Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Act 1 : Purgatory

The light was awful.

The whole of the sky glowed with it; midday blue, hot and distant as the burning sun, and the man brought up a hand to shield his eyes. How anyone had ever survived this tyranny of light was beyond him.

He was lying on his back, and the grass was needling through his shirt. He coughed, once, and tasted the air; it was fresh and wet and warm, and the warmth felt awful, and living felt awful, like it was not worth the bother. His whole body hurt, like he'd been thrown from a horse, but when he pushed against the ground and got himself mostly upright he saw no hoofprints on the dusty trail, and couldn't remember what horse he was meant to have been riding, or where he was, or where going.

He stood.

The world was spread out in all its natural beauty; the land rose up beside him, and he looked at it for a while, and the name Diablo Ridge formed in his mind like fog rolling off the mountains. Finding one name was good; heartened, he searched inside himself, but just found... emptiness. Like the wide-open sky, like a hollowed-out building where someone used to live.

His clothes were not familiar. His hair, when he ran his hands through it, was not familiar. His hands and limbs were familiar enough, but only in that he knew how to move them, and he knew his reach and his balance. But he looked at his hands, and saw them covered in small scars and callouses, and none of those seemed familiar things, though they ought to have been.

He couldn't picture where he was in relation to anything; he couldn't picture a map in his mind, though he knew what a map was, and knew to wish for one. He didn't know there was a river until he turned and saw the river, and then he had the name for it, Dakota, as clear as if it introduced itself to him.

He looked around.

The air was too quiet. Like the breath before a tornado, out on the plains; not a bird calling, not a blade of grass stirring, not a single living creature in eyeshot, except—

Except that on a low pile of tumbled rocks, a wolf as dark as charred timber was sitting, watching him, its black eyes glinting silver in the light.

The man froze, suddenly aware that he didn't have a weapon to his name — never mind that he didn't have a name. He wanted a revolver at his hip, the comforting weight of a rifle across his shoulders—

The wolf's head quirked to one side, and it stood. The man drew back, bracing himself to fend off an attack, and realized the animal wasn't looking at him; it was looking past him, and he turned to see a magnificent golden stag near the riverbank on his other side, its antlers catching the sun.

He turned back to look at the wolf, and the wolf was gone.

And was the stag.

And sound seeped into the world as though he was waking up, and he could feel a breeze on the skin of his hands, and he expected to be waking from a dream and coming to his senses, but his sense of who he was and what he was doing remained stubbornly absent.

Well.

There was a path, and paths came from somewhere, and they went somewhere. He didn't much like the thought of standing idly by and waiting for fortune to catch up with him.

He picked a direction, knew it for East, and started walking.

He'd walked about a mile and a half, by his reckoning — miles introduced themselves to him by the ache in his feet, by his yearning for a horse — before he saw a person. The traveller was coming along by horse cart — a light, two-wheeled affair pulled by a single sturdy draft horse. Shire, by the looks of it, not that the man looking knew how he knew that. He raised a hand as the traveller came near.

Maybe not necessary. The traveller slowed his horse down as soon as he caught sight of him; leaned on over on the bench. "You lost, mister?"

The man looked at his hands and his feet. "Maybe," he admitted.

"Maybe?" the passer-by asked, voice clear and disbelieving.

"I believe so," the man said, and squinted at him. "I can't... rightly... remember."

The traveler was weedy, fidgety, and wore spectacles and a washed shirt, none of them new. His beard and mustache were neatly groomed, not a hair out of place; he wore a neat but worn bowler hat so firmly on his head it looked like he was concerned a sudden wind would pick up and snatch it. He looked down from the seat with an odd expression. "You take a blow to the head, or something?"

The man's head didn't hurt any more than the rest of him. "Must have," he said, for the sake of being agreeable. "Say, feller, could you give me a ride into town?"

The stranger sized him up. Wondering, undoubtedly, what the chances were of getting robbed. Then he shrugged, said "Can't see as it would hurt nothing. Hop on, mister," and slid over to make space on the seat.

The man climbed up. Wanted, he found, to slide a shotgun from his back, rest it across his lap, make ready. Didn't have a shotgun to ready. Nor did the stranger seem to expect it of him.

"What's your name, mister?"

"Can't remember that either," the man said. Mister, he supposed. That would be good enough for now. He didn't much feel like a Mister, but he didn't much feel like anything. Really, he felt like nothing. Nothing, then, might be better than Mister.

Only a fool or a madman would go about, calling himself Nothing. He abandoned that one, too.

The stranger whistled between his teeth, and snapped the reins, starting his horse moving again. "You're in a fine fix, then, ain't ya?" He looked sidelong at him. "I have to say, I've seen some strange doings along this road, but you'd be a first."

"Strange doings," the man repeated.

"I suppose there's strange doings everywhere," the man hedged. "Just... oh, people, you know. Once, I was riding along this way, and I saw a couple fellers on horseback, and I swear, they had about fifty cats running in front of them. Just normal little barn cats, you know. I swear those fellers were herding them like livestock — of course, cats don't want to herd, none, so—"

Seemed like the driver was happy to chatter on. The man rubbed at the bridge of his nose. So much chatter, so many words, and still, inside his head, the man felt it almost strange he couldn't hear wind whistling through.

Uncanny feeling, to think and think and still recall nothing. Uneasy, like finding a stair missing underfoot, or a missing plank on a bridge. Part of him felt ready to fall through — what? The world? Time? His own mind?

Part of him felt like there was nothing more in the entire world — like the whole of creation was this rocking cart, and the horse in front of him, the chattering driver, the ground, the sky, and the river. Like if he went too far in any direction he'd find the edge of the page it had all been sketched on, and find nothing beyond it.

"—were all over the place, and some of them up in the trees, and one of the men left standing there with his britches in his hand, and — say, feller. Feller?" The driver leaned over, and the man blinked his way back to — reality, he supposed. "Say, feller, you don't look so good."

The words were like a railroad spike to his skull. "Headache," he said, no matter that the pain faded near as fast as it had come up. "Sorry. You was saying?"

"That knock on your head must've been a good one," the driver said.

Still didn't feel right. "Must have."

"Well, there's a doctor in town; he can look you over." The driver looked him over, then. "Well, if you could pay."

The man with no name patted his pockets down, and found them as empty as everything else. "I don't see there's much chance of that," he said.

"Hard luck," the stranger said. After a moment, a few more turns of the wheel, he mentioned "I guess there's that visiting fella. Funny name; German guy. Something-or-other Strauss."

Strauss. The name was like too much water on an empty stomach. The man wondered if he knew this person. "Yeah? What's he like?"

"Well, he's a doctor. Claims to be, at least. Passing through collecting notes on strange diseases. He's lodging in town; I could drop you right at his door."

Maybe the feeling was just hunger, or upset: it faded, a little, with the jouncing of the cart. "I'd be obliged, I guess."

"Not a problem. You just take it easy there, mister," the driver said.

The man nodded, and settled back against the seat. Thought, for a moment about closing his eyes, but the thought of sleep was unfriendly; as though, with nothing to tether him here, the moment he drifted off, he'd also wisp away like an errant puff of smoke. Not remember this moment, or any of the ones since he opened his eyes; not come back to any place, to remember any thing, either.

He hung onto the world as best he knew how, keeping an eye out on the road for any trouble, keeping an eye on the passage of clouds above, watching the sky pass by.

The driver dropped him in front of a house, as promised. Just outside of whatever town this was, up on a little hill, looking down at the single main street that ran through. The house was a modest thing, but neat and tidy; even the little dirt patch it called a yard looked swept.

The man walked to the door and knocked.

Didn't know what he was expecting. Some German man, probably, with a name like Strauss; it wasn't until the door opened and he was surprised that he realized he'd had any expectations at all. The man didn't look like... like something; he was a fresh-faced feller in his thirties, maybe; a bit portly, with a nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was wearing a neat suit, however, and looked appropriately doctorly. "Good afternoon...?" he greeted.

"Afternoon," the man said, and found himself at a loss as to what to say next. "Ah... feller told me you was a doctor."

The doctor blinked owlishly at him. "Why, yes, I am, by trade; I'm not doing much in the way of practice, at the moment. There's another fellow who lives here — runs a clinic, just down the road—"

"Feller seemed to think you might be inclined to charity," the man said. At the doctor's skeptical look, he added "I just woke up, noonish, maybe about ten miles out. Can't remember who I am." He spread his hands, looked down at his clothing. "Nothing on me."

The doctor brightened, and stepped back from the doorway to let him in. "In that case, that feller brought you to the right place!" he exclaimed. "Come in."

The man stepped in.

For a moment, he expected to be in a doctor's clinic — he could halfway see it, with a single chair and a sink by the wall, a cabinet for — for who knew what — and drawers enough to hold some misery. But the room he stepped into was just a little parlor, maybe one that doubled as a dining room; a couple chairs with well-worn cushions pressed up against a table by a little window; a desk on the other wall. Stove in an alcove, toward the back. Couch against another wall.

"Uve Strauss," the doctor said, and offered his hand.

The name rolled around the man's mind like a pebble, and dropped immediately out. "What?"

"Uve Strauss," the doctor said, and put his hand forward. The nameless man took it by habit — maybe, by habit — and shook. "Oh, just call me Strauss. Everyone does."

"Right," the man said. "Thanks. ...I didn't get the name of this place when we was coming in. Where am I?"

"You're in Purgatory," Strauss said.

Shuddery feeling, that. Like someone had passed over his grave.

He stared at the doctor until some pieces of sense and learning knocked together in the back of his mind. "I'm dead?"

That startled Strauss, evidently. He laughed. "Disorientation — confusion — a supernatural fancy — oh, marvelous. Marvelous. No, sir, no. This is Purgatory, West Elizabeth. The original settlers suffered from an overabundance of humor or a scarcity of faith."

"Oh," he said.

"Though I imagine that from your current vantage, it must seem very similar. Please, have a seat." Strauss pulled a chair from the little dining table, and sank into the other one. "Tell me, how total is this lack of memory?"

The man sat. The table was a neat little thing, polished and pretty; a kind of table that had been sheltered indoors, where the elements couldn't weather it. Delicate wood filigree and legs that wouldn't stand up to hard use. A city-dweller's dining table, for sure; just dining to be done on this one, no work of any sort.

All this, he knew, and didn't know how he knew. He reached back in his mind, hoping to find something. Nothing came by. "I can't remember a damn thing," he said. "Who I am, where I am. What happened."

"Childhood? Profession?"

"Nope." He wondered what part of can't remember a damn thing left room for interpretation.

"What country are we in, sir? Here in West Elizabeth."

"This is America," the man said. "I'm forgetful, not stupid."

"Ah, but that's a kind of memory, too, isn't it?" Strauss asked. "After all, you weren't born knowing your geography. Someone had to teach you civics, yes?"

That made an odd kind of sense, looping around in his brain. But he couldn't remember it. Couldn't remember — what — a schoolhouse, would it have been? Or sitting at someone's knee? How did a person learn these things?

"Your age, sir?"

"I don't know."

"Favorite foods? Favorite color?"

"Don't know."

"If I'm standing facing north, and I turn toward the setting sun, will I have turned toward my right or my left hand?"

"Left—"

"What's sixty-two, divided into ten equal parts?"

"Six dollars and twenty cents," the man said. "Herr Strauss—"

"Oh, there's no need for that. No need for that." Strauss waved off his complaint. "I came to America when I was six. But that's curious; very curious indeed." Strauss went to his desk and retrieved a pen and a pad of paper, and began scribbling notes of some sort. "Forgive me, but you don't speak like an educated man. Though your faculty of reason seems in good repair."

"Huh," he said.

Strauss said something that sounded like words, but clearly weren't. Least, not so much as the man could tell. He stared at Strauss dumbly, waiting for sense to seep in, and Strauss said, "Well, clearly not."

"Huh?"

"You don't speak German," Strauss said, and waved his pen at him. "Fluent in English, if uneducated in dialect. Apparently, your primary exposure to mathematics is the calculation of sums of money. So, there: we've learned something about you already." He gave the man an encouraging smile.

"...right." The man was already feeling a bit like he'd been dropped in a rushing river, and was getting knocked along the banks. "So, can you cure me?"

"I'm not sure," Strauss said. "Memory is a strange beast, and cases like yours are vanishingly rare. But I'm game to try." He added something to his notes, with a flourish. "I'll need a case name, if I'm to publish. What should I call you, what should I call you... a good, American name. For the time being, how does 'John Smith' sound?"

It sounded, again, like too much water on too little food. He winced. "John, no." Couldn't have said why he said that.

"Well, how about—"

"How about just Smith. That's fine." It didn't feel right, as it were, but it didn't feel wrong, either. It didn't feel much like anything.

"Very good." Strauss scribbled something on his document. "Well, Mr. Smith, I think the first thing to do is to make sure we're not wasting time trying to re-discover ground that's adequately covered elsewise. I think you should check around town a little, see if any of the folk here recognize you."

Strauss seemed to be able to say in forty words what should take a reasonable man five or ten. Still, if he was helping, that was welcome. "Okay," Mr. Smith said, rising. Smith. Mr. Smith. Either way, he was certain it was not who he was, so he supposed it mattered very little.

"I would check in the sheriff's office," Strauss said. "Or the saloon. They both have signs — you can read, sir?"

"I think so," Smith said. He went to the desk, and picked up one of the little pamphlets; it read Merchant's Gargling Oil Almanac — A Liniment For Man And Beast. "Looks like I can." He turned the pamphlet over, and set it down, and hesitated before heading out the door. "...what if nobody knows me?"

That empty feeling, that feeling of skies and abandoned places — it lingered in the back of his mind, like the bitterness left in the throat after a night's drinking. Even if he couldn't remember any nights spent drinking, or spent in any other pursuit, at all.

"Then come back here, and we'll begin our experiments," Strauss said. "See if we can't find a cure for this condition of yours."

It sounded a little too good to be true. "I don't think I have any money," Smith said, just to be sure Strauss knew that. He didn't fancy indebting himself to this man, or anyone, particularly.

"No worry; the case will pay for itself. There's a section of my book. The book I'm writing." He waved his hand at his desk, which was littered with papers and notebooks and journals, and a few written books, as well. "It concerns cases of mental impairment — judgment, memory, language, you know the sort. People who have gone funny, or gone idiot. Lost their minds. Lost themselves." He gestured at Smith. "So, as your exclusive physician, I'd be very interested in documenting your case, in service of my research. And if, as it happens, I can find a way to reverse the effects of whatever it is that befell you, well, it would be a boon to the science."

Either Strauss was just blathering, or Smith was meant to get something out of all those words he was saying. "Can you... put it simple, for me?"

"I'll see you provided with lodging, and I'll do my best to treat your condition for free. You only need to agree not to take this fascinating amnesia of yours to any other doctor, and let me experiment with an eye toward writing it all up."

It was that, or wander aimlessly until something happened. "Well, I don't see as I have much choice."

"Nonsense," Strauss said, and clapped him on the shoulder, and steered him toward the door. "We always have choices, Mr. Smith. This just happens to be the right one."

Chapter Text

Purgatory.

Hell of a name for a town.

Wasn't much of a town, though; least, it didn't look like it had much to recommend it. A single main street, with shopfronts clustered up close like cold folk huddling up to a fire. Trodden paths spreading out like branches, with newer shops here or there, scattered homes, a church that looked mostly neglected. A saloon, a general store — no post, that he could see. Sheriff's office was at the end of the row, close to the little path up to where Strauss was staying; gallows lurking far on the other end, like a buzzard on a hill that was once probably set apart from the town but was now being crept to by it.

Cabins dotted the low hills around the town, and probably more homesteads were farther-flung. Smith walked past the sheriff's — couldn't have said why; uneasy feeling, going there first — and came to the saloon, feeling the dry packed earth on the way beneath his feet. Pushed in through the batwing doors, and entered the close-crowded warmth. Apparently the saloon did brisk enough business here.

He hadn't thought to ask what the town... did; whether there were mines nearby, or livestock in the hills, or whatever a town built itself around. The men in the saloon were rough enough that it clearly wasn't all business.

He felt comfortable here.

Comfortable enough that a few of the men at a table by the wall noticed him and elbowed each other, and one called out, "That one looks likely. Hey! You!"

Smith turned and looked at the table. There were a few knives stuck, point-down, in the surface; a few flecks of what looked like blood. A lot of stab knicks. The men didn't look about to start a fight. He walked over, and his hand drew to his hip... where he carried no insurance. "I look likely for what?"

"Game," the spokesman said. "Little betting game. Easy."

Smith relaxed. Just that sort of trouble, then. "Ain't got no money," he said.

No one seemed surprised by that. Some bum wandering in for a late free lunch, they probably took him for. Which wasn't unjust; hell, now that the thought had crossed his mind a salty saloon dinner sounded like heaven on a plate. Or near enough to it.

One of the men leaning against the wall snorted. "Hell, I'll pay for the entertainment."

"Fifty cent bet," the sitting man said.

Smith looked between them. Something was gnawing at his gut, more than the hunger — or a different kind of hunger. "Sure," he said. "I'm a betting man." It seemed to be true.

He sat down. The spokesman gave him a sharky grin. "Anyone else?" he called. "Who else? Fame and fortune, lads, if you keep all your fingers."

There was a rustle of drunken encouragement from the crowd in the saloon, and a few other men took seats at the table. A couple were clearly drunk already; the rest, Smith wasn't sure.

"Someone care to explain to me what we're doing?" Smith asked.

The sharky grin turned on him. "Five finger fillet," he explained. "Simple. Everyone buys in, first. I start us off, set a pattern — like, see." He plucked one of the knives from the table and splayed his hand on the wood, then brought the tip of the knife down between each pair of fingers in turn. "Next man tosses in his coins — as much as the last feller, or more — and tries to beat my time. He beats it, he stays in. He's too slow, he's out. Or: you can quit at any time." He drew the knife in front of his own throat. "Last man standing gets the pot. Now. Creedy here—" he waggled the knife at another man, "—will keep time. All there is to it, really."

All there was to the rules. Smith could see perfectly well what more there was to the game. Keep it slow, to keep your opponents in, drive up the bets — but not slow enough to lose by the ticking of Creedy's clock. And it'd get fast enough on its own.

He looked at the hands of the people who'd sat down. Couldn't tell much, in the light there was, but it seemed like there were a few scars to go around. No missing fingers, least.

"All right," he said. "Let's get started."

Sharky made a show of stretching out his fingers, spinning the knife, and then spreading his hand out like he was expecting to get fit for a ring, or something. Creedy leaned forward, watch in hand, and as soon as the sharky man tapped the knife to the table, he squeezed the watch into ticking.

Smith was surprised to hear the watch ticking faster than the legs of a cockroach. Sharky finished, set down the knife with a flourish, and Creedy announced, "Forty-seven."

Couldn't have been more than five seconds. Well, that would certainly make the timekeeping easier, Smith supposed. He wondered if the old hands at the game counted the little ticks, or just went by feel. Feel was all he had; he couldn't count to fifty that fast.

The next man tossed in his coins and took his turn. A bit faster, by the rhythm of the knife on the table; Creedy confirmed it when he said, "Forty-two." Just like Smith thought, shaving off a little at a time.

Another man, and the time shaved off a few more ticks. Smith's sponsor tossed in the bet, patted Smith's shoulder, and said, "Don't disappoint me, now."

"Do my best," Smith said, and took the knife. Spread his hand out on the well-nicked wood.

Stupid idea for a game. Stupid game. Still, he found himself grinning, just for a second, before he brought the knife down next to his thumb and Creedy started his clock.

Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap—

The knife bit into the wood, glinting in the tavern light, probably thirsty for blood, but not getting any from his hand. Still, he fancied he could feel its sharpness as it bit the table, each time. He finished, heard his time, and the time was good; satisfaction rose like a stretching cat in his chest. Little things. Had he always appreciated these little things?

He passed the knife, and the game went on.

Not too many trips around the table — even with those freakish fast ticks of Creedy's clock, there weren't much time to shave away. A couple men bowed out, one nicked his finger, and then it was just Smith and Sharky trading off until Sharky slipped, and nicked the knife down nearly straight through one of his fingers and jumped up from the table, howling in pain while the crowd mostly howled in drunken laughter. One feller at the back turned a little green and went for the wall.

The man who'd loaned Smith the money hooted, and swooped on the table to pick up the winnings. Before Smith could protest, he divvied it into two roughly equal piles, tossed a couple coins to Creedy, and dropped one pile down on the table in front of Smith in a patter of metallic clinks.

"To the victor go the spoils!" he said, and then jingled his neat little handful of coins. "And I recoup my investment."

His investment, and then some. "That's usury, there. You see that?"

"Mutually beneficial," the lender said. He pocketed his cash, and patted Smith on the shoulder. "A pleasure doing business with you. You look me up if you need an advance for any more of these little games."

"Mutually beneficial," Sharky muttered, pulling a strip of cloth from a pocket and winding it tight around his finger. "Y'all set me up!"

"Don't think this is the kind of game you can set up, friend," Smith said, counting out his pile of winnings. The hair on the back of his neck should have prickled, maybe, at the insinuation of a fight, but he found he was mighty calm at the prospect. "You think I stacked the knife?"

He took himself away from the table before the man could answer. Went up to the bar. Some cash in his pocket, and he was feeling better about his prospects already.

A bit of something in his stomach, and maybe he'd feel better, still.

"Dinner and a drink," he told the bartender, who waved something back to a younger man behind the counter.

"You new in town?" the barkeeper asked.

Well, that answered the next question Smith could have asked. "Must be," he said, and counted out the coins onto the bar.

"What brings you here?"

"Accident." At least, he had a hard time believing this had been his plan. Even so, the answer didn't sit quite right with him.

"Plenty of that around here," the bartender said. "Well, hope it all turns right." And the younger feller brought around a plate of food, and a mug of beer.

Cold roast lamb, a heap of beans, rye bread, pickles — salt of the earth. Emphasis on salt. He'd drained one beer and called for another by the time he'd finished half his plate, drained the second and called for a third by the time he'd finished, and was halfway through the third by the time he remembered that he was supposed to be checking in with the sheriff, who might not care to have a drunkard barging in on his office late at night.

Almost wasn't enough to stop him from calling for a whiskey. But he had questions, and that odd little doctor had told him to check both places, not just one, and he didn't like the idea of fouling the nest so quickly by coming back with his tasks half-finished, staggering drunk. Strauss was the only person he knew of who seemed inclined to be a bit helpful.

Reluctantly, he put the last of his beer back on the bar. Best to stop before he was really feeling it; right now, he was a bit warm, maybe just one sheet in the wind. Some old, habituated courtesy had him tossing an extra coin to the bar man on his way out. Some old, habituated affinity had him mourning the company of the saloon before he'd even left it.

If only he could remember any of that old habituation. He stepped outside.

There was a man outside. Took him aback. Strange man, he had to think; altogether too fancy for this dusty town — neat three-piece suit, tall tophat, a curled moustache. Wrinkles on his face suggested long, long regret. Expression suggested anything but. He was standing square in the middle of the road, staring at Smith like a man infuriated by some reversal of fortune.

Smith turned to look behind him, to see if someone else had come out of the saloon. Not good news, if he'd walked into trouble he had no memory of — but there was no one behind him who could have been the target of that man's glare.

But when he turned around again, the strange man was gone. Not up or down the street, and there were no doors swinging closed. Just — gone, like he'd imagined seeing him.

He shook his head. Mind playing tricks on him, no doubt, as though hiding all his memory weren't trick enough. He kept an eye open for the man, but didn't catch him as he went down the street; he'd convinced himself he was seeing things, just about, by the time he pushed open the door to the sheriff's.

There was a large room, there, the back half of it neatly partitioned into cells. A desk and a bench and a cot shared the open space nearer the door. One man sat at the desk with his feet up, looking just like a small-town sheriff ought to look, near as Smith could tell; up late, just as a small-town sheriff ought to be up, near as Smith could tell. Not too dangerous on his own, maybe, but the sort of man people would follow; grey and suspicious and covetous as an old tracking dog. He regarded Smith with a cool eye.

"Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Smith said. "Do you recognize me?"

The sheriff swung his feet to the ground and leaned forward, looking Smith up and down. "I don't believe so," he said. "Am I meant to?"

"I was hoping," Smith said. "Sorry. Someone brought me in from outside of town. I... hit my head, or something. Having trouble remembering things."

That got the sheriff to give him a more interested look, least. Unfortunately, not one that came with any recognition. "Well, I can't promise I'd know you if you'd just been passing through, but I can't say as we've ever met," he said. "Were you attacked, son?"

Hadn't felt very attacked. Mostly, he'd just felt lost and empty. "I don't think so," he said. "Probably just an accident."

"I see."

"Well," Smith said. This wasn't a place he wanted to stay in, long; for some reason, it did get his hackles up the way the almost-threat in the saloon hadn't. "I won't bother you. Thank you for your time, sheriff."

"Now, hold on a minute—" the sheriff said, but Smith had already stepped back out the door. And as the sheriff made no move to follow him, he wasn't inclined to go back in.

Wasn't until the door swung shut behind him that it occurred to him that he'd been lying — when he'd said, hit my head or something, when he'd said probably just an accident, he wasn't sure how, but the more he said it, the more it felt like a lie. And he wasn't sure why, but he'd not even thought about the lie, or whether he wanted to lie. No more than he wondered whether he wanted to move his legs when he walked.

So he supposed even when no one in Purgatory, West Elizabeth knew him, he'd still learned something from this exercise of Strauss's: that he was a gambling man, that he wasn't afraid of a fight, and that he was good at lying.

Still yet to be seen whether that would help him when it came to finding the truth.

Strauss opened the door scarce seconds after he knocked. The little doctor looked pleased to see him, for all the short time they'd spent together; the notion that he was, that someone in the world would be, tugged at Smith's gut.

"How did you get on?" Strauss asked.

"Ah, no one knows me," Smith said. His hands itched to do something — pull off a coat, pull off some tool or weapon carried across his back, relieve himself of some burden and set it down beside — beside what? Nothing he knew. "Did make some money, though."

Strauss blinked owlishly at him. "Oh? How's that?"

"Ever heard of a game called 'five-finger fillet'?" Smith asked.

"Ah." Strauss gave him a bemused look. "Throwing caution to the wind, then, I see."

"Oh, seemed easy enough," Smith said. He had a feeling that this had told Strauss more than he'd considered it might, or perhaps the wrong thing. In any case, he didn't care to linger on the subject long. "So, what now?"

Strauss motioned him into the parlor again. A black doctor's bag had appeared from somewhere in the house; Strauss waved him to the desk chair, which had been pulled into the middle of the room. "I'd like to examine you," he said. At Smith's skeptical look, he added "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just to confirm or rule out the obvious."

Smith would leave the doctor to know his doctoring. "All right," he said.

"Won't take but a few minutes," Strauss said, cheerily, and popped open his bag.

So Smith sat, and suffered through a brief examination, involving a bright lantern and cold implements and feeling a bit like a horse, with his mouth and ears and eyes examined. Then Strauss started in on his head in earnest, which seemed to involve altogether more intimate acquaintance with his skull and scalp than Smith thought was necessary.

"You really think I got whacked on the head, or are you checking for lice?"

"Injury, sir. Though you don't appear to have lice, either." Strauss beamed at him, entirely too pleased by his own joke, and kept poking and prodding. "Now, I'm not feeling any fractures, any warmth or swelling. I don't see any abrasions or lacerations, or scars which would suggest an older injury. No unaccountable asymmetry. No deformation of the underlying bone, beyond the usual."

Smith didn't know if he wanted to know what Strauss meant by the usual. "Sure. So what's that mean?"

"Well, if this were from an injury, I'd expect it to be, ah, an acute effect. That is, you wouldn't go and heal up completely and then lose your memories, sir." Struass chuckled. "At least, I don't think so. You're welcome to prove me wrong; now, that would be in interesting case — interesting, indeed. But let's not go expecting unicorns when horses will do."

"Course not," Smith said, as though he cared to understand.

"But I don't see anything to suggest that you've been injured. So perhaps I should be thinking of a — a sickness, or a drug, perhaps, or some innate, degenerative condition. Harder to diagnose. I'm not sure how that will impact the mode of treatment, or investigation. It's a fine question! As I said, memory loss with your degree of totality is rare. Not very well documented at all."

So many damn words. And at the end of it, Smith still felt like he knew nothing. "So what do we do?"

"I'd like to see if I can get to your lost memories sideways, as it were," Strauss said.

And that, there, had been not enough words at all. "Sideways. How do you get to a memory sideways?"

"Well, memory, as we commonly understand it — I don't believe it's all stored in the same place," Strauss said, and bustled over to his desk. "Stored in the same drawer of the head, if you'd like to think of it that way. Potentially not even in the head at all — in the muscles, or the bones. You, sir, still remember how to walk, and open doors, drink from a glass, dress yourself, play that abominable saloon game — none of which a child can do."

"I'm not a child," Smith pointed out.

"No, sir, no. But all these things, a child must be taught. And there are injuries and afflictions of the mind which inhibit even these simple tasks, so it's clear that these things can also be lost. And you still know facts about the arrangement of the world, the political map, even enough theology to recognize the name Purgatory. That's memory, of a sort, as well." Strauss extracted a book from his desk, and started leafing through it before setting it down, and picking up another.

"Does any of this help me?" Smith asked. He wasn't too concerned about what he did remember; it was all the things he didn't that bothered him.

"Imagine a drawer in a desk, to which you've lost the key," Strauss said. "What if you could simply access its contents by removing the next drawer above?"

What if I could get at the contents by taking a rock to the latch, Smith thought, but wasn't eager to raise that possibility. "Right."

"It is a theory," Srauss said. "It is a start toward understanding. And understanding is the first step in medicine." He put the other book down, dusted off his hands, and gave Smith an appraising look. "I'll call on a few people. Tomorrow, we'll start going about. See if we can run some clues to ground."

Fair enough. It was late to be calling on anyone who wasn't at a saloon or a sheriff's, anyway. "What kind of clues do you think we're likely to find?"

Strauss waved a hand at him. "If you can remember any skills you've acquired," he said, "we may be able to learn something more about you. A profession, perhaps, if you still know how to use some tool or implement which would imply a trade. From there, further tests, to see what might elicit memory, or how we might find you someone who recognizes you. The theory on restoration of memory... well, even I may have to read up on the current science."

He gave Smith a smile that was more boyish than reassuring. Like he'd just caught a frog, and might keep it in a cigar box, happy for the novelty and heedless of what the thing needed to survive. "Where did you study medicine?" Smith asked. Not sure why; would the answer mean anything to him? Strauss himself thought him to be an uneducated man.

"Here and there," Strauss said, which certainly told him something. "Books, mostly. Journals. I am very widely-read. And I did apprentice with the admirable Dr. Divny out in Maine, for a time."

What had that man said, on the road outside town? He's a doctor. Claims to be, at least. "I see."

"I don't have a spare bed to offer you," Strauss said. "We'll get that sorted tomorrow; I'll speak to the carpenter, see if he has anything lying about. For now, if it's not too much to suggest, why don't you take the lounge?" He waved to the low couch occupying the back wall, cattycorner to the desk, in the shadow of a bookshelf well-packed with medical texts and almanacs.

"Sure," Smith said.

"I'll bring down some of the spare bedding—"

"Sure." Strauss might be a crackpot. But he was a friendly enough one, and didn't seem dangerous. Smith was glad enough for a place to sleep, even if it did come with some alarmingly ambiguous promises.

He left Strauss to bustle off and find wherever linens were kept in this too-fine little household. Smith went and tested the couch, and found himself surprised at the softness of the cushion. Fine enough for a bed, let alone a seat. Least, that was what it seemed to him; he looked and found no knowledge of beds or couches easy to hand.

Least he wouldn't suffer through the night. Somehow he doubted he'd have trouble getting to sleep.

As it turned out, getting to sleep wasn't the problem.

He hadn't anticipated dreaming. With what little he knew of himself, of his life — with what little there was in his mind — he would have assumed that his night would be just as empty.

He was wrong.

He found himself in a clearing, with the forest at his back, and a cliff carving down the world in front of him. The clearing wasn't... abandoned, exactly; there were tents set up, and wagons there, and a fire that had long since gone out. Felt like the kind of place where any moment, folk could come home to it — much as a home as it was, out here in the elements, with no house that couldn't be packed up or rolled away.

Felt, also, like it might well have waited a decade for folk to come back to it. Like it had been abandoned, long time ago, and left to some kind of grief.

He stood for a while, as though something might happen, then decided it probably wouldn't. Walked through, looking at the tents — all empty. The wagons — only shadows and silence inhabited those; this place was forgotten even by dust and cobwebs. The fire was long cold, but he heard a noise, and turned, and saw a wolf sitting inside the biggest of the tents, just on the edge of the wood flooring, watching him.

The wolf seemed darker and denser than everything else in the dream. Everything around it suddenly seemed like a dream, in a kind of lucid clarity that frightened him. Knowing that he was dreaming, that nothing around him was real — well, then, where was real, and how to get back to it, and what would he find when he got there?

And if the dream all seemed dreamlike in contrast to the wolf... then what was the wolf meant to be?

Another noise, behind him. At the entrance to the camp — did it make much sense, for an open camp to have an entrance? There was a path, thataway, least; going off into the forest, into that boundary he weren't eager to cross — there were hitching posts: nothing more than logs and stumps lashed together. No horses, though; instead, there was a stag grazing at the trampled grass, its pelt brushed gold. Seemed dense, too, less like it had been faded by history.

Wolf and stag.

Stag and wolf.

Why did they seem so familiar?

He turned and approached the wolf, and it stood up and walked away from him, just as slow and easy as he was approaching it. Smith paused, and the wolf paused, too; Smith approached, and it walked away.

Odd, that. Occurred to him to think that the wolf was leading him, like a dog, but when they got to the edge of the cliff the wolf just looped wide around him and doubled back and walked through the tent again.

Smith gave up on that. Walked over toward the stag, who was still grazing as though it had no place better to be. Soon as he got close, there, the stag pulled the same trick — stately steps toward nowhere in particular, as though it just happened to decide that the grazing was better off in the direction opposite Smith's footsteps.

He walked wide around it. Skirted the edge of the forest, which seemed not to invite him. Herded the damn thing back toward the wolf, into the wide white tent the wolf had made a home of...

Expected something to happen. But when he had the two beasts positioned like that, together, they just stood there, calm and placid. Not like hunter and prey, more like... co-conspirators. Confidence men, behind the scenes on a job. Smith didn't like their manner.

"What the hell do you know?" he asked them.

It seemed the right question, but they returned back two unblinking, unworried stares. Like they was watching to see what he would do.

He walked toward them, expecting them to walk away.

They didn't, this time. But the distance between Smith and them got real long in a way it shouldn't have, and it got hard to walk, and a sense gathered around him like he was about to drown — like the rim of the sky above him was the rim of an ocean, rather, and he'd better start swimming if he wanted to breathe, and a noise gathered around him like an angry murmur. Like judgment, or rebellion, or mutiny.

He took his eyes off the animals for the space of a glance and saw the entire camp blackening and curling up at the edges, like a leaf tossed into a fire. The ground no more solid than paper, lines of red embers rushing toward him like they were hungry for him, and stag and wolf were both vanished when he looked back—

And then he was vanished, too, into the light of morning, and the creak of Dr. Strauss's too-comfortable couch, and voices in the other room and the smell of breakfast cooking. And a strange tightness in his breath, and a racing of his heart that wouldn't calm away.

Chapter Text

The light of morning was welcome, in a way, because it wasn't the terrible light of high noon and it meant that whoever Smith was, he hadn't disappeared upon sleeping. He remembered what had happened the day before, and that meant that he had more memories than he'd had the day before, and that this state of affairs was likely to continue.

At least, he very much hoped that he was through with forgetting.

The last traces of the dream were lingering in his head, like smoke on clothing. It... hadn't been much like a dream. Had it? He'd always — he thought dreams were supposed to be confused things, all jumbles, nothing that made sense, or hung together, or much stuck around on waking. Not just being somewhere else, in a place he could feel under his fingertips, with a scent to the air he could still half-taste now, in the morning.

But what did he know.

There were people moving in the unfamiliar room he was in, which was unfamiliar despite being the sum total of his knowledge of lodgings at present. Well, sum total, not counting that camp by the cliff and the forest; he did feel that he could find his way around there, well enough. Not that he was given the opportunity now. He pushed the bedsheet away, swung his legs down, and saw Strauss in earnest conversation with a young woman standing over by the stove.

Strauss heard him moving, and greeted him with a smile. "Mr. Smith! Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," Smith said, and looked at the woman warily. He hadn't heard her come in.

Dr. Strauss caught his look. "Oh, this is Miss Temperance McGillin. Miss McGillin, Mr. Smith. My new case." He gave Smith a significant look. "Miss McGillin comes in twice a day to make sure I don't starve and that this lovely little home doesn't fall into squalor."

"Miss," Smith said. Might have touched the rim of his hat, if he'd had a hat. As it was, he gave her a cordial nod.

She gave him a courteous bob back, and a kind enough "Good morning," and a curious look that didn't sit well with him. He mumbled something, and took himself outside to the outhouse.

Morning in Purgatory wasn't much to look at. The town was woken up, all right; noise came down from the hills that suggested some folk had been up much earlier, and the streets were speckled with people. Lamps glowed in a few of the shop windows, suggesting that they might have been open before sunlight came by to light them. Most of the folk here were on foot, keeping their business about town within the town, he suspected; here and there was a horse, or a man riding through, but not many.

They were, by and large, the same sort of people he'd seen in the saloon. Not a lot of money to this place. Or maybe not a lot of money with business in the town; Strauss seemed well-off enough, and the house he stayed in must have belonged to someone who'd done well for themselves. Old money, or careful money, or foreign money, or livestock money, or...

Who knew.

Miss McGillin was on her way out when he went inside, and he found the wash basin sitting by the stove. "Eat up," Strauss suggested. "We're in for a busy day today."

"How busy?"

"As busy as we can make it," Strauss said, and took his seat at the table.

Strauss might be a bookish little thing, but he ate like a field hand. Or, no — he ate like a field hand might dream of eating. Biscuits, with butter and jam; sausages, still steaming; grilled up corn cakes; mugs of sheep's milk; mugs of coffee. Rich little doctor, Smith couldn't help but think, to have this set out for him every morning. To double it, without a second thought, for the charity case he never asked for.

They ate, and left the dishes for Miss McGillin, and Strauss grinned and urged him up out of the door. "It's time to get to work," he said. "Let's see if we can't uncover a few clues as to your missing identity."

Smith wasn't expecting much, but he was fed and rested and curious, and it couldn't hurt to try.

He was expecting some kind of questioning, maybe like an examination. Instead, Strauss hauled him out to the first shop in town, the cobbler's, where he cheerfully explained the trouble Smith was having with his memory, and negotiated access to all the tools and scutwork the back room had to offer.

There, with clearly no idea how to use a single thing himself, he plucked one of the tools from the bench by the wall and handed it to Smith.

"Don't think too hard about it," he instructed. "Now. What do you think you could do with that?"

The thing he'd been handed looked like a blacksmith had had a few too many to drink. Three spokes, but jutting off at odd angles like the corner of a box, but folding back around to form tongues like the heads of drunk, flimsy anvils.

"...I could trip a horse," Smith said.

Thus began a day of frustration and humiliation. Smith learned at the cobbler's that he had no aptitude for shoemaking; learned at the tailor's that he could mend tears, though not quickly or prettily or by any means well, and didn't know a pattern from a pile of scribbles; learned at the butcher that he could heft and bleed and skin a carcass, but not neatly or as swiftly as they desired him to, and that the actual work of butchering was best left to anyone else if they wanted the meat clean and attractive for a housewife's purchase. At the stables, he proved good with the horses and awful at any sort of stablery or farrier work. At the gunsmith's, he proved he could take apart a gun and clean it — neither Strauss nor the gunsmith would allow him to fire it — but that his familiarity with guns ended abruptly beyond the point of practical use.

And at every stop, Strauss insisted on explaining, in no uncertain terms, Smith's position as his adopted medical curiosity. By the time the doctor finally relented and let them stop into the miserable little inn for lunch, Smith had been driven near to distraction with it all. He'd started to think there wasn't a man, woman, child, horse, chicken, or dog to be found in Purgatory who wouldn't know the trouble he was in, soon enough. Rumor was beginning to circulate, and people were beginning to stare. It made the back of his neck itch.

And even at the inn, Strauss wouldn't let up.

Fortunately he didn't drive Smith back into the kitchens to make his own damn food, but he did take paper from his folio, and pushed it and a pencil Smith's way. "A little psychological exercise," he said. "Write a story. Nothing about what you remember from today or yesterday. Exercise your imagination — it doesn't have to be a story about anything of any great importance or meaning; just imagine an event and write it down." And then he stood up and walked off to go arrange for food, or something.

Smith took the pencil, and gave real thought to putting it to Strauss's neck. Or his own.

He didn't know what this ridiculous thing was supposed to accomplish, but he closed his eyes anyway. Stole a few moments of peace.

Exercise your imagination. Like imagination was a horse, or something, needing work. He didn't know the first thing about writing stories; that might be one of Strauss's precious clues, that he kept chattering about. Knowing this, not knowing that, all of it meant to paint a picture of the man Smith was, or had been, or at least had the skills to be. A little bit good at a lot of things, but no great skill at any of them.

Imagination. What was imagination? Some... thing, that weren't true. So, tell a lie. He knew he could lie. But all men could lie, couldn't they?

He set his pencil to the page, thinking he might start with something simple, plausible, I was born in New Austin in a town called Shady Sands, some such nonsense, a lie he might tell to deflect the attention Strauss drew so happily down on him. But something else entirely took shape under his fingers.

A man had two wives, two sons, quite a number of dogs collected in this or that place, and a rat. One wife shot the other, thinking her a rat, while the rat bided his time to shoot the wife at the son's bark. With most the dogs run off the rat made free with biting the sons. In the end I do not remember how many were buried, or where.

He stared at the writing, exhausted. How he could be so exhausted when he'd barely done anything that counted as real labor eluded him.

He let the pencil settle into the crook of his hand. Let the tip rest against the paper. Made a line beneath the writing.

Something soothing about that — the fine Chinese graphite leaving itself behind on the page; the yellow-painted cedarwood balanced on that edge between sturdiness and fragility in his hand. He knew he could hoist a carcass and swing a hammer; knew he had the strength to handle horse tack without caring if it was heavy. He could have snapped the pencil with a careless thought, with no more than the pressure of his fingers. But it felt at home in his hand.

Another line joined the first, and he watched it happen like he might watch geese gathering by a lake. Herons taking flight. Glanced up through the room, looked back at the paper; there, he sketched out the broad plane of the front desk, and the little tables, and the windows. A few soft shapes to indicate the pattern of the carpet. The lanterns. The old woman sitting in the corner, nursing a tall drink of — something; her clothes were plain, homely, her face was lined with cares.

His pencil had stilled of its own accord by the time Strauss came back and looked down at the paper beneath Smith's hand. "Well," he said.

"Well," Smith echoed, and Strauss picked the paper up and examined it. Looked a few times from it to the room, and back.

"You're quite a draftsman," Strauss said.

"I seem to be," Smith admitted.

"And so the mystery deepens," Strauss said. "I suppose I could ask around at... well, there's not much by the way of publishing houses out here, is there? Newspapers, though; pamphlet printers. See if any part of that trade is familiar to you."

More tests. Charming. Smith could hardly stomach the thought. "Now?"

"Oh, no; I'll have to ask around a little," Strauss said. "I have a few contacts I'll chase up. No, this evening, I thought we could see if you'd ever ridden a range."

The idea sounded about as appealing as falling off a horse into a bramble bush. "Sure," he said, though by this point, he felt he might trade any chance of learning who he was for a steady diet of whisky and gambling. Long as his luck held. He was stranded in a town named Purgatory, with no possessions and no memory; surely his luck was due to run good for a while?

Or this was the world's revenge for luck that'd run too good for too long. That seemed a dangerous road to go down.

"There's the Billcotts, up in the hills," Strauss said. "Good sheep land, up there; not much else. I helped the woman of the house with a — well, it wouldn't do to go spreading rumors." He laughed, apparently not noticing that this wasn't a consideration he'd extended to Smith. "I'm sure they'll appreciate having another hand for a day."

"Even if that hand doesn't know a damn thing," Smith said.

"Even if you were the most inept man in the world, Mr. Smith, I think there's a limit to how much damage you could cause in the space of one afternoon."

"I ain't so sure about that," Smith grumbled, and someone arrived bearing food. Not as salty as the saloon fare, and quite as much as they'd had for breakfast. Strauss seemed to fuel all his natural enthusiasm with three solid meals a day. If nothing else, it boded well for Smith's not starving.

Wasn't until Strauss was halfway through his plate that he read the actual words he'd assigned Smith, and began laughing. " 'As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives...' " he quoted. "Or would this be more the crooked man, who walked a crooked mile? You have a certain morbid fascination, don't you? And a fanciful imagination."

"It's nonsense," Smith said. "I write like a fool."

"I'm sure the Brothers Grimm would find you as interesting a subject as I do."

If that was meant to be reassurance or mockery, Smith couldn't tell. Coming from Strauss, it might well be neither.

"In any case, dogs and rats and wives seems to imply some sort of domesticity, possibly a farm, or a ranch, or a country house. Even a general store; Lord knows Mr. Hall has enough trouble with pests." He gave Smith a sly look. "I tell Miss McGillen to inspect anything she buys for little teeth-holes."

Smith had the unfortunate feeling that he might have doomed himself to part of a morning spent stocking shelves in a general store. And possibly digging graves, or some such misery, if that had been the point of Strauss's exercise of the imagination.

Strauss's mind had gone off on another jag, meanwhile. He looked at Smith, and said, "I wonder if you're married."

Like a rock bouncing down a canyon, that was. "I don't know."

"You must have come from somewhere. You must be known to someone. I doubt you were raised by wolves." Strauss smiled, marking the joke, but Smith thought of the wolf in the tent in his dream — quite at home, and unsurprised to see him there. "Perhaps there's someone out there who's missing you."

"Perhaps." The food, good as it was, settled in his stomach like packed earth. If anyone was missing him, he wasn't missing them. Didn't know enough to. Not sure which was the worse feeling: that he'd forgotten someone who was out looking for him, or that there'd be no one looking for him at all.

Remembering that man outside the saloon, he supposed there was a third option: that there was someone looking for him, all right, but no one he'd care to be found by.

"We'll find our way to them, if there is," Strauss said, easy and confident. "Clue by clue. We already know more than we did this morning, and by the end of the day, I'm sure we'll know still more." He gestured to Smith's plate. "Eat up, Mr. Smith. Work to be done yet!"

Smith grumbled something, and worked through the rest of his lunch, and let Strauss chivvy him out the door to go out into the world to find out that he wasn't a shepherd.

By the time they returned to Strauss's little home in the evening, Smith was ready to crumple and sleep like the dead. Riding had felt good, at least; one small consolation in the flood of being asked to do this or that which he didn't honestly know if he'd done before; being asked to remember things he had no grasp on. Remembering, it seemed, was hard work. And futile work, like trying to push over an oak tree, when the sensible course would be to take a saw or an axe or something to it.

Or something. That got a grim humor out of him; he guessed he weren't a lumberjack, any more than he were a cobbler, tailor, farrier, butcher, gunsmith, or shepherd. He was developing a fine old list of the things he weren't.

Strauss seemed more chipper than he ought to. At his expense, Smith thought. "That give you something useful for your book?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," Strauss said. "It's really quite fascinating, the degree to which we can chart the exact dimensions of your present knowledge. We only need to keep going, and perhaps we'll be able to slot you neatly into that outline."

That meant Strauss had gotten something more from this than Smith had. "You see an outline?"

"The suggestion of one." Strauss walked over to the little kitchen alcove and put a kettle on the stove. "I think... some kind of laborer. Or perhaps a homesteader; we can see how well you know some of those associated trades. They do tend to know a little bit of everything. And it would explain why no one in town knows you, though honestly, there are any number of explanations for that."

Miss McGillin had evidently been in; the stove was radiating a cheery little heat, altogether too much for the climate of the day, and a collection of covered plates and baskets occupied the table, sitting with a cut-glass pitcher of something dark. There was a couple of new packages on the desk, as well, wrapped in paper and tied with twine. Those interested Smith less. He rolled his shoulder, and wondered if Strauss had any plans before calling it a day and surrendering to dinner.

Apparently so. Strauss turned away from the stove in time to catch him, and asked, "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"A little." He rolled forward, pressed his thumb against the knot of pain. "It's fine."

"Well," Strauss said, and waved him to the desk chair in the parlor, away from the food, "why don't you let me see it."

Shouldn't have moved a muscle.

He sighed, sat down, undid the top few buttons of his shirt, and pulled it down over his shoulder while Strauss went and washed his hands. He pushed his thumb against his shoulder again, was surprised to find the skin knotted under his finger, and twisted his head around to take a look just as Strauss turned and looked as well.

He hadn't set aside any time to look at his shoulder, since waking up the previous day. Or most of his body, really; hadn't occurred to him. So he was surprised the same way Dr. Strauss was, seeing the angry, corded pucker that marked the flesh.

"That," Strauss pronounced, "looks like a bullet wound." He came over and prodded the scar, frowning in a worrying way. "A wound that never got a chance to heal right. Infected, likely, though there's no residual heat to suggest that the infection has lingered. Any tenderness?"

"It aches," Smith said, but it wasn't a tender kind of ache. More like a muscle worked well past hard.

"So, we know you've been shot," Strauss said, and leaned back, and looked at Smith with a frown. Smith tried to track what he was looking for, or looking at.

"That fit with your homesteader idea?"

"Men can find themselves shot for any number of reasons. In any number of circumstances," Strauss said. "That doesn't look like you had proper medical care. Possible... if you were far from a doctor, or far from a town, or even snowed in, or unable to travel for some accident..." He shook his head. "There are many possibilities, but I hadn't considered that line of inquiry."

"What?"

"Scars," Strauss said. "They're clues as well. Maybe we'll try interrogating them, a little later." Before Smith could ask what that meant, or start to suspect what that meant, Strauss waved his hand at Smith's shoulder again. "But that can wait. It's been a long day. Let's finish it off."

"You think it's been a long day," Smith grumbled, but Strauss went to the table and flipped the napkins off the plates, which inclined him to forgive that complaint.

The spread was good. By now, he expected it to be good. Cold-cut lamb, cold roasted potatoes, dark bread, dense cheese, and the pitcher proved to be root beer — which hit his tongue with a rush of melancholy; odd feeling, like having a word on the tip of his tongue, but it was a memory at the tip of his thinking. Something — a warm day — something—

Strauss looked at him a little too closely, when he caught that. "Not to your taste?"

"It's fine." He didn't have words to explain it. "Tastes familiar." It almost hurt, it was so familiar, and so out-of-reach.

Strauss's eyebrows rose, and he leaned forward.

There was so much eager anticipation in his face that Smith wanted at once to leave the room entirely. He didn't want to be the object of that look from anyone. And it did very well at chasing any sense of where he'd tasted the drink out of his head.

"I don't know," he said.

"Try to remember," Strauss suggested, which was not a helpful suggestion. Smith didn't need to be told; and the more he tried, in any case, the less he felt like he could touch on anything. "Let your mind float..."

He took another drink, to cover his annoyance. But now it just tasted sweet and thick, woody and herbal, and whatever had teased at his memory was gone.

He made a frustrated noise, which Strauss seemed to interpret correctly. "Well," Strauss said, "maybe it would have been unsporting, if it was that easy."

"You think this is sport?" Smith asked.

"There are much less pleasant ways of earning a living, Mr. Smith," Strauss said, which Smith supposed he couldn't argue. Then a smile crossed his face, and he added "and much less stimulating," and tapped the side of his head.

Smith had the paralyzing suspicion that Strauss found this entire predicament fun.

Instead of voicing that suspicion, he turned back to his food.

Between the two of them, they cleared the table in good time. Strauss gathered up the dishes into a rough pile and left them by the stove, then went to his desk, and seemed to notice the packages there for the first time. "Oh! Oh, Miss McGillin did have time. I wondered if she would, today."

Seeing as how Strauss was already chattering, Smith decided it wouldn't be too brazen to ask. "What are those?"

"Some, ah, charity," Strauss said, and held the packages out to him. "I thought you might be more comfortable with a change of clothes or two."

Charity. Charity for him. The thought didn't fit right. "Ah, you didn't need to—"

"After a day like today," Strauss said, "with you all covered in butcher's juices and horse sweat, I imagine you'd want a change, or two. Miss McGillin takes care of the laundry."

Well, there was that.

He dug up some manners from somewhere. "Well, thank you. Do appreciate it." He wasn't sure that he did, but he could recognize when someone did something for him. Unasked-for, even.

Strauss, inclined to charity. Strauss, spending money like it was no object. Strauss, not lending but giving, with no expectation of any payment by Smith's own work....

Felt like he could follow the thought around until he was dizzy with it, and never know why he'd been dizzy.

Wasn't left to, anyway. Strauss pushed the packages into his arms, and took over the desk himself. He set to work writing down — something; from the intensity by which he scribbled across the pad, and the disinclination he seemed to have for stopping, Smith rather wondered if it was a record of every last thought he'd had over the course of the day.

"Think I'll go out," Smith said. "If you don't mind." He still had some of his gambling money, and thought he recalled seeing a hire bath in the saloon or inn or somewhere. Might be a bath tucked away somewhere in this fancy house, but getting away from Strauss — getting away from the sense that he was leashed to Strauss — was appealing.

Strauss gave him an abstracted little wave. "Of course," he said, then seemed to recall something. "I never did get that bed from the carpenter's. Was—"

"Couch was fine," Smith said. Couch was more than fine. He had a sense that he usually didn't have something even so comfortable to rest on.

Comfortable couch, abundant food made by a skilled cook, new clothes, and more scrutiny than he could bear, near enough. Felt like he might smother in all of this.

For now, though, he was going to wash off some of the day's grime, and not smother in nothing.

All else could wait.

The inn did have a bath, and Smith got it with nothing much more painful than a few coins and a bit of chatter from the man at the desk — who'd heard about him, by now, because of course every damn person in Purgatory had, and Smith gathered that they didn't have much in the way of local excitement. He didn't much care for being a celebrity.

Took some time for them to draw the water and heat it. Smith found a bench in the hall he could tuck himself onto; try to look as unobtrusive as he could. Fortunately the back hall of an inn weren't well-traveled; only a couple men passed by as he sat there, and both of them looked like they'd come into the city for business, and might not be part of the swirling currents of gossip.

Didn't matter. He was still on edge when a voice called him back to the bath room, where he found the voice's lady sitting by the head of the tub, pretending to take the temperature of the water.

Or maybe she had been taking the temperature. But by now its temperature was well and goddamn taken, and Smith could tell an act when he saw one.

She looked up at him, gave him a honeyed smile, and said, "You need any help tonight?"

"No," Smith snapped, far more sharply than he needed to.

There was a surprised silence, and the lady looked like she'd been slapped. Then she stood up and said, "I won't bother you," and retreated past him down the hall.

He probably could have been kinder. But he'd had enough of being gawked at, and didn't honestly feel that this would be anything different. And if he knew what he thought he knew, he'd be paying for the privilege, too.

He shut the door and latched it, left his grimed clothing in a pile on the floor, and sank into the steaming water.

What a goddamn mess.

Knocking around town with Strauss, he was beginning to think he might have no real prospects. He was — what, how old? Grown, anyway, and might or might not have any proper trade. Nothing that suggested itself as half-familiar, anyway. Seemed that he was set so long as Strauss could poke him and prod him, come up with experiments to run on him, but Smith didn't know Strauss any better than he knew his own self; he couldn't guess how long the doctor's interest would last, and he couldn't guess how long his own tolerance for this would last, either.

He ought to be working up some kind of a plan. Get some money, get to a place of security. But the notion ached in his skull, and after a few moments, he put it aside and went to work scrubbing himself down.

Scars, Strauss had said. Among the so many things he had said. Smith did seem to have a few of them. Including a few that looked suspiciously like knife wounds, and suspiciously like that person with the knife had been trying mighty hard to kill him. That was some kind of history he didn't want catching up with him before he'd caught up with it; remembering the man he'd glimpsed outside the saloon, he wondered if it was the sort of trouble to stalk him like a mule deer. If so, he'd better find a way to be less helpless than a mule deer when it found him.

By the time the bath was beginning to cool he was much cleaner and no more certain. He'd have to play this out a while longer, see what options opened up; he couldn't do anything, now. Short of walking out of Purgatory, seeing where else the path took him, and abandoning what little ground he had.

He'd brought along the packages Strauss had had delivered, and he unwrapped them. One contained shirts and trousers, all looking more city than country or work wear. The other contained a long nightshirt, which seemed wholly impractical and which Smith had the feeling Strauss wanted him to wear while he slept on his fancy couch.

He had to stop, and shake his head. All of this... it was all ridiculous. Utter nonsense. Some kind of circus. He didn't know what kind of life he was made for, but this surely wasn't it.

He dressed in the new city clothes, and left a coin on the rim of the bathtub for the bath maid, by way of apology. Probably would have been sensible to save the money, as he didn't know when he'd be getting more, but just the fact that he'd woken up by the side of the road with no thoughts in his head and the fact that he'd agreed to become Strauss's tame curiosity suggested he didn't have much sense in him.

He slipped out of the hotel and went back to to the little house up the road, to find that Strauss had already gone to bed.

Fair enough.

At the side of the couch he discovered that, among all the things he couldn't do, he couldn't much fold clothes, either. What he could do was bundle them up very tightly, and then realize with frustration that he had nothing to tuck them into, so they unbundled themselves quickly enough. In the end he just shoved them in a heap under the couch.

He was in for more torment tomorrow, if he had to place a bet on it. Might as well catch sleep while he could. He put himself down on the so-fancy couch, pulled the neat linens over himself, and drifted off without much fuss.

Straight into the teeth of another dream.

Chapter Text

The house should have caught his attention first. Should've, but didn't, because in front of the big stone fountain the black wolf and the golden stag were standing, paling the rest of the dream in comparison.

They had their heads down, like they was squaring off for a fight — wolf to lunge; stag to catch the lunge on his antlers and toss the wolf away — but there was none of the tension in the air of a life-or-death contest. Instead, Smith had the sense that he'd walked in on a conspiracy again; that they'd been talking about him, just before he closed his eyes.

Which weren't right. In any number of ways. One, that they should be talking at all; two, that he should be the subject; three, that he should know it; four, that there should be time for those beasts, outside the times when he dreamed them.

In any case, they weren't talking now.

Now that he'd seen them, they were mute as the usual creatures of the world. Which was to say, if he wanted them to make a sound, he'd done wrong by letting them see him. Unless he planned on putting a bullet or something in a haunch or gut, hearing them cry in the pain of it, or tempting that wolf to start growling and fixing to warn him off or kill him...

If not, he'd better resign himself to their silence.

Well. He didn't seem to have a rifle handy.

The house behind them was some grand old thing: two stories, quite rich if he was any judge of the matter, and quite as abandoned as the camp in the last dream. More so, really. That last place... folk might have come home to it, and found it just about ready to live in. This place was a carcass, picked over, its windows broken, shutters gap-toothed, paint more flake than pigment, twining ivy having its way with the pillars and railings.

There was much to it. It looked real. The cracks in the stone fountain, the way the land turned swampy to the northeast; the sound of birds and frogs and the lazy occasional splash of something larger, moving in the water. He did wonder whether, if he went somewhere out in the waking world, if he might find this precise house, these precise trees, that pier, that view, that birdsong, those blades of grass.

Memory, or imagination. Something real, or something invented whole-cloth. If it was memory, it wasn't any kind of useful memory; if it was imagination, it was more of it than he knew he had.

If he went out in the waking world, would he find that wolf, or that stag? He doubted it.

He walked around the fountain, toward the door of the house. The beasts quit their posturing; both turned to watch him as he went, as though waiting to see what he would do. As though he were the only thing of interest in this place, and their lives had been terribly dull, waiting for someone to dream them.

The door was wormeaten under his hand, too light for its size. The room inside was all wreckage and dust. The floorboards groaned under the torment of his weight.

No one was home, or this was no one's home.

In the next room to the right, an old, abandoned table held a few plates and an empty bottle, like relics.

And a sheet of paper, folded like a letter.

The letter seemed to glow like the high noon sun. It hurt to look at, though what it could hurt, here in a dream, Smith wasn't certain. He was wary of it; wary of walking toward it, but he did anyway.

Should have been writing on it. Printing; something. But the light shining off of it — or out of it, as may have been — blotted it out. He came close enough to reach for it, almost to touch it—

And then he were outside again. Standing, looking at the house, and the fountain, and the stag, and the wolf, though now, both of them were staring straight at him. Heads sinking, squaring off.

And the house shattered into nothing.

And the fountain.

And the ground, and the trees, and the birdsong, and the water, and last of all there was the letter on the shattering table, and the wolf and the stag with their eyes blazing white with sunlight, and one, then the other stepped toward him.

And he woke.

As it began, so it went on.

Strauss was a man dizzyingly full of vigor and ideas, which at times seemed to knock him around as badly as they did Smith. On the second morning, Smith made the mistake of mentioning the dreams to Strauss... which caused the good doctor to get a speculative gleam in his eye, and take to his desk and scribble away in an alarming fashion. Nothing came of it for most of a week, aside from Strauss introducing Smith to what was either the latest technique in psychological investigation or some strange German parlor game—

"It's called klecksography," he explained, after spreading a length of sailcloth over the dining table. "The esteemed Justinus Andreas Christian Kerner put it to good use in some of his books — the, ah, poetry, and not the medical. I think you might like him, if you could read German. Morbid and fanciful." He retrieved several sheets of paper and an inkwell, and put them on the cloth.

"What are you doing to me?" Smith asked.

Strauss went back to his desk, where he failed to find a pen for a good half a minute. "It's very simple. You simply scatter some ink on the paper, fold it in half, unfold it, and see what pattern results. Then you turn your... fanciful mind on the image, and see what arises. You can explore the matter in poetry or prose, or expand the illustration..."

He finally found a pen, stabbed it into the inkwell, scattered ink across his paper and half the sailcloth, and folded the paper neatly in half. After a moment, he unfolded it into a kind of spiky, symmetrical mess.

"What do you think?" He tilted the page. "It does look a little bit like a stag, doesn't it?"

"Are your ink splatters supposed to be talking about my dreams?" Smith asked.

—but beyond ink games, Strauss didn't seem to have any new torments on hand to investigate dreaming. The two of them continued to go through professions like matches from a matchbook during the day; the evenings were ceded to Strauss's enthusiastic note-taking, and either answering probing questions or escaping to the saloon, on Smith's part.

And still at night, every night, he saw the wolf and the stag. They were constant fixtures in his dreams, and the only constant ones. He didn't see the same places, or sometimes any place at all. As he let Strauss run him around the town and the surrounding countryside, searching for this or that clue, bits and bobs of his new daily life started to scatter into his dreams like sunshowers, and sometimes sheer nonsense emerged, but nothing stuck around enough to become familiar. Excepting those two beasts.

It wasn't long before packages began arriving, by mail, from what Smith gathered were Strauss's fellow medical renegades across America, or possibly the world.

The first few were books, which seemed at least reasonable; all in German or something, though, and when he asked Strauss translated the titles as things like The Psychopathology of Everyday Life and The Interpretation of Dreams, which seemed less than hopeful.

Then, after a few more days, a package arrived which was... bundles of unfamiliar sticks, and leaves, and root shavings, and things Smith didn't know by sight. Smith didn't regard that as good news even before Strauss started reading the hand-scrawled notes that came with them, boiling things up on the little stove, and muttering rapidly to himself.

The first time Strauss came at him with a mug full of some dark, suspicious liquid, a few bits of greenish sawdust still bobbing on the surface, Smith nearly walked out the door and into the wilderness there and then.

"The eminent Freud believes that dreams are the result of two processes," Strauss said, putting the mug in front of Smith, where it steamed menacingly. "In a sense, your unconscious mind desperately wants to communicate some information, or idea, to you, but it's ruthlessly repressed — censored, as it were." He beamed. What there was to beam about, Smith had no idea. "What emerges as the substance of the dream is the misshapen, mangled remnant that's squeezed past that mental censorship, malformed like clay being squeezed through the fingers of a fist."

