charles looked at him for a long time. And then he nodded.

1888

He is 26 and the man underneath him his slender and beautiful. He has him pressed into the mattress, a rare treat, one hand hard on his hip, the other one bruising and heavy on his neck. He groans with the effort to hold him down while he fucks into him in deep, long strokes, feels the man arching against him now and again, but pushes him down every time, angrily, almost violently.

Arthur's fingers are shaking, he still sees the blood underneath his fingernails, knows there must be more on his body, dried and flaky, but he can't think about that.

Sweat is dripping from his forehead onto the man's back, he feels hot and too much and too fast and too loud. The man moans muffled into the mattress, his hands wrapped around the metal frame, pushes back into Arthur, onto his dick, takes him deeper. He seems to enjoy himself, but then again, he is getting paid for it.

Chicago is a city on the rise, tall buildings and paved streets. The modern world, as much as Arthur despises it, has its perks, one of them that in a city like this there is nothing you can't buy for money. And while he is rarely this desperate, he finds that he stopped caring.

He feels his orgasm build low in his stomach, ugly and heavy, and he pushes into the other man hard and deep, holds him there, leaning over him, and then he comes, almost painfully so, and he feels not in the slightest satisfied afterwards, just dirty and tired and spent.

Arthur pulls out of the man, shuffles backwards. The man, clearly not done, lifts his hips, wraps his slender fingers around his own dick, makes the most obscene sounds while he strokes himself fast, hard. He looks back at Arthur over his shoulder, cheeks red from being pushed into the scratchy sheets, and he smiles at him like he wants to invite him back to touch him again. But Arthur only sees the red and blue dents his fingers have left on the man's hips and around his arm and his neck and he feels nauseous. Still, he can't help feeling a sting of arousal when he sees the man climax, his entire body trembling with it.

Later, he sits on a chair next to the bed, the journal on his knees. He has put on some pants, nothing more, the man on the bed, leaning back against the head board, is still naked. He watches Arthur through bright eyes and with a weird smile that only reaches half his face, takes a deep drag from a cigarette he is holding.

"Are you drawing me?" he slurs, something more than just fucked-out bliss in his voice, probably alcohol or something heavier, maybe in the cigarette, but who is Arthur to judge.

"Wouldn't be smart of me, would it," Arthur says without looking up. He feels exhausted and yet still restless. "Anyone'd find this I'd be dead."

The man hums but doesn't seem too concerned about the illegality of their situation. Maybe, Arthur thinks, that's what the alcohol or the drugs are for, to forget that they are nothing more than dead people walking. Empty shells.

He is not drawing the naked man on the bed. He isn't drawing anything even though he tries. He always does, forces himself more often than not these days, but needs to, to remember.

Mistakes happen, Dutch had said, and then some more about missed opportunities, the bright future and the weak being left behind. And Bill and Micah and Arthur had nodded obediently while Sean, apparently the only one with a little bit decency left, had thrown up against the brick wall of the house they just left a handful of dead bodies in, two of them barely more than children.

The man on the bed eventually gets up, wraps the blanket around his hips and walks over to him, sees the that the pages of the journal are empty, sees Arthur's trembling fingers barely holding the pen. He brushes his fingers against Arthur's temple, his cheekbone, a soft gesture, questioning, but Arthur flinches and grabs the man's arm, pulls it away. The man gasps surprised, eyes wide now, a bit frightened.

"Don't," Arthur hisses, not sure what he means. The touch? The softness? The fear?

Once Arthur lets go, he takes a step back from him, wraps his arms around his own chest, watches him silently for a while. Eventually, he says "Wanna talk about it?", so gently that Arthur almost sobs.

In that moment, he wants to. Wants to talk about the people they killed today, for nothing more than a couple of dollars because the big money, Arthur knows, has always known, doesn't exist. Wants to talk about how easy the violence, the killing has become, how numb he feels, how exhausted by it. He could try to explain to this man how it finally made him realise that nothing mattered, not his anger, his violence, his desire, his want. That the ugly, painful truth is that he is a fucking piece of shit anyway, no matter from what angle he views himself.

Maybe the man would understand the numbness that came with existing in a world that doesn't want men like them. But what good would it do, to find kinship in their self-destruction? They can't help each other, there would be no absolution, no forgiveness, only the weight of their shared sin, and the ways they both chose to cope with it.

So in the end, Arthur shakes his head. Gets up and finds his remaining clothes. Pays what he owes the man and then leaves, goes back to the only thing he knows.

1898

It was awfully quiet and cold in the hut. John was asleep, deeper than a normal slumber, had barely woken up since they had rescued him from the wolves. The scratches on his face looked red and angry and swollen, clearly infected. They had tried to clean the wounds, had stitched them up as good as possible, and now all they could do was wait.

