Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Hell Cowpoke, aintchu got nothing better to do than stomp around the camp and harass a hard working man?”

“There ain’t nothing hard working ‘bout you, Micah Bell, ‘less it’s how hard you work to convince everybody you ain’t nothin’ more than a scoundrel,” Arthur scowled. Micah’s eyes flashed, his fist flexing at his side as he considered the six iron that hung low. Arthur followed his hand, blue eyes narrowing. His arm tensed at his side, ready to draw.

“Pull that smoke wagon and see what happens,” he promised.

“You ain’t half as tough as you think you are,” Micah accused, but his hand remained at his side. A few members of the gang had gathered around them, but Arthur ignored them, focused on Micah, his body tense. He hadn’t liked Micah, not since the first moment he’d slid slimy promises in Dutch’s ear, and especially not since Strawberry. If Micah were set to start something, Arthur was ready to finish it. But they both knew Arthur was the better draw, and Micah kept his hand at his side, flexing.

“Boys, boys, what’s this,” Dutch waded between them. “You two are brothers.” Arthur scoffed, watching as Micah's uncertainty faded into a smug smile. Dutch continued. Now,” He puffed his chest out, “Brothers have their differences, but it’s not worth falling to fisticuffs over, not when the whole world is against us.” The gang leader looked over his shoulder, catching Arthur’s eye. “Why don’t you take a ride, son?”

“I ain’t the one--” Arthur began.

“Why don’t you take a ride, son?” Dutch repeated, his voice dropping slightly, the suggestion coming across as an order.

“Aw, to hell with you, Micah.” Arthur stormed off towards Harper. Kieran, having watched the transaction, had already readied Harper, and was standing several feet away so as not to be collateral damage for Arthur’s undirected rage.

Charles, too perceptive by half, was already astride Taima. Arthur glanced at him, giving a light nod. Wordlessly, he followed behind Arthur as he stormed off into the plains.

They rode into Valentine, and Charles thought they might end up in the saloon. But the muddy streets were crowded with men full of angry energy. Charles and Arthur shared a look. With a shrug, they hitched their horses and pushed forward to see what the commotion was about.

“He was a cheat!” A man, rich by his clothing said loudly. He was backed by a group of men, generally older and better dressed than those of the younger cadre they faced.

“He weren’t! He were just good at cards!”

Propped on a chair outside the saloon was a young cowboy wrapped in white linen. The bandage was soiled by bright red that bloomed from his chest. The boy was young, and he was dying.

The clambering continued, but the young cowboy caught Arthur’s eye. He had been forgotten by his comrades as they clashed with the professional poker player.

“I see by you’re outfit that you’re a cowboy,” the boy said. “Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,” he pleaded. “I’m afraid.”

Arthur looked down at the boy before glancing up at Charles and the chaos in the street around them. He pulled up a stool set on the porch. He wondered if anyone had afforded the Callander boys the same compassion. He thought not, but he hoped they’d had one another, at least. Charles leaned against the post leading into the saloon, paying attention to the mob that was quickly dissolving into a street fight. He listened in.

“What’s your name, boy?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Billy Joe.”

“Okay, Billy Joe,” Arthur said. “We can get you down to the doctor’s. He’s just down the street.”

The boy, with eyes nearly the same cornflower blue as Arthur's, gave a watery smile, tears gathering in his eyes. “I’m shot in the breast and I ain’t gonna make it,” he said, sniffling.

“Aw hell,” Arthur said. “It don’t have to be like that.”

The boy said through his tears, “My momma told me, ‘Don’t take your guns to town,’ but I didn’t listen. I told her I were a man and I could look after myself. I met a woman, Rosie, here at Smithfield’s.” He nodded weakly towards the saloon. “She’s a beauty,” he sighed. “Tell her I love her?”

Arthur glanced into the golden windows of Smithfield’s. The sporting women, several of whom he was passingly familiar with through his visits in town, were huddled together. One stood aside, black hair pulled back in loose curls. She stared back out at Arthur. Her dark eyes were bright with tears, and they belied a wisdom and sorrow for a woman so young. She gave him a knowing look. He looked back at the boy.

“I think she knows.” He added, “ They usually do.” Billy nodded.

“There was a man come in today. A card sharp. I thought I could impress her by winning against a professional. But he figgered me for a cheat and her weren’t wrong. But he accused me of it and I couldn’t let it stand. I went to draw, but he shot first. It were my fault. I shoulda listened to my mother.” Tears streamed freely now.

“Aw, hey. Hey now.” Arthur loosened the neckerchief from his neck and used it to wipe away the boy’s tears. The boy was pale beneath the golden light of the saloon. On the street, the faction had dissolved into fighting, the sound of men yelling and the meaty thuds as they hit one another filling the air. The wan sun of early spring was setting.

“Get my outfit to carry my coffin, and the ladies inside to bear up my pall,” the boy said, the light in his eyes quickly fading, his words slurring. “Tell my mother,” he said with increasing difficulty, “that I’ve gone. But please not one word of the man who killed me, and his name will pass on. My kid brother might come to find justice and she’ll be motherless. Don’t let him make the same mistakes I did.”

“Sure, son.” If Arthur’s eyes were misty, Charles decided he wouldn’t comment on it; not now or ever.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” Arthur swore, finding the boy’s hand and squeezing it. The calloused thumb of the boy rubbed over his hand with all the strength he could muster.

“Tell her,” the boy wheezed, “I love her, and I shoulda listened. I shouldnt’a taken my guns to town. I done wrong. ”

“Where will I find her?”

“Out in Big Green Valley.”

It was the last the boy spoke. Arthur sat in silence, his hand still encompassing that of the younger man’s as it grew cool. The fight in the street began to simmer down; the men, having fought out their aggression, found the boy dead.

“A drink to Billy Joe,” the card sharp said, recognizing a delicate situation. “First round’s on me.”

The men gave their respect as they passed the boy, filtering into the saloon in an unsettled silence. An uneasy truce had settled between the two factions. They brought the boy inside and laid him out on the pool table for a wake at the command of an Irish hand with a brogue even deeper than Sean’s. Arthur and Charles stood on the porch in silence, watching the barkeep pour shots of whiskey, his eyes flickering cautiously between the men as he assessed their penchant towards violence. But a pall had settled over them, anchored by the death of a young man killed over a folly.