That was... nice. "What's with the Devil's tea?"

"I wonder, sir, if that process of mental strangulation might have become overgrown, in your mind. Escaped the confines of your sleeping self, and buried more than just your unconscious mind, but your conscious recall, as well."

A bit of twig seemed to surface for a moment in the mug, and sunk slowly back down to the bottom. "And boiling a shrub is going to help with that?"

"One of my colleagues, working at Columbia, harbors a suspicion that certain plants in the world act as a kind of amplifier on the unconscious. He's spent years collecting them from all over the world, and has quite an apothecary in his offices..."

Smith already didn't like where this was heading. "I tell you I'm having strange dreams, and your first thought is to give me more of them?"

"For science, sir," Strauss said, and pushed the mug at him.

Science could hang itself.

But Strauss was a doctor — or at least, he claimed to be one — and probably had more of an idea of all this nonsense than Smith did. Little good as his tests had done, shaking memory loose from Smith's brain, Smith honestly didn't have a better idea how to go about things, himself. And what did he have to lose?

Well. He gave Strauss a salute with the mug, brought it to his mouth, and drained it before common sense could reassert itself.

The tea surely wasn't anything he'd tasted before. If it was, he was fortunate not to remember that. It had a sharp taste, and a bite and a vapor at the back of his throat, like it wanted to be liquor but settled on being a cheap counterfeit; he managed not to get any of the bits of bark or splinters in his mouth, but a horrid kind of silt coated his tongue.

"That," he informed Strauss, "was terrible."

"Medicine," Strauss said, apologetically. "Can you describe what you're experiencing? Anything you're thinking, feeling, any odd sensations, some nuance or memory coming to mind?"

"I'm feeling like you just gave me the bad part of a rotting log," Smith said. It... seemed to move, inside his stomach. "And possibly worms."

"Well, putting aside the taste," Strauss said.

"What's supposed to happen?" Smith asked.

"Ah..." Strauss went to his desk to collect the card that had come with it, and read, " 'The practitioner' — that would be a priest, traditionally, of the Wix Atec; I believe their traditional lands are somewhere in Mexico — 'is said to experience a powerful, trancelike state, in which the wisdom of the Seven Wordless Gods are transmitted in the form of visions and divine knowledge.' Now, my colleague thought, and I agree, that far from being some access to their... fantastical pantheon, these messages are more likely to be—"

Heat was traveling up Smith's spine, like his stomach had set it on fire. The warm, close air of the house tasted cold by comparison. He found himself swallowing it, more and more, trying to douse the fire eating its way up his back.

"...Mr. Smith?"

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

He'd assumed that whatever Strauss had given him would mean a surprise for him, once he fell asleep. He hadn't assumed the dreams would come on him, fully awake, sitting upright in the parlor with his eyes wide open. And he hadn't assumed—

"Okay," he said.

The air wasn't putting out the fire. The fire was burning away the air. Something was wrong. Strauss hadn't poisoned him, had he? There were — if Strauss wanted him gone, or wanted him dead, there were easier ways; no need to get someone to mail him poisons from — from — wherever this was from; from his friend in the East, or from Mexico, or from—

"This is poison," he said.

"I assure you not," Strauss said.

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

He turned to look, and it skittered away an instant before he could see it. Hiding. Hiding — behind the bookcase? In the walls?

Something moved in the corner of his vision.

He jumped up, spinning to face the wall. "Are there spiders in here?" Miss McGillin usually kept the house neater than a doctor's surgery—

Or maybe this was a doctor's surgery, and he was just waiting to be cut open, or amputated, or—

Or maybe Miss McGillin had brought the spiders in.

She was the one who cleaned up. Who would be able to stop her? Who would notice, before it was too late?

"Are you experiencing something?" Strauss asked.

"What was that?"

"What was what?" Strauss asked. "The tea? It's a—"

"No — no, that—!" Something else had moved, crawling up the wall, right at the corner of his vision again. He turned to look, but it was gone.

But it had been big, this one. Big as the flat of his palm.

They'd have to burn the house. There was nothing for it.

The fire in his spine would do. But as soon as he thought that, something cold and sharp touched his back, just between his shoulderblades, and he shouted and twisted and tried to slap the thing that had crawled onto him.

"What are you seeing?—feeling?" Strauss asked.

"Goddamn spiders," Smith said. "You don't see them?"

"Of course not," Strauss said. "What do spiders symbolize to you?"

"What?"

"They're communications from your unconscious," Strauss said, but he was lying.

One of the spiders was bold. It was creeping in from the corner of his vision — now, now he could almost see the thing, all sharp angles and long, long legs.

And then there was another, right where he could see it, and he turned to look at it, but as soon as he looked at it it turned into Strauss's pen, and hid in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Smith asked.

Strauss looked at him. "I'm taking notes—"

"On what?"

"On you, of course," Strauss said. "Your experience. Can you describe what you're experiencing? The spiders, of course, but has the decoction introduced any new thoughts, or images, or recollections into your mind?"

He shouldn't tell Strauss. If he told Strauss, then Strauss could take the thoughts out of his head and put them into his pen and Smith would never see them again.

That was what the brew had done. It had summoned all of those spiders, and those spiders were watching him, and waiting for him to close his eyes. And then they'd rush in on him. They were just sneaking, now, around his back, just outside of eyeshot, but then a few got bold, and he could almost see them—

The fire was in his skull, now. Burning up his brain. All the way from the pit of his stomach, except for that cold, cold spot between the shoulders.

"Fire!" Strauss said. "Now, fire is very symbolically rich..."

No. What?

Strauss was already in his head.

No. Strauss was lying. He had to see the spiders, too, and the spiders were telling him what Smith was thinking. The spiders were rats. Legions of them, scampering about the edges of the room, now. He could feel them breathing on his back—

He could see them, white as cigarette smoke, black as the glint on broken glass—

He thought, at least it's not the goddamn wolf and the stag — the ones that had haunted his every night's dreaming — but that was the wrong thing to think, because the horrible little creatures heard him — took the thoughts right out of his head — and then they put on little wolf heads, and little stag antlers, and their little heads started whispering in some way he couldn't hear but—

But they were saying—

"Alright," Strauss said. He stood up. "Ah, maybe we should try to flush that out of your system."

Listen—

Going to betray us—

"I want you to see if you can calm down, Mr. Smith. Sit down, and take several long breaths."

But you said—

I know human beings.

—going to betray us.

—keep killing—

Strauss couldn't be trusted.

It was in his eyes, in the way he was moving. He brought back a cup of — and — he would pretend it was water, any moment—

"Can you drink some water?" Strauss asked.

—but it was a cup of glass, Smith could see it was a cup of glass, sloshing and waving, ready to cut his insides. Or — or turn him transparent, so that Strauss could reach in through his throat and take the fire out of his skull—

"Now really isn't the time for your morbid predilections, Mr. Smith. Please. Just take a drink of—"

—your philosophy books—

—keep killing—

He edged away from Strauss. Had to keep his distance. Like... like facing down some monster in the dark caverns of the earth, some prowling thing in deep darkness, with a white coat and a slinking prowl—

—you'll betray me in the end — you're the type—

"Please," Strauss said. "Just—"

—a bash on the head—

"—sit down—"

The door. Clear path to the door. He took his moment, and escaped.

To no relief.

The night was writhing with the things — spiders, monsters; the stars above were muttering, voices unknowable. Every window looked like eyes. The town couldn't be trusted; and not just the people, the people still walking about on the streets, skeletons cradled in gibbets of flesh, but the town, the buildings, the signs, the path — the path, which moved like a snake, which might thin itself out like the rope of a noose, the path—

Had to get off the path before it struck him. Had to get away from the buildings, from the people, had to get away from the stars, and he went, and didn't know where he was going, because the path kept twisting around to meet him, and the houses were coming up out of the hills, coming to find him—

It took some damn time for sense to chase the terror away, and it didn't have an easy go of it, neither.

When he came back to reason — least, as much reason as he might usually expect himself to have — he was still outside, heaving his guts up against the side of a building that wasn't Strauss's home. A little shed of some sort, which was sturdy enough, even if he couldn't keep his eyes on it long because the wood planks still looked like they were crawling. The motion made his eyes itch.

He staggered away from the mess he'd made and collapsed against the shed wall, then kept his eyes closed as long as he could.

It took... a while, and he wasn't in much of a state to tell just how long. The strange, sick heat had left his body and the night felt no warmer than it should have by the time two lanterns came around the corner, and Smith jumped. A man's voice said "Yeah, that looks like him," and then a heavier voice said, "Well, son,"

—son—

—son.

...son...

"—you look like you've been through the wringer."

Smith stared at them. His heart was stuttering and stumbling, but his mind was mostly clearing. Even so, it took a moment to recognize the man speaking to him.

"Sheriff?"

The sheriff leaned against the corner of the shed. "Dr. Strauss said he gave you some kind of new medicine and it struck you wrong, and you run off. He's mighty worried. You going to go back to him?"

Smith's eyes flicked between the two men. He was wary of the sheriff, but he'd been wary of the man since the first moment he met him. Nothing was whispering that he couldn't be trusted, or whispering — much — at all.

The uneasiness still lived in the pit of his stomach, though, and his legs were shaky when he stood. "You going to bring me back there?"

The sheriff shrugged. "Up to you," he said. "If the maniac tried to poison you, tell me straight, and I'll have a word with him."

Smith spat. The taste of the tea, of the vomit, was still thick in the back of his throat. "No, I think he was trying to help," he said. Help who, was the question. He kept his hand splayed on the shed to keep himself upright. "I'll find my own way back."

"Well," the sheriff said. "I don't want to let you do that. You've been causing some consternation." He reached over to his lantern, and wiped a smudge of something off the glass. "I can escort you back to Dr. Strauss, or I can put you up in the jailhouse if you'd feel better. Not an arrest, mind, just a place to sleep it off. But I don't want to leave you stumbling around out here."

Lies. Tricks. Lies. He could pick up those notions and examine them, and wonder where they came from, and whether they really sounded like truth. He didn't want to spend the night in a cell. And Strauss...

Strauss wasn't worth the terror that drink had given him. And Smith was the one who'd been enough of a fool to drink that brew in the first place. Couldn't blame all of that on the odd little doctor. "No, I'll go back."

"All right." The sheriff raised his lantern. "Can you walk, son?"

Most of the tea had passed off. But the word son still scratched across his mind like those goddamn spiders' legs. "I think so."

"Well, then, come along."

The sheriff led him back toward the main road, and the deputy — at least he was a deputy, and the sheriff hadn't rounded up a posse or something to come find Smith — fell in on his other side. Looked like that escort was somewhat literal.

"So, how is that quest for your missing memories going?" the sheriff asked.

It rankled, how he felt free to ask that. As though this personal trouble were as public a topic as the weather or the goings-on in Washington. "I think you've seen how it's going."

"Mr. Rulhelm mentioned to me that he appreciated your help, the other day."

The sheriff of Purgatory was one of those men who actually took the time to speak to people in his town. It made Smith's hair stand on end. "Mr. Rulhelm is generous in calling that 'help'."

"Well, whatever it was," the sheriff said, with a chuckle. "If you find yourself at loose ends when Dr. Strauss is done with you—" Or if you want to get away from Dr. Strauss, seemed to be the implication, "—there may be a few folk in town who'd be willing to take on an able apprentice."

That was probably better than nothing, but he was having trouble feeling sanguine about the possibility, just now. "Bit older than your usual apprentice."

"A willing hand can always find work somewhere," the sheriff said, with more belief than Smith could muster. "Well, come on. We're almost there."

Smith had thought Strauss looked glad to see him the first night. Now, the doctor almost fell over himself when the sheriff knocked on his door.

"Mr. Smith!" He ushered Smith into the parlor — the thankfully spider-free parlor — and fetched a glass. "Will you drink some water?" He looked at Smith sharply. "It is only water."

His mouth tasted like something had died in it, and not recently. "Sure."

"Thank you for bringing him back," Strauss told the sheriff. "I was afraid he might... do himself some injury. Wander out into the Ridge. Something."

"Nah, he's alright," the sheriff said. "But you be careful what you're giving to folks. We don't hold with patent medicines and nostrums around here."

"It was nothing of the sort," Strauss said. "A... foreign medicine. That's all."

Smith ignored them. Water tasted far better than it ought to have. Like drinking winter, if winter weren't terrible. He wasn't sure why he felt that winter was terrible, or why he felt it shouldn't be.

He drained the glass as Strauss sent the sheriff on his way. Then Strauss had him sit in the pulled-out desk chair while he went through the whole horse-examination again. When he'd satisfied his own curiosity, he went and collected one of the dining chairs for himself.

"What the hell was that?" Smith asked.

"Some sort of adverse reaction," Strauss said. His eyes were still as wide as saucers, but he was calm, and seemed to know what he was doing and what he'd be looking for. Maybe there was some real doctoring in him, somewhere. "You're looking better now, at least. There's some color back in your cheeks. The delusions have passed off?"

"I'm not seeing spiders any more," Smith said. The corners of his vision were still a little... crackly, or wavy, but not much, and not running around with legs and wolf-deer heads any more.

"Do you think you could write down your impressions?" Strauss said. "From the inside of it, as it were. I have my own observations, but... I really wasn't inside your head, sir."

He winced. "I say some of that out loud?"

"Quite a lot of it."

Smith handed the glass back. "Sure." It was all going to be nonsense and horseshit, which was all Strauss deserved for giving him that drink.

Strauss pulled a sheet of paper and pencil out for him, and brought back another glass of water. Then he lurked, in a worrying way, while Smith wrote what he could remember of the entire ordeal.

He was ready to be done with the day, by the time he was done with the writing. Strauss seemed to notice. "We'll take an easy day tomorrow," he promised, as he collected the pages. "Some fresh air, maybe some easy work, if the opportunity presents itself. More klecksography in the evening."

"Great," Smith said, and lowered himself onto the couch.

"Pleasant dreaming," Strauss said, which at this point just sounded like mockery. If Smith encountered any spiders in his dreams tonight, he was going to have words with Strauss in the morning.

The next day, he learned how to dig a grave.

So, Strauss's impression of what was or wasn't easy work was hugely suspect. As, Smith felt, was his impression of what was or wasn't real medicine. But a couple of days passed, and nothing more alarming than being asked to help a mare in foal presented itself, and he began to relax again.

One evening, he came home from the saloon, having won a few coins at five finger fillet, lost them all in some damnably confusing game called fizzbin, and won them all back — and more — by discovering that the real game was that the entire game of fizzbin was a hustle, and the way to win the real game was to meet the hustlers outside and threaten to beat them into bone meal if they didn't cough up the winnings. It'd been a good night.

Least, it had been until he found that Strauss hadn't gone to bed, as he thought the doctor would. He was over at the stove again, with a pot on the fire, filling the house with the smell of simmering milk and some kind of leaf.

"You must think I'm a prize idiot if I'm going to drink another cup of that crap," Smith said.

"I've taken all the notes I intend to on that first decoction, believe me," Strauss said. "This is an entirely different brew, from an entirely different plant — a traditional preparation from the Samskitand in India. As different as wormwood and tobacco, I assure you."

"Which is the wormwood?" Smith asked.

Strauss leaned over the pot, sniffed it — didn't taste it, mind — and said, "Ah... neither."

He brought a mug of pale, milky green drink to the table, and set it down in front of Smith. At least this one seemed to have been strained; there were no bits and pieces floating in it, that Smith could see.

"No spiders and stealing thoughts and running off into the night, this time," Strauss admonished.

"None of that," Smith grumbled, "was my fault."

But he was a prize idiot, apparently. He took the greenish milk and drank.

This one... wasn't bad. Tasted a bit like a mouthful of moss, but Strauss had put honey in it, and the sheepsmilk was good and fresh. Tasted a bit like... like, well, nothing he could remember; nothing even familiar, but like something comforting, anyway. Aside from the mossiness.

Really, he'd just as soon leave the green stuff out of the equation and tolerate this confection for dessert.

"The notes on this one," Strauss said, "describe a deep inner peace, a sense of connection with all things, spiritual elevation, and insights into the nature of God and Creation. Which, again, I take to mean the unlocking of the unconscious processes of the mind."

"Right." He turned the cup, letting the thick dregs of the green milk arc around the bottom rim. "How well do you know this colleague of yours, anyway?"

"We apprenticed with Dr. Divny at the same time," Strauss said. "He's had considerably more luck in his field of research than I have in mine. But maybe you'll be my big breakthrough."

Smith didn't know what to think about that. "I ain't in the habit of getting involved in scientific feuds," he said. "Least, I don't think I am."

"It's hardly a feud. Not even really a rivalry. Otherwise, he wouldn't be providing all this help — from his own private collection, no less." Strauss indicated the package and its suspicious herbs, which now resided on a small shelf next to the desk.

Smith wasn't certain he'd call this help, himself. More like torment or a prank or hoaxing. But he decided not to say. "You know, if the two of you did have some rivalry, it'd just make sense to poison the other guy's best shot at catching up."

"You have a bleak sense of humor, Mr. Smith."

"That," Smith muttered, "weren't humor."

After a few more minutes, he'd decided that this one weren't poison. Less poison than that first goddamn tea, even. Then again, he didn't know if it were anything. Nothing seemed to be happening.

"So, inner peace," he said. "That the same as boredom?"

Strauss wrote something down on his notepad. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I don't think I'm the expert on inner peace," Smith said, then chuckled. The idea tickled oddly at his mind. "Now, there'd be a profession we didn't consider. Think it pays well?"

"It would probably be a more pleasant career path than 'rogue scholar of mental disturbances'," Strauss said, wryly. Seemed like a whole lifetime of wryness in that word, somehow; Smith wondered how he'd never noticed that, before. Strange, wasn't that. Hadn't much considered what it was like to be Strauss. Drunk on that much curiosity, locked in his own mind while everything he looked for was in someone else's. That thought tickled, too.

"You ever wish you was insane?" came out of Smith's mouth.

Strauss blinked rapidly at him. Quick as a telegraph operator. "I... er, no. Why would anyone want to be insane?"

"Because you study it," Smith said. It made perfect sense to him; why would Strauss question it? "You spend... all this time looking at something... that you ain't never touched." It was hard to get it into words. It was like the thoughts were flapping around in his head like butterflies, and he was some slow child, waving his hands in the air, without the aim to catch them. "Isn't it lonely?"

"No," Strauss said. "I... are you starting to feel the effects, Mr. Smith?"

"Effects?" Smith asked, and then thought, oh. Near a quarter of an hour had passed, and he'd just about written this one off as moss in milk. But he was feeling something. Feeling strange.

"I'm not sure," he said.

And noticed that the world seemed to be... stretching, expanding, pieces of it getting more so in a way he couldn't entirely understand.

Like, the heat from the stove, in a room that had been warm enough already; it ballooned out, so there was more and more warmth, not hotter and hotter, just... there-er and there-er.

"Huh," he said. "You know, maybe I am." Or maybe the effects were feeling him.

Strauss sat up. "What's it like?"

"Well," he said, and lifted his hand. "You're a lot funnier than usual."

His hand moved strangely. Like it was moving through dry water. And his hand felt enormous, like an oar, though it would have to be an oar made of hands.

And while he was trying to find words to explain that mystery, he noticed the color of the walls changing, which was fair; they had to get tired, being the same color every day. And then he recognized that he was changing, too, and he hadn't known that he could do that, before. So, he guessed that he was learning something. He wondered what the difference was between that and a memory. They were both in his head, weren't they? Like... horses in a pasture. Different horses. But still the same because they were both a horse. So why should they be different? But at the same time, it was very important that they were, because one horse might buck you, and...

And while he was explaining this, he was also watching the little doctor sitting with his pen and paper in hand, scribbling down what he was saying like a little puppy trying to chase fat snowflakes — it was suddenly desperately, impossibly funny, and he started laughing, and at the same time a vast mountainous sadness rose up because he would never be able to explain what was so funny, but the sadness, too, was something to watch, as though he'd taken up a place just off to his right hand, and he was watching all this nonsense happening in his own soul and wondering how it was that he ever got so caught up in things. Little things like mountains.

And then he wondered if he could be over there, in a space just next to his left hand, and so he tried that, and it worked, and it was like he was a guardian angel, watching over his shoulder, and then he supposed he'd have to be a guardian devil on the other shoulder, and that reminded him of something...

But it didn't matter. No, what mattered now was this vast upswelling bond of fellowship he felt with Strauss, and with Miss McGillin, and the saloonkeeper, and the sheriff, and the cobbler, and the hotel owner, and the sharky-smiling man that ran the games in the saloon, and the stray cat he'd seen walking along the hitching post in front of the general store—

And then he was thinking about the stray cat, and how it had a notch in its ear, and how that meant it had been in a fight once, and hell, he thought he had probably been in a fight once, and that meant that the cat had its own whole history, and that everything had its own whole history, stretching back and back for years, and even the hitching posts had been trees once, and those trees before they had been trees had been seeds, and dropped to the ground, and they couldn't have imagined way back then when they were just falling to the ground that they'd be a hitching post some day, because they had to grow up before that and they had to have birds sit in them and—

And if, at the end of that, they'd been passed over by some lumberjack or timber man then there might be a different log on that hitching post, with a whole different history, like a little world draped across it, and no one would have ever known that they was missing that first hitching post log, and no one would think twice about it, and where would it have gone, in that case, and would it just be lost in some land full of forgotten things, like—

Like—

And he was trying to explain to Strauss how he was no better than a forgotten log that didn't get made into a hitching post, and Strauss was nodding along and writing things down but he didn't understand, and that was a goddamn tragedy, like Hamlet, and—

Smith must've fallen asleep eventually, because he woke up eventually, face-down on the couch, tangled in the bedsheet, feeling like he'd made an absolute fool of himself.

The house was dark. It was dark outside the window, too; probably some indecent hour. He was thirsty, and ravenously hungry, like he hadn't eaten for days. He supposed that if he'd fallen asleep for days, he'd probably have no way to tell, short of waking Strauss and asking him.

He fumbled around the parlor until he found a box of matches, and found the lantern by the light of the match. By the light of the lantern he found a note on the desk that read, If you wake before me, please write down what you experienced.

Strauss and his goddamn book.

Well, he was awake now. He sat down at the desk and tried to capture what parts of the nonsense he remembered. Filled most of three pages, ending with the note, If this is communication from my unconscious, I don't think I much want to be better acquainted than I am.

The next night, after he'd nearly lost three fingers in failing to be a stonemason — an ordeal which was only mostly paid off by the dinner Miss McGillin had prepared — Strauss mentioned, "The next extraction should be ready. It's an odd one; no boiling at all, just soaking in water in a dark, cool place for three or more days."

The last time, Strauss had at least given him a couple days to recover. "No," Smith said. "I ain't doing this again."

"Come now," Strauss said. "The last one wasn't bad, was it? You certainly seemed to be having a good time."

"I made a goddamn fool of myself, and for no reason," Smith said. "Those teas don't work."

"Two of the teas didn't work," Strauss said. "My colleague sent me a selection of thirteen."

There was no end to the torment. "Lucky thirteen," Smith muttered.

"No stone unturned," Strauss said. "We are accessing different parts of your mind. Different drawers, if you will. Maybe next in line, after the paranoid delusions and grandiloquent whimsy, is memory."

That seemed about as sensible as saying that after seeing a horse and a donkey walk down the road, the next thing to come by should be a parade of dancing elephants. Not a bet Smith would be willing to take. He shoveled down another forkful of potatoes. "Look," he said. "Your little inkblot game, and the writing, and all those odd jobs you line up... fine. But I don't like those things that mess with my head."

"I've heard about your nights at the saloon, sir," Strauss said mildly. "I'd say there's at least one thing that messes with your head that you imbibe freely, willingly, and well."

Now, that just weren't fair. "A good, honest drink—"

"Does more to inhibit memory than anything," Strauss said. "Come now, Mr. Smith. Do it for science, if you won't do it for yourself."

Smith didn't give a horse's ass about science, but he could recognize a losing battle when he saw one. "Fine."

They finished up the meal, and Smith went and sat down on the couch, feeling like a sacrificial ram. Strauss went and rummaged in the pantry, and came out with a small earthenware jar, removing a bit of cheesecloth that had been tied over the neck. Smith took the jar.

This one was a pale ruddy gold in the lanternlight, like a kind of brandy. Didn't smell like brandy, though. Smelled like not much of anything, and nothing he could identify.

"You just let me know when I get to pour one of these down your throat," Smith grumbled, and downed the brew.

It was like drinking burning oil.

Smith managed to keep from spitting all of it out, just about. "Jesus, Strauss, that's the worst one yet! Where the hell do you find these things?"

Strauss said something, but Smith wasn't listening.

Because behind Strauss, in front of Smith, there was a third presence in the room, right in the center — so tall it had to stoop under the ceiling — dark, so dark, like a tear in the safe, cozy world; awful as the first slit to skin an animal, to see into the entrails of something underneath. It wore long trailing arms and hunting hunched shoulders and angry hands and a gaze from its faceless face that was seeing him and knowing him and hating him and digging right to the core of him.

And before his heart could outrun it, or his mouth could shape more than a shout, it shot into him.

Chapter Text

Darkness wrapped around him like a thousand arms. It groped at his neck and his lips and his eyelids; sunk fingers into his entrails. It was whispering, pouring into his ears, stealing his voice like a rope pulled out of his lungs.

and then It dropped him, and stepped... back.

he was nowhere. and the darkness was a wall around him, no farther than his outstretched arms, had he dared to outstretch them.

felt like he was a captive, here. like he was being held in some enemy territory, and instead of tying him to a tree or leaving him bound on the dirt, this Enemy had put him in a little tent, to keep him from looking out, from seeing things It didn't want him to see. except the tent was made of fog, or snowstorm, or just thick cottony darkness, or fate.

and the Voices. indistinct, constant, too human for the muttering of wind or the babble of a brook, not human enough to be people. some too high, tense as some demented fiddle; some far, far too low, rattling his bones, like thunder, or earthquake. some almost... familiar. yearning, mocking, sad, scorning, wanting, laughing, judging, praising, Naming.

always behind him. or to the sides. if he turned, a wave of silence ran before his gaze, as though They knew where he looked, and held Their breath, giddy with anticipation.

he didn't want to see Them.

he didn't want to be seen by Them.

god, if there was a God in this place — god damn, if this place weren't damned from God already — he didn't want to be Here.

he sat back and cowered. wrapped his arms around his head. closed his eyes, trading Darkness away for darkness, and hoped like hope that this would pass off, like all of strauss's devil brews. waiting while the nightmare seemed to creep ever closer, while thinking sometimes that he felt hands or breath brushing against the back of his neck, but that he couldn't look up to see What was in here with him, because Seeing would be worse.

that there'd be no turning back, if he Looked.

time stretched itself, wrapped itself around him, twisted around. no telling how much he shed, like blood dripping out of a wound, before there was something warm and familiar and reassuring pressing up through his arms.

he opened his eyes and saw the crown of a dog's head. bright as an indian cent, and it looked up at him, eyes warm and dark.

smith found his voice. it was shaking, like some small prey animal that weren't no part of him. "hey, boy."

beneath his hands, the dog gave him a dog's grin back, and went to work licking his face.

he let out a shuddery kind of laugh. seemed that the dog was okay. one thing in this Nightmare place that was okay.

"you got a Name, boy?" he asked. the dog whined, and made space for himself in his lap — made a lap for himself in his cower — and wagged his tail so hard against smith's chest it were like reminding his heart to beat. "well, you're happy, least."

the dog got up, and bounded into the Darkness, with as little fear as a pup going to play in a river. seemed something to that; something he ought to put together. a copper coat, a copper coin, a River, a boundary, an other side—

after a few seconds the dog came back and looked at him quizzically, the back half of his body shrouded in Fog. like he was waiting for smith to join him.

just... walk out, through that Chaos, past the whispering Shadows...

"i don't want to go there, boy," he said. he didn't know what it was, but the thought was like taking a razor to his own throat.

the dog whined, and came back to him. Darkness sloughed off his copper coat like water off a duck's back.

"i wanna go—"

Home. he could say it. he could even think it. but he didn't know what that meant; he didn't know who he was, or where he was in the scheme of things; didn't know if he had a Home waiting for him, or if it was someplace burned or forgotten or lost to debt or—

but the dog pushed his head into smith's lap, looking up at him with eyes all wide and trusting, as if to say, what now?

"can you take me back?" he asked.

the dog sighed, and his breath was warm, and smelled of meat and slobber and good doggish things.

"gotta go back," he said. "got things that still need doing, boy." —and he didn't know where those Words had come from, or what they might mean, because he was at loose ends, wasn't he? didn't even have a Name, let alone—

the dog licked his face. wriggled into his lap, looking for a petting, and got one, and then stood up, and looked at smith, and smith might have been mad — though this was damnation, if it was madness; men got trapped in Madness — but he could have sworn the dog's eyes said, well, if you have to, then come on.

he stood up on legs that felt shaky as a new fawn's. had to trust the dog, because there was nothing else in this Place to trust, perhaps not even himself. walked over to him, keeping the bright copper coat fixed in his vision.

the dog waited for him. then started walking, head down, scenting the ground, but not seeking; seemed like there was only one Place to go, and they went, and the curtain of Darkness moved around them, as though they were the light of a lantern keeping the Shadows at bay. though smith felt like a small and guttering lantern, if he were to be one.

they walked long enough, but not so long as the waiting had been. came at last to a little puddle, which the more smith looked at it more looked like a pond, or a lake, or a sea, or something greater, made small because of some vast distance, for all that it was here at his feet and so close he could touch it. deep down in it was a flicker of Light, like a candle, or a window, or a world.

the dog stopped by the water and sat, and looked at smith with all the tragedy a dog could muster to his eyes.

smith crouched down, and ruffled his ears, and gave him a good scratch. "good boy," he said. seemed like he should say i'll see you again, but he didn't know what this Place was, and didn't know what promises he could honorably make or expect to keep. so he said, "yeah, you're a Good boy," and "thank you," and let that stand.

and he reached out, and sank into the Light as though life depended on it.

He heard his own breath, first. Wheezing, like someone had set a heavy weight on his chest, or stuffed his lungs with sawdust and blood. He was resting on something, and his body felt heavy; or rather, it felt heavy, having a body. Hadn't noticed that before.

He opened his eyes, and the light jabbed them like pocketknives. He screwed his eyes shut again.

"Mr. Smith!" Strauss's voice came through, clear, and then there were hands helping him to sit up, stuffing a pillow behind his back. "Do you think you can drink something? —water; just water."

His throat felt like a dry wasteland. He managed to nod, and reached out a hand. Strauss pressed a glass into it, and he drained it.

Strauss took it from his hands, and he dared open his eyes again. Just a slit. Light was still an enemy, but it seemed to be in retreat; least, it hurt less, this time. He could see Strauss, with his chair pulled up to the side of the couch, staring at him. "What...?"

"I thought I'd killed you there, for sure," Strauss said. At least he sounded alarmed at the prospect, not like this would make an amusing story for his god-forsaken and thrice-damned book. "You cried out, and went pale and very cold. You seemed to stop breathing, and I couldn't find your heartbeat at all." Strauss's hand found the side of his neck, as though to reassure himself that Smith's heart hadn't, in fact, stopped; Smith flinched away from it. He'd rather not have anyone with their hands in a place to choke him, regardless of what they intended.

Strauss's hand was burning hot. It wasn't for a second that Smith realized that it weren't, really; he was the one cold.

Like the realization made it true, he started shivering. Couldn't stop; the cold had seeped into his bones.

"No more of your teas," he said.

"No, no." Strauss shook his head. "I agree. Too much risk entirely. You don't seem to tolerate them very well at all."

Smith coughed. "Sure they're not just poison?"

"Certain." Strauss got up; when he returned, it was with another glass of water. "I trust this man. Entirely. And these are all traditional brews, meticulously prepared. Used for, ah, spirit journeys, among the natives of various parts of the world. This one is reputed to help the shamans of the Korushcazki in Siberia to see God."

So goddamn cold. "What I saw weren't God," he muttered, and drained the second glass, too. Water tasted better than it had any right to. And it was good, clean water, not water made of rushing shadows, and that thing he'd seen standing in the middle of the room was gone, and by God if he never had a nightmare like that again, perhaps he'd complain much less about the goddamned stag and the wolf.

Neither of which had been present, come to think of it.

Strauss reached out and rested his hand on Smith's forehead, which Smith jerked away from almost immediately. "Let me light the stove," Strauss said, and withdrew in the direction of the kitchen.

Smith coughed again. Felt like his lungs weren't used to breathing air, after being submerged in that darkness. Felt a bit like waking up on the road by Diablo Ridge, body wrapped in pain, with the whole world simply... too much to bear.

Footsteps traced Strauss's movement from the stove up to his room, and back down again, bearing a blanket. He dropped the blanket on Smith's lap and checked Smith's forehead again, which Smith again tried to escape; Strauss pronounced "You're still cold. How are you feeling, otherwise?"

"I don't know," Smith said. Terrible. Like a breathing corpse. "Awake, I guess." Hoping that the worst of it was over.

"Can you describe what happened?"

By God, or by whatever had been present in that place, he didn't want to. It had no business being spoken about in the waking world. "Not really."

"Can you—" Strauss halfway rose, made to head toward the desk, and Smith found that his hands shook at the thought of touching a pencil. Thought that if he tried to put a pencil to paper now, shadows would rush down the graphite like travelers on a night-dark road, and spill across the paper and into the waking world.

"Can't write what I saw," he said.

"Ah," Strauss said, and settled back into his chair. "After an attack like that, I suppose the best thing is a good rest," he relented. "Sleep is the great restorer."

Sleep was an invitation to dream. Dreams were an invitation to — what?

He didn't want to go to sleep. Didn't want to slip away from any place governed by the laws of waking nature — the rhythm of sunrise and sunset, the evidence of his eyes and ears, the witness of his hands. Dreams were not safe, just now.

"Not tired," Smith lied. He was; bone-tired, dead exhausted. Awake mostly on force of terror, little as he wanted to admit it.

"Well," Strauss said. "I think you should rest, anyway." The doctor got up again, went back to the stove, and... poured something into something. Came back with a mug in his hands.

Smith recoiled from it. He would murder every person in this house, in this town, himself included, before taking another sip of some experimental mixture.

Strauss saw that, and said, "It's just chamomile tea and a bit of milk. I swear before all the hosts of Heaven."

After what he'd seen, Smith wasn't sure any of the hosts of Heaven had any interest in his well-being. Maybe if he'd sworn on the head of a copper dog, it would mean something. But he wasn't about to bring that up; he sounded mad enough to his own ears. No need to spread the insanity any further, even if Strauss would delight in it. Especially, if so.

Strauss pressed the drink on him. He stared at it in revulsion, and Strauss disappeared again.

When he came back, it was with a doctor's bag, and Smith grimaced. "Really?"

"A precaution," Strauss said.

So Smith suffered through more of an examination, involving the same bright lanterns and cold implements he'd suffered through on the first night. At last, though, Strauss sat back, and said "I'd venture to say that most of it has... passed off. If you're feeling alright..."

Well, he didn't feel that he was getting any worse. "Fine. Now."

"Well." Strauss was still staring at him like he wasn't sure he wouldn't fall over dead at any moment. It was hardly the look Smith wanted to get from a doctor, or from anyone. "I suppose my only recommendation at this point is to get some sleep. Count some sheep. You've certainly got experience of that now, with the Billcotts."

Smith made enough of a noise to show he'd gotten the joke. Not enough to show it was funny, because it weren't. "Sure."

Strauss rubbed his hand across his forehead. "What a night," he said, which were rich, coming from him. He hadn't had to drink that goddamned tea. He stood, and started snuffing the lanterns. "Sleep," he said, again. "Call out if you need anything. Don't be afraid to wake me."

"Right," Smith said. Almost said, leave one of those on, but didn't, because despite the fact that he'd had enough darkness to last him until Judgment day, there was a limit to how much weakness he was willing to show.

Wasn't that a fine state of affairs: him how old, and afraid of the dark?

He held his tongue, and the darkness didn't swallow him any more than it did any other night. Even so, he lay on the couch and watched it, and watched time stretch and lengthen and seem to whisper to itself with the beating of his heart as its voice, and braced himself against the weariness that got heavier and heavier as the stars paced by in the sky he couldn't see, and couldn't stomach the thought of drifting off until the first fingers of dawn were lightening the window, and the sounds of Purgatory — never had such an ill-named town sounded so worldly and inviting — began to color the early morning.

He'd finally let his eyes close as the front door opened, and Miss McGillin came in to start breakfast for the day, and Strauss came out from his own bedroom and greeted her warmly, and Smith gave up on the thought of sleeping for another while.

At least with breakfast and ample coffee in his stomach, and with the light of day pouring in through the window, the leaden fear of the night seemed to pass off. The world seemed no more dire or uncanny than it ever had. Though Strauss still insisted on another examination, and then insisted that Smith lie down, recuperate, try to get some sleep, if he could.

So he lay down on the couch like an obedient patient, failed to sleep with the coffee in his gut, and pondered the mess that was his life — and that lasted just about an hour before overwhelming boredom filled the place that dread had left, and he got up.

He didn't seem to be dying. Didn't even seem to be unwell. Whatever it was he should have worried about — the drug or the dark or the nightmare — was gone, out of his system, out of sight and out of mind.

But by that time Strauss had gone off to see to some business or other in town, and wasn't there to tell Smith to lie quietly and pretend to be an invalid. And with Strauss gone, it afforded Smith an opportunity to take a look around the place. See what occupied all of the doctor's attention.

He made his way to the desk.

The package of herbs Strauss's colleague had sent was still on the shelves by it, and he picked it up and thumbed through the cards on each little packet. The promises seemed no less fantastical than any shelf of patent medicines, though admittedly with a more religious bent. Inner peace was just about the least of them. Receiving prophecies — traveling to distant planes, whatever that meant — holy trances — communion with gods and angels — spirit possession, which was something Smith couldn't imagine anyone wanting to induce, except it be on their worst enemy. The root that claimed to induce "purifying sweats and holy fervor" was something else he was glad enough to be spared, though he did wonder if, with himself denied as an experimental subject, Strauss was going to find some other miserable unfortunate to feed these to.

He set the parcel aside, and picked up Strauss's notepad.

Strauss's notes on him were dense, exuberant, and didn't put him in mind of himself at all. Like looking into a mirror and seeing a cat staring back, or something. He supposed that men must have looked different from the outside to the inside, but still — he didn't even know who he was, and Strauss's descriptions all still seemed wrong.

It wasn't until he worked his way down the stack and into Strauss's personal correspondence, most of with some two women left behind in New Hampshire — one who signed her name with the title Great Aunt, so no mystery there; one who made occasional reference to how he was as a boy, so probably family or some childhood friend — that he paused to think that this, perhaps, was not something a decent, trustworthy sort of feller should be doing.

Interesting, that.

But Strauss knew more about Smith than Smith did about Strauss, and felt free with prodding Smith's own unconscious, and furthermore spreading his business and circumstance all across town. Strauss could tear into his forgetfulness like a vulture looking for choice organs, and Smith could let him, but doing a little digging of his own seemed only prudent.

Steal nothing, unless it's information. He didn't think he was the type to bite the hand that fed. But apparently he was the type to sniff around as much as he could get away with. That told him something.

He made his way through the house. Up to the doctor's room, which was in enough disarray that he could hardly add to it through his sniffing. Found a neat pile of cash tucked away in the bed chest, which he wasn't foolish enough to take. Found more books, most of them in German, one with a number of illustrations of parts of humans generally not observable, given all the skin and bone that were typically in the way. He stared at some of the pictures, for a while, thinking that he'd never seen an intact human brain before. Then he wondered if he'd ever seen one that wasn't intact.

A clue. He could almost hear Strauss saying it. Though, this clue, he felt happier not sharing.

The house didn't have many secrets to yield up. No, say, corpses hidden underneath Strauss's bed, or tigers in closets, or evidence of six different wives in different states, or anything. Strauss seemed to be exactly who he seemed to be: an eccentric doctor, bookish and a little reckless, with money to spare and a fascination with the absurd. By the time afternoon had rolled into Purgatory, there was nothing left to learn from the house, and the walls had begun to feel oppressive.

So Smith left.

Went out to wander up into the hills, out past the little houses and cottages, past the Billcotts, who were out tending their sheep, and gave him a cheerful wave as he passed by.

Outside of the town, his feet found their own path — and not along a path marked out in the plains grass. No short meandering around town, either: straight on, out toward the horizon. He crossed a game trail or two, a couple thin foottrails, but followed none of them. Instead, it was as though something was drawing him onward — north, and east. Something over the horizon, cloaked behind the sky. Drawing no nearer, the longer he walked.

Strange feeling, out here. The sleepless night left him in a strange, slow, heady mood; not drunk, but not entirely sober. His will seemed separate from his body, at times, as though he weren't walking, but the walking was walking him.

He came to the banks of the Dakota, eventually. Hadn't thought he'd been walking so long, but there he was, staring across the river. He didn't try to cross it; didn't even turn to walk along it. Crossing the river was a thought that picked at him oddly. Couldn't help but feel that this wasn't the right time, or he wasn't ready for it, or at least and most obviously that he didn't have provisions for the journey.

He let his mind wander back from that vague sense of direction. Let it settle on the river, on the water chattering over the stones, on the flashes of color he could see beneath the surface. He... could fish, it occurred to him, if he had a rod, a lure — even a good old worm, or a couple little feathers tied together, or a piece of cheese. But of course he had none of those things.

Had nothing. Had a few changes of shirt and trousers, beyond the clothes on his back. Those was all he had to call his own. He had, in a different sense of had, a place to stay; food to eat. That weren't nothing to turn his nose up at, and he was grateful for it as it went, but...

He didn't even have his own self.

Strauss had said, You must have come from somewhere. You must be known to someone. Perhaps there's someone who's missing you. Well, if there was, word hadn't come to Purgatory about it.

If there was, then someone out there had more of Smith's own self than he did, and he wasn't quite comfortable with the thought.

He wandered down to the water. Let his hand dangle in the cool of it. Found his hands moving without his thinking about it; splashing water over his face, washing away imagined grime. He looked at his hands, which yielded no more clues than he'd already wrung from them.

Sun was getting lower. He should probably head back.

He turned and walked back toward the town, toward the sinking sun, across the hills, across the game trails. Shadows lengthened. The light turned golden, then painted the sky in honeys and plums.

It was proper dusk when he came back to the doctor's house, and opened the door just to see Strauss about to bustle out of it. Strauss stopped still, looked at Smith in open disbelief, and then let out a short, sharp breath. "Where were you? I thought you'd been taken by some delayed effect and — I don't know. I was about to find the sheriff!"

Well, good that he'd come back when he had, evidently. "Don't bother the sheriff on my account." Once had been more than enough. "Took a little walk."

"A little walk," Strauss said, and bustled back into the parlor. "I suppose that's restful enough. Where did you go?"

"Just up to the river," Smith said, which earned him another disbelieving look.

"The river? The Dakota river?"

Smith wasn't sure why this caused the man such consternation. "Is there another one nearby?"

"That's miles away!"

He shrugged. "Nice enough day."

"Not a man inclined to leisure, are you?" Strauss asked, giving him a knowing — and exasperated — look.

"I'm fine with leisure," Smith said. "It's boredom I don't like."

"You had the run of the house," Strauss said. "Cards, paper, books—"

"I've seen the books you read," Smith said. "And I don't read German."

"They're not all medical texts!" Strauss said, waving his hand at the bookshelf. "Shakespeare! Twain! Milton, Dickens, Dumas! You didn't even look, did you? And you didn't even go to the saloon or — or the inn; you went walking three miles up into the hills, and back!"

Seemed like the reasonable course of action. "Well, yeah..."

"I thank my guardian angels that you didn't come to me with some physical condition," Strauss said. "I imagine you'd be a nightmare for any doctor to treat." He eyed Smith. "I wonder what happened with that gunshot of yours. Poured a fifth of whiskey over the wound and went out riding the next day, I've no doubt."

"Are you annoyed with me?" Smith asked. If he was, it seemed like a damn pointless thing to be annoyed about. He'd gone on a damn walk; was he a prisoner here, or a housepet, or what?

But Strauss gave him a long look, and gave himself a long exhale, and said "No. Incredulous, yes. Annoyed, no. You're not quite like anyone I've ever worked with, Mr. Smith."

"Not sure if that's a compliment," Smith said.

Strauss sighed. "It might be."

"Anyway," Smith said, "I'm back now." And tired; the day was catching up to him. He might have said something to the effect, but he didn't, because now Strauss was favoring him with a curious look.

Pointed enough that Smith could almost feel it itching under his skin. "What?"

"I'm reminded of a story my uncle used to tell," Strauss said. "He was traveling one day, outside his village in Germany, and found a litter of wolf pups, abandoned — the mother had probably been shot; it was close enough to his village that she might have been going after sheep or children or something. Most of the pups were all but dead already. Still, he took the strongest one home, thinking he'd raise it."

This was an odd jag in the conversation. "Right..."

"Well, he raised it, alright," Strauss said. "And he told my father, and my father told me, never to try it. A wolf isn't a stray dog, or a feral dog, or even a wild dog. She was happy enough to see my uncle, but she never took well to strangers. Could never be kept indoors without chewing something to bits. She'd rip apart any lead he tried to put on her. If she got out, he'd not see her again for a day, or three; other folk in the village almost shot her, for going after their animals. Killed a dog, once. And his nephews and nieces — not me; I wasn't born yet, then — they feared her, well enough. He had to get rid of her after she nearly ate one of them. I don't know what really happened to that animal in the end, but I hear that my uncle always remembered the story, and told everyone he met. Even a tame wild animal keeps some wildness in it."

Now Smith saw where this had come from, and the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. Strauss must have had no wildness left in him, in his own estimation, if a long walk over the course of an afternoon and evening brought that to mind. "You know, if you've got something to say, just say it."

"I still don't think you were raised by wolves," Strauss said. "But this clearly isn't your natural habitat, either."

Four walls, books, papers, fine food, precious little else. Smith huffed out a laugh. "I could have told you that, doctor."

"No doubt." But the curious look hadn't left him. "Your natural habitat must be a thing to behold."

"Born and bred in a briar patch, I'm sure," Smith said.

The words seemed to spark no recognition, and Smith wasn't sure where he'd got them. Strauss shook his head. "Well, let's never mind all that for now." He gestured to the table. "Miss McGillin has worked her magic. Let's eat."

Sleep rushed in on Smith, as soon as he lay down that night. That was alright. It were only sleep, this time.

Dreaming now, he met the wolf and the stag on a plain of golden grass, shrouded in grey fog. They were standing, facing him, perhaps seven paces away, each looking at him with reproach on their animal faces. As though they needed to tell him he was a fool.

He was quite clear on that, from his own process of reasoning.

But beyond that, the dream was... calm. Settled. Or maybe those weren't the right words; forlorn, maybe. The world was empty, besides the three of them; even the sky seemed less of a sky and more of a grand forgetting.

"Well," Smith said.

The animals watched him.

He turned to the wolf. "Strauss says he doesn't think I was raised by you," he mentioned, and the wolf perked up its ears. "Be quite convenient, though. I could just come here, ask for all my embarrassing boyhood stories. But of course you don't want to tell me a damn thing."

The wolf turned and walked away.

So, they was back to that, again.

Smith tilted his head, and the wolf paused, and looked over its shoulder at him. Expressive as the dog in — in — in that place, now; waiting for him. He stared at it for a moment, then followed along.

This was something new. This was a change. Maybe—

He passed the stag, as he walked — and it startled, and bounded away from him. First time it had done that. The wolf's tongue lolled out; its stride was long, relaxed, and the damn thing seemed almost amused.

"Where are you taking me?" Smith asked. There was nothing here — just a plain of grass, far as the eye could see.

Or there was nothing there. The ground changed as he walked on it. Turned into... wood flooring, and mouldering rugs; cracked tile. Stairs. The world took shape as though it were sketching itself into reality: gaptoothed shutters, flaking paint, the exposed ribs of a dying house. Wasn't until the wolf led him out onto a balcony on the second floor that Smith saw the fountain in the yard and recognized this as the house from his earlier dreams.

And there were... people, on the balcony.

Or the suggestion of people. Indistinct, faded, and Smith couldn't keep his attention on them for long. Couldn't... remember them.

Because this — this felt like a memory; like one faded by time and distance, lingering like smoke at the edges of his mind. And he was dreaming, and it didn't seem that his heart could beat faster, or if it did, he wasn't aware of it; he was only enough aware of breath to miss the breath that should have drawn tight, that should have expressed some anticipation.

The figures leaning against the railing were like ghosts. Like fog, gathered up into the shapes of people, and not well; heads and arms and bodies but no features, no hint of their clothing, precious little of posture beyond an impression of conversation and tension. Their voices were like echoes of echoes, faint and distorted past all humanity, and surely concealing something, meaning something.

Because the wolf had led him here, and looked smug enough about it. Like it was the keeper of this memory, and maybe more, besides—

Like maybe Strauss was on to something, with his interpretation of dreams, but the klecksography and the teas were the wrong ways entirely to go about it. He should have just asked.

"What is this?" he asked, and the wolf stared at him. Its mouth lolled open, its tongue showed; it was in fine wolfish spirits, well enough. "Who are they?" Smith tried, and got no answer. "Where is this? When was this? What happened?"

The wolf yawned, and licked its chops.

Smith reached out to the shadows, but it was like reaching for something on the horizon; distance seemed deceptive. He looked to the wolf again. "Well, you brought me this far."

Smug silence.

Smith had to think about the copper dog in his — in that place that hadn't been a dream. A wolf wasn't a dog; Strauss had told that tale, true. But who knew. In dreams especially, who knew? It was worth a shot, at least.

Smith took a step toward the beast, and offered his hand. "Good boy—"

The wolf started growling. Smith took a step back.

The figures — the balcony — the sky — all of it grew more vivid, more defined, more brittle. The wolf ducked to one side, its growl rumbling deeper; it was looking to get in around Smith's guard, he could tell that much, and every time its paws touched the ground the dream around it splintered. "Easy," Smith said. The wood cracked. The balcony sagged. The sky shuddered.

The wolf lunged, and Smith lashed out to protect himself, and before they could meet, the dream broke.

Chapter Text

At least the upshot of all the previous day's wandering was that Smith got Strauss to agree to take him fishing, with the added benefit that the doctor seemed to think anything over half a mile was entirely too far to walk, and that they needed to rent horses for the trip. That made it a calming day, at least, though the fisherman Strauss paid to meet them at the Dakota laughed and told Smith that he might bring home enough fish for dinner, but he'd never get enough to sell and make a living the way he went about it.

The next couple of days were similarly uneventful. Continuing on with his "common laborer or homesteader" idea, Strauss dug deeper still into the odd jobs that Purgatory had to offer. He even found a couple who were willing to let Smith try his hand at planting, never mind the fact that it was far outside any decent planting season. Smith, for his part, was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he wasn't good at any sort of honest trade.

One night, over one of Strauss's characteristically rich dinners, he asked, "What happens if we find out I was just a bum on a street somewhere?"

Strauss blinked, as though the thought had never occurred to him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Smith scoffed. "You spending all this time. All this expense." He gestured at the food. "Wouldn't seem worth it."

Strauss seemed confused. "Well, I'm not sure how that would matter," he said. "We're attempting to find your profession as a way to trigger your memories. The memory is the thing, of course — and not the substance of the memories, either, but the mechanism."

By now, Smith just had to stare at Strauss, and the garrulous little man worked out that he wasn't speaking to one of his crazed root-peddling doctor friends soon enough.

"I want to know how you lost your memories, sir, and how we can get them back," he explained. "For that, it doesn't matter if you're a penniless beggar or the lost prince of some foreign land. The human mind is common across all classes — and all races, I believe." He tapped his fork against his lips. "If — when — we discover how to cure you, we'll have done a great service to all of mankind."

That, Smith had to remind himself, was the thing to keep in mind about Strauss: all of this, the food and the bed and the new clothes and all this time and attention and torment and effort?—it wasn't about him, at all.

That was comforting, in a sense. It let him know what to expect. Like knowing the rules to the games those boys played down at the saloon: long as he knew the rules, he knew how to get by, and could scrape out some profit to himself along the way.

In another way it just felt very, very lonely.

And like the games in the saloon, friendly as they could sometimes be, there was also a lingering awareness that he and Strauss were playing for somewhat different ends.

He'd realized, a bit ago, that he'd fallen into the habit of... just, some things, he didn't mention to Strauss. Some little pieces of familiarity. The way lies came naturally as breathing, when the sheriff passed him on the street, or the way part of him kept half an eye out for the first whiff of a fight at the saloon. How he'd taken that opportunity to search Strauss's home. For all Strauss's disinterest, there were some possibilities where he'd just as soon get to the realization before anyone else did, even if he wasn't sure just what that realization was. He wanted the cards in his hand, and not on the table between them.

Though, more than poker, it felt like he was stalking some animal in the darkness — in night so absolute he didn't even know what the beast might be.

Which reminded him. "Think I'd like to go hunting," he said.

Strauss polished off the last forkful of string beans on his plate. "Oh?"

"Think I might be good at it," Smith said, and shrugged.

"I could arrange that," Strauss said, and by the look on his face, he was putting the plan together even then. "Yes, I think so. Hire the horses, borrow a gun — I think I can convince our dear gunsmith to lend one." He looked Smith over. "Trapper might be a solid guess. It would fit quite a lot of our evidence. We could ride out to that fellow who sets up near Riggs Station, see if he can offer any insight."

It did soothe something inside Smith, the thought of getting away from the town and into the wilderness. "Tomorrow?"

"Why not!" Strauss nodded, decisively. "Sooner begun, sooner done."

Of course, provenance just couldn't let that through its teeth. A summer storm rolled in the next day, and turned the town of Purgatory into something a bit more noisy and dismal than a marsh. Which meant that Strauss, rich little doctor as he was, vetoed the idea of riding out into any sort of wilderness, and took it upon himself to catch up on his reading — including more of those suspicious German books that Smith had stopped asking about some time ago.

Looking at the rain outside the window, Smith found that he was at a loss as to what to do. The idea of going out and slogging through the mud didn't appeal to him, without some purpose in mind. He could go to the saloon, true, but unless he planned on drinking solidly through the day — which would be on a stretch, with his meager savings — there wasn't much to do there for the hours before the games convened in the evenings.

To him, the rain didn't seem so much an end of discussion as it seemed a plain nuisance. Strauss was willing to put all his business on hold until the weather cleared; Smith would have ridden out in it without much thought, if he'd been told to. But that was for a job, a task, some something... and apparently idle boredom wasn't more of a nuisance than the rain was. Yet.

So, confined in the house for the time being, he had to find something to occupy himself. And true, as Strauss had said, there were a deck of cards on the shelf, and plenty of paper for whatever he wanted. But oddly, he found himself turning to the books.

Hell, they'd loomed above him every night. Might as well get better-acquainted with them.

Despite Strauss's protestations, they were mostly medical texts — and almanacs, and an encyclopedia set, which was a kind of extravagance of space that he found strange and foreign and suspected that Strauss thought nothing of. The collection of novels was up high, either a rarely-touched place of honor or an afterthought.

Browsing through, his hand found Paradise Lost on the shelf, and he pulled it down, not knowing what to expect, and not expecting what he found.

The words were dense. Thick as the rain-churned mud outside, and he had to read the first pages through several times to get the meaning of them — what meaning he could, beyond references to things like Oreb and Siloa that he was supposed to think something of, but didn't. Even the plain English around those words mostly gave him a headache, but then that headache circled back around on itself and became something more troubling. The words were as difficult as they'd started out being, but they seemed to echo on themselves — as though he heard them, a moment before he read them, and not entirely in his own thinking voice.

"I think," he said, and turned the book over, flipped to the end. Turned it back, leafed through the beginning, watched snips and phrases seem to swim up to the surface of the page like fish nibbling at bait.

Here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure—

"I think I've read this before," he said.

Strauss looked up from his own book. "Hm?"

"The Milton," Smith said. "Paradise Lost. Seems familiar."

"From you, I'd almost expect that or the Divine Comedy," Strauss said.

"What?"

"Your supernatural fancy," Strauss said. "And morbid predilections." He splayed his hand on the page of his own book and scraped his chair around to face Smith. "How interesting, though! We knew you were literate, your handwriting is quite legible, and your draftsmanship is excellent. But Paradise Lost isn't exactly the sort of literature I would have expected from you. How well-read are you, in the classics?"

That sounded like a question Strauss wasn't expecting him to answer. Though it did sound like a question Strauss might try to find an answer to. "Huh."

"Do you remember anything around the book?" Strauss asked. "Does it call to mind any places, sounds...?"

It called to mind a voice, as he thumbed through the pages: low and amused, and just beyond hearing. Since he who now is sovereign can dispose and bid what shall be right. Laughter, dark and rueful. Farthest from him is best. Rising like cigar smoke around the words on the page. Vanishing as easily.

But he couldn't write down a voice, or draw it, or even describe it well enough to ask around about it. Even a voice he heard clearly and remembered well, which this one wasn't. It was... a whiff of a memory, biting sweet as tobacco, vanishing when he grasped at it.

"I don't know," he said. And the more he fought for it the more his head hurt, and the less he felt he grasped.

"You should try to read through the book," Strauss suggested, and fetched paper for him. "Don't think too hard. Write down whatever comes to mind."

To his credit, he did try. Worked at it until, not even a quarter of the way through, frustration — at memory, at Milton, at the goddamn devil making choices even Smith could have told him were poor ones — had him closing the book and shoving it back on the shelf. He picked up another book, this one titled The Count of Monte Cristo, which brought no niggling familiarity, no half-remembered voices, and no urge to reach back into a history book and strangle the author.

Wouldn't have thought he'd be able to distract himself with a book, without going cross-eyed, but it was a pleasant enough way to bide time. But that was it, in his mind: all of Strauss's tests, he could admit were doing something, even if they didn't end with a single useful thing done. But reading was biding.

And he bided while Miss McGillin came in to make dinner, and bided until dinner, and dinner took them until night drew itself over the town, and the rain outside slowed to a dripping, and then to silence, and Strauss took himself off to bed.

Smith considered going off to the saloon. Making something of the night, at least. But it was a rare novelty, to have done nothing of note for an entire day, and he found he savored it. He went to sleep.

Of course, his patience rolled over an abrupt bridge-out when the next day Strauss declared the world still too wet and muddy for a hunting expedition, and suggested that Smith might find some benefit in reviewing the medical literature, and Smith took the first opportunity to escape the house and no never mind the fact that the streets of Purgatory squelched under his boots.

He didn't have anyplace in mind to go. Another walk up toward the river would likely leave him with nothing more than the first one had, and whiling the whole day away in the saloon now seemed to be just trading one set of walls for a larger one. But he had hardly made it down into the town proper when he saw a crowd gathering around the far end of the main street. Around the gallows.

Gallows Hill, in a town named Purgatory.

Any town with law to keep and something to lose had to make space for the business of justice; that weren't surprising. No more than the fact that the town had a sheriff's office it kept staffed, or a general store that sold goods. These things were part of how a town was built.

But for all of that, it couldn't shake a cloud of ill omen. Some old superstition, surely, made him want to turn and walk away — keep the town between himself and the hangman's noose.

Something else entirely turned his footsteps squelching down the road to join the crowd.

Sheriff was already on the platform, as was his deputy, as was the condemned man. Some narrow-faced rough sort, back straight, apparently the sort to go out with a sneer and not a sob. And Smith's eye caught, and he couldn't stop himself staring at the man, with thoughts he couldn't catch racing circles around his skull. Tense as the last hairsbreadth on a trigger.

He was certain he didn't know this man, but that certainty seemed to have no root. He didn't know what he did or didn't know, so why feel certain here? And why feel that it was such an urgent matter?

Why feel like some impulse to act was scrabbling around his chest, knocking itself against his ribs? If he had known the man, if he'd had anything to say, the time for that was well over now. He wasn't sure what he meant to accomplish here; if he meant to make something happen, or stop it from happening, or stop it from stopping. But standing in the milling crowd, he felt like a dog standing tense among chickens, the only one with a job to do.

And he couldn't see the... the coyote, or whatever the next part of this metaphor was supposed to be.

It weren't the sheriff, who'd stepped to the edge of the platform and was reading out the proclamation in clear, ringing tones. "Good citizens of Purgatory!"

Wasn't the deputy, with his hand on the lever for the trap. Wasn't the poor bastard with the noose around his neck, who the sheriff read out as Lovro Chech; foreign name, that, and it sparked no recognition.

"He has robbed and rustled, burned and murdered his way across the Eastern states and the Heartlands," sheriff said. "And came to continue his criminal career here in the good state of West Elizabeth. Well, I don't know what kind of justice they practice in the Old South or up in New England. But here in West Elizabeth, we have one way of dealing with murderers...."

No business of his.

It was no business of his, whether they hung some easterner; no business of his, even to be standing here. He should walk on, but he didn't. And because he didn't, he caught the moment when Lovro's eyes glanced across him, and then locked on him, and went wide, and terrified. Like Smith had shown up carrying a scythe.

And Smith, a man who wouldn't draw two glances on the street, if Strauss's damn rumor-mongering didn't precede him. Why terrify a stranger, near enough death on his own?

Why terrify him more than the sheriff himself, who was drawing his little speech to a close: "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my grim but honorable duty to say: let justice be done."

The deputy threw the lever.

He saw the moment the trap swung wide. But more than that, he saw a flash, quicker than a lightningstrike, of that tall stooped Thing he'd seen in Strauss's parlor, snapping to Lovro like a whipcrack, and Smith flinched, screwed his eyes shut, turned away and heard Lovro's neck snap. Didn't want to see that creature, for fear it might see him.

Tried to convince himself he hadn't seen it. Just a trick of light or shadow, or a passing fancy; no one else made a noise about it, and he hadn't drunk any more of that damned and damning tea. But he was full of certainties, today, for all that they were homeless vagrant things, and for a minute he couldn't move but stood very still, like a hare hoping a buzzard would pass safely by.

He was aware of — he could hear — the people around him, some lingering in knots of gossip, some going on along their way. None of them wise to the thing that had passed amongst them.

Blind, all of them. Or him, just mad.

Seemed more likely to be that second one.

More moments passed, and before he could find the courage to open his eyes again, someone touched his arm. "You all right there, mister?" said a voice — in a lilting singsong, a saleswoman's voice, all honey and enticement. Laced with concern, though, under those long-worn and well-practiced tones.

He supposed he must look strange, hands clenched, eyes closed, still fighting down that urge to act and knowing it too late now for action. He got himself to open his eyes; saw one of the girls that hung out around the saloon, looking just about respectable now with a shawl around her shoulders.

"Just fine," he said.

She clucked her tongue. "Nasty business. Always is."

Always is. He dared a look at the gallows, where the man — the corpse — was hanging. No more man, there, he supposed. That, he found, didn't bother him. Not the dead, or death or the dying, but the hanging.

Strauss might find some clue in that, but that was one of those things Smith didn't much want to tell him. Didn't much want to think about, himself.

He made some sort of noise, not agreeing, not disagreeing, and the saloon girl leaning in closer, tried to get a look at his face. Took his measure like a shopkeeper measuring grains. "You need to take your mind off it?"

That brought a feeling like the hard sullen drudgery of digging a grave. "No," he said. Remembered some manners, somewhere, and the half-distracted thought that she might warrant them, and said "thank you," and took himself away before anything else could crowd in on his mind.

He wasn't going to tell Strauss that a hanging had itched at him. God knew what the little doctor would come up with.

Didn't much want to go back to Strauss, just now, either. He turned back and headed the other way down the main street, then turned off onto the little path that led to the stables. Set himself by the corral fence; inside, one of the stable boys was exercising one of the hire horses. Plain enough creature, but beautiful for that.