Arthur had avoided coming here for a while, wasn't sure he could look at the pale man lying in silence without being swallowed by his own guilt. Of course it hadn't been his fault, he hadn't even been there when everything went to shit in Blackwater. Hadn't had a quiet minute to think about everything since they had fled into Northern Ambarino. But even though things between them never got patched up, Arthur couldn't shake the heavy feeling of regret.

The others were gathered around the fireplace in the bigger building on the other side of the abandoned miner's town, mood momentarily lifted by the two deer he and Charles had caught earlier, already made into a rich stew by Pearson. Arthur, even though he couldn't quite remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal, hadn't been especially hungry and had rather taken the opportunity to finally visit John. They had left the Reverend with him but he was easily convinced to let Arthur take over watching the sleeping man to go get a bowl of stew instead.

Now he was sitting here, watched John's laboured breathes coming out in small clouds above his mouth. The only sign that he was still alive, really, since otherwise he lay there like a dead man.

The door behind him opened, letting a gush of cold air in, slammed shut almost immediately after someone stepped inside. Arthur didn't have to turn around, recognized Charles' deliberately heavy steps.

"Hey," Charles said once he had come up to Arthur, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. "How is he?"

"Hasn't woken up yet," Arthur said, keenly aware of where Charles was touching him.

Barely six months had passed since Arthur had invited Charles to join the gang. As expected, once Arthur had explained how they had met and how Charles had saved his life, possibly twice, no one seemed opposed to letting him stay. He had been quiet ever since then, mostly helped them with tracking, game and law alike, and took over chores in camp without question. A model gang member, really.

And while he got along with nearly everyone, except maybe Bill and Micah who sometimes let their prejudices bleed through, there had been something between him and Arthur that he couldn't quite place. Their night in the blizzard hadn't been nearly traumatizing enough to forge that kind of brotherly bond a near-death experience could give. Instead there was something softer between them, and understanding, maybe, or the kinship Arthur so wished for sometimes.

They had found out soon enough that they both struggled with sleep sometimes, so they had spent a lot of nights sitting at the campfire, talking quietly but mostly just sitting in silence like they had during their first meeting, Arthur drawing or writing in his journal, and Charles always occupied with crafting new arrows or mixing herbs or patching up his clothes. It was in these moments that Arthur had realised that, in a perfect world, he could fall in love with this man, with the quietness around him, with his warm smile, his practiced hands, his low voice.

But this wasn't a perfect world so Arthur had taken what he could get. Gentle touches, carefully exchanged glances, and silent rides whenever they went on hunting trips together.

Still, he couldn't change the way he felt when Charles, his hand lingering on his shoulder, sat down on the bench next to him.

"Wounds are looking good," Charles said, "the infection is going back. He'll be alright."

Arthur sighed, rubbing his face. "'S good to hear," he mumbled behind his hands.

Charles, who had finally pulled back his hand, looked at him, brows knitted together, like he was trying to figure him out. "He's important to you," he concluded.

Arthur looked at John, lying there, weak and pale, and it reminded him of the 12 year old he had once been, cold and afraid in his tent, barely able to talk with his damaged throat.

"I feel like I am failing him," Arthur said quietly, not looking away from John.

Charles hummed, like he understood completely, and maybe he did, maybe he had put it all together, the desperation, the guilt, the fragile relationship between them, all in just six months, or maybe in just this moment right here. "He is not your responsibility, you know," Charles then said gently.

Arthur huffed at that, a weird, tired sound. "I just don't want him to make the same mistakes I did."

"What would those be?"

"Dunno," Arthur said irritated, "being an outlaw, I suppose. Staying here when he should run away with his family, start a new life. Be happy."

Charles actually tilted his head, looked at him with his eyes narrowed. Arthur blinked, unable to hold the eye contact. "Because you couldn't have all those things", Charles said then. No question, an observation.

Arthur sighed, "I thought I could save him at least. But everytime I try he gets pulled in deeper."

"Maybe it's not him who needs saving."

"Might be too late for me," Arthur chuckled but it sounded tired and empty. "'M not a good man, Charles, maybe I don't deserve saving."

"None of us are good men, Arthur, but I believe everyone deserves saving, one way or another. I think you just-" and he was really careful with his next words, "have hated yourself for a long time and you forgot how not to."

Arthur swallowed hard. Watched at his hands, rough and dry from the cold. His body seemed to be suddenly heavier, pulling him down. He could barely sit up. His chest hurt. "Yeah," he whispered.

Charles reached a hand out to put it warm and heavy on his neck, fingers lightly brushing against the back of his head. It felt almost painfully intimate. He said nothing.