“What now?” Charles asked, watching the women trying to rally themselves to interest. He noticed Rosie escape up the stairs with the arm of another woman wrapped around her shoulders. The younger woman sagged into the other with apparent grief, her shoulders heaving.

“We ride to Big Green Valley,” Arthur said. Charles glanced down the street towards the Grand Hotel.

“Should we head out in the morning?”

Arthur followed Charles’ gaze. He stared at the facade of the hotel. “I guess it won’t change the nature of the news we gotta deliver, so might as well sleep in comfort. It’s a good two day ride, and a pass to negotiate.”

They shared a room. Budget aside, neither of them seemed inclined to spend the night alone. The hotel owner barely glanced at them as they entered. “Seen the procession in the street? Boy killed down at Smithfield’s. Justified, the sheriff said, so there won’t be a hanging.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said, “We seen it.”

“Only got one room left. Single bed, sorry to say. Room in the stable,” he said, glancing at Charles.

“One room’s fine,” Arthur said sharply. “Stable’s not needed.”

“Sure,” the concierge said. “Upstairs, last room on the right. Ladies are half price tonight in the baths.”

Although Arthur seemed familiar with their accommodations, they were new to Charles. He sat down on the bed, reveling in its plushness. It felt almost sinful to be sitting on a bed without having gotten cleaned up first. Arthur watched him in bemusement. “I’m gonna get washed up,” he said. “I paid for two baths, so feel free to indulge. Keep seemed pleased enough to get a gold watch for his troubles, and threw in dinner.”

After they’d bathed, they settled before a fire that Arthur had stoked in the hearth. The fire ran out the cool air of the stormy spring. Arthur produced a bottle of whiskey, which he poured into a tin cup resting on a small server. He poured a helping for Charles, shoving the cup into his hands.

“A drink, to Billy Joe,” Arthur said, taking a healthy swig from his cup before settling before the fire in a plush chair, his knees spread open as he rested on them and stared into the flames.

Charles, who suspected the death of Billy Joe struck a raw nerve, whether from the recent tragedy at Blackwater or something farther back in Arthur’s murky past, took the proffered drink.

“To Billy Joe,” he said.

They drank in silence. Finally, Arthur said, “He weren’t much older than Jenny.”

Charles had only been passingly familiar with Jenny, but her smile stuck out in his memory. She’d been pretty, with full lips nearly always curved into a grin, whether mischievous when teasing Miss Grimshaw, or genuine, when talking to the other girls. She wore her hair in loose ringlets that framed cheeks only just begun to grow out of her baby fat and into maturity. She’s provided a levity, Charles realized only after her death, that resulted in the camp sinking down after her passing, like an air balloon without enough helium to keep it afloat.

“Her last name was Kirk,” Arthur said. “But Hosea said there’s Kirk’s by the dozen back East, and no way to figger which family she came from, so there was no way to tell her parents what happened.”

Oh, Charles realized. He’d only been in the gang for a few short months and had gravitated towards Arthur’s competence and quiet friendliness. He’s suspected, but not been subject to, the compassion that the man now expressed. He couldn’t tell Jenny’s mother what had happened to her, but he could deliver news to Billy Joe’s mother of Big Green Valley.

“We’ll ride out in the morning,” Charles said. “And tell his mother what happened.”

Arthur gave him a heavy look, full of appreciation.

One bottle of whiskey later and a bevy of stories shared between them, they stared blearily at the single bed.

“I’ll take the floor,” Charles offered.

“No,” Arthur said. “I don’t think you will. There’s room enough for the two of us.”

There wasn’t, not really, but Charles didn’t argue. They fell asleep, Arthur in his union suit, and Charles in a long shirt, so as to maintain some level of decorum between them, as there was hardly room on the bed for two fully grown men. Charles awoke the next morning with Arthur’s arm slung over him, both of them curled on their sides and Arthur’s legs tucked up under the comma of Charles’s. Charles reflected it was the best sleep he’d had in months, since before Colter. Since he was a child, maybe.

It had been, he reflected, the last time he felt safe.

They made ready without comment of their sleeping arrangements. Both of them knew, as men of the range, that it was necessary for men to share a bedroll from time to time. That Arthur had paid for the room seemed of no significance. By seniority alone, Arthur had rights to sleep alone in the single bed.

Charles tried not to overthink the situation.

Valentine was subdued in the morning sun. As they bridled the horses, they watched men hoist the corpse of Billy Joe between them as they settled him into a pine coffin before heading down to the chapel in a solemn procession. The Irishman from the night before had started up a mournful tune on his fiddle as they set the death march. In the distance, the preacher stood at the steps of the chapel. Overnight, a grave had been dug for the young man, a wooden cross pounded into the ground until a stone could take its place stood over the gaping hole of his final resting place.

Arthur spent a long time staring at the distant grave and the mournful procession, and Charles did not urge him on. It wasn’t until the preacher began speaking words that Arthur turned away, riding silently towards the mountains. Charles followed.

They rode north and west, towards the mountains they’d so recently abandoned. The spring sky was welcoming in the morning, but both knew the penchant for it to grow short and unsettled in the afternoon as the lingering winter and impatient summer vied for dominance.

In time, Arthur began to regale stories of the gang before Blackwater. That his stories were heavy on those they’d lost did not pass Charles’ notice, but he enjoyed hearing the older man. He was a good storyteller, and grew more animated as he relayed the shenanigans of the Callander twins. They had not been wholesome from most of the stories, but they’d been Arthur’s friends, and Charles realized that Arthur had loved them, in his way.

“So one time,” Arthur began, “we was out west in California country, and we run in with a group of sailors. Mac was sweet on a girl out there, and both me n’ John knew she weren’t more than a sportin’ woman trying to make a livin’, but Mac said no, she weren’t, and it were true love. But we was in a saloon with a buncha sailors who had decided to try their luck for gold in the hills. They’d just come from the Orient, and was the rowdiest bunch I near ever seen. They told Mac they’d run a trail on the girl, and I ain’t never seen a man so mad. He swore up and down he was gonna kill the whole bunch, and it took Davey and me and John to pull him off,” Arthur laughed, and Charles found himself smiling despite himself. The brothers had always been friendly if distant with him, but Charles wished he’d known them, if only because they’d been so adept at making Arthur smile.

