Chapter Text
Arthur, surprisingly, did not have a restless night.
Normally, he tosses and turns for hours on end. He was one of the more lucky ones of the camp, actually. Hosea is the primary victim of insomnia; Arthur can’t remember a time when Hosea has actually closed his eyes. Dutch, though, could catch a few hours the quickest out of the gang. Even Jack couldn’t settle down as promptly as their leader.
Arthur also seemed to have a dream. He hadn’t experienced one since he was a young boy. The vision was that of a clearing by a river. Longhorn fawns and bucks scampered across the waters. Rabbits darted through Arthur’s view, running to lush bushes. He felt the familiar wooden bend of a bow in his hand. Steadied on the target, he pulled back the arrow and released. The rabbit squealed but then fell silent. The arrow pierced clean through one of it’s honey-glazed eyes.
He suddenly became very aware of the chilling air blowing through the cave. Arthur groaned and reluctantly pulled himself upwards. He could see there wasn’t much wind kicking up loose snow, which was helpful. Arthur turned to Almería, who had sat down on the stone floor. Her eyes were droopy and huffed upon seeing Arthur awake.
“Alright, girl,” he said, standing up, “we gotta go catch ourselves a John Marston.” Almería slowly rose to her feet and shook her head.
Arthur knelt down and began to roll up his bedroll as tightly as he could manage. As he stood up to load up his horse, he heard running. It wasn’t human and it wasn’t frantic. The sound was rhythmic, padded feet stomping through the snow. There was a single howl as the noise grew louder.
Goddamn wolves.
Almería bustled about in fear and neighed. Arthur calmly tied up his bedroll to her back and stroked her mane. The wolves howled and yelled as they bounded in their direction. Arthur continued to coo his horse and reached for his shotgun. The noise of the pack became frighteningly loud until the wolves could be heard running past. He exhaled and stroked Almería for a few moments.
Whatever their prey was, they were dead set on it.
Arthur sighed and got to work quickly packing up his makeshift camp. Finally, he slipped his journal safely into his satchel and fed Almería an apple. He then placed his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself over the horse. Arthur gently kicked his heel against the horse’s side as they trotted out of the cave. The cold air whistled through his ears; Almería fell into a steady gallop.
Arthur’s stomach gurgled with hunger. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stale jerky to chew on. The flavor only made his stomach feel more empty. Arthur tugged on the reigns harder and Almería neighed in disagreement. He sighed and patted her neck. The horse seemed less agitated, but only a few moments later bucked Arthur into the snow.
He grumbled angrily and rocked himself upwards. The horse started jumping up and down frantically as Arthur tried to calm her. Every movement brought a sharp pain in his spine. He walked in front of Almería in an attempt to get her back on track. His eyes widened when he noticed.
A horse lay in the snow; deep red snow surrounded the body. The front leg appeared broken with warm blood still bubbling from it. The belly was gutted and deep scratches littered the horse’s face.
What struck Arthur was how familiar it seemed. All horses looked similar, he assumed. But the horse’s pattern made something ache in his temples. Footprints lead away from the horse’s carcass and farther into the vast mountain. Only a madman would try and run from wolves.
It clicked in his mind. This was John ’s horse, those were his footprints, and John was the wolves’ prey. Arthur spit his now bland jerky into the snow and slid his shotgun onto his back. He struck Almería’s thigh quickly and she sped off. Arthur tracked the footprints and nearly stumbled off the edge in his haste.
The news started to sink in: John was running from wolves. The same wolves that brutally murdered his horse. Arthur’s chest felt heavy and his throat felt dry. Cold wind threatened to blow him off the mountain, but he clung closely to the stone wall.
Arthur couldn’t feel his ears or face anymore as he looked up. Small ridges acted like steps that led farther up the mountain. He sighed and felt the urge to slump onto the ground and sleep. Suddenly, he heard a shrill scream cut through the silent whistling of the wind.
A rush of adrenaline pumped through Arthur as he yelled to the sky, “Marston! Ya there boy?”
There was no response.
He felt ansty; his heartbeat racing quicker every moment with anticipation. Deciding the person who was hopefully John couldn’t hear him, Arthur hoisted himself over the first ridge. He yelled again, this time more frantic.
No response.
Arthur grumbled and gripped the stone edge. He pulled himself up and reached a landing. There was someone coughing and sputtering something fierce nearby.
“John?” He called again, shoulders beginning to slump in defeat.
For all Arthur knew, he was about to see a goddamn O’Driscoll bleeding to death. They could be armed; trying to bullshit him into a trap. Arthur’s paranoia got the best of him. His hand rested on his shotgun’s handle.
Arthur was greeted with a drop down into a pile of snow. He stopped just short of falling off the modest cliff and steadied himself on the edge. The outlaw settled on his knee and looked down at a man with greasy and frozen strands of hair.
“Well if it ain’t John fucking Marston.”