And then, suddenly, the door behind them opened again, even colder air pressed into the room. Bill stood in the entrance, no coat on, just a dark plaid shirt, and looked at them in annoyance. He had clearly been send to fetch them and wasn't happy about it.

"Morgan," he yelled gruffly, half in the room, half still outside in the cold. "Dutch wants to talk, something about a train."

"Sure," Arthur said back, "I'll be there in a minute."

Bill shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever," he mumbled, shivering with the cold, before he stalked back outside entirely and then towards the other building, the door falling close again behind him.

"Goddamn Dutch and his stupid train," Arthur said disgruntled.

Charles chuckled, carefully pulled his hand away. "You go, I'll watch John."

"Thanks," Arthur said and then he slowly got up. His neck still tingled from where Charles had touched him, a weird warm feeling spreading out over his entire head. He still felt heavy and almost breathless from their conversation but whatever spell they had been under, Bill had apparently broken it.

He pulled his coat tighter, the room had gotten significantly colder, he should probably tell the women to light a fire in here as well, otherwise John might freeze to death after all.

He had just picked up his hat from where he had put it down on top of a dresser earlier when Charles behind him suddenly said "Arthur,", so quietly he almost didn't hear it. Arthur turned around, slowly, just to find that Charles had also gotten up and had walked towards him without making a single sound.

"Yea-" Arthur tried to say but Charles had already pushed him against the closed door, his hands holding his face, and then pressed his lips against Arthur's, gentle and careful, like he was afraid of breaking him. And Arthur just dropped the hat, curled one hand into Charles shirt to pull him closer, and the other one he pushed into Charles hair desperately. He pressed against Charles' lips, confused about how they had gotten here, but finding that he didn't care. He felt Charles smile against his mouth. Dared to smile as well, just a bit.

Charles, taller than him and broader, pushed closer still, until Arthur's world narrowed down to the cold door in his back and the warm soft man around him. He hummed against Charles' lips, opened his mouth finally, let Charles, slow and hot and overwhelming, push into it. Nothing else existed then, not John lying deadly still on his bed, not Dutch and Hosea in the other building, and not the whole mess in Blackwater. There was just Charles' long black hair between his fingers, and Charles' thumb brushing over his temple, and Charles' tongue in his mouth.  

When Charles eventually, unavoidably, pulled back, slowly untangled himself from Arthur, the cold rushed back in immediately, left him dazed. Arthur pressed the back of his hand against his lips, stared at Charles with wide eyes.

Charles slowly bent down to pick up Arthur's hat, held it out for him to take. Arthur's fingers were shaking when he reached for it. He couldn't look away from the man in front of him.

"I hope it was alright," Charles said awkwardly still holding his gaze, like it meant something to him to do that, "that I did that."

Arthur nodded once, twice. "Yeah, sure," he said, and then, "I should, eh," and pointed behind him towards where the others were waiting.

"Of course," Charles said, smiling but still a bit unsure. "I talk to you later then."

Arthur just nodded again, didn't know what else to do or say, felt like he had no words left that he could use. So he simply turned around to open the door and then stepped outside where the cold finally embraced him.

***

They didn't talk about it afterwards, couldn't really with how things happened and moved forward. They robbed a train, made a really powerful man angry with that, survived a while longer in ice-cold Colter on the upper edge of Ambarino, before finally the snow began to thaw and the pass down towards the Heartlands was free again. Then they packed their things and descended, moved near a town so much like Jacksonville that it made Arthur nervous, like everything was just an endless circle, a loop of mistakes he was doomed to repeat.

After that, when they had settling at a place called Horseshoe Overlook, a little plateau above where the Dakota River slowly carved its way through the rocky landscape, things kept being busy. And between mourning for the people they had lost, the Blackwater massacre haunting them, and Dutch slowly descending into madness, Arthur barely found the time to think about what could be and what would never be anyways.

***

From where he was sitting he could look down on the grassy hills of the Heartland, spreading out endlessly until they eventually, far far away, met the massive Flat Iron Lake. The sun was already low on the horizon, everything had an orange hue, the sky was pink at the edges.

Arthur had been gone on a hunting trip again, and just like the last time he had been gone for far too long for it to be reasonable. But even though their camp was more open now, Arthur still couldn't fight the restlessness deep in his bones, felt trapped between Dutch's new desperate attempts of redemption after Blackwater, and Charles' incredible silence.

Arthur had his tent already pitched, a fire burning low and warm behind him. Tomorrow, he thought, he would go back. He had said the same thing to himself for the last couple of days but with each one it became a bit more real, the fact that he had to go back at some point, had to try at least to sort out the mess.

His campsite was hidden from the nearby street by a patch of wild trees and bushes, so when Arthur heard the tell-tale sound of a horse being led through the underbrush, he slowly got up, pulled the rifle from his back and lifted it, aiming. He was not in the mood to get robbed.