As they headed towards the mountains, Arthur regaled Charles with stories, and Charles rode, complacent to listen. When Arthur grew tired of talking, he took to song, his uneven voice singing half-forgtten lyrics.

Arthur’s levity faded as they saw a group of men in the distance, huddled in a circle. A body lay in repose before them, too still to be that of a living body. As the pair approached, the men looked up. One stepped out, an older man with black hair silvering at the temples, his face tanned and lined from years in the sun.

Arthur loomed, his face indecipherable as he stared down at the body. It was a young boy, of the same age as Billy Joe, his skin the pale white of death. Coins had been set over his eyes to prevent his deathless stare. Long blonde hair was brushed down around his shoulders.

“Won’t you boys pay your respects as you pass by?” The older men asked. “Lost a man to rattlesnake, just in those hills there." He nodded to the rocks that started the climb into the mountains. Snow was still heavy in the peaks, but a persistent sun had begun to make work of the lower altitude. The grave had been work, if the bleeding palms of several men were indication, and they’d only managed a narrow grave, just six by three, in the rocky, frozen earth.

“He asked not to be buried out here,” the man continued, “But we’re on a drive and can’t take him home.” Cattle milled around, pulling at the green grass of spring.

“We’re carrying news of another boy who was kilt,” Arthur said. “To a mother in Big Green Valley, and don’t have long to tarry.”

The older man sighed, nodding. “It’s been a hard winter. We thought we might get out early.” He nodded his head to the distance, so that he might speak to Arthur alone. Arthur dismounted and followed, motioning for Charles to follow.

“I’m Burl Johnson and this is my outfit,” Burl said after glancing at Charles. “It’d mean a lot to me if you stood over the boy ‘less his spirit follows us. I’ve got a superstitious bunch, and they’re loath to leave him behind. In his dying, he pleaded we bring him home to a churchyard, where his mother’s prayers might be heard over him, and his friends might come and visit.” Burl looked out over the plains that stretched far, and to the distant east beyond before glancing up at the mountains. “But you understand why I couldn’t do that. I would,” Burl said. “I would,” he repeated, quietly. “I don’t mean to take no heed to his dying prayer. But I ain’t got a choice.”

Arthur, who had not had the chance to bury the Callander boys or Jenny, nodded.

“We’ll stand over his burial.”

“Appreciate it, gentlemen.”

They paid their respects to the boy, whose name was Chip James, carved into a cross with a knife to stand over his lonesome grave. The outfit, a ragged band of Individuals ranging in age and race stood with hands clasped and heads bowed as Burl spoke over the hole in the earth, two men filled it with frozen clods of dirt. When the burial was over, Burl extended an offer for them to stay the evening with the outfit, but Arthur declined. They rode on, climbing up the rocky slope of the foothills. By the time they’d reached the pass, the sun was a memory in the sky, the ground still frozen beneath them. Below them lay the lush green of Big Green Valley, the golden lights of several homesteads flickering against the falling dark. A cold wind took up company.

They began the descent, anxious to get off the heights as much as they could before evening set in. They were halfway down the mountain when they decided to make camp. The wind kept them chill company. Burl had passed them another bottle of whiskey, which Arthur produced as they cooked a rabbit Charles had snared.

“I had a son,” Arthur said, staring down into the valley below. Charles looked up in surprise. “He were buried before I got to him. He and his mother. Their wooden crosses were already sunbleached. I paid for stones and made sure they were settled. But I ain’t never been back. Haven’t seen the point of it. I tried to take care of them when they was alive, but I weren’t there when it mattered. Dutch…” He trailed off. ‘Dutch needed me.”

Charles stared at Arthur. He had expected there were depths to the man, but hadn’t suspected it involved a dead son. It explained his adoring relationship with Jack that Charles had witnessed, and the rockiness with John for abandoning his son. Charles wondered if Arthur condemned the man for abandoning his family, or because Arthur had done the same and hated himself for it.

“You must miss them,” Charles guessed. Arthur took a healthy swig from the bottle before passing it off.

“He looked just like me. Prolly good he died before he got saddled with all this,” Arthur said, motioning to himself. “But it don’t seem to matter,” he continued. “Death seems to take a mighty number of good men, and leave the scoundrels behind.” His countenance darkened.

“You mean Micah,” Charles guessed.

“I mean all of us.” Arthur paused. “But Micah especially. Davey and Mac weren’t good men by any means, but they was better men by half than Micah Bell.”

Silence fell between them.

“I bet your son was a very handsome boy,” Charles said. Arthur gave him a strange look before a guileless smile spread across his features.

“He was,” Arthur agreed. “Had his mother’s nose, which was lucky I guess.”

Charles disagreed, finding Arthur very well put together, but he stayed quiet.

“I ain’t seen him but a coupla times, and he were a delight. Made me think I had almost done something good in the world. I sent money back every chance I could. Word got out I guess, and they was killed over ten dollars.” Arthur scowled, looking down to the valley below. It was cast in lavender shadows. “His momma had spent all the money I’d sent buying him new clothes so he might look presentable to the town. Ain’t hardly nothing left when they was robbed.”

“What happened to the man?” Charles pressed. Arthur met his eyes coolly.

“I killed him. Didn’t bring them back, but he won’t be killing young women and their children anymore.”

“I looked for my father’s killer,” Charles said. Arthur raised his eyebrows, prompting him further. “Killed in a saloon over a disagreement. But he was a negro, and there were no witnesses, they said. Barroom full of people, and not a single witness.”

“I’m sorry t’ hear it,” Arthur said, and he sounded genuinely sorry.

A lonely wind kept a steady presence between them. As they bedded down, Arthur said, “Ain’t no reason to be cold. It’d be better if we laid our bedrolls out and piled the blanket o’er us.”

And Charles, haunted by the boy buried in the narrow grave, and the one in Valentine, and his own ghosts besides said,

“Sounds good to me.”

That Arthur was a warm sleeper with a tendency to wrap around Charles and cover him with his warmth played no factor.