Strauss might not like walking more than half a mile. Smith didn't share his aversion, but he did share his appreciation for a horse to carry him — share it, as far as it went with Strauss, and probably carry it further. A horse opened up the world in a way that two legs hardly did. On his own power, Smith might open this little corner of the world to a circle a few miles wide on every side of Purgatory, which was hardly any speck of space compared to the vast, encompassing sky; a sky which bore witness to the fact that the world was larger than a man could fully apprehend.

He wasn't sure how folk could stand it, being trapped in a town like this, where folk knew all the names that went around, and got more familiar as time went by. Where if there was a hanging at one end of the main street, it would still be lingering in the air as far as you could go toward the other side.

And while he was considering that, he had to consider another thing that was rising up at the back of his neck: a scratchy feeling that he should get out of here. Seemed clear that Strauss would keep him around as long as he stayed interesting. That weren't the problem. But he'd told the dog in that nightmare place that he had things to do, and he still didn't know what those things were — and unless that hanging had been it, and he'd missed his chance to act when he felt called to, he was making no progress on that account.

And if he was a madman for giving any credit to an apology given to a dog in a nightmare... well, then, there it was. Of course, if he was mad in addition to being forgetful, Strauss might keep him around forever.

Keep him like the horse, dancing out her energy in the corral. Poor thing. Smith could understand how she felt, all calm and captive and tasting a freedom, now and again, that she remembered in her bones.

This was better entertainment than a hanging was, certainly.

He settled in to watch the normal business of the stables go on, and see if some musing might bring some clarity to his thinking. He had the impression that it usually didn't, but it was a vague feeling, and it couldn't hurt to try.

The steady pace of the sun brought no answers, no grand revelations, but it did bring someone new to Purgatory.

Several new people, in fact. A man — businessman, maybe, by his suit — leading in a pack of cowboys or ranch hands, who in turn led a half-dozen horses in to the stable. One of the hands dismounted and headed in, presumably seeking the owner.

The businessman — forties or fifties, greying and spare, with a cavalry mustache and a boss-o'-the-plains hat — caught sight of Smith loitering, looking like neither a stable boy nor a customer, and frowned at him. Smith mimed tipping his hat — his hand seemed to assume he was wearing a hat, which he weren't — and said, "Afternoon," to pass off any conspicuousness.

"Afternoon," the man said, and seemed to size him up.

Maybe he'd heard something about Purgatory's newest resident curiosity. If so, Smith was happier deflecting that attention away. "Those are fine horses," Smith said, letting his gaze roam over them. It fell on one, and he paused. "Well, most of them."

The man in the suit frowned a bit more. "And what do you mean by that, sir?"

"The roan there," Smith said. "What's wrong with him?"

All the horses were well-fed, well-groomed before the trek in from wherever they'd come from. Clear-eyed, calm, didn't look like they'd been pushed to exhaustion. The one Smith's eye had picked out, though, didn't quite match with the rest. Couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something in the angle of his neck, the languor with which he observed his surroundings.

The man in the suit leaned forward over his pommel. "Why don't you tell me?"

Smith looked at him, gauging his meaning. He saw cool interest and challenge looking back, and shrugged. Walked up to the roan carefully, keeping it in his sight, seeing how the beast reacted to him.

It didn't, much. Hardly a flick of the ear. Smith rested a hand on the horse's neck; the skin was no warmer than it should be, and he didn't smell anything other than horse and dust. He felt the muscle move under his hand. Plenty of strength there, that weren't the problem, but not a lot of moving. No curiosity.

"He sick?"

"He's not got anything," the lead man said.

"But he's sick," Smith said, again. Put his other hand on the horse's neck, ran one down to the shoulder. The other horses had at least taken note of him; marked his intrusion, and either disregarded him or not. This one didn't much seem to care. "Born like this? Listless?"

"Listless," the man agreed. "Incurious, and he's not got much sense. That, or he's too unflappable for his own good. Wouldn't spook at a striking snake."

Smith had to chuckle. "Sure that sounds like a good thing to some fool."

The businessman's mouth quirked, mostly visible by the twitch of his mustache. "I guessed that a calm, strong horse without a thought in its head might appeal to the kind of person who'd take a steam donkey over a real one," he said, which was a humor Smith could appreciate. "You have a good eye for horses, Mr...?"

"Smith," he said. "I suppose I do."

"Langley Dryden," the man said, and leaned down to shake Smith's hand. "I'm the owner of Oak Rose Ranch, out by the bend in the Dakota River."

If Smith had ever heard about it, it was gone with all the rest of his memory. "I see," he said.

"If you're ever in the market for a horse, stop by," he said. "I take the best down to the stables in Blackwater. The ones I sell up here — they're decent. Better than most you'll find. But nothing compared to our stock back at the ranch."

Little enough chance that Smith would ever afford one of his horses. Even the listless one would command a much higher price than the waxing and waning supply of coins from his spates of saloon gambling.

Still, with a horse, he could...

Do what? The world opened up, sure. But what was there, in that openness, for him? He could get away from Purgatory, certainly, and...

Not starve. He looked for the knowledge, and found it: how to take game, dress it, scrape the hide, quarter and cook the kill. With a horse and a rifle, he could keep himself fed, at least. Maybe even make a few dollars, selling the hides. Those would sell in just about any town, wouldn't they?—had someone once taught him that?

Rough life, trapping, hunting. Out in the elements, at the whim of weather and game, and he still hadn't got the chance to test the prospect with Strauss. And finding the knowledge alone didn't mean much, not when he had nothing to compare it to; he knew how to fish, after all, and a real fisherman still scoffed at his prospects. Might know how to hunt, but not make a living from hunting.

Still, the idea interested him — more than working at a butcher's, or a general store, or something.

But how to get a horse, and how to get a rifle — that was the problem, there. Even Strauss didn't own a horse, and didn't seem inclined to acquire one. Rifles were cheaper than a good horse would be, but the one did him little enough good without the other, and the one was as well out of easy reach.

Still. Something to think on. Something to dream of.

"Perhaps I will," he said.

The stable owner came out, trailing Dryden's hand. "Langley!" he greeted. "I wasn't expecting you up here for weeks, yet."

"Getting ahead of some trouble," Dryden said, and finally swung down off his horse. Smith extracted himself from the meeting; Dryden was clearly done with him, and he and the stableman just as clearly had some well-accustomed business to occupy them. "You've got space?"

"For your horses, I've always got space," the stableman said. "Besides, they never stay at my stables for long. Let's see what you've got for me..."

The business of buying and selling horses seemed to have no place for Smith. He turned and wandered back into the town, and left them to talk.

Restlessness or a lack of any more pressing diversion turned his footsteps back toward Strauss's home soon enough. He came in to find Miss McGillin already at work on the day's tidying, which seemed to be going rather backward from usual. The house was in more disorder than he'd ever seen it, and Strauss was at his desk, scribbling furiously. Hardly glanced up when Smith came in, but did manage a distracted sort of "Getting yourself into any trouble, Mr. Smith?"

"No trouble," Smith said. Didn't mention the hanging. "Found out something. Found out I was good with horses."

"Well, we know you can ride," Strauss said. "And handle."

"Weren't riding. Weren't handling." It had been just... knowing; just looking at a horse and seeing it true. "Got a good eye."

"Lack of familiarity riding a range seems to preclude occupations like cowboy," Strauss said. "I have to admit, I don't know enough of the particulars to say if it would preclude something like breeder, but you don't seem to know much about the associated disciplines — stablery, and all of that. I'd venture hobbyist, but that raises a number of questions, too." He finished whatever he was writing, set the pen aside, and rummaged for a blotter. "Usually a hobby associated with a considerable income, in the absence of the skills of an equestrian profession."

He blotted the page, stood up, and bustled up toward his room. Seemed more distracted than usual. And there was a strange, focused sharpness to his energy, now.

Made Smith uneasy. He followed Strauss up, and found him tucking shirts into a suitcase. The contents of his wardrobe were pulled out and tossed onto the bed.

"What is all this?" Smith asked. That wasn't what a man would pack for a day of hunting. "Going on a trip?" And where did that leave him?

"I have to leave," Strauss said, waving at his dressing table. It took a moment for Smith to see what he was supposed to notice, but there was a telegram sitting there. Must have been just recently arrived. "My great-aunt — wonderful woman — she's ill, back east, in New Hampshire. I've been summoned to her bedside."

Packing up and moving. In a moment, just like that.

Seemed... indication of trouble, but reasonable, as far as it went. "Oh," he said.

"I'd be happy to host you there," Strauss said. "Continue our work together. My great-aunt has quite a lovely home, guest bedrooms and everything, and she's familiar with my work. She's the one who arranged my introduction to Dr. Divny in the first place."

If there was any man in this world whose attention Smith was sure he wanted to avoid, it was Dr. Strauss's esteemed mentor, whoever he might prove to be. And besides...

"Leave West Elizabeth. Go east," Smith said. The words sat like clay in his mouth. "No," he said. "No, I wouldn't like to do that, Dr. Strauss." He didn't know much about New Hampshire, but it sounded like no more home to him than the snowy Grizzlies to a rattlesnake. "Not east."

Strauss looked at him, eyes narrowed the way he narrowed his eyes at psychology texts or klecksography or ill-advised herbal brews. "I think you remember more than you know you remember," he said, and went back to packing. "You're a remarkable case, Mr. Smith, and I'm absolutely not looking to give you up. There's more medical expertise in New England than you'll find in West Elizabeth. It could be just the environment that's needed, in order to unlock your memories for good."

A few times, now, he'd felt certain of a thing, with no reason to feel so. He felt that certainty now. A gallows certainty. Or a curtain of shadows that he didn't dare cross. "I think I need to stay here."

Strauss sighed, left his suitcase half-packed, and bustled back down toward the parlor. Smith hesitated — part of him wanted to take the telegram, read it through, though he didn't know what he expected to get from that — but instead he followed the doctor, and found him pulling books from his bookshelf.

"I can't force you," Strauss said, and sounded a little mournful at the fact. "I am still interested in continuing our investigation. It would have to be by correspondence, if you're not interested in coming back with me." Without waiting for agreement, he abandoned the bookshelf, bustled to his desk, and rooted out a trade card. He found a pen, and wrote an address down on the card, and offered it to Smith, who took it.

Why not. Strauss hadn't been much help in getting his lost memories back, but he'd been helpful, after his own fashion. And Smith didn't think it wise to toss away an association without a good reason to.

"Write as often as you can, in as much detail as you can," Strauss said, returning to the bookshelf. Smith decided that following him too closely while he packed was likely to leave him dizzier than a cricket clinging to the end of a lariat.

"Sure," he said. "I can... try to." How that was to fit into his daily plans wasn't clear. Nothing was clear; his future had suddenly become as much of an open question as his past.

Seemed like it was usually meant to be the other way around — with the past a settled matter, and the future uncertain. But he'd thought the ground beneath him here was stable. Thought he'd known mostly what to expect with Strauss — not the particulars, but the basic shape of things.

The thought seemed to hit Strauss as he said it, and he turned to give Smith his undivided attention for a moment. "...I have a friend in Blackwater," he said, at length. "Well. A former patient, some time ago. He worked at a newspaper; I think he mentioned something about running pictures — illustrations. I could write you a letter of introduction. I'll be departing from Blackwater; you're welcome to accompany me down there. That might provide some opportunity."

Smith had no prospects in Purgatory. Blackwater seemed like a name soaked in ill omen, or at the very least, ill repute, but it was a city larger than Purgatory, and almost had to offer some option beyond gambling in the saloon for a handful of coins or a severed finger.

It also felt like going the wrong way. Not as wrong as all the way out east, but wrong, nonetheless.

Damned if he did, lost if he didn't. Given the options, he'd settle for damned. "That would be appreciated."

"You're certain I can't persuade you out to New Hampshire?"

Something twitched through him like a snake in his stomach. "I ain't helpless," he said. "And I ain't a family pet. I appreciate everything you've done for me, doctor—" everything except the teas, really, "—but you've gotta go to your family, and I can't go out to New Hampshire. I've got—"

Things to do. That would raise more questions than he wanted to answer.

"—I really think I belong out here."

It was a plausible enough excuse that he didn't need to worry whether it was a lie or not. Wasn't certain he knew the answer, himself. But Strauss sighed unhappily, and went to grab the next thing he meant to pack; Smith wondered if there was any order to his packing, or if it was just whatever happened to cross his mind next. "I suppose if you do have people looking for you, they wouldn't find you out there. I just wish... well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

That seemed a little too pointed. Smith gave him a sharp look, which Strauss entirely missed as he bustled off to his room again.

Probably hadn't meant anything by it. Couldn't have, really; Smith hadn't shared his thinking on the matter with the man.

Still.

He went and sat on the couch.

A hanging, a horseman, and a great-aunt in New Hampshire. Busy day, and it weren't yet even evening. And tomorrow everything would change again, just as it must have once before, at least.

Blackwater. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like that name was the cornerstone of... something. Like it was a weight, heavy enough to hold down a corner of the past. The thought weren't as reassuring as it should have been.

But whatever waited him there, he'd soon find out, he reckoned.

Chapter Text

Act 1.5 : Blackwater

Strauss found an old, threadworn suitcase for Smith to inherit, into which he packed his meager belongings. Strauss's own belongings took up three suitcases, four chests, his doctor's bag, two crates, and a hip-high barrel that Smith decided not to question, but which sloshed ominously as he helped to load it into the hire-wagon for the trip to Blackwater. Strauss had pressed a generous tip onto Miss McGillin, and in exchange the two of them received a packed picnic for the road.

They left a few hours after sunset, with lanterns hanging off the wagon; Strauss was all nervous energy and chattering rush. He took the seat next to the driver, probably to urge or torment the man into greater speed on the dark roads, while Smith sat down in the back, amidst the chests and crates, to catch a few hours of sleep while he could.

He woke outside Blackwater. Or rather, something woke him: some noise on the road, or coyotes calling in the distance, or a change in the rhythm of the cart's jouncing as it joined the traffic in the early morning. He listened to the world passing by, but whatever it was, it didn't happen again, and he shifted so that he could see the city as it approached.

Blackwater. Still an uncomfortable name, but... it just looked like a city.

The outskirts didn't look too much different from Purgatory. The same little houses, the same dirt paths. But they clung to something denser; a core of cobblestone streets, brick buildings, buildings of cut stone... buildings which rose up like cliff faces. Buildings meant to satisfy man's pride, more than provide shelter. This seemed like a place to torment men: a place to lock them up among things only humans could fashion, until they forgot the whole world but what humans could do.

America is man unleashed: his good and his evil. Sounded like a saying, but from where, Smith didn't know. The words crept around the periphery of his mind.

The cart pressed into the city streets, thumping along onto the cobbles. It passed by houses, and shops, and offices, and more shops, and more brick-faced buildings that seemed to hunker down in defiance of the open country they and their fellows had colonized. And then the cart turned onto a narrow road that brought them east, toward the slow-rising sun, and then along the waterfront, to the docks.

That, Smith hadn't been expecting.

He hopped down from the cart as it came to a halt. Strauss clambered down from the gunner's seat, looking bleary-eyed and edgy; he apparently hadn't had the sense or the calm to catch some rest. The little doctor turned to the water, glancing at the lake's population of boats.

Smith looked from him to the boats and back again. He'd been expecting... he didn't know what Blackwater had to offer. A train, or a stagecoach to a train, at least. "That's how you're getting to New Hampshire?"

Strauss turned to look over the port's buildings, as though the wan morning light had made the place unfamiliar. "There's always something going up the Lannahechee and up the Ohio. I should be able to go by boat so far as Pittsburgh."

"Train would get you there in a quarter of the time," Smith said. A quarter or less; he didn't know how fast a steamboat traveled. Watching the boats go and come in, though, he had to think a rail was swifter.

Strauss shuddered. "You won't see me getting on a train southwest of Pennsylvania, no sir. Not after that last time."

Smith had no idea what to make of that.

And it didn't look like he'd have a chance to ask. Strauss rushed over to one of the offices, flagged down someone inside, and in half a minute a handful of bills had changed hands and a couple of men dressed like longshoremen descended on the cart. Smith could do nothing but step out of their way.

Strauss came back, barking out directions like "And for God's sake, don't tip that!", and wringing his hands. Smith watched for a bit, but there was nothing for him to do. And lingering seemed to have no heart or breath to it.

"I guess," he said, "I should be going." Much as Strauss seemed uneasy at the prospect of trains, Smith didn't much want to be standing here so close to the docks. Couldn't have said why. And this, now, was Strauss's own private anxiety; Smith had nothing to add to it.

Strauss glanced at him, as though he'd forgotten he was there. "...of course," he said, and looked about ready to say something else — maybe to make one last attempt at dragging him out to New Hampshire, and the tender mercies of New England medicine. But then he blew out his breath, shook his head, and said "Best of luck, Mr. Smith. If I had a clinic, its doors would always be open."

By this point, Smith felt as though he'd said any farewells he ought to have. "You should go on," he said. "Get to your great-aunt." On some ridiculous, slow steamer, when he'd been in such a rush all this way from Purgatory, but Smith was hardly in a position to criticize anyone's choices in life or the paths they found themselves following.

"Yes," Strauss said, and rummaged in his pocket. Then he pressed a letter and ten dollars into Smith's hands, which somehow stunned him more than all of Strauss's casual charity so far. "Do write," Strauss said. "I want to hear whatever you discover."

"I will," Smith was startled into saying.

Strauss gave him a comradely pat on the arm, and hurried after the longshoremen toward a low, flat-bottomed boat. And Smith stood there for a moment, while the noise of Blackwater closed around him, and separated him from his odd benefactor as surely as the ocean tide would rise around a sandbar.

He found he hoped that the man's great-aunt would be fine. Not so much so Strauss might conclude his business and come back to West Elizabeth; no, he'd worked at that, done all that Strauss had told him to do, and felt like he'd gained no ground. But Strauss was a good enough man, and surely deserved some relief. And it was — he wouldn't—

Special kind of hell, he had to imagine, being sick without your family nearby. Or knowing your family sick, and being unable to stick by them.

Course, the more he thought about it, it would be a special kind of hell to be sick with family there to see you suffer, or to be there with the sick and know there was nothing to be done.

But Strauss was a doctor, or he claimed to be, at least.  So maybe it were different, for him.

The letter was just what Strauss had said — addressed to some Donald Inverness at the Blackwater Ledger, telling him that Smith was a fine draftsman, encouraging Inverness to consider him as an employee. And ten dollars were enough to see him lodged for a while, at least. Maybe not so long in one of the fancy hotels, but there were places much cheaper than the impressive buildings that held down Main Street.

Smith walked into the city, leaving the docks behind.

He would have expected himself to be as lost in a city like this as a fish on the Plains, but he found himself wary of the streets but not overly daunted. He didn't like this place; didn't trust it. But wasn't overwhelmed by it. And he had Strauss's letter, which gave him a goal, at least.

He took the measure of the city as he walked through it, letting morning open the shops and rouse the people into something decent and respectable. He noted the alleys where trouble might lie; saloons where different troubles might lie. Where in the city people looked prosperous; where in the city people looked hard-done-by. Where were the shops, where the homes, where the offices — bank, doctor, lawyer. Where the wagons headed to and left; which direction they were headed when laden, and when empty. Where the police walked, and where they rode, and how neat their uniforms were. Where they were sparse. Where the cobblestone streets were well-maintained, and where they fell into disrepair, and where the streets weren't cobbled at all.

A scattered inventory of details that gave him something of the texture of the place, and gave him something of the texture of his own mind.

The sun was tickling its way over some of the city's lower roofs, and Smith was looping back around toward the address on the letter when he noticed a shop front with a single window overlooking the street, and painting on the window that identified it as a bookshop. Whole shop, full of books. Despite himself, he wandered in.

The man behind the counter gave him a skeptical look — apparently he didn't have the appearance of a man much inclined to reading. Which were fair; his gaze slipped over most of the books there, lingered a moment on some of the field guides, and came to rest on one particular shelf. It seemed to call him over.

Fine blank journals, there were, lined up with neat prices under them. He browsed through them, found one that fit his hand well enough; good smooth paper, hundred twenty pages, sturdy duck canvas covers with leather caps on the corners. A dollar and thirty-two cents, which was steep given how much money he had in his pocket — and maybe steep in any case; he didn't know — which didn't stop him from taking it and picking up a half-dozen pencils for another twenty cents, a pencil-sharpening knife for a dime, and a pack of three erasers for a nickel.

Then he saw the maps.

Each state, represented, with all its towns and railroads; two quarters apiece, and a fine, large map of the world for a dollar and a quarter. Handsome things, all whispering of travel, and freedom, and—

And there was no way he'd make any sort of living out of it, on foot.

A horse. He needed a goddamn horse.

Could steal one, he supposed, and then was surprised, a little, at how easy that was to contemplate. Pick one up, ride it out of town, write this town off for a while. Rifle might be a bit harder; folk didn't tend to leave their rifles tied up at hitching posts in plain sight. Still, though... still, there'd be a way, if he thought about it. And if two little thefts were possible, what more might be? Might be a life in there, too...

And a rope at the end of it?

His head hurt. He blinked; seemed to be a grey fog creeping around the edges of his vision. That was a road he ought to be careful about going on. Something told him, he might find it difficult to get back off it.

Something told him, he was safer here, for the moment. Taking his things up to the counter; spending near all his free money on maps and pencils and a journal. After that, and leaving aside the ten Strauss had given him, which he intended for room and board and nothing else, he had a dollar left, just about. That would have to see him through to... wherever he was meant to get to, from here.

He had the letter Strauss had given him, to beg a job at a newspaper. God knew how that would pan out.

He had enough to keep from begging on a streetcorner. Though he did feel that he'd resort to any manner of theft before he stooped that low.

As he was paying, his mind was already picking apart the next issue. Seemed almost philosophical, when he thought about it: whether he'd rather know he had somewhere to stay, even if he didn't know what to do, or if he'd rather know he had something to do, even if he didn't know where he had to stay.

Seemed like a trick of a question. And it seemed, after he turned it over in his head a few times, that the answer wouldn't help him: he'd rather have a place to stay, a place to come home to, but Blackwater seemed like it would offer lodging and no place he'd think of as home.

Still, he asked the bookseller where a man might stay for a while, and eat for the cost of staying — no place too fancy — and got a few answers out of him. One took him down to the south neighborhoods, where he he got set up in the cheap, stuffy loft of a building that might not have begun life as a hotel. Good enough.

Then he went to seek his fortune, or the nearest thing to it.

Armed with his letter of introduction, Smith found his way to the offices of the Blackwater Ledger. Fine new brick building, with a lady sitting at a desk just inside the door, keeping an eye on things in a way Smith identified as lookout before he thought that no, there was another word for it, secretary or something. She gave him a coolly uninterested look before asking, "What's your business, honey?"

"Looking for a man named Donny Inverness," he said, and waved the letter by way of explanation.

She laughed. Sharp and bitter and not at all encouraging, that laugh. "Damn Donny. He ain't here no more. He got his own little publishing house, now," she said. "Tucked away on Newbrasky Lane."

"Newbrasky Lane," Smith repeated.

"End of the road, turn toward the Lake, then right. Can't miss it. The one with the dancing girl in the window."

Well, that wasn't what Smith had been expecting when he heard the words publishing house. "Obliged," he said, and left the Ledger.

A few streets and a few turns brought him to Inverness's new building, and brought him some amusement besides: the "dancing girl" the secretary had mentioned was a picture, half again as tall as he was, of some young woman dressed for a ballroom and holding a sign that read Brooks & Inverness — Illustrations, Advertising, Signs, Banners & Miscellany Print.

The kind of things folk found time and need for in cities. He shook his head, and went on in.

The room beyond the door was a little, cramped thing — just the landing for a set of stairs, with open space just big enough for a desk for some poor secretary to suffer at. Not that there was anyone there suffering. Smith called out, "Hello?", but no one answered, and he headed up the stairs.

Those led him up into a wide room — most of the top floor of the building, he suspected, with the exception of three doors in the back, two of which had cloudy glass windows. The big room was full of desks, all neatly lined up like soldiers or gravestones; about twenty of them, and about twelve had men bent over them, working. Each one had its own electric lamp, and most had piles of papers and tools lying on them. A few had stands set up in front, with a whole variety of odd objects — a man's suit on a frame of some sort, a stuffed cougar, a model train. And over by one wall, shelves full of boxes and strange things stood, and a whole crowd of unfamiliar machines were set up, filling the air with a muttering inhuman racket.

No one seemed to pay much attention to him as he stepped in. He cleared his throat, got one or two irritated glances, and seized on that much attention. " 'Scuse me. I'm looking for Mr. Inverness—"

"In his office," one of the irritated men said, and jerked his pencil back at one of the glazed doors. It did have Donald Inverness painted on it, but Smith had been expecting some kind of... more introduction or courtesy due.

"Thanks," he said, dryly. Well, the man didn't seem to have a secretary, and none of his workers seemed to want the job, so if he had an issue with strangers coming up to his office door and knocking, that was an issue for him to have. He went and knocked.

"Come on, then," a brisk, irritated voice called.

Smith stepped in.

The office had a desk, a lamp, a safe, and a man with a narrow face, an extremely thin mustache, and a look like he didn't find a lot of use for food or sleep. A small plaque on his desk pronounced him Donald Inverness, Owner, in case the sign on the door had been insufficient. He looked up from a document when Smith came in, then dropped his pen into its inkwell and sat back to give Smith a sharp look. "Who are you?"

"Name's Mr. Smith," Smith said. "I'm a..." friend was surely not the right word, but he didn't want to introduce himself as a case. "...friend of Dr. Strauss." He offered the letter. "He suggested that I call on you."

Inverness gave him a needly glare, then snatched the letter from his fingers. He flipped it open, scanned down the lines, and then gave Smith a considering look which was no less needly than the glare had been. "Funny man," he said.

"...me, or him?"

"Strauss." He folded the letter again. "And I don't mean funny, ha ha. Still, he knows his business, and I'd venture to say at this point he knows mine, too. You're looking to start a career in illustration, are you, Mr. Smith?"

Inverness had a clipped, rushed way of talking, as though he had more words to say than he had time for. Didn't seem to occur to him that the solution might be to say fewer words. It was an odd feeling, like trying to have a conversation with a gatling gun. "I'm looking for work, sure."

"Hm." Inverness pushed his chair back far enough to rummage through the crowded bookshelf behind him. After a moment he found paper, and a fine steel pen. He shoved them across the desk. "Well, draw me."

Of course Smith couldn't remember if he'd ever looked for work before. He had nothing to compare this too. But still, he hadn't expected that rapid turn. "What?"

"A picture. Of me." Inverness produced a cigar from somewhere in his desk, snipped off the end, then leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. "Strauss says you're a draftsman; we hire draftsmen. So I'd like to see your skill. Draw me. Unless you'd rather draw the desk or the shelves; plenty of work called for furniture, machines, houses, the like."

"...right." He couldn't tell if Inverness was being sarcastic. Supposed it didn't matter; he took the paper and then pen, and started sketching, trying not to feel like an animal in a circus cage with how Inverness was watching him.

Drew Inverness. Drew the desk and the shelves, too, and the window; an impression of the lines of the room. Wasn't especially happy to be working in pen, but did it anyway, and left it to dry on the top of the desk.

Wasn't left for long. Inverness snatched up the page, and huffed. "Talented amateur," he said. "Quite impressive for the time you took. Decent eye, mostly competent on the technical aspects. Polish, well, that, you can learn. All right." He tossed the drawing aside with a carelessness that startled Smith. "Do you know what we do here?"

"It's a publishing house," Smith said. He'd gleaned that much. But — there was a clue, to write Strauss about — the main room had seemed like a noisy, bickering chaos of unfamiliar machines, and he knew what none of them did. Not like the easy familiarity of picking up a rifle, knowing how to take it apart, to clean it, work it back together.

"We're an illustration house," Inverness said. "James's idea. He's the co-owner; he's in New York; you'll meet him if you stick around. Miserable squirrely man, but he knows this business. Illustration is getting a foothold in the nation's newspapers. Not just newspapers. Catalogues, brochures, children's books, dime novels, pamphlets, catalogs of goods — wherever there are words, people seem to want pictures to go with them. And frankly, there aren't enough illustrators to go around."

He never seemed to stop to take a breath, was the thing; Smith was almost more impressed by that than by any of the words he was saying.

"That is where Brooks and Inverness comes to the scene." Inverness gestured wide at the room around them. "We're establishing ourselves as the place to come for an image. Whether it's the face on a bounty poster or a lady's petticoat in a tailor's catalog, men come to us to render the delights of their wares and their promises into a fashion pleasing to the eye. So, we'll try you out."

Inverness opened a drawer in his desk, and came out with some kind of contract.

"Pay varies, depending on the piece and the client. Payment rendered on Friday evening, for all the finished work accepted through the week. Good rates — some of the boys make as much as three hundred an illustration."

"Three hundred?" Smith asked. "For a picture?"

"It's a competitive field," Inverness said. "With little supply. And we have accrued ourselves, let's say, a certain reputation. From your fee, you pay the house twenty-five percent. Which, given the opportunities the house secures for you, is entirely reasonable and fair. It's quite a solid living, once you get into the higher echelons. You'll be able to buy yourself a house in the middle of town, if you keep at it."

Once you get into the higher echelons, of course. "And what do you get at the bottom of the heap?"

"Not chicken feed, that I assure you. Reliably ten to thirty dollars per image, before the house's cut. Our clients know the value of our work.  Well, they know that every Tom, Dick and Francis is putting pictures in their papers, and if they don't, they'll fall behind and get ground out of circulation. Or business. Or whatever. Now, can you take instruction? Can you bear correction?"

On art. On little drawings. The notion that instruction or correction should even have a home with those ideas was uneasy. "I don't know," he said.

"Well, if you work here, you'll soon find out." Inverness pushed the contract at him. "Fortune awaits, Mr. Smith, if not fame. The contract just says that you'll produce art for us, and we'll pay you for the art we get from you. Go ahead and sign, and we'll get you a desk."

"...right." Smith eyed the contract. He was wary of it, and wasn't sure why. There was probably some trouble that could be got into with contracts, but he had no idea what. He picked it up, more gingerly than he needed to — the page wasn't going to bite him, after all — and tried to make his way through the writing on it. Which would likely be hard enough if his head weren't already swimming from all the birdshot chatter Inverness poured out.

After about four seconds, Inverness snapped, "What do you expect it says? We're looking for your firstborn? Sign the damn sheet!"

Something hot and angry moved in the pit of Smith's gut. He didn't appreciate Inverness's humor; he didn't appreciate his impatience. He wanted to get some words into alignment to reach out and lash back at him, but he didn't know how to get what he was feeling into an appropriate lash. Didn't know where it was coming from, this urge to harm the man — or hurt him, failing harm.

And didn't know what he was looking for in the contract, or how to find it if he knew it, or how he should object if he found it. He signed the damn sheet. Put his name down as M. Smith — M for Mister, no doubt, because it did feel strange, when asked so formally, not to have a first name to provide. Considered just making one up, plucking one out of the ether; it would hardly be any less true than his family name Smith was. And it ought to have been easy. Pulling on a name, like another feller might pull on a hat.

Ought to have been. Ought to. As though he knew what anything ought.

"Good," Inverness said, and bothered himself to get up from his desk. "Come on."

Inverness pointed him to a desk out in the main room, with an electric light, and a stack of paper and all sorts of straight-edges and pens and pencils and blotters and erasers and bits and bobs Smith didn't know why anyone would have any use for.

"I'll have Mrs. Botterill come by with one of the general assignments," he said. "Ask her if you've got any questions."

Then he took himself back into his office, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Smith sat down, feeling a bit like he'd just jumped off a cliff into a rapid river. He felt like he'd been knocked about against something, and the place he found himself wasn't at all where he wanted to be. And yet...

Apparently... he had a trade. Now, he had one. Not something he imagined he had before, but he wasn't certain how eager he should really be to get back to what he had before. And ten dollars a picture... how long could it take to make a picture? How many pictures in a week? Hardly seemed like work, really. All the hard labor Strauss had found for him wouldn't pay so well.

He didn't trust it.

He wasn't left to mistrust it for long before a woman came by and thumped a sturdy metal pole down in front of his desk, and put some kind of cloth torso on top of it. Freed from that burden, she turned to look at him — and burst out laughing. "You look like you'd rather be on a farm, my lad!"

Farming didn't sound like work he wanted, but he couldn't dispute the observation. "You're one to talk," he said. For all her crisp dress, she was a stout, red-faced woman who walked like she had someplace to be, and who looked like she could carry a hundred-pound hog under each arm. She looked no more suited to an office than he did.

"You should visit a barber. Get that mess on your head straightened out," she suggested, screwing down the cloth torso onto its pole. "Buy some pomade and some nicer clothes. Get some shoes you can shine up." She dropped her voice, but still pitched it to carry. "The boys here are all dreadful society types, or they want to be."

"She's talking about Winhelm," one of the other men piped in, to a few mingled groans and jeers. Apparently it was some joke he hadn't yet been invited to.

"Charming," Smith muttered.

"Oh, some of them are. The rest all think they are." She eyed him, with the kind of forthrightness some matronly women got, unabashed to take an eyeful, and secure in the sense that they'd not be inviting any trouble back their way. "I'm Mrs. Botterill. I keep this bullpen running, make sure you boys have what you need, and knock heads together when tempers get hot. Don't test me."

"I don't intend to." Smith had little trouble believing that. She certainly looked like she could hold her own.

The thought caused a sharp, short pang in his chest. He could imagine Botterill with a shotgun in her hands, reigning supreme over far worse chaos than this, and creeping around the edges of that thought was a kind of grief, like he'd lost the chance for something — to say, to do, to ask, to act — he hadn't even known he'd had.

But it faded, and Botterill didn't notice. "Well, let me just get this dress form set up. Put you right to work."

She did something to the form, and then something else, which seemed to involve quite a lot more construction than Smith would have assumed. Then she bustled off into the arrangement of shelves in the corner and returned with a box, hmm-ing and clicking her tongue in an odd manner. Out of the box she produced an excess of cloth and fur that arranged itself into a dress as she applied it to the form, somehow managing not to need to consult instructions or a plan or anything. Whole process seemed to involve a terrible lot of pins and muttering. After some time — longer than he would have guessed a dress should take — she gave it a few solid pats on the shoulder and looked at him.

"Well, there you are, Mr. Smith. You go ahead and draw it from a few angles. See if you can't make that monstrosity look like something a little lady might want to wear."

Well, he could draw it.

So he did. The pole the form sat on let the whole contraption spin, so he got it from a few angles, as she'd said. Was just finishing up a third when a clock he hadn't noticed — nestled in with all the machinery — struck the hour, and Inverness stomped out of his office with enough force that the door swung wide and hit the wall. Then he stomped to the nearest person working at his desk, leaned over to look at his work, and said, "Less terrible."

Well, that told Smith what kind of boss Inverness was.

He focused on the paper in front of him. Wasn't his business, how Inverness managed his folk. Except in as much as he was one of Inverness's folk, at the moment. He'd worked for enough people in Purgatory to know that no two of them got things done the same way; some were all vinegar and the lash, some all calm correction and encouragement, and so long as the job got done at the end of the day, Smith didn't know how much it mattered. He just focused on finishing his own drawing as Inverness went from desk to desk, dishing out his scorn or approval.

He finished easily enough, and stared at the paper while Inverness worked his way toward him. Ten dollars. He didn't think that it couldn't possibly be that easy, and, to his complete lack of surprise, it wasn't.

Inverness reached his desk, glanced at his paper, and grunted. "Not the worst first attempt I've seen," he granted. "But you're never going to convince a society lady to send her money in to a catalog for that."

"Right," Smith said. As though he had any idea what society ladies sent money into catalogs for. "And what's wrong with it?"

"Well, look at it," Inverness said. "It's flat on the page. No exuberance. No cachet. Would you buy that for a girl?"

Smith was fairly certain the issue of buying a dress for a girl had never come up, even in that all-forgotten past of his. "I don't know—"

"No. Of course you wouldn't. What's wrong with you? Listen," Inverness said. "A lady should want to get into one of these dresses like a man should want to get into a lady."

Smith understood all the words there, and the comparison Inverness was trying to draw, but he found he had no idea what the hell that was supposed to tell him to do. "What?"

"The fur should shine," Inverness said. "The satin should shimmer. The line of the skirt should be noble, and the bust should be maidenly and abundant."

"You're just saying words, now," Smith protested.

Inverness dropped his hand straight onto Smith's paper. "You know that images evoke feelings, don't you, Mr. Smith?" He asked it in the same way someone might ask, You know the sky is above the land, or you know you're a complete idiot, don't you? "Think of how you feel, watching the sun rise over Flat Iron Lake. Make someone feel that glory, that exultation, with your pen."

"Over a picture of a dress." Inverness was insane. Or perhaps the entire illustration industry was insane. That seemed to be the only explanation.

"Over a picture of a dress," Inverness snarled. "That's what we pay you for."

Inverness hadn't paid him a damn thing, and Smith suspected that, with things going the way they were, he never would. "Right."

"Let me see your next draft when you have it," Inverness said, and charged off to harangue some other poor man.

Thing was, Smith thought, Strauss had said he knew this man in his professional capacity. A former patient, or some such. And knowing Strauss's profession, that probably meant Smith should have some kind of suspicions about Inverness.

After all, the only other patient of Dr. Strauss's he was familiar with was himself, and that was hardly a testament to his patients' average sense or character.

He pulled out another sheet of paper.

Another round of effort made another draft, and before he could stand up to take it to Inverness Botterill noticed him looking around, and came to intercept the drawing.

"No," she said. "This won't do at all."

Smith felt like he was being taken for a fool. Like those boys in the Purgatory saloon were getting one over him, and he hadn't worked out how, yet. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well," Botterill said, and held the picture up to compare it to the dress. "Don't misunderstand, my lad; it looks like the dress, all right. But you want it to look better than the dress. See here." She smoothed out one of the folds on the skirt. "See how it lays kind of flat, here? Well, that's just how the dress is. But a lady doesn't want to wear something flat and boring. So you should fill it out, in your picture. Make it look like something that will move."

"...right."

"You're not trying to draw the dress, Mr. Smith," Botterill said. "You're trying to draw something someone will want to buy. It just has to look enough like the dress that they won't be surprised when they open the package."

The notion amused him, somehow. "So it's a con," he said. Promise something with one hand, sneak something else with the other.

Botterill's mouth quirked up, though she said "Oh, heavens, no, my lad. It's advertising. They're a world apart."

Then she winked and clapped him on the shoulder and walked off, chuckling. Leaving him to work on advertising.

After a bit, one of the other men got up from his desk, and snatched a little stroll and a chance to smoke a cigarette. He stopped by Smith's desk, and laughed.

"Oh, you poor lad," he said. "I remember me days of drawing ladies' dresses. Right awful. Glad you poor fools are here to take the work off."

Good to have confirmation that he was a laughingstock, at least. Smith tossed his pencil down, part of him glad enough for the interruption even if the interruption itself was an annoyance. "Where you from?"

"Oh, round and about," the man said. "And you?"

He grunted. "Here and there."

The other man laughed. "Right you are. Well, keep at it. If you don't put a gun to your head, you may graduate to penny dreadfuls some day."

He clapped Smith on the shoulder, too, before wandering on, leaving Smith to wonder what the hell a penny dreadful was, and whether that was meant to be a good thing.

Botterill came back around, and dropped a stack of catalogs on his desk. "Take a look through those," she said. "Sometimes the best way to learn is by example."

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," Smith admitted.

"Well, I'm no artist, myself," Botterill said. "But take a look. If you've got this far, and no proper schooling, I reckon you must have a good eye."

Or good luck. Or stupid luck. Smith took the first catalog, and flipped through.

There were pictures of dresses. Plenty of them. All different sorts, and someone had to spend time thinking up all these different sorts of dresses, leaving quite aside the people who had to spend their time drawing them, and the people who spent their hard-earned or ill-gotten money on them. It beggared belief. The more he looked, though, the more he could see that, yes, it seemed several had been drawn by different hands. But they all seemed to follow a kind of general shape, or sense.

He found the listing for the most expensive dress, and reasoned that the best tack went to the best horse, so the best dress would get the best picture, and the best picture would come from the best draftsman, and the best draftsman would take the best pay. Then he set to working from that.

By now, he wasn't even drawing a dress, any more; he was making a drawing of a drawing, which was the kind of nonsense that could only be thought up in a city large enough to forget where its meat came from. And then, once he had a drawing of the drawing, he started in on it with one of the erasers, and poked and prodded the lines until they looked like the dress in front of him.

That took — goddamnit, an hour, maybe? He couldn't see the clock that sounded the hours in this hellhole, and the window of the room was mostly blocked by machines, and looked out onto another brick wall in any case. An hour and a half, maybe. Maybe he had a head for time. He didn't have a pocketwatch, that was for sure.

He set aside the pencil eventually, and stared at the drawing with more ill will than he'd ever felt toward some object, that he could remember. Stared at it long enough that Botterill came by to see if he'd turned to stone, maybe; she said, "That looks much better. You go ahead and take it on in to Mr. Inverness."

"Finally," he muttered, and went to knock on Inverness's door.

Inverness called him in with a curt word, and took the paper from his hands. Stared at it for a few seconds, eyes crossing over it like a butcher's knife, and grunted.

"Well," he said. "Apparently you can take correction, Mr. Smith. Good for you. Too many men can't, especially in this day and age. A goddamn crime in a city of progress; I think they should outlaw it."

Law was a bludgeon, used to get average folk to act the way powerful folk felt they ought to. Folk like Inverness would outlaw all thought, all reason, and all freedom, so long as it meant lining their pockets, Smith thought. If he'd been thinking about himself in the moment, it might have surprised him how deep his disdain for Inverness still ran, from as little time as they'd interacted. But he wasn't thinking along those lines, and the dislike rolled along through him, like wind through the tall grass. "So it's fine?"

"A capable second attempt," Inverness said. "Try it again. Cleaner lines."

Evening came by after far longer than the day should have allowed itself, and most of the office emptied out. Botterill left, and Inverness locked his office and took himself away without a glance or a goodbye to anyone. A few men stayed by their desks, working by the light of the electric lamps; Smith threw down his pencils and paper and stormed down the stairs, past the neglected secretary's desk, and into the close press of the city again.

This place was... repugnant.

The Brooks & Inverness office was nestled deep enough in the city that even escaping from its walls just meant he was hemmed in by walls, but had the sky above. He didn't want to chance the hinterlands around the city, in the dark. He turned east toward the lake, and the promise of some open vista. This place was too closed-in, but the water had to offer some consolation; even a blowhard like Inverness had thought so.

The walk east was stranger than he might have thought. There was the odd blind alley, sure, and some streets that defied the orderly grid the city planners had tried to impose, but navigation weren't the problem. Just, every time he turned down toward the docks, he felt something sending him off elsewhere. Not like the tug that had pulled him out to the banks of the Dakota; more like a push, maybe, or a nudge, warning away, not beckoning towards.

Irritated, he ignored it. Set his feet on the road, and came to the edge of the water as an act of will.

Here, the sunset was mostly caught by the blank faces of buildings, and what little color slanted into the lake tinged it red as blood. Inverness had talked about watching the sunrise, here. Well, at sunset, the water was cut by boats, owned by industry. He didn't remember it being different at the beginning of the day, taking his leave from Strauss.

Strauss would be on the water, now, sailing up the Lannahechee. Smith wondered what he was thinking of, at the moment. His great-aunt? His research? The sunlight that colored the waves?

No business of his, he supposed.

The maps Smith had bought had told him the names of things, around here. They'd settled into his mind, made a home for themselves, comfortable as cats. And the boats going by seemed to have their purposes written on them in the way they were constructed, clear as map labels.

Those narrow, flat-bottomed boats could go up a river like the Dakota; maybe as far up as Bacchus Station. Bigger ferries must have gone down toward the San Luis, and the biggest probably went across Flat Iron Lake and up the Lannahechee toward Saint Denis. And one of the biggest, all grand and rich and decorated, sailing in to see Blackwater backlit by the setting sun, seemed to say: We missed you.

We missed you, that's what happened.

Not like a welcome; more like a warning-off. Course, how could a boat miss anything.

He had no desire to set foot on that ferry; nor, likely, enough money to. He had precious little tucked away in his pocket, and no interest in spending it — save maybe on a drink, with his room and board taken care of. Shouldn't spend all of it. Wasn't prudent.

A penny for the ferryman. Old superstition, he thought: spend all the money you had, but keep a penny in your pocket for the last crossing. Never let the last one go. If it was the only thing you had to your name, keep it to hand. Wasn't sure he'd ever cared much about it; wasn't sure if he'd ever been in a place where the question of having one penny to spend or save would have mattered. But there it was. More fortunate men than that might go off with enough wealth to cover both eyes with silver dollars. From what he knew, though — what he must have learned somewhere, from some book or mentor — it didn't much matter to that ferryman what coin you paid, and it didn't much matter to the body lying dead what coin it kept on its person. That ferry was nothing like the tall boat, strung with lights, sailing in from Saint Denis.

The last light of the day faded, and yielded the lake and the city to the night and the first resolute stars. Lamps along the streets had mostly been lit already; they held the night at bay, just about, though their light seemed to stick to the streets and buildings and didn't dare venture out from its proper place. The sky was wild, yet, and the water stretched on far past the streetlights, and on the other side of the city, surely grasses went on into the plains, into countryside conquered each evening by the gathering dark.

America.

An apathetic name. He hadn't thought about where he was, not really, in Purgatory; Purgatory, West Elizabeth, America was nothing more than a set of words one might scrawl on an envelope. But here, watching the dark water, he started to wonder if it had meant something else, once. He didn't feel like a patriotic man.

But there were different Americas, he thought. Watching the ferry come in. Watching the lines cast to draw it flank-up to the docks. There was the America that was cities like this one and railroads, that was apathy and corruption and politics in monumented Washington, that was sheriffs and churches and bickering and banking and advertising. And then there was the America which set its banner in the rising and the setting of the sun, which existed in the long breath of wind over open land, which was freedom and grit and brotherhood and the name of the land. And the one America cannibalized the other, and here he was, on the wrong side.

And it seemed like the ferry promised something, and he couldn't find it in himself to believe it. Promised a way out of the wrong America; riches or freedom or open land somewhere. But Saint Denis, on the map, seemed a larger city than Blackwater; if that was where the ferry went, where it returned from, there was no freedom to be found that way.

The thought settled on his stomach, heavy as grief might lay.

The night was no longer restful. With the ferry in the dock, now, the strange homeless urge to act was settling again on his shoulders, with no more reason nor direction than it had borne at Lovro's hanging. He had no damn business on a Saint Denis ferry — or a Blackwater one; whichever city that boat called home. He had no cause to keep it in the corner of his eye, half-thinking it would go up in gunfire or flames. And that tall stooping apparition had no place there, but he felt if he waited long enough, followed the ferry wherever it led, he'd see it soon.

He didn't want to. He stood and turned his back on the lake, and headed for the hotel.

There was no table in his room save the little scrap of a thing by the headboard of his bed, but it was enough to scrawl something off to send to Strauss, and then open the blank book and stare at its pages. Almost hesitated to put his pencil to them.

When he did, at last, he couldn't decide whether the line was more reproachful, the way the wolf and the stag had been after the third and final mishap with Strauss's teas, or more mournful and betrayed, the way the copper dog had looked when he'd told him he wasn't staying. Here he was, and he'd sold something never meant to be sold, like — like cooking a loyal horse for dinner.

A thing done, in hard places, in order to survive. A wound on the soul, on the honor of the soul, all the same.

What a goddamn mess. And here he'd thought he wasn't daunted by the city. Maybe he was fool enough to believe that; to keep believing that, and not even to notice when the city closed around him and stole the breath from his lungs. If this was a living he was meant to find, sitting at that desk, he wasn't sure living and life had much to do with each other.

He drew the city. Part of it. Not Newbrasky Lane, where Brooks & Inverness burrowed into the line of buildings like a tick seeking warmth and blood. The little lane with the bookshop instead, with its single painted window. He could add some detail from memory. He'd have to bring the book out, find somewhere to sit for a while, to capture most of it; for now, though, he doused the light and crawled into the bed and slept.

Forget the little town up near Diablo Ridge. If there was a purgatory he'd encountered, he'd lay money on it being the Brooks & Inverness office; the walls that blocked all the good light of day and replaced it with the buzzing electric, the men who wore their stiff waistcoats and called good-natured insults back and forth at each other as they hunched over their desks; the bitter sullen drudge-work of drawing a pencil or a pen over and over a paper, only for sour Mr. Inverness to come over and ladle words of acid all over it.

Mrs. Botterill seemed to take pity on Smith, at least, though he wasn't sure pity was really something he wanted. And she was one person he felt he could regard as an ally, though he wasn't certain why. Might have reminded him of a person he couldn't remember.

Might have; the only clue he got for that was the way the wrong title kept slipping out of his mouth when he addressed her. The third time he slipped and called her Miss Botterill, she huffed and said "I don't know what is it about you, Smith, that you really think I'm not old enough to have a life or two behind me." Then she gave him a sharp look, and said "Or you think I'm an old maid because no one would have me. So which is that — you a flatterer, or are you insulting an old woman?"

"Ah..." There didn't seem to be a good way to answer that.

Fortunately, Botterill seemed to get her enjoyment out of just asking the question. She went along her way, chuckling, and left Smith to think about the noose of words he'd tied for himself.

Seemed like there might be some other name creeping around the corners of his mind, vanishing into the underbrush when he looked for it. For some reason, the only thing that pricked into his memory was Strauss, amused, saying I'm sure the Brothers Grimm would find you as interesting a subject as I do.

The Brothers Grimm. Sure. Strauss could laugh, and he didn't know the half of it. And what Smith knew was as useless as having five cards over three suits from a full deck, and none of them faces.

The only things that teased familiarity in this place were Botterill and the ferry. Not the work, not the lodgings, not the rhythm of day-to-day life. And perhaps he could settle down here, and damn the past to be lost, and live well enough and be miserable in so doing; when Friday came along, the whole week's labor left him with two illustrations that Inverness grudgingly declared acceptable, and paid out thirty-three dollars and seventy-five cents for, after the house's cut.

By any measure, it was more than generous as a week's wages for an unskilled man in off the street, looking for whatever work he could find. More than a goodly number of professions would pay in one whole month. And Smith felt that it could have been ten times that sum and still not have paid for the week's drudgery.

He had no idea how any man could bear to live like this.

Inverness must have caught something of his expression, because he rummaged in his desk and came up with a cigar much cheaper than the kind he usually had between his teeth. "Chin up, Smith," he said, and handed it over. Smith wondered if he just had a box of them lying around to make his employees think he was celebrating with them. "Learning a trade is always a rough business. Soon you'll be handing in two illustrations a day, only working when you feel like it, have enough money for a house in Blackwater and one in Saint Denis, and a wife in one and a mistress in the other." He might have laughed at his own joke, but it would have taken time away from the rapid-fire talking. "Well." He struck a match. "Here's to your success, and a long and lucrative partnership with Brooks & Inverness."

Smith could barely scrape enough courtesy together to say, "Thanks," and the thanks were mostly for the tobacco and not the toast. Or the reassurance.

As for long and lucrative, he couldn't help but notice that Inverness had made eleven dollars and a quarter for his cut, and for doing... Smith didn't know. Making a promise to some catalog for two pictures of dresses, he guessed. And otherwise sitting at his desk, or prowling around the office and snapping at the men working.

Well, Botterill called the place a bullpen. Smith supposed that made him a bull. And all this nonsense, bullshit.

He took himself out of the office, got out of sight of the building, and tried to let the cigar un-knot the tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his gut. It didn't help much. By the time he finished, he wanted to either set fire to the city or take a horse and run for the horizon, any horizon; whichever presented itself.

Thirty dollars and change wasn't enough to get any horse worth having, and this part of the city were mostly brick and wouldn't burn. He looked for a saloon.

The one he found was some modern saloon, all neat and polished and with shelves and shelves of bottles on display behind the bar. He half-expected the place to go quiet when he walked in, for all eyes to turn toward him, obvious as an intruder, but he got a few glances and then a general disregard — of course. He did look like he belonged here, in the good shirt Strauss had given him and his ink-stained fingertips; looked no rougher than any clerk, he supposed. Couldn't decide whether that armored him or offended him, or why it should do either, but it itched at him, certainly.

He went up and tossed two coins on the bar. One for a drink, one for the bartender; good luck, or good prudence, or something. He barely tasted the drink, when he drank. Didn't seem the point, somehow.

Coin on the bar. Barkeep gave him a friendly enough look; seemed like it might be his job to do that, in a place like this. "You new around here, friend?"

He didn't much feel like garnering too much attention. "New enough."

"Ah, well, how are you finding it?"

He sounded kind enough. Sounded interested enough. Didn't sound like he meant the question as mockery. Still hit like mockery, all the same.

"It's a miserable city, full of miserable people." Smith tried to take this drink slower. The idea was to relax, not buy the man out of business. But the burn of it in his throat seemed to promise something, maybe some certainty or some relief, if he could just slake the scrabbling restlessness moving through his muscles. He drank.

Coin on the bar. "That bad a day, huh?" the barkeep asked.

That bad a week. That bad a month. That bad a life. Like an echo cast by no sound: I've lived a bad life..., and the restlessness didn't settle; it moved through his muscles like dust kicked up by the wind. A bad life.

Strauss didn't care if he was a bum or a prince. Would he have cared if he'd been something else?

The people here might. Might not appreciate having a wolf in their city, who some fool thought could be kept like a dog. But who was the fool? Was Strauss the fool, or was he?

Coins on the bar. Bought the bottle. Bought one for the barkeep. Strauss might have been amused at his misadventures in the Purgatory saloon, but those were working nights, as much as he could manage. Head clear enough for games, and then a little celebration after the games, when he could. No games here, and his work was done until the next miserable day at the desk in the racket surrounded by men all happy enough to be there and to eat from Inverness's goddamn hand.

To hell with this place, if it weren't hell already.

The restlessness wouldn't slake. But this far in, it hardly seemed the point any more; the drink was its own point, and if it brought no relief, it did bring something. Soon enough it brought a hand on his shoulder, a man staring at him, face flushed, expression hot with affront. Smith had probably been saying something. Didn't much care what.

"Where you even from, you son of a bitch?"

Purgatory. Hell, he might as well be. He had nowhere beyond there to claim. He laughed. "Ain't from nowhere."

"You come in here, you give so much shit about this city—"

He was standing. He thought. Wasn't at the bar no more, leastways; standing facing this walking nobody, feet planted on the floor like it were the deck of a ship, the whole world seeming to move and breathe with him. "Your city," he said, "is a goddamn dungheap. It's where good men come to ruin themselves and good fortune comes to die."

The man's expression snapped. He cuffed Smith upside the head, and that set it off.

Apparently, he was a fighter.

Apparently, glad to be one. The fight brought with it a fine fierce red anger, and maybe it had been long enough since he felt joy that this felt like joy, now. He hit the man in the gut, one good solid hit, and the bastard folded like a dime novel. Around him rained out a clatter of chairs, a chorus of drinks dropped or set aside; a general re-arrangement of the room as people cleared. Temptation might have been to let him crumple, to savor the moment of surprise, but prudence of a sort wrested itself from temptation and Smith hit the man again, knocked him against the bar, put him on the ground and kicked him for good measure, because given the choice it was always best, wasn't it, it was always best to be sure that a bastard hit once wasn't going to get up to get a hit in.

And besides, this was purpose, this was something to do — this was an answer to that restless sullen rage; this was an answer to that homeless urge to act. Maybe at Lovro's hanging, maybe at the docking ferry, he should have just taken the chance to lay a man or a city or a whole damn world out flat at his feet.

Folk were yelling. Some fool charged him, probably aiming to put him on the ground as well, and, well, that weren't a thing to let stand. Fight weren't over yet, and he were glad of it. That weren't... happiness, exactly, but something hot as banked embers, satisfying as fresh meat and strong drink, red and wolfish and vital as the blood in his heart. He might be no one. He might be a man without a past to his name and without a future to speak of, but he could still do this, couldn't he? He could see a man on the ground in front of him, he could know it for the power in his hands, he could feel to his bones that here was something that wouldn't have come to pass without him, something that owed itself to him, and that was better than money which any fool could earn or position any ass could be born to. It was his, god damn and by god, and his was the heart that beat faster for it.

It was his. And if it were the only thing he could call his, well, that was what the world had for him, weren't it? No one'd taught him it ought to be fair. Might have taught him he wasn't long for it; no place for him, his no history, his no patience, no prospects — what did the world care except to bring men in the door to stop him. Men in neat blue coats, with lines of shiny buttons, so far from the real grit of the world that there were no dust on their shoulders.

We'll go down fighting, some fancy or passing memory told him. And Strauss's voice: I don't know what really happened to that animal in the end.

Well. Maybe he didn't, neither.

The blood was in his ears and the drink was in his mind and the fight was in all of him, and that was most of what he knew until he woke in a cell the next morning.

Chapter Text

He had the impression that he'd dreamed, though mostly that impression was shadowy places and sooty fur, and godawful satisfaction, or amusement. And he woke with his cheek against a familiar sort of mean bed, but without the familiarity of wind or the smell of sun-warmed dirt, and none of that familiarity survived the thumping of his head when he opened his eyes to see bars and slatted floors. Couldn't quite remember what he'd just been thinking.

Couldn't quite remember where he was, or why. At least who was firmly in place, much as he had of it.

He groaned. Got himself sitting mostly upright, and cradled his skull. His hand didn't think his skull was cracked, never mind what his head had to say about the matter; his mouth tasted somehow like blood gone sour, and his thoughts felt bruised.

"Well, if it isn't Rip Van Winkle," someone said. Smith looked up to see a man in uniform scowling at him from a desk nearby.

A shiver of wariness made its way up his spine, like the rise of a dog's fur. "What happened?" he asked. Had a feeling he was on a knife's edge — something gravelly and mostly innocent on one side, a noose on the other. So long as — so long as — as something.

"Blackwater is a civilized town," the deputy — would he be a deputy, in this place, with this modern constabulary? They'd be police officers, or something, here — said. "We don't look kindly on drunken brawls. This isn't some shanty town in the middle of nowhere with cows wandering across the roads."

"Clearly," Smith muttered, but the wariness settled; the unformed fear passed. A drunken brawl wasn't the sort of thing a busy city would or could hang a man for. Not unless they fancied having a hanging or three every night, he reckoned.

The deputy glared at him, as though suspecting some mockery concealed in Smith's disdain. "There's a fine for breaking the peace," he said. "Twenty-five dollars, and you're free to go."

"Twenty-five dollars?" That was most of the money he'd earned. How much did he even have left? "Did I kill someone?"

"Not for lack of trying," the officer said. "In this life, there are laws, and there are consequences. Twenty-five dollars, or you can cool your heels until we think you've learned your lesson."

Oh, good. And how long might that be? Smith had the impression he'd offended this man, though he had no recollection how. "Think I've learned all the lessons I need to," he said, and dug out the money from his pocket.

He did have twenty-five dollars. Almost had twenty-nine. Which meant that he had his freedom, what little good it did him, and about four left over.

He handed the money over, and the officer took it, counted it, gave him a look that seemed just meant to pass the time, and finally deigned to open the door to the cell. "Go on, then," he said. "Get out of here."

Easy enough.

Expensive, but easy. Smith nodded at him — it hurt no alibis to be polite — and left the police station without looking too close at anyone, for risk of inviting a glance back.

Habit, that seemed like. What, like a habit a bum might get into? A drunkard? He didn't know, and the dried-up alcohol that stuck in his brain and ached it made wondering worse work than illustration had been. He gave up on it.

Went back to the hotel, where he found that they'd stopped with the breakfast board service, just about, and managed to convince one of the waitresses running to the kitchen to give him a plate of whatever was left over. It was mostly cold eggs and cold toast and jam at that point, and cold coffee, though he did convince her to give him a lot of cold coffee, which chased away the headache that lingered over from the alcohol last night. Then he went up to his cramped little room, sat on the bed, and looked at the journal he'd picked up.

What was there to do? Besides sitting and feeling sorry for himself. He could make it another week in this hotel, this cramped room and nothing-special board, and in that week he might earn more money from Inverness, if he could stomach it. He didn't know that he could.

Did just figure. He finally found something he had the skill for, and had no stomach for it.

He could go back to Purgatory, and play on people's familiarity, and get the sheriff to speak for him. Find some of that ready work for willing hands. Live out his life in that odd little town where everyone who looked at him saw him as the odd creature the town's odd doctor had kept for a time.

He could strike out on his own. Find some other city. Beg some other work somewhere.

That just sounded like casting himself into the sea.

And, Strauss's mailing address in hand or not, he would cast himself into a sea somewhere before going out to New Hampshire for charity.

Wasn't... much more to consider. Those were the available options, just about. Didn't know a single other person in the world, except...

Except. A chance encounter outside the Purgatory stables. A man who sold horses Smith couldn't afford. Who owned a ranch. Had to be work around a ranch, hadn't there? And if there weren't... rather, if there weren't work open...

Spending the last of what he had was a gamble. But he was a gambling man. And this might risk more than a round of betting in a saloon, but might pay far better, for longer.

It was a chance, at least.

He headed for the stables.

There were fine horses in the Blackwater stables. Beautiful ones. Well-fed, well-groomed and well-worked, who looked at him with intelligent calm curiosity. No, he couldn't afford to buy a horse outright, but could hire one for a time.

He asked directions from the stable man, who knew Oak Rose well enough. "We get some fine saddlers from Mr. Dryden," he said. "Really beautiful horses. Can't keep them in the stables long. I think he'll likely be making a name for himself far outside of West Elizabeth if he keeps on the way he's going."

"Good to hear," Smith said. He put his name and the name of his employer and his lodgings down, presumably as insurance against him riding off on the horse and never being seen again. Which was itself an unreasonably attractive notion, and by this point Smith wasn't certain he cared if he lost that goddamned job and was kicked out of the hotel — or the city — never to be let back in. So perhaps that piece of caution did less than the stable-owner would like, but Smith wasn't going to mention that to the man.

The mare he chose was a tall, clear-eyed thing who stepped out onto the Blackwater streets all purpose and energy, happy to be moving even if she had no part in choosing where. He had to keep her to a walk until they cleared the Blackwater outskirts, then went to a trot as they wove through the traffic of morning arrivals, deliveries, and other business. The roads opened up as the city shrunk in the distance, and Smith brought the horse to a gallop, flying down the way.

Something within him unfurled, like a bird given space to spread its wings. Given the set of the horse's neck and the tremble in her shoulders, it seemed like she was happy to get out, too; too long in a stall, too slow and steady everyday riders, too much time amongst the walls and cobbles of a city and too little under the open air.

Oh, they understood each other. And he could have taken the mare and run with her, and damn the consequences, but he had this one last thing to try before he could afford to blast those bridges.

Smith found himself humming, with the tune jostled in his chest at every hoofbeat, which made it somehow more right, to him, and not less so. A clue, as Strauss would say. Well, weren't as if he didn't already know he was happier here, out in the world; he didn't need to know his past to know that.

As time went on, it seemed as though that past got less important, anyway. Oh, surely, it was a nuisance, not knowing. But he was here, living. That forgetfulness didn't stop that. Clearly wasn't urgent that he know, if he could make it so far without knowing; and he might not be living well, but what was to say he ever had? That past of his... it might have been important, but who was he to say? Might not have, either.

He wasn't important, surely. Man of no skills for the most part, no patience for the skills he had. Just one more creature clinging to this rock and waiting out his time.

Maybe.

Maybe there were something in those memories that'd give him more than he could build on his own. A wife somewhere; a house. A dog. Miserable luck they had, if they existed, losing him, trapped waiting for his return. Unless it was no hardship whatsoever for them to lose him; hell, they might be happier with him gone.

If they existed; if anything so neat and cozy were a part of his past, if — if ifs and ands were pots and pans. No use in it.

There was nothing he could discover or prove or disprove here on the trail, so there was no point running himself in loops about it. The day was fine, the sun was warm, and his horse was fresh. Right crime against decency to waste it in his own head. Better to drink in the open sky, and let that slake a thirst inside him.

