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“There you go again, acting like it’s all about you.”
Arthur sits up in his bed, stretching his arms in front of him, head still clouded from the night’s sleep. For a moment he wonders if Hosea’s voice belongs to a dream, but Dutch’s lifeless laugh settles the matter. It’s real. Hosea is back from his escapade. He’s happy to hear his voice but it’s not the voice he’s used to. The one he uses to teach him how to write a word properly, nor the one he uses when he’s trying to scam a rich gentleman at the bar. There’s an aggressiveness to his tone. He’s getting out of bed when Dutch finally dares to say something. Voice strained and unusually low.
“You spend your nights whoring around with that Bessie of yours, and you come back and have the nerve to tell me that I’m making this all about me?”
Arthur swears there’s a shift in the air. Dutch’s voice is heavy with accusation but something else lingers on his tone. Something that makes Arthur want to flee the suite they’ve rented for the night because this conversation is just too intimate all of the sudden. He’s used to them arguing and fighting but it usually ends up being solved by a few compromises and a lot of diplomacy. This time, it’s different. Arthur tiptoes towards the mirror at the opposite end of the room. He looks at his reflection for a while, thinking about what he should say if he ever finds the courage to go into the other room in order to break the ice that is slowly growing thick between his mentors.
For what seems like an eternity, there is no sound coming from Dutch’s room. The silence envelops Arthur and for a minute he wonders if Hosea is gone. Leaving Dutch on his own, just like he’s been doing for quite a while every time there’s mention of Bessie. Dutch’s been on edge for the past couple of weeks. He doesn’t talk as much as he usually does. He doesn’t make plans. Doesn’t read poetry out loud. Arthur spotted him – the previous evening – flipping through the pages of a book without even looking at them, half of his face lit by the dancing flames of an oil lamp. His features turned to stone in a perfect blend of doubt and anger.
A feeling that Arthur knows too well. The kind of feeling that slowly creeps up on people when they’re weak and unable to fight back. He scratches the light stubble on his jaw and heads for his clothes. He stares down from the window and takes a good look at the empty streets of Munford while buttoning only half of his shirt. He doesn’t want to get too hot and he’s got some things to do in the city today. They’re in desperate need of money and Dutch wants him to find a job or something to do other than pickpocketing rich folks now that he’s turned twenty-two. He doesn’t want to disappoint him.
His father’s hat is hanging low on his head, hiding his eyes from his mentors as he enters the other room. Dutch is sitting by the window, a cloud of smoke slowly rising from the cigar he’s holding between his fingers. Hosea is standing in the middle of the room, his right hand dangerously caressing his holster, in the exact same way he does when he’s considering shooting someone in the face or in the lungs. Arthur fakes a cough and Hosea’s hand stops the motion and finds its way to his blond hair. He’s nervous. Arthur sees it in the way he looks at him.
“Arthur.”
“What’s going on?” he asks, as if he hasn’t heard them bickering from the other side of the wall.
Hosea takes a seat on the edge of Dutch’s bed. Arthur’s eyes are drawn to his neck and the red mark that stands out against the paleness of his skin. It’s the first time in all the years he’s been with Bessie that he comes back to them wearing such an obvious sign of their love. And suddenly it all makes sense. When he looks back at Dutch – in order to hide the embarrassment on his face – he understands the feeling he heard on the older man’s voice earlier. Dutch is looking at that mark too. He’s not even trying to hide it.
“Our dear friend there”, Dutch whispers while waving a hand at Hosea, “seems to think that being with his girl is more important than us. More important than being with his family.”
Hosea closes his eyes. He looks tired. The type of tired that doesn’t go away with a good night of sleep.
“Bessie is my family Dutch, as much as you and Arthur are.”
“Then why the hell did you leave me – leave us, for so long?” Dutch stammers, trying to find a way to cover up for his mistake.
But Arthur knows him too damn well. It’s not a mistake. It’s just the painful truth. Arthur doesn’t mind Hosea going away for a few days at a time to be with his lover. He doesn’t care much because he knows that Hosea always comes back. He likes to think that Hosea’s heart is big enough for the three of them. But Dutch. Dutch is terrified. Arthur heard him sob in his sleep once – begging Hosea to come back. And since then he’s known that love is too fragile of a word to describe what he sees in Dutch’s eyes when he’s glaring at the mark on Hosea’s neck.