The next morning, he woke with Arthur’s leg thrown over his, a wayward arm wrapped around his hip and his head tucked in besides Charles’, his warm breath on his neck. Charles, reluctant to move, stared out over the valley before them. Spring birds, returning from a long thaw, were verbose in their mating calls. The fire had died down, and was little more than embers in the weak sun of the morning. Charles knew he should get up and prepare for the day.

Instead, he stayed on his side, a slight crick in his neck, Arthur’s breath coming in even pace behind him, soft and warm.

The ride into the valley was uneventful, the rocky path eventually giving way to dirt and rolling green fields, bright with spring. They met a rider coming up out of the valley. Arthur flagged him down. The man, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, his hat misshapen and crushed over his unruly gray hair, peered out at them. He had the bearing of an old mountain man who had spent more time among the rocks and trees than people, and was brusque in his coming and goings.

“Mornin’, Friend,” Arthur said by way of greeting. “Do you know a Billy Joe? S’pposed to live here in the valley? ”

The man considered Arthur. “Sure do, Partner. Oldest boy of Mrs Mallory. What of it?”

“Got news of him. It ain’t good. Thought we might deliver it in person.”

The man needed no further information, his grizzled face growing sorrowful. “Went to make a man of himself. Mrs. Mallory's been talking it about it all winter; knew nothing good would come of it. Her husband, William, died a coupla years ago, nasty business. Kicked in the head shodding a horse.” The man spit tobacco off to the side. Not quite managing it, a slim line dribbled down his lip before he wiped it away. “You’ll find her down in the Valley, she’s the ranch there just yonder.” The man pointed out a small homestead. “He were a good boy. I taught him how to shoot after his daddy died. He never quite had the aptitude for it, but in the way of most young men, thought he was better than he was,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Never did figure how boys ride off and come back dead and here I am, nearly as old as the hills it feels sometimes.”

“Partner,” Arthur said, “Me neither. Appreciate the information.” He touched his fingers to the brim of the hat. The mountain man nodded back before continuing his climb up the rocky path.

Solemnity draped itself around them as they rode towards the homestead. As they grew closer, they saw its broad front porch was sloping to one side, the front door slightly akilter. Small projects that a man--a father, or an older son--would have been quick to fix, but had begun to wear in their absence. A woman with broad shoulders and a face to match was hauling water in buckets from the well behind her. A boy, ten or thirteen, was watching a ranch hand calm a Mustang as it ran around the paddock. They looked up as Charles and Arthur approached. The woman set the buckets of water down, her broad face cautious.

“Morning, strangers. What kin I help you for? I’m afeared I ain’t got much, but I’ll offer what I kin.”

“Ma’am,” Arthur said, removing his hat from his head in respect. “I’m Arthur Morgan and this is Charles,” he said, “We come bearing knowledge of your son.”

The woman, strong and broad in nature, seemed to fold in on herself for a fraction of a second before she pulled her shoulders back, her face immovable save for the wetness in her eyes. “I afeared as much,” she said, her eyes bright. “Saw him just a few nights ago in my dreams, came to say his goodbyes.” Gathering a dirty apron around her calico dress, she lifted it to her eyes as tears streamed unbidden. “I”ll make lunch and you men kin tell me what happened.”

The ranch house was still airing out from a long winter, the small windows propped open to let in the cool spring air. An earthen vase filled with the first bloomings of spring sat on a roughshod table. The home was humble, but well kept. Aged curtains ruffled in the breeze. The hearth drew poorly, filling the cabin with the heavy smell of smoke. It was little more than a two room affair, with a kitchen and living area separated from a bedroom that was closed from viewing by a pine door. It was not, Arthur thought, in much better condition than many of the homes Strauss had sent him to upset since they’d begun lending money. He wondered if all the people he bothered were as hard luck as this woman. He suspected they were. The knowledge twisted something uncomfortable in his chest.

Lunch consisted of beans and cornbread and a smattering of bacon, left over from the morning. Arthur sat in what he thought was probably Mr. Mallory’s old chair, and Charles occupied the chair that had belonged to Billy Joe. The younger son, a sun washed boy of 13, his cheeks high with freckles, blonde hair cropped close, stared at them with perceptive blue eyes the same color of his brother’s. It was a trait taken from their father; their mother had brown eyes, the color of the earth in early spring. He was a slight boy, sinewy in nature, and tall for his age. He wore a thin red flannel under coveralls that rode too high and were patched at the knees.

Without preamble Mrs. Mallory asked, “How did my son die?”

Arthur floundered. He looked everywhere except Mrs. Mallory. He cleared his throat, stared at the table, and then cleared his throat again.

“I know he’s dead,” Mrs Mallory began when Arthur was not forthcoming. “So I don’t need you to mince words. I just need you to be honest with me. I lost my husband three summers ago, rest his soul, and now I have lost my eldest. So, sir, be straight with me. How did my son die? Did you kill him?”

This prompted Arthur to words. He had killed many young men, but not this one. “No, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I did not. I came upon him in his dying as I rode into town. He said you was right, and he shouldnt’a brought his guns to town, and he loved you both. He got mixed up in some business, but as for the who and the what, I can’t say I know the details.”

Tears welled in Mrs. Mallory’s eyes, and she brushed them away with the same stoicism that she approached her entire life. She nodded. “I spoke to it in the yard, but I seen him, just four days previous. He came to me in the moonlight and he said he was loathe to go, but he had to go join his father and he’d be waitin’ for us when we come to join them.”

”Momma,” the boy said, his back ramrod as he sat at the table, his face stormy and his lunch uneaten, “I kin go kill the man as killed Billy Joe, an’ make it right.”

“No,” Mrs. Mallory said sharply, “The man will kill you same as he killed your brother. You’ll stay with me in this valley and best to what happen lay. You know your brother; he had a temper and wanted to prove to the world he was tough.” She breathed a deep, shuddering sob before looking up at the ceiling, the tears heavy in her eyes. She left her lunch untouched.

The boy, with the righteousness of thirteen year old boys everywhere, scowled at his mother. “He kilt my brother.”

