Chapter Text
The girl rides her horse like her life depends on it, and her horse — stolen, too, no doubt — is something small and fierce. They bolt into the trees, and Arthur curses under his breath, following; Lenny ahead of him chasing after her.
“Stop it, kid,” he barks in warning, “give up the money and we’ll let you go alive!”
“I’ll cut off her path,” Lenny calls out, splitting away to the right. Smart boy, quick thinker — Arthur lets him, and continues to chase after the girl.
Near two thousand dollars they got off the train. A single moment of Bill’s carelessness, and the girl swooped in like a coyote and ran. Fast and smart, Arthur reckons; she must have figured Bill as the weak link and waited for the right moment. Goddamn Bill.
Arthur spurs his horse on to ride faster, trying to close the distance.
“You know you’re not gonna make it,” he warns again. He caught only a glimpse of her before she’d bolted, but she looked young. She doesn’t stop or slow, weaving through the forest until Lenny appears as the trees clear. She tries to steer away, but her horse reels away from a cliff, whinnying and jumping, throwing her off in the process.
“Fucking hell—” Arthur hears her hiss, scrambling back to her feet as he jumps from his horse. She reaches for the gun in her holster, and points it at Arthur, glaring at him. Arthur holds up his hands like he would to calm a spooked horse.
“Woah,” he placates. Seeing her now, she certainly is young — Lenny’s age or younger, most likely. Her knuckles all bruised; a scar on her face that looks like a knife cut; dark circles and sunken cheeks. A cornered animal. Skinny little thing.
“I said we’re not gonna hurt you,” Arthur repeats. “If you just give us the money, alright?”
Arthur knows the wild look in her eyes, jumping from him to Lenny — who points a gun at her in return — and back to Arthur. He knows that look like something from a mirror many, many years ago. Something twists in his chest at the recognition.
Her thumb hooks on the hammer on her gun. Her breathing quickens.
“Come on, kid,” Arthur says. She watches him, her mouth twitching; takes half a step back. Desperation, he thinks; familiar as it is. And anger.
“The second you try to pull that trigger, you’re dead,” Lenny warns. “Put the gun down.”
_
Hazel looks between the two men. If her gun was any better, she might have a chance, but this old fucking thing is as reliable as the weather. If she shot one of them and it jammed, she’d be dead. And Hazel refuses to die just yet.
Her gaze narrows on the older man, then the gun of the younger one. Her jaw twitches.
“You put your gun down first,” she demands.
“Not happening,” he says.
“Put the gun down, Lenny,” the older man says through a sigh.
“Arthur,” the boy warns, but sighs after a moment and does as he’s told, his gaze fixed on Hazel. Her jaw set, Hazel tucks her gun into its holster, slowly. The temptation lingers: just try, just shoot and run. She bites it back.
All that money. She almost had it. Almost got away from everything.
She pulls the box out of her satchel. Holds onto the comforting weight of it for a moment, her grip tight; looks up at the man in front of her. He just watches her. If he hadn’t been there —
As he holds out his hand, she tosses the box at his feet and glares at him, gaze sharp as arrows.
The man laughs quietly, picks it up.
“Nice try, kid,” he says. “You just picked the wrong mark this time.” He dusts the dirt off the box and checks the contents. There’s a beat. “You got any, uh. Family?”
Hazel frowns, clenches her teeth. “What’s it to you,” she growls.
He huffs a sound. “Nothin’, I suppose.”
_
As Arthur turns and stows away the money, ready to get back on his horse, it gnaws at him again: it must be the feeling of recognition, the way he remembers a time when he was young, the way it was Dutch and Hosea who saved him. Huffing a sigh, he pulls twenty dollars out of his satchel.
Stepping closer to the girl, who backs away just as fast, he holds out the bills. “Here,” he says, “get yourself somethin’ to eat.” By which, he supposes, he means to say: a different life. As bad as he is, there are always worse men out there.
The girl looks at the money, then at him, her frown growing deeper. Skittish like a cat and angry like a dog. “Don’t want your damn money,” she spits.
Arthur huffs a laugh. “Now that ain’t true,” he says, “I seem to remember you were just trying to take off with my money, kid. Whole lot of it, too.” Not too proud to steal but too proud for this.
“Suit yourself,” he says. Whatever it is that possesses him, he leaves the money on a tree stump, then swings himself up on his horse. “Let’s go, Lenny,”
“You’re just gonna leave — how many dollars was that?”
“It’s my money, ain’t it,” Arthur says, clicking his tongue to get his horse moving. Lenny follows after him, his eye on the girl, but Arthur doesn’t look back again.
“Didn’t know you’ve gone soft, in your old age,” Lenny teases, half-grinning.
“Careful,” Arthur warns against the accusation. “She looked desperate, and desperate people do stupid things. It’s a bit of cash. Keep her off our tail.”
Excuses. Maybe he has gone soft. Maybe he’s just trying to make up for past sins, the losses he couldn’t prevent. Part of him wonders what Dutch would’ve done — if he’d take her with them like he did with Arthur, Lenny, the others. After all, she’d be more useful than Bill, at the very least.
“I don’t know, Arthur. You know what they say about feeding strays.”
_
Once the men are out of sight, Hazel pockets the money and sits on the tree stump, drags a hand down her face. Pats her pockets for her cigarettes and finds the box empty. Hunger gnaws at her stomach; there is a tremor in her hands. Twenty dollars will get her a decent meal, supplies for a while, even a real roof over her head for a few nights. And then what?
Arthur, he was called. What kind of outlaw gives money to someone trying to rob him? Stupid.
Hazel watches the stupid horse she stole, eating grass without care. Not the first one she stole and probably not the last. She wonders if they ever think about the people they belonged to first, if there’s resentment there.
“Poppy,” she says. Her voice lowers. “Your name’s Poppy. Stupid horse.” Stupid her, for talking to a horse. She looks in the direction the men went, wondering. They must be part of a gang. Absently, she scratches the scar on her arm. Different from the men she knows.
They must have a base somewhere. They must have good money.