The horse couldn't gallop the whole way, and he let her let up when she felt like it. Gave the mare her head, along with a good pat. A ways later, in sight of the banks of the Dakota, they passed a thicket of brambles; Smith looked closer to see that they were blackberries, and stopped to forage some. Fed some to the mare, and let her graze a while. So that was something, too, recognizing a bush from horseback; might just be a trapper, living off wild land and not cultivated earth, and he'd stopped working with Strauss just a moment too soon to learn it.

He let the mare's enthusiasm set the pace, and in so doing, they made good time. Came to Dryden's ranch with the sun still high enough in the sky to lay the place out like a painting.

Oak Rose Ranch was a sprawling compound, looking like it had started off small and added on, and added on, and added on. Prosperous, too; the fences and buildings were well-maintained, and folk were going about between them, carrying loads and doing work. There were horses out in pastures, right enough, and a couple large empty corrals that looked likely for cattle — though the cattle were out elsewhere, from what he could tell.

He sat on his horse — his hire-horse — for a while, watching the movement down below. Familiarizing himself with it. Felt confident enough, when he nudged the mare down the hill, in calling one building the main house, and guessing that it was where Dryden or whoever ran the ranch for him would be.

He'd paid into the gamble. Sat down at the table. Now it was time to see how the cards were dealt.

He hitched up outside, went to the door, and knocked.

The reception here was much like the reception at Inverness's office, which might have been a good sign or an awful one — or might have just meant that these were two men who had plenty of callers, no one whose job it was to get the door, and no patience for getting it themselves. A rough voice called out, "It's not locked!", and it seemed like that was all the invitation he'd get. Smith pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Place was homey, cozy — in a way; in that it had been built as a home, clearly, but didn't stretch much beyond the fact that someone must have lived in it. The main room had a few chairs clustered around a rug by the fireplace, but there were sparse comforts beyond that, and little enough thought for decoration. Rack of antlers on the wall. Then a couple desks, a cabinet, a bookshelf with a few doors on it, and keyholes on the doors.

Might have been used as a home at one point. Chairs sure looked well-worn. But it had been mostly cleared out, made into a place for business, and the man sitting at one of the desks looked like he'd been placed there for business. He was going over a ledger of some sort, and when he glanced up and saw Smith, he flipped the ledger closed. "Who are you?"

"Name's Smith," he said. Still had no idea how to introduce himself, and this time he had no letter of introduction to offer. "Ah, and... you are?"

"I'm the overseer of Oak Rose Ranch," the man said. "What's your business?"

Well, that was the question. "Is Mr. Dryden in?"

The overseer gave him an unimpressed once-over. "He may be. You have some business here?"

This here was an errand of some self-discovery: now, Smith was discovering how little he liked being questioned. He had words to say to Dryden, not this man. "I was wondering if he might be looking to take on any more hands."

The overseer drummed his fingers on the ledger. "Not at present."

"I'm real good with horses," Smith said.

"We've got plenty of men already who are good with horses."

A chance encounter and an offhand compliment did not an offer for employment make. Smith wasn't so naive as to believe otherwise. Still, men were men, and he did feel that most kept more room for negotiation than they believed.

"Look, I met him in Purgatory, a week or so back," he said. "He told me to stop by sometime."

The overseer leaned back in his chair, and gave Smith another good look. "I'll go in, see if he remembers you," he said. "But I don't think we're looking for any labor."

"All I ask," Smith said, and set himself to wait until Dryden could be dragged away from whatever important work he might have been doing.

Didn't take long, actually. The overseer came back, following Dryden, and set himself against the wall to keep an eye on things. Or to see how badly he'd annoyed his own boss by bringing in some unexpected vagabond. Dryden, for his part, clearly recognized Smith immediately — and just as clearly was surprised to see him.

"Well, Mr. Smith," Dryden said.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," Smith said. "It's just — you said I should stop by."

"I was thinking you might be in the market to buy a horse," Dryden said. "Not looking for work."

Maybe that change of clothes Strauss had bought him had been enough to give Dryden the wrong impression. The clothes, and the regular laundry, and the rich food all together. And what had the sheriff said, about willing hands finding work? ...well, to be fair, he had found work. It was just that the work was abhorrent, and the work which might not be abhorrent seemed not to be up for finding.

"Strange turn," he said — let Dryden think what he would of that, make whatever assumptions he cared to. "I can work. I'm good at what I do, and you won't find another like me."

Where that certainty had come from, he didn't know. More he poked it — not that he had much time now to do so — more he thought it wasn't certainty, really. Just words to say that might be what Dryden needed to hear. And Dryden considered them. Seemed to take the measure of him. "That confident, are you?"

Confidence seemed wrong. "Don't like to brag," he said, but it seemed to be necessary.

"Can you train horses?" Dryden asked.

Smith blinked. Found, to his surprise, the answer on the tip of his tongue. "Train them? Sure." Maybe not train them for a parade, or a circus, but he thought he knew how to put a horse through its paces.

"And how confident are you of that?"

Confident enough. "Why? What you got that needs doing?"

"Well," Dryden said, "come with me."

Dryden took him out, back through the maze of paddocks and sheds and barns, into the stable — a long building, high-roofed, with tack and cabinets and workbenches at one end and wide stalls along each wall. One of the ranch's hands was working at a bench at the far end, maintaining a saddle. Most of the stable stalls were empty; seemed that most of the horses were out in the pastures. A few held stallions, who watched Smith and Dryden as they walked in. And one held a stallion who stamped and snorted, and looked at the two of them with as much offense as a horse could muster.

Dryden stopped across from his stall, and regarded him.

The angry stallion was a dark bay quarterhorse with black points, his coat looking dusty and fleabitten, who pinned his ears and snapped over his tall stall door at them. Fed well enough, but hardly groomed, and the top of his stall door looked gnawed.

Not a good sign. Any of it.

"I bought Legionary intending to stud him out," Dryden said. "But as you can see, he's too temperamental to handle. When we do get him out, he'd rather charge the hands than take the mares. Now, I don't want to get rid of him — I paid good money here, and I want his bloodline in my horses. So I'll make you a deal." He turned to look at Smith. "Let's see if you can gentle him. I'll give you until Wednesday. Prove to me you can get a saddle on him by then, and I'll make a place for you here."

The ranch hand at the end of the stables snorted in either amusement or alarm. Probably amusement, guessing by the way he got way too interested in the saddle he was working as soon as Smith looked his way. Smith looked back to the horse.

"A saddle on him," he said, just to make sure. "By Wednesday."

"That's the deal," Dryden said.

Smith was fairly certain Dryden meant to take him for a fool. And, well, Dryden didn't seem to have much to lose. As for Smith, there were three ways this could end for him: he'd end up looking a fool, he'd end his life with a horse's hoof in his skull, or he'd get a job on a ranch, not in some dusty crowded buzzing goddamn city office. Those were fair odds.

"Give me a pasture to use," he said, not knowing where the plan came from, but knowing what he needed. "Or a paddock. Or a long rope and a tree. Give me that, and you got yourself a deal."

The ranch hand over in the corner made a noise. "Mr. Dryden, I ain't carrying his body to the undertaker."

Dryden sized Smith up. For a coffin, no doubt. But he turned to the ranch hand, and called, "You get this man anything he needs." Then he turned back to Smith, and shook his hand. "Best of luck, sir."

Well, luck was a fickle friend at best. He'd prefer to have something else on his side. Time might tell if he did.

Still, he gave the man a little salute, and took the time to look over his challenge.

Legionary was surely not happy to see him. Or anyone. Still stamping; eyes on Smith like he was already ready for a fight.

The deal was, Smith had to get a saddle on him. Not break all his bad habits, not turn him into a perfect angel. Just get a saddle on.

And the ranch hand thought this was going to be an impossible job.

Interesting, that. Dryden had said he'd bought this horse; Smith had the feeling that, given a wild one, just getting a saddle on would be no object in the time he was given. Which meant that this horse had something going on that he should probably know about, and he had to see if he could get the horse to tell him, if no one else would.

"All right, Legionary," he said, and approached the stall, hands placating. The horse did have a bit of a Roman nose; not something Mr. Dryden was bothered by, evidently. "It's the two of us, boy. Gonna be good for me?"

Legionary responded by rearing behind his high door, and doing his best to kick in the space left to him.

"He will kill you," the ranch hand called over. "I'd go home, partner. There're easier jobs."

"He won't kill me," Smith said, eyeing the horse. "He's just having a bad day, is all. You would be, too, if you was locked in a box. You got a rope I can use?"

"You think he's got good days?" the hand asked. Still, he left his saddle to sit, and brought Smith a good rawhide lariat, which had a satisfying weight and flex in his hands.

Smith looked at the hand. Youngish man, though not so young; maybe just crossing twenty. Skin too full of sun. Might got some Indian blood in him somewhere, though the frizzled beech-wood hair suggested not a lot of it. "Smith."

"Ezekiel," the hand said. "Most just call me Zeke."

"Ah-huh," Smith said, and reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, Ezekiel Zeke, what can you tell me about Legionary, here?"

"I can tell you that he's got the soul of a killer," Zeke said. "No one can handle him. And no one wants to."

"So no one does?"

"Well, look at him." Legionary was stamping in his box, glaring at the both of them, the whites of his eyes showing. Worked up just from them standing there. "Gets like this any time anyone comes near him. You try to touch him, he'll be worse. Try to put a bit on him and he'll take off your hand, no mistake."

"How do you muck out the stall?"

Zeke spat. "Two of us get ropes on him and wrestle him over into another one. That's one of the short straw jobs."

Smith suspected that was all the working that Legionary got. "All right. Show me the pasture I'll be using. The closer, the better," he said.

Zeke looked like he was about to warn him off again, but the look Smith shot him put paid to that. "Alright, then," Zeke said, and went to the end of the barn. There was a circular pen — a neat little paddock — just outside there, with the gate facing the stables; Smith might not know how a ranch worked, really, but he could guess that this must have seen a lot of use, if they wanted it as close as could be convenient.

What did they do in there? Exercise? Training? Breeding? Bit of everything? The ground was stamped down; all dust, no grass, and only the hardiest of weeds crept past the edges of the fence. Wasn't meant for grazing, that was certain.

It'd do. He unlatched the gate and pulled it wide. "Right. Ah... you might wanna clear out."

Zeke didn't have to be told twice. "You need any help, you just start screaming your fool head off," he said. "The boys and me'll come over and get you sized up for your burial clothes. What's left of you."

"Shut up," Smith said, and Zeke took himself out.

Smith tested the weight of the rope in his hands. Familiar tool. Not a cowboy; hadn't ridden a range, wasn't familiar with a ranch, but he knew this well enough. He swung the rope, got used to how it moved. Then turned to Legionary in his stall.

"Hello, boy," he said.

Legionary snorted and bared his teeth.

This was the dangerous bit. Smith didn't have another ranch hand with a rope to wrestle Legionary out of his stall, and was taking him further than another stall across the way. Meant that this was the part where he might get trampled before he even began.

"All right, you," he said. "You've been cooped up in that little box for a godawful time. I know how you feel. But you and me — we work together, we both get what we want. You hear me?"

Legionary answered by flaring his nostrils and taking a snap at him.

"Right." Well, if it were easy, some other fool would have done it before Smith had a chance to ask. He threw open the stall door, and scrambled back toward the stable doors, toward the paddock.

Legionary charged him.

Charging horse were faster than a man, no question. Smith was lucky the space from here to the door weren't long, and Legionary held up enough by the turn out of his stall that Smith could get out and round his own corner before getting caught. Legionary burst into the open space, seemed almost stunned for a moment at the sight of paths and sky, and Smith scrambled to get the horse between him and the paddock.

Try to rope him now, and he'd just get charged or dragged. Not the way he planned on ending his day. He snapped the tail end of the rope into the dirt at Legionary's hooves, making it lash like a snake; an inborn fear deeper than the long-trammeled affront had Legionary dancing back, twisting away.

Only long enough for Smith to gather the rope back in hand. Then the horse turned and charged him again; had to be discouraged again, another angry writhing rope in the dirt by his feet, and another dancing abort.

Legionary came around, looked at Smith, clearly thought about charging another time. And Smith got both ends of the rope ready — ready to either throw it or lash it, depending on whether charging or bolting sounded best to the beast.

"Come on, boy," he said. "Just through that gate there."

Legionary was smarter than that. He saw a path that would lead him away from Oak Rose, and made to take it; it was the path closer to Smith, away from most of the buildings, meaning Smith could lash the dirt again and warn him off. Could herd him back toward the gate, and finally get him to turn and bolt through and into the paddock, because all other paths were blocked to him.

Then Smith swung the gate shut and latched it, and let Legionary stamp in offense and eye him balefully, while he stepped back from the fence and caught his breath.

Good. One problem down. And him not dead from it, neither.

Smith took the chance to pace around the outside of the fence, watching how Legionary watched him. Came back around to the gate and boosted himself over it rather than risk opening the thing; Legionary turned and trotted to the far side of the paddock before turning to face him again. Deciding whether to charge.

Smith took the initiative. Pressed in. Legionary sidled, keeping Smith fixed in his attention, and Smith gave a couple little flicks of the rope to let the horse know what was coming.

Then a quick lash out, biting into the dirt by one rear hoof, got Legionary galloping around the edge of the paddock — which must have been a joy and a relief to the beast, for all that it was mixed up in the affront and anger and challenge and frustration and uncertainty and confusion and fear.

Had to burn off the energy, was the first part. There was no getting a saddle on this beast until he'd stand for it, for one thing, and after however goddamn long in one stall or another, he wasn't inclined to stand for anything.

Poor animal. Smith knew how he felt.

After his night in the Blackwater saloon, Smith could hardly blame Legionary for any of the times he turned and charged. He could only hold and turn the horse back, turn him around, get him running the perimeter of the paddock again, and wait for this little measure of freedom and the hard exertion to do its work. And wait for them to come to an understanding: that Smith wasn't going to lash him, and he wasn't going to charge Smith, or bite at him, or kick him, or try to murder him in any other way. Once they had that little agreement in place, the rest could follow.

Took a good while before Legionary started to flag, and Smith dared to start approaching. The horse watched him warily, pawing the ground, ears swiveling from pinned to listening. Smith stopped a couple of horse-lengths away, let Legionary get used to that distance.

"Good boy," he said. "Easy." Then, as Legionary's neck started to snake, he brought the rope around — just a reminder, and one that had Legionary dancing back to the fence before turning to face him again. "What did they do to you, hey?"

Slowly approaching. Legionary wanted him trampled or wanted nothing to do with him; that was clear. Trick was to show the beast that he wasn't getting everything he wanted. He'd get treated fair, wouldn't get lashed or hit or whatever he was expecting, would get a chance to move out under the open air. Get mares to mount, if he cooled off a little. But wouldn't get to vent his outrage on Smith, nor on any of the men here, no.

Legionary wasn't too interested in learning that lesson. Charged him again, and had to be set moving around the paddock again. Reared a few times, which meant more trips around the fence. He'd worked himself into a sweat, right enough; Smith wondered if he'd manage to work the horse around to the point where someone could get close enough to brush him down at the end of it.

And all of it was almost as exhausting for him as it was for the horse. Constant watching for a constant threat; couldn't take a moment to swat a fly or glance at the position of the sun, because Legionary would take any chance he was given. And Smith kept feeling like he needed to mind his feet, as though there were another rope in the sum — as though he mostly had expected to do this with a long line and a sturdy tree to keep the horse contained, not a paddock fence.

A clue.

No time to focus on it. All his focus had to stay on this little dance he and the stallion had; the bargain they were making.

There was no being impatient in training a horse. If you needed something done in five minutes, it would take five days. Press too hard, and you'd break what you'd built. Just had to keep at it.

Sun was getting low when someone called, "Hey, you. Come on out of the paddock, here."

Smith had to bury some irritation and get Legionary to a position where he felt comfortable enough looking over; the last thing he wanted was for the horse to test him as soon as he turned his head. The man who'd hailed him was another youngish one, twenties somewhere, mulatto unless Smith missed his guess. Neat hair, cut short. Wore a faded blue waistcoat that looked like it had never been meant for the kind of labor he'd put it through.

And he was carrying two plates and two bottles. That did get Smith to work his way around the the gate and step out, and leave Legionary to consider his predicament inside.

"Evening," the man said, and handed over the dinner.

"Evening," Smith answered. The plate, he guessed was a portion of the ranch hands' mess — some kind of stewed beef with beans and potatoes and onions, a chunk of sourdough as big as both fists. The bottle proved to be sarsaparilla. "Didn't know I was getting fed."

The man laughed. "Well, we figured that was kinda implied," he said. "At least, I figured that. I've never seen old Legionary take that well to someone."

"I imagine he has cause not to," Smith said. "Who owned him, before?"

The ranch hand settled down on one of the short fences that outlined the path out from the stables. "Some racing man, I think," he said, and dug into his food. "I don't know. I ain't involved in any of that business. Abersson." He extended his hand.

"Smith." He shook Abersson's hand, and turned to his meal. "Well, the food's appreciated. You like it here?"

"I like it well enough," Abersson said. "Work's no harder here than anywhere, and it's varied, at least. And Dryden's fair." Abersson looked at Smith. "You worked on many ranches before?"

Smith had enough years on Abersson that he ought to have something to show for them. Still. "Not really," Smith said.

"What've you been doing, then?"

Most natural question in the world. Smith wondered how he was ever going to answer it. Wouldn't be the last time he was asked, surely. "This and that. Nothing for long."

"Huh." Abersson seemed to see he wouldn't be getting much conversation, and turned his attention to his food for a while, and Smith followed suit. God, but a solid workman's dinner felt good after the ride and the work of the day.

Abersson cleaned his plate as quickly as Smith did, and collected the plates back. Looked over towards Legionary. "You going to put him back in his stall?"

That would be a trick. Harder than getting a saddle on in half a week. Without roping him and wrestling him in, Smith didn't see how; it wasn't like he could have stood in the stall and let Legionary charge him, even if the beast was still in a charging mood. "No. Let him stay out here. Get some space to stretch his legs." Even if that space was only a paddock wide.

Abersson shrugged. "Guess I'd better bring out his dinner, then."

Legionary had to be hungry, yeah. Needed a good brush-down, too, but little chance of that. "I'll help."

"Ah, no need to," Abersson said. "My turn to feed the horses, anyway. Me and a couple of the other boys. Besides..."

He gestured to Legionary, who wasn't quite all the way on the far side of the paddock, but was watching them real close. That gesture was meant to say something; maybe you've already done enough, but Smith was here, and there was no reason not to help. Might make either the hands or the horse like him one whit more, and that was something. "I'll help," he said again.

"Well," Abersson said. "Suit yourself."

Meant he got a bit of a tour of the ranch, anyway. Saw the bunkhouse, and the chuckwagon parked outside it; apparently they still used it to feed the hands when everyone was sitting happy at home. Saw the barns, and the great stacks of hay Dryden put aside, and the bunker silos, where cattle feed was kept. Saw a few more of the denizens of the ranch, too.

Not all the hands were as young as Zeke and Abersson. A few were younger, swaggering youths clearly pleased to be out from family homes or whatever, doing men's work in a company of men. A couple were more Smith's own age; one was older, already mostly grey, and looked at Smith with the curious, unhurried speculation a very old dog might have.

Abersson confided, "Old Greek there's been working for the ranch since Mr. Dryden's father owned it. I think it was mostly cows back then, not horses. He still knows everything there is to know about this place."

"Good to know," Smith said, as they hauled the hay back to the paddock.

Legionary had gone to work at the few little weeds he could reach, around the base of the fence. He looked up when they came back, and trotted to the far side of the paddock to watch them.

"Here," Abersson said. "You get that load in, and I'll draw some water from the pump."

"Right." Took not long at all, though Legionary didn't bother to come up for his dinner. Not with Smith and Abersson still nearby, least. Abersson watched him for a bit — look on his face said he was marking the fact that Legionary wasn't stamping or rearing, not the fact where he wasn't approaching — then shrugged and looked to Smith again.

"You want to get set up in the bunkhouse?" Abersson asked. "There's a few open beds."

"Nah." The answer was there without him needing to think about it. "I'll set up out here. Want him—" he looked over at Legionary, whose head had lowered, but came up again at the renewed attention, "—to get used to me being here."

Abersson stared at him for a moment. "...you're serious?"

" 'Course." He'd be on this side of the fence; Legionary couldn't get at him. At least, if the beast started kicking down the fence, Smith would hear him and wake up in time to do something about it. And the more time he could spend with Legionary looking over and seeing him, and accepting that he were a part of the scenery, now, and not something to get away from, the better off they'd be.

Abersson still stared at him. "You want... you want a bedroll, or a blanket, or something? We've got plenty."

Well, they would have to, if they went on drives or had any pastures too far-flung, wouldn't they? Hadn't occurred to him, though. The weather was clear, the temperature was fine, and it didn't seem like a hard chill was coming in overnight. "Nah, I'm fine." Didn't want to ask too much. The less he asked, the less he exhausted their hospitality. The less Dryden had to hold in his accounts.

"Okay, then," Abersson said. Still looked at him strangely, though. With his neat hair, with his waistcoat, seemed like he might be the sort to take comforts where he could find them — of dress, civilization, even a soft place to sit or lie at the end of a long day. Smith felt as though he might have looked down on someone like that, but found no disdain in him.

Man was here, working, after all — he supposed. If there was something more to it, it escaped him.

"Well," Abersson said. "If you don't need anything... good night, I guess."

Smith gave him a little salute. Abersson cast one look back to the horse in the paddock, and headed off.

Legionary watched him go. Turned to look at Smith when Abersson was gone, and Smith shrugged and walked to the other side of the path and sat down against the wall of the stable.

Legionary picked his way very carefully across the paddock, gave Smith a long, considering look, then lowered his head and ate.

"Well," Smith said, quietly. Legionary's ears flicked at him. "There you go."

That was good enough for now, then.

He sat back, looked up, and watched the sky flush with color. Thought for a moment, then pulled the little blank book out from his jacket pocket, and scribbled for a while while the light was good. Legionary, Oak Rose, the progress of the day... started in on a report for Strauss, on another page, but by then the sky was indigo denim, and he put the book away.

The light of day was yielding to the specks of light that called the darkness home. Fireflies, alive in the warmth of night. And the constellations: the North Star to lead him; the drinking gourd, spilling water on the horizon. Crickets droned in the easy darkness, and a there was a restless wind keeping itself up at night, going who-knew-where from who-knew-whence.

The fences, the beaten paths, the buildings — they were all marks of man on the open land. But not like Blackwater, where man sought to stamp out any reminder of the wild world. Still had grass here, and animals grazing; the quick scurry of something small and timid from weed to weed, and the fireflies calling to each other in silence.

More comfort than a bedroll could offer. He leaned back against the stable wall, and slept.

He was up with the sun. The rest of the ranch seemed to rise early, too; maybe all working ranches did, but he didn't know. Anyway, Abersson came back around with a plate of breakfast, and looked impressed that he was up and not bleary-eyed or stiff or cursing. He looked over at Legionary, who stamped once or twice, then took himself off to the far side of the paddock and glared.

"Well, he's calmed down, ain't he?"

Smith almost laughed. "Well, we'll see once I'm actually in there with him."

"Don't need to get into his stall for him to get angry," Abersson said. "Right now? He's not angry."

Maybe not. But if horses were at all like men, anger that deep-rooted didn't go away in an evening. There might be plenty of anger left in Legionary, tamped down and ready to flash if he wasn't handled right.

"Well," Smith said. He was working, and he knew how to do the work he was doing. That was enough for him, just now, and he didn't need to explain it. "What do you boys use for treats around here? You give the horses anything?"

"I mean, there's always a basket of carrots in the barn," Abersson said. "When I'm riding, I usually keep a tin or two of oatcakes. I dunno; pulling a carrot out of my waistcoat pocket seems a little... vaudeville, you know what I mean?"

Smith snorted. "So I guess that's what you do when you get a day to yourself?"

Abersson grinned. "Blackwater's got a decent theatre," he said. "I hear it's nothing like the one in Saint Denis, but I've never been out that way. One day I will, though."

Smith looked at him. He wore a different worn waistcoat, neat as he could make it; his hair was clipped short enough that it lay in waves against his head, and neatly oiled. He did look like he might long for city life. But who was Smith to say? And Abersson clearly saw no hardship in wearing his nice clothes to the crossthreads, working in them day after day. "I'm sure you will."

Abersson finished his plate, and picked up Smith's. "You want to see if he'll like you better if you give him some sweets?"

"Something like that," Smith said. Abersson laughed.

"Right, well. I'll fetch something out for you."

Abersson left as Zeke came by and heaved a clump of hay into the paddock, and Legionary stood on the far side from it and watched him warily. Zeke watched Legionary warily right back. "What did you do?" he asked. "Put laudanum in his water?"

"I suspect you're not the one who usually trains the horses," Smith said.

Zeke spat. "Nah. That's Grady. He's a piece of work."

Which seemed like all he had to say on the subject. Or he had too many other jobs to see to this morning, or he was just less inclined to stand and chat than Abersson was. He headed off toward one of the barns across the way, without another word.

Legionary, though, watched him go, then picked his way slowly across the paddock to the hay. Came and ate, no matter that Smith was still nearby. Smith left him to it. Might have got close enough to pat the boy's neck, but... might as well not. Time for that later.

He took a few little strolls around while Legionary munched — just around the paddock, up and down a couple of the paths, never letting Legionary get out of sight. Or getting out of Legionary's sight, which was more the point. More good signs: Legionary didn't feel the need to interrupt his breakfast to keep an eye on Smith.

And Legionary didn't charge Smith or bolt when he let himself into the paddock. Did keep a close eye on him then, though, ears signaling his wariness.

"You're all right," Smith told him. "You ready to get started again?"

Legionary stepped around a little, keeping himself faced toward Smith. Pawed a little at the dirt — uncertain, impatient, anticipating.

"Right," Smith said, and flicked the rope into the dirt. More of a suggestion, that.

And Legionary seemed to take it as one. Started around the fence, but at a nice trot, hardly seeming hurried. And he'd turn and trot the other way at another suggestion, and stop at still another, and let Smith get a bit nearer than he had before. Shied, this time, instead of looking for a fight when he felt Smith got too close; got sent around the paddock again.

Round and round in circles. Getting somewhere, but going nowhere. Felt like Smith could understand that, too.

He saw Abersson come by and lay something on one of the fence posts, but the man didn't look to interrupt him, and Smith didn't pay out too much attention his way. He took himself along after a minute or two; probably all the dallying he was really allowed with whatever other work he had.

Felt like a good hour or two of working, stopping, approaching, shying, working before Legionary finally let him get close enough that Smith could reach out and put one hand on his neck.

Left it there long enough to feel the heat of the stallion's blood, the strength of the muscle. Then Legionary tossed his head and got a smack of the rope into the dirt for the defiance, and another trip around the paddock. At the end of that trip they tried again; Legionary lasted a little longer under Smith's hand before the wariness got the better of him.

Fifth time around, he stood for a good ten seconds, ears not quite pinned, but back enough that they wanted to be. "Easy," Smith said, working his hand down Legionary's neck. Legionary watched him, muscles tense, expecting something — expecting pain, if Smith had to guess; pain, which Smith hadn't given him yet, and didn't intend to.

No. Legionary got calm, as long as he cooperated. Got work, if he protested. Got run around the edges of the paddock, wearing out that nervous energy, winding down until he let Smith come near him again. Horses were good at bargains, so long as they understood them, and believed you.

"Yeah," Smith said. "You're working hard. I can see it." He patted the side of Legionary's neck, and stepped away.

The horse's ears swiveled immediately up. He stood stock-still for a moment, chewed a little, then crept up on Smith of his own accord.

Smith turned his back — felt safe enough in that, now, and hopefully Legionary wouldn't prove him a fool for it — and walked to the fence. Leaned against it, looking out at the rest of the ranch.

Silence, for a few moments. Then Legionary snorted, and wandered over to stand at his shoulder, as though he just happened to wonder what the view was like over that way.

Felt warm, that. Warmer than the sun that poured down on them; less like something that might dry him up or wring him out. To hell with Inverness; there was more exultation in this than in a picture of a goddamn dress, no matter how lovely anyone could make it.

"Well," Smith said, and turned to pat his neck again. Legionary stood for it. "Look at that, you. Decided you liked me well enough?"

Legionary's back leg pawed a little, as though he were deciding whether or not to sidle.

"Or did you just want to come see what Abersson left for you?" Smith asked, and picked the tin off the fencepost. "Oatcakes, huh. Sounds like from his personal supply. You know, you ought to thank him."

He cracked the tin, and Legionary stepped up on him. Smith put the flat of his arm on his chest, and suggested he step back, which he did.

"Don't take my hand off, now," he said, and offered the horse a cake.

Legionary bent to his hand, lipped the cake out of his palm, and ate it.

Smith felt a grin before he realized he was smiling. Went to pat Legionary on the muzzle, and Legionary took his head away, which was alright. Time enough to work on that. Smith went back to his neck again, and felt beneath his own skin a rising satisfaction.

In — what? Having a horse at hand, sure, but not one that was his, by any means. Perhaps, rather, in doing a thing, and seeing it done well.

Since he woke outside Purgatory, his life had been a litany of things he couldn't do, starting with remembering and winding through half the professions of middle America to end with can't even sit at a table and draw. But he could fight a man, and befriend a horse. Might not be much, but it were something.

He ruffled Legionary's forelock, and Legionary tossed his head and stepped away. Still a bit shy, yes, but not with a mind to throw him about for it. Progress.

"Wait here," he told the horse, and tucked the rest of the oatcakes into his pocket, and went off into the stable.

He brought out a saddle, and a brush. Put the saddle over the fence and left it there, and let himself into the paddock again.

Legionary regarded the brush with interest, anyway. Did step away when Smith came near; needed to be run around the paddock again. But then he stood for it. Shiver went through his whole body when the brush touched his neck; he got tense, Smith gave him time, the tension left, and as Smith worked his way across his coat, Legionary's head even began to droop in relaxation. Tensed a few times, but relaxed given a few moments to breathe.

Hadn't been brushed down in a long while, clearly. And with the dust and sweat of now two days of hard work on his coat, he needed it badly.

Smith finished and gave the horse another oatcake, then went and came back with a bucket of water from the stable trough and let him drink. And while Legionary drank, Smith went and stood by the saddle, and put his hands on it.

And Legionary looked at him when he was finished, and his ears flicked, and he seemed to be saying Well, what now?

Smith pulled the saddle up from the fence, and Legionary watched him. Watched as Smith took a few steps toward him; pawed a little, but showed no more fear than he had for the brush.

That said something, surely, too — that it weren't the saddle that scared him. Evidently, it were people.

Fair enough.

He looked at Smith with no more than his now-usual wariness as Smith hauled the saddle over his back, as the weight settled on him. Only made to startle once as Smith cinched it steady. Even lowered his head a little when Smith congratulated him by brushing down the hair on his neck, though he never let Smith out of his sight.

Smith regarded him, just as carefully. "What do you think?" he asked. "Going to let me hop on?" It wasn't what Dryden had asked of him — he'd asked a saddle on the beast, and that, Smith had done — but if he had something to prove, then Smith meant to prove it.

Legionary tolerated Smith ruffling his mane at the poll, this time, and didn't sidle when he went around to the stirrup. Flicked his ear when Smith took the saddlehorn, but didn't step away.

"Right," Smith said. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

He swung himself up onto the saddle.

Legionary jinked at the sudden weight, but didn't bolt or buck. Stopped still, ears swiveling, head raised high and tense. Unsure. Not panicking yet. Smith leaned forward, ran his hand down the side of Legionary's neck. "Easy, boy. You're all right."

Legionary's ears flicked, but his neck relaxed, little by little. He even chewed at his predicament, apparently thinking hard.

But settling. Bit by bit, second by second, deciding that this was no present threat, and he could allow it.

It would have been nice, Smith thought, to make a grand entrance — ride Legionary right up to the main house and introduce himself — but even aside from the chance of the horse spooking or bolting once he was no longer penned in, it didn't seem likely. Smith hadn't put a bit or reins on, and Legionary didn't seem inclined to respond at the shift of his weight. And Smith knew better than to try to get him moving with the rope, or to try to spur him, not that he was wearing spurs.

He could dismount. Go get a bit, and reins. But he didn't know how Legionary would take to those, and he didn't need to press the matter; it would pay out nothing, but for his own arrogance, and that was no way to treat man nor beast. Instead he looked across what he could see of the ranch, seeking a familiar face. Caught Zeke going out from the barn with a sack of something on his shoulder.

Called out, "Hey, Zeke!" Low and clear, not sharp in a way that might spook anyone. Legionary's ears did snap back to listen to him, but they didn't pin, and that was fine. "Zeke!"

Zeke dropped his sack in a hurry. Looked over at the paddock, probably expecting Smith to be a bloody pulp on the dirt and need to be hauled out and handed his last rites. Clearly didn't expect what he actually saw. He came up to the paddock, staring at Legionary like he wasn't certain Smith hadn't switched him for a different horse.

Legionary turned to face Zeke, sidling a little, keeping his distance. Smith leaned down to stroke his neck, offer a little reassurance.

"If you could get Mr. Dryden," Smith said.

Zeke stammered something. Gestured incoherently. Then he ran off, toward the main house, and Smith leaned forward and worked on Legionary's neck again. Sat firm and calm until Zeke came running back, a couple of other hands in tow, as well as Mr. Dryden — who came up to the fence and looked at Smith, sitting proud atop the stallion with time aplenty to spare.

Smith reached up to tip a hat that he wasn't wearing. Caught his hand at the nonexistent brim; lowered it again. "Mr. Dryden."

Dryden laughed. "And here I thought Mr. Grady and his Kentucky credentials should impress me," he said. "Clearly, I should have waited for an act of providence."

From Purgatory to providence. That seemed like an improvement, least. "I know my business," Smith said. His business might be limited to the training of horses, but horses, he well enough knew.

"Clearly you do," Dryden said, and eyed Legionary. Legionary eyed him right back, and Smith laid a hand on his neck to steady him. "All right," Dryden said. "Well, Mr. Smith. Welcome to Oak Rose."

Chapter Text

Act 2 : Oak Rose

It were hard work, ranching. The kind of hard that could be dreary, if a man weren't of the temperament to enjoy the daily test of his strength, the companionship of animals, and the attentions of wind and weather. But Smith seemed, the more he worked, to take those as better joy than the sweep of pencil on paper — so long as that pencil were tethered to his pay.

No, this were better. Much better. Not perfect, but Smith felt he could breathe again. After long enough choking, maybe that did feel like happiness by comparison.

Dryden had said he'd make a place for him, and that he did: as a ranch hand, same as the rest, because apparently Legionary aside, there weren't much training to be done here. What there was, the training of horses to saddle and the little disciplines that made life easier on the range, was already the province of some man named Grady who'd gone off to Louisville on some business for the week, though given the way the other hands snickered, he was in for a shock when he came back.

Still meant that Smith got free of Blackwater. Got a horizon he could see, and work he could stand, and open air around him, and above him, the sky.

That was one piece of wilderness, the sky. One piece that hadn't been crisscrossed by rail lines, carved into plots, had cabins built upon it, and general stores, and then sheriff's offices and police stations and clinics and theaters and eventually warehouses and factories and all that smoke-belching evil.

Once, hauling feed from one barn out to a pasture, Smith wondered how it would look up there, and for a moment a vision hit him: the clouds from the other side, fog giving way to white mountains beneath him, nothing above him, the cold air nipping his ears and the sun glaring down like some predator, noting an intrusion in territory meant for it alone. The land spread out below like a rug, ground glimpsed between the clouds, with a river cutting through it, crowned with an island broken into fields—

He had to stop, close his eyes, and breathe until the image passed. It had hit him with a force like vertigo, and he wondered why; he didn't believe it could be a memory, as he wasn't a bird and didn't believe he ever had been, and he couldn't see himself getting up that high in any other way.

But still, it almost... ached.

It weren't the only thing.

Out here, with the sky open above him — more open here than Purgatory, even — he could just about hear that strange tugging call he'd felt on the banks of the Dakota, beckoning him northward and east. He could stop at the edge of the ranch and look toward the horizon, across the blue ribbon of the Dakota into New Hanover, where on a clear day the tall rocks of Caliban's Seat could just be distinguished as a darker slate against the smooth blue of heaven.

And past that — past that — like a mirage, something waited for him to find it.

Maybe.

Or maybe it was all a passing fancy, a madness a man might buy into so as to convince himself his life was more than the little he had at hand. So he had strange dreams, but how many men had strange dreams? And the dreams never brought him anything — teased him, occasionally, with the hint of a person, or a voice; showed him plenty of places, all lost, abandoned, unknown. So he must have come from somewhere, but did he know that northeast was where he'd come from? Could very well have been where he was going when he lost himself outside Purgatory, lost all his memory, lost his way.

Could very well have been something his drug-addled mind had seized on, as the last traces of the tea had worked out of his system: nonsense in the clothes of sense.

His trip to the Dakota had been before Lovro's hanging, after all; before the lingering visions of that torn monster. Which itself couldn't be real, but the thought of which still shook him, if he let it. That tea had lingered, and might still be lingering now; might have knocked something loose in his head that had nothing to do with sense or memory, might be nothing but the long itch of madness.

Might be just a thing he'd need to live with, the rest of his days. Ignore as best he could, to make a life here.

Maybe.

Oak Rose was more prosperous now than it had ever been, folk around the ranch told him. And in a way, strangely, it was diminished; as most of the money came from horses, now, the herds of cattle that used to be the ranch's backbone had dwindled to a few dozen head, which meant they didn't need to be moved so far to graze, which meant fewer cowboys working, and working over less space. Shorter cattle drives, too — a couple years ago, a new meat-packing plant had opened up in Blackwater, which meant no more presses out to Chicago or around to Saint Denis or up to the big railheads northeast of Annesburg.

Northeast.

Smith didn't know much about Annesburg, other than it was northeast of Oak Rose, and northeast of Purgatory. But there was plenty of space, a good chunk of a nation, northeast of Oak Rose and Purgatory. The name Annesburg didn't seem to whisper anything to him. Then, none of the names on the maps he'd bought did.

Smith heard that up on the northern plains, farmers were beginning to fence off the ranges. Divvy it all up with barbed wire. Between that, and the meat-packing plants cropping up in more and more cities, and the railroads getting swifter and flinging rails further, some of the hands muttered that cowboys were dying out, sure as the great explorers had. The wild America was dying, turning into something civilized and closed and proper, and places like Oak Rose seemed to be seizing what they could before it was all gone.

If anything waited for him, northeast of the ranch, Smith had to wonder how long it would wait before it vanished as well.

Grady came back at the end of the week: a tallish, broadish man with straight black hair, neat-clipped, neat-parted and pomaded back so severely it looked it could have been painted on his skull. Clean-shaven, with a biting glare that would have looked better on a hawk of some sort. Jealous before he even knew what he might have to be jealous by.

He found Smith in the stables, working alongside the old hand, Old Greek, on mending tack — apparently a never-ending job, here. Smith noticed the footsteps outside, and the shadow across the doorway, before Old Greek glanced up through his bushy eyebrows and glanced immediately back to his tack with the air of someone who'd noticed a rat scurrying across a doorway. Smith looked back over his shoulder to see the man coming in, and knew him by a description Abersson had given.

"So you're the new hand," Grady said. Leaned a little on the hand, like to put Smith in his place.

Smith could read his opinion of that in the set of the man's shoulders, and wasn't interested in making himself a target for this man's affront. His hackles were up, because he knew a man looking for a fight when he saw one, but he had enough foolishness of his own: he didn't need to get swept along on anyone else's. "Sure am," he agreed.

Grady introduced himself with a curt, "I train the horses here," which sounded to Smith much like a dog pissing outside his owner's fence. Didn't apparently appreciate some new blood showing up — showing him up. After all, he apparently hadn't managed Legionary in all the time he'd been here, and most around the ranch were impressed enough that Smith had at all. Let aside the fact that he had in two days.

Which itself was more a barb than any Smith could say. "Good to meet you," he said instead.

Grady waited for some comment, tight as a whip wanting to snap. Came around to lean on the door to one of the empty stalls, glaring at Smith while he worked.

"Where you from?" Grady asked.

"Purgatory," Smith said. He was as much from there as he was from anywhere. Unless he'd been spat into existence by Diablo Ridge itself; a daydream from a landmark with the Devil's name. Still, Grady's eyes narrowed.

"Then how come I ain't never seen you around there?"

"I keep to myself." Could have said I'm out trapping, mostly; by now, the conjecture had settled into something comforting and familiar. A past in the shape of a question and not a certainty.

But because it was still untested, he didn't feel he wanted anyone prodding at it. Especially not Grady, with his pointless scorn.

Grady glowered for a minute. Seeking some reaction, clearly, and Smith wasn't of a mind to give him one. Old Greek seemed to pay him as much mind as a cloud passing overhead; kept his eye on the hard punch of needle through leather.

"Fancy yourself a deft hand with the horses, then," Grady said. Challenge in his tone.

Smith shrugged. "I do well enough." Well enough for Dryden; beyond that, Grady's opinion didn't much matter.

"Well, I'm so glad you came out to our ranch," Grady said. "What would we do without you."

There was something like amusement in Smith's gut, he found. Yearning for a fight, like a soft scrabble of claws, but amusement, besides. This man could make himself a fool, and Smith didn't need to do a damn thing for it. "Glad to be here," he said, all placid and pleasant, like he was too dense to notice the venom. Kept working neatsfoot oil into the bridle he had.

"Think you're interested in horse training?" Grady asked. Asking, really, think you're here for my job? Think you're better than me? And Smith might think yes to one of those, and Grady might think the answer was yes to both in Smith's mind, but Smith knew a fight that wasn't worth having.

Grady might have some thin prestige here, from his position. Clear as the summer air he had no power. If he had, he wouldn't be strutting so.

"I'll do what Mr. Dryden asks me to," Smith said. Lifted the leather in his hands. "Right now, I'm cleaning this bridle."

Old Greek's mustache twitched, concealing some shift of expression beneath it.

Smith looked up at Grady, keeping his own expression bland as old bread. "You need me for something?"

Grady's expression got even sharper, and brittle, like a shard of flint. Then he lifted his chin, and said "I'll tell you if I do," and took himself out of the stable under the impression that he'd got the last word in.

Smith huffed a laugh. Something about it was familiar, the turn-and-turn-about, the jockeying with words. Not something he enjoyed, necessarily, but something he could do.

Caught Old Greek looking at him, an evaluating look in his eyes. But the old man went back to the saddle leather, and said nothing about it, and they worked in silence until Zeke called Smith out to help unload one of the provisions wagons that came in from Purgatory, and then had him raking out the paddocks until the lunch bell rang.

The ranch's cook was a garrulous black man whose name Smith hadn't managed to catch yet, with an accent so thick he caught one word in seven. He seemed to be friends with everyone, though Smith caught Abersson's eye when the boy got his own plate, and Abersson raised his eyebrows and gave a broad shrug as though to say, What can you do? Smith made agreeing noises to the cook's chatter and got handed his own plate of chicken and fatback, beans and onion, and the thick chunk of sourdough that seemed to make an appearance every meal.

Old Greek was sitting on one of the barrels around the side of the bunkhouse, whittling. Did that most days there was sun enough for it. He glanced at Smith when he sat down on another barrel, and went back to whittling along.

Smith raised his plate a little in greeting, but didn't try to say anything. Old Greek, from what he could tell, liked people more when they said less. The man himself spoke once in a blue moon, and usually just enough words to fit in the palm of his hand. His grey mustache was a curtain over his mouth, and a man who spent not much time with him might be forgiven for thinking he didn't have one at all.

Old Greek's company was restful, in a way, after spending so much time with folk on every side of him — sleeping in the bunkhouse, working shoulder-to-shoulder with someone on something. It was nice, finding a quiet spot of the ranch which nonetheless wasn't empty.

Old Greek was working on a statue, it looked like. He'd got the long arch of a back and the curve of a shoulder, and the impression of a head that looked like it'd turn into either a cat or a hare. He must have inhaled his lunch. Given himself time to pull out this chunk of branch and work on it.

Smith was still settling into the rhythms of life here — the long days, the roster of tasks, the jobs which had to be done each day rain or shine and the ones that cropped up with little announcement. He didn't see the overseer too regularly, but had the impression he'd be there to crack a whip if it were necessary; for the most part, men here came at the ringing of the dinner bell and got themselves back to work in due time, and didn't afford themselves more time resting than would have been fair, and if they tried it, they simply weren't the sort the ranch would keep around.

He didn't rush to finish his lunch, but didn't linger over it, either. He'd proven himself to Dryden well enough, but it wasn't Dryden he worked with day in and out. Collected Old Greek's lunchplate while he was up — cost nothing to him, and the man was old enough that he'd probably earned some deference.

"Hey," Old Greek said, and Smith turned back to him.

"Yeah?"

Old Greek reached down into a bag by his foot, and came up with a worn canvas gaucho hat. He tossed it to Smith, who caught it one-handed.

Well. There was something. "Appreciated," Smith said.

Old Greek grunted, and looked back to his whittling. Not for more than a second, though; soon enough, his eyes tracked over to the big paddock at the end of the path.

Grady was leading Legionary out into it, chin up and looking like he was daring the world to make a comment. Legionary was following, eyeing this new development with wariness, head high, ears flicking. Smith found himself tensing at the scene; not that Legionary was his horse, by any means, but Grady looked offended by the work, and that wasn't footing Smith could trust.

He looked back to Old Greek, whose expression suggested nothing more than a long-seated dislike for the horse or the trainer or both of them.

Well. Weren't his place to comment. Grady had been in this place for years, and that had earned him something with Dryden that a flashy entrance couldn't unseat, and Smith wasn't fully sure that he wanted Dryden to prove to be the kind of man who'd toss over a long acquaintance for a newcomer, however proud or eager.

He didn't much like Grady, but didn't see there were many good options, here. Had to try not to let it gnaw at him.

He took the plates back to the chuckwagon. Got another cheerful earful from the cook. Then went to the afternoon's work that was here for him.

Days passed.

Grady didn't warm to him, but Smith didn't expect him to. As for the rest of the folk on the ranch, they seemed more or less happy to have someone willing to work hard and keep his thoughts mostly to himself. Turned out that Smith didn't know much of life on a ranch, or the work done there, but he found that if he asked the questions he needed to and kept his mouth shut otherwise, kept a keen eye on what other folks were doing and offered to help where he could, folk might think it a little strange, but no one bristled. Save Grady.

And for what little involvement Dryden had with the day to day operations, Smith had his esteem, at least.

Smith was at breakfast one morning — got some kind of mess of eggs and sausage and potatoes and garlic, and chunks of bread thrown into the hash and all stirred around; odd plate, but filling, and tasty enough — and while he was polishing that off, Zeke came up to him and said "Dryden says you're riding with us today. Hurry up and meet me at the stables."

Well, he could hurry. Downed the rest of the food and tossed the plate back, and just followed Zeke as he went. "What's the ride?"

"Going down to Blackwater," Zeke said. "There's three times a year we take horses out to sell. We take the castoffs over to Purgatory earlyish in the season — we did that, a bit ago. Then there's this man, Nussbaum, in Blackwater, who buys up some horses every year. That's today. We just have to bring them down there."

"Right," Smith said. Sounded easy enough. "And the third?"

"That's the big one," Zeke said, with a bit of a grin. "All the rest of the horses that get sold in the season go down to the Blackwater stables. The stables sell them on — some of them as far out as Massachusetts, I hear. And then in the next week or two everyone gets a few days of holiday and extra pay. I went all the way out to Saint Denis one year." He whistled. "The things they do there..."

"And you didn't bring Abersson with you?" Smith asked.

Zeke snorted. "Hell no! I wanted a holiday." He went into the stables, over to a cabinet on the back wall — one Smith had assumed held more tack, or more brushes, or more of the small sundries needed to keep those things in good repair.

Instead, when Zeke pulled open the door, Smith saw pistols.

Gave him a momentary turn, that, as Zeke grabbed a few, pulled a handful of ammunition from his own pocket, and started loading them.

Smith had noticed, in the bunkhouse, that no few of the hands had their own gunbelts hung up or tucked away, though not all of them; it had itched at him, not to have his own, but he'd assumed that with time and a few paydays would take care of that. Had assumed that the men without guns of their own were spendthrift, or had lost them, or had some other misfortune, or simply hidden them away well. Hadn't thought that some might choose to go without because the ranch would provide them.

Didn't think, when Zeke came over to press a pistol and holster into his hands, that he could see why a man would.

"What is this?"

Zeke looked at him askance. "It's a revolver, you fool."

"I can see that." He turned it over, turned it over again, swung out the loading gate. "Did someone dig it out of a battlefield somewhere? Has it been cleaned since the Civil War?"

Zeke rolled his eyes. "It's fine."

It wasn't fine. There was grime on the cylinder hinge and up into the trigger, and the barrel was tarnished. He wasn't about to look down the barrel to see what it looked like from that angle, and who knew what he'd find if he took the thing apart. "Rounds?"

Zeke grunted. "It's all loaded."

"Six rounds?" Smith looked at him. "If we get into a scrape, you want me to fire six shots and then what, throw the gun at someone?"

"We're not going to get into a scrape," Zeke said, clearly losing his patience with this. "It's for show, alright? It's all for show. Who's going to come up on a bunch of armed men on the road from here to Blackwater?"

Someone with more men than those? Smith thought. Someone with an ambush? Someone with a good eye for horseflesh? But Zeke was already taking two more of the abominable pistols away, probably to outfit some other luckless fools chosen for this ride.

Smith went to the cabinet, and looked through the weapons there. No ammunition kept in the cabinet, sadly, and the weapons were a motley assortment. He found one that was a bit better than the pistol Zeke had given him, though not much. There were cloths and brushes and oil tucked away in the corner, though they looked long-neglected.

It was less than an hour, on horseback, to Purgatory. A good chunk of daylight, down to Blackwater. Not so long it was out-and-out tempting fate, but long enough for mishap.

Wasn't time to give the pistol the care it needed, but Smith grabbed the supplies and gave it as good a cleaning as he could before going out to meet the group.

All together, they came to six. Dryden, Grady, and four of the hands — Smith, Zeke, Old Greek, and one of the kids, all of sixteen and sitting so high and proud in his saddle it were like he thought the buyer would credit him with the fineness of the Oak Rose horses. They were taking a round dozen horses out, all already attached to a lead-line that Old Greek held.

They set out with Dryden and Grady ranging ahead, Old Greek at point, Smith and Zeke on the flanks, and the kid in back, eating the horses' dust. Smith counted himself lucky that he hadn't been put back there, new man as he was.

He might not have thought much of Grady, but the man had trained these horses well enough that they hardly seemed to need the lead line they were all attached to. They were happy enough to keep in a group and trot after Dryden and Grady and Old Greek, and not try to break away or wander or stop to graze, and didn't do much tugging as they went.

They were a few miles out from Oak Rose when Smith decided he could nudge his horse up near Dryden's. "You look more worried than the rest of these." Wary, maybe, rather than worried, but... it tugged his attention, and had been tugging since they left. Glances here and there, a tension in the hand on the reins, a nervous drumming in his free hand. Smith felt he was missing something.

Dryden glanced over at him. "There have been people nosing around the ranch," he said. "I've gotten a few polite inquiries as to when I'll be looking to sell."

When, huh, and not if. Smith knew the sound of that. "Someone leaning on you?"

"Someone is considering it," Dryden said. "Truth is, ranchers all over West Elizabeth have been getting the same treatment, and worse than I have, besides. It's an epidemic. I suppose now that common banditry is falling out of fashion, all the unemployed outlaws are hiring themselves out to businessmen." He laughed, low and dark. "I expect the Blackwater police and the local sheriffs and a liberal application of bounties will clear them out for good, eventually. And some of the other ranch owners seem to be taking matters into their own hands. I hear David Geddes over at Pronghorn — all the way out west, edge of the state — some of his boys got together a posse, cleared out one of the gangs for good."

Dryden smoothed down his mustache, looking as satisfied as a man could be by something he'd had no part in. He cast Smith a sidelong look.

"I wouldn't say I'm worried, Mr. Smith. The age of outlaws is over. These are just the dying gasps of an uncivilized world. Still." He cast a glance back at his horses. "I'd rather be overcautious than unprepared."

Smith made an acknowledging noise, and dropped back to his place in the formation. Dryden's words didn't sit easily with him. Then, what did he know? He'd gone from Diablo Ridge to Purgatory, Purgatory out to the river and back more than once, slept in the wagon from Purgatory to Blackwater, ridden from Blackwater to Oak Rose... he'd not seen any trouble on the roads.

Still, though... Dryden's words felt like breakfasting on coffee after a sleepless night. Coffee, and no grub.

Well. Nothing he could do about any of it now, except to keep watch on the horses and the road.

It was a fine day for a long ride. The heat of summer was in the first throes of considering the long walk down into autumn; a rare cool breeze ruffled the grasses. Some of that was the air picking up the cool of the Dakota, whose broad blue expanse was just visible now and again over the rolling hills. It were early enough yet that as they went south and east from the ranch, the sun was just about in their eyes, making its own way across the vast untroubled tract of the sky as slowly and with as much purpose as they brought their horses across the living land.

As he went, Smith found himself relaxing into a kind of alertness, feeling as though he had a dozen eyes, instead of just two — a pair of eyes on every mounted man with him, covering their flanks, their rear, and moving forward like a cavalry company. The day seemed too bright and fine to invite danger, and if there were danger, he felt altogether too ready for it.

And as such wasn't prepared for it when it arrived.

They were passing through one of the ragged patches of forest that held down the land in this stretch of West Elizabeth, when gunfire bit the air. Smith ducked in the saddle, and found his pistol in hand before he had a chance to think about it; spun his horse, caught Dryden's shout of pain, caught a glimpse of bright red on the man's white shirt, caught the panic biting into the horses on the line, and caught movement in the trees.

Eight riders. Sure of that before he counted them — counting took too long; the name of each number too heavy for the race of the moment. They were coming straight out from the trees, aiming to hit Dryden's group straight in the center, split them and scatter them. Smith could see it, clear as day, slow as though they moved through honey. Caught a kind of heady clarity, as though time slowed, and the only thing that mattered was the movement of his arm, his hand, the revolver, the trigger. Six bullets, six shots, the pistol bucking against his grip like a beating heart, and six of the bandits fell from their horses, dead.

The other two saw their companions falling, decided they wanted no part of this, and fled.

Smith didn't think. He dismounted, dodged through the spooking horses, and ran to the first of the bodies, yelling "Get Dryden off the road!" Six goddamn rounds in his pistol — oh, maybe the roads were quiet most times, or maybe Zeke and Dryden wouldn't know banditry if it came up and introduced itself—

Grady yelled, "Smith, what the hell are you doing?"

The bandit had a revolver not much better than his own, but kept a nice pile of ammunition in his belt. Smith grabbed it, swung back onto his horse, yelled "Get him off the road!", and took his horse to as much a gallop as the trees in the forest would allow.

The bandits were running hard, apparently not well-paid enough to risk sticking around for prey that fought back. But their horses couldn't compare to even the working horses from Dryden's ranch, and their panic couldn't compare to... whatever this was, that Smith was feeling. This rage, offense... hunger, like a wolf on a hunt. They'd shot at him, and they were running. And it felt against each and every part of his nature to let them get away.

He took the seventh with a bullet to the back of the neck. The eighth — dressed fancier than the rest of them; now hollering and begging and apparently unaware of the privileges of that rank — he hit in the right shoulder, enough force to unbalance him, enough unbalance to move his horse around, to let Smith bear his own horse close, dangerously close, close enough to grab the man's collar and wrench him from his seat and throw him down onto the ground where he just about missed getting a trampling. Smith swung down, threw down the reins — good thing Dryden's horses were trained to ground-tie — put his boot on the man's chest, and pointed his sad old pistol square at the bandit's forehead before the man could reach for a weapon southpaw.

"You and your friends made a mistake," he said.

The man's eyes were wide as saucers in the mottled forest light. Whatever whooping confidence he'd had, coming up on a bunch of ranch hands, had melted away into groveling terror.

"Why did you attack Mr. Dryden?"

"We was paid!" the man said. "We was paid. It was just business, I swear. They didn't tell me why; we was just paid."

Smith looked down at him. Sounded like the truth — a truth it didn't cost him to tell, because it hadn't mattered to him in the first place. Just business. How far could he even fault the fool for that?

The man was gripping his shoulder. Blood was pulsing out between his fingers. Bleeding pretty heavy from that hit; Smith wasn't sure how long he'd be useful. Oh, he might live, if Smith let him go now; if he kept his head, staunched the wound, got himself to a surgery as quickly as a horse could take him. Course, his horse had run off.

Smith found he couldn't muster up much pity for him, either. He'd made a choice when he rode in, shooting. Hadn't thought he was making a choice, maybe; fools who preyed on weaker men never did.

The thought stabbed a headache between his temples. He couldn't follow it around.

He took his boot off the man's chest. "Go on, then," he said. "You make it back, you tell your boss that Mr. Dryden doesn't appreciate his opinion. You tell the rest of your friends to stop hassling ranch owners around here. We clear?"

Man scrabbled to his feet and stumbled immediately, nodding his fool head off. Probably wouldn't help his balance — that balance that escaped him with his blood. He stammered something that sounded like agreement, and ran as best he could.

Probably wouldn't make it, to deliver that message. Well, that was how things were, sometimes. The message worked nearly as well implied by the corpses on the road.

Smith watched until the bandit disappeared into the trees, and until he was satisfied that he wasn't coming back to try some ill-advised revenge. Then he swung back up onto his horse, turned it around, and rode back toward Dryden and the rest.

The hands had gotten the horses calm, by the time he arrived; the whole cavalcade was clustered at the side of the road to let any other riders pass, though the road didn't seem particularly well-traveled just now. There was a rustle among the group when he rode back up, almost as if they weren't happy to see him; Zeke put up his pistol when Smith reined in.

"You don't stop pointing that at me, cowboy, we're going to have a real problem," Smith warned.

Zeke's hand was shaking. Might not hit the broad side of a barn, at the moment. He did holster his pistol, though. "What the hell did you do just there?"

"What do you mean, what did I do?" He swung down from his horse. "I defended these goddamn horses from goddamn rustlers, is what I did. My job, is what I did. What did you do? Piss yourself?"

"You stole the rounds right off of that man's corpse," Zeke protested. His voice was going all high and squeaky.

"Well, where else was I supposed to get them?" He pushed past. Zeke didn't shoot him, so that was fine.

Old Greek had Dryden on the ground, with Zeke apparently set as a guard for him and Grady wrangling the horses; the kid hand was lingering nervously at Dryden's side, looking like he wished someone would tell him what to do. Kid scurried out of Smith's way when he approached. Dryden was pale as a sheet, but he was awake, with one hand clamped over the bloody cloth they'd tied around his arm. He was breathing mighty heavily.

Looked like the bullet had mostly hit muscle, there. Least, the rag didn't look like it was soaking up the whole river of one of the big blood vessels. He'd make it. Had a better chance than the bandit Smith had sent running, with that message he might never deliver.

"You're still alive, then?" Smith said.

Dryden looked at him, and spoke through gritted teeth. "I am, thank you."

"Well, I don't think they was trying to kill you," Smith said. "Scare you, more like." Though they'd shot perilously close to the body for scaring. Meant that they were either stupid about what killed folk or confident in their shooting, which meant they were either good shots or fools, and whichever they were, it didn't matter much now.

"I think I'm more angered than scared," Dryden said. He looked over Smith's shoulder at the scene in the road. "That was damned impressive shooting, Mr. Smith."

"Well, compared to these boys who couldn't get their guns up out of their holsters, sure—"

"Compared to anyone." Dryden frowned. Gave Smith a look he wasn't sure he liked.

"Well," he said. Didn't seem to have much to follow it with. Dryden knew as much as he did.

But what Dryden said, hand tightening over his bandage, was just, "Seems I owe you a great deal."

That felt wrong, like owing was the wrong word. Never should owe the people you rode with. Shouldn't be accounts to keep, no more than you should keep accounts with family.

Not that... this was family.

He couldn't remember family. Didn't know where any of this certainty came from, no more than he knew where he came from. But it sat in his stomach all manner of wrong. "I was just doing my job."

"You were doing far and away more than I ever hired you on for," Dryden said, and waved a command at Old Greek. "A word of advice, Mr. Smith: when the man you work for offers his appreciation, take it."

Old Greek helped him to his feet, and over to his horse, and then up onto the horse with a muffled curse on Dryden's part.

"Back?" Old Greek asked.

Dryden shook his head. "I'll call on the doctor in Blackwater," he said. "Let's not consign ourselves to making this trip twice."

The rest of the company mounted up. Smith hesitated a moment, looked at the bodies: they had guns, ammunition, maybe money, valuables, maybe even something that would tell him who they were or who'd sent them. But Zeke saw him looking and said, "Come on, leave those for the sheriff."

"But—"

"Leave them for the sheriff, you goddamn buzzard!" His voice was going all squeaky again. "What the hell are you? Ain't you got no decency?"

Decency seemed like nothing he could pocket, unlike whatever these fools had carried on them. Still, nothing they carried was likely to be worth losing the regard of the folk he worked with, maybe risking his position. He sighed, and mounted up.

"Smith," Dryden called. "Will you ride point for a while?"

" 'Course."

"Ezekiel. Grady. Get these horses moving."

"You'll be all right?" Smith asked. They didn't need Dryden passing out on the road, that was sure.

"I'll do well enough." Dryden waved him forward with his uninjured arm, and Smith nodded. Took his horse up to the front of the formation. Noticed, as he rode past him, that Grady was giving him a hard, narrow look.

Smith didn't much want that look behind his back, but there were nothing for it. He looked to the horizon, and they rode on.

Smith got the dubious honor of escorting Dryden to the doctor's clinic in Blackwater, while Grady and Old Greek went to deliver the horses to their buyer. Then, with barely an hour in the city, and scarcely enough time to stop by a general store — a general store, in this morass of too many folk, not the general store — to grab a bite to eat on the road, Dryden mustered them all back north toward Oak Rose.

Long, weary day of riding, all the way in to Blackwater and back, and Smith had the feeling that ordinarily they wouldn't have pushed. But he couldn't fault Dryden; they'd been overtaken on the road, and who knew if there was more unpleasantness sent the ranch's way?

But when they rode in, horses tired, Dryden looking like he'd pushed himself far and away more than was wise, the ranch was quiet.

Dryden sat atop his horse for a few minutes, surveying his little kingdom, before Old Greek grunted and swung down from his own horse to offer Dryden a hand. Which Dryden accepted, pinch-faced and pale.

"Grady," he said, "go get the overseer. Ask him to come meet me in my office. Ezekiel, if you'd see the horses brushed down and fed. Mr. Smith—"

Smith waited. Didn't bother to dismount yet, and by the way Dryden looked at him and his mouth compressed into a line, that was the right decision.

"I almost hesitate to ask it," Dryden said. "But if you could take a turn around the ranch. See that there's nothing amiss."

"Set a watch?" Old Greek suggested.

Dryden shook his head, and leaned a little more heavily on him. "If there's been no trouble yet, I don't think there will be." Seemed he was banking on whoever-those-bandits-were being deterred by a little stiff resistance, not enraged by it. If it were just money behind them, he might be right. "Smith, if you see something, set a few of the boys to take night patrols, will you?"

"You're leaving it up to him, are you?" Grady asked. "He should tell the overseer—"

"I think," Dryden said, "the matter is simple enough."

"I'll do that," Smith said, and took his horse along.

The horses in the pastures looked up idly as he passed by them. The cattle, what few of them were rounded back here, mostly ignored him. He didn't know what well of confidence he drew on, searching around the periphery of the ranch for any disturbances, but it were there — just as part of him as the set of his shoulders, the cut of his gaze.

All quiet. Some evidence that one or two of the hands had probably been sneaking off, more than a few nights, probably just to get up to some mischief the ranch couldn't afford them. But nothing recent.

He made one more circuit, further out, then came back in to the stables where Zeke had put the rest of the horses. Took care of his own, and headed back to the bunkhouse.

Where trouble awaited him.

