Chapter Text
It takes a year after Bessie's passing for things to feel almost normal again.
No more constant boozing, no more strange, sad blanket draped over everyone's backs. And without Bessie's disapproval, Dutch and Hosea finally start considering taking John robbing. Best he got before was getting Dutch to convince her it was a good idea for him to teach John to shoot, after weeks of his most prettiest of pleases. And he's finally gonna get to use them skills.
Now, he's been on a job or two before. Young and unassuming makes a great distraction for when distracting is required, and John's awful good at it. And of course, he's done his own fair share of picking folks clean himself, sneaky as he is.
But being a distraction is something else entirely from actually being involved. And he's way too big and way too old to be an effective scared-kid-distraction nowadays anyhow. He's basically a fully grown man. He even shaves every few days. He ain't a boy anymore, so it's about damn time he starts putting in work after nearly four years hanging around here.
And this job ought to be a good one. A stagecoach transporting a wealthy banker and his belongings from one town to the next, no shotgun rider, or something, John thinks. He should know for certain, but he's been buzzing with so much excitement ever since the moment coming along was proposed to him, that listening's been difficult. All that matters is that he has the plan down, the details don't matter so much. Even just standing around for the discussion of it has him bouncing back and forth on his feet, shaking his hands out to try and fling some of the excess energy from his body. He's so ready.
John reprises his role of lost kid, flags down the coach as it rolls down a long, lonely stretch of road in the low light of early morning.
"Mister! Mister, please, you gotta help me!" John waves an arm in the air, tears in his eyes and a limp in his step. The driver rolls to a suspicious stop.
"Get outta the road, boy."
"Mister, I need your help. Please, my horse died on me just down the road, and I hurt my leg." He gestures down to himself, muddy and pitiful. "Can you give me a ride?"
John can see Dutch circling the back of the wagon like a wildcat, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the driver.
"Jesus christ." The man groans. "Fine. Get on."
"Ain't that kind of you." Dutch says, muffled slightly through the bandana obscuring his face, startling the driver as he approaches him from the side, gun trained at his head.
"Hop on down from there, now. Nice and slow."
Dutch's pistol slams down hard into the side of the man's skull when he steps down.
He disarms the knocked-out driver, walks around to drag the portly, crying gentleman from the luxuriously cushioned safety of the coach's interior, and John's leading their horses over from the bushes so they can be loaded up with cash and goodies, heart thrumming loud and quick in his chest. This is thrilling, truly thrilling.
He stands with his own hand-me-down pistol pointed at the rich feller to keep him behaving while Dutch frees all their prizes from the locked box at the back of the coach.
John don't feel an ounce of guilt. All he feels is excitement, raw and buzzing in his ears, and if it weren't for his natural scowling poker face he'd be grinnin'.
"Hey! Hey, what's going on up there?"
John's head snaps up to see a lone rider cresting the small hill in their direction.
Shit.
Dutch turns around, gun aimed unwavering toward the man, but his other hand raised palm-out like he's talkin' to a scared animal. His rings glint in the lantern light from the side of the coach, and John's gaze goes from them and back to the man at his feet over and over.
"I recommend that you turn back around." Dutch suggests, eerily calm.
The man freezes stock still atop his horse like he's contemplating, then without a word, spins around and gallops off the way he came.
Before Dutch even turns back around, though, John's being grabbed from behind.
Chaos ensues, immediately.
The apparently very much not-unconscious driver's got one arm looped around John's neck, he's reaching for his gun with the other, and the startle and the struggle makes John squeeze the trigger.
The poor rich feller gets shot through the arm, screams bloody murder, as Dutch spits and cusses and John's blind with panic now- he's never seen Dutch so un-composed, and it scares him.
Dutch shouts something, his gun pointed toward the driver behind him, but it feels like it's pointed toward his own head.
He can hear himself make a sound like a whining dog while the driver and Dutch yell at one another. The pressure against his windpipe has him sweating and shaking, and Dutch seems unwilling to shoot. Maybe he's scared to hit John, but god damn it, he just wants this over.
In a moment of perhaps unreasonable impatience, John twists his gun-arm backward and fires blindly into what he hopes is the man's gut.
His shoulder pops painfully as he does it, but the man does go down. And when he falls, John falls with him- lands in the dirt surrounded by the blood of the two men he's shot tonight.
Dutch is with him in a flash, kneeling before him and holding him up by his shoulders, but John can't hear a word he's saying. Gunshots are loud and his heartbeat is even louder and the fat rich feller won't quit screaming.
Dutch lifts him to his feet carefully, and John just clings to him for support as he's rushed toward his horse and encouraged to mount up.
This did not go as intended.
His hands tremble around the reins as they run.
This horse ain't even his. The gun ain't even his. He barely knows how to use either thing correctly.
Funny how he went so quick from feeling grown to feeling like a frightened child.
When they return to camp, John stands silent and unsteady as Susan lectures Dutch. It was worth it, it was worth it. They got the money, Dutch assures her. And John was so brave and so clever, apparently. He don't feel it.