“Your brother was wrong,” Mrs. Mallory said. “He went over the mountain to seek things he didn’t understand, and he paid for it. You’ll do well to grow up and be a good farmer, and work this land.”

“You’re a coward!” The boy raged. He swiveled towards the outlaws sharing the table. “I seen your guns. You kin kill the man as killed Billy Joe.” He knocked back his chair to run to the accompanying room, flying through the door with such energy as to leave it ajar. When he returned, he had a box in his hands. He flipped it over, revealing a pocket watch and several dollars. “My father left me this,” he said, his words spilling out so quickly as to be nearly indecipherable, “It ain’t much, but it’s yours if you kill my brother’s murderer.”

And Arthur, who had killed men for less, said, “Son, best you listen to your mother. It’s a good valley you’re working. The best way to avenge your brother is to live well.”

The boy sat down at the table heavily, tears of anger and sorrow spilling down his face and dropping onto his red flannel, the open box laid out before him. From this angle, Charles could see the watch was engraved with a name, “William J. Mallory.” His mother gathered him into her arms. She looked up at them with her plain brown eyes as the boy sobbed into her chest.

“I know we weren’t on your way, and it were a trial to come all the way out here. That ain’t an easy pass to traverse this early in the season. You’re good men. Thank you.”

Arthur stood up, gathering his hat and clutching it to his chest. Charles followed his lead. “It weren’t nothing, ma’am. We was ridin’ this way, so it weren’t an inconvenience. I,” Arthur sighed. “I’m mighty sorry for your loss. Best felt it was delivered in person, it ain’t the kind of news you want to receive in the mail.” They woman let the lie lay, and the pair made their exit. They spent a moment at the horses, free of the smoky interior of the home. Arthur looked out over the green valley and the small homesteads that populated it.

“This would be a good place to put down roots,” he said, glancing up at the snow-capped mountains covered by clouds that vacillated in the type of precipitation it wanted to drop.

“It would,” Charles agreed.

It was late enough in the day that trying to summit the pass with the storm clouds gathered around would’ve been miserable, and they decided to head into Creek, a small town a few miles north of the homestead that hosted a smith, a General store, a saloon, a Sheriff’s office at the end of the street, and little in the way of much else. A cottonwood stood beside the Sehriff's office a long limb stretched. A noose dangled from it, swinging slightly in the breeze. The storm had begun to creep over the mountains, enterprising clouds swollen with rain.

Stabling the horses at the smith, they entered the saloon just as rain began to patter down. The keep, a portly man with rosy cheeks and an open bottle of whiskey with a half drunk glass glanced up at their arrival, a sloppy smile smeared across his face. He stood up from where he was leaning against the counter.

“Strangers, welcome.” He hiccuped. “I’m Stan Drift, this is my inn and saloon.” He motioned to the room, which hosted a piano, empty of a player this early in the day, and a red haired woman playing solitaire in the corner. She looked up at their arrival, mild interest coloring her gray eyes. “Room’s a dollar, and Gilly’s a dollar more. Baths is fifty cents. A bath with Gilly is fifty cents more.”

“Just two rooms, we’re riding out at first light,” Arthur said, slapping two dollars down. The man stared blearily at the money.

“I shoulda led with it, but I ain’t got but one room. We’s all filled up. Rumor of gold in the hills got men fallin’ out of the woodwork, but uh,” he hiccuped. “But uh, we got a hangin’ tomorrow, so it’s freed up a space I wouldnt’a otherwise had.”

Charles and Arthur looked out the street to the Sheriff's building and the cottonwood tree beside it. Two men that had not been there before were standing below the noose, deep in discussion as they assessed the tree. The silver stars on their chase glinted in the flashing lightning.

“What’s the hanging for?” Charles asked.

Stan shrugged his massive shoulders. “Man accused of sleeping with the sheriff’s wife. I guess it wouldn’t be a hanging offense, ‘cept as how it’s the sheriff’s wife, it seemed he also got accused of rustlin.’ As for Mabel, she run back East to join her family. Said she don’t have the constitution for the West. Feller were a good man near as I can figger, but Devil take the man who steals love.” Stan considered. the tree “Guess life is a cheap here as anywhere else." He turned to the pair. Anyway, I got a free room, so it benefits you. Beats spendin’ a night outside in this weather.”

“Sure does,” Arthur agreed wearily. The man slapped a key down on the table. “Third room down on the left. Don’t mind the man’s belongings. He won’t be needing them any longer, so make use of what you can and take what you want. We open at five for dinner. Best piano player this side of Grand Junction, so you boys make sure to turn out.”

The room was austere in the way of accommodations, and looked lived in, as if the doomed man had walked out that morning and not returned. Staring at the shaving blade on the bureau, Charles reflected this might indeed be the case. But the bed had been made up, and the room hosted a hearth with a full accommodation of wood piled next to it. Arthur kicked off his riding boots.

“Strange town,” he said.

“Seems like it,” Charles agreed, pulling off his jacket. They’d just begun to settle in, the storm sending rain and flashes of lightning around them in earnest, when they heard a knock at the door, barely audible over the thunder outside. Charles, crouched at the fireplace as he began to build the kindling, looked over at Arthur, who was hunched over his journal.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Grabbing his pistol from the table, Arthur made his way to the door, standing just offset as it as he opened it. Charles reached for his throwing knife. He relaxed as he saw the gangly form of Mrs. Mallory’s youngest son standing on the other side.

“Boy,” Arthur said, peering down the hallway over his shoulder, as if Mrs. Mallory might come storming after her son any minute. The distant jangling of a piano, slightly off key, drifted down the hall. “What’re you doing here?”

The boy pushed his way inside. “My name’s Frank, you don’t have to call me boy." He shrugged off his jacket. It dripped water onto the floor as he hung it up.

“Frank,” Arthur accommodated, “what are you doing here?”

The boy dropped his box he’d offered earlier on the table. Tipping the top open, the pair could see it was full of the meager riches of his family. The boy pulled out a gold ring and several other pieces of what appeared to be stolen heirlooms--an emerald brooch, a single pearl earring, the gold watch from earlier. “I’ve seen men like you before. You’re not farmers or panhandlers. You’re the type of men who know how to handle themselves.”

