Chapter Text
Arthur’s day did not end there, however, as he had his own business to attend to.
Leopold Strauss was the gang's resident loan-shark, and had already set up shop in the town of Valentine a week after they fled those mountains. He was a decent enough man, at least by a gang of outlaws’ standards. Strauss kept track of the camp’s finances, was polite to the women and little Jackie, and his work was technically legal.
That didn’t make it any less repugnant to Arthur.
Too many times, Arthur found himself collecting debts from the desperate, needy folk who Dutch always taught them to help. If it wasn’t some poor man down on his luck, or a working girl in need of help, it was some stubborn bastard who thought they were above paying up. Arthur had already united down three debtors before getting Micah out: two fit the former descriptions, and one fool who refused to hold up his end of the deal.
The storm had cleared up, allowing Arthur and Hannibal to get dry on their way to the last debtor. He was a rancher by the name of Thomas Downes. He was a shorter man on the skinnier side with grey-black hair. Thomas’ most distinguishing feature was his cough, however; something Arthur noted when the man stopped Arthur from beating that brute Tommy into the mud.
Well, any more than he had already.
Arthur made his way to the Downes’ ranch, a humble piece of land between Cumberland Falls and the Caliban's Seat. It sat on a small hill surrounded by a modest wooded area. Arthur spotted Downes tending to his fenced off garden. Arthur let out a long sigh before he dismounted Hannibal to confront the man.
“Mr. Thomas Downes?” Arthur called out, earning Thomas’ attention.
“Can I help you, sir?” Thomas asked.
“You took a debt from Leopold Strauss; your debt has come due.”
Thomas stammered, “Oh, I, um, I don’t quite have it yet but…” Thomas would have finished had he not descended into a coughing fit.
On any other day, Arthur might have stormed through the gate, roughed up Downes a bit to prove some point. He was tired, however, and did not have it in him at the time.
“We met in Valentine, right?”
Thomas straightened up at that, recognizing Arthur, “Please, sir, I’ve gotta family.”
Arthur sighed at that, “Look, pal, yer business witch’yer family ain’t mine or Strauss’ problem. You had to of known this was comin’."
“Why am I here right now? This poor bastard is in an even worse state than us.” Arthur thought.
“Please, have some empathy!” Thomas pleaded, readying his rake if Arthur proved disagreeable.
He would have anyway, had he not broken out in another coughing fit. It was really bad this time. Thomas dropped his rake and fell to his knees.
“Are you alright buddy?” Arthur asked, not moving from his position.
Arthur had met a man like Downes, years and years ago. He too was a simple rancher with a charitable nature. He and his family had fallen on hard times, they’d lost their newborn to pneumonia and their cattle was stolen. Life certainly had a way of torturing folks.
Cue Arthur. He had just gotten done with a successful stagecoach robbery, leaving him three-hundred dollars wealthier. Arthur had been fixing to get a fancy new saddle for his horse, Bodicea. Then he met the poor rancher drinking himself to death at the saloon. He told Arthur about his situation, and so Arthur gave him his cut; no questions asked.
That had been back in the eighties. Before their rivalry with the O’Driscolls, before Hosea lost Bessie, before John left. Before he found Eliza and Issac-
“Thomas!” Arthur heard a woman cry out.
A woman with dark brown hair and a pointed nose emerged from the house; a young man with Thomas’ eyes followed. They rushed to the garden and got Thomas on his feet.
“Please sir, my husband isn’t well,” the wife pleaded. Their son looked at Arthur with a ferocity that unnerved him.
He was at a standstill, Arthur realized. Strauss had obviously given money to a struggling, desperate family that couldn't pay back. Arthur didn’t know what came over him, but he was so Goddamn tired out hurting folk that day.
“We ain’t a charity, ma’am, but I’ll give you ‘til the end of the month to pay us back,” Arthur said before rushing to Hannibal.
As he mounted his horse, Arthur heard Thomas cough out, “Thank you,” before his family carried him back.
The genuine relief in Thomas’ tone made Arthur’s stomach churn.
It was early in the evening when Arthur returned to camp; the sun casted hues of gold on their cliffside.
“Who’s there?” Lenny called out, his voice young and confident.