Coming out between the trees, his horse trailing behind him, was Charles, and he looked at the raised gun in surprise, held up the hand not holding the reins defensively. "It's just me," he said calmly.

Arthur lowered the gun. "Charles," he said irritated, "what are you doing here?"

Charles led his horse to where Arthur had his hitched to a tree, patted its neck, stood there for a second, then turned back around to him. "Dutch told me to find you."

Arthur's grip around his rifle got tighter, he felt the tension in his shoulders, his back, the nauseating feeling of betrayal deep in the pit of his stomach. With John still weak from the attack, mere weeks since it happened, Dutch apparently had found another spy. Of course he did, Arthur just didn't think it would be Charles. "You gonna bring the disobedient child back?"

Charles, clearly irritated, stayed where he was next to the horses, his eyes darting to the rifle in Arthur's hands, then to Arthur's pained expression. He narrowed his eyes, lifted both hands carefully to show he was unarmed even though Arthur knew all too well that there were enough weapons on his body that he couldn't see.

"Easy," Charles said gently, not unlike he would call out to a wild animal or a panicking horse, "he wanted to send Bill. I volunteered."

Arthur didn't know what to say to that. He felt suddenly stupid holding his gun still, so he just dropped it. He saw some of the tension disappear from Charles' frame, how his shoulders sank a bit, how he lowered his hands and slowly exhaled. But when he walked towards him, Arthur took a step back, rounded the fire so it was between them. His hands were shaking. Behind him, down the cliff and beyond the grassland, the sun was quietly setting. Charles would barely be able to see his face like that, the panic that was undoubtedly creeping into it, whereas the orange glow of the sinking sun was illuminating Charles' face perfectly, the frown, the worry.  

"Arthur," Charles said, and then, low and warm, "Come here."

And Arthur did. He felt lightheaded, all tension suddenly falling away when he walked around the fire. Charles pulled him in immediately, one arm wound around his waist, hand on his lower back, the other hand pushing into the hair at the back of his neck. It felt once again like there was nothing else in the world but the man wrapped around him, and Arthur felt himself shake almost violently in the embrace. The hug was warm and steady and probably the only thing keeping him upright in this moment.

"Sorry," Arthur eventually mumbled into Charles' shoulder, finally returning the embrace by snaking his own arms around Charles' waist.

Charles hummed, a warm vibration, turned his face into Arthur's hair, lips hovering. "He has hurt you a lot, hasn't he?" he whispered, just like that understanding everything.

Arthur wanted to cry, or throw up, maybe. Everything was suddenly so much. He held on tighter. Let himself be weak, just this once, after all this time. Nodded, said "I wanted to go so many times, hated myself too much for it," and suddenly he saw things clearer, somehow, like he could see the big picture now, like everything had led him here, into this moment. "He has ruined me."

And Charles leaned back, still hugging him tight, but enough to see his face, to fold a warm hand around his jaw, thumb brushing over his chin, over the scar, the shame, the guilt, enough to say "You're not ruined," and then to lean forward and kiss him. And Arthur laughed and then sobbed into the kiss, and he clung to Charles, this big quiet man that could wrap him up completely until he was everything Arthur could see and feel. Kissed him back with desperation because now, finally, he wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that there was hope for him, even after everything, even in a world not built for men like him or Charles or the farmhand in Jacksonville or the prostitute in Chicago or the stable boy.

Back then, in that barn, with whispered bible verses, he had thought that maybe this was worth believing in God for. And now, with the sky growing purple above them and the wide open world to their feet, he thought that maybe he could believe in himself and in this right here instead.

He really wanted to.

***

The next morning was cool and quiet. The fire had died down to embers, heavy fog was lazily rising from the ground around them. The grassland, far underneath them, was hidden under layers and layers of white.

Charles was heavy and warm behind him, arms wrapped around his bare back, hands flat against his stomach. The wool blanket had slid down their bodies and was pooled around their ankles, but Arthur couldn't care less. He didn't feel the cold.

He didn't know yet if they would return to camp. Right now it seemed impossible to give this up, to go back to a madman, to all the ghosts that haunted the gang, and even more so haunted Arthur himself. He thought about John and his family and he wanted to believe that Charles was right, that John was not like him and that he didn't have to save him in his stead, that he might be able to pull himself out just fine.

The world around them woke up slowly, the sun crawling above the fog, spreading gentle warmth. This day, Arthur thought, could be a fork in the road, where he made a decision that finally, after everything, would matter.

But he didn't feel the need to get up and see what the day would bring; instead felt like he could lie here, with Charles, for a little while longer. Just this once he didn't feel restless. He didn't feel tired or exhausted. Just at peace, fully, entirely, completely.