Arthur picked up the gold ring, rolling it in his hands. He’d pulled a dozen like it off men looted, dead or alive, throughout the course of his life. It meant a lot to the family it was lifted from, but every fence paid nearly the same amount, regardless of emotional value.

“This was your father’s,” Arthur guessed. He handed it to the boy, who refused to take it back. Shrugging, Arthur dropped the ring back in the box. “We don’t want your money, Frank.”

“You gotta,” the boy pleaded, pulling the brooch out. “This is my mother’s, and her mother’s before her. It’s from Germany.”

Arthur stepped forward, looming over the boy who tried, and failed, to remain brave. He looked up at Arthur with plaintive eyes. “You gotta kill the man who killed my brother. I’d do anything. I’ll give you everything I have.”

And Arthur, who had taken everything from families who had less to give, pulled out a chair and offered the boy to sit. Reluctantly, the boy sat. Arthur settled across from him, offering Frank the respect of sitting like equals. “Frank, I think you’ve misjudged us. We’re not hired guns. We’re just travelers passing through.”

Frank stared at him, his resolve hardening. “No you ain’t. I hearda you. You run with the Van der Linde Gang. You’re his right hand man.” He reached into the pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a crumpled wanted poster. He sat it down on the table. “PROCLAMATION,” it read, $1000 AWARD FOR THE CAPTURE DEAD OR ALIVE OF ARTHUR MORGAN.”

Arthur’s body shifted just slightly, the amused crinkle gone from the corner of his eyes, his mouth drawing into an unfriendly line. He was silhouetted by the window, and just beyond, Charles could see the cottonwood tree and the noose that swung in the wind of the storm. The boy, in his inexperience, did not recognize the change in Arthur’s body language and did not appreciate how precarious of a situation he had put himself in.

“D’ya mean to threaten me, Frank?” Arthur’s voice had dropped to a menacing growl, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

“N-no,” Frank stuttered before anger overtook his fear. “But you know who did it,” he accused. “You know who did it, and you won’t do nothing about it. They say you’ve won a hundred gunfights. You could kill that man.”

“You’re right,” Arthur agreed, “I could kill that man, and I’ve killed a lot of other men for a lot less. As for the matter of your brother, I do know who his killer was and you’re right, I won’t do a damn thing about it.”

Frank’s eyes flashed, and he pulled a small pocket knife he had in his pocket, lunging at Arthur. Charles watched carefully from the fire, tensing around the knife in his hand. But Arthur caught the blade easily, twisting the boy’s wrist with enough torque that he was forced to drop it, his face crumpling in pain. Frank stared at Arthur with equal measure fear and respect, anger a present undercurrent. His jaw clenched.

“I won’t kill that man,” Arthur said, picking up the blade and folding back into the rosewood handle before giving it back to Frank, “Because your brother asked me not to. And while I didn’t know your brother very well, I’m of a mind to respect a dying man’s wishes.”

The boy stared at Arthur, his face crumpling all at once. “I miss him so much. Momma ain’t the same. She cries all night after she thinks I’ve gone to sleep. I’m not strong enough to help out the way I should around the farm, and we’re losing money. We won’t be able to hold onto it much longer.”

It was, Arthur reflected, a good thing that Strauss did not know about this family.

“Frank,” Arthur began in a measured tone, “I’m sorry about your Pa, and I’m sorry about your brother. Did you kill the horse that kicked your pa?”

“No,” Frank admitted, staring at Arthur through long lashes.

“Why not?”

“He ain’t mean it. He’s just a horse, and Pa caught him in a bad mood. Killin’ the horse ain’t gonna bring him back, and would hurt us, besides. He’s been a good horse otherwise.”

“If I went over that mountain and killed that man and never came back, would it give you justice?”

“Yes,” the boy said resolutely.

“How,” Arthur leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, “If you ain’t known who did it, and you ain’t known I killed him, what good would it do you or your mother? Except you hired a man to kill a man you ain’t even know, against the dying wishes of your brother. You’d have that on your soul all the rest of your days. Is that the sort of man your brother and Pa wanted you to be?”

Frank stared at Arthur. “No,” he finally admitted. “But that ain't--”

“Go home and take care of your mother,” Arthur cut him off. “You’re the man of the household. Act like it.”

Frank stood, pocketing the knife. He grabbed his jacket from the hook before turning back to look at Arthur. “You killed a lot of men. Did you ever kill for revenge?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said. He grabbed the brooch and the gold ring, put them back into the box, closed the lid, and pushed it into the boy’s hands. The boy stared down at the worn box, a blond wood with old carvings smoothed by time. He looked back up.

“Was it worth it?”

Arthur paused, glancing at Charles, before casting the full weight of his gaze on the boy. He weighed out his answer. “Yeah,” he said, “It was. ”

The boy shifted his weight. “How is this different?”

“Because,” Arthur said, standing to open the door for Frank. “I was already a bad man and had nothing to lose. You have your mother and your whole life. Don’t be like me, Frank. I ain’t a good man. Be the man your family wants you to be.”

Frank stared up at Arthur, his blue eyes studying Arthur’s grizzled face, noticing, possibly for the first time, the scars on his face. “I ain’t gonna tell the sheriff who you are,” He said, donning the oversized fleece-lined canvas jacket Arthur figured had probably belonged to his brother, and slipping through the back door of the hotel into the evening. The rain was just tapering off, the distant setting sun already piercing through the spring storm with rays of gold and orange. Arthur closed the door behind him. He looked at Charles.

“Think that boy will go after him?”

Arthur glanced at the closed door. “He’s got a choice. He can take care of his mother and that farm, or he can let his brother’s death burn a hole straight down into him, until he decides to climb over that mountain and find, if not that poker player, then somebody he feels has wronged him. Like as not, he’ll get hisself killed. I ain’t figured which choice he’s gonna make. I don’t think he knows, either.”

“Do you wish you’d never killed that man? The one that killed your son?”

“No” Arthur said, pulling a seat up beside the fire. “I never have regretted it. That kind of man don’t need to be on this earth. But Billy Joe got himself into a situation and it weren’t nobody’s fault ‘cept his own. These farmer boys ride out thinkin’ they got something to prove, and get killed pickin’ fights with the wrong men.” Arthur paused. “I’ve killed a lot of that type, thinking they’d get their stripes if they fought me. Never did have to take the news home before.” He stared into the flames, unsettled.