“I didn’t leave you. Why don’t you stop being so dramatic for one second? Just one. I think about you, all the damn time. What exactly do you want Dutch? Enlighten me. You want me to tell you that sometimes I think about you when she’s moaning my name? That would give your ego a good boost, wouldn’t it? Nah, maybe you wanna know that–that I’m scared every time I hold her hand because I have flashes of you and the boy being shot to death while I’m out there enjoying life?”
Hosea doesn’t look at Dutch, probably because he’s too busy blurting out the truth. Probably because he doesn’t want to see Dutch’s reaction to his own words. Arthur tears his gaze away from Hosea. Dutch looks like a statue. He doesn’t pay attention to the cigar that’s burning the tip of his fingers. He doesn’t pay attention to Hosea’s teary eyes when he finally dares to look up at him. He doesn’t pay attention to Arthur storming out of the room, either.
The last thing Arthur hears is Hosea calling his name.
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Arthur rides north as fast as he can. It’s getting dark already and he looks at the sky with a disappointed look on his face. He’s always been a good rider but it’ll be impossible for him to reach their permanent camp before the moon’s high in the sky – not even with this Andalusian he won after a rigged game of poker about a year ago. He dismounts near a creek that he’s been following for a while. The white coat of the horse makes it hard to hide, therefore he decides to stay where the trees are thick and numerous. He walks towards the water and the horse follows him, probably feeling the nervousness her owner has been trying to repress during the whole ride.
“I’m alright, girl,” Arthur gives her a light pat on the muzzle before kneeling near the stream of water.
He splashes some of the cold liquid on his face and hair and allows himself to exhale. It feels like he hasn’t been able to do so for too long. This morning’s conversation keeps replaying in his mind and he wishes he could find a way to silence it for the night. He wonders what happened right after he left. If Hosea and Dutch managed to talk it out or if Dutch is still frozen in the same position: cigar in hand, lips slightly parted – probably in shock. He imagines Hosea still yelling out his name, with nothing but the echo of his own voice responding to his calls.
Arthur takes out a black leather bound journal from his satchel. The one Hosea gave him when he had finally managed to write a full sentence on his own. The tip of his pencil scribbles against the paper really fast, as fast as the thoughts hitting every side of his mind – similar to waves crashing against rocks.
Feels like everything I own; I owe them. And I don’t mean no disrespect. I love Dutch more than I’ve ever loved my own father. And Hosea. Hosea I love more than my own self sometimes. But seeing them like this makes me feel so… I don’t even know what it does to me. Guess it hurts. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. If something’s wrong at all.
Something’s wrong with me, for sure. I feel lonely even when I spend my days at the camp. Mrs. Grimshaw makes me go crazy, but I must admit it’s entertaining to see her and Dutch at the verge of killing each other every time they have an argument.
There’s a few other folks with us now. But I’m not sure if they have the guts for that type of life. Not sure they’ll last long. Even though Dutch can be very persuasive.
I’ve killed a man not too long ago. Wasn’t my fault. Really. Maybe it was. I don’t know. Hosea says it wasn’t. Says he pulled his gun first so I had to protect myself. Self-defense he called it. But I was protecting him, really.
Wasn’t my first time hurting someone. But it was my first time killing someone. My first time, and I did it for the gang. I owe them my life; I owe them everything. I wish I could make sense of all of this. But I can’t. I’m only good at self-pity.
Arthur stops writing. Thinking about this day makes him feel sick. He breathes through his nose and tries as hard as he can to focus on something else. Other than the pain. Or the disgust. He remembers Hosea’s voice as clearly as he can see the stars splayed across the dark sky.
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“You need a code Arthur.”
“A code?”
“Yes. A code. Something that’ll help you think straight when things are going south.”
“I’m not a good person.”
“It’s not about being a good person Arthur. It’s about doing what feels right in the moment. We’re all bad people. Or else we wouldn’t be hiding this much. Look at me Arthur.”
Arthur had looked at him and wondered if Bessie felt the same when her gaze met his eyes. The overwhelming sensation of drowning and being very much alive at the same time.