“It’s me,” Arthur said as he rode in, the young black man’s face lighting up as he saw Arthur.
Arthur handed Hannibal’s reins to Kieran, the O’Driscoll/hostage/stable boy/van der Linde rookie, with a soft, “Thanks, Kieran.”
The boy nearly doubled over, as Arthur never called him by his name, before replying, “‘Course, sir.”
Arthur spotted John talking with Hosea as he made his way to the big white tent at the end of camp. Dutch’s tent.
He was wearing his usual black and red vest with gold chains, though his jet-black hair was not hidden under his hat. Dutch had been reading one of his philosophy books, probably that Evylen Miller, when Arthur approached him.
Dutch looked up when he heard Arhur’s footsteps, greeting his protégé with a warm smile. Dutch said, “And so the knight returns! How did you get on?”
As much as Arthur loved to laugh it up with Dutch, Arthur simply went, “Jus’ fine, Dutch. Got Micah out.”
Dutch seemed pleased at that, as he stood up and gave Arthur a fatherly pat on the shoulder, “Fine work, my son, just fine. And where is Mr. Bell, this calls for a celebration!”
Arthur shrugged, “Out lookin’ for a peace offerin’.”
Dutch was grinning from ear to ear, “Oh, that Micah, he is certainly a character.”
“That’s one way ‘a puttin’ it,” Arthur muttered, not quite quiet enough. Dutch’s smile faltered.
“And what exactly does that mean, Arthur?” Dutch asked.
Sighing, Arthur vented, “Look, Micah’s a fine gun. He's a force of nature with his shooting and he’s about as ballsy as a drunken Sean. But there’s somethin’ wrong with ‘im.”
“Enlighten me.”
“He’s loud and angry and more impulsive than the Count with other Arabians,” Arthur began, “You tell us to play it smart, to keep a level head out there. Micah’ll butcher half a town for some Goddamn guns!”
Dutch took a moment to respond, and Arthur felt slightly guilty for his outburst. He couldn’t help it though; Micah was the antithesis of everything Dutch preached, and he worshipped the bastard as though he was the gang’s salvation.
The Callender brothers were a rowdy pair as well. Davey could out-shout a bear if it came to that, and Mac was absolutely ruthless in a fight by fist or gun. Arthur’s best memories of them, however, were their gentle moments.
How Davey had spent countless nights silent, allowing Arthur to purge his frustrations on John abandoning the gang. When Mac would hold Jack with uncharacterized kindness. When both brothers took turns watching over Hosea when he decided to quit the drink altogether. When they both showed him how futile vengeance was that dreadful night; the night Arthur avenged-
“Look, son, I understand your frustration; I truly do,” Dutch began, his baritone voice dripping with sympathy, “He’s a hard man to understand, but who isn’t?”
Arthur said nothing in response, so Dutch continued, “I’ll have words with Micah when he gets back, you know I like to keep my boys on the straight and narrow!”
The thought of Dutch giving Micah one of his patented lectures gave Arthur some satisfaction, so he said with a small smile, “Sure, Dutch, whatever you say. Have you seen Herr Strauss, by the way?”
“Last I saw him, he was by the cliff,” Dutch said.
“Thanks.”
Arthur found Strauss on a log by the cliff. He informed the Austrian of the Downes’ situation and the extension he gave them. Whatever concessions the loan shark had, he kept to himself. Arthur hoped they could foot the bill. He sure as Hell didn’t want to be there if they proved unable.
Arthur grabbed himself a bowl of stew before joining some of the boys by the fire. Javier was strumming his guitar while Leny told a story from his childhood. John, Sean, Javier, and Arthur himself listened as the sun set.
Another day passed on Horseshoe Overlook.
Another week off those mountains.
Another month away from Blackwater.
And the supposed paradise of the Wild West.
Arthur had forgotten to donate to camp the day before, as he found Miss Grimshaw cornering him when he got his coffee.
“I noticed you haven’t put much in the box lately, Mr. Morgan.”
“Sorry, Susan, forgot to do it yesterday,” Arthur said.
Did that woman ever sleep?
He then proceeded to pour out the two dozen trinkets he had come across in the last couple of days. The total amount was forty-five dollars. Usually Marston brought in around that much, but he was still healing.
