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A lot of people had said a lot of things about Arthur Morgan over the years; most of it bad, some of it truthful. Some days, Arthur felt he himself didn’t know the right of it anymore. He stared at the cabin’s bare walls as he drank and waited, hazy memories of morality bleeding into anger bleeding into the sure, solid grip of the Smith & Wesson in his hand, the smell of gunpowder in his nostrils.
The gun lay on the table beside him now, barrel polished to a dull shine in the candlelight. When the door to the cabin banged violently open behind him, Arthur’s fingers twitched but he didn’t reach for the weapon, just poured himself another drink.
“I heard you’d been looking for me, kid,” was all he said, not turning around.
It was damn cold outside for the time of year; the wind whistled through the open door behind him, chill and bitter, damping what little warmth remained from the dying fire. Spurs jangled as heavy boots stepped slowly, deliberately forward, crossing over the entrance without invitation.
“If I’m honest,” a voice said behind him, grown deeper and rougher with the years that had passed but familiar still, “I didn’t think I’d find you sitting here, waiting nice and pretty for me. You ain’t usually half so obliging, Arthur.”
The man sounded wary, like he was expecting some kind of trickery, a double-cross. Arthur just shrugged, squinting down at the whiskey in his hand, not really caring.
He had heard over a week ago that the Duffy boys were on the move again, heading north and cutting a brutal swathe through townships and small settlements alike, creeping steadily across the map in his direction. He had had the chance to pack up his gear, to escape this lonely cesspit of a town, to find safety like a good portion of the local townsfolk had already done. Like he himself had done on so many occasions before.
Instead, Arthur had stayed where he was and got shitfaced drunk.
He was tired of being hunted — was tired of it all, truth be told. Anyone he had once owed any debt to keep going, to struggle through adversity, to bear the burden of sorrow for, they were all long gone, dead and buried, their ashes scattered to memory. Arthur found he didn’t care half as damn much about the noose anymore, not when the rope could only cinch around his own neck.
“I was never much good at running,” he said. “If memory serves correctly, that was always your talent, kid.”
Kieron snorted without mirth, a low, dangerous sound that raised Arthur’s hackles.
“You never did learn when to shut that smart mouth of yours.”
He sounded nothing like the man — the boy — whose life Arthur had spared over a decade ago; desperate, eager to please, and with an unfortunate propensity for hero worship that even Arthur’s best insults couldn’t shake. Back then, the kid had been a feat of endurance for any poor bastard unlucky enough to be in earshot.
Anyone in Kieron Duffy’s near vicinity now was still unlucky, if for decidedly uglier reasons.
“All part of the Morgan charm,” Arthur said, remembering Dutch trying to beat the wiseguy out of him when he was just fourteen, getting beet-faced and angry over it. He smiled grimly and took another swallow of whiskey, savouring the burn of the liquor down his throat. The lesson had never quite stuck, no matter who was doing the teaching.
Kieron laughed, a low, unpleasant sound. “Your balls were always heftier than your brains, old man.”
His footsteps moved closer, the outlaw circling around Arthur’s seat, finally entering his field of vision. Candlelight and shadow flickered across once-familiar features, the kid’s face grown cruel and cold with the years, his eyes hungrier than Arthur could remember even as his frame had filled out, sinew and corded muscle in place of adolescent skin and bones. Arthur might still have been bigger, but he wouldn’t have fancied his odds in a fist fight with the younger man, not anymore. Kieron had been honed sharp and deadly with the passage of time, body tempered by bloodshed and violence: Arthur’s gut had only grown soft, his joints beginning to ache when it was too cold.
“You want me quiet?” he asked, gruffly. “We both know there’s a quick enough fix for that. I hear you’ve grown mighty proficient at killing these days.”
Kieron’s hands played casually across both guns holstered at his waist, but he didn’t draw, just continued to watch Arthur closely.
“I’m a better outlaw than you ever were,” he said.
Arthur met the man’s dark eyes, nodded to him, and drained his glass.
“You’ll get no argument from me, kid. It’s been three years since I last killed a man. I grew tired of dreaming about blood, of listening to the screams at night, the godawful begging.”
Arthur sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Pouring himself more whiskey, he didn’t immediately drink, just sat and stared broodily at the glass.
“There ain’t no glory here for you tonight, kid,” he said, finally. “I ain’t offering you a gunfight. So you might as well get this killing business over and done with and go on your way." He cracked a wry smile, downing the whiskey in one. "I’ve already made my peace with God.”
Kieron tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowed, looking at Arthur like he wanted to peel back his skin, to open up his chest cavity; like he wanted to crawl inside him and discover what made him tick.
Then he said, “I ain’t Dutch, Arthur. I ain’t the type to spend five years chasing a man down just for the pleasure of killing him.”
Arthur frowned at him, feeling more off-balance than he cared for.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grouched.
Kieron met his eyes and smiled, cold and dangerous.
“It ever occur to you that I might’ve missed you, Arthur Morgan?”
Arthur went very still at that.
“There ain’t no one in my life that’s missed me,” he said at last, staring at Kieron like he’d stumbled over a rattlesnake in the grass. “Least of all you, I’d wager.”
Kieron’s smile only deepened. “I’ll take that bet. I think I’ll enjoy demonstrating just how wrong you are.”
Arthur clenched his fists, well able to recognise a threat when he heard one, even if he still didn’t really understand. He’d dug a fresh grave for himself the day before, down by the blossom trees where it was pretty in spring. Now, everything felt off-kilter, the drink leaving his stomach feeling sour and queasy.
“So unless you wanna try picking up that there gun and killing me,” Kieron said, one eyebrow raised, “you’re coming back to camp with me this evening. And I’m warning you now, Arthur — if you go for your gun, you better mean it. You leave me living and I’ll shoot both your kneecaps out and still tie you to my horse afterwards.”
Arthur’s gaze flickered down to his old faithful sitting quietly on the table beside him — as if he was contemplating it, wondering if he could beat Kieron to the draw, put a bullet in his brain. He didn’t look at the doorway to the kitchen even as he calculated the number of steps in his head, envisioning the backdoor just feet away, kept on the latch—
“You should know I’ve got ten of my boys surrounding this place,” Kieron said, and Arthur sank back in his chair, defeated.
He watched as Kieron closed the remaining distance between them, feeling like an animal cornered.
“What do you want from me?” he growled.
The outlaw perfunctorily picked up and emptied the Smith & Wesson, slinging it casually through his belt.
“Don’t worry,” Kieron said, and put a hand under Arthur’s arm, hoisting him roughly to his feet. “Only what I’ve always wanted from you.”
He placed a heavy hand at Arthur’s nape and steered him forwards, out of the cabin, into the cold.