Outside their door, the ranchers and prospectors had come in from their day of work, and the saloon was growing rowdy, the tinkling of the piano now begun in earnest, accompanied the rising din.

“Let’s go get us a drink,” Arthur said, glancing at the closed door and the revelry behind it. Charles, content to share the evening with Arthur in the room, shrugged his agreement.

In the saloon, the tables were nearly full of raucous men, but they found a place at the bar. Stan Drift was passing out beer nearly as fast as he could pour it. Arthur raised his fingers, and two frothy mugs appeared before them. The beer was mediocre at best and the mugs were dirty, and that was befitting of the backwater town.

“There’s gonna be hangings tomorrow,” Stan said. “They got a thief up in the mountain. Was taking nuggets off men who found them fair and square. He kilt a man when he was accused, but his partner hit the thief in the back of the head with his pistol and brought him down.” Stan slapped his hand against the bar. “Hot dog! To hell with thieves and murderers. We’ll be more than a backwater, you wait and see.”

Beer was quickly supplanted by whiskey as the men grew rowdier.

“Pass the jug,” a rancher called, “and we’ll drink once more to the men set to hang tomorrow.”

Outside the window of the saloon, the tree loomed in the growing evening, a large shadow that stood heavy. Arthur stared at it, his face contemplative. Charles was watching Arthur, so he didn’t notice the man that came up beside them until he settled into the empty bar stool beside Charles.

“Slug of gin,” he said in a soft Texas drawl. He wasn’t tall, or broad besides, his narrow shoulders tapering into a thin waist. He wasn’t young, either, if the lines on the side of his mouth were any indication. His brown eyes were sad and lonely. Stan set the glass of clear liquor before him. The man took it. “I heard this town means business, and there’s jobs aplenty. I can work. Do you know anybody hiring?”

“You might ask these gentlemen,” Stan nodded towards Charles and Arthur. “They was just down at the Mallory place. Mrs. Mallory just lost her eldest, and her husband not long before. She’s got a hand, but I know she’s hurtin’ for help. Don’t know what the pay is like, but it’s good land, if somebody could make something of it.” Stan assessed the man. “Prolly benefit from a man of value, too.”

“Appreciate it, friend.” The slight man turned to assess the pair. He packed a .44, low on his hip, and was missing the tip of his right ear. He had the weather-beaten face of a man who’d spent many of his seasons under the sun, and the bearing of one who knew how to handle himself. His brown eyes were sharp, but sad.

Arthur, who recognized a fellow killer when he saw him, nodded. “Arthur. This here is Charles. You’re asking after Mrs. Mallory?”

“I can do most kind of work, and ride with the best.”

“You don’t have to sell yourself to me, friend. I witnessed the death of her boy, and we come to tell her what happened. She’s hurtin’ for help. You’ll find her about three miles south, in a place just off the road. There’s a door in need of fixin', you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Room and board is enough for now,” Lorne said.

“She can give that I figger, but not much else, not until she makes it a workin’ ranch again. She’s barely struggling along,” Arthur said. Strauss would have sold her promises of wealth and had Arthur knocking on her door a month later. But the West was full of hard-scrabbled people down on their luck, and Strauss didn’t need to know of Big Green Valley and the sorrows it held.

“I appreciate it,” Lorne said with a soft smile. Arthur raised a glass, and Lorne clinked his drink against it.

A man banged through the door, the cool breeze of the mountain spring coming in with him. A small cadre of men followed him. He was a burly man, with broad shoulders and unruly black hair. He wore a black vest and black gloves, and his beard, unkempt, was just as black. His face was unlined by time, and he carried himself with the bravado of a man who had not yet been forced to face his limits. The crowd quieted at his entrance, and Charles appreciated that this man came with a reputation. His dark eyes were bright, speaking to an evening already spent drinking. He spotted the three strangers at the bar, his eyes narrowing as he caught Lorne’s diminutive figure. His face lit up in recognition.

“You,” he hollered to Lorne, “Come down and wait on a man.”

The soft smile faded from Lorne’s face, his eyes narrowing. Charles saw the friendliness fade from his face, replaced with a wild look. The younger man, in his experience, failed to appreciate the change in demeanor.

“While you’re at it, get yourself a glass of milk,” the man in black guffawed. “Might make something of yourself, Shorty.”

Lorne pushed himself away from the bar. His voice was quiet, but it commanded respect. “It’s plain you’re lookin’ for trouble, Cowboy,” Lorne said sharply, “and I’m not interested. But if it’s trouble you want, then that’s what you’ll get cause Cowboy, we're both packin’ guns.” He fell into a stance, his feet wide on the floor, his hand already positioned. He leaned forward, “When you call me, ‘Shorty,’ say ‘mister’, Cowboy. Maybe you’d rather be dead.”

A silence had fallen over the room as the crowd watched the pair. The only sound that filled the air was the heavy ticking of a clock hung on the distant wall. The man in black's lips curled in a snarl.

“Nobody’s ‘mister’ to me, little man.” He grabbed for the gun on his hip. But Lorne was faster, and the man in black hadn’t cleared leather before Lorne had shot him through the chest. Red blossomed in the crisp white beneath his black vest. A look of mild startlement crosssed his features before collapsing to the floor. The crowd watched in silence.

“We should get the sheriff--” a man started, but Lorne silenced him with a glare. He finished his gin, setting it down loudly on the bar.

“It was self-defense, you boys seen it."

Lorne holstered his gun. He looked over his shoulder at Charles and Arthur. “Appreciate the help, friends. I’m sorry to say, this is not an uncommon occurrence for me. I used'ta sling for a livin’, and I’m achin’ to get out of it but my reputation precedes me. I’ll see you around.”

He crossed the room, kneeling before the dead man and cleaning his pockets out before pushing through the doors, unimpeded by the man’s friends, who had witnessed his quickness at the draw, and were disinclined to challenge him. When Lorne was gone, the sound of horse’s hooves riding off into the night, the crowd remained quiet. The man’s friends hefted his body and beat a quiet retreat.