Arthur actually caught John talking with Hosea at the table again. After pouring himself another cup of coffee, Arthur joined them.
“Gentlemen,” Arthur said as he sat down.
John spared him a quick glance before Hosea continued, “I’m just saying you should do right by that boy; please don’t tell me you still don’t think he’s yours.”
“No, it’s not that,” John replied before he sighed, “I dunno, Hosea. That kid deserves so much more than a wanted man as a father.”
“I know,” Hosea said, his voice calmer and softer than Dutch’s, “But Jack doesn’t get to choose his father.”
“Do as Hosea says, Marston, if you got any brains left from those damn wolves,” Arthur teased.
“Shut up, Arthur!” John said as he rubbed the three vertical scars on his right cheek, “I’ll try, Hosea.”
“I’m sure you will,” Hosea said before getting back up, “Well boys, I’m off.”
John waited for Hosea to be out of earshot before telling Arthur, “So Mary-Beth told me about the train.”
“Mhm.”
“Passing through Scarlet Meadows,” John continued, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, John,” Arthur began, taking a sip from his cup, “We’re kinda rusty at pullin’ jobs on trains; that Cornwall train was more’n enough proof.”
“Didn’t y’all get that score from the O’Driscolls?” John countered, “Colm might have good information, but his scores have always been more high-risk.”
“Then what do you call Blackwater?” Arthur asked, his tone dead serious.
“A Goddamn disaster,” John said immediately, burying his head in his hands.
“What even happened on that boat?” Arthur asked, “‘Cause I’m ‘bout tired of everyone avoiding the question.”
John took a minute before he said anything. He looked a thousand miles away. His eyes conveyed a million emotions.
“Jenny and the Callender boys hopped on first. We got them fake tickets on the ferry. Was playing brothers and a sister from Saint Denis,” John began, “The rest’a the boys and me boarded a way’s down the river.”
“They’d knocked out the guards protectin’ the money already, so Dutch, me, and Micah went in while everyone else stood guard around the ferry,” John added, “I can’t begin to count how much was on that boat, but we must’ve got a third by the time the boat docked.”
John let out a heavy sigh before continuing, “That’s when it happened; a girl, Heidi McCourt, found us. Dutch put a gun to her head. Then Bill screamed that the law was on us. Dutch turned the girl on her heels and pushed the gun on her back. We went out to see a fucking army of lawmen, bounty hunters, and the Goddamn Pinkertons.”
“How many? You boys were covered in blood when you got back.”
“At least a hundred.”
“They called for Dutch to surrender,” John said, “He didn’t. Gave ‘em one of his speeches about society and freedom.”
“Of course he did,” Arthur scoffed.
“Law weren’t buyin’ it either, and Micah’s eggin’ him on to do something, and Dutch… He shot her.”
John was silent for a while longer, “Her eye hung like a piece of tendon.”
“Christ, John.”
“And Dutch, he was blank, he shot her for no reason and he had no emotion to show for it!”
John was whisper-shouting at this point; Arthur opted to pat his pat while his younger brother composed himself.
“Javier said he did it in a bad way, but that?” Arthur said, not believing it himself, “It just don’t seem like Dutch.”
“I blame Micah,” John confessed, “He brought that God-awful idea and said all the right words to get Dutch in love with it.”
“Like I told that son of a bitch when I sprung him from that jail; if he wants to act a fool and get himself lynched, Colm’s always in need of new recruits.”
John snorted, “That O’Driscoll boy we got is preferable to that jackass.”
Arthur laughed at that, “Aw, leave that kid alone; I do owe him for saving my life. Then again, every day I don’t kill ‘im is a miracle, so you could say we’re even!”
Arthur and John were howling with laughter at that, earning many surprised looks from gang members,
“When was the last time John and I laughed like this; was it 94? God I’ve missed this” Arthur though before getting up, patting John’s shoulder, “I best be gettin’ on.”
“Sure Arthur, and think about that train, will ya?”
“Shoah, I’ll think about it,” Arthur said before wandering about camp, completing many chores in the process.
With Micah gone for however long he took to appease Dutch, the camp was in good spirits. All Arthur had to do was keep it that way.
What could go wrong?