He could tell that by the way that there was plenty of noise — conversation and murmuring — in the bunkhouse before he stepped in, and not so much once they saw who'd stepped inside.

He looked around, noting who was meeting his eyes and who was conveniently finding something else to look at.  A feeling was snaking up his spine, like the hunger for tobacco, or drink. "Now, I may not be very clever," he said.  "But I ain't that dumb.  Anyone here have something they want to say to me?"

For a second or two, no one did.

Then Grady — of course, it would be Grady — shrugged off the common caution like a man shrugging off a coat. He came around to face him, planted his hands on his hips like a cat puffing himself up, and said, "Who are you, Smith?"

Question like that, it wasn't meant to be answered. "I believe we been introduced."

"Oh, I don't believe so," Grady said. Then, at least, got to the point: "I think you're a killer."

"Oh, I surely am," Smith agreed.  There didn't seem to be much question about that, after the day's ride. "But I don't see that I've killed anyone you oughta be concerned about. Unless you've got a problem with me killing outlaws?"

Felt like a dangerous thing to say. Or not dangerous, but shaky, maybe. Like ground was shifting beneath his feet in a way he didn't appreciate; an earthquake, or a landslide.  Just... still coming, about to hit, just not yet.

"Ain't the dead outlaws that bother me," Grady said. "It's who else you might have buried. Or left by the side of the road, as may be."

Another little shiver in the ground beneath him. "What do you think you know?"

"They know all about you, up in Purgatory town," Grady said.  "They say you came in, some charity case, missing all your memory."  By the few little murmurs that greeted that, it was old news among a few of the ranch hands. Not, by far, most of them. Natural curiosity, gossip from the provisions wagon, or Grady himself muttering about?  "Now, I thought, that sounds like someone trying to hide."

Smith had to laugh, at that. All this helpless misery, and Grady thought it was some kind of clever ploy, on his part?  He must not have a high opinion of anyone's cleverness. "If I was trying to hide," he said, "I would've said I came in from Ambarino or California or some place.  Not made up a line that'd have half the town staring at me when I walked into the general store. You think I wanted to be the talk of goddamn Purgatory?" Or of Oak Rose? If he was trying to hide, he was doing a damn poor job of it.

"I think it's awfully convenient when a man can't answer any questions about where he's been. What he's been doing."

"You think that. I think it brings more questions than it buries."

"Well," Grady said, and took a step forward. "You already said you wasn't so clever."

Smith could have said something, but then there was someone else between them: Abersson, getting in their way, playing peacemaker.  "Look, this ain't worth a fight.  This ain't anything we all should be fighting about.  We're on the same side, ain't we?"

Getting in his goddamned way. A red haze was creeping around the edges of Smith's vision. For a second Abersson looked smaller, thinner, pale, older, his eyes all watery, You've won the fight already, surely that's enough—

Winning. Winning. He remembered no winning, and he remembered no fights — save that fight in Blackwater — but in his goddamn bones he knew that if there was a fight to be had, he meant to win it.

He didn't want a fight to be had. He earned his place here, goddamnit; it was better than what he had before, and he wasn't going to take a stick of goddamn dynamite to it. But if some other bastard lit the fuse...

Grady was well as tall as he was. Finely-built man, in his prime; the sort who didn't often have to contend with folk thinking they'd threaten him, Smith imagined. But he weren't a killer. He was mighty proud, and had the arrogance of a man who perhaps had never lost a fight, but that could just as well have meant he'd never been in one worth having.

Smith could destroy him. By an estimate, it might take a minute and a half. Maybe two.

Grady was looking at him, over Abersson's head. Maybe making the same calculations, maybe without the sense to see the odds before him. But whatever he saw in Smith's eyes must have discouraged him; he let Abersson, smaller and slighter and without a violent bone in his body, push him away.

"No," Grady said. "I guess it ain't worth the fight. Yet."

Yet was a promise. And some stirring of honor in Smith's chest fed him an answer: You'd better sleep with your eyes open. 'Cept he wasn't sure if that advice were for Grady or himself.

And all at once the bunkhouse seemed to come apart at the seams. In an instant, where they had been something that held a little bit together — a team, or a camaraderie, something he shied at calling a brotherhood or family — were no more than some number of men who'd all come into the same building, with nothing between them, nothing owed, nothing given. Better sleep with your eyes open. No one to watch your back, here.

"Well," Smith said. "You let me know."

Another hand stepped in to herd Grady away, or bring him back into the fold — something. Abersson kept by Smith, drawing him off to cool down. The rest of the men parted like motes of dust, a fews passing closer to Grady as though to hint their allegiance, most quitting the field entire. Didn't feel like this fight would tear the bunkhouse down the middle. Wasn't enough of a bond between them all to tear.

Good thing, that. Or tragedy. His head was too full of contrast and disappointment; made it hard to know anything.

"Listen," Abersson said, voice low enough not to spur anything up. "Grady don't like no one. Most of us are fine with what you done. Real impressed, even."

"Sure," Smith said, and turned toward his own bunk. It didn't seem to matter; none of it did. Stupid argument, and over nothing — six dead bandits, a past that no one knew, Grady's own resentment. If that was the thing that got him kicked out of this place, it'd hardly be more ignoble than the rest of his life. If Grady could track down his past from it, well, best of luck to the man. If he tried to engineer some other harm on Smith, then Smith wasn't of a mind to tolerate that. And anything else didn't bear much worry.

The bunkhouse air was still tense. He lay on his mattress and closed his eyes, and listened, until the atmosphere relaxed. Just another spat, common fate of too many men in too small a space, and it had passed over and left nothing of note.

When he was sure of that, then he slept.

His dream that night was a confused thing. Of riding, of shooting, which were almost a relief — meant maybe someday he'd have the kinds of dreams other folk had, with pieces of their day scattered and turned into nonsense. But then the nonsense turned, and left him sinking into a deep, inky darkness, where the sounds of fighting and scuffling were like rats in ancient floorboards.

Left him with something else in the dark, breathing like a man.

Smith was searching for him, in paths of soggy soil and wooden boards slimed with algae. Carrying a chessboard, of all things, and knowing it was his turn to move — that the game was going on, despite the board being in his hands, in the kind of sense a dream could make — only he wasn't sure where he was supposed to be; couldn't find the man he was playing against. And the fight was going on, on the other side of that foggy wall of swamp-darkness, and now and again there was a high call like a wounded horse, or the remonstration of a gatling gun.

The man was hard to find. Or all the jetties and footbridges and boardwalks twisted around each other, and ran him in circles, or worse.

After a time, he came aware of something pacing him. Its footsteps didn't match his. He paused and turned around, and saw—

The wolf, of course. But when he saw it, he thought it might be the stag, or possibly it was the stag and he'd thought there was the wolf. But no — it seemed there were two animals on the walk behind him, but the walk was too narrow for more than one form. There was an uneasy sense of too many things, too many ideas, existing in too small a space, and he turned around again and looked for the chess game. The footsteps followed him.

And followed him around, and around, and through the sucking bog, and the chessboard had been gone from his hands for some time now and the breathing had turned into something else, and there was no more fight at the edge of his hearing, but no light had been shed and no sun had come up. Around, and around, and the algae on the boardwalk turned into something else, too, and he wasn't certain he was moving.

And he stepped into a paddock.

And the wolf-stag, stag-wolf, stag-in-wolf, wolf-in-stag was waiting for him, and tossed its head, and lowered its neck, and charged.

He woke with a start, right hand curling around a rope he didn't have, and heard he was one of the first few up in the bunkhouse. Old Greek, who was better than a mechanical watch, was already at the stove, putting a wood-fire bullet in the last lingering cool of the night. A tin of coffee was already cracked open on the bench beside him. Light tickled at the foggy glass windows.

Nothing for it. Smith hauled himself out of bed, went out to the outhouse, and came back in to make himself useful.

He didn't worry too much about it, even as the sense of the dream lingered about like the smell of cheap tobacco. The dust and the hard sun would burn it away. It always did. A day of hard labor would grind out any thought of dreaming, until it exhausted him into sleep and another dream took its place.

Today the work was in cleaning out one of the old barns — a building that had likely stood for a generation or more, and was beginning to sag at the edges of the roof and crumble a little at the joins. Dryden had the idea to tear the whole thing down and start new with an experienced hire-crew of construction men from Blackwater, but first a generation's worth of tools and detritus had to be dragged out into the open and tucked away into some other shed, to be forgotten for Dryden's heirs.

If he had any. Smith hadn't seen any evidence of sons, or even sweethearts, on Dryden's part.

He and one of the other hands were wrestling out an old, solid sawbuck when the overseer came around from the main house, and caught his attention with a wave and a "Hey, Mr. Smith! A moment over here, would you?"

Smith set down his work, and came over. There was another man standing with the overseer, and seeing him here — so far outside his natural setting — meant it took a moment to recognize him as the sheriff, out from Purgatory.

"Mr. Smith," he said.

"Sheriff," Smith greeted. Touched the rim of the hat Old Greek had given him. Wanted to ask, what's this about?, but that might be seen as too suspicious on his part, and in any case the sheriff got to the point soon enough.

"I heard what happened on the road," he said. "The Chief of Police in Blackwater keeps in touch will all the smaller towns in the area; he keeps us apprised of the local goings-on." He hooked his thumbs into the gunbelt slung around his hips, which served to make Smith very well aware that he wasn't armed, himself. "It seems you have a past, Mr. Smith."

Wariness rose up in him like a fog bank. "Not one I remember."

"No," the sheriff said. "I do understand that. But I also understand that a man doesn't learn how to shoot like I hear you can shoot without some... calling to."

"I was just protecting the horses," Smith said. "And Mr. Dryden. Just doing my job."

The sheriff reached out. Laid a hand on Smith's shoulder and gathered him into a range for comradely confidence, which Smith found annoyed him powerfully. If his good sense hadn't been a bit quicker, he would have knocked his arm away. As it was, he tolerated it, if only because the sheriff was not a man he particularly wanted to offend.

"I appreciate Mr. Dryden," the sheriff said. "He does good business in Purgatory, even if most of his horses go to Blackwater. So I appreciate you protecting him, and his industry. I hope that in the future you can see your way toward not killing so many people in that pursuit, though."

"They shot at us," Smith protested. "Man shoots at you, you shoot back—"

"Yes, yes. I understand entirely. But it's good for people to see the process of justice done, do you understand?" He patted Smith's shoulder and took his hand away, the better to stand and face him. "People have faith in justice when they see it work. But for justice to work, those who break the law need to survive long enough to stand trial. Do you see?"

It was easier, cleaner, just to shoot them and have done with it, and something about the casual paternalism sat like a sparking fuse in Smith's gut. "I see," Smith said, though he wasn't sold on the idea of sparing bandits on the road. He knew what the sheriff wanted to hear, and he said it; that seemed to be the pragmatic way through this conversation.

Don't kill people, the sheriff said. Well, if people wouldn't try to kill him, or anyone he was riding with, he perhaps wouldn't need to.

The sheriff stared at him for a moment, possibly not at all convinced by his agreeability. But then he spoke, and apparently his mind was on a different track altogether. "Have you ever considered bounty work?"

Bounty work. You needed a horse for that, and supplies, and reliable weapons and ready ammunition, and freedom to roam. His heart clenched at the thought of freedom to roam. Getting out in the paddock with the horses, taking them out for exercise, taking his rounds on the night patrol, moving the herds — it was all a damn sight better than sitting at a drafting desk. But the more time he spent, the more it settled that that was it: better than a drafting desk. Good enough, but not so good, by any means.

He'd left something intolerable, and found something tolerable. He could content himself with it. Maybe he'd learn to love it, given time, though he questioned that. For now, the sheriff suggested something that whispered to him, and was utterly beyond his reach.

"I don't have the money even to begin, sheriff." Just saying the words poured frustration into his stomach like acid. How often was that going to be the refrain that bound him?

The sheriff gave him a sympathetic look. "I'll put in a word with Mr. Dryden. I think after what you've done for him, he might loan you some supplies and some leave. A few good bounties, and you could buy your own."

"Huh," Smith said. Well, he supposed there was one way.

"No need to make a decision now—"

"I'll do it." He shrugged. "I get what I need, I'll do it."

Sheriff looked pleased, at that. "We can always use more good gunmen on the side of the law," he said. "We'll be mighty pleased to have you. Stop by the office sometime to see what work we've got."

"I'll be by as soon as I can," Smith said.

The sheriff chuckled. "So I suppose I'd better put in that word with Mr. Dryden."

The sheriff left not twenty minutes after he'd gone in, and gave Smith — back to clearing out the barn — a cordial nod as he went. Smith imagined that not all that time had been spent speaking about him. Likely he and Dryden had some other business to discuss: the safety of the roads, or the provisions Dryden bought from Hall's general store, or some other little thing that the luxury of having known each other for some time and having all that memory at their fingertips afforded them. No one bothered to call Smith over, so he took it on himself to step into the main house, and make his way back to the room that served as Dryden's office, and knock on the doorframe by the open door.

Dryden looked up from his desk, where a ledger sat open in front of him, and raised his eyebrows. "Well, you're eager to begin, aren't you?"

Smith didn't know what to do with that remark. "Sheriff said—"

"Yes," Dryden said. "The sheriff would like nothing more than to have a militia he could call on to scour the countryside." He made an amused sound. "Still. Why not? I owe you. And it would be good for the sheriff to owe me a little more, as well." He turned the page of his ledger, running his finger down a column of neat annotations. "I'll have a word with the overseer. You just tell him when you feel like riding out, and when you come back. He'll let you know if there's any time we can't spare you. Oh, and — understand you'd be forfeiting your pay for any day you're not here, working."

Seemed reasonable enough. "I do appreciate it," Smith said.

"Have you worked with Gambler much?"

Gambler was one of the working horses — a gaited gelding, just about six years, still enthusiastic, but did well under saddle. Not as tall as Smith usually liked — shorter stride than he preferred — but kept up well enough. "A bit."

"He'd be a good one to take out on longer rides," Dryden suggested. "I'd be happy to loan him to you."

Well, taking one of Dryden's horses — and no expectation of payment, neither, that Smith heard — was a far sight better than renting from the Blackwater stables. Or the Purgatory ones. Nothing to turn a nose up at. "That'd be mighty appreciated, sir; thank you."

Dryden nodded, and drew his pen from the inkwell. Fair dismissal, that, and Smith turned to leave. Almost did, but... there was one other thing. He turned back.

"Mr. Dryden?"

Dryden looked up. "Was there something else?"

If he couldn't point out that the man was doing something wrong, he wasn't any man Smith should want to ride with. He felt that. Still was uneasy. "Those pistols you have for the hands. They're in shameful condition. What happened on the road could have ended real badly, and a reliable gun can make a real difference."

Dryden sighed. "It's these gangs — the Tooley Boys and the Laramies and their ilk," he said. "Well, not the Laramies, after that comeuppance they got a few months ago. But other gangs have come to take up their business, sure as ants follow the chuck wagon. I really thought they were off to a slow enough start here." He made a disgusted noise. "I know you feel the boys made a poor showing, but the roads had been safe around here for years, now. We're seeing a recent resurgence, with a few ringleaders, and I suppose we got... complacent."

Smith snorted. "Well, complacent or not, the roads are what they are. Can't see as there's much benefit to riding with a rusty sidearm, whether the roads are quiet or not."

"Consider me duly chastised," Dryden said.

"Weren't meaning to chastise," Smith said. "Just... give me a day and the materials, and let me fix all them up so they're proper for use. It'd make me feel a lot better."

Dryden's eyebrows climbed a little in surprise. "I think I can grant that," he said. "Thank you."

And there — being thanked for a thing that should have just been... a clear responsibility. It was an uneasy feeling. But Smith nodded to Dryden, and went toward the door.

"Mr. Smith," Dryden called, as he was about to exit.

Smith turned around.

Dryden was giving him a hard, level look. "I'm glad you're on my side," Dryden said.

Seemed to be saying more than he was saying, there. Smith didn't have anything to answer it with. He ducked his head, and took himself away.

Chapter Text

Smith rode in to Purgatory twice in the next week — after long, weary days of work any way, and took home bounty posters, and studied them, and had no way to chase them up. Most bounties, he had to guess, were catch-as-catch-can. The fact that a criminal had caused some trouble didn't mean they would stick around to face justice for it; no, if they was smart, they'd avoid doing so.

That was the reason for bounties, clearly. If they'd been easy to catch, law would have caught them already. And Smith still felt that he could hunt animals well enough, but hunting people seemed to be a different matter altogether.

Course, if he had to pick out one particular animal in a whole country full of them, and had nothing to go on but a picture from a sheriff, he supposed he might not find himself skilled at that, neither.

In the mean time, the work at Oak Rose went on.

One evening, as he was riding out a quick patrol — looking mostly for damage on the fences, not evidence of banditry, and finding neither — Abersson caught him, and waved him over. Handed over a letter, which surprised him.

"I was down in Blackwater," Abersson explained. "A few of us get our mail there. Postmaster in Purgatory can be a little, uh, nosy."

"Great," Smith said. He wondered what the man had made of the strange things that came Strauss's way.

"Anyway," Abersson said. "There was this, for a Mr. Smith, with no first name..."

He was looking at Smith mighty curiously. Smith frowned, and took the letter.

Think of the devil. The letter was from Strauss, out east. "Well," he said, "thanks for thinking of me."

"Of course," Abersson said. "We check for everyone on the ranch." He looked around, and lowered his voice. "Old Greek gets pressed flowers now and again from some lady in Maine."

Smith had to chuckle, though not at Greek's flowers. "Oh, so, what, it's not the postmaster I have to be worried about now, it's you?"

"I never snoop." Abersson raised his hand. "On my honor. Just, Old Greek leaves the flowers out, sometimes."

"Wouldn't have thought him the type," Smith said. But if Abersson was hoping to get a glimpse of Smith's mail, he was going to be disappointed. He tucked the letter away, and went along his patrol.

It was later, after he'd finished, and eaten, that he took a lantern out around to the back of the stables where there'd likely be privacy at this time of night. Cracked open the letter.

Strauss opened by congratulating him on his new career in illustration, apologizing for the long delay in correspondence, and asking a number of pointed questions about his dreams. Smith almost laughed. Sounded like the little man, and he found himself almost missing him.

The letter went on, though. Strauss included long stories of his own, all about life in New Hampshire, about his great-aunt's health, about family he hadn't seen in ages. Cousins, some of them very young, one old enough to be planning to marry the coming spring. Giddy at the prospect. About the gardens on their rambling family's estate, and how much he looked forward to taking up his office in the attic of the house, where in the autumn to come the window would frame a hill's worth of turning leaves. Which led him to explain about his childhood, coming from Germany to a side of his family he'd never met, to a land he'd known only from stories...

Well, Smith had known for some time that Strauss could wax grandiloquent. His medical notes, such as they were, had been proof of that. But this were different, and snagged at his mind oddly — little fishhooks, tugged by the current. Like a glimpse through a window into a life Smith could hardly get his mind around... but found he could imagine, like the texture of velvet under his fingers: that early cool up in the northeast, the land that didn't lie flat as a handkerchief, the ways that other people lived.

He took the evening to write back. His half-finished letter from his first day at Oak Rose still sat in his journal; he scratched it out and started fresh.

Wasn't writing because he thought Strauss might know something that would help him, now. More just because the novelty sat on his chest like the warmth of a campfire — knowing a person enough that the listening and telling of things were easy, even across weeks and half a country.

Strauss did, after all, know more of him than most anyone. Had brought him water while he lay sweating out that tea, convinced that the night might steal his breath or his heartbeat. Saw him make a fool of himself more than once. Strauss might as well hear how he'd lasted all of a week at Brooks & Inverness, and how he'd left thirty dollars a week for thirty a month. Strauss might yet be interested in the enumeration of clues as Smith uncovered them, no matter that it seemed less important as day wore on to day.

Smith hesitated, a bit, on the matter of the bandits, but shrugged to himself and put it in words as well: few as he could manage. And then, without intending to, confided the suspicion that Grady and Dryden and the sheriff seemed to hold for him.

Strauss had been the first to believe he had a past. Though when Strauss looked at it, he saw it as some... arbitrary thing. He'd said, the substance weren't important. He'd seen memory as existing somewhere, like a thing dropped in a river crossing, surely somewhere in the silt, but unknowable just where; he was more interested in how to find a dropped thing in a stream than what that dropped thing was. Strauss hadn't said a word about good or evil. What would the doctor even think, if it worked out that Smith had been a killer?

Would he just look at Smith, and say Well, that's settled. Now, let's see if you can remember any of the people you killed...?

Smith closed the letter without bringing up those questions. Said, I believe I am well, and hope you are also. Signed the thing, and dated it. Turned the page.

Sketched out the lay of Oak Rose, and sketched a picture of Legionary, too — a match to the ones that already sat in his journal to keep. Then, because the idea tugged at him, he started to sketch the stag and the wolf as well.

And there, he fell into them.

Weren't something he planned, nor something he could control. He watched the shapes take place, more than he felt he placed them. The stag, yes, and the wolf, and couldn't stop; a mountain face gathered behind them, and the mouth of a cave, and a knocked-over wagon; a crumbling building, a sheer bluff, a city road, the wide surface of a lake — all jumbling together, and none of them lay right; if he'd looked out at the world and seen this, it would have meant that the world were curling in around him on all sides, wrapping up to envelop him, swallow him like the mouth of a snake.

And he couldn't stop. Pencil kept adding detail, finer and finer, until it was lost, just about, under the thickness of the graphite. Pulling the pencil back were like pulling on a branch held by a determined dog. It leapt and danced across the paper like a fire.

Like it'd consume him.

He threw down the pencil, and the journal, and jumped back from them, staring at them both like sticks of dynamite. The page was more black than white. The gleaming silvery-black of pencil lead, with the lantern light dancing across it. Wolf and stag stared out from it, as though any second would see them walking out from that tortured landscape and into the world true.

His hand stung. After a moment, he realized that were because he clenched it so tight. Had to work his own fingers out of the fist they'd formed, his nails out of the skin of his palm.

What was this?

He hadn't drawn them yet. Hadn't tried to draw them yet, in all the time since he picked up that blank book, and this, perhaps, was why. But another why sat behind that one: why they shouldn't be like anything else he put his eye to; why they seemed to swell the paper fit to bursting, like a flood against a river dam.

Some... long-lasting effect of the teas? He remembered the fear he'd had, that last night; unable even to write about that dark Place for fear it might escape. The thought of drawing It seemed no less an idiot's play. But the stag and the wolf had come before any of Strauss's teas, and hadn't seemed further unleashed by them.

What was he to do? Blame the doctor for his medicine?

Burn the drawing?

...beg for help?

Strauss never could help him. What help could he prescribe from the other side of the nation?

Smith crouched down, and picked the journal up. Careful. Tore the page out, and got as far as opening the hinged door of the lantern before he found his hand folding the page neatly and tucking it into the back of the journal: not to be sent off to Strauss, but not to be burnt, either.

He gathered up the letter for Strauss, and the simple little harmless drawings, and cut them out of the journal neatly. Folded them separately. Put them aside. He could post them the next time he was in Purgatory. Postmaster there knew all his business, anyway.

Then he held the book, staring at a blank page.

There were memories in his head, somewhere, he had no access to. Knowledge in his bones that he could use but not explain. Habits, seemed like, carved into him, that he didn't realize until he acted on them. And... this. Whatever he was to call it. Even something as familiar as taking the book and drawing on its pages could turn like a snake and bite him, after days — weeks — of playing so very harmless.

Where else were surprises lurking?

He closed the journal. Picked up the lantern. Went back to the bunkhouse, for lack of something better to do.

No choice, at the end of the day, but to meet those creatures in his dreams.

Next few days, though, passed without incident.

He took to working with Gambler in the evenings, after the work was done. The days were long, yet, and there was still a few hours of light left over when the hands had rounded up their tasks. The horses here were trained well under saddle, but not much beyond that at all: not a one would come to a whistle, or know how to take a slap on the rump and a go home, or follow at his shoulder at a gesture.

For the most part, no one had a horse that were theirs, at Oak Rose. The jobs were different, day to day, and a man who rode out one day might be working on the ranch buildings the next three; folk took the horses that were available. It rankled, but it were how the ranch worked, and Smith didn't have the right or the right argument to change it. But if he were to be taking Gambler out for bounties, that made Gambler as much his horse as any of them.

And Gambler, it turned out, was a right joy to work with.

He was a showy chestnut, fifteen hands high — which put his shoulder just about at Smith's shoulder, but he couldn't fault the boy for that. Surefooted, and a fine smooth gait. But the boy was curious, was the best part; curious, playful, and Smith just about had him playing fetch with the lariat, the third night he had him in the paddock.

Learned a lesson, through it. There was precious little privacy on a ranch like Oak Rose. Meant that while he was working with Gambler, some of the hands came by to watch him, and the fact that other men chose to watch him meant Grady got it into his head that Smith was showing off.

Heard about that one night in the bunkhouse, when the hands were starting to gather for the night; no schedule on that, no curfew, but most of them drifted in not too deep into the darkness. Smith was sitting at the table, playing an idle game of beggar-thy-neighbor more to pass the time than anything. Grady was sitting on his mattress, just finishing up a newspaper from some day last week, and it must have been gnawing on him for a while, because the first thing he said when he set it down was "Smith. What you think you're doing with that horse?"

Smith had hoped that they'd keep to their silent animosity throughout the evening. Most times, Grady had nothing to say to him, and Smith preferred it that way. Course, trusting that to hold was trusting luck, and luck was untrustworthy at best.

"Nothing that concerns you," he answered. Kept his eyes on the cards.

He'd seen Grady working with the horses. Colts and fillies, mostly, on basic behavior. All the working horses of the ranch were well-behaved, and Smith would give them that much; so far as that went, all was good.

Of course, his preferences apparently ran farther.

Grady tossed the newspaper to one of the other hands, and said "Going to get him to dance on the head of a pin? Do tricks? Overseer not giving you enough real work to do?"

Abersson, sitting by the stove and tending a pot of chicory, said "He does the same work as any of us, Grady, and you know it."

Abersson was always trying to keep the peace. Not just between Smith and Grady; between everyone. It amounted to something of a joke in the bunkhouse, and among the hands — or not a joke, but a fact of life that all concerned seemed amused by, but didn't seek to change. Like the sourdough Cook never served a meal without.

"Sure. I hear he's a real good shitraker." That was a job Grady got to dodge. Seemed to think that meant more than it meant. "But maybe he has other plans. Do you, Smith? Maybe — maybe with you around, we'll have a whole new business. The famous dancing horses of Oak Rose."

"There's a thought," Smith said.

"Hell, I'd work on that ranch," one of the other hands said. "Better entertainment than here."

Another hand chimed in, "they'd probably shit just as much, though."

A ripple of laughter greeted that. It passed for humor, least.

Not that it satisfied Grady. He glared at Smith a few seconds more; Smith could read it, from the corner of his eye, though he wasn't interested in looking over to get an eyeful. Might suggest to Grady that he took him seriously.

"All that time you spend in Purgatory," Grady said.

"Only place in an easy ride that has a decent saloon," Smith said. Hell, he knew the rumor had gone around; there were precious few secrets in a place like this. But he had nothing to show for that invitation to hunt bounties, so he was happy enough not raising the topic.

"Paying off the sheriff, more like," Grady said, and sneered. "Or maybe you've got a sweetheart in town. That it, Smith?"

"You ain't got a sweetheart anywhere," one of the other hands retorted.

"Got a girl in Lexington," Grady said, and reached for a portrait he had pinned by the head of his bed. He had a bed, in the bunkhouse; no fancier than anyone else's mattress, save for the fact that it didn't have another bed stacked on top of it, or tucked under it. That was status, Smith supposed, in a place like this. Grady certainly thought so.

"And how much you pay for her?" someone else called, and a ripple of laughter passed through the room.

Smith would have left them to bicker and banter and ignored the whole thing, but for Grady looking his way and calling, "How much you pay for yours, Smith? Or do you just bring her apples and oatcakes?"

Smart money said there was no winning answer to the question. So Smith said, "And here I'd hoped you might be better with ladies than you are with the horses," and shrugged. "Well, keep up. You'll find a talent some day."

Grady had a sharp tongue, and thin skin. He stood up, and the rustle in the bunkhouse changed; now, folk were seeing this as something they might need to get in the way of. Grady came over to the side of the table, and looked down at Smith, expression tight.

"You're a whole lot of bluster," he said. "You think you're clever. But me — me and all the boys here, we're here because Mr. Dryden asked us to be. You? You're just a rat that came scurrying in one day."

Rage rose in him, quick as lightning, and from where, he didn't know. Enough that he was on his feet before he'd thought of moving; shoving Grady back with enough force to start a fight, if not to end one. That got the rest of the bunkhouse moving, closing on them, hands on shoulders and arms, pulling them away. Almost like a code to adhere to, or some treaty or parley; too many men in too small a space, and they had to all keep the peace in turn.

Grady still had less fear than he ought to have had. Less fear than Smith wanted out of him. And Smith could easily have given him some, if he had the man alone.

"I ain't the rat," he said.

Grady took a breath, and must have seen something in Smith's expression. Got a look in his own eyes that said he was reconsidering fighting, maybe dying, that day. That said he could take the excuse of the other ranch hands, who were working to keep him from it.

"You ain't shit," Grady said, and let the other hands turn him away.

Smith held his ground. Didn't let the hands push him back into the chair. Didn't matter. They stepped away, when he didn't move to keep at the fight.

And it didn't matter, because he'd lost that one. Man who lost his temper first lost the match, in this kind of a contest. In the other kind, well, he could hold his own there, and had proved it to the Blackwater police's satisfaction, and their profit, too. But—

Stupid thing to lose his temper over. Hadn't even been much of an insult.

He left the bunkhouse. Left the game, though it were a child's game anyway, with no money on the table. Went to sit with the stars a while, and let the cooling night air cool his head.

He didn't know himself even half as well as he thought he did, sometimes. Thought he'd built some familiarity, over the weeks, but there were times he still surprised himself. Too angry, too foolish, too impatient, none too wise. Sometimes he wondered if the more he found, the less he'd like the person he was.

At least when he did go back in, the air in the bunkhouse had moved right along. And at least Grady dropped the topic for the next few days, and did his best to ignore Smith with all the cold disdain he could muster, which were downright pleasant in how easy it made dealing with the man.

As for bounties, not much happened until one day when Smith stopped into Purgatory, and the sheriff looked at him, and said "Ah, Smith. You might be our man. How do you fancy a ride up to Ambarino?"

"Ambarino?" There was a trip.

"Telegram came down," the sheriff said, and waved his hand at one of the posters on the wall. One Smith already had a copy of, and he knew what it said well enough. "Our lad Buckskin Dooley. Rumor is, he's been causing trouble up all the way out east toward Annesburg, but a few folk think they've seen him skulking around near O'Creagh's Run in the Grizzlies. Man's like a roach. Seems to get everywhere. So that's folk in three states looking to see him squashed while we still have half an idea where he is."

Ambarino, New Hanover, and West Elizabeth. Dooley certainly was making a name for himself. "O'Creagh's Run, is it?"

"Is the rumor. Credible as any," the sheriff said. "Take the train up to Emerald Station; it's a bit of a ride up from there, but manageable enough."

"I'll do that." Didn't know how often bounty hunting would be like this — a clear path, handed to him at the sheriff's door — but while it was, he'd be a fool to ignore it. He tipped his hat, and headed back to the ranch.

Wasn't hard to get the overseer to give him leave. Fact was, just as Grady had said, Smith had bulled his way onto the ranch in the first place; Dryden had given him work as a matter of honor, but they hadn't needed him from the outset. Should have felt like freedom, that. Instead, it bit at him.

He had a place here, true. A place that Grady resented, and some others looked at with suspicion, after that business on the road. And if he were to disappear one day, he'd leave as little a hole as any man could who weren't a ghost, outright. It had been the same with the Brooks & Inverness office; he wondered if Inverness had even noticed that he'd never come back to work, after that first payday.

If he'd noticed, had he much cared?

Probably not.

Strauss might have missed him, the way a birder missed a clement day, but for all his friendly chatter, it might not have been anything more than that.

Smith did still wonder where he came from. In moments like these. Did still, and did still wonder if there was man, woman, or child out in the world who missed him, even when he couldn't miss them. Couldn't miss more than the idea of them. And suspected, secretly, that the answer were no: that for the whole wide world, the day he'd woken up without a single memory to call his own passed by just as the day before it had, and the day before that, with no one waking up to find they were poorer by it.

Didn't matter. None of it mattered, because there was nothing to be done about any of it.

Wages at Oak Rose were paid out at the end of the month, and the month had rolled over since he'd been here. He'd gotten the pay from what days he'd spent; not a full month's wages yet, but enough for a train ticket up to Emerald. He'd remarked to the cook — took to calling him just Cook; still couldn't get his name to sound the same way twice from him — that he had a trip, and Cook had winked at him and slipped him a nosebag of tinned beef. And sourdough.

Then Smith had filled the rest of the nosebag with grain, taken one of the now-clean revolvers from the stable cabinet, taken a lariat and a length of cord, saddled Gambler, and ridden out to seek his fortune.

Took his leave at the end of the day, to go down to Riggs Station, to catch a late train out. A train could cross the whole of America in under a week. A trip up to Emerald Station would be a long ride on horseback, but only hours pulled behind a steam engine; manmade beast that ate coal and belched out smoke and steam. He'd thought to get some sleep on the train, for its arrival in the morning, and Gambler, hopefully, could get some rest in the horse car, though Smith didn't know how restful a train could be to a horse. But as they pulled out of the station, instead of tucking himself against the wall and pulling his hat down over his eyes, he found himself taking out his maps, to study them.

He'd studied the maps before. All those ones he bought in Blackwater. Had them committed to memory, mostly; seemed like they soaked into his mind like ink. But he knew little of the land they described; could imagine mountains and waterfalls and forests beyond the ones he'd seen through West Elizabeth, but those were only imaginings. There weren't much light to see by, between the lamps in the train car and the patchy clouds and pale moonlight outside, but he could try to soak in the terrain, match it to the maps in his lap.

Lasted him part of the way, anyway, before he gave in to the night-darkness and put his things away and dozed for a while. By the time the train pulled in to Emerald Station he didn't feel much rested, but he felt rested enough, and there was enough light to see by.

Strange feeling, to be getting out at Emerald Ranch, with the sun edging up over the eastern horizon. For a moment it seemed like a different sun, seen from a different vantage; some high lonely place. And he felt it again, like a pressure on his lungs: northeast.

He were northeast of Oak Rose and Purgatory already. Well, East-northeast. Tug now seemed north-northeast, as though it would be as good as a compass. As though there were some fixed point it were dragging him to, not just a desire to ride in the direction of New England or Canada, whichever.

He saddled Gambler, and took him out.

Long enough way from the ranch where the boy was born and trained, Smith thought. Gambler was curious and energetic, flicking his ears to catch the sounds of birds overhead and beasts in the undergrowth. Watched a rabbit cut across the path in front of him.

Smith didn't know why, exactly, Dryden had offered this horse. Might just have been because he had energy and a smooth foxtrot, which were good enough. But Smith did find himself grateful for the horse's eager companionship; hard not to enjoy the morning when the horse enjoyed it so well.

It was a long ride northward, but a good one. Underlaid, that whole way, by the distant nagging tug; strange but ignorable until he was riding around the Three Sisters, and the sense narrowed and hardened to something as keen as heartache. Harsh enough that he found himself catching his breath, pulling up on the reins, looking out toward the mountains that had just come into view.

Not a remarkable stand of mountains. Not like the main range of the Grizzlies, more due north and spilling out westward. If it were mountains he wanted, he ought to go that way; in any case, he ought to ride west, out to the lake. Follow that lead on the bounty that'd brought him here.

The tug were stronger. Northeast, into the lower mountains, the great hills. Insistent as a fish on the line, or a fisherman on the reel.

He didn't have business up that way.

He had business by O'Creagh's Run. West. Had a man to hunt; had the promise of a payday after it. Eighty-five dollars; nearly three months' wages, and the proof that he were capable of some trade. He'd be a damn fool to trade a bird in the bush for... the call of some creature that might not have been a bird or anything, somewhere hidden beyond the horizon.

Or some metaphor, anyway.

He took Gambler down the path, toward the glimmer of blue he saw between the trees and terrain. And rode until the tug became a pain in his chest, like a hook set between his lungs, and no matter how he shifted — confusing the hell out of Gambler — it wouldn't ease.

Northeast.

What was there, that called him so? He remembered nothing, but surely there was something; it had called him from across the length of two states.

He paused on it. The sun was high overhead.

Northeast.

He turned Gambler around. Whatever it was that waited him, it seemed to have more weight than it should. Maybe it was the key piece of — of all of it. And what could that be? Maybe — he could imagine it — a cabin, tucked in the rugged land; a copper dog by the door, someone waiting inside...

He spurred Gambler faster.

The land changed around them as they rode toward the New Hanover border. Got rockier, and the plants that grew here got stouter, more stubborn; sharp scrub and green-grey moss clinging to rock faces. The mountains he was coming up on looked rough and forlorn, too full of shadows even in the middle of the day. Not a place anyone would claim to build a cabin on, unless they didn't much like company.

But here was the tug. Here was the trail, now urgent in the center of his chest.

He slowed at the base of the foothills. Sat looking up the path for a while, feeling the pain on his lungs, marking time by the beating of his own heart.

This place didn't look like it would shelter anything good. Any kind of home. But this was the place that called to him.

A shift of his weight, a pressure of his legs, and Gambler was turning off the beaten road, up a game trail winding up the face of the slope.

The light seemed to go strange — all golden and piercing, and Smith blinked; the path seemed to lay differently than it had a moment ago, though he couldn't pin down the difference. It were still just... a path, more shadowy than it ought to have been, leading up the mountain. Gambler sidled uneasily, and Smith looked for what might be spooking him before he realized that Gambler was picking his unease from him.

Part of him thought, this was no fit place for horses. And true, the path up was a bit steep, a bit narrow, rocky enough, uneven — but Gambler, he'd trust with it. He didn't see any sharp small pits the boy might put a foot down into, or piles of scree that looked like they'd send them both careening. But...

He had Gambler turn a tight little circle. Looked for any indication that there were mountain cats here, or wolves; saw none. No tracks, no droppings. A few dead branches looked like bones in the corner of his eye, but then he looked closer, and they weren't.

He sat still in the saddle, then, listening. Heard nothing amiss. Seemed like he could smell gunsmoke on the air, but he hadn't heard gunshots on the way here, and out in the open like this, the smell wouldn't linger long.

His head was beginning to hurt.

Had to push onward.

He nudged Gambler on.

Something dark was gathering in his lungs, like grief — like the grief next to a deathbed, the accumulation of fate. What would he find up here? A cabin, but burnt and abandoned? Forgotten?

...a grave?

A pair of graves, white crosses beneath a chestnut tree, visible from the first turnoff into the town—

He shook his head, and the image vanished as quickly as it had come. That weren't here. No town here, no chestnut trees, no green grass, though the vision had seemed no less cheery than this place. Nothing good could wait him here.

He was coming up the western side of a pass through the mountains; navigable, looked like, but not comfortable. Nothing here was familiar, and the unfamiliarity moved in his mind like a snake slipping through the undergrowth of memories. As though this place wasn't for him; as though any place were for anyone. And what awaited him, or what was behind him, was beyond some turn in the trail.

Gambler took the path slow. Ears flicking in agitation. Smith kept thinking he could hear voices on the wind, just about. But not that anyone shared the mountain with him. Like wisps of memory, just out of reach. Echoing strangely against the sky; echoes only he could hear.

He should have wanted them. It shouldn't be dread that followed them.

What was up here?

The path narrowed. The mountain face rose up beside him, trying to catch a sun too high for it to capture. There was a ringing in his ears and a crackling around the edges of his vision, and the taste of blood at the back of his throat. The tug in his lungs was like breathing coal smoke and embers. And for a moment, a sliver of a second, Smith thought he saw the big nightmare tear that had attacked him after the last of Strauss's teas.

Hunting—

He spun Gambler. The horse danced and tossed his head, and carried him down the path, away from that place, at a gallop. Happy enough to be running; happy enough to trust Smith's sense on this, for what little he could call that sense. It hadn't been sense that had brought him here; wasn't sense that had him fleeing the place as though devils were after him.

Wasn't sense that still had a hook in him, calling him back, back, back, like a hunter enraged that his prey had slipped its trap.

If there were any sense to be had, it were that he kept Gambler to a gallop until the mountains fell away behind him, and he came to the shores of O'Creagh's Run.

The lake was a lovely thing, cupped in the rough earth as it was. Clear water, and a boat bobbed out near a stand of rocks big enough to be a little island, or a little island small enough that it were only a handful of rocks.

Still wild country, up here. Map suggested that might be the case with most of Ambarino. There were more birds here than in the plains around Blackwater or the hills by Purgatory and Oak Rose; then, there were more forest here, as well. Smith saw what looked like a pair of bighorn climbing one of the rough rock tumbles, off in the distance; heard a pack of wolves howling to each other from deeper in the forest, miles away.

Didn't see much sign of humans, beyond the boat on the water, until he came around a low rise and saw a cabin by the lake, looking cozy enough. Cozy enough to draw him off the path, and over to the porch, where he let Gambler alone to graze for a few moments, and knocked on the door.

No answer. Were like knocking on a boulder, and expecting the earth to answer him.

He gave it a minute or so, and knocked again. Still the same silence. Took himself away from the door and looked around; the place didn't have the air of somewhere abandoned, and there were horse tracks by the hitching post that looked new enough. A scrape in the dirt that said some dung had been shoveled away. No horse nearby, though. Whoever it was who lived here, they must have gone out.

Probably for the best. What did Smith think he'd say? He didn't think this was where Dooley would be hiding out, from all he'd heard of the man. Altogether too conspicuous. And for all it felt like he should have come and knocked on the door, it didn't feel like much more than that; didn't feel like this was a place he ought to have belonged.

Not even as much as that... that goddamn eerie mountain pass. And he'd do his best to put that place out of his mind, thank you.

Was a nice cabin, though. Nice spot on the lake. Probably good fishing, there; good hunting, up in the hills. Smith could envy the person who owned it.

Well. No use dallying. Here he was, supposed to be a bounty hunter, and he was doing everything besides hunting his bounty. He hopped on Gambler's back again, and took off around the lake, through the rough terrain, around the trees. Kept an eye out for more signs of humans; signs of humans hiding.

What he got was a rough shout, a gunshot, and an alarmed yell from a stand of tumbled rocks and trees.

Smith spurred Gambler to a run. Sure-footed beast indeed; didn't shy on the rocky ground, and stopped quick when the ground dropped away. The short fall of the ridge showed Smith a neat little scene below him: the bounty, Dooley, dressed just as he was on his poster and with the same unfortunate whiskers, standing over a man who'd fallen before him. Man looked wide-eyed and frightened, and good reason to; he was about to get killed.

His pistol was on the ground. Apparently it'd been knocked away. He was sprawled on his back, and Dooley was standing over him with a sawn-off pointed at his gut; cruel threat, awful death if it came to it, and Dooley's face was a rough vindictive grin. "Bad luck, bounty man," he said, and his finger curled on the trigger.

Thing about threats, about mockery. They took time. Time enough for someone else to act.

Smith got his own pistol up, sighted, and sent a bullet through Dooley's hand. Sent Dooley's gun spinning into the rocks, and saw Dooley shout and stumble back and trip over a loose rock underfoot, and go down in a spray of red from his waving hand.

Smith spared a glance at who else had come out hunting today, as he ground-tied Gambler and hopped from his back. The other bounty hunter was young, but not so young he should have been this stupid. Built stout and hearty, but dressed townish, and filled out like he didn't do much in the way of regular labor. He had a smattering of freckles and red, curly hair, and an enthusiastic beard that he looked powerfully proud of, judging by the way it was combed out and trimmed. He scrambled to his feet, cast a shocked look Smith's way, then cast about for his own gun. At least he had brought one.

Didn't even have it in his hand by the time Smith had closed the distance, cut short any protest on Dooley's part with a fist to his jaw, and flipped the man onto his stomach and hauled his hands behind him. One hand was a mass of blood and bone; his wrist was slick with it, but the cord Smith had was rough, and he could tie it tight enough that it wouldn't slip free.

"You saved my life," the other hunter — the kid — exclaimed.

"Lucky for you," Smith said. "The hell were you doing out here, anyway? That your cabin over by?"

"What?" the kid asked. Seemed rattled. Fair enough. "The cabin — oh. No. That's, I think, Old Man Sinclair." He winced. "Though I hear he hates it when people call him that, though I hear everyone does. —what are you doing?"

Dooley spat out a curse and struggled, and Smith knocked him on the side of the head again. Hadn't brought much by the way of supplies, now that he thought of it; ended up pulling the kerchief from his own neck to wrap around the mangled hand. Wouldn't do for the man to bleed out or some other misfortune before he even got him back to the sheriff. "I'm tying up a bounty," he said, and turned to Dooley. "Apparently you've been making a ruckus. Towns in three states want your head."

"I ain't done a goddamn thing wrong!" Dooley said. His voice was tight and turned-around with pain.

"Sure," Smith said. Dooley looked just like he did on the poster, and he had enough folk after him, and his voice were false enough, that it wasn't hard to catch the lie for what it was.

"I — he's my bounty!" the kid protested.

Smith cast a glance his way. "Sure," he said again.

The kid caught his glance, and stepped back a little, blinking. Like he'd maybe just caught on that he was arguing with an armed man. "Not that I don't appreciate the help," he said. But—"

"Help," Smith said, and the kid might have paled a little. "That what you fix on calling it?"

"Ah..."

"You're both madmen!" Dooley tried. "You got the wrong man!"

"Yeah, and I'm sure you was fixing to shoot him on a gentleman's dispute," Smith said. "Shut up." He looked back at his competition, if he could call the kid that; might have laughed, if the kid hadn't been so goddamn stupid in such a life-wasting way. Man like this shouldn't be out hunting bounties. Or anything, maybe. Anything more dangerous than a big old oak or a Douglas fir. "You're leaving with your life. That's better than your day was looking. You leave Dooley to me." He probably wouldn't be putting up much more of a fight, now that he was short a hand, or near enough.

"But—"

"Dooley?" Dooley said. "Wh—who's that, then? I never heard that name. That who you're looking for?"

Man was a piss-poor actor. "You know, poster said they want you alive. They didn't say nothing about you being in possession of all your limbs." Smith gave a rough squeeze to Dooley's wound, causing him to yowl and jerk and curse, and tightened the kerchief another turn. "Thought I told you to shut up?"

"I'm telling you, mister — misters," Dooley said. "You're making a mistake."

"We're really not," the other bounty hunter said. "I've done my research!"

"Christ." Smith hadn't brought an extra kerchief or a rag of any other sort, but a few loops of rope through Dooley's mouth like a horse's bit shut him up. Or at least made any further protest come out muffled and garbled, and made him reconsider the indignity of speaking. He wondered if all bounties were this mouthy.

Well. He supposed dead ones probably weren't. Course, most of the posters he'd seen wanted bounties alive, or offered more for them alive.

The other hunter cleared his throat. "Please," he said, looking to Smith. "I tracked him all the way out here. I've been tracking him for a week. I had him cornered, sir—"

"I could have waited ten more seconds and he would have put so much shot in your gut you would have rattled when they lowered your coffin," Smith said. "Stop pushing your luck, take it as a kindness that I saved your life on the way to picking up my bounty, and go along home."

The kid winced like he'd been struck. "I — can't do that," he said.

Smith did not particularly like being a man people argued with, he was finding. He trusted that his voice showed that. "I assure you, you can."

"No." Kid's voice was as firm as it could be, for trembling a little. "I can't. I — listen. My home — it's owned by the bank. And they're going to take it away and turn myself and my wife and my two girls out on the street unless I give them a big payment. Dooley's bounty will cover it, just. I need him, sir."

Smith stared at him. Dooley might have been a poor liar, especially with his hand paining him, but this kid either were a great liar or weren't lying. He was looking at Smith with a face of desperation, wide-eyed and genuine.

Goddamnit.

"Why is this my problem?" Smith weren't asking the kid. Wasn't sure who he was asking. Kid still flinched at it, and gathered himself back up for another push.

"Look," he said, and scrabbled in his jacket until he came out with an old copper watch, which he pried open. Inside, carefully lacquered into the cover, was a piece cut from a photograph, which the fool had probably spent money on instead of paying the bank what he owed them. Maybe. Only had one girl in the photo, though; a babe in arms, so looked like the picture was old enough. And there was the kid, with his bushy beard, and one hand placed on a lovely woman's shoulder, both of them looking proud to burst with whatever life they'd made.

Poor fools couldn't have looked into the future, clearly. Couldn't have seen these troubles coming for them — trouble of the sort that might well have ended his life by the shores of O'Creagh's Run, with bullets rattling his gut, if Smith hadn't stopped by.

Or maybe they'd had troubles of their own, then, but had found that moment of quiet and pride among them, still.

Goddamnit, damnit, damn. It really wasn't his problem. But it did bring something — not a headache, but a pressure between his eyes, like something trying to break out from inside his skull. For a moment, his vision greyed. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

He had his own life to build. He also had room and board he could rely on, and no family to care for that he knew, but he owed this kid nothing. Nothing on the skin of the earth.

And no one had owed him anything, in Purgatory or Blackwater or Oak Rose, neither.

The light seemed to flare a little too brightly gold before he blinked that away, and dropped his hand. "Fine. Take him in," he said. The words sat like bricks in his chest.

The kid opened his mouth quick, like he was about to argue more, or beg. Then caught the words, and hung on them for a moment, and said, "Really?"

Didn't like being questioned, either, Smith found. Especially when he was questioning himself enough for both of them. "Go on, take him," he said. "Before I change my mind." As he surely should. Had he come all the way up to Ambarino just to be taken for a fool?

"I — thank you. Thank you," the kid said, and rushed over to Dooley, and then just... paused there, looking down at the man with an odd look on his face.

Smith looked at him. Tried to convince himself just to ride off before he could dig himself into anything deeper. "There a problem?"

"I've never, um, taken in a bounty before," the kid said.

Which meant that in the end, Smith actually helped the fool kid load Dooley onto the back of his horse before sending him on his way. Feeling like he'd swallowed a live ember or a live adder, the whole time. Watched the kid take off east, toward Annesburg, then hopped onto Gambler and turned the horse south for his own way home.

Better luck next time, maybe. If he were fool enough to attempt a next time. If he were clever enough — not that it should take much cleverness, though apparently it took more than he had to hand — not to go down all the side tracks he found; running up into mountains, knocking on strangers' cabins. If the sheriff were so good as to tell him, again, just right where a bounty would be.

He'd ridden perhaps a quarter-mile, too lost in his own thinking to notice the scenery, when a buck deer flashed through the trees off the path.

Smith brought Gambler up short. He had thought it likely there was good hunting, round here—

He entertained the idea, for a moment, of going off the trail and hunting some game — but what would he do with it? He might skin the creature and bring it to a trapper, but the weather was warm, and he didn't have the right tools for scraping hide, and didn't know where a trapper might be aside from there was one somewhere around Riggs Station. Nor did he have any way to keep the butchered meat on the trip back, and even if he did arrive back at Oak Rose with it, Cook there seemed used to getting meat from the butcher's shop or in cans from the general store. Might not know what to do with a whole carcass. Smith didn't think they even butchered the ranch's own cattle on the ranch itself, or if they did, he'd never seen where.

Besides, what seemed most likely would be that he'd just attract the attention of some local predator on the way — a bear, if he was unlucky, or maybe those wolves he'd heard howling. Stag and wolf. Wolf and goddamn stag. It always cycled back to them, and if he could just remember why...

Maybe it meant nothing, here and now. He was up in a forest; deer and wolves called these places home. Much as the sparrows that flitted between the trees, which he paid no special note; the squirrels that dashed along the branches, the innumerable fish that probably swam in that lake... the ants, the spiders, the mice or chipmunks that were bound to scurry unseen in the undergrowth... the rest of the birds in the sky above...

Some things, his mind picked at because it had been picking at his dreams all this time. Nothing more to it. He was the intruder, here, and the deer he'd seen had been a young buck, not so grand as the one he dreamed of; its pelt had been unremarkable brown. It were a creature of this world.

He sighed, and nudged his horse on down the trail.

Long trip back down from Ambarino. More than long enough for Smith to turn over all the reasons he was a goddamn fool, and what all he could expect to learn from that. For one: it seemed he was no better a bounty hunter than he was a fisherman. Wouldn't make a living at it, or at least likely hadn't.

For another: seemed like a sad story could shut off all his good sense. Didn't much fit with the thought of himself as a cold-blooded killer, which were reassuring in its own way. Or possibly it meant he had some reason of his own to care about a story like that, which weren't reassuring at all.

Overseer was taking his lunch on the front porch of the main house when Smith rode back in, and by the look he gave him, Smith's arrival was of about as much note as a barn cat coming wandering back in. "How did the bounty hunting go?"

"Lost him at the last moment," Smith said.

"Well," the overseer said, without much interest, and without much surprise, "welcome back. Get that horse put away and go see Greek by the carriage house."

And that was that.

The growing-familiar business of Oak Rose closed around him as though he'd hardly left. Seemed that it cared as little for his absence as it did for his presence. At least it was something he could last at; something that'd feed him and shelter him and offer a few scraps more, at the end of the month. Even if his foray into bounty hunting had been as fruitless as his forays into most everything else.

Didn't make it another month there, though, before something happened. It were hardly five days more — working the horses, keeping the stables, repairing the tack, watching the perimeter, an unbroken routine of drudgery — until the overseer came by in the afternoon, and said "There's some kid here to see you."

Smith couldn't think of what kid might have business seeking him out at Oak Rose. A telegram boy, maybe, though he didn't know if that was the sort of work they'd entrust to a kid, or who'd have cause to send him a telegram. But he set down his work, said "Sure," and went up around to the front of the main house.

Where he saw that, no, it wasn't a boy; it was the young man, who seemed younger than he reasonably was, who'd taken Dooley. Apparently Smith wasn't the only one who looked at him and subtracted a good handful of years from the evaluation of his age. Except for that beard, he looked too young even when he wasn't in over his head.

"Mr. Smith?" the kid asked.

Interesting, that. He hadn't given the kid his name. Nor had he told the kid where to find him. "That's me."

"Cooper," the kid introduced himself, and extended his hand. Smith let out a hunh, but shook it. "Cooper Marks."

Good to know the name, at least. "You get that bank loan paid off?" Smith asked.

"Off? No. No, sir," Marks said. "But I made the payment they asked me, and I can keep the house. For now, anyway." He fumbled his hat, and caught it before it hit the dirt. "I wanted to say that it was real decent of you to let me have that bounty. And you saved my life — and I don't know how I can ever thank you enough for that."

Smith didn't know how he was supposed to accept those thanks. "Weren't nothing," he said. It had been the press of a trigger, the work of an instant. There'd been no reason to let the kid die, and little enough effort in keeping him alive. Though it did turn out to mean a hefty bit of cash snatched from his fingertips.

That, though, had been his own foolishness. Couldn't blame Marks for that. Much as he wanted to.

The kid gave him a strange look, utterly earnest, and just this shade of troubled. "It might be nothing to you, sir, but it is everything to me," he said. "And quite a lot to my daughters, who still have a father; my mother, who still has a son; and my wife, who still has a husband. There are more people grateful to you than you know."

For a bare instant, it felt like someone had given him a sharp shove back. Fouled his footing. Smith stared at Marks, trying to place the feeling.

Marks fumbled in his pocket, and brought out a few bills and coins. "Here," he said. "I know it's not much, but it's everything left over from the bounty after the bill was paid."

Smith took it. What he'd earned for all that effort totaled to four dollars and thirteen cents: a tidy enough sum to spend on trinkets in town, but not a drop in the bucket when it came to any real savings. Not even much compared to the expense of getting himself to Ambarino and back. "Well," he said, "I appreciate it for what it's worth."

Marks let out an uneasy laugh. "I do understand you," he said. "I do. I wish it were more."

Then he just... kept standing there.

After a few seconds, Smith said, "Was there something else?"

"I thought," Cooper said, "that you and I might work together again."

That sounded like a terrible idea. The kid was all wide eyes and naivety and fecklessness, and would probably get himself shot to pieces if he kept up in this life. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be out hunting bounties," he said. "I think your wife and kids might prefer it if you came home to them."

"I know I'm not very good at it," Cooper said. "Not like you. And—" He held up a hand, forestalling comment. "I don't want you to think I'd just be some parasite, feeding off your hard work. You could think of it more like hiring me. I can do all the legwork, going about all the sheriffs' offices to keep current on the bounties, tracking down the rumors and sightings, tracking all the leads. Then I'd come and get you, and we'd ride out and you'd just make sure we took the bounty down and took him in. We could split the pay. Fifty-fifty. —sixty-forty; you get sixty. What do you say?"

Smith wondered if he held out a little longer, if he could push for seventy-thirty. But it did sound fair, as it went. And he recalled Marks saying, I've been tracking him for a week, on Dooley — meant that he'd been tracking the man before the men up near Annesburg had seen him, which meant Marks did have more of an idea how to go about that than Smith did. Not to mention tracking him down to Oak Rose, based on... what? How'd he even begun to manage that?

Smith had a feeling that if he did wait until the sheriff happened to know just where a bounty was, he'd end up in the same position again. Facing down another hunter for the catch.

So. Could be worth it. "Might be interested," he said.

Cooper's wide grin said that he took that as a firmer yes than Smith had intended. "That's wonderful," he said. "There are a few more bounties I've been looking into; I might have something else by the end of the week. Can I reach you by telegram? Here?"

Well, now that seemed almost luxurious. He didn't even have to ride in to Purgatory to get his leads? "Sure," he said. "I'm here, most days."

"Good. It's a deal." Marks clasped his hands. "Thank you again," he said. "You won't regret this, I promise you that. And I will make up that bounty to you. I promise that, too."

"If you say so," Smith said.

Promises — he knew better than to put much faith in promises. But the look on Marks' face as he thanked him, again, and took his leave — the look of a person who didn't look on things like this quite so coldly. Yes: too young for his age, surely. Had faith in a world that worked as it was intended to. Had, through some senseless accident, folded Smith in with that idea of a working world.

He left an odd feeling behind. Warm, in the center of Smith's chest, like something living there. An animal, that weren't a part of him. A kind of satisfaction, maybe, like a warm meal, though he wasn't sure what he had to be satisfied by. Not the four dollars in his hand — and thirteen cents; mustn't forget that — but the earnestness in Cooper's face, the sincerity in his tone: There are more people grateful to you than you know.

Well... well, then.

That was... fine enough.

Some part of Smith thought, they were damn fools if they were grateful to him, the man, at all beyond being grateful for that one moment where he pulled the trigger or that one gasp of foolishness where he left Marks the bounty. As himself, Mr. Smith with too much history for a man who had none, with not many prospects beyond raking stables and, perhaps now, hunting men, he wasn't sure there was much to lean on. Be like building a rock wall on marsh water. So, those two decisions, maybe — be grateful to those.

But that accident of misplaced gratitude did warm him. Sunlight, slanting through trees. Made him feel almost forlorn with the warmth of it.

But he went back to work. And it wasn't until the day was done, and he lay down in his bunk amid all the rest of the bunkhouse noise, that he had an odd thought:

That wolfish, ruinous joy that had come over him in the saloon in Blackwater? It had felt quite as good as this. It, too, had felt like a thing a man could live on. And standing above a man he'd beaten down, and standing before a man he'd kept up, seemed of a kind, somehow; two sides of a coin. A way to know... something.

Odd thought. And he turned it over, once or twice, but couldn't quite get the sense of it pinned down. And the thought slipped through his fingers entirely as he drifted off to dream.

Chapter Text

Three days passed before the telegram came in. Passed in familiar work, at least; Oak Rose didn't offer much by way of surprises.

Smith supposed that some men might prefer that sort of life. How the weary readiness that arrived with dawn could become just as familiar as the cotton or linen of a work shirt, and how habit and action could slip into well-worn treads and roll along on their own. It did provide plenty of opportunity to think, at least, for thought weren't called for by the tasks of the day; some, like Abersson, seemed to enjoy his thinking. For Smith's part, he'd soon exhausted all that he had enough knowledge to think on. The telegram's arrival came as a relief.

It was morning. The sun was low enough that it was sneaking glances under the hems of the clouds, and rain was pattering down. The drops were big, and lazy; the clouds were patchy, broken by the early blue, and the whole sunshower seemed as though it were putting in a token appearance before traveling off to some other climes. Already resigning itself to the coming cool dryness of autumn.

Overseer sent one of the younger hands to fetch after Smith, and the kid was all toothy smiles. Asked, "How is it, being a bounty hunter? You get into many gunfights?", and Smith had to explain that he'd hunted one bounty, and it hadn't been that exciting, no.

Left out all the detail. All of it.

The packed earth paths that stitched the ranch together wouldn't turn to mud; not with as little rain as this. The dust just mixed up into a kind of powdery paint that clung to the soles of shoes and the hems of jeans, and the horses kicked up a bit less of it. Even the raindrops were more like someone trying to get a man's attention: a tap on the shoulder, a knock on the arm. Still, the overseer was standing on the porch of the main house, under the overhanging roof, in shelter from this little element. He'd signed for the telegram, apparently; handed it over when Smith came by.

"I suppose you'll be wanting leave," he said.

Telegram was to the point: Marks knew of a bounty ready for capture; asked Smith to meet him at Riggs Station. Sooner than Smith had expected it, in truth; he was... not used to men's bluster; he couldn't say that. But he found he expected it. Grand promises, common results.

But it seemed that Marks was one to say what he meant. At least in this. "Looks like I'll be taking it, yes."

He was met with a look like he'd asked to burn down the stables. "On this little notice," the overseer groused. "You can't tell this partner of yours that you'll meet him tomorrow?"

Smith was taken aback. "Telegram says he knows where the man is today," he said. "Asks me to meet him today. You want me to ride to Purgatory and send a telegraph to Riggs, telling him to come back tomorrow?"

The overseer frowned.

"Mr. Smith," he began, and Smith felt his hackles rise. "I know Mr. Dryden is happy to allow you some leave, but — this is a working ranch. There are things we expect to get done. We can't have you expecting to drop everything and vanish on — on a few seconds' notice. Can't your partner give you more of a warning? A day or two?"

"What?" Smith demanded. "He's tracking down outlaws; you expect him to set up an appointment?"

"He must keep some sort of schedule," the overseer said. "Or, if he doesn't, he has to appreciate that we do."

Oak Rose did, all right. For what good it did. It worked well enough, and Smith supposed that if nothing else, it kept the hands from keeping each other up at night in that shared bunkhouse. But he couldn't see, for his part, why it was worth making such a fuss over; so long as the work got done, why bother about when? "He might," Smith allowed. "But I don't think the outlaws do."

The overseer stared at him, and sighed. "Well, see what he can do," he said. Irritation poking up through his tone. "And you are sacrificing your pay for the day. Every time."

"I knew that," Smith said. It'd been damn near the first thing Dryden had said to him.

"The whole day," the overseer said. "If you really have to go running off at lunch, don't expect to take a day's pay for it."

If he really had to go running off at lunch, he'd hope like hell the bounty would pay more than the extra dollar he were losing. "Fine."

The overseer waved him off — probably, despite his protests, glad to cut the ranch's expenses by one man's wages for a day. Smith left before he could change his mind.

He could allow himself a tentative kind of hope, in this. Hope that Marks were solid; hope that this were the beginning of a good living, solid work, and that he could keep at it. A few dollars lost on a few days away from the ranch weren't so bad, but fouling the nest by testing the overseer's patience weren't a path he were eager to follow. Hope was about where he set it.

And there was plenty of time for Marks to disappoint him, yet. And for him to disappoint Marks. But in the mean time, Smith borrowed a waxed canvas overcoat and a couple other goods from Old Greek, chased down the man who'd thought to take Gambler out to work the cattle, and rode down to Riggs.