“I see goodness in you Arthur. I see it every day. I’ve seen it when I first met you. You can be better than you already are. Don’t be thinking that the best version of yourself is a bad person.”
Hosea’s hand had found his cheek. It had felt so soft and silky against his dirty skin. A gesture full of promises. Arthur remembers leaning in. Desperately chasing the intimacy. The touch of someone trusting him. Undoubtedly.
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Arthur’s been back at camp for one week when Hosea finally comes back. He’s reading under the shade of a glorious oak tree when the older man crouches next to him.
“How’s Dutch?” he feels extremely foolish for one second but that’s the only thing that’s been on his mind. And now that Hosea is here, alive and well, he needs to know where the other part of his family is.
He can’t seem to hide his anxiousness, and even if he tried too, Hosea would see right through it. Arthur focuses on the dirty blond locks falling on Hosea’s forehead. And then on the soft smile that stretches his lips.
“Missed him, didn’t you? And what about me?”
Hosea is in a playful mood. Or maybe he’s just good at pretending.
“I was wondering if you’d sort it out, that’s all.”
“Mh. We did actually.”
Arthur represses the curiosity that’s growing inside of his chest. He’d like to know how, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to know.
“Listen. I- Uh, I’m gonna marry Bessie. Probably in the summer. I’ve been wanting to do that for quite a while. And now is the right time.”
He’s trying to justify himself. It’s unusual. Arthur feels weird all of the sudden.
“That’s neat. What did Dutch say?”
“Dutch?”
Hosea looks flustered. He bites his lip, the way he does when he doesn’t know what to say – which doesn’t happen a lot.
“Anyway, I’m really happy for you and Bessie. She’s always been nice to me,” Arthur manages to blurt out before Mrs. Grimshaw intervenes.
“Mr. Matthews, come here, will you?”
“Duty calls.” Hosea gives him a squeeze on the shoulder before walking towards Susan’s voice. Arthur can hear her ranting about Dutch's absence from where he’s seated.
He rubs at his temples for a bit. A thought crosses his mind, as hard as lightning hitting on a tree. He reaches for his journal. He writes next to a sketch he’s made the previous night. Hosea’s tear-filled eyes stand out against the grain of the paper.
Seems like he’s found it. His code. That not so abstract thing that makes a man think straight when everything goes south.
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“Have I ever told you that we met while trying to rob each other? Dutch and I, that is.”
“Yeah, maybe once or twice, or seven hundred times.”
Arthur is on guard duty on what seems like another endless evening. The air is getting warmer these days. Summer is around the corner and they’ve been waiting for Dutch to come back day and night. And when the days turn into nights, Hosea gets anxious, so he tries his hand at small talk, but Arthur’s not in the mood for it. They stand close to each other, looking at the forest that extends in front of them. Arthur squints, wondering if he’ll be able to see if a threat comes out of the darkness. He’s holding onto a rifle with one hand while the other brings a cigarette to his lips. He’s picked up the habit recently. Every time he exhales, his breath leaves his lips with a cloud of smoke – along with all of his concerns.
“Look out” Hosea’s voice is but a whisper. His revolver is already pointed at the two silhouettes coming out of the thick trees. One of them is taller than the other. Oddly familiar. Slumping also. Arthur’s heart is racing.
“Who’s there? We’ll shoot if you don’t speak”, Hosea’s voice sounds so different, submerged by the sound of his own heart pulsating against his eardrums.
“Sir, I ain’t looking for trouble. Your friend there, something Van der Linde, got shot. I reckon he’s gonna pass out if y’all stay there without doing shit. Been losing blood since forever.”
Hosea doesn’t even bother checking the facts. He’s already holding Dutch in his arms. The moon shines a blueish light on them. Arthur’s heart skips a beat when he sees the blood soaking Dutch’s shirt. His face looks so different. It seems like all of the life has been drained out of him. No more pain on his features. No more anger in his eyes. A flood of panic rushes through Arthur’s veins. Hosea drags Dutch towards the camp. Arthur hears a few of his pleads – the cracks in his voice giving him goosebumps – before he’s onto the boy.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s John, Sir. John Marston.”