“Another round, on the house!” Stan said to quell the nervous whispering. A cheer went out. Men clambered for the free drinks, and Stan handed out a whiskey jug. It made its way across the tavern quickly.

Arthur turned away from the door, grabbing the shot of whiskey set out before him. “That’s what it looks like,” he told Charles, “A man tryin’ to earn his stripes.”

They retired to the room several drinks later. But neither of them were strangers to whiskey, and more upright than most of the men, who had just started their evening. The fire in the room had died down and a chill had settled over it. Charles set to stoking the flames. Soon, it was banked up, the room cast in its flickering orange.

Settling before the fire, Charles bent over the footstool he’d sat on to grow the flames, and Arthur, in a ball-footed chair. He was slunk low in it, staring into the flames. They sat in silence.

“I’ve killed a lot of men,” Arthur started suddenly. “I can’t say I really thought what the news did to their mothers. It ain’t a good feelin’.” He paused. “You ever kill anybody you didn’t mean to?” Arthur glanced at Charles.

Charles stared into the flames. “Mostly all of them. Sometimes, I wish I’d never killed anybody at all.”

Arthur nodded. “But life don’t work that way.”

“No,” Charles agreed, ”it doesn’t.”

They fell silent, reflecting on the ghost of their pasts; of men who had been killed, rightfully or not.

When it came to retire, Arthur stood barefooted before the bed. He stared down at it; larger than their last accommodations in Valentine, and better than the cold dirt of the plains. “You ain’t mind sharin’ a bed, d’ya?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Charles said.

“John usedta say I’m like to hog the bed, and snore.”

“I haven’t noticed,” Charles rebutted fondly. John was right on both accounts.

If Arthur was quicker to wrap himself around Charles, he didn’t mind that, either. He stared into the dimming fire, the warmth of Arthur at his back, his arm draped over him. In sleep, he hooked his leg over Charles.

Charles thought of Mrs. Mallory alone on her ranch, trying to raise a son bent on revenge. She was, he felt, a good woman in a hard place. She’d probably could’ve found help in Lorne, but he’d been run off before he had the opportunity.

The world was an unfriendly place.

But it felt a little safer with Arthur at his back.

They woke to a gray morning. A crowd, fighting off hangovers, was already gathered around the cottonwood tree. Two nooses hung from it. As the pair mounted Taima and Harper, two men were brought up on horses of their own, the nooses fitted over their necks. When the flanks of their horses were slapped and the men left to hang, the momentum causing them to swing as their legs kicked. Arthur looked on as their faces purpled and their struggles slowed and finally stopped. A cheer went up. They rode off silently. It wasn’t until they were halfway up the mountain, the green valley distant below them that Arthur finally spoke.

“I done a lot of things that have earned me a hangin,” he said. “I guess the boy was honest, and didn't speak a word of our presence. If those men'd known who I was, I’d be there beside the two on that tree.”

“If they’d aimed to hang you,” Charles said, “I would’ve raised hell.”

Arthur looked at him, his raised eyebrows fading into a fondness. A smile graced his face, and Charles thought, not for the first time, how handsome Arthur Morgan was, despite all his self deprecation

“You’re all right by me, Mr Smith.”

Arthur was more talkative after that, as though a heavy weight had lifted off his shoulders. He recounted the events of the night before, admiring the quick draw of Lorne. He reflected on Mrs. Mallory.

“She were a handsome woman. She could find herself a new man, and make something of that place.”

Charles agreed she was a handsome woman in her way, but it was not Mrs. Mallory that he was interested in. The growing knowledge saddled him with silence and confusion. He did not know how to make himself known to Arthur, and was worried that to voice it was to end their nights sharing bedrolls and beds in hotels that ever seemed to have but a single room.

“Is that what you want?” Charles asked. “A woman and a place to settle down?”

Arthur grew contemplative. They rode in silence for a while, Charles not pressing the subject. As they crested the ridge, taking a moment to water the horses at a spring just east of the peak, lush with the recent storms, Arthur said, “No.”

Charles looked up in surprise, having almost forgotten the question he’d fielded. Arthur looked up at him.

“I had the opportunity, with Eliza. I could’ve made something of that, if I had the penchant. I could’ve given up Dutch and the gang. Back then, we weren’t hardly nothing. I had the opportunity again with Mary. I coulda given up my ways. And I didn’t.”

They stood quietly, a mountain breeze rustling around them. “I ain’t sure what I want,” Arthur admitted.

Charles, equally driftless, watched Arthur as he stared across the plains below, knowing exactly what, or who, he wanted.

By the time the sun was sinking in the west, they’d reached the foothills where they’d helped bury Chip James, the boy killed by a rattlesnake who had wanted to be buried in the lush hills of the East and instead rotted in the hardscrabble grounds of the West. His outfit had passed on, and his cross stood lonesome in the purple light of the sunset. They stared down at the cross. Arthur dropped from Harper, standing before the abandoned grave. He pulled his hat from his head.

“I’m sure you were a good kid,” Arthur said. “They said you didn’t want to be buried out here in the lonesome plains of the West. M’sorry life didn’t work out the way you wanted. I’m sorry death didn’t, either.” He looked up at Charles.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder why good men have to die, and here I stand. I think this boy, and Billy Joe, probably coulda made something of themselves and I won’t never be any more than an outlaw that don't hardly amount to nothin'."

Charles, feeling raw, said, “I don’t think you amount to nothing.”

The grief that threatened Arthur’s face eased into something complicated. He stared up at Charles wordlessly before remounting Harper. They headed out into the plains, finding a quiet oasis with a bubbling spring that would dry by June, but now burbled happily into a small pool. Ancient cottonwoods bent over the stream, enjoying the water while they had it in abundance. The pair hitched the horses on the banks, letting them take their fill before starting an evening fire. The prairie grass was bright with the chittering of redwings as they settled in for the evening. After dinner, Arthur set the bedroll out, just one. He looked up at Charles, his face clouded with uncertainty and something akin to shyness.

“For the cold?” He said, but it came across as a question. It wasn’t nearly as cold as when they’d summited the mountain the first time, and they probably would’ve faired well enough in their respective bedrolls.

“Of course.”