Riggs Station, in the wet midmorning, had not a great deal of comings and goings-on. A family worked at loading their belongings into a stagecoach; a young man who looked like he was waiting for a train to hop was napping in the shadow of the water tower. There were a couple horses hitched up by the station entrance, one with a nosebag; the other one looked like the mare Marks had been riding up by O'Creagh's Run, a mouse-grey dun thing, looking distinctly average. Sturdy enough sort of farm horse, maybe.

And that was it. Riggs wasn't a busy station; or, if it were, it weren't busy now.

Smith hitched Gambler beside the dun mare and and found Marks inside, chatting with the clerk and apparently sharing some kind of joke. A joke which widened like the yawn of an alligator when the clerk glanced over at Smith, and Marks followed his gaze, and brightened, and said "There he is!"

"Oh, now it makes sense," the clerk said.

This already sounded like something Smith wanted no part in. "What makes sense?"

"How Cooper here thinks he's fit to be a bounty hunter," the clerk said. "Now, you actually look like you can handle yourself, if you don't mind me saying."

"I do," Smith said, and looked at Marks. "You ready to go?"

Marks jumped. Apparently, he'd expected Smith to come in and pass the time of day with the clerk, not to get right to business. "Uh — sure," he said, and reached down and gathered up the things by his feet: a small bag, and a repeater. He slung the repeater over his shoulder, and Smith turned and walked back out of the building.

He waited until the sunlight had gathered them both up, before saying, "Telling everyone your business, then?"

"He's a friend," Marks said, gesturing back to the ticket counter. "I used to work here, you know. I was a clerk."

So, not a lumberjack. Smith revised his opinion. "Can you use that rifle?"

Marks looked halfway indignant. Only halfway, though, and that half weren't entirely credible. "Of course I can use a rifle!" he said. "I have shot before."

"Right," Smith said. "Shot what?"

Marks opened his mouth, and then seemed to consider all the answers available to him. He took a look at Smith. Smith tracked his eyes: hitting his shoulder, his gunbelt, his holster.

Marks unslung the rifle, and offered it over. "Maybe you'd do better with it."

Smith huffed, amused, and took it. Looked it over; sighted along the barrel.

Marks cleared his throat. "I will need it back, of course."

"Of course," Smith said.

At least the rifle was well-maintained. Old, but a decent make; the kind a man might expect to pass on to his heirs, and expect them to get good use of. He gave Marks another look.

"My wife's," Marks said, as though this were an explanation. Then he pulled a poster out of his bag, and handed it over, which was the more pressing concern anyway. Smith slung the rifle over his own shoulder, took the paper, unfolded it, and stared.

"Who drew this?" The picture was... odd. Like the artist knew how to make a shape on the paper, and how to get that to come across clear, but was missing some of the finer points of how men were put together. The... nose, for example. And most of the ears.

"It's accurate," Marks said. "That is, everyone agrees it's accurate. Our Wilson Grey is quite badly scarred."

Smith turned the poster over, not that the reverse had anything on it. He turned it back, looking at the man's misshapen face. "What the hell tried to eat him?"

"Frostbite, as I understand it," Marks said. "Accounts differ as to how. He was lost in the Grizzlies, or he fought a man in the Yukon and fell into a freezing river, or he was caught in the Children's Blizzard. Either way, it happened years ago, which makes him memorable; a deformity like that must be a great inconvenience to an outlaw."

"How long's he been an outlaw?"

"Ah... accounts differ on that, too," Marks said. "At least six or seven years, from what I know."

"Then it ain't that much of an inconvenience," Smith said. He took in the rest of the details — $60 reward; wanted for robbery and arson and murder; wanted alive — and folded the poster, and tucked it into his saddlebag. Mounted up, and watched Marks clamber into his own saddle. Marks leaned forward and gave his horse a pat on the side of her neck, which Smith found raised his estimation of the kid a little.

"It's this way," Marks said. "A bit of a ride. Up past Strawberry. Strawberry is where the bounty was posted. Well... where it was set; sheriff there is a bit strange about posting them."

Made sense as to why Smith hadn't seen it, or heard anything about this man. "Lead the way."

Marks flashed him a quick grin, and clapped his heels to his horse's flanks.

The horse took off at a trot, and Gambler was happy to follow. "So. What all do you know about Grey?" Smith asked.

"Some," Marks said. "I know 'Wilson Grey' isn't his real name. He's not a great fan of heights or waterways. Always asks for extra blankets at hotels and wears a beaverskin coat more often than you'd think the weather would allow. Last anyone saw, he was riding a shire horse; descriptions differ, but it had a dark coat of some sort. Brown or black. He smokes quite heavily: Premiums. In fact, he was almost caught a year ago outside Deer Creek; bounty hunters found cigarette cards tossed on the ground outside an old building that was supposed to be abandoned."

Smith stared as Marks rattled off all those facts. That was more than the sheriff had offered him for Dooley. Most of it might be useless, but hell, maybe not. "How do you find out all these things?"

Marks laughed. "It's less glamorous than you think," he said. "Mostly just a lot of talking to people. All sorts of people. Especially ones most folk don't notice. They're the ones who folk don't think they have to hide anything from."

"No kidding," Smith said.

"I've bought more drinks and hot meals for vagrants than you would believe," Marks said. Then something seemed to occur to him, and he colored, and laughed. "And, ah... other people. The first time I had to talk to a, um, a... working woman," he said, and cast Smith a sidelong look like he was wondering if the meaning had come across. Smith snorted; odd notion for Marks to get into his head, that he might not know what a whore was. "Well. I brought my wife along. To reassure her." He chuckled. "I made a fool of myself, if we're honest. My wife ended up asking most of the questions while I was blushing in a corner."

Of course. Because Marks probably wouldn't know a whore unless one was introduced to him — and in nice, clear terms, at that. "And somehow you've managed to have two children," Smith said.

Marks laughed again, and said — in a tone that was slightly too innocent, and so worked out to not being innocent at all — "I married a resourceful woman."

Smith snorted, and found himself amused despite himself. Credit where credit were due, apparently. And Marks seemed satisfied with that note of amusement, and went along on his chatter.

"But the, ah, woman we visited was lovely. Really." He gave Smith a mischievous look. "She and my wife — Cora, is her name — struck up quite a friendship. She stops by the house sometimes, trades books with Cora, and brings sweets for the girls."

This clerkish would-be bounty hunter had married a rifle-toting woman who consorted with the working girls of the saloons, it sounded like. Smith was half of a mind to ask why she hadn't hitched up her skirts and come hunting outlaws. "What kind of books do these ladies of yours trade each other?"

"Travel memoir, mostly," Marks said. "Cook's diaries, Darwin's Journal of Researches... I think everything Robert Louis Stevenson ever wrote, even the fiction." He turned a speculative look on Smith. "You know, just about everyone I tell that story to asks how I'm not worried that she'll corrupt my children. You're the first one who's asked what books she brings by."

Struck him as odd, somehow. "Guess I'm more interested in books than people's business," he said. Besides, if the notion was that whores and children were incompatible, someone might need to inform all the whores who'd borne them.

"Rare priorities," Marks said.

And that was a remark he didn't have much he could do with.

Dangerous territory, he thought. Treacherous ground. Then he thought: well, maybe. Or not. The words between the two of them, just now, were more there for the sake of something being said than for the sake of something being meant, unless Smith missed his guess.

That were the way of it. It would be a long enough ride, and the two of them weren't precisely working — that was, they had neither horses on a line nor cattle to manage, either of which would have taken some attention. All there was, was watching the road, taking in the scenery, keeping an eye on the clouds that were choosing to disperse rather than gather, and chatting. He couldn't quite blame Marks for doing that.

"You say 'the first time,'" Smith said. That implied that Marks had been doing this for a while — long enough to have some history to look back on. "I didn't get the sense you'd run any bounties before."

"No," Marks agreed. "Dooley was the first I'd ever gone after, and he'd be the last if you hadn't agreed to work with me." Marks looked over his way, again. Didn't seem to have the knack of holding a conversation and keeping his eyes on the path, or on the land around the path, in case of any surprises. "Also the last if you hadn't been there. But I've always been good at learning things. Sniffing them out. And I've always been fascinated by outlaws."

Something uneasy and restless moved within Smith. "And just what is it about outlaws that fascinates you?"

"The same thing that my wife finds in those travel stories, I suppose," Marks answered, easily. "The adventure."

Adventure, was it. The feeling moved in Smith's gut. He'd be tempted to call it anger, if he knew why that should make him angry; if he didn't know the feeling of anger, now, so well that he could tell when something wasn't that. "And that's how you ended up on your back, with a man pointing a shotgun at your belly, is it?"

Marks sat up as though he'd been stung. Gave Smith an odd look. When he responded, his voice was softer. Careful.

"I wasn't so naive," he said. "I didn't expect it to be like a story. But yes, I overestimated myself, and almost died for it. I promise you, I've learned from my mistake."

Smith wanted a fight, maybe. Maybe. Not with Marks; the kid hadn't offended him, or if he had, there was no reason for Smith to have taken offense. But he wanted to fight something. Maybe even someone, if that was all available.

Good thing they were riding toward a man to fight, he supposed.

He grunted, after a few more paces, by way of saying I hear you, and maybe of saying Go on. The problem wasn't Marks. Might have been something in what Marks was saying, but who knew what? Maybe he wished he had that glimpse into adventure, as small a window as a book's pages might be. He didn't even have that, in the days between bounties and rides, at Oak Rose.

Marks left the silence for a few beats more, before offering, "Well, there was also Aunt Belle."

Said it like it should mean something. "Aunt Belle?"

Marks gave a quick chuckle, like he was testing the waters. "When I was a boy — I must have been five or so, six at the oldest — my mother was out in the garden, and a woman came staggering up, bleeding from a dozen gunshots, to hear my mother tell it. My father was away. It was just myself, my two older sisters, and the newborn. Well, my mother brought this woman in, and my sisters helped her wash all her injuries and wrap them, and she stayed with us for a while. We called her Aunt Belle."

The name tickled at the edge of his mind. Didn't care to introduce itself, though.

Marks went on. "She told us all the most terrific stories," he said. "About gunslingers, and outlaws, and banditos up from Mexico, and adventure and havoc and mayhem. And mother would pretend to disapprove while she was cleaning the house, and the woman would pretend that they were just stories, and wink at us, and I think she was also winking at my mother. She left again — sooner than she should have, mother said; went staggering out the door and got on her horse, and was never seen again — and for years after, we weren't allowed to mention her or her stories outside the house. It was our little family secret. So I had a childhood full of secrets and intrigues about outlaws and gunslingers, and when I was fifteen I finally discovered who that woman was." He laughed, quick and almost furtive, and for a second he sounded like a boy — all delight and amazement. Frog in hand, or something. "We'd spent near a week with the infamous Black Belle lying in my mother's bed."

The unease was still in his stomach, but it was fading. He found amusement, or possibly amazement, settling in over it. "You're not joking?" He couldn't think if he'd heard of Black Belle, but she sounded like something, all right.

And maybe no wonder Marks wasn't too bothered about whores bringing sweets for his girls, even if other folks thought he ought to have been. He'd been part-nursemaided by some famous outlaw, or something.

Smith wondered what Strauss would make of him.

Marks seemed to relax, now that the bite was out of Smith's tone. "Not joking," he said. "On my honor. Hand to god! Black Belle. We never heard from her again, of course, but I've kept up on every newspaper article I can find about her. They say she's still out there, somewhere."

"You're good at finding people," Smith said. "Ever think of looking for her?"

"Oh, she probably doesn't even remember me," Marks said. "And besides, I hear that she likes greeting callers with dynamite. I'm not that much of a fool."

The unease had gone; amusement had won out. And the odd... nostalgia, or fondness, in Marks' tone cantered along with it. "Maybe you should send your wife to meet her."

Marks laughed. "Lord."

That rested there. Smith... didn't have much to say. Didn't have many tales to tell, and the ones he did have, he didn't want to. So, he'd leave them to ride in silence.

Wasn't the best day for riding, but it was far from the worst. Temperature was good, and there was enough sun out to keep the land from gloom. Now and again, a stray droplet would hit his shoulder, or his face, or Gambler; wandering far from the rainclouds. Far from the rain.

The land here was open enough that he could see the clouds in the distance; see that one or two of them were drawing curtains of rain across the far landscape, catching those hills and trees and houses in shadow. The shadows here were fitful. The sun kept shouldering its way through. Folk they passed on the road — scattered as those lonely raindrops — mostly weren't even bothering to wear coats for the day's travels, though a few had them tucked behind them on the saddles, or bundled up, easy to reach.

"She's from Chicago, you know," Marks said. "City girl. They raise them different out there."

Took Smith a moment to catch the thread of the conversation back. "Your wife?"

Marks nodded. Silence, probably, wasn't his natural habitat. Smith had hardly noticed the silence; he was comfortable enough with it. "I went out to Chicago for a time. My mother wanted me to get an education in a city schoolhouse. I lived with a cousin there. Got to be in the city for the World's Columbian Exposition; that's where I met Cora, actually. Oh, I was too young to think about marrying then, of course. Twelve years old, at the time! But she became friends with my cousin, so I saw her more and more, and she was simply the most... there was always something about her. I've never met another woman like her."

The unease, or its cousin, was slithering its way back. "Hm," Smith said.

"And Chicago itself... have you ever been to Chicago?"

"Not that I recall," Smith said.

"Oh, you'd recall it, if you'd been there. Insane place. I think God forgot to tell the people there what they could or couldn't do. Raise the whole city up on jackscrews. Reverse the flow of the river. Sometimes I wonder if the place is really real."

Sounded worse than Blackwater, in terms of man's hubris. "Huh," Smith said.

"And the crime there," Marks said. "Working in Chicago, I was mostly running errands for newspaper men. Helped the police there all of twice. Folk get up to things in cities that you'd never think of, out in the Heartlands." He quieted, and his expression turned pained and drawn. "I was... in the city at the same time as H. H. Holmes," he said. "The same time as Mayor Harris — I attended his memorial. I think about that a lot. How you can share a city with — with evil; can pass the buildings on the street, maybe pass the people. And never know."

"Some things is like that," Smith agreed. Had a feeling he was meant to know more of that than he knew; the names Marks said sounded like they had some meaning to them. And evil, he'd called them, or some business they were in. Smith wondered if he were a man to lay that judgment lightly.

Maybe. Maybe not. And the names meant nothing to Smith, and he didn't care to ask after them. He rode on a bit, and then the silence apparently bit at Marks like a mosquito, and Marks shooed it away with a, "Where are you from?"

Here was a topic Smith didn't want to come to, and couldn't say much on. "Been in West Elizabeth as long as I can remember," he said. "Purgatory first, before I went to Oak Rose." It weren't a lie, really. ...well, it were just as honorable as one.

"You don't sound like you're West Elizabeth native," Cooper said.

Smith cast him a sharp look. "That so?"

"I don't have the best ear," Marks said, like he was admitting something. "But I would have guessed... ah, the southwest, somewhere, maybe? New Austin, or west of there?" He tilted his head. "I don't know. I'm better at finding people, not... interpreting them, I suppose. I just... you sound different from most."

"Must have got it from my father," Smith said. An out-and-out lie, that; a shot in the dark. He must have had a father, but knew nothing of him.

"What was he like?" Marks asked. "Your father."

A hard, restless ache moved through his stomach. Talking with Marks seemed to bring these feelings with it. "Rather not talk about him," Smith said; couldn't talk about him, couldn't do much more than lie, and lie, and lie, or else admit to still another person that he was poorer than a beggar in this way.

"I'm sorry," Marks said. Inferring some tragedy, clearly, and Smith didn't know if that were a lie, either.

A thought occurred to him: in Purgatory, with Strauss, he couldn't hardly move without tripping over that vast emptiness in his mind. In Blackwater, it hadn't mattered so much; nor at Oak Rose.

Now here he was again, with someone asking questions he had no way to answer, and he found he didn't like the reminder.

What was he to expect, then? Weren't much way around it. He could dodge the question as best he could; pass off the past as some buried thing he didn't want dug up. Though that seemed like it might play into that jealous suspicion folk like Grady held. Could just tell folk he had no memory past the summer of this year, but he found he didn't much like the way people looked at him, when it came to that. And as for remembering... well.

...well.

Or perhaps, he could simply lie. Though any lie that accounted for decades, any lie he was to keep up for the rest of his forgetful life, wouldn't stay simple for long.

Another thought struck him. Marks, now — apparently Marks could track a man down, easy as a bloodhound. Said he wasn't good at interpreting a man in front of him, but... what about a past?

Tracking was looking into the past, in a way, weren't it? Seeing the tracks left by some previous hour, and following them to a present moment? If the present moment were right in front of him, how far could he work the tracks back?

Strauss hadn't made it very far, working with Smith right in front of him. But maybe Marks, with his own skills, could do better.

And then what? Smith eyed the kid, the ex-clerk, sitting up in his saddle, with a pistol belt on his hips that looked new and store-bought. The rifle he'd brought had at least seen use, though that use were likely for rabbits or something. Kid was a bounty hunter — styled himself as one; thought of himself as one — even if he weren't a very good one. Said he'd worked with the police twice, in as mad a city as Chicago.

And the sheriff in Purgatory already thought Smith had a past, as did Dryden and Zeke and Grady, and just how much of a past did he have? If he had killed someone, or more than one someone, there might be a bounty on his own head. Not one he'd seen a poster for, but... maybe. Somewhere. In a city nestled in New Austin somewhere, or in some stranger place.

And Marks might not take him in a fight, but might not have to. The two of them worked together. Smith had just proved that he'd happily ride out to meet the kid if Marks sent a telegram his way; could well just ride out into the barrel of a sheriff's shotgun.

So. Maybe he'd just not mention any of it.

"So, what about you?" he asked. "What was your father like?"

Marks made a rueful noise. "He was a much better man than he was a father," he said, and went in on that topic.

Good quality to have in a partner, Smith thought. At least this were convenient. Easy enough to keep handing the conversation back to Marks, to keep listening with half an ear, until the road led them all the way past Strawberry and up into the hills of Big Valley.

These hills, at least, were more friendly than the ones on the Ambarino border. The ground wasn't as unforgiving; grasses grew, and wildflowers, and off in the distance Smith could hear a stream burbling. Still, the peace did seem to conceal with one hand what a closer look uncovered.

This was mine country; landslide country. Moss didn't grow on half the tumbled boulders, here. The ground was gouged, and weeds and grasses worked on claiming those gouges and burying them. Broken trees stood like skeletons among their peers. Whole place looked like it was trying to throw off its own skin, but was tired from the effort; was resting enough to let the birds back in.

Marks was the one who slowed, as the path underfoot thinned to nothing. "Years ago, Joshua Brown was caught not far from here," he said, keeping his voice low. "The mines near Beryl's Dream."

"I expect," Smith said, "that's some famous outlaw."

"Shootist. Duelist. Started out as a bounty hunter, and started using his hunting as a cover to murder men." Marks rubbed his horse's neck. "There's an old mining village up ahead; I think Grey is likely to be in the area. How do you want to approach?"

Smith thought. "We should leave the horses," he said. "Go ahead on foot." Horses were faster, but they also made noise, and a big target. Didn't turn too quickly, if that were necessary. He swung down from the saddle, and Marks scrambled to follow his lead.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Keep low," Smith said, dropping into a crouch. "And keep your voice down. This way?"

Marks didn't say anything. Just nodded, and gestured forward.

It weren't far before the trees and the land opened up — just enough to show a few old cabins clustered together, staved in by wind and weather and time and the occasional rock. Not a one looked decently habitable, though Smith supposed than two walls and half a roof was halfway better than nothing if the wind and rain came. He took his pistol in hand and motioned Marks to stay close, and started a slow prowl around the outside of the clearing.

Nothing human moved in the broken cabins. Something small scrabbled in the shadows — a fox, maybe, or a coyote who'd wandered a ways up from the lowlands.

He went around the whole village, and halfway around again, before he was satisfied, and stood. Walked into the collection of houses and glanced through them, at the leaves and pine needles which had drifted in, the detritus of lives long abandoned.

"No one's been here for a while," he said. The leaves were halfway to rot, and undisturbed. No one larger than a dog had bedded down in the dubious shelter.

"I heard someone had seen him heading up this way," Marks said. "Sounded just like him. And he's not an easy man to mistake."

"Well," Smith said, and stepped away from the buildings. "If he did come by, may've been he took a look at this place and thought it were too conspicuous." He reached up and knocked one of the beams that had once held up a cabin roof. It shifted against his hand. "Or he didn't fancy having one of these fall in on him. We can take a look around."

This time, on the circuit of the village, he looked at the ground around it. Picked up hoofprints pretty easy. Big ones, too.

"He was riding a shire, you said?"

"Last I heard—"

"Well, there we are," Smith said, and followed them.

Hardly made it a tenth of a mile, on the rocky mountain paths, before that trail were no longer useful. It ended in a mess: torn-up earth, crushed foliage, a hoofprint-sized wound in the bark of a nearby tree, and hoofprints leading one way it didn't seem like a man was likely to go. Smith had to stop and stare at the... mishap.

"I don't think that shire liked him very much," he said.

"What happened?"

"Threw him. Looks like." Smith crouched down. He could — he thought — see the mess where Grey had landed; the whole space was beaten up enough that he couldn't be sure. Still, it looked like he and the horse had parted ways, here. The horse had torn up the landscape when it had run off, but there was a fainter trail off through the shrub, blunted by the rocky earth. Wet weather had helped, there, where the terrain itself was indifferent.

"This way," Smith said.

The track were... easy enough to follow. He could see the way the land whispered, disclosing its hints: an herb crushed against some gravel, the clean line of a boot sole in a scrap of soil, the slight disorder of a rock scuffed out of its native resting place. But it were like the track was whispering. Quiet, quiet, and if his eyes hadn't been trained or keen, it would have kept its secrets close.

Marks followed him. Neither one of them were silent, on the ground, but Marks didn't even have the stealth Smith did, much as he tried. Didn't seem to consider that keeping his feet off the twigs was a good idea, or see that his boots brushed loud against the low growth. But they went forward.

Came to a space, at last — a little too small to be called a clearing — where the native shrub looked trampled, as though someone had spent some time tromping around here. A dip in the land by the base of a boulder turned out to conceal a firepit, though dirt and leaves and branches had been kicked over it; not quite hidden, but hidden enough from a casual passer-by.

And in the dirt by the pit's edge was what looked like a cigarette card.

Smith picked it up. It had Folklore Around The World emblazoned across the bottom, and most of the top half had been obliterated by a boot and whatever time it had spent lying on the damp ground. "Don't learn, do you, Grey?"

"What is it?" Marks whispered.

"Same thing that got him at Deer Creek," Smith muttered, and handed the card over. "Careless." Smith felt as though he might have learned, after that.

Then again, if Grey were here, now, he hadn't really been gotten at Deer Creek, had he?

Smith wasn't sure what alerted him. A scrape, a glint of light, a shift in the shadows of the treeline. Just knew that without thinking about it his hand had darted out to seize Marks by the collar and drag him back into the cover of the boulder, and that in the next instant the broken tree behind him shattered into an explosion of rotting wood and mossy splinters.

Marks yelped, and scrambled for his pistol just as Smith was holstering his, unslinging the repeater. He ducked around the other side of the boulder and saw Grey by his own rock, mangled as he was, pointing a shotgun at the place Smith had been; hadn't tracked his motion. Grey saw his mistake soon enough, and swung his shotgun around, but not fast enough to keep a repeater bullet from hitting the barrel with a noise like the dinner bell.

Grey yelled, "Ah, feck!", and the shotgun went spinning out of his grip. Not that he'd had much of a grip in the first place: he were missing fingers on each hand, and scars wrapped around his palms and the fingers remaining. Some of the skin were oddly smooth, like it had been polished. Not much grip, and probably little enough finesse; man wasn't going to be a sharpshooter, that were clear. A shotgun were about what he could manage, if he were hoping to hit something.

Well, they'd brought in Buckskin Dooley. Seemed like someone had missed their chance on calling this one Buckshot Grey.

Grey dove for his shotgun, and Smith stepped into the open and leveled the rifle. "I'd stop moving, if I were you, partner."

Grey did stop. Hand outstretched, two and a half fingers not-quite touching his weapon. "You're making a mistake," he warned.

"Marks," Smith said, "I should have asked. This fool run with a gang of any sort?"

Marks peered out from behind the boulder. "Not recently," he said. "He's been seen with partners, off and on, but never for long."

"Ah," Smith warned, as Grey's hand inched toward the shotgun. "I will shoot your hand off. I'm pretty good at that." He took a moment to scan the trees, just to be safe, before stepping up to Grey and wrenching his arms behind his back. Grey flinched, then twisted, staring at him.

"I know you?" Grey asked.

Smith got his arms tied and legs hobbled, and flipped him onto his back. Stared at him. He'd surely remember a face like that, wouldn't he?—if he could remember a damn thing, however memorable. But stretching his mind at it felt more and more like just putting the heels of his palms on either side of his head, and pressing in.

"Probably not," he said, to be safe.

"I know you," Grey said. "I'm sure I know you. Who are you?"

No good way to tell the man he was asking the wrong person.

Smith crouched, staring into Grey's eyes. Couldn't see much there. Not much more than fear; no hope, which were a good thing, as it meant a man like Grey didn't look at him and think him a friend. But he were tied up, about to be hauled off for justice. Fear didn't mean much at all.

"Who do you think?" Smith asked.

Grey stared at him. "I don't know," he said. "You're — you was — was you one of the bounty hunters out by O'Myrtle's? I swear, that were an accident; the hay was real dry, and I hardly knocked the lantern—"

Didn't seem to have good luck with fire, Grey. Smith shook his head, and stood.

"Look — look," Grey said. "Whoever you are. I got cousins. I still got cousins left; they'll find me. I ain't gonna swing." He fought against the ropes which tied him. "They'll find me, and then we're gonna find you, mister — misters. You can let me go, and it's all forgotten. You take me in, you've made enemies for life."

"Yeah," Smith said. "All your cousins as frightening as you?"

Grey spluttered.

"I think we're alright," Smith said. He stood up and went to his saddlebags.

"You were lucky today, you piss-pot," Grey said. "You ain't gonna be lucky a second time—"

"I brought," Smith said, rooting around in the saddlebag, until he found the patterned cotton and drew it out for display, "an extra neckerchief this time."

Cooper blinked at him, confused. Grey took a moment to catch the implication, too, but managed to get out "Now, you had better listen to me, mister—", before the rolled cloth was in his mouth and being tied behind the back of his head.

Cooper watched Grey being gagged, and remarked, mildly, "You're a man who appreciates the value of being prepared, aren't you?"

Smith snorted. "I wouldn't go that far."

Grey made a muffled protest. Smith hauled him up over his shoulder, and whistled loud for Gambler.

Marks raised his eyebrows at Grey. "You know, my friend — the one who put the idea in my head to go bounty hunting; he's quite a lot more skilled at it than I turned out to be — he says a lot of them do this. Either try to threaten or bargain their way out. He says it's never a good idea to listen to them."

Smith knew that already. Seemed clear enough. At best, you might get a payoff, and still leave some criminal out there who knew your face and didn't much like you. But that wasn't the part of Marks' words that interested him. "You have a friend in the business?" he asked. "And you're not working with him?"

"My friend is in California," Marks said, dryly. "It's a bit far to ride for a day's work. Besides, he's working with the police, now, not doing so much by the way of bounties."

Well, that did explain it. Mostly. "How'd you end up friends with a California policeman?" Chicago might have made sense. As much as anything in Marks' life made sense; Smith had the feeling it'd be as foreign to him as Strauss's. He started down the path.

"My sister — the second eldest — married him," Marks said.

"Jesus." This family. No wonder Marks could find anyone; he had to be on a first-name basis with half the postmasters in the damn country just to send out his Christmas letters.

"They're in Los Santos," Marks said. "Insisting it's a wilder city than Chicago was. We used to send newspapers back and forth before I moved back to the Heartlands."

"That why you left?" Smith asked. "City a bit too wild for you?" Human wildness was nothing at all like wild land; it were mayhem, contrasted against majesty.

"Oh, no," Marks said. "I'd have stayed. Cora, too. We came back to Valentine to help my mother take care of my father — just a few years ago, now. When he passed, he left me the house; mother moved out to Inavale to live with my oldest sister."

Smith was almost afraid to ask how many siblings Marks had. "Scattered to the four winds, are you?"

"Modern times," Marks said. "I suppose we are. There was a good long while when I thought I would settle in Chicago, but it worked out that I'm living the closest to where any of us grew up. Not quite in my old hometown, but... Valentine is close enough to Van Horn. And Van Horn isn't what it used to be, I hear."

Hometown. There was an idea. Smith wondered what it was like, to know so well where you came from that a whole town could be homely. What it would be like, to hold an entire family in your mind; to know just where each of them was, and what paths they'd taken to be there. To know how those paths met, and diverged.

Compared to that spider's web, the bunkhouse were like... raindrops. Unseen, unfelt, unknown until they knocked against his face or hands, and unseen, unknown, for much longer after.

Reminded him of nothing so much as Strauss's remark: not your natural habitat. Seemed that he learned more about himself by finding the places he didn't fit than the places he did. And what did that turn out to mean?

"But you was working at Riggs," Smith said. Across a state line.

"Well, I couldn't find work in Valentine," Marks said. "But the station clerk there said Riggs always needed someone. I used to take the train from Valentine every morning, and take it back every night. Miserable waste of time; I hardly got to see my family, I left so early and came back so late. But I did it for them, and I'd still do it for them, in a heartbeat."

"Good man," Smith said.

"Certainly caught up on my reading," Marks said. "And my correspondence. I think if I tallied up all the money I spent on books and stamps, I might find the rest of the money to pay off the house."

He flashed Smith a grin, and Smith gave back a chuckle in deference to the joke. Seemed like a trap he'd not know much about. But it did occur to him: here was a man who would, in his steady, clerkish way, do anything set before him for the sake of his family. No matter if that was a long weary ride on trains, day by day, dawn and dusk, or if that meant taking a pistol out into the wilderness to hunt a criminal — to hunt a criminal, who'd be happy enough to kill him outright, and Smith wondered if Marks had ever hunted so much as a rabbit. And Smith had to wonder if he'd ever felt so much loyalty to anyone, himself.

Couldn't remember, of course. And pondering the question just put him in mind of that miserable mountain pass, and the shadows on the rocks, and the looming sky.

Gambler came up, nosing through the trees, and Smith tossed Grey onto the horse's back and secured him. Grey protested again, and Smith checked the gag, and swung up into the saddle himself.

"Should teach that mare of yours to come," he told Marks. "Well, let's go pick her up."

"You'll have to tell me how you do that," Marks said. "I didn't know you could."

Well, there was something Smith knew. Even not having come from a place like Oak Rose, it was a scrap of something that belonged to him.

Here was a clue, and one Smith had neglected, in his time pondering: he hadn't woken by the side of that road with a wedding ring.

Then, he'd not woken with anything save the clothes on his back. No money, no weapons, no tools of any trade, no food for so long a walk from anywhere as it would have been, no spurs for a ride as it might have been. No injury, no blow to the head, so likely it hadn't been a mugging that had laid him there — but a body, lying senseless and out, might attract...

Goddamn buzzards. Men who would steal the ring and the money and the spurs off a fresh corpse, or off a breathing body enough like one.

So. It had seemed sensible enough not to question that. Amongst all the clues he'd hunted down with Strauss, all the ones he'd discovered without Strauss, that one hardly meant a thing.

But these might:

Smith knew how to shoot a gun. How to win a fight. How to gentle a horse. How to tie a man up and sling him behind a saddle. How to fish. If he looked for the knowledge, he knew how to kill a deer, how to skin a kill.

If he looked for the knowledge, he didn't know: how to court a woman. Much of anything about marriages. Much of anything beyond the obvious, that you could find in near any saloon and plenty of hotels, or on the streets of larger cities. And thinking about that left the same cold grave-digging feeling in his gut here as it had in Purgatory, at Lovro's hanging, when the saloon's girl had offered him a distraction from the shock of it.

Didn't know much about dresses, beyond what he'd drawn for Inverness. About dishes or curtains or furniture beyond what he'd seen in Strauss's rented home, and what Miss McGillin had managed for them. Didn't know anything about housework, even to the point of knowing what needed to be done; what he'd miss if it weren't done.

Knew the pattern of a man's breathing well enough that he could tell who in the bunkhouse was deep in sleep, and who was on the edge of it, and who'd be likely to wake at a sudden noise, and who'd likely sleep through it. Didn't know how to share a bed with anyone and rise without them waking, or bide beside their sleep. Knew how to walk quietly on the creaky floorboards.

Knew that more folk locked their doors in cities than in small towns and homesteads. Knew that he looked at the locks some of the hands kept on the wooden chests in the bunkhouse, and saw them as empty promises at best.

Knew the best way to stop a fight from starting was a knife to the side of the neck.

Itched for it, almost, sometimes, when Grady walked by.

More he saw, clearer the outline became, the more he suspected that he was a miserable bastard, at the core of it. Or been one. A drunk, miserable bastard with a fondness for fights and horses, without an honest trade or a scrap of honor in him, with no family to call on, and the only place that called him was a path through the mountains in the unlovely wilderness where not a living soul awaited him. And he might hope there was another answer, some other shape all those clues could be assembled into, but...

Maybe this forgetfulness of his was a blessing, not a problem.

And certainly not a problem to lay on Marks, who seemed a young man, but was old enough to have two lives depending on him already. Who had a home, and a family, and a history that graced such pages as the World Columbian Expedition; who, to all appearances, had made more of his life than Smith had, and in less time at it.

Even if Marks could find everything there was to know about him, how much of it would be any use to him? How much should he care, really, when there was a life to be made without any of it?

He didn't get to ponder that, long, as they took the horses down out of the mountainside. A mile from where they'd started, and his thoughts were interrupted by a choking, spitting noise, and then Grey said, "Come on, man, let me go. Let me go, you bastards!"

"What—" Smith twisted around, and yanked the neckerchief from the back of Grey's head. The knot was intact — he goddamn knew how to tie a knot — but the bit he'd rolled and stuffed into Grey's mouth had been gnawed through. "You have the teeth of a rat!"

Marks looked over from his horse. "What happened?"

"He gnawed through the damn gag!" Smith shook it out, then tossed it to the path beneath them. "Dammit." He'd have to replace that for Old Greek.

"They do like talking," Marks said. "Dooley? Even with the rope in his mouth, he mumbled all the way to Brandywine."

"Jesus."

"Now, listen," Grey said. "We can make a deal. We can always make a deal. I'm trying to help you, help you both—"

"Think we should start cutting their tongues out?" Smith asked.

Grey shut up. Marks turned an alarmed look on Smith.

"...you're joking, right?" Marks said, after a moment. "That was a joke?"

"Posters don't say they want bounties with their tongues," Smith said. "They still gave you full price for Dooley without his hand, didn't they?"

"Um," Marks said. Then admitted, "yes..."

"So we could probably take bits off of them all day and not offend the sheriffs, none." Smith chuckled. "I wonder how little you could hand in and have it still considered a bounty."

Marks was giving him an uneasy, sidelong look. Grey made a frightened, incredulous noise, but strangled it off quickly.

"Sure," Smith said. "Probably would kill 'em after a while. But some of these bounties are dead-or-alive."

Marks' eyes tracked to Grey, and he swallowed, and evidently decided that Smith was joking. Smith didn't go out of his way to disabuse him of that notion. "I did hear that someone turned in four Murfree bounties at once, up in Brandywine. Just their heads."

"The whole head, now?" Smith asked. "Considerate of him. Could have saved even more weight without the jaw."

"Well, sometimes the beard is an identifying feature," Marks said. Still a bit pale at this topic, but joking gamely along. "And I think after a point, you get, ah, what they call diminishing returns."

Smith grunted. "Well, maybe."

He was silent for a few more paces. So was Marks.

So was Grey, more to the point.

Well. So, that was better than a gag, with him and his rat teeth. He reached back and gave Grey an encouraging pat on the top of his head. The man twitched so hard he would have fallen off the horse if he hadn't been lashed to the saddle tree. As it was, Gambler tossed his head in annoyance, and Smith said, "No fussing. You'll upset the horse."

Grey whimpered, but went still.

Smith gave it a moment. Then he said, "This Brandywine," and, looked to Marks. "What's that, then?" He'd seen it marked on his maps, but knew little about it.

"Probably the biggest bounty center in northern New Hanover," Marks said, brightening at the presentation of a less bloodthirsty topic. "West of Roanoke Ridge. They've been working on getting the roads to Annesburg safe for nearly four years, now. Been driving the Murfrees south; most of their problems are Murfrees, these days, and some striking mine workers from Annesburg, but I don't like the idea of getting involved in strikes. Seems like you'd make as many enemies in the towns as outside of them. Outlaws, now, I figure they're more or less enemies to all civilized folk, anyway, so no harm done if I'm tracking them down. But miners, you know, they might have a brother or a cousin or a friend who's serving me at the hotel restaurant, or taking my ticket on the train..."

Marks seemed more than happy to chatter on about that, which was at least a more pleasant sort of chatter than Grey's bluster and threats. Smith relaxed into it; ignored half of it, honestly, though he doubted Marks were the kind to take offense at that. Let him go until the words ran out, like the last trickle of a creek into the thirsty rocks.

Silence settled between them. In it, birds called: the cooing of mourning doves, the urgent discourse of crows, punctuated now and again by the rattle of woodpeckers. The wind through the trees and around the rocks of Big Valley had its own part to say.

The clouds that had pestered Oak Rose had thinned toward the west, anyway, and by now they were shredded to threads, and the sun was sweeping them away. Smith and Cooper were the only ones out on this stretch of road, or so the sound of hoofbeats told him. The main road into town had more traffic, and he could hear it from here: a cart or wagon or coach or two, and more horses, and maybe some poor fools going in or out on on foot as well. No ambush, that he could sense.

"It's not a bad life, is it?" Smith asked.

Marks glanced his way. "Hm?"

"This," Smith said. "All of it."

Marks tilted his head at Smith. His eyes fell to Grey, bound tight and meek as a lamb, and rose to Smith again. Then he seemed to take in where they were; out under the clearing sky, armed and free, with two sturdy beasts beneath them and some good work put behind them, and good pay and maybe good drink waiting. Or a good home, in Marks' case. A smile broke over his face, like the emerging sun, like a realization.

"I could do without being shot at," Marks said. "But... no. Not bad at all."

Well. Being shot at... that happened. The world was like that: folk shot, and were shot. Maybe there were ways through the world that meant a man could dodge that lesson for a while, though Smith clearly hadn't found them. That scar on his shoulder were testament to that.

Could be another thing that separated Smith from the rest of men, but he didn't care to question it. Not just now. And he didn't need to, anyway; they turned onto the main road, toward the big gate-arch of Strawberry.

Strawberry was a quaint little town. Or it certainly aimed to be. They rode in past a couple fellers whitewashing the walls on one of the buildings; there was a boy shoveling horseshit off the road, and a group of men putting up a fancy railing on the porch of a house with carved shutters and a polished pronghorn skull over the front door. Whole place looked like it were dressed up for someone to come visiting.

Which he supposed it was, when Marks said "It's a tourist town, you know. Folk come in to Wallace Station and charter a stagecoach down out of the Grizzlies. Then they come here for a taste of the 'real West'."

At least his tone suggested that he gave the idea as much credence as it deserved.

"Odd place to pick bounties from," Marks said. "They only post notices on the bounties that have already been captured. I suppose it's a way to reassure all the tourists that they're safe. For any of the open bounties, you have to go and ask the sheriff directly."

"Well, look at that," Smith said, and twisted to look at Grey. "You're going to be famous, Mr. Grey. Your likeness on the wall for all them tourists."

Grey made a quiet noise, like he'd started to speak and thought better of it. Marks led them up the road to the jailhouse, and hopped down off his mount.

"You want to come make your introductions to the sheriff?" Marks asked, as Smith stepped down off Gambler, and handed the repeater back. Not much trouble they'd get into in town, likely. "He does like knowing the bounty hunters around, if he needs to call on them."

Smith already had one sheriff who knew his name and his face. So long as it didn't interfere with the business of picking up his bounties or getting paid for him, he didn't see that keeping the rest of the sheriffs in America in the dark did him much harm. Marks already went around to keep up on the bounties; he might as well continue being the businessman between the two of them. "Nah," he said, and hauled Grey off the horse. Set him on his feet, more or less; checked the ropes around his ankles were loose enough to let him hobble. "I'll watch the horses, if you don't need any help with this weasel."

Marks gave him a crooked grin. "I think this is one part of running bounties that I can handle," he said, taking Grey's arm. "I'll go collect."

"You do that." Smith, meanwhile, could take the chance to get the brush from his saddlebag, and set to work on Gambler's coat — as well as he could without unsaddling him.

"And you still have your tongue, Mr. Grey," Marks said, pulling him along toward the sheriff's door. "Not the worst day it could have been, is it?"

Smith hid a chuckle against Gambler's neck. Kid might not be anything like a natural gunslinger, but he could hold his own, so far as it were required of him. There was something in that. Might have been more admirable than if he had been born to it, really; in any case, he kept up, and that meant Smith could be happy enough riding with him.

It had been a good day.

Barring any eleventh-hour mishaps — the sheriff refusing to pay, Grey's cousins raiding the town, it turning out that this was some completely separate local man with the exact same scars — he'd be walking out with a good bit of cash in his pocket. A few dollars more than his pay from Inverness, and all for a nice long ride out in the open air and a bit of a fight in the middle of it. That was a downright luxury.

And the money. Real spending money, that, and he didn't much feel like he was going to blow it all on bail, this time. No, he was in too good a mood for that, despite the rocky conversations on the way. In a good enough mood to celebrate, which had him thinking about stopping into a saloon — but this was a dry town, Strawberry. He'd have to wait until he was back by Purgatory, or something.

Smith snorted. Didn't see the point of these dry towns. Build a place and not bother to set up a saloon in it? —go so far as to tell the store owner he weren't allowed to carry spirits, or anything to lift the spirits, as it might be? Seemed, in a way, un-American; a clipping short of the natural reach of things.

Well, all it meant were that he didn't plan on spending much time up around Strawberry, himself. And hell, the folk of Strawberry might prefer it that way. That were fair. He'd leave them to it.

He'd straightened out Gambler's mane and pulled the burrs from his tail by the time Cooper came back out, a stack of bills in hand, looking proud as a young cat with his first kill. "All good?"

"All good," Marks said. "There are a few more rumors going around about bounties in the area. I'll check up on them when I'm able. For now, I'm working on something over in Brandywine's direction, and I don't want to lose the thread."

"Fair," Smith said.

Marks thumbed through the bills, and glanced at Smith. Then glanced past Smith, and caught something on the road, and caught his gaze twice on it. His jaw set and his back went rigid, like a dog seeing a wolf at the edge of the road.

"Oh, no," Cooper said, before Smith could ask. He dropped his voice. "There's trouble."

"Trouble?" Smith asked, and found his hand already on his revolver.

"Don't draw!" Cooper hissed, and grabbed his wrist. Smith shook off his hand and stepped away, and caught a glimpse of a woman, armed to the teeth, in a leather duster that looked more like it was meant to be armor than protection from wind and sun and trail dust. That was all he had time to glance before Cooper grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. Drew him off a couple paces. "Don't make eye contact! That's Sadie Adler there."

The way Marks said her name, it were a name he was expected to know. Probably meant she was some infamous outlaw, though she was one bold outlaw, if she was riding right up toward the sheriff's office to hitch her horse. Smith dropped his voice to match Cooper's. "Who?"

"A woman from the depths of Hell," Cooper whispered. "That's what they say, anyway. She's a bounty hunter. She kills folk who get in her way."

Bounty hunter, then. Still hadn't heard of her, though he found a faint amusement, almost like satisfaction, at the explanation. An odd little sense of, good for her. Maybe she could stop by and trade adventure books with Cooper's wife.

"Uh-huh," Smith whispered back. He wasn't sure why they were whispering, but that they were. "And... are we getting in her way?" He didn't intend to be killed, if it came to that.

"N—no," Cooper said, like he wasn't sure of his answer. Behind them, the Adler woman had apparently gone in to the sheriff's; the door slammed shut behind her. "But I don't like to get too close to people like that. I feel it could be bad for my health."

"I see," Smith said.

"We should get out of here," Cooper said. "I don't like standing around with all this money."

Smith had to laugh, at that. "You're standing right outside the door to the sheriff's," he said. "You think someone is going to rob you here?"

Cooper blinked, and looked around like he hadn't considered that. "I suppose you're right," he said, then cast a glance back at the sheriff's door. Smith suspected it wasn't robbers he was worried about.

He patted Gambler on the neck, sighed, and swung up into the saddle. "If this Adler woman scares you so much, I guess we can put some distance between us," he said. "Personally, I don't see what the bother is."

Cooper clambered up onto his horse. "No offense, Mr. Smith, but besides you, I don't think there's a bounty hunter in this great nation who understands the words 'friendly competition'. You're the only one I've met with half a heart."

He spurred his horse, and took off at a trot. Leaving Smith to wonder just how many bounty hunters he had met, and what sort of men they must have been, that he could come out ahead in a comparison. The only other bounty hunter he'd encountered was Marks.

And, he supposed now, Adler.

He glanced back, just in time and only long enough to see the sheriff's door swinging open again; see Adler glancing idly his way.

Then, up ahead, Cooper called "Yah!" and spurred his horse into a canter, and Smith sped Gambler to catch up with him.

Strawberry fell behind them, left to all its quaint business, to the attention it garnered from New York or wherever. The fake real West gave way to the real world around them, the wilderness that still existed as well as it could, in the hinterlands of a town like this — and then into the wilderness more properly, which crowded close as it could on either side of the path.

They'd gone a couple miles in companionable silence before Cooper slowed and stopped at a crossroads, and craned his neck to see that there was no one nearby to overhear them. Then he turned to Smith with a grin. "A sixty-dollar bounty," he said. "That's, ah, your share is thirty-six dollars." He handed over the bills with a flourish. "Not bad for a day's work."

On Smith's part, anyway. Smith knew enough to know that Marks was selling his own work short. But hell, the kid was the one who'd offered the split, and twenty-four dollars in hand was still enough to buy a few weeks' labor.

"Not bad at all," Smith said, and took the cash. More than a month's wages at Oak Rose, that was sure. It was a wonder more people didn't go into bounty hunting. Maybe more folk really did dislike being shot at that much.

"As for me, I've just made more than I ever would as a station clerk at Riggs, for the time I spent. I'm beginning to believe I really will pay off this house."

He extended his hand, and Smith shook it.

"I'll keep my eyes and ears out for anything good," Cooper said. "It was an honor to ride with you, sir."

"Indeed," Smith said. "Don't be shy around the ranch, now." He chuckled, and tucked the bills away. "Especially not if you're bringing a payday."

Marks beamed, gave Smith a last little wave, and spurred his horse to a gallop.

Smith watched him go. Wondered if he'd ever been that excitable, that eager. Well, good on Marks; maybe he could hold onto it for a while, yet, while Smith held on to... what he could.

While Smith made something new for himself. Of himself. While Smith worked out just what that was.

He had time.

He sat back in the saddle, feeling the air moving around him, watching the clouds pace out above. Oh, he was still working on another man's fortune, no doubt about that. Dryden was the one who profited from all the work his hands put in, and thirty-six dollars put Smith a month and change ahead on his wages, but didn't buy him a life for long without them. But the whole of it bought him this: a moment alone on the road, just himself and the open sky, sunlight and a strong horse and hope.

Money, and loyalty, he thought. It was a line, from... something. Money, and loyalty. With that, you can do whatever you please. Where had he heard those words?

The answer escaped him. Didn't matter. There were nearer matters to think about.

He turned Gambler back onto the road toward Oak Rose.

Chapter Text

John Marston fancied that there were plenty of things he was good at. He was an uncommonly good shot, he could throw a rope with the best of them, knew a dozen ways of scoping a robbery and a dozen more of pulling one off; he could pathfind without a compass — mostly — so long as the weather cooperated with him, and he could start a fire, catch a fish, pan for gold, and treat a snakebite. He'd even discovered some skill at carpentry, between building fences that never seemed to goddamn end around what must have been half the ranch territory in West Elizabeth, and building his own house.

And yet for all his skills, he seemed completely incapable of speaking to his own goddamned son.

"Why are you like this?" he asked. Jack was a few yards away, on his knees in the dirt, just as John was. Except Jack had settled into a sulk so dark and heavy that John could feel it from here.

Jack glanced over at... the ground by him. Not really looking at him, no. "Like what?"

John shifted over to another patch of shrub, and started digging at it with his knife. He should have probably thought to pick up some gardening tools — a trowel, or something — but he'd been told that this land weren't good for growing anything. And if he weren't going to be growing anything, he didn't see how it was fair that he still had to be digging things out of the ground.

"Like this," John said. "All... sour and silent." Jack looked away. John said, "Look, this ain't my fault."

This land had come with plenty of warnings. Squatters on the property, Skinners raiding around the area. Poor soil; rocks, dust, and a hike or a lot of hard digging to get down to any kind of water.

But no one had bothered to warn him that the pretty pink flowers which erupted across his property earlier in the season were poisonous to the sheep he'd taken out a loan to get.

Or that the damn sheep would like eating them.

"I know!" Jack said. If anything, he sounded annoyed that he couldn't blame this on his father. "I just... I really hate doing this kind of thing, okay?"

"Nobody likes manual labor, son," John said. "It builds character."

"Everyone always says that. What is character, anyway?" Jack ripped another oleander out of the ground, and tossed it toward the wheelbarrow. It landed in a clump by the wheel. "What if I don't want to build character?"

"Then you'll end up like Uncle, break your mother's heart, and come to no good end," John snapped. "You didn't used to be this sour, you know that?"

"I didn't used to got to pull up every weed within a mile of my house," Jack countered. "How long do we have to keep doing this?"

"Until the sheep we spent that much money on aren't going to get poisoned as soon as we let them out of the barn."

Jack made a disagreeable noise, and went back to pretending John wasn't there.

There was no winning with the boy. There was no winning against the ground. But there was no giving up, either, so John pulled up another bush and moved on to hack at yet another.

The oleander sage was pretty. John had thought, when he'd started pulling it up, that maybe he could tuck some of it into a jar or something, and leave it on the table — or at least the crates they were using for a livingroom table. Maybe make Abigail smile a little.

By the ninth bush he'd hacked out of the ground, he'd abandoned the thought of making a bouquet and was wondering if he could just burn the whole pile of weeds without making some kind of noxious smoke. Like that time the Callanders had tossed all that poison ivy into the fire at—

It was all in the past.

Long time past. If nothing else, the hard sullen drudgework of Beecher's Hope was more than proof of that: he'd never had to pay this close attention to grazeland when he was riding with an outlaw gang.

Came as a relief when the work was interrupted by hoofbeats on the path. John looked up to see Sadie and that cornspotted beast of a bay roan she called hers; needed no encouraging whatsoever to leave the oleander aside and go the the fence to greet her.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he called. Jack looked up too, and followed his father's example; abandoned the oleander entirely, though his solution was to retreat back to the tree and the book that lived under it. John saw him out of the corner of his eye, and let him go. Sadie's business, like as not, was something Jack had no business hearing.

Like as not, because what business they had between them was bounties, at best — at best, and assuming Sadie had seen her way back around to trusting John's own capacity for survival — and if not bounties, then...

"Hey, John," she said, and clambered down off the horse. "Picking flowers?"

John snorted. "Don't ask. The joys of ranch living." He eyed her. She didn't look like she had the scent of blood in her nostrils. "What's the news?"

"No news," she said. "None worth telling, anyway. Just... is Charles around?"

Charles? John was taken aback for a moment. Then he laughed. "And here I thought you'd come to see me, here at my own ranch."

"Well, you're not the most important man in the world, John," Sadie said, with a crook to her mouth. "Sorry you had to find it out this way—"

"Shut up."

Sadie grinned at him, but just for a moment. It vanished like water spilled onto the dry useless earth. "I was just... thinking," she said. She sounded... un-Sadie-like, like she was having some kind of feelings about something. Feelings that weren't anger or scorn or a desire to bash life in the face with the butt of a rifle. "You said that Charles went back and buried Arthur, back then, didn't you?"

Oh.

That.

The reminder still ached. Even when John knew that he hadn't had a choice; he and Abigail and Jack had fled the territory entirely, gone north — nearly up to the edge of the world, north — knowing that if they set foot in Ambarino or West Elizabeth or New Hanover or anywhere nearby they'd be in the Pinkertons' sights for sure.

But it still hurt. It still hurt. The gang didn't leave their people unburied. Abigail — and Charles, too — had stolen back Hosea and Lenny from the Blackwater police, had buried them, and John couldn't imagine how hard that must have been.

Charles was a good man. Maybe better than any of them deserved.

"He did," John said, and turned away to knock one of the fence boards back into place. He'd thought that all that time mending fences at Pronghorn Ranch might have taught him to make a fence that didn't wobble or fall over, and most of it was sound, but this one board had been giving him trouble since he put it in.

It was a strange feeling, knowing a place so well that one board in its fence seemed to have its own personality.

"I was thinking," Sadie said, again. She seemed distracted. "I think I'd like to go out there. Pay my respects. Seems like the decent thing to do."

...and then she went and said a thing like that.

He didn't have anything to say, for a moment. Sadie grimaced, apparently taking that the wrong way. "It's silly, isn't it." She snorted. "I haven't been up to visit my Jake's grave but once, up in the mountains as it is. I'm not usually this sentimental—"

"No," John said. "It's a good idea. I... wish I'd thought to do that." Hadn't occurred to him, even after Charles had told him. But right then, his mind had been on getting Charles out of Saint Denis, then escaping Martelli's men, then escaping the police, then it had all fallen by the wayside in the press of just... living.

It'd been eight years, since that mountain pass. The century had turned over. He'd left the country, frozen up north, failed to find gold, come back down with his tail between his legs. Now he was back, in a land too full of ghosts, and it hadn't occurred to him to go seeking out more than found him. Part of him felt that if he'd been planning on paying his respects, he should have done that long ago.

Most of him felt that that was a coward's answer.

"Well," Sadie offered, "you still can. I mean, if Charles is willing to bring the two of us up there. We're none of us going to win awards for punctuality." She spat onto the ground, and scuffed it into the dirt. "...where is he?"

For a horrible second, John thought she meant Arthur, and that he'd have to admit that he didn't know. Hadn't even thought to ask. But then he realized what she was asking, and said "He's up on top of the barn," he said. "Working on the roofing." Which might not have been a more miserable job than pulling up the sage, but John wasn't going to put it to the test. He stepped back from the fence. "Come on. Stay for dinner. Help convince Abigail that you can show up without it being a big 'John's gonna get himself killed or something' disaster. You only show up for bounties, and I think she's going to start shooting at you when you turn onto the road."

The Devil himself could shoot at Sadie Adler and she'd probably brush it off like the stinging of a horsefly, but she did at least smile at that and say, "I wouldn't offend Abigail for the world," and led her horse in through the gate.

Dinner that night was stew, boiled half to mush; the Pearson Special, as Uncle called it. Abigail had been working all day: studying her reading on a Farmer's Almanac with Jack's help, until John had dragged him out to work on the sagebrush, and then tidying the house, as much as it bore tidying, and doing the laundry that now hung on the porch to dry. Meant her day had been full, and she'd left dinner to be the one thing she said took no attention or talent to do.

John'd had enough stews in enough different places — inns and saloons, camps with the gang, camps on the run, camps in the Yukon — that he questioned that. But it wasn't as though he knew any better, how to cook up a supper, so he kept his mouth shut and didn't invite more trouble than fell in on his head naturally.

Whole house smelled of beans and that fish they'd salted earlier, with a faint burnt tang to the air. Abigail caught his eye with a smile when he came in, and then her smile got tight and wary when she saw Sadie following him.

"Sadie stopped by to see Charles," John said, which at least got that wariness to pass on. "I invited her to stay for dinner. If that's alright."

Abigail's smile brightened again. Abigail did like Sadie, which was a stroke of damn good fortune, as John didn't know what he'd do if he had to be in the middle of that fight. The fights he was in the middle of were more than he knew how to handle. "Of course," she said, and came up to give Sadie a hug in greeting. "Ain't nothing fancy, I'm afraid."

"Well," Sadie said, "I ain't that fancy, myself."

It was a good thing. Sadie had fit in with the gang better than anyone had expected, when she'd come to them; knocked half of them flat how well she worked with them, once she'd set down that grief and picked up a gun. And part of that — maybe not the best or biggest, but a good part, none the less — was that unblinking lack of fuss; that willingness to see bad food with good people as a like kind of good to the best meal in Blackwater or Saint Denis.

No matter that their chairs were wooden crates, or their tables were threadworn napkins in their lap, and never no mind that the fact of four walls and a floor and ceiling were enough to be considered luxury here.

John held his tongue through most of the meal. Let Abigail chatter on about the ranch — about little details she found, and found endearing, and he mostly wouldn't have noticed without her. Let Uncle pretend he was witty, and let Sadie talk about news and gossip in the cities she passed through, and diplomatically not about her work. Kept the mood calm.

It was halfway through dinner before Sadie turned to Charles and said, "So, Charles. I have a favor to ask."

Charles looked up, at that. Might have been John's imagination, but he thought he caught a hint of wariness in the man's eyes. Then, Charles seemed to take the measure of most everything, before he stepped into it. And if Sadie Adler needed a favor, John wouldn't blame any man on Earth for being wary of it.

"What is it?"

"Like to visit Arthur's grave," Sadie said. Casual as you'd like. "I hear you're the only one knows where he's buried."

Well, now was the time to make a move. "I'd like to do that, too," John said. "Go out there." He shoveled another spoonful of stew down, then looked over at Abigail. She was looking at him with a kind of pinch-browed concern that turned the stew to clay in his mouth.

He sometimes convinced himself that it was Abigail's job to object to everything, and he'd braced himself to object to her objecting, but Abigail bit her lip, looked at Sadie, looked at Charles, looked at him, then lowered her eyes to the bowl of beans and bluegill and said "Seems right. We never got to pay our respects to too many of our dead."

Then she looked back up at him, with a too-shrewd expression and a tightness around her mouth that suggested he'd be hearing a question he didn't want to hear, as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest.

"Sure," Charles said. "I'll take you up there."

"Where is he?" Sadie asked.

"Near where he fell," Charles said, and John didn't flinch, so Abigail really had no reason to give him the look he was sure she was giving him. He didn't know. His eyes were on his food. "I brought him up around the other side of the mountain," Charles went on, "so he could keep an eye out, out west. Remember when times were simpler."

Sadie might have laughed at that. John wouldn't have blamed her for it. But instead, her voice was oddly careful when she said, "I have a hard time imagining it was ever simple for the lot of you."

"We can leave tomorrow," John said. Before they could go too far down the road into reminiscences, or wherever they were heading. "Uncle, you can look after things here for a while, can't you?"

Uncle had been uncharacteristically quiet for the talk. Now he looked up, and looked almost relieved that he wasn't being asked to saddle up and ride out. "Course I can," he said. "I'll keep this place safe as a cavalry company."

"Course you will," John said. Well, he'd be leaving Abigail with a shotgun, anyway.

And leaving the rest of the topic there, it seemed, as they all were. Wandering was deep enough in their blood that riding off into another state didn't need much discussion, nor planning; they'd said it'd be done, and it'd be done.

They finished up, left Abigail to clean up, and John went outside to take in the evening air. Sadie followed after and offered him a smoke, which he accepted; she kept good cigarettes on her, just like she kept good everything. Woman alone in the world, with no debts to tie her down, and a steady flow of bounty money; she could buy all her horses and fine brandies and tailored coats and good ammunition and that rich, smooth tobacco, and still have cash in hand left over. After a fashion, she was doing better than the lot of them combined, at Beecher's Hope.

John wouldn't trade what he had, but sometimes he caught a flicker of envy sparking within him.

"You're welcome to stay for the night," he said. "Ain't no hotel, but we'll leave quicker if we don't have to meet you in Blackwater in the morning."

"Seems about right." She blew a long stream of smoke at the cooling sky. "Need any help with the evening chores?"

"That's real kind of you," John said, "but you're a guest, Sadie. Don't think we're supposed to be putting guests to work."

Sadie huffed, tossed the last of her cigarette down, and ground it out. John put his own out against the porch rail, and saved the last pinch of tobacco left by it. "We ain't that formal with each other, John, and none of us ought to be. Besides. I was a homesteader, once. I know how it goes."

Well, she had been. And John might have made a joke about how if it goes the way your homestead went, I ain't sure I want your help, but he knew the line between clever and cruel. Mostly. "Well, thanks," he said. "We best get to it, then."

Charles was already at the coop, chasing the chickens back inside their shed from their little yard. John and Sadie headed to the barn, to take care of things there.

This... this all was nothing like it had been in the gang. Not really. Back then, it had been all leaving the camp for some job or other, working hard alone or beside someone, then coming back home to laze for a night or a day or however long it took to grow restless or for Dutch or Grimshaw or Hosea to start goading them on again. No schedule, nothing regular; well, maybe Abigail and the women had something regular, by the way of chores and things. And Pearson, cooking every day.

But it still felt fine, felt good, to work beside someone. To have that easy companionship at hand. And another hand did make the evening go quicker.

By the time they'd finished up around the property, Abigail had finished cleaning from dinner, and already dressed for bed. Sadie got her things from her saddlebags and set up under the livingroom window, and John caught up with Abigail. Bid his goodnights to the rest of the house, and followed her into the bedroom. Closed the door behind them.

They had their own room, here. Not a flapping tent or a rain fly, or even a little cottage given them by some other man's generosity. It was theirs, every nail and board. ...well, it were the bank's, in point of contract and law, but John had spent most of his life ignoring the law, and he was more comfortable not thinking about it, now, for all that he had to keep it in the corner of his eye.

The place was theirs. He'd built it, with his own two hands and his own good friends, and that meant more than any paper he'd put his name to. And even if their bed was still a pair of bedrolls laid out on the wooden floor, and the spare blankets they'd laid out beneath them, because the nights were still mild enough that they didn't need the warmth yet... even so, the place was a palace.

And Abigail sprung the trap he'd hoped she'd forget to set. Pulled her hair back loose, and laid her blouse on the chest in the corner, and then pinned him with an earnest look and said, "John, will you be alright?"

"What do you mean?" John asked. "It's just up into Ambarino—"

"You know just what I mean," Abigail said. "Ain't nothing to do with Ambarino."

He could handle just about anything from Abigail. Frustration, argument, badgering, blaming. But he'd never learned to bear up under her concern. "I'll be fine," he said. "It ain't nothing."

Abigail's eyes narrowed. Then she closed them, and gathered her strength up, and sighed.

Started, "I know you don't like to talk about what happened back then—"

"Ain't about that." Well, he didn't want to talk about it. But... because there were no point in talking about it, really. It was just... a trip up there, something he should have done sooner. Just that.

"John—"

"Anyway, it'll be a long ride," he said. "Better get some sleep, hadn't I?"

Abigail opened her eyes again. Gave him one of her hawklike stares, then shook her head and let the subject drop. One of those smiles played over her face, those ones that were all mischief and knowing and fondness, and that never meant much good for John's good sense. "You'd better," she said. "You ain't getting any younger. No spring chicken." She caught at his belt.

"I can still run circles around the boy," John protested.

"Ain't hard when he ain't running," Abigail laughed. "Come on, you. Let's get you dressed for bed."

The night gathered them in, same way Charles had gathered in the chickens; same way John would have gathered in the sheep if they hadn't been penned in the barn in the first place. Grew darker outside the window, and the crickets and cicadas grew louder.

He could still, if he'd needed to, stay awake all night, and listen to the night sounds change and break to dawn. Wasn't so old, yet. But there was no need, and no profit to it; and Abigail was right, and he wasn't getting younger. So it wasn't so long before the last business of the day was concluded, before he was lying on the bedrolls, before Abigail had pressed herself close against his back, with her fingers curling through his hair, brushing against the scars on his cheek.

Probably thought he was asleep, and he was, nearly. Probably that was why she let the weary worry back into her voice when she murmured, "Well, at least you're going," against the back of his neck.