Susan cleans the blood off of him, shoves him toward his lean-to to change his clothes, and then he's being made to sit by the fire and celebrate a mostly successful first robbery.
With a shaky smile, he raises a glass of whiskey in a toast to his apparent criminal genius.
Arthur pats his back with a knowing expression and it helps a little. That, plus liquor. Neither Arthur nor whiskey care that he ain't said a damn thing since he came back to camp.
And after a little more to drink, he feels just fine about it all. Sure it went a little sideways, but now he's toasting and laughing with everyone, and Hosea's telling stories like he used to, and it's nice. It's nice.
Next time will go better.
Dutch spends days with that sparkle in his eye, praising John endlessly for his quick thinking, telling him he reminds him of himself when he was younger. And that feels nice to hear, knowing Dutch might have acted the same way.
"You've got somethin' special in you, son." Dutch says to him not six months later, after a handful more jobs, each one significantly more successful than the first.
John don't know about bein' special, but the praise has him smiling sheepishly anyhow.
"You're catching on fast. Real fast, maybe faster than Arthur did. I'm proud."
That alone has John riding a high for months.
Even Arthur seems proud of him for a little, 'til John annoys him by trying his damnedest to outcompete him at his own game. It's all good-natured, he swears, and Arthur don't stay pissed off long each time. It's what he thinks having a brother must feel like. Scrapping and making up.
And scrap they do.
Arthur's done his fair share of holding things out of John's reach, or shoving him into shallow water, or smacking him upside the head when he's acting a fool. But now John's bigger, and older, and he fights back.
Two times in the last week Dutch or Susan has had to physically separate the two of 'em for getting into it over something stupid. But John can't help it- sometimes he gets so mad, sometimes it ain't even Arthur's fault he's in a bad mood, but then a single comment sends him raging like an angry bull. Or as Arthur likes to describe him, a rabid cat. He feels more like a bull, though.
Even with all their headbutting, John does give a damn about Arthur. Trusts him with his life, even if he can't trust him not to be an asshole. Maybe even looks up to him a little, for different reasons than why he looks up to Dutch or Hosea. Arthur's like a steam locomotive with a gun- he's terrifying and impressive and imposing. John wants to be able to put folks in their place like that one day, after so many years of not being able to stand up for himself. He doesn't reckon he's ever seen Arthur weak. Sure, he's real sweet to his horse, he's kind to ladies and kids in public. But he can switch it on so quick. John wants to be able to do that.
So he tries.
He mimics Arthur's posture on jobs, projects his words to be frightening and authoritative- the way his voice cracks leaves him sounding very much his age and not even a bit like Arthur or Dutch, but he'll get there. He will.
And besides, when he's got a gun in his hand, most folks listen regardless of how his voice sounds. But Arthur can scare 'em empty handed, Dutch can make commands and folks listen, weapon or not. Hell, Hosea can weave a story out of thin air and convince the strongest-willed men to do his bidding. He's rarely seen him need a gun. John wants that power, bad. And he thinks Dutch can tell.
Thinks he can see that drive in him to do better, and uses it to his advantage, and John loves it. He feels like a real protégé, and who wouldn't want to be a protégé to a man like Dutch?
He says things to John that really make him think he might be even better at this than Arthur is one day. An enforcer, just like him, and a quick learner to boot. They could be a damn frightening pair, standing at Dutch's sides. Him and Hosea are the brains, and John and Arthur will be the muscle. They'll run like a well-oiled machine.
He works hard as he possibly can toward that goal, shiny-bright and tangible in his mind's eye, and for quite a while he really don't feel like there's a thing in this world could stop him from achieving it.
Then, right around John's eighteenth birthday, something happens.
Arthur rides into camp looking entirely unlike himself. Haunted, distant. And not a single person will tell John what in God's name is happening.
He asks, and asks, and asks. Silence from everybody. For days. Watches Arthur drink himself dumb, throw up, then lay in the dark crying to himself. He does it ‘til his tears dry up entirely, and then he's just plain mad. Cold and temperamental. And still drunk.
It ain't anything different from the other times John's seen it- it's loss, gotta be. He's lost something, though John don't have a single clue what, and it eats at him. What little he's managed to glean from careful eavesdropping just don't sound quite right to be true. And won't no one tell him one way or another, anyhow.
He's never been any use at all at comforting anybody, tends to make things worse if he tries. He wants to help, but he don't know how. Didn't know how when Hosea lost Bessie, didn't know how when his father would mourn the deaths of his career and his life's plans and then his vision. Two out of three was John's fault, and he wanted so bad to try and fix it. He'd place a scrawny little hand on his pa's arm and be pushed away, just as he reckons he would be now with Arthur. Ain't even worth trying, ‘cause it never goes how he wants anyhow.
So he watches from a distance while Arthur tears himself to shreds in all sorts of ways- drinking, fighting, making dumb decisions on jobs that are liable to get him killed. He just don't care anymore. He's been reckless before, but not like this. Never like this.