He could have asked, And what do you mean by that? But sleep was tugging at him, introducing itself in quiet murmurs at the edges of his mind, and he didn't want the fight, or whatever it might be. He let it lie.

Abigail fixed breakfast for all of them when they woke, even if it wasn't much: coffee that was equal parts real coffee, chicory, and dandelion root; a hasty-pudding of the corn they shared with the chickens; half a boiled egg, each. Sadie was kind enough not to comment, although John suspected that she could have just taken a short trip to Blackwater and bought a breakfast that would put this to shame twelve times over, in addition to actually tasting good.

John helped clean up, while Sadie and Charles went and readied the horses. Worked at the kitchen basin, shoulder-to-shoulder with Abigail, in... thanks for her giving her blessing, maybe, or just catching the chance to linger here a while before taking his leave. She gave him a smile for it, either way, which paid for any confusion.

They put up the last of the dishes, and John lingered for a moment more, until Abigail sighed.

"You'll really be all right?" she asked, and... it got at him, like a burr under his collar. What did she think of him?

"I'm fine, Abigail," he said. "I'll be fine." Fine, but for her questioning him.

He walked outside.

They were all just about ready. And something about it — the gear on the horses, maybe, or the way the sun fell on the dirt, and turned it redder, warmer, than it would look by midmorning... there was something about it all. It stirred in his stomach, like the edginess of starting out for a robbery, a bank job, a train job.

Nothing like that waited. He set to ignore it.

There were times when he couldn't see why he'd ever want to leave this place; ride away from Abigail and the moments they caught in the slanting morning light. And he had to try to catch those moments in the palm of his hand, and store them up, because soon enough the dust blew over the dry land and scattered itself on the porch, and the sun dried out the ranch and his skin and his lungs; he and Abigail got their elbows into each other's ribs, sharp edges under each other's skins. And the fence seemed too small again, and the whole place felt like a graveyard just waiting for burials. And then he had to get away; ride, or feel that he was tossing at the edges of his skin, smothering in the dirt.

A man was supposed to settle down. Settle. Like the dust coming to rest, except the dust kicked up again when the wind did.

This, though... Sadie was cinching the saddle on Hera, and Charles tucking a last few goods into the saddlebags on Falmouth and Rachel, and John wasn't sure how much relief was going to be offered him, riding away. It was a grave they were riding to, after all.

"We all ready?" he asked.

Sadie gave her saddle a last pat, and looked over at him. "I am. You?"

Charles had saddled Rachel for him, and she was looking over at him with cool, waiting eyes. He shifted the satchel on his shoulder. "I'm ready."

He turned to Abigail. Wondered if he might have to fend off more concern. But she gave him a smile — looked like a nervous one, or more nervous than the rest of them had been.

"I was going to send you with some flowers for the grave," she said, "but they'd be wilted by the time you got them up there. But... lay something there for me, will you?"

The more he thought about this trip, the more John wasn't sure that... wasn't sure if... wasn't sure. It seemed like something he ought to be doing, or ought to feel that he ought to, and it also felt like a bad idea. This was the problem with a lot of things: he didn't have the gut instinct for right and wrong. Or his gut were piss-poor at telling him anything clear. But staying at Beecher's Hope while Sadie and Charles rode off without him seemed the worse idea, and those were the choices he had.

"Of course I will," he said. He'd just... work that out on the way. There had to be flowers growing somewhere. Hopefully he wouldn't accidentally pick a bunch of poisonous ones, or something; he had a feeling that would work out to an accidental insult.

Then again, he could only imagine the shit Arthur would give him if the man knew he was bringing flowers to his grave at all. He could only imagine the shit Arthur would give him if he bothered to show up at all, eight years late, following on Sadie Adler's heels. If there were such a thing as Heaven or Hell at all, which allowed a man to look out on the world from it, he had to hope Arthur wasn't paying attention.

This was a bad idea.

"Do you have enough food for the road?" Abigail asked.

"We'll hunt on the way," Charles said, saving John from having to say anything. There was enough food in Beecher's Hope that he didn't worry for them on that count, but given the meanness of that food, it still felt wrong to take any of it away. "Forage should be good, too. We'll be fine."

John didn't want to drag this out. "Where's the boy?"

He hardly needed to ask. Jack was under his tree, reading, and by the look of it, it was a book he'd already read at least once before. Well, they hadn't been spending their money on books, recently; John, the more fool, he, had thought the boy might move on to something else once all the ones they did have were done with.

"Jack," Abigail called, and he looked up with the grudging resentment of middle-youth. "Come wish your father a good trip."

Jack put his book aside, and came up. Looked unhappy with the whole thing. Didn't quite look at John when he said, "Have a good trip, sir."

John didn't know what to do with that. Had a feeling that maybe Jack had something more to say, but didn't know what it was, and had no way to dig it out of him. "Thank you," he said. "Take care of your mother."

The boy didn't even dignify that with a response.

Well, John didn't have much more to say. He hugged Abigail, ruffled Jack's hair, and stepped up into the saddle, and they headed out from Beecher's Hope at a pace that suggested more eagerness than he really felt.

He knew the path up to Ambarino. It was something running with the gang had taught him: he never could go anywhere without learning the paths out from it everywhere, or as everywhere as were practical. And once he knew those paths, he couldn't let himself forget them. Coming back down out of the Yukon, coming back to West Elizabeth... it had been a strange time; everything so familiar and still so distant, everything feeling like it ought to be full of ghosts, ought to conceal folk he knew behind every corner, and so... empty, of all that meant anything to him.

Well, he'd found Charles. And Sadie and Uncle had found him. That was more than nothing.

Beecher's Hope fell behind them. They rode out through the plains, through land that felt less uncivilized and more just empty. Quiet, for the most part; them just three folk out with something to do, until Sadie turned. Said, "Thanks for this, Charles."

"Of course," Charles said. Like this was just one more thing, and made as much sense as any of the rest of it. Flee from whatever he'd been fleeing from, throw some fights, meet old friends, build a ranch, kill some Skinners, build more ranch, ride across a state and a half to visit a grave.

Charles had admitted, once, that life didn't seem to make much sense to him. John had to wonder if not expecting it to made it easier to swallow when it didn't.

"Why now?" John asked, looking to Sadie. "I mean, besides that none of us knew where he was buried, before." Charles looked at him; he amended that to "Well, he wasn't — never mind." The question answered itself.

Sadie gave him a smirking look, but it faded, and she treated the question with more seriousness than it truly deserved. "I guess I've been in a remembering mood," she said. "Running into you again, and Charles, and Abigail; even Uncle. I've been thinking about those days. When everything changed."

Fair enough. "I don't know if I ever stopped thinking about them," John admitted. Then the ache of admitting that pressed on his throat until he let more words out after it: "I don't talk about them much. I don't think... I don't want to upset Abigail. Or Jack."

Charles looked at him, sidelong. "Abigail's talked to me, a little," he said. "It might do her good if she could talk to you."

That was more than he'd expected to hear. Almost more than he wanted to hear. His mind grappled at the words for a moment, as though he'd been tossed a bottle slicked with oil. "She's talked to you? What — what about?"

"About back then," Charles said. "What happened. Everything that changed. It's... I think we're all still trying to find our footing, in a way."

He felt like he'd swallowed the bottle, and its oil, whole. Hard and uneasy, pressing at his lungs. "It's been near a decade," he said.

"It has," Charles agreed.

Sadie snorted. "Who I am now?" she said. "There's none of it that didn't come out of what happened then. I don't know if a decade's long enough to forget all of that. Hell, if I'm still knocking around here when I'm eighty, I'll probably still be drawing little mustaches on the bottles I use for target practice."

...John had to ask. "Is that something you actually do?"

"No," Sadie said. "But I think about it." She looked at John. "Abigail feel the same?"

"Abigail wants to put the whole thing behind her," John said.

"Wants to," Sadie said. "That mean she ain't, yet?"

That wasn't what John wanted her to pick up. "She's doing fine." Better than he was, as she kept reminding him. He was the one who needed to fall into line. And he was trying, he was, just... world weren't kind to folk like them, dreaming the dreams they shared. Or tried to. And if... if someone had to take the knocks, might as well be him, who didn't dream so hard, and who more or less expected disappointment anyway.

"John," Sadie said.

"There's nothing to say," John hedged. "Not really."

Sadie was frowning at him. Even Charles was giving him a sidelong look, like he was coming to some private conclusions it'd do no good to share. John felt like he knew that look.

"I just — I don't feel—" Words. They'd always been useless, and he'd always been useless at them. He shook his head. "Look, it ain't been easy. But we're making it through. Can't we just leave it at that?"

Sadie huffed. "I ain't trying to pry into your marriage, John," she said. "Lord knows I ain't in a position to advise anyone."

At least that put that subject in the ground.

John cast about for another one, and gave up after not much effort. Charles, as always, didn't see the point in hunting for one if none came his way. They all rode for a while longer before Sadie admitted, "There was something else, too. I was up 'round Strawberry way, checking in with the sheriff there, and I saw this man passing by. Looked a lot like Arthur. And I... I don't know. I just miss the bastard."

Charles chuckled, or maybe it was a scoff. "Of all of them," he said, "he's one of the few I miss."

John didn't say a word.

For a long time, missing Arthur wasn't a thought that would have made much sense. They couldn't get away from each other, tied to the camp and the gang as they were. It was a relief to get away from anyone, and they'd always be back that night, or the night after, or after a few more days; back around the fire, back slinging insults at the poker table, back complaining about Pearson's stew.

Well, that had changed.

Changed like a knife to the chest on the west side of a mountain, and he'd spent eight years or so getting that knife out and burying it where it couldn't get him again. He wasn't interested in scraping it out of the dirt, but apparently he was going to have to, because with only the three of them here, his silence was conspicuous.

"You're awfully quiet there, John," Charles said.

Both of them probably expected him to say something. And again, he probably ought to, or ought to feel that he ought to. "I — yeah," he said. "I miss him, too." It sounded like a lie, when he said it out loud. He didn't mean for it to. It just... he was no good at saying the things folk wanted him to say. He wasn't going to survive this trip if both of them kept expecting him to say things.

"There was always something between the two of you," Sadie said. "Even I could see it, new as I was."

With only the three of them, and with both of the other two being perceptive, and with them knowing him about as well as — as anyone left did... there was no chance for him. "He was my brother," John said. "I mean — well, sort of. As much as he could be."

A few paces passed before Sadie said, "You know, you say that, and I don't have one clue what you mean."

John sighed, and looked between Rachel's ears at the ground passing by. "Dutch picked me up when I was eleven, or — or twelve years old," he said. "Thereabouts; saved me from a hanging. Back then, it was just the three of them: Dutch, Hosea, Arthur. Miss Grimshaw was with Dutch, sometimes, but she came and went for a while before she settled in. Hosea's wife died a while before. Arthur had been running with them for years already; he knew everything there was to know. At least, he seemed to think so, and I didn't know any better. I looked up to him. And Dutch and Hosea, well, they decided pretty early on that it was Arthur's job to look after me. Get me out of any trouble I got into."

"You got into a lot, I'd bet," Charles said.

"Of course I did. I was twelve years old!"

"You've been pretty disaster-prone ever since I met you," Charles pointed out. "I heard about what happened on the train."

"I don't want to talk about that train."

"And Sisika..."

"I walked away from Sisika," John said. At least, Arthur had come and dragged him out of Sisika, which was more to the point, anyway. "And the bank job... I got out from that. Good people didn't. Can we not make light of it?"

"Not making light. Just thinking." Charles rode on for a few more strides. "...you know, there were also those wolves up near Colter," he continued, without apparent haste, and absolutely without mercy.

John had buried the memory far enough that he managed not to shiver when it was brought back up. He could have ended his life on that mountain: lost, shot, bitten, freezing, starving, dizzy enough to tumble off the edge, sure he was waiting to die. The world had narrowed from one problem to the next in sequence: no longer how do I get back to the gang but how do I get warm; no longer how do I get warm but how do I shake these wolves; no longer how do I shake these wolves but how do I get back up that ridge. By the time Arthur and Javier had found him, the only question left in his mind wasn't even a how, but a which: which death was going to pick him off, first. The cold, or the wolves, or hunger, or some infection or other, or shifting wrong and plummeting down the rock face. He still hadn't worked out which he would prefer.

But it was a long time ago. A long time. "A pack lost in a snowstorm with no food for days, Hosea said." He shook his head. "Predators get desperate. That weren't on me."

"You got shot on the ferry in Blackwater."

"That job was a goddamn mess from beginning to end," John said. "I'm surprised any of us got out of it! And again, I didn't even come out the worst from that!"

"Breaking three fingers like that in Townston."

John's left hand clenched on his reins. "Look, it was my first time driving a six-in-hand, the horses didn't know me, and that damn dog spooked one."

"And how could we forget that thing with the beavers."

Goddamn the man, had Charles been keeping track of all of John's disasters, from the moment he came into the gang? Granted, it hadn't been the best first impression. "I didn't know there would be beavers, okay?"

"You were looking for treasure in a beaver dam."

"How was I supposed to know that was a beaver dam? Do I look like I keep beavers?"

"John," Charles said. "It was right next to a town called Beaverdams. You couldn't have guessed?"

Sadie was snickering. John turned and glared at her, and then glared at Charles, then settled back in his saddle and said, "You know, Charles, sometimes, riding with you? It's like having Arthur back to annoy me."

"I'll take that for a compliment," Charles said.

John glared at him for a moment longer, then shook his head. "Anyway, it was Arthur's job to look after me. Teach me everything Dutch and Hosea didn't. Him, Dutch, Hosea... they were a lot more of a family than I ever had before."

"They were more of a family than a lot of us had," Charles said.

"But Arthur was... I can't explain it," John said. "I knew I could rely on him, but there was just... too much of him. Man had a mind like a beartrap. Couldn't do a single thing but he'd remember it for years. You'd never hear the end of it. And he could be a vicious bastard, when he wanted to be, especially when he was interested in running off and chasing women and knocking over stagecoaches or whatever the hell he was getting up to. I got to a certain age, and I wanted to get away from him as much as he was tired of looking after me."

"Yup," Sadie said. "Sounds like family."

It had been. God, it had been. The good parts and the bad. "Anyway, all that time, all those years... he was always dragging me out of something by the scruff of my neck. Even when we were both grown up, sometimes I wonder if that's always all I was, in his mind. Twelve-year-old Johnny Marston, about to get lynched."

He looked at the ground. All the things he could remember about Arthur Morgan...

"Right up to the end, too," he said. Arthur, planting his own hat on John's head; handing him his satchel, all his last earthly possessions. Enough to get him to Copperhead Landing. Where Abigail was waiting with Tilly, and he'd given Tilly enough to get them out.

Get the hell out of here, and be a goddamn man.

—You're my brother.

—I know.

Like he was a kid, twelve again, angry and afraid, battered and bruised, pulled up onto the back of a horse. What's your name, then?—Well, little Johnny, that's outsize trouble for you, ain't it? How'd you manage that?

Me an' Dutch and Hosea will see you right.

Well. One of them had.

Charles was looking out toward the horizon, a pensive look on his face. More pensive than usual, which was a feat. "I don't think getting you out was about that," he said. "I talked to him. Enough. At the end. He was changing."

He'd given up. On Dutch, on the gang — all of it. That had been like the trumpets of Revelations, there, by Bacchus Bridge. John had hardly believed what he was hearing. Even as part of him believed it all too well.

"Maybe not changing," Charles amended. "I don't know. I think maybe he was just... becoming more himself, and less Dutch."

"And Dutch, becoming less himself, and more Micah," Sadie spat.

"Maybe," John said. He was still divided. It'd be nice to believe that was what it had been. Nicer, at least, than the suspicion that the maniac was who Dutch had been all along, and that he'd just become more and more like Dutch as all the pretty dreams he'd sold them had crumbled by the way.

And taken the rest of them with it.

"I always thought... we might have been able to pull together after Blackwater," he said. "If Dutch hadn't gone all crazy. If we could have just lied low for a time."

Sadie clicked her tongue, and Rachel's ears swiveled to listen. "I don't know, John," Sadie said. "I've been working with the law for a while, now. Things is changing. They was changing back then, too, just Dutch thought we could outrun it."

"We outran it for a while."

"No," Sadie said. "We didn't." Her voice was firm. Firm as Abigail's; John had to remember not to get in arguments with women. Never ended well for him. "That's why we wound up fleeing to the edge of the country and hiding out in caves abandoned by madmen. We was never outrunning anything; we was always just... running."

Well, maybe that was it, then.

Useless to argue it now, now that there were nothing to be done about any of it. He'd run far enough from it on his own — well, with Abigail and Jack, which was enough like on his own — that it were all behind him. Same for Charles and Sadie, he had to think. After all, they were here, and not running from nothing; he was careful about giving his name, but more and more it seemed like even that care was more than was necessary; like dry, dusty Beecher's Hope was about as good as that land in the west, or across the ocean, they'd dreamed of. Better, really: Beecher's Hope was real. And it was his.

But Sadie's mind had moved along a different track.

"Jesus. This is depressing enough," she said. Stood in her stirrups and shielded her eyes, looking out at the country. Her horse permitted it. She sat down after a moment, having seen or not seen whatever she was looking for. "There must be something cheerier to talk about."

Yes, please, John thought. "Why don't you catch us up on what you've been up to? You was out by Strawberry, you said. More to do with that banker feller?" That had been good money, for a soft target. With no bears.

"Nah. Dead end. Happens sometimes." Sadie shrugged. "Thought I might pick up some tips on Wilson Grey. Man robbed a general store out in Siltford, which wouldn't be much of a thing except that he got an itchy trigger finger for some reason and shot the proprietor. And then I guess one thing led to another and the store burned down, and that took half the buildings on the street with it. Anyway, he ran across the border into West Elizabeth, ended up near Strawberry, and I guess some other bastard beat me to him; I went to check with the sheriff there, and he was already trussed up in a cell. Kid who turned him in was riding off when I left." She shrugged. "Weren't a big bounty, anyway, but I figured sixty dollars was better than no dollars, and it was better than sitting around my room and reading the new Leslie Dupont."

"Where are you staying, these days?" Charles asked.

"Hotels, here and there. Saloons and inns, in the smaller towns. I keep moving. Keep circling back to Valentine, because they seem to be the ones most interested in putting up the bounties."

"Sure," Charles said. "Not much of a police force like the bigger cities; enough livestock money coming through to pay more bounties than the smaller towns. Sounds like the place to be."

"And plus, I..." She hesitated for a moment. "I know, it's not like you boys. I wasn't doing the real work in the gang for that long. If people have forgotten the posters for you, ain't any chance they'd still remember anything of me. But when we was by Valentine, I hardly left Horseshoe, except to bag rabbits and pick berries. Feels safer, somehow."

"I understand that," John said. "Sometimes I think... if they don't remember me in Blackwater, they won't remember me anywhere. And with the government not contracting the Pinkertons on, any more... but it'd only take one person. One person, with a long memory, and then... I don't know what we'd do." He sighed, shook his head. "Can't just pick up everything, drag Abigail off again. Not now when we're finally building something. I just have to hope it'll never come to that."

"Well," Sadie said. "I don't think the Pinkertons are gonna care, if you're not up to any trouble now. No one's paying them to find you. I hear some of them got hired on by the government straight-on, though. That new Bureau they founded. But I've been keeping an eye on that."

"What?" John asked. "Why? You think there's a problem?"

Sadie snorted. "I think they might try to drive bounty hunters out of business. That's half the reason I'm looking at moving into transportation. Keep up, John."

"Listen," John said, "I'm not much of a businessman."

"Oh, I know." Sadie chuckled. Sound was cheery and reassuring as a snake's rattle. "Don't worry. I hear anything bellwether for West Elizabeth ranchers, I'll let you know."

She was teasing him. He knew that. Still, he said "Well, that's mighty appreciated," because in honesty, it was. He wasn't so much of a fool as to not recognize that he could use the help that he could get.

With friends like these, though, they were all as safe as they could be.

It was a long way, and a couple of camps yet, up to the Ambarino-New Hanover border. And their pace was brisk enough, but there was no hurry to get there. He gave himself over to the ride, and the falling silence; the natural lull of conversation along the road. To whatever words would find their way toward them in the pace of their horses' hoofbeats.

They went on.

Ambarino was a territory full of breathtaking scenery, but just how that scenery was apt to take your breath changed as you moved through it. Riding up through the Southwest, past Moonstone Pond and the Three Sisters, past O'Creagh's Run, showed the best face of the state. Of course, getting close to the northwestern New Hanover border meant approaching one of the worst parts, and that even before the memories.

The land going up into the foothills was broken, dry, and mostly hard rock; the only plants that lived here were determined enough that they likely could have lived anywhere. Charles led, on this stretch, taking them unerringly through the landscape; through some low but normal mountains, not exactly looking cheerful in the late sun but certainly not looking any less cheerful than any other patch of bare mountain.

John didn't realize they were approaching the pass until Charles said, "Here. We're getting close. It's just up that trail there."

Startled John, that. These hills... they didn't look familiar. He'd thought they might be darker, or steeper, or... or something; thought that he might recognize them when he came up on them. But he didn't.

Course, he hadn't been taking in the sights, that night. He'd been running for his goddamn life.

If Sadie or Charles were nervous, neither of them showed it. So he did his best to believe he didn't feel nervous, neither. Weren't anything to be nervy about; just some dry old mountain pass, left alone by man, mostly. A forgotten part of the country. Inhospitable, and far from anyplace decent. Didn't seem like there were even much by the way of memory waiting for him.

No; that had all gone with him.

Charles kept the lead, as the path wound up the western face. Falmouth had his head down, ears uneasy; Hera, bringing up the rear, snorted her displeasure. Didn't seem to like the rocky trail much. Well, Sadie might have picked her because she looked like a hell of a bruiser, not because she was sure-footed on game trails. If there were a bounty here who needed kicking, John was sure she'd do just fine.

And they didn't have to go far, and the horses weren't put to much of a test. Weren't even halfway up the slope before the path... ended.

"Hold on," Charles said. Reigned in. "This isn't right."

He dismounted. John followed suit, and Sadie. This part of the mountain was rubble and scree, without even the bristling weeds that had dotted the rest of the trail. Whole place had the air of something unsettled.

Charles looked around, then scrambled across the rockpile. Looked up, toward the summit of the mountain, and then just stood there, brows knitted, lips slightly parted. It was as much a look of consternation as John had ever seen him wear.

"What? What is it? What's wrong?"

"There must have been a... landslide," Charles said. "Took out this whole side of the mountain." He caught John's eye, then Sadie's, as they joined him; stepped back to let them get their footing, and pointed up toward the summit. "That peak up there," he said. "The twisted tree. It used to be on a... a level bit, that caught enough rain for a few plants to grow. Mountain flowers. It wasn't too difficult a climb."

Bearing a body in his arms, it hadn't been. Now... it might be more difficult now. The tree now was clinging to the tip of a spire that looked like it would follow the rest of the landslide down, any moment. Its roots were exposed, and its branches bare. "Well," John said, "do you see a way up there?"

"There's no there left," Charles said. "He was up on the plateau. Near the tree, facing west. It's... just gone."

Gone.

John tried to imagine it. A grave, on a pretty enough hillside, up high enough — as high as these mountains offered — to have a good view out west. A shift in the land. A great geologic shrug, a casual brush-off from an irritated god, and the whole of it crumbled and fell, slid, a terror of confusion and gravity...

He stepped back, and looked at the scree under his feet.

Occurred to him that if all of what had been up there was now... here, tumbled in this mess down the mountainside... that somewhere, Arthur's bones might be among the rocks underfoot. Or ground to dust by the rockfall. That he was standing on the man's grave, and it were an unmarked one, and one the size of a hillside.

He stepped back.

Occurred to him that this was like looking into his own future. Or at least, a future Arthur had done his damnedest to turn aside, for him. No peace, no rest from running, not even a quiet spot to lie at the end of it all.

The — the goddamn gang. After they'd all done their best for each other — or, some of them had done their worst to each other — there was nothing to show for it, at the end. Was there? Shallow graves on unquiet ground, rocks piled up to keep wolves away from the bones, and then... nothing.

Occurred to him that all of it, the whole of the past, came to nothing, in the end.

He stepped back again.

"John?" Sadie asked.

"Think the ground's stable now?" he asked. "When — when did this happen?"

"I never heard anything about it," Charles said, and knelt. Put his hand on the rocks like they might tell him something. "Doesn't look like anything is growing on it, yet. This year, maybe."

This year. And when? If he'd come here straightaway after finding Charles in Saint Denis, would that have mattered? If—

If. No damn use counting ifs; he knew that. If weren't a thing he could do much with.

It had taken John eight years to find a patch of earth he might be able to call home; a home that wasn't four canvas walls and whatever corner of the country law weren't likely to sniff around in. And as for the rest of it, it was vanished, like gunsmoke, and no way to grasp a piece of it now.

"I'm sorry," Charles said. "He deserved better."

"No way you could have known," John told him, and took another step back. Charles was a man of many gifts, but John doubted he could predict earthquakes.

"Well," Sadie said. "I suppose that's that, then."

"We never did bury people, expecting we'd be able to go visit their graves," John said. "Weren't how it was for us." He retreated back to Rachel, resting a hand on her neck, letting her presence and her life chase away the unsettled melancholy, or try to. "Graveyards and all that — those were for different folk."

Decent folk. Not that he was here to think ill of the dead, but... none of them had been decent, not really.

He swallowed. "I guess there's nothing, really, we can..."

The words trailed off. Felt like this was cowardice, too, but what the hell else was there? There was nothing here. Even the path he'd run, that night, wasn't here. The past had retreated so far that there weren't even reminders, and what could he do with that?

"I guess not," Charles said, sounding as lost as John's thoughts. Still made John feel a little more settled; if Charles didn't know what to do, then at least he was in good company. "I... guess we should just start back down."

Get away from this place. Start the long ride home. They'd come all the way up here, and for nothing; he should have listened to that feeling, at the very beginning. Then, it were always easier to remember the right decision than recognize it when it came calling. "I guess so."

Sadie was still looking up at the dying tree above, frowning. "You two ride on a bit," she said. "Think I'll stay here and say a few words."

John looked at her. She looked back, and her lips thinned into a kind of smile.

"I'll catch up," she said.

"Oh." That hadn't occurred to him. "Right." But he didn't know what he'd say, if it had. Words, always. When had they ever come to him?

What, as though he should say—

Hello, Arthur. I'm a rancher now. Figured that would be good for a laugh.

Hello, Arthur. Been a long time. Sorry I never thought of coming here, or looking for you, or burying you. Guess you gave up on all of that when you told me to run.

Hello, Arthur. I'm trying so goddamn hard, but I don't know what I'm doing, and there's no one I can ask, aside from Uncle, and I know you never forgave me for running off, but couldn't you tell when I came running back that I'm not the kind of person who can make it on my own?

Goddamn it, Arthur, why'd you have to decide I was the one you were going to waste your life on? Why leave me trying to live up to that? Is this what you wanted?—to give your life so I could scrape by on a ranch where I'm mostly raising poisonous shrubs and dirt? You think it was worth it? Because most days, I surely don't.

Goddamn you, Arthur.

Best not to say a word.

He turned and followed Charles away. Back down to a spot in the foothills that was flat and level and stable, and the two of them circled stones for a campfire and collected what wood they could find, and started it. John felt every inch of the silence that wrapped around them both.

Charles, at least, appreciated silence. John could still remember the conversations they'd had — or not had — back when the gang was all together, when the scattered mealtimes brought odd assortments of folk to the table. Charles never had been one for chatter. Wasn't one to prick John for not having words to say.

Still, as they were sitting, John admitted, "I wish I'd never come up here."

Charles looked at him, and John kept his eyes on the fire. Didn't care to read any kind of understanding or judgment in his friend's gaze.

"Then, or now?" Charles asked.

"Both," John said, and reconsidered. "Neither. I don't know." He'd had no choice, then, and no honorable out, now. "If I could—"

If I could have undone everything that happened that day... The day, and the night before, and the day before that; the weeks before that; the months after Blackwater, the day of the ferry job in Blackwater... if he could have undone everything, anything, of course he would have, and of course Charles knew that, and of course neither of them could undo anything, and of course there was no point in saying so.

"Never mind." He got up and got the sturdy tin coffeepot from his things, filled it from his canteen, and brought it to the fire.

It was the ranch's coffee-and-chicory that he had, and not the tin of the proper, unadulterated stuff that Sadie had brought for all of them. Hardly seeming to notice the wealth of it, or maybe just too polite to rub anyone's nose in it.

Abigail would have scolded John for brewing up coffee this late, but this coffee were weak enough that it didn't much help rouse him in the morning, and wouldn't much hinder him in getting to sleep. Of all the things that might keep him from rest, it were the least of it.

Time passed, and Sadie came back down the gravelly trail, her horse's hooves crunching as she came. Left Hera with Rachel and Falmouth, came to join them in their silence at the fire, and Charles passed her the coffee pot, and she poured herself a cup.

Then it was three of them, again, all staring at the fire or glaring into it. The light danced on Sadie's eyes like the flash on a pistol's engraving. John wondered if she'd got anything out of this trip she'd pulled them along on.

"I haven't heard a damn thing about Micah," she said. No lead-in; no nothing. "I chased some rumors to ground. Sounded a lot like him, making trouble up north a ways. But no one knows where he's run off to." She ground her teeth. Woman like Sadie got a look like that, and John had to figure she was thinking about ripping someone's throat out with those teeth. "Rat like that's gotta keep running, I figure. Won't lie low, and will wear out his welcome in the blink of an eye. He'll hit somewhere again, kill some poor bastard, get law on his tail. I just hope they flush him out my way."

There seemed nothing to say to that.

Silence skulked around the campfire like a feral dog. Sadie tossed the rest of her coffee, and stood. "I'm going to get some sleep," she said. "If you boys are staying up, then... wake me if the mountain starts to fall down, or anything."

John laughed, just once, and just because it was better to have something to laugh about than to have nothing at all. The laugh was more bitter than the coffee, though. Did as little for him. "I think I'll turn in, too. Charles?"

"Want me to take first watch?"

"I don't think we need to set a watch, here," John said. "I don't get the feeling this place sees many visitors."

Charles shrugged. "Fair enough. I think I'll stay up a little, anyway."

Well, John was happy enough to give him the time alone with his thoughts. "All right."

He unpacked his bedroll, and laid it out near enough the fire. Then he crawled in, lay down, got to know the unevenness of the ground, here. And sure, they was sleeping in bedrolls in Beecher's Hope, but... the floor was flat, there. Just... flat. Nothing to remember it by.

After a while, he rolled on his back and stared at the stars.

Hosea had taught him the constellations. There was a grave he could visit, if he could presume on Abigail's tolerance for his absence, if he could drag himself out so close to Saint Denis, if he could find meaning in the exercise at all. He wondered if that grave were still there.

He shouldn't want things there were no way to have.

He closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep, until sleep came for him.

Chapter Text

Morning in the mountains, even the low mountains, even in summer, was cold. John woke shivering in his bedroll, half-baked by the firepit and half-chilled by the ground and air, and the sky was the color of cobwebs. Or maybe that was just his mind, brushing aside the last threads of dreams he didn't remember, dry and dusty and caught on the fingers of wakefulness.

Sadie and Charles were still sleeping, though he had a feeling Charles knew the instant he started moving. John gathered up more dry brush, and stirred up the banked embers into a small fire. Emptied another canteen into the pot and set it on to boil, and, sure enough, Charles climbed out of his bedroll, murmured a polite good morning, and wandered off.

The sky had lightened to some semblance of blue, and John had boiled a pot of chicory coffee into submission, by the time Charles came back with three grouse slung over his shoulder. Tossed one to John before setting to his own, and John cleaned his, tossing clumps of feathers into the fire where they smoked and smelled foul and earned him an exasperated look from Charles' direction. The feathers stuck to his gloves, too; got gummed up in the blood of butchering the creature, and he wasn't sure how Charles managed to take his own bird apart with what seemed like nothing but a few swipes of an old rag to clean up his hands.

He wasn't sure how Charles managed half the things he did.

Charles took on the task of cleaning the third grouse, too, while John cooked his own. Fortunately, a game bird on an open fire was something he had enough experience at not to make a mess of.

Sadie began to stir when when the skin on the birds began to brown and crisp. She slitted one eye open, then both, like a cat; pushed herself up in the bedroll and stared at the fire like it were a newspaper.

John passed her a cup of coffee. She took it with a grunt, downed half of it, and made a face at it, which were fair. Spat out some grit or grounds, drained the rest of it, and said, "Could have woke me."

Charles made a low noise. "You looked like you needed your sleep."

"Sure," Sadie said, shoving her bedroll into a rough pile. She cast a look at the fire. "Rather have one of those birds."

"Please. There's plenty."

Breakfast weren't a fancy affair. They all ended up with grouse grease and bits of char on their fingers, and John managed to eat a couple of feathers and what he suspected was a rock from the bird's gizzard, but it was a good honest meal and he was glad to have it. And Sadie, now that she had food and drink in her stomach, looked pensive but not grouchy, which let John think that... maybe this were a good time to re-open an argument. While he had her here, anyway. After this trip, who knew when they'd run into each other again?

"Listen," he said. "I know you weren't going to bring me along on any more of your bounties..."

Sadie sighed, and said, "John."

"I know you said." John tossed one of the grouse bones into the fire. "I know you don't want the Ranch and... and things, on your mind. But you've seen what we can do together. Hell, we could end just about every rivalry you have, the two of us together."

Sadie was shaking her head. "Abigail doesn't like it."

She said that like it should end the discussion. "Abigail would like losing the ranch even less," John said. "I can take care of myself. I always have."

Sadie's eyes narrowed on him. He hoped she wasn't thinking of that conversation they'd had on the way up.

Apparently she wasn't, not that what her mind had gone to was any more comfortable. "You doing that badly?" she asked.

He shifted, uneasy. "No," he said. Wasn't sure which he liked less; the idea that Sadie thought he was likely to get killed on a job, or the idea that she might look at him and see a beggar or a pauper. "Not... the ranch just hasn't turned a profit yet. We'll get there. It's just the bank I'm worried about. They want payments weekly. Who pays for anything weekly?"

"Fools the bank don't trust, I reckon," Sadie said. She sighed. "John... listen. I know you've managed this far. And I know how. I thought you were trying to start a new life, here."

"I am," he said. "I mean, I have a new life now. And that's what I want. A new life, on the ranch, with Abigail. ...I just have to keep us afloat until we can make it work out."

"And the ranch ain't working."

"It ain't yet. It'll get there." At least, he had to believe it'd get there. "The sheep... we bought them shorn; they was cheaper. I guess we need to let them get a year's wool growth in. And the chickens ain't been laying so good. We got crops in, but it ain't good cropland. Everything just needs more time."

No one who knew her would ever say Sadie Adler was a soft touch. But she was a good woman, and a good friend, and she relented. At least enough to say, "I'll think about it," and spit into the dirt.

"I'd be grateful," John said.

Sadie made a noise; drank her coffee, and made another face, and that was the end of that.

The sun wasn't even up enough to start warming them by the time they tore down their camp, not that there was much to tear down. They packed up the bedrolls, dumped the last of the coffee and coffee grounds, and kicked rocks and sparse dirt over the fire, and that was that. Probably have to stop and let the horses take some better grazing down out of the foothills, but it wasn't as though there was some hurry to get back.

If it weren't for the ranch, John thought — the ranch, and Abigail, and Jack — he could lose himself out here. He'd been able to live off the land when he needed it; hadn't ever loved it, but the years had taught him something. It was a big world.

Not... big enough for the van der Lindes.

But big enough for him.

But running away had never brought him peace from anything. Not one of the times he'd managed it — running from the orphanage first, or running from Jack and Abigail years later, or running from the dying gang in those last furious days. And he did have Abigail, and Jack, and Beecher's Hope, and losing himself plain weren't appealing, so they might as well make as good time back on the trail as they had up here on this pointless little adventure.

He tried not to look back as they set out. That was what Arthur had told him, all those years ago — he had to be ready to run, and not look back.

Well.

He'd failed, back then. And he failed now.

Days of riding, nights of camping, and they made it back to Beecher's Hope in an early afternoon. Part of John wished they'd delayed on the road, come back after dark, slipped in when the indifferent light of day wasn't there to call attention to them. Come back late enough, and Abigail wouldn't've been on the porch, sweeping away the dust under the hanging laundry, and looking up with a bright smile when he and Charles rode in.

John, for his part, felt that a pall had hung over him the entire way back to West Elizabeth. Didn't feel that Abigail's smile had much place alongside that.

Sadie had left them at the fork by Emerald Ranch; headed back out toward Valentine and the bounties to be found there. Made for a quiet ride on the last half, Charles and John mostly sitting with their thoughts. And John's thoughts hadn't done much for him. Felt like they'd just been a landscape through which he passed, like the yellowing grasses on the plains, unmarked much by his passage there.

Felt like not much of a homecoming, returning to Beecher's Hope after most of a week away. A wasted week away. And true to expectations, it looked just the same as it had when he'd left — except that Jack had apparently stirred himself to get the last of the oleander out, and Abigail had moved the crates from the livingroom out onto the porch, maybe to do some sweeping inside, or something.

Maybe life here would never change. Maybe that was what settling down was.

Abigail came down to greet them, and John swung off Rachel's back to meet her. Tried to get his expression into something pleasant. Didn't really succeed.

"How was it?" Abigail asked. Sounded casual enough, but her eyes on his held something different, and he didn't believe it for anything. Suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was give Abigail some cause to be concerned for him.

"It went okay," he said. He could practically feel Charles throwing him a keen look, sharp as those knives of his. "How have you been getting on?"

Abigail's expression split into a grin. "Well," she said, "why don't you come see?"

Charles caught Rachel's reins without being asked, and took both horses off toward the barn. Caught John offguard; he still wasn't sure what to do with Charles' quiet, unasked efficiency. ...or what he'd do without it, if Charles ever did take it in his mind to leave.

But that was a problem for another day, he hoped. Today was for other matters.

Like the discovery that maybe he'd been too hasty with that thought of how things never changed, because he followed Abigail through the open door into a house nothing like the one he'd left behind.

It just needs a woman's touch, he'd told Uncle, about that terrible little weather-beaten shack that had occupied the land before. Well, that had gone, and good riddance to it; this pre-cut palace had come in on the back of a lot of debt, but it was already more of a home than that shack would ever have turned into. Had been before he left, even.

And it had turned into more of a home yet, because he'd turned his back for a ride up to Ambarino, and suddenly the ranch looked... proper. A place fit for a proper family to live in.

"Where did all this come from?" he asked. Curtains, good lace curtains, hung on the windows. A rug that looked altogether too fine held up a little table in the living room; a little table that was too short to do any kind of work on or eating at, that looked like its only purpose was to hold flowers in the nice china vase set atop it. There were china plates on the shelves in the dining room, and he hoped to god they'd never be eating off those plates; that seemed like tempting fate, somehow. There were a table and chairs — a bookshelf — drawers — a cabinet — paintings on the walls — a piano. Where had Abigail found a goddamn piano? What... what money had she spent?

He didn't even know how much a piano cost, but he was certain it was too damn much.

Abigail seemed to find his consternation either amusing or exasperating, or possibly both. "While you were gone, the Geddes boys from over at Pronghorn stopped by," she said. "Said they'd found a lot of old furniture in their attic, and they'd be happy for us to have it."

"What? Why?" This couldn't be a thing that people just did.

Abigail sighed. "If you must know, they said it was for you saving their ranch," she said — and before he could do more than open his mouth, she shut him up with a finger to the chest. "Which you had better not take as permission to get yourself involved in any more of that craziness, you hear? Because I would rather have a husband than all the rugs in Persia."

"I don't think that's a choice you're going to have to make," John said. And it wasn't an argument he wanted to have, and he was just... not going to mention that conversation he'd had with Sadie, up in the mountains. Nor anything else. He was still working his head around this. "They really just gave us all of this? All of it?"

He'd met generous folk before. Even the prospectors up in the Yukon, as fierce as the competition had been, had held to a kind of honor, a mutual grace, a guarding-of-backs. But he'd never seen this kind of... largess, from folk who had nothing to gain from it.

"It's real, John," Abigail said. "Real kindness, from real decent folk. That's the kind of folk we know, now."

Despite everything. John shook his head. "We have to do something back for them, don't we?" Because he'd... shot a few men. Raided a hideout. Nothing that would ever have earned him this, in another time; it didn't feel like the scales were balanced.

"Well, I thanked them about as well as I knew how," Abigail said. The door creaked open; Charles came in from the barn, and paused when he saw the house's transformation. "Still, you might want to write a letter, or something. Keep up the act that we're decent folk."

John laughed. "That I will," he said. Looked over to Charles. "The Geddes — the folk I was working for, before I bought this place. They, uh..."

"They gave us a housewarming gift," Abigail said. Neatly brushing aside any hint that it might have been blood money. ...blood furnishings.

Charles' eyes skipped across the tables, the dishes, the couch, the chairs, and finally flicked from Abigail to John, and back again. "Kind of them."

"They sent us two beds," Abigail said. "They was thinking of us married couple, and Jack. Didn't know about you, Charles. Or Uncle." She sounded apologetic. "But we've got bedrolls to spare, now, if you wanted to layer them up..."

"I've never been well-enough acquainted with a proper bed to miss one," Charles said.

"And if Uncle wants a bed, he can work for it," John said. "This... this is incredible. I don't know what to say."

"Well, don't say," Abigail said, and took his elbow. "Come help, instead."

And that was the rest of the evening, and it were like Ambarino had never happened. Charles vanished outside, and John found himself helping Abigail unpack crates and chests. The Geddes hadn't just sent chairs and tables and that piano; they'd sent linens and goods, pots and pans, books...

Well, something new for Jack to read, anyway. Though, turning over a copy of Letters From A Self-Made Merchant To His Son, John had to wonder how many of them would actually appeal to the boy, with his head full of knights and dragons.

And, setting the book aside, he couldn't help thinking what all of it would fetch. The books, and the vases, and plates, and fine curtains. It... wasn't, any of it, the sort of thing he would have stolen, a decade ago, if he'd crept into the house of some decent family, but surely it would bring in a few dollars if he needed it to. If—

But that wasn't a thought he should be entertaining, was it?

Not that it had come up, much. But he did have some bit of courtesy Dutch had drilled into him, all those years ago. John could hardly remember when. Thought it might have had to do with something Hosea had given him, some watch or watch chain, dressing him up like a proper young man and not a little hellion, and John had traded it for... something. Probably cigarettes or candy, at that age. Seemed to remember Hosea laughing it off, and Dutch giving him a right lecture before laughing it off. And...

Well, so, it weren't a decent thing, to sell on a gift. So they would be here, living in a house with more furnishing than funds. Seeming more decent than they was.

What a surprise.

Abigail was humming, and after a turn, the humming broke into soft words. Dan Taylor. Of course. He'll build a cozy cottage, and furnish it complete...

They ate dinner that night at a proper table, with a proper tablecloth, with cutlery with roses embossed on the grips.

Abigail was damn near giddy with it. And that buoyed them all up, and John could see it; somehow, without knowing quite how, they'd come home from that long weary trip. To a place full of unfamiliar things, sure. But with so much joy in it, it were hard to feel misplaced amongst it.

Like they could pretend, even if just for now, that they'd be all right.

Night drew down, and somehow, no matter what they had in the house, they all found themselves at the fire outside. On the big toppled log, or the battered old chairs that had followed them in their wagon across half a continent. Listening to the crack of the logs, half-lost in darkness, with eyes blunted on the leaping light.

"There's a few cookbooks in those things they gave us," Abigail was saying. "I was thinking Jack could help me through them. Maybe I could learn to bake pies, or proper bread, or something. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Leaving aside what they'd make that bread out of, or what they'd put in those pies. Jack looked up with interest, anyway, and said "That would be real nice, ma."

And John, because today had turned, past all expectation, into an agreeable day, decided to be agreeable, himself. Said, "that sure would be something." Flour were cheap, anyway. Probably not too much of a stretch to bring some of it home.

Probably... it were safe enough to have these little dreams. Dreams the size of a pie plate. And if not, it were safe enough to pull his attention back down, out from the future they might or might not build, and just... be content with this, that he had now. How Abigail fit against the curve of his side, and Beecher's Hope fit on the parcel of land it claimed, and all of them, with the ragged edges of their pasts, fit mostly together.

He could convince himself. And if everything fit, and if he just kept working at that, maybe the rest would follow.

Well. Days followed.

There was one thing to be said for all that time John had spent at Pronghorn. He knew, without question, just how much hard work and drudgery it took to keep a ranch going. All that time working alone, after Abigail had up and left, had primed him for Beecher's Hope, all right.

Days rolled on into days, like the turning of a wagon wheel. Nicely furnished, now, but with nothing much to mark them. Rise, let the animals out of the barn, clean the barn, pump water, carry water, fetch wood, chop wood, check the fences, pull weeds, try to till the ground... Uncle insisted that with enough animals, enough grazing, they'd fertilize the ground right up. Lay that manure into the dry soil. Build a future on the shit of the present day.

Sometimes, it were hard to tell if Uncle were joking.

Fish or forage, gather eggs, watch for wolves, carry hay, feed the chickens, work the horses... watch for the future coming, indifferent, on the horizon, like dust kicked up by a distant wind.

John felt like they should maybe consider digging a cellar. This part of Great Plains weren't as afflicted by twisters as some others, but luck could turn on a dime. And it might be nice to have someplace to lay up provisions, if they ever had enough provisions to lay up.

Felt like he ought to start stockpiling wood early — he was in a place where he could stockpile; didn't need to be ready to haul it all off somewhere — because the house would need plenty of firewood through the winter, when it eventually arrived. But it was hot enough and dry enough still that winter seemed like a theoretical thing, like old age or Rapture. Seemed almost foolish to pay it any mind just now.

Felt like he ought to find something to do with that boy.

John was finishing up the firewood for the day. Enough for Abigail to cook on, enough to have for the fire outside that night. Jack, for his part, always seemed to make himself scarce when anyone was chopping firewood; John wasn't sure if it was so he wouldn't be asked to help, or whether the axe or the noise of the axe made him skittish. He was afraid it was that second one.

Boy was more skittish than just about anyone John'd ever met. He wondered where he got it from. Certainly not from Abigail. John certainly hoped it hadn't come from him.

He tracked his son down, eventually. Jack had wandered far afield, for him: sitting on the fence at the edge of the property, gazing up north toward the Upper Montana. Looking miserable, for no reason. "Hey," John said.

Jack jumped, and twisted around on the fence to look at him. "Oh," he said. "Um. Good morning, sir."

"It's almost afternoon, son." He came up, leaned on the fence nearby. "What you been doing?"

"Uh... nothing. Nothing much. Just thinking," Jack said.

"Thinking." That didn't do much for them. "About what?"

"...nothing in particular," Jack said, sounding cagey. John wasn't sure if he felt he had something to hide, or if the occasion of talking with his father just had him on edge.

Hell. He'd never understood the boy. For all his efforts, he didn't see that changing.

"You want to come muck out the barn?" he said, and then realized, that weren't the way to go about it. Any time he asked, you want, it was just an invitation for the boy to point out that no, he didn't, particularly. "I mean, it needs to be done. Come on." He stepped away from the fence. "It'll go fast, with the two of us."

Jack sounded exactly as eager to shovel manure as the manure was to be shoveled. He said, "Yes, sir," easy and eager as the miserable days of drilling to get the water pump in, and climbed down off the fence to join him, walking to the barn.

Some of this, John didn't think was honestly anything he could do a thing about. The boy was thirteen, terrible age, old enough to work and too young to see how working was necessary, how nothing of any worth came without it. Too young to want to hear how he had a better life than his mother or his father had had at that age, even if he did have to shovel horse crap and haul water from the pump and carry hay and dig up weeds.

Well. He'd learn some day. Or he wouldn't, and he'd go on resenting his father for the rest of his life, and all John could really do was keep pushing at what he pushed at.

The barn's shade might have been a solace in the heat of the day, if the windows had been left open. As it was, the air inside was stuffy, and smelled more thickly of sheep and horses than their handful of sheep and horses seemed to warrant. John took the pitchfork down from the wall, and handed a shorter, stouter shovel to Jack; Jack took it, and went to start on the farthest corner from where John was standing.

It was a barn, though. Wasn't like he could go hide on the far side of the ranch. Soon enough just the work drew them back together, and John felt like he ought to say something, not just let Jack rule the day with his sullen silence.

Or, maybe not sullen. "I told you we wouldn't mind it so much when the animals was ours," John said, and Jack cast a quick, spooked look at him.

"You did?"

"Sure," John said. "You don't remember? It was..."

Ah. Now he remembered. The words caught for a moment, and he tried to smooth them out, not let on that he'd just remembered what a godawful mess he'd made.

"...on the way back from Strawberry. Heading back to Pronghorn." When the boy had been in a panic, right enough, over those few men who'd caught them on the road. He tried to wrestle the conversation back around. "How do you like being a shepherd?"

"The sheep are alright, I guess," Jack said. "I, uh, like Misty. That is, she seems to like me."

John tried to remember if anyone had told him which sheep had which names. Or if anyone had told him that any of them had names. "Good," he said.

"We're not going to have to kill them, are we?" Jack asked. His voice was strangled, suddenly. Wasn't a safe goddamn topic anywhere.

Great. "We got those sheep for milk and wool," John said, firmly as he could. ...then the answer needled at him, until he gave in to the needling, and said "but if times are lean enough, we might have to. Plenty of meat on them."

Jack's face screwed up into a strange expression, and John braced himself for having to defend the nature of the world against some explosion of argument. But none came. Jack just turned and started working at some nigh-invisible smear of mess in another stall; one he'd cleaned out already.

"Are you... doing okay?" John asked.

"I should have asked to come," Jack said.

That was a turn hard enough to buck him. "What?"

"Up to Ambarino with you," Jack said. "I should have asked, shouldn't I?"

John had no idea where this was coming from. It had been near a week since he'd come back, near two since he'd left. And now was the time the boy turned all sullen over it?

"I wouldn't have let you," John said. And Abigail wouldn't have let him. And... besides, what chance were there that the boy would have wanted to? Hard enough to get him out from under his tree.

"I know, but—" Jack jammed the shovel into the ground so hard that he took up a chunk of the packed dirt. "I... I miss him, you know? Uncle Arthur. Except sometimes I don't know if I even remember him at all, or if it was all mostly things I made up, or anything. A lot of it doesn't make sense."

A lot of back then didn't make sense, John thought. Trying not to feel like Jack had thrown him a stick of sparking dynamite, all unexpected and unwelcome. He was almost afraid to ask, and almost afraid of where the next turn in the talking would take him. "What do you mean? Like what?"

"Like..." Jack scuffed his heel against the dirt. "I remember having a dog?"

John's head was still spinning hard enough that for a moment, he didn't think that made sense. Jack was too young to remember Copper, that damn mutt Arthur had found somewhere and dragged back and babied until it had been the scourge of the camp's stewpot and chickens. But...

But, no, this was a different time; this was something Jack could have grasped. "No, there... there was a dog in camp for a while," he said. Funny how he could forget that. Or, not forget it, but brush it aside, like a trinket dropped in the back of a chest or a saddlebag that never got sorted or cleaned out, and sat out of sight, out of mind, until a stray hand brushed it. "It showed up one day. Dutch named it Cain."

Because Dutch was the kind of man who would name an innocent animal Cain, and think it a compliment. The memory twinged between his lungs.

"But then we didn't have a dog when we ran away," Jack said. "So, we had a dog, and then we just... didn't."

Poor beast. John had his suspicions about that.

He remembered Jack tugging at his leg, saying Uncle Micah said he's gone, and at the time, it had angered him more to hear the words Uncle Micah than anything else. Never mind that at that age, Jack had hardly known what the word meant. Had thought that was just what you called the menfolk of the gang. Uncle. One big family.

Hell of a family.

Hell. Regardless of what Jack remembered, or didn't remember, John wasn't sure he wanted to remember any of this. "No, I think Cain... run off," he said. What good was it now to share any kind of suspicion with the boy? "He was a feral dog, you know. They don't... usually stick around."

And that was the wrong thing to say, as was the usual nature of things. "What do you mean?" Jack demanded, voice gone high and tight, that way it did. He turned, holding the shit-encrusted shovel like he might have to fend off some attack. John didn't even know what in hell he'd said wrong, this time.

"Just that—" He weren't going to have any luck trying to think around the boy. "What is it?"

"Rufus was a stray dog," Jack said. "And he's going to stay. Isn't he?"

Oh. That.

Right.

"I'm... sure he is." Well, he'd backed himself into a corner there, hadn't he? Every conversation he had with his son seemed all corners. "We've got a real home here. We're not going to move camp and confuse him, or anything." Which might have still been the wrong thing to say; they'd moved once, Jack and Abigail and Rufus, from wherever they were staying to Beecher's Hope.

But Jack seemed to seize on the reassurance, not the hole in it, and hold to it as well as he can. "You think so?"

"I think so." Maybe the subject could just rest there. "What else do you remember?"

Jack took a couple steadying breaths, before he said, "Well... there was one time, with Aunt Tilly, she taught me how to make little boxes out of grass."

That seemed like a safer topic. "Did she, now?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "And strings of flowers."

"Of course she did." Well, there'd been no one in camp to make fun of him for that. No other boys his age, and the men all doted on him, those who paid any attention to him. And those who hadn't cared to have a child around the camp walked wide around him, because Abigail protected him, and mostly when it came to Jack, Abigail had Dutch's backing. Mostly. At least, until—

"And I remember, one time," Jack went on — quicker, now, like he'd somehow sensed he'd offended his father, not that John was offended. "Uncle... it was Pearson, wasn't it? Uncle Pearson?"

"The cook," John prompted.

"Right. He was the hunter, too?"

"Uh... no. No, he... skinned what folk brought in, but he didn't hunt. Nothing more wild than tinned peaches. And crawdads."

"Oh," Jack said. "Well, he... he had a rabbit hide, I think. Soft and white. And he sewed it up stuffed with grass and things for me. A kind of doll."

Something about that idea made John uneasy. "I don't remember that," he said. Which didn't mean much, honestly. He'd not been there, for a lot of the boy's life, that early on. Certainly not to where he'd pay attention to the toys the boy had played with. And Pearson was a deft hand with a leather needle, or deft enough to serve. But... a doll? Out of a rabbit skin? Pearson'd never even tanned the hides from whatever was brought in; no one would have stood for that stench around camp.

"I don't know where it would have gone, anyway," Jack said. "Like... like I said. I don't know if I made it up."

"Could have been lost, one of those times we moved camp." Or it could have never existed. Been some fragment of imagination. How much could a child be expected to remember of that age?

How much did John? He hadn't tried to remember anything, for a long time. Found, now, if he thought of it, he could barely remember his father, who'd at least been around until he was eight; could remember the tone he used, and a few of his rants. How the smell of drink went with him, and was always on his breath, his sleeves, his hands. But he could barely remember where they'd lived, then, or the layout of the rooms.

And Jack hadn't been even that old.

Poor kid. John thought, of all the things the boy could have inherited from him, that miserable weakness at knowing his own mind on anything was a piss-poor likeness to carry.

"It... doesn't matter," he said.

Jack looked at him. "It doesn't matter?"

He shrugged. "Not really. It's all over, and we've put it all behind us. This..."

He stopped, and turned, and looked back out the barn door, out at Beecher's Hope. Jack looked at him, like he weren't making no sense. And maybe it was another thing Jack couldn't see, yet; something that age would bring him. But...

"Look at all this," he said. Set aside the pitchfork, and went to the door. Let the world open up in front of him, in all its dry, dusty, steady, stable glory. "This is a different world, son. None of us are outlaws. None of us are running. All of that — what happened — it's all in the past, and it ain't coming back around. So, whatever you remember, or don't remember... it don't make no difference here."

Jack put aside his own shovel, and came to look out at their home. Didn't see it for what John saw it for, clearly. And maybe that was for the best, too.

"No one's ever gonna believe me if I tell them I grew up in an outlaw gang," Jack said.

John's first thought was, No, son, you don't look it, and his second was, though if they met your father, they might. His third was, "Good. You shouldn't be telling people that, anyway."

"Not that I have people to tell," Jack said, and gave a bitter little laugh. "Aside from you and ma and Uncle and Mr. Smith, and all you already know."

"...right." Well, that were true enough. The boy's world ended at the ranch fence, for all he could be moved to go about it.

John sighed, and leaned against the doorframe. That were something they needed to figure out, and he knew it, and he tried not to think about it most days, because thinking about it hadn't ever done him any good in the past. But Jack was growing up. Had to start thinking about a trade, and... whatever else a boy his age should be concerned with.

Well, John had had a trade, at that age. Weren't something he'd be passing on to the boy, though. And what he remembered being concerned with, thank God, weren't things to lay on Jack's shoulders.

"You still thinking about being a lawyer?" he asked.

"Hm?" Jack looked surprised. Gathered his wits up under him, though. "Oh! Um... maybe. I don't know. It's a good living, isn't it?" He didn't give John a chance to answer that. "Would you... you'd rather I took over the ranch, wouldn't you?"

John had hardly wanted the ranch. Granted, it was better than having lawmen in umpteen states after his head, and better by far than any other option he'd found, so he supposed that made it good by definition. "I think you ought to find what it is you want to do." It'd put him ahead of John himself, if he did that. "How is it a person becomes a lawyer, anyway?"

"I don't know," Jack admitted. "I... never mind."

Sounded like he'd been about to say something. "What is it?"

"I imagine it takes schooling," Jack said. "That's all."

Right. Of course. That. And schooling... probably took money, and definitely took being somewhere other than a ranch full of sheep and dust and fairy books and Uncle, and that meant it was just one more thing they'd have to find a way to manage. Like all the rest of it.

He turned back from the door, and picked up his pitchfork again. "Come on," he said. "Let's just get this done."

"Right," Jack said, and the two of them worked for a while in silence.

The afternoon carried itself to evening, and seemed to leave more undone than done. John suspected that was just how ranch life was; always something left to do, and never a rest from the labors. Not for long, anyway.

But... a bit of rest, here and there. Here, he tracked dust into the house for Abigail to sweep out the next morning, and sat on the fine fancy couch the Geddes had given them, and every breath seemed like a little escape just for the fact that the main room was shady and breeze-swept and still, and wasn't asking anything of him.

He'd sat there for a few minutes before Abigail brought him a cup of tea decanted from the big jug she kept in the kitchen. Mint, seemed like, from that wild mint she'd found up by the river. Some of it was now shoved into the ground by the west porch, being dutifully watered.

John drained the cup, and passed it back with his thanks. "You have a good day?" Abigail asked.

He grunted. "Good as any of them. You?"

"Well," she said, "I got those two coats hemmed, finally. Been meaning to get to that for ages. And I got some herbs hanging. Went out to that run of blackberry bushes, though it seems the birds got most of 'em. Brought back a little, though..."

And on and on, a litany of little tasks he'd never have thought of, and he leaned back on the couch and let the chatter wash him like a creek. And when it dried up, he sighed, and said, "Well, we've been a right productive pair of homesteaders, ain't we?"

"Always something to do," Abigail said. She drew her fingers back through John's hair, then frowned, and wiped her hand on his shoulder. "Well, and the day ain't done yet."

John glanced out the window, past the curtains, at the lengthening shadows. "Guess it ain't," he said. "What's for supper?"

Abigail's voice was dry. "Oh, it's a regular feast. We got beans boiled up with some thyme and rosemary, and bean mash with the last of the pickerel. I think I got all the bones out, this time. Oh, and I thought I'd try some corn pudding with those blackberries I found."

"Sounds amazing." Granted, after a day working, just having food in his stomach sounded amazing. It could probably be anything. "Guess I'll go start rounding up the boys."

"It'll be a bit, yet," Abigail said. "But you go on. See if they need help finishing anything up."

He pulled himself up from the couch, and Abigail went back in to the kitchen.

Beecher's Hope in the evening was a different beast than Beecher's Hope in the day. The day was all dust and hard work and long hours, close as a dog's breath, long as the horizons. But the evening, with the chorus of the crickets starting up, with the sun inching further downward... it was almost tense. As though all that time in midday when the hours seemed like they would never end or change had stolen their extra moments from here, and it were clear that time were passing, and quicker than you'd want it to. Night would be here soon enough, and all that wasn't done would stay undone, and no getting back to it until the turn of the day.

The steady thump of an axe told John that Charles had taken up the task of building up the wood stores. If there was ever an ant to complete the little group's fable of grasshoppers, Charles would be the one.

And the steady thump of a horse — of horses — alerted John to Uncle, coming back in on the road. Riding his own beast, and with a second slouching at the end of a lead.

Odd. John stopped to stare a moment. He'd been expecting to find Uncle lying around somewhere with a bottle by his elbow, but... come to think of it, he hadn't seen the man all day. Apparently he'd been out, doing... something.

"John!" Uncle called, as soon as he saw him. Sounded cheerful, which probably meant nothing good. "How are you?"

"I'm well," John said, letting himself down off the porch. Wasn't sure he should trust this. "What do you have there?"

"New horse for the ranch," Uncle said, and hopped down off his own nag.

"How did you get a new horse?" John demanded. Uncle was too lazy to put in the effort of stealing one, too cheap to put up the money to buy one, and too lacking in initiative to hatch any other sort of plan.

"I was on my way back from doing some very important errands out Blackwater way," Uncle said, which probably meant he'd been drinking in one of the cheaper saloons near the slums. "And I passed this fine creature—" the creature looked many things, but fine weren't a word John would have chosen, "—on the side of the road, already under tack and saddle. I investigated a little—" which meant that he'd probably taken a quick glance around from horseback, "—and found a poor dead man lying a ways away. I thought, well, you can always use another working beast around a ranch."

John didn't know what kind of work Uncle expected to get out of the horse. It looked more fit to supply glue and leather, if he'd ever been the sort to slaughter a horse for its parts.

The mistreated beast was swaybacked, its coat patchy, and its hooves needed trimming. It stood on the edge of being underfed. Its head dragged. A colony of flies had come with it, and it seemed barely able to muster the vigor to swat them with its ragged tail.

"You stole a dead man's horse," John said.

"He weren't using it."

John couldn't even argue with that. It wan't as if he'd spent his life doing anything better. "We're trying to live straight, here. Not get a reputation as bandits and outlaws and horse thieves."

"Well, that's just what I thought!" Uncle said, which meant he was probably making up an excuse as he went. "You can turn the animal in to the sheriff or something. Make yourself out to be a big hero. Polish that reputation of yours." He laughed. "Even if it is like polishing a ball of dirt, in your case."

Sadie's business excepted, the less John had to do with sheriffs, the happier he was. "How did the man die?" he asked, because if this was some kind of complicated nonsense, the last thing he wanted was to walk right into the middle of it.

"What am I, a doctor? I don't know! Kicked in the head."

"Great." In addition to all its other faults, the horse might have killed its last rider. This sure was a plan that had Uncle written all over it.

John walked up to its side, and looked it over. It didn't look any better on a close examination. The tack and saddle were old, ill-fitting... the saddlebags had holes gnawed in them, and were dusty and stiff and discolored, as though they'd sat in a corner of some house for years. Through one of the larger holes, John could glimpse a mess of cloth and papers.

"You didn't even search the saddlebags." Uncle was unbelievable.

"I took a peek," Uncle said. "There didn't seem to be anything interesting."

There was no money or alcohol, was what Uncle meant. John reached in and pulled out a bundle of clothes, a few tins of beans and kippers... and a letter.

Signed Uncle Gilbert, so the man had been a nephew.  The letter said a few greetings, sorry to have left him so long without communication — so on, so on — aunt doing well — cousin dead. John's eyes caught. A large inheritance, a place in some company or other. Apparently the letter-writer's only son had died, and as some kind of attempt at maintaining a family legacy, the letter-reader was meant to come and take his place in the business.

A true American rags-to-riches story, up to the point of getting kicked to death by his own horse. Also the kind of thing men got killed over, and city police perked their ears up for. "You idiot!"

"Now, what—"

"There's money involved," John said. "Lots of it! And now that guy is lying dead by the side of the road somewhere, and we have his horse?"