Things in camp become real strained over it. No matter how John acts, Arthur don't like it. Always got some sort of a problem with him, far beyond any problems he ever had with him before, and John feels the bitter beginnings of resentment over it coating the back of his tongue. He's being pushed away, and he thinks it might be on purpose.
He wants to help, and Arthur will never let him try.
So John drinks, too, drinks enough to drown out the sounds of Dutch and Hosea arguing quietly, of Arthur riding back into camp bloodied again, of his own thoughts whirling restlessly inside his skull. Drinks just enough to ignore the feeling of things falling to pieces around him. And for the first time, he can finally see why folks do this. It dulls the sharp edge of his universal truth- everything goes sour eventually, and this family is no exception. He's always known it.
Two months into whatever the hell this all is, with no clear end in sight, Dutch pulls John aside to speak to him quietly.
“I really need you to work hard, son.” Dutch says, staring intently and directly into John's eyes. “Now more than ever. Arthur is… well, Arthur is how Arthur is, and I need you to step up. I need you doin’ the work of two men. But I know you…” He claims, poking a finger into John's sternum and holding it there. “...and I know you got it in you. Don't you, son?”
“I… yeah. Of course, Dutch.”
“That's my boy. You're very clever, you've got what it takes to help us run this thing smoothly. And I trust you will not let me down. You wouldn't let me down, would you?”
John shakes his head ‘no’. He ain't even entirely sure what Dutch means by taking on Arthur's work, but he's ready to try his damnedest. And Dutch seems satisfied enough with that.
So he keeps it square in his mind- Dutch always says John is a younger version of him, and now's finally the time to show him he's right. He can feel that fire burning behind his breastbone. Arthur ain't the man for the job anymore, so now it's John's turn. It's finally John's turn.
He becomes first pick on jobs. He's more reliable for ‘em now, has an eye for unique opportunities too, just like Dutch.
Arthur don't fall by the wayside or nothing, but more often than not, John's getting favored roles. It feels good. He feels grown, feels like he's in control of what he does, sort of for the first time ever. Feels like his voice is being not just heard, but valued.
And he never figured Arthur for the jealous sort, but he's certainly acting the part now. Feels an awful lot like how he treated John right around when he first showed up. Cold, grouchy, quiet. He don't talk with John by the fire no more. He ain't interested in having company for a supply run. John can't even remember the last time Arthur let him see one of his drawings. He can't help but wonder if Arthur's attitude has got to do with him moving up the ranks.
What he knows for certain is that he's fed up with it. A scoff here, a sidelong glance there. And after being sent out to scope a job by himself for the first time, it really hits a breaking point. Belittling comments while Dutch praises him for his work, and what for? What for? He can't take it a second longer.
“What is your problem with me?” John finally, finally questions aloud, stomping up behind Arthur where he's sat brooding at the campfire.
Arthur just scoffs.
“Gimme a pencil and paper, I'll write down a list for ya’.”
“No, see? This is what I mean!” John flings his arms up and out in a broad gesture. “You always got a goddamn problem. Everything I say, you got a remark for. Well, I ain't doin’ it no more. Tell me, man to man, what the hell your issue is.”
“Oh, you're a man now, are you?” Arthur drawls, unbothered in stark contrast to John's raised hackles, and it's starting to get under his skin. John's fists clench at his sides, and Arthur just flicks his cigarette into the flames, casual as anything. “Dutch ain't willing to protect you from scary ol’ me? Go run and ask him, I reckon he'd do just about anything his favorite little disciple needed.”
“Favorite? We're playing favorites, now? Who the hell cares about any of that?” John does. John cares, he likes the idea of being anybody's favorite anything, although he ain't sure he's anywhere close to being that in Dutch's mind. That's always been Arthur. For years, Arthur was the golden son on Dutch's pedestal, a platform far too tall and grand for John to reach. He always thought them two would share it once he earned the right to climb on.
“Oh, I think you care a whole lot. I, however, do not. So go on, quit botherin’ me.” Arthur dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. He don't even look up, don't meet his eye at all, and John's just left standing there shakin’ mad and with nowhere for any of it to go. It takes everything in him not to start swingin’.
“You're a real son of a bitch, Arthur.”
“Don't I know it.”
Their little squabble don't do much in the way of fixing things. Another pointed lecture from Dutch about family, and brotherhood, and working together don't do much either, since both John and Arthur are too damn stubborn to even hear it. If he wants to think John nothing more than a stupid kid, fine. He can go right ahead. John's just gonna keep on working, keep proving himself, and if Arthur don't like it, that's his damn problem.
At least, that would be how it works in theory. Instead, Arthur's antagonistic comments and lack of faith in John's abilities just continue to piss him off. He snaps back at him, and it only makes things worse. Every little thing Arthur says, or doesn't say, crawls underneath John's skin and gnaws at his brain like a parasite. Why doesn't he believe in him no more? Arthur's the one who taught him half the shit he knows about the work they do. So why is he mad John's using that knowledge now?
It ain't that John's desperate for Arthur's approval. No, he's too grown for that sort of thing now. He doesn't need it. He just wants to know why he don't have it anymore.
He doesn't really think he'll ever get an answer to that. It nags at him.