"Man in those clothes, with this horse?" Uncle scoffed. "There's no money involved—"

"A recent inheritance," John said, and shoved the letter into Uncle's chest. This needed to be dealt with, now. "Abigail!"

There was a loud clang from inside, like Abigail had dropped a pot on the stove.

Uncle skimmed over the letter, and apparently realized his mistake. Now that it was too late for it to do any good. "Ah, how was I to know—"

He was interrupted by the front door flying open. Abigail ran onto the porch, probably expecting fire or Pinkertons or snakes or some goddamn thing other than Uncle and his stupidity. "What is it? What's going on?"

John glared at Uncle. "I have to go into town to return a stolen horse before anyone thinks we killed its owner for his inheritance," he said, snatching the letter back. "You send this fool to bed without dinner."

Uncle made a dismayed noise. "Now, that is hardly fair—"

"If he gives you any trouble, beat him with a rolling pin!"

"Oh, I'll beat him with worse than that," Abigail said, turning an absolutely venomous look on Uncle. Uncle, idiot though he might have been, was too shrewd to argue with that.

"Cruel," he muttered, turning away and slouching off toward the barn and his not-so-secret stash of alcohol. John thought he should have upended the manure barrow over that, not dragged it out to fertilize the soil. "All I do is try to help this place..."

John stormed past him, in no mood for the argument.

He got Rachel saddled, and came to gather up the swayback. Took up the lead, and gave it a tug.

Nothing. The horse looked at him like he was one of its escort of flies.

"Come on," John said, and snapped the lead. The horse tossed its head, and gave a soft, annoyed nicker. "Come on, you damn horse!"

The horse didn't move. It was perfectly content to stay with the ranch horses, apparently, and not go wandering out into the night.

John growled, set Rachel to moving, and wrapped the lead around the saddlehorn until the swayback learned it couldn't compete.

So they set out: him on Rachel, who was the horse John trusted the most on nighttime roads — and it would be full night by the time he was able to start back. The stupid swayback on its lead, restive and apparently resentful at being led out the gate and onto the path again. John kept a firm hand on the rope just in case it decided it wanted to cause trouble. Though given his luck, the trouble it would cause would be to just lie down dead in the middle of the road.

Meanwhile, that left him wondering how to explain this without getting the law to visit Beecher's Hope or looking more suspicious than he already did. Tell the sheriff, I'm so sorry, but my idiot boarder stole a horse on the way back to my place? Hardly. The idea was to keep the police's attention away from Beecher's Hope. Pretend that he'd found it on his way into town? ...on his way into town, for all those errands he had to run well after sundown, which was when he'd get there?

It wasn't until he was onto one of the main tracks, the one that led out westwards from the northern edge of Blackwater, that he thought he could have just given the horse a good smack on the rump at the gate to the ranch and sent it running. Or enough of a switching to get it to run. Maybe, that would have worked. Then whoever eventually found it could assume the thing had run off and wound up far afield.

Couldn't do that now, of course. He'd passed people on the road by now, and if the law started asking around, someone might remember enough to give them a description.

Goddamnit. Not one thing, not one thing could go right for him.

He was fuming so much that he almost didn't notice the rider coming up in front of him, who — as soon as he saw John — reigned in his horse, and turned it around to match pace with him. "Hey, mister — mister," he said, and John's hand itched for his pistol. Couldn't help but think this was nothing good.

"Evening," he said.

"You look like you can handle yourself," the stranger said.

John never had any idea how to handle that sort of observation. "Me?"

"Yessir." John spurred his horse a little faster, and the man urged his own to keep up. "I need help, mister. Nothing much. Just, if you could ride with me, a little."

Great; charity. Under normal circumstances, if it wasn't too much bother, he'd be inclined to agree. Right now, he had enough trouble without taking on someone else's. "I'm sorry, friend. I have to get in to Blackwater."

"Well, I was going that way, too!" the man said. John frowned; he'd been coming up the road from the city when he approached. The man caught that look, though, and said "I was going on that way, but I saw a real shady character on the road, and I didn't want anything to do with him. But if I could just ride along with you, I don't think he'd care to take on two people at once."

Just how shady did this person have to be, to have this stranger riding up to John for help? Was he wearing a coat made of human skins, or something? ...were the Skinners back in the area? That meant nothing good, if they were. "I—"

"Just... ride along with me. Just up until we get in sight of town. What do you say? Safety in numbers, they say. We can make the ride quick."

"We're going the same way," John said. "So long you're going that way, be my guest and ride along." It was an open road. What was he going to do? He couldn't exactly stop this person from riding in whatever direction he pleased.

"Thank you. Thank you," the stranger said. "But can we... pick up the pace a little?"

The sooner he was in Blackwater, the sooner this nonsense with the horse would be done. One way or another. Hopefully in a way that wouldn't wind up with him in jail. "Fine."

Their shadows were stretched as long as they could be, and fading as the light which cast them faded. John didn't much look forward to meeting some robber or murderer or madman in the dark, with one hand on the reins and the other holding a lead, but at least he could drop the reins and draw, if it came to that.

"You got a lantern, friend?" he asked the stranger.

"Huh? —right, yeah," the stranger said, and dug one out. Lit a match against his stirrup and lit the wick, then tried to hand it over to John. John looked at him; his hands were full, between the reins and the lead. "...right," the stranger said, again. "What's the story with your horse, there?" He snickered. "Taking it in to the glue factory?"

"Don't ask," John said. He didn't want to explain. He didn't want a thing to do with any of this. He wanted to be home, sitting for his dinner, hoping that Abigail's earnest attempts to turn into a farm wife were going better than his earnest attempts to turn into a rancher.

"Okay. Okay. Not one for talking. I understand you." The stranger nudged his horse on just a little bit faster. "Have it your way."

Left John to think about a solution for the swayback, some more.

He hadn't come to much of a conclusion some minutes later, when the dim edge of the lanternlight caught another rider ahead on the path. He was content to go by the rising moonlight, apparently; looking completely innocuous by what little light found him. Judging by the way the stranger next to him tensed up, this was the source of the problems. Still, just to be sure, John asked, "Is that him?"

"Sure is," the stranger said, with a little less dread and more excitement than John was expecting. "Oh, and this is a nice spot for it."

They were passing through a copse — one that had apparently been hit by one of the big storms that boiled up on the Great Plains; a few trees had toppled, one of them halfway obscuring the road. The rider ahead had just passed it.

It all went to hell before John could untangle what was happening.

The stranger whooped, drew his pistol, and spurred his horse into a gallop, startling John into spurring Rachel, the same. Which made the swayback neigh and toss its head and dig in, which meant John had to get the lead under control before it yanked him off the saddle, which turned Rachel half around, which meant he was only listening with half an ear when the stranger yelled "You're outnumbered, you fucking bountyman's dog! You care to die today, or—", and he never finished the sentence, and John'd barely turned to look at what was happening there when a pistolshot blew through the stranger's head.

The noise spooked the swayback for good. It reared and lashed with its front hooves in panic, catching Rachel at the shoulder, which meant that Rachel reared and bucked him, the lead and the reins flew from his hands, and both the damn beasts fled.

He hit the ground badly on his wrist, caught his cheek on a branch, rolled, and scrambled into the cover of the toppled tree before he realized that he'd been taken for an absolute fool.

As least he wasn't so much of a fool as the man who'd tried to conscript some, uh, opportunistic and unwilling backup in his — what? Robbery? John glanced over; the stranger's lit lantern was lying on its side, guttering out. It gave enough last light to let him see the wound that had taken him out: right through the forehead, and in an instant, too. Idiot had tried to rob someone a lot better with a gun than he'd expected. Bounty hunter, from what he'd said. Something like that.

And that crack-shot bounty hunter was probably none too happy with John, and probably gunning for him, now. Eyes already keen to the darkness that fell over them, as the lantern flame died. Which meant that once again, John had fallen straight into the middle of a shootout.

Abigail was going to kill him, skin him, and feed him to the sheep. ...sheep didn't eat meat. She was going to sell the damn piano, buy pigs, and feed his scraps to the pigs.

"Listen," he yelled. "I think this is all a big mistake!"

"Only mistake here is you picked the wrong person to rob!" yelled back a voice that went through John like a gunshot. He knew, absolutely and without question, that voice, and it was a voice from the goddamn grave.

"—Arthur?"

"Why don't you come out where I can see you?" The man — couldn't be Arthur; clearly, couldn't be, but he sounded exactly like him — said. "I'll make it quick."

He couldn't be. That wasn't possible. "Arthur, that you?"

"Who are you talking to?" Arthur's voice called, and John heard someone move. Sounded like — hell, he hadn't done this in years, but it was in his blood; he couldn't forget — sounded like how Arthur moved between cover, and he was absolutely coming around the tree.

And if he got clear shot, well, John might be as quick on the draw as he was, but he wasn't quicker. And he wasn't planning on shooting first.

He got back, scrambled, got around toward the tangled-up mass of roots that had come up when the tree went down. Problem was, if he saw this man, that man would also see him, and that was when folk ended up with bullets in their heads. "It's me!" he called. "John!"

"Nice to meet you, John." He wasn't sounding any less like Arthur. He was sounding more like him with every word. "That all you want on your tombstone?"

"John Marston!"

"Good to know. Is that 'Marston' with a—"

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a racking cough.

Oh, god.

This was a nightmare. It had to be. They'd started hitting him halfway to the Canadian border, when he'd fled; always nightmares about Hosea, dying, or Arthur, dying, or sometimes Mary-Beth or Charles or Abigail or once even Swanson, all muddled up in time, in places they hadn't been, in places they shouldn't be. And he always got there just in time to watch. End up knee-deep in blood and sometimes alligators.

He was dreaming, and the dead and missing were coming back to die right in front of him.

Except that those dreams had gone away — they'd gone, years ago; he'd forgotten he'd even had them, until just now. Except that his wrist goddamn hurt; except that he'd never been one of them who could tell when they was dreaming. Every time he dreamed, he never stopped to consider if he was.

Which left him in the dark with a man who couldn't be Arthur, who sounded like Arthur, who was coughing, like Arthur.

"Arthur, are you—"

"There ain't nobody," the other man yelled, and coughed, and yelled "—here, by that name!"

Sudden, stumbling motion. John dove sideways around the tree, caught a split-second glimpse of a pistol, got the hell away from that, and down. Then the coughing started again, harder.

John risked a glance. Just enough to poke his head around the tree and see the man, bent double, his hand on the rotting bark, and as soon as he glanced there was a gun barrel coming up to mark him, and he spun back into cover just fast enough that the bullet bit through the air where he'd been, and not the flesh where he was.

"I don't wanna fight you!" he called.

"Then — you—" The man couldn't get two words out. John grit his teeth.

"Goddamnit, let me help you!"

No answer. No break in the coughing until the man managed a strangled whistle, and then there was a horse leaping almost over John's head to land on the other side of the tree. A rustle of saddle leather. A horse being turned. John took a chance, darted out from cover, and saw the horse wheel away, its rider half-collapsed over the saddlehorn, and gallop into the darkness.

"Arthur!"

The man hadn't... not looked like him. In the darkness. Mostly silhouette and shadow.

A glance. All he'd got, as the man hacked his lungs out over the side of the tree, was a glance and a bullet sent his way, and — and it looked like him. It looked like him. It looked like him, and it sounded like him, and he'd shot at John, and said, nobody here by that name.

What the hell was going on?

What the hell was going on?

He took three steps after him on the road before realizing he wasn't going to make it anywhere near the man on foot. He whistled for Rachel, but didn't hear any clatter of hoofbeats approaching; might be too far away to hear, or might still be bolting. He was alone on the road, with — with dead men, and ghosts.

He... he had to follow him. Obviously. And impossibly; the man was already far gone, that horse of his was a fast one, and Rachel was still not showing herself. And John'd never tried to track anything, on a packed-dirt road like this. Probably the man was going in to Blackwater — he was certainly heading for Blackwater — but he might turn off, too. John should have brought Charles along, not that he'd known that — how could he have known that — it wasn't actually possible, what he thought had happened!

And if the man were just a stranger, and a stranger who had shot at him, it were an idiot idea as well as an impossible one. But—

But—

Maybe it was his imagination that put a spray of blood on the trunk of the tree. It were too dark to tell, really, and he surely weren't touching the spot to find out.

He couldn't stay here.

Only thing left was to go running and whistling through the dark, until finally he heard a nickering and the steady thump of hoofbeats coming toward him. Rachel emerged from the darkness and snorted at him, and he went to her and ruffled her forelock. "I'm sorry," he said. "You all right, girl?"

He ran his hands down across the shoulder the swayback kicked; couldn't tell if the skin was warm beneath the hair, but she permitted it and didn't knock him with her head or step away or anything. She'd probably been more startled than bruised.

No use now in galloping after the man. If he'd not gone to Blackwater, he could be anywhere in southeastern West Elizabeth. And if he had gone to Blackwater, he could be anywhere in Blackwater, which was worse. And no use now in searching for the stupid swayback; he'd have to take his chances on how that would play.

Nothing left for it but to go back to Beecher's Hope. He could race there, all right.

Burst back in through the gate at a gallop, scattering two coyotes that had snuck in and were heading for the chicken coop. He didn't have space in his mind to worry about that. Disturbed Uncle, too, it looked like, who'd taken up residence beneath Jack's reading tree, bottle in hand.

"What the hell?" Uncle demanded. "You look like you've got devils on your tail, boy!"

John didn't have time for this. Didn't have time for much of anything. "Will you make yourself useful?" he called. "Cool Rachel down." He dismounted, and tossed the reins in Uncle's direction. Rachel took the hint, tossed her head, and stepped over toward him.

Uncle scrambled up. He might be a miserable old bastard, but he could tell when something was serious. Usually. "Sure, but — what happened?"

"Explain later," John said, and ran up the stairs to the main house. Barely slowed enough to open the door before bursting inside.

Abigail was sitting in the livingroom, looking like luxury itself on the wide couch. Mending something. All peace and contentment, until she looked at him, and the joy drained from her face.

She always knew when something was up. Had a pretty keen sense for it, especially these days. She probably thought he was riding in with news that they'd have to move again.

"We're not moving," he said, just to get that out of the way. "It's—"

"Are you all right?" she asked. Tossed down the mending and rushed to him. "What happened?"

"I'm not hurt," he said. He had a scratch from the tree, when he fell, but his wrist weren't sprained after all, and nothing else were even worth minding. "I just—"

"What's happened? What's wrong?" Abigail turned his face toward the light of the lantern on the mantle. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

A laugh answered her from his chest without him having much to do with it. "I might've."

That took the wind out of Abigail. "...what do you mean?"

"Arthur," John said, and let her lead him by the hands to a seat. "Abigail. I think I saw Arthur."

Chapter Text

John wasn't sure what he was expecting. If he'd let a thought glance the issue on the way, he might have realized that tipping the problem into Abigail's lap wouldn't do a damn thing for him. No chance Abigail would know what to do with the news he brought her; what, was he expecting her to clap her hands, dust off her dress, and say, Well, we'd best be getting into town after him?

It were too late to hatch any sort of dramatic plans. Too late for decent folk to be getting all stirred up about anything. The ranch was quiet; Jack was already asleep, Charles off... somewhere, either sleeping or... doing whatever he did, to close out the night. Uncle taking care of Rachel, but Uncle weren't decent folk anyway, and weren't going to be helpful here, and John weren't going to look to him for it.

No. Not the time for dramatics; night had settled the whole world down. Abigail looked at John, studied his face, and looked lost, more than anything. First thing she said at the news was just, "What... what do you mean, John?"

As though he could say it any plainer. "I mean... I mean I was riding into Blackwater, and I—"

Got into a gunfight. Maybe not. Maybe if he said that, that was the part she would fix on.

"—I ran into this man, and he was coming up on someone — hunting him, or robbing him, or something — and it were Arthur. The other man, I mean. He yelled something out."

"Who did?" Abigail asked. "I mean — what Arthur? Not—"

"Arthur Morgan," John said. Like there should be any question. What, like he'd met some other man named Arthur, and that had sent him pelting home? Not that Arthur had seemed to know him from any other John, name in hand or anything.

Felt ridiculous, ludicrous, to try to explain any of it. Just as ridiculous as having the whole thing happen. Seemed like, with all the weight of it, the whole issue ought to be written plain on his face for anyone to see, no explanation needed.

Course, life weren't so easy. Never had been.

"You met a man who — who claimed to be him?" Abigail asked. Trying to get her head around it, not going the right way around. "He said—"

"He didn't say a damn thing!" Not a thing that had made any sense. John stood from the chair; didn't have a damn thing to do, but the restlessness rattled in his stomach and his spine and made it hard to sit still. Abigail rose after him; reached out and took his arms, and he stepped out of her grip.

"John, I don't know what you're saying," she said, which didn't seem like it. Seemed like she didn't hear what he was saying. Refused to hear it.

"I'm saying I saw Arthur," John said. "On the road into Blackwater. I heard him!"

"Well, of course you can't have seen Arthur," Abigail said. "You mean you saw some man who looked liked him, or you was thinking about him, or—"

A shadow, a silhouette, a dark figure in a wider darkness; saw wasn't the right word, but he weren't going to swallow it back now. And what she was saying was—

"I ain't mistaken!"

"John—"

He turned sharply, stepped toward — toward nowhere. No place in Beecher's Hope gave him the footing to argue. With himself, with the world, with Abigail, with anything. No place in Beecher's Hope offered grounding or answers.

"John," Abigail said, again. "Let me get you a drink, or—"

"I don't need a drink."

"—or come sit down. You're tired—"

"I'm not tired." He was tired, but... he hadn't heard Arthur's voice in the darkness because he was tired. And he didn't need Abigail's voice all calm and cautious and soothing, like she was settling a horse. "Woman, will you just listen?"

"I'm listening, John, but you ain't speaking any sort of sense—"

There hadn't been sense to it. But Abigail seemed saying more, seemed fearing more, and he had a feeling what she thought of it all. "I ain't losing my mind!"

It came out far louder than he'd intended it. A thump answered it, almost immediately, from Jack's room, and John flinched like a gunshot had gone off. Goddamnit.

Abigail cast him a look, quick and angry as a striking snake, and rushed off to Jack's door. Pulled it open, and was met immediately with an anxious "What happened? What—what's wrong?"

"Nothing's happened," Abigail said, soothing as she could manage. "It's nothing. Your father's having a rough night, is all. You go back to sleep; we'll take it outside."

A rough night, was it. Like his temper was frayed because a sheep had fallen ill. "I—"

Abigail held up a finger to him, and he swallowed back any complaint. Jack mumbled something and Abigail shut the door on him, and came to take John's elbow, more firmly than she needed to. John pulled his arm out of her grip and let himself out the door. Didn't need to be herded outside. Not by his own damn woman.

His own damn woman, who followed him off the porch and out into the yard, toward the tree, and finally stopped him with, "John, please." Frustrated with him, sure, but still worried, like she worried for Jack, like she worried for all of them.

Sense. She wanted sense out of him. He wanted sense out of the night. And no, it didn't make sense from his view, but it made more sense than from hers, he supposed; he had the road, and the stranger, and the fallen tree in the copse, and all told, they mortared things mostly together. For Abigail, he'd ridden off just before dusk to deal with a problem... and ridden back in after dark in near-panic, babbling about a wholly different one.

What other option had he had?

He scrubbed a hand across his face. He'd neglected his beard for a couple days; it was coming in unkempt and uneven, prickling around the old scars. He ought to cut it. Or not. Often, it didn't seem like there was much point to it.

"What's going on?"

John managed not to startle when he turned. He hadn't heard Charles come up, and how that man managed to move that quietly...

And before he could say nothing, Abigail flung her hand at him and pronounced, "John is — he thinks — he thought he saw Arthur on the road." Out quick, like pulling a porcupine quill.

"Abigail."

Charles turned toward him. "Arthur?"

John was beginning to regret saying anything. "Listen—"

"I don't know what he's saying by it," Abigail said. "John—"

"Look, I don't know how to explain it—"

"John," Abigail said. "What happened up in Ambarino?"

John could feel Charles' eyes cut across to him. "Nothing happened," he said. And if it had, it didn't mean a damn thing to what had happened on the road.

But Charles, the traitor, said "We couldn't visit his grave. It was lost in a landslide."

And John wanted to protest, to say, what does that have to do with anything?, but Abigail's face already had him like a pike on a hook. "So..." she said. Nailing it together, like he'd nailed together Beecher's Hope. "You... you went up there, and he was gone. And now you think his ghost is restless, or... or something. Wandering the road because he ain't at rest."

"What?" No, that was wrong. She'd turned it around, somehow. "No, I—"

He hadn't seemed like a ghost. Ghosts didn't shoot at people. Not that John had ever heard of.

"I didn't see a ghost," he said. No pale apparition, no strange lights, no vanishing the moment he was glimpsed. "I saw a man. A real person, on a real horse."

"And you thought he was Arthur."

"He was."

It was too dark to properly see Charles' expression, which might have been a blessing. Still fell on him heavy as a hand, and Charles said — like he'd managed to forget, or somehow avoid the knowledge — "John, Arthur is dead."

Had been for a long time, now.

And no, John knew that. Had known that. Hadn't once thought, up in Ambarino, that a missing grave might go hand in hand with a missing death; would never have suspected if not for that chance encounter on the road.

"I heard him," John said. "He yelled at me."

Charles made a soft noise, like huh. "What did he say?"

Well. That was... what it was. "Not much," John admitted. "He didn't seem to recognize me."

Charles cast a sidelong look at Abigail. And before John could protest that — whatever he was thinking — Charles glanced back at him, and asked "And this man. You get a good look at him?"

He would ask that. And John had no other answer than, "No. I never saw his face."

Abigail closed her eyes. Tilted her face up to the heavens.

"Doesn't sound like Arthur," Charles said. Didn't even realize how much of a joke it was for him to say it; sound was the one most convincing thing. His voice. His taunts. His goddamned horse-whistle.

"Charles—"

"Sounds like you met some stranger," Charles said. "I don't know. Got confused."

"That's what you think," John challenged.

"You think you met Arthur," Charles pointed out.

"I'm not losing my mind," John protested, again. Now, when he said it, though, he wondered if even he believed it. He certainly could muster no proof to.

But—

"You're tired," Abigail said, again, like tired was an explanation for any of it. "Come on, John, come to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."

His feeling weren't the problem.

He scrubbed his hand across his face again. Out beyond the fence, he could hear slow hoofbeats approaching: Uncle on Rachel, and he didn't want to carry the argument over into the old man's hearing. Didn't want to deal with that mockery along with Charles' and Abigail's disbelief. "I don't know."

"I'll make some tea first," Abigail offered, like this would sweeten the pot. "Please, come on, come in."

She laid her hand on his arm. Light as a summer breeze. Like too much, too fast, would cause him to bolt.

The hell she was thinking of him—

And then Uncle was in the yard, and John grit his teeth tighter than the barn's latch. "Well, ain't this a proper war council," Uncle called out. "Something happening?"

"Nothing," John said. Cast a sharp look at Abigail.

Uncle brought Rachel up to their little group, and looked down at John. "You going to tell me what happened, then, boy?"

"Nothing," John said. "It's nothing. I made a mistake." It seemed to be the easiest way out of this conversation, at this point. "Don't worry about it."

"Well, alright, then," Uncle said, and clambered down out of the saddle with a grunt. "Made enough of a fuss, didn't you? And for nothing. Did you just want to see an old man jump?"

"Sure." He reached out, and snatched Rachel's reins. "Why don't we call it that."

"John," Abigail said.

"I'm putting the horse away."

"I'll handle it," Charles said, and reached out and took the reins out of John's hand. "You go in to bed."

"I—" John started, but Charles was already leading Rachel off, and protesting hadn't done him a piece of good at any point this evening. And Abigail slipped her hands around his wrist, and tugged him back toward the door like he was a child, woken from some nightmare, and for want of any resolve to tear his hand out of her grip and launch himself onto Rachel's back and ride right out into the darkness again, he let her.

She did make him tea, which he drank down like medicine. More out of duty than desire. She kept her eyes a bit too long and heavy on his face, and then escorted him to the bedroom as though he'd vanish if he were left alone.

If only he could.

Night still felt restless outside the window. Seething with unspoken secrets, unknown promises. John lay down and stared into the darkness of the closed room, unsure what he'd do, if he woke in the morning and all this seemed like the foolishness of a restless night.

Unsure what he'd do, if it didn't.

The dreams were never much different.

Since Purgatory, each night, every night, Smith had found himself in some abandoned place, with the wolf and the stag for company. Nothing doing. A few times, he'd found himself back in one of those imaginary places, like the crumbling old house.

Or here, in a field of grey fog, as though his dreaming mind had grown tired of dreaming.

Where, in front of him, a shadowy shape in the indistinct fog, a form like the stag stood watching him. Not fleeing. Almost... inviting.

Or maybe just... considering. "What do you know?" Smith asked it, and tried to walk toward it. It made sense, to him, that if he could just touch one of those golden antlers, now hidden in the dim fog, he'd have no more questions. But he couldn't reach them. Hardly even see them. Fog held him stiff as something trapped in amber, and the stag turned and leapt away, slow as breath in snow.

As soon as it left the ground, the ground changed.

Burned away into the wet darkness of late night, on a jetty by a fetid swamp, with a feeling like death on his intestines, the air steeped in dread. He was alone, very alone, for all that there was some manlike shadow at his left; he was watching blood spread out to cover the surface of the water, like a goddamn ancient plague that had lost its place in time.

The dread weighed heavy and all-present, as though whatever he was dreading had already occurred. As though it had nothing to do with this red patch which was rising like something approaching.

He didn't, he had found, have much fear of corpses, or blood. But he was afraid of whatever had killed, here; shed this blood beneath the water. And the fear was thick and heavy in his lungs, and no words could escape from it.

Felt like there was a wolf, prowling across the marshy soils of the bayou, behind him.

He woke with the feeling that something bloody and murky was in his lungs, and his head hurt like someone had laid rail track over it. Another pounding at the door — first knock must have jarred him awake. Someone was calling from the hall.

"Sir? Sir. It's three o'clock, sir." A glance out the window told Smith that it wasn't a three o'clock decent people had any business being up at. "You asked for someone to wake you."

"I did?" Smith called, and his memory of the last night seeped back in. "Right. I did. Thanks."

Footsteps, and presumably the voice and the fist that went with them, took themselves off down the hall.

Smith roused himself. He hadn't bothered to dress himself for bed; he hadn't bothered to bring a change of clothes with him. Wasn't meant to be that long a trip.

Soon as he'd got in, last night, he'd checked with the desk, and they'd told him where Marks was lodged. It took a bit of wandering up and down the halls, and he had to go up a flight of stairs, but he found it, and pounded on the door. God help him if he had to wake the kid; he was in no mood to be charitable. Though, true, he was more fully awake than even he deemed reasonable for the hour or the situation.

Fortunately, the question didn't arise. Marks answered the door, looking bleary-eyed and rumpled but standing and sensible. "Come in," he said. "I got coffee. It's cold, but... it'll wake you."

"It had better," Smith grumbled, and stepped in.

Felt like he'd been run over by a horse or two. The day before had been long hours of work, a brisk ride down to Blackwater, that... nonsense on the road in, and just enough scraps of sleep to make waking all the harder. And here he was, meeting Marks as he'd been asked to, at three in the morning in a hotel that reeked of being too fancy for him to have any business in, and if there weren't a payday at the end of this, he was going to skin Marks. Judging by his beard, the kid might be furry enough to make a decent pelt.

...but for now, Marks was handing him a generous mug of coffee, so Smith decided he could live.

"How did you get your nose into this, anyway?" Smith asked, and drank. The coffee was cold, as warned, but strong.

Marks grinned sleepily. Kid was like a bloodhound in the shape of a person, he took to tracking so happily. "My sister married and moved to Los Santos, all the way out west on the coast. I'm still close with her, though. We write back and forth, send telegrams, visit when we can. Her husband works in the police department there, and used to run bounties — he's the friend I mentioned — and they thought about me. Apparently this crook, this Renaud Fleur, was supposed to have fled out here. There's no bounty for his arrest in West Elizabeth, but it's six hundred dollars on the coast. But because there's no bounty here, no one here is looking for him. And most of the big-game hunters out west don't want to come halfway across the country looking for him. Not for six hundred. There are closer bounties to home."

Smith grunted. "How's that help?" he asked. "I can't run off out west without a word to Mr. Dryden."

"I know," Marks said. "Which is why I cut a deal with the chief of police here. Fifty-fifty between us and him. We bring Fleur to him, he hands us three hundred cold. Then he takes it on himself or his boys or something to get Fleur back to Los Santos on the train, where he recoups the pay. It's still a neat hundred-and-eighty for you; hundred-and-twenty for me."

"Sounds fine. If we can catch him," Smith said.

"Well," Marks said, and cracked an enormous yawn. He refilled his mug of coffee. "That's why we're up at this unholy hour. I've done my work, Mr. Smith."

"No doubt." Marks went to his bag, pulled out a letter, and extracted a wanted poster — mailed to him by his sister, all the way from California, no doubt. He handed it to Smith, who took a good look at the man's picture and description.

It was good art. He felt he had a certain appreciation for the sort of hand that made that art, now, if also a fair dose of pity.

"There are fights, every few nights, out south of the docks," Marks said. "He's been in the habit of attending. I thought we'd go and enjoy some entertainment, and snatch him on the way out."

"Sounds reasonable," Smith said. "Grab him a couple streets away, when it's all broken up. He have any friends we should be worried about?"

"I don't think so," Marks said. "From what I've heard, he's not a very social man. And he never did work with a partner, or a gang."

"Poor bastard." Smith wasn't sure why he'd said that. He folded the wanted poster back up, and tucked it into his satchel. "Well, let's go on, then."

The streets of Blackwater were dark, but not pitch-black; quiet, but not empty. The air felt soggy with night dew and lake breeze. As they got closer to the docks, the smell of fish and coal smoke and lake wrack began to rule the air — or colonize it, at least.

"Ought to warn you," Smith said. "Ran into some nastiness on the way in. Couple men. Think there was a third, but I didn't see him." But the man Smith had seen and hadn't shot had been leading someone's horse, all saddled and everything, and he'd been calling out for someone.

Someone he knew, and sounded friendly with. Someone he might have brought along to go hunting some bountyman's dog he was planning to rob or revenge himself on.

"Thought it was a plain robbery, but... one of them called out, 'bountyman'. Now I think of it, it could have been those cousins Grey was mentioning. Sure had his luck." And his sense.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Cooper said. "You're all right?"

Smith snorted. "Sure. Left one of them dead. Didn't get a chance at the other. Or the other two." No, he'd got that lungful of something — that... lantern oil gone rancid, or whatever it had been — and that had been rotten, fit to choke him. Thick and bloody and biting in his throat and his lungs. And he'd not been willing to risk a gunfight, when he could hardly breathe.

A fast ride, and clear air, had cleared that up. But there hadn't been any point in going back to finish things. He'd already left more corpses on the road that he was supposed to.

But the man had drawn on him. Even the sheriff of Purgatory had ceded that principle: man shot at you, you shot back. And a man drew on you, you damn well counted it as a shot, because only a fool sat and waited for the bullet.

And apparently he'd get no argument from Marks. The kid didn't seem much disturbed by that casual killing. "He hung, you know. Wilson Grey."

"Did he?" Smith asked. That was news. "When was that?"

"A few days ago." Marks strolled along, hands in his pockets, giving the buildings they passed a speculative look. Half-pensive, like walking past a graveyard that held nobody he knew. "I hear there was some big investor in from out East. Strawberry put on a bit of a faire for him. Bandstands, banquets. And a hanging. Grey was the criminal they had."

"No kidding." That put the whole encounter in a different light. Two or three cousins, angry and stupid... maybe one had gone to set up an ambush, or some such, and the others had caught him earlier or later than they'd expected; they'd jumped the gun, he'd killed one, the other had reconsidered the wisdom of what he was doing. And the noise, maybe, had brought the third back running, and the living man had heard him, called out for help.

Maybe. Or not. It stitched together into something vaguely sensible, but the encounter hadn't seemed that sensible, when he'd been in it. Really, whole thing had been a headache.

Well. He'd keep an eye out on his way out of the city. Look for two men who might be looking for him. Not much else he could do.

Cooper, though...

"This kind of business makes you enemies," Smith said. "Unsavory sorts. Maybe the sort to follow you home. You're not worried about your wife and kids?"

"I'm worried every time I leave the house," Cooper said. "And my wife is worried for me. And I'm worried every time I'm home and a storm whips up that might bring a twister. And I'm worried every time one of the girls gets a cough or a fever." Now he did look troubled, a little. "My mother always said my father could collect worries by the bucketful, and I suppose I take after him. But the deputy is a good friend of mine." Cooper shook his head. "And my wife knows her way around a shotgun. And a repeater. And a pair of Volcanic pocket pistols passed down from her father..."

Given Cooper and the quiet domestic life he seemed to represent, Smith had to stop and re-order his whole idea of the Marks family. "What the hell did she do in Chicago?"

"Hm?" Cooper blinked at him. "Oh, ah... she was a schoolteacher."

Smith stared at him for a moment. Tried to think if he had any sense of what the hell a schoolteacher did with their day. And whether that would require them to be outfitted like the garrison of a fort.

Cooper grinned, after a moment. "No, it was her father, mostly," he said. "Apparently he took the whole family hunting up into Wisconsin over the holidays. Just about every holiday, so I hear it. Including the winter ones."

"Hunting in Wisconsin in the middle of winter," Smith repeated, incredulous. Wasn't sure that made much more sense than teaching children with a... a book in one hand and a shotgun in the other, or whatever.

"Whitetail and cottontail, and a bear once or twice," Cooper said. "She's got the most lovely cottontail mitts and hats."

"She'd have to, if she's still got all her fingers and her ears," Smith said. Thought of Wilson Grey, and his frostbite scars. Wondered if he'd ever run into a bear, on that trapping past he might or might not have. "Already, I see why you fell for her."

Cooper turned and looked at him sharply.

Smith let that stand for a second or two before it needled him enough to say, "What?"

"That's not the usual response," Cooper said, and grimaced. Looked down the street again. "The usual response is more along the line of 'are you sure you're not her wife.' "

Well, he could also see why folk might ask that. "Eh, ain't my business," he said. Hell, if Marks had been the marksman in his family, he might not have fallen into this partnership. And that would have meant Smith would be out one bounty, at least.

Funny old world.

He heard the crowd before he saw it. Thirty or forty men, all ducked into a low warehouse space, and Marks led him in as though he'd already visited, and knew the lay of the land. Mostly rough-dressed men, when he caught sight of them: dockworkers or common laborers, with the occasional man in a neater shirt, or a styled mustache. Most of the men looked like they'd be able to take their own turn as brawlers, here.

The warehouse had been mostly cleaned out of whatever purpose it'd once served. There was some newer detritus — cigarette stubs, tin cans, empty bottles — kicked into the corners; the light came from a mismatched assortment of oil lamps, set on the ground, hung from the beams, held by the spectators. There was no proper ring, but a ring had been worn in the wood-slat floor by months of shuffling feet; Smith saw the men waiting in the center, discounted them, and looked through the crowd.

Fleur, to his credit, didn't stand out. He was dressed like a laborer, with a threadworn shirt and a flat cap jammed down over his head. Eyes on the fight that hadn't started yet. No wariness, that Smith could see.

Smith elbowed Marks. "Looks like our man."

Marks followed his gaze, then immediately looked away, with enough pointedness that it probably drew more attention than it prevented. "Looks like him," he said, in a whisper low enough it almost got lost before Smith could hear it. "What would you like to do?"

"Just... follow my lead. We'll get close, grab him when he goes. For now, just watch the fight, move when I move."

Marks nodded, like the instructions were clear enough. Evidently, they weren't; it took him a bit to catch on that move when I move also included things like the slow, easy sidle through the crowd, looking like nothing so much as a man trying to get a better look at the match. Nearly lost sight of Smith once, then poked his head up like a prairie dog looking for him, and Smith had to bite back a sharp comment.

Kid was good at finding people. Stalking them, not as much.

Fleur, at least, didn't seem the least suspicious. Probably thought he'd left all his troubles out west. Foolish notion, on his part.

Six matches in, the crowd was getting raucous. Moonshine had been circulating around the edges of the fight; Smith wasn't sure if that were some opportunistic vendor who crept in, or just what folk happened to bring with them. Crowd was jostling each other, now, too; the men who'd fought mixing back in, bringing sweat and blood with them, elbow-to-elbow with all the folk who'd only come to watch.

Seemed to be getting a bit too rough for Fleur. He turned and took himself away, and Smith worked his own way out of the crowd. Followed as Fleur went, out the side door, into the back streets.

Fleur stopped at the edge of the warehouse, looking out over the lake. Smith paused a moment, gave a few beats to suggest he hadn't been following and to let Marks catch up — which he didn't — then wandered up and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Knocked one into his hand. Looked over at the man. "You got a light?"

Fleur startled, gave Smith a measuring look, and then cracked a sidelong smile. "I get one of those?"

Faint accent. Not much of one, though. Immigrant boy, maybe, but been here a while, or had a good ear to blend in. "Sure," Smith said, and offered him a cigarette. He took it, pulled a match, lit for both of them. Smith used the time to glance back toward the warehouse door. Marks still hadn't joined them.

"You live in the city?" Fleur asked, shaking out the match, dropping it to the road. "I haven't, ah, seen you at these fights before."

"Visiting," Smith said. He could take Fleur now, tie him up, but he didn't fancy standing around a Blackwater back alley with an unconscious man. Where the hell was Marks? "Heard the show was good."

"Ah. Some days, better than others," Fleur said, and laughed. "Some days, we just have these little pissants fighting. Waving their hands in the air. Some days, we get real fighters."

"Huh," Smith said.

"But at least when the fights are bad, the betting is good," Fleur said. He eyed Smith. "You ever step into the ring? What is it that you do?"

"Haven't yet," Smith said. Decided to leave that other question. "You?"

Fleur laughed again, and spread his arms wide. "Look at me!" he said. "Do I look like a fighter?"

"Well, I couldn't say." Smith found a chuckle. "I don't know many fighters." Himself excepted. And Grady might think he was, but Smith would be happy to disabuse him of the notion.

"I am a thinker," Fleur said. "A visionary. A man of ideas trapped in a morass of dullards."

"Is you, now."

"No one has ever understood me," Fleur said.

"That must be difficult." Smith snuck a glance at the warehouse door, which stubbornly refused to emit a Marks. "You have ideas about the, uh, fights?"

"What?" Fleur cast a disparaging look at him. "No, of course, no. It's low entertainment. But I find it revitalizes the humors."

"It can get the blood pumping, yeah," Smith said.

"There is a certain class of people who are suited to performing for others," Fleur said. "And a certain class of people who are capable of truly appreciating those performances. Those who serve, and those who accept service."

"And you're one of those second folks," Smith said. The man could talk as much nonsense as he wanted, so long as Smith kept him in sight. And so long as Marks noticed he was gone and came to find him.

Fleur offered a flourish. "The burdens of... ideas," he said. He finished his cigarette, and tossed it to the ground. "Well," he said, "thank you for the tobacco."

He was about to leave. Smith could either take him down now, or... stall.

"Hey," he said. "You live in the city, here?"

Fleur turned back to look at him. "No, no no. Visiting, like you. But I have been here for some time. Three weeks, come Thursday," he said. "Why?"

Long enough to get comfortable. Feel safe. "Ah, what's the city like?" Smith asked — fishing for any delay.

Fleur hooked a thumb into his belt. "In which way?"

"Well, just, how is it?" Smith asked. I was thinking about... moving here."

Now Fleur was giving him a distinctly odd look. "Why?"

"Fresh start," Smith said. "New life. You know how it is. Is there much... work, that you know of?"

"I'm really not the man to ask," Fleur said.

"Easy to find a place to stay?"

"Well, I — listen," Fleur said. "I don't even know what it is you do. But I hear some new developer has been flapping his jaws, talking about putting up a tenement in the south side of the city. I gather he planned to start this year while the weather was still good—"

Smith was saved from hearing any more about that horror by footsteps, running their direction.

He turned. They both turned, and saw Marks, rushing around the far corner of the warehouse. "Mr. Smith!" he called. "Did you—"

Smith swung his elbow up, and into Fleur's temple.

Fleur squawked, and stumbled. Smith turned, seized him by the back of the neck, and drove his head into the wall.

Marks stumbled to a halt, and blinked at the scene in front of him.

Smith crouched down, pulled rope from his satchel, and bound one of Fleur's hands to the man's belt. Put a loose hobble on his legs. "When I say, move when I move," he said, "part of that involves you paying attention to know when I move. Or was that part not obvious?"

"I got pickpocketed," Marks said.

Smith hauled Fleur up; hauled Fleur's free arm over his shoulders. "Well, that does sound distracting," he allowed. Looked over Marks. He was flushed, and looked like he'd had considerably more exertion than running out of the fight. "Get the stuff back?"

"I have no idea who took it—"

"Lose much?"

"I—" Marks swallowed. "No. Not much. Just the hotel key. Everything else is back in my room."

"Well, you ain't the first," Smith said. "Explain it at the desk, I'm sure it'll be fine." He shifted his grip on Fleur. Man should pass for a drunkard, if no one looked close. And if he did come around, he'd have a hard time fighting with one hand and his legs hobbled.

Marks scratched at his beard. "I, uh," he said. "...you looked like you were having a conversation."

"Waiting for you to show," Smith said. "We was about to start talking about the goddamn housing market. You know they're thinking about building tenements here?"

"They've certainly brought no trouble at all to Chicago," Marks said, dryly. "I was expecting you to already have him down and tied."

"Sure," Smith said. "Because I wanted to stand around the back alleys of Blackwater with some unconscious idiot slumped against the wall, waiting for you to show." He snorted. "My luck, it'd be the police first."

"He is a bounty," Marks said.

"Not here, he ain't." Smith resettled the man's weight. "Anyway, we taking him to the station, now?"

Marks tilted his head back, and looked up at the dark sky. "Chief Dunbar told me he'd work overnight," Marks said. "He should still be there."

"That confident, were you? Well, come on, then."

He set them to moving. Marks fell in on Fleur's other side, even without being asked; the three of them went through the streets, past folk out on their own odd business, none of whom paid them much mind.

There were a few police out and about as they neared the station, and Marks raised his hand to wave at some of them. Smith kept his head down. Left himself outside the door when they reached it, and at Marks' curious look, explained, "Well, you're the businessman."

"Chief Dunbar is a surprisingly kind man—"

Smith found himself laughing, at that. "I'm sure he is."

At least Marks generally seemed to accept that Smith simply didn't much like people. Made the kid easier to manage. Here, too, Marks just shrugged and took on Fleur's weight, and dragged the man inside.

Smith leaned back against the station wall, tilted his head down, and watched the foot traffic go by.

...and must have drifted off, because it only seemed like a few seconds before the door opened and woke him, and there was Marks again, looking well satisfied. Didn't have any issue divvying up the money outside this station, though; no rival bounty-hunters were out for his blood, or nothing. He handed Smith a satisfying stack of bills, and said, "This is amazing."

"Don't get too cocky," Smith said, but he had to admit, thumbing through the money felt almost as good as a strong drink to close off a fine day.

"Oh, I won't," Marks said. Probably was lying, and probably didn't know it. "But I don't know that I've ever held this much money in my hand at once."

"Yeah, it'll make you stupid," Smith warned. "Put it away someplace safe."

"I have an account at the Valentine bank," Marks said, and Smith grimaced without knowing why.

"I said, someplace safe."

Marks laughed, as though that had been a joke. He did tuck the money into his pocket, though, which put it out of sight. Given that his pockets had recently been emptied, Smith wasn't convinced it was that much better than nothing.

"I'm going to collect my things from the hotel and take a coach up to Riggs," Marks said. "Care to join me?"

Smith looked back toward the water. Sun wasn't rising yet, but it'd come. Maybe he could stay by the lake a while, see if old Inverness was entirely full of shit, or only mostly.

"Nah," he said. He had money in hand. The day was open to him. "Think I'm going to stop by the gunsmith's, soon as he's open. Then probably ride back." Least, ride up to Purgatory; if he wasn't getting pay for a partial day's labor, there was no point in coming back to Oak Rose before the day was done. And he'd rather stop into the Purgatory saloon than any Blackwater one. He'd had enough of that.

"Well. A pleasure, as always, sir." Marks touched his temple in a kind of salute. "I'll be in touch."

"You look out on the road now, you hear?"

"I will." Marks grinned. Damn near bounced off, down the road.

Smith considered following along. Making sure no one lightened his pockets on the way. But the streets in this part of town should be safe enough as anywhere, this time of day; the pickpockets who went for folk who stayed at fancy hotels would be wandering about when those folk were likely to be awake.

For his part, tucking the money into his own pocket, Smith just reckoned he'd snap the wrist of anyone trying to rob him.

He made his way back through the city, and found a quiet spot along the waterside. Tucked himself in amongst nets and coils of rope, a few lonely buckets, a broken fishing pole. Looked out at the sky over Flatiron; an impoverished sky over a light-studded lake.

That was the thing about Blackwater. Place was so choked on civilization that it smothered out the stars above. Oh, he could still count the constellations fine, but under the glare of streetlamps, against the lights of the lake's night traffic, it were like a dusty haze were always in the air. Smudged out half the light of heaven.

Sure. He'd give the lake one more try to awe him.

For now, he leaned back against the wall of a boathouse, and waited for day to wake up the city.

Morning brought itself to Beecher's Hope like a debt collector, and woke him. A chill had crept in overnight, but only a faint one; it didn't survive the dawn. No, it was just everything else that lingered over from the previous night. Didn't even grant John the few groggy moments just after waking, to not-remember; it was all waiting for him, as soon as he opened his eyes.

John pulled himself out of bed and stumbled out into the house, got himself a drink of water, and started kindling the stove. Wasn't more than a couple minutes before Abigail joined him. She ran a hand up his back, and murmured "Morning, John."

"Morning."

He got the fire lit, and Abigail stepped away. Turned to look at him, and took him in like he might look at a fussing horse. Made him feel like there might be medicine poured over his morning grain. Got his hackles up.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

His snappishness seemed to soothe Abigail, more than offend her. "Just hoping that strange mood you was in had passed off," she said. "You want coffee?"

Oh, he wanted coffee. Made by someone who knew what they were doing. Not the brown sadness that passed for coffee, for them. Still, it was one more little thing he had to work his way toward, and the lack of it was the least of his irritations. "Sure."

He managed to avoid the topic of his mood, through breakfast; Abigail fried up corn cakes that seemed likely to be the corn pudding he hadn't gotten around to eating the night before. They were a little blue, anyway, and fell apart before they even made it to his plate. Then he avoided most other conversation by taking himself outside, ready to work.

Charles was already at the water pump when John walked out, and paused long enough to catch his eye. "You're feeling better?"

The irritation hadn't settled. "I'm feeling like all of you think I'm a fool."

"I never called you a fool," Charles said, with meant very little beyond the fact that Charles had some tact and hadn't said it.

"Right." John picked up one of the buckets Charles had filled, and carried it over to the chickens. Unhitched the coop door while he was there, and let the birds out to scratch in their little dirt yard.

He came back to the pump, and after a second, Charles breathed out, long and patient, and said, "There are ghost stories in my family. My father had plenty. Things he couldn't explain."

That was a peace offering, if John had ever heard one. "Did he."

"Said he heard his sister calling out to him from a river, one night," Charles said. "Saw a woman in an old black dress in the water. He'd lost her when they were both children, but who he met was a grown woman, and he knew it was her. No one could tell him otherwise."

He stopped pumping. Picked up two of the buckets, and John took the third. Curious despite himself. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Charles said, and started toward the barn. "He says, she asked him, 'how long you mean to be happy here?' Wasn't two months more before the Army took my mother. That's the story, anyway. He never saw the ghost or my mother again."

What John was supposed to take from that story, he wasn't certain. "So... what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Charles said.

And if he had any further wisdom to offer, he apparently wasn't in the mood to. He tipped the buckets into the barn's trough, and John added his, and said, "Well, that's that, then." John hadn't been left with any sort of vague prophecy, or portentous remark. But he also hadn't been left with anything to say. Nothing of any use, anyway. "We good for firewood?"

"A few days. Nothing much. There was a tree felled not far from here; I was going to bring out the horses and drag it back in."

"Need help?"

"Sure. If you want to."

That was the morning settled, then: they rode out to a stand of trees, and found the old pine. Hacked off the cross-branches until it would slide, and then bundled the cross-branches back together so as not to waste the wood. John was already sweating by the time the sun grew hot, and by the time the tree made it to Beecher's Hope he was all too happy to fetch water for himself and Charles while Charles dealt with the animals.

Abigail came out while he was wondering whether to upend another bucket over his shoulders, and said, "John. We got some money, still?"

He didn't even need to check a ledger. The numbers all but haunted him. There was a ghost for Abigail to worry at. "Got next week's payment for the bank set aside," he said, setting the bucket down by the pine instead. "A bit left after that. Why?"

"Was hoping you could pick up a few things," Abigail said. "Thread, lard, molasses. Lamp oil. Nothing much. You planning to head into town anytime soon?"

A trip to Blackwater for four things would strike him as a frivolous waste of time, most days. But today, getting away from the hash he'd made of the night sounded like a little blessing, straight from a god he mostly didn't care much for. "Sure. I could do with getting away from this place." He looked to Charles. "You need anything?"

"Not for my part," Charles said. "Need help?"

"Think I'll manage," John said, and stepped away.

No point in taking the wagon. It was just a few things, and nothing he wouldn't trust to saddlebags. He saddled Rachel and brought her out, and slung himself out onto the road before the conversation could turn and strike him. Somehow.

These were dog days, now. John had always wondered why they were called that; the air nearer Blackwater and the lake and the river did hang hot and close as a dog's breath, he supposed. He'd ridden this road under the high noon sun, and in the small hours of morning or evening; under clear skies or rain, with dust blowing across the landscape or the air so still it were like death on the lungs. How many dozens of times had he made this ride, since settling in at Beecher's Hope?

The road was just the same as it always was. Sun-bit and dusty, scattered with folk going back and forth about their business. Fewer signs of mishap on the wagons passing by than there had been, back when he'd first come to this place, when the Skinners had still been raiding almost this far out from their haunts in Tall Trees.

In the dry light of day, it didn't seem to take much time at all before he was passing through last night's copse.

He paused.

Someone had dragged off the dead stranger, though there were a faint dark patch on the dirt that said blood to an eye that knew to look for it. Already fading out as more road dust drifted over it, but a few flies and beetles still investigated the shadow, and a few dust-covered lumps looked like bits of gore that coyotes and crows hadn't made off with.

John got down. Took a good look at the fallen tree in the hot light, and saw nothing amiss on it. And the scene yielded no clues, neither. None that he could understand much of.

A thought tickled at the edge of his mind.

Something had happened here, sure enough. He weren't mad to think that. Someone had been here, whether or not it were Arthur — and he might be mad to think it were Arthur.

He almost certainly was mad, to think it were Arthur.

But, still, though...

He knew what he'd heard. And he knew what little he'd seen; even for not being able to catch a clear glance of the man, he'd had a horse trained to come to him, he'd been a hell of a shot, and he'd responded to an attack with an all-out attack of his own. That all spelled Arthur, to John's mind.

And he knew what he hadn't seen. Eight years ago.

He'd run along that path in the Ambarino mountains, lost himself like a rat in the darkness, crept past any folk late out on the roads; he'd stolen a horse around the outskirts of Emerald Ranch, ridden it hard eastward again, cutting south of most — he'd hoped — of the Pinkerton patrols. He'd never seen how it turned out, in that pass. Hadn't come near it until Sadie had ridden up to the Beecher's Hope gate and asked to be shown the way.

Even that thought, half-formed and creeping along the back of his mind, raised more questions than it answered. The Pinkertons hadn't been the only thing stalking Arthur, that night; if he'd survived them, and escaped Dutch and his last partisans, he'd still have been dying. Tuberculosis, Abigail had said. Man had apparently told goddamn Agent Milton in Van Horn what he'd hardly breathed a word about, to anyone in the gang. And if, by some miracle, he'd survived that, then...

Then he'd met John on the road, taunted him, and made to kill him. Without no sign of knowing him.

Unlikely on one hand, unlikely on the other. Nothing summed up. Nothing made sense.

He climbed back on Rachel's back, and headed into town.

He didn't go straight into the city. Some old instinct asserted itself; he took a ride up, around onto one of the cliffs overlooking Blackwater, to get the lay of the land.

Could take in a good swath of the city, from here; all the clustered buildings in the hard afternoon light, all the new construction, all the people moving through the streets on their own business, with their own troubles.

Goddamn city was too full of secrets.

John still, most a decade later, didn't fully understand what had kicked off on that ferry; didn't know if the treasure they'd left behind still sat in some forgotten corner of some forgotten building, or wherever Dutch had thought to stash it.

Goddamn past was too full of secrets.

He didn't know what had happened on that mountain pass. Or in the shadowy woods just before it. Dutch hadn't died, that night, he was mostly sure about that; seemed like he would have heard it in the news, not that he'd been paying too keen attention to the news afterward. But sometime, between then and now, Dutch might have met his match, or some misfortune, or some rough justice. Might have taken an infection from a bullet wound, or drunk himself to death, or been thrown from a horse. Might have crossed some man who was quicker on the draw than he was. Might—

And the same went for Bill, and Javier, and even Micah, much as Sadie believed that rat bastard was out there, just waiting for her to hunt him down. John hadn't heard a damn thing. He could believe, looking over the city on the restless lake shore and the plains' dry earth, that he was the only one who'd made it this far out from that frantic night ride. Only man of all of them who was still breathing.

Except.

Except... now.

Drawing the notion out into the sun were like tearing open a grave. Like that moment, seeing the grave scattered across the Ambarino mountainside. Bones, somewhere, bare to the sky; a whole history cracked open. It got him between the lungs.

God, if he could believe it had all been a mistake, it might be so much goddamn easier.

A man had ridden in toward Blackwater, sometime the previous night. A stranger. Whose presence was no mystery. Who laid on him no demands.

That, or the city had taken in one more secret. The past had one more mystery.

He sat on the ridge for a while, feeling like the whole of the earth was poised on the hinge of a scale. Then he took Rachel down, onto the path, to join the inbound flow.

He watched the streets as he came in, and of course saw no one known to him. Not surprising. Blackwater seemed like a large enough city that any man could go unnoticed for a time.

Seemed large enough that looking for anyone might well have been a fool's errand. And he'd probably save himself some grief if he just found what Abigail wanted, and carried it on home. But as he passed along the streets, it occurred to him — hell. It couldn't hurt to stop by the saloons. Ask a few questions around. Arthur was... memorable, around saloons.

He was passing by one. Didn't hardly stop to think before he swung down and hitched Rachel outside, and walked up to the bar.

Early afternoon crowd, here, which meant not much of anyone. Bartender gave him a look, said "Cowboy?", and John waved it off.

"Rancher. Listen, I'm trying to track someone down."

"Alright," the bartender said. "Shoot."

"Uh..." He couldn't just ask for the man by name. "Friend of mine," he settled on. "Has kinda brown hair... rough-looking." Unless he'd felt like cleaning up, for some reason. Arthur had had what amounted to an unpredictable and inconsistent vain streak; went and bought new clothes, and smartened himself up so he looked like a general on parade, or like Hosea and Trelawny had pulled him in on something. And for no reason. Then, sometimes he'd gone weeks without hardly seeming to remember that he had a shaving kit by his cot.

"That could be anybody," the bartender said.

"Right." He hadn't seen what Arthur had been wearing. "He's... tall. Kinda grouchy."

"Feller," the bartender said.

"Probably would've come in, drank too much, got in a fight, made friends with half the people here, tried to knock down the others..."

The bartender was still staring at him. "This is a saloon!"

"Scar on his chin," John said, and pointed to his own. "Right about here. Probably tipped real well."

The bartender was shaking his head. No luck. John shouldn't have expected anything; only realized that he had when disappointment rustled in his gut. He pushed away from the bar.

"Sorry to waste your time."

The bartender grunted. Went to go polish a glass. John was almost out the door before the man called, "Hey, wait, feller!"

John turned back. "Yeah?"

"Just remembered. Try Perry, over at Cottonmouth's. He had some trouble a while back. Wouldn't shut up about it. Man bought him a bottle of whiskey and then tried to murder someone."

And the disappointment rustled into something sharper and more dangerous, like hope.

"I'll do that," John said. "Thank you."

Not much of a chance. Sounded like the sort of crazy business Arthur might have gotten up to, once upon a time, in some place or other. Sounded, also, like the sort of thing that might just happen once in a blue moon, in a city the size of Blackwater.

Still. Still.

He was a street away before he realized he had to get directions to Cottonmouth's.

When he arrived, he took one look at the place and was already convinced he was on the wrong trail. The Arthur he knew — the Arthur he'd known — would never have set foot in a place like this, unless he was working a job, or it were the only game in town.

Of course, the Arthur he knew had never actually shot at him, so there were apparently a few holes in his familiarity.

Eight years. Who knew how much a man could change? John was a goddamn rancher, now. He went inside.

There were a few people in this bar. Eating food that rumbled John's stomach; he stood out here, wearing his sweat and dust, and the people who turned to look at him turned pointedly away. He almost felt that he should apologize for walking in. Then resented the hell out of feeling that.

All of it made his tone a bit sharper than he intended it when he caught the man behind the counter, and asked, "You Perry?"

The man rested his hands on the counter, and looked at John. "I am," he said. "Why're you asking?"

John showed his hands. Gesture was meant to disarm people; he had a feeling Perry weren't feeling disarmed. "I'm trying to track someone down," he said. "Heard you had some trouble a while back. Someone bought you a bottle of whiskey—"

"That maniac," Perry said. Fell on the topic like a dog on a bone; forgot all about John not fitting in. "I don't have that kind of trouble in my establishment, but that man hated Blackwater. Wasn't shy about it."

"Yeah?" John asked. That sounded encouraging.

"Came in here, called the whole place miserable. I thought it was just a bad day, or something. Said he had a whole office full of men no better than dogs—"

That caught him up short. "An... office?"

"Don't ask me," Perry said. "Didn't say much about it. Just ranting about ladies' dresses, or some such."

"Ladies' dresses." ...maybe not Arthur, then.

"And then Eastin tried to talk with him, and this maniac stood up and beat him half to death! Went after everyone who tried to settle him down. I think I've got five or six customers who will never come back here again, after he went through them!"

That sounded like Arthur, though. Enough that John said, "What happened to him?"

Perry drew himself up. Huffed. "Well, the police took him," he said. "Obviously. And good riddance."

Hit him like ice on his gut.

Of course, it clearly hadn't ended badly. Couldn't have. Or, not as badly as these things could end. John was... slowly un-learning all that wariness around police, around sheriffs; law of all sorts. Most of a decade was mostly enough to bury the baying for his blood; even in this city, even after the whole of it. Might have been enough to buy Arthur's safety, too. In any case, he'd clearly been in no danger of hanging, or at least he hadn't hung; he'd been there to meet John on the road, last evening.

Or this drunken brawler hadn't been him at all.

"When was this?" John asked, and Perry told him the day. He listened, half-distracted. Thanked the man, and left.

Went to the police station.

Hesitated at the door, before pushing his way in. There was some officer he didn't know, at the desk; not surprising. Sadie's business had taken them straight to Chief Dunbar. Besides that, John wasn't in the habit of rubbing elbows with the Blackwater police.

The officer was reading something — some dime novel; had a policeman on the cover, which seemed almost appropriate — and barely spared him a glance. John had to walk up and say "Excuse me" for the man to set his book aside. "I'm looking for records on someone you arrested a while back. From a bar. Cottonmouth's."

Got him a more interested look, anyway, though one that shaded suspicious. "Well, we make a note on most all our troublemakers," the man said. "Why do you want to know?"

"It's... personal business," John said. "Can you help me?"

The officer gave him a long, level look, then shrugged. "Can't see as it'd hurt none," he allowed, and pulled a thick ledger out of the desk. "What day did you say that was?"

John tried to recall what the bartender said, and told the officer, who flipped through the ledger, and found some entry or other.

"Well, there he is," he said. "Broke a few skulls, fought the men sent to drag him out. We held him overnight and charged him twenty-five for the disturbance."

"Okay," John said, and waited for a moment for the rest of it.

"Yep," the officer said, and spun the ledger to face him. "Anything else you need?"

"Wait... what?" John asked. "That's it?" He grabbed the ledger; read over the entry twice. "You didn't — there's no name? No address? No way to find him? Do you even know why he was in the city? Anything?"

Now the officer was looking at him like he was an idiot, or crazy. Which... which were fair; why would they ask for any of that? Just so that maybe if the brawler's long-lost brother came looking for him, they'd have something useful to tell him? Hardly. "We don't keep that kind of record on every goddamn drunken brawl," the officer said, and snatched the log back. "This is a city. We've got real problems to keep track of."

Which explained why he was resting his feet and enjoying some cheap reading. "Can you tell me anything?" John asked. "Anything at all? Please."

"Look, I don't think I was even here that day," the man said. "Looks like Milner's handwriting there, so you could ask him. I don't even know who went and arrested him, but I don't imagine they'd remember a damn thing. Drunk bastards are a dime a dozen."

And abruptly as that, the trail — thin as it was — ran out. John stared at the ledger.

Whoever wrote the entry had neat handwriting. Probably filled in these pages, day after day. The page was full of other petty offenses, and those said hardly more.

He... must have gone somewhere. He must have been seen by someone. There had to be some path, some trail, some line of footsteps and actions that had led him from that night, the jail, the fine, the morning, all the way to the copse on the road into Blackwater—

And he couldn't follow that trail, for the life of him.

But there was a goddamn trail to be found in the copse.

Dangerous, this. Very dangerous. John was stepping up on something he didn't want to tie himself to, in the eyes of the law. But he needed to know. "...did you boys find someone dead by the road, last night?"

The officer blinked at that. "We did, yeah," he said. "Sad story. Local boy. Apparently he spent his last twenty cents at the Lake Dog Saloon, told all his friends he was going to be rich, and set out. They found him on the road, thrown from his horse."

It took John a moment to blink away his confusion, to get his mind off a man shot dead and remember the poor dead man who had started the whole misfortune.

"Found his horse near eight miles off," the policeman went on. "Ran over a ridge and broke its neck. Beast was being eaten by coyotes."

"Coyotes." Well, that seemed a fitting end to the creature. John almost couldn't be surprised. "...wasn't there anyone else? Any other deaths, I mean."

The officer gave him a cutting look. "Why? One dead man isn't enough for you?"

"I was on the road last night," John said. "I... passed some trouble. Couple men got in a gunfight. One of them got shot dead."

"You sure?" the officer asked.

"Certain. Weren't too far out. I didn't stop." At least, a sensible man who didn't want more than his share of trouble — or a lucky man, whose horse hadn't bucked him and fled — wouldn't have stopped.

The officer didn't question his story. He flipped through the ledger, then shrugged. "Didn't come in to us," he said. "You know, sometimes folk don't bring their dead to our attention. Some folk round here still think they should sort things out themselves, and never tell us nothing." He eyed John as though wondering whether to include him in that category.

Great. Well, the kind of man who got upset at a bounty hunter might be the kind of man who wouldn't want his presence known to police. Might be the kind of man who ran with someone who'd pull his body back, and bury it decent somewhere outside the law. The gang would have done it. Once.

...but that opened up something. The stranger had called out, bounty man. And Arthur had been riding into the city for something. Maybe for business. "You folk have any bounties recently?"

The officer huffed. "That's all Chief Dunbar's job—"

"I know," John said. "Just, have you paid any out?"

The officer paused for a moment, and gave John a look that suggested he was wondering about just throwing him out the door, or in a cell, or paying him off to stop asking questions. Finally, he got up and went to retrieve another big ledger book, and paged to the end of the records.

"City of Blackwater hasn't cleared any of its bounties since that Adler woman brought in Shane Finley," he said. "Is there anything else?"

Had to be something. But John was scraping his mind, and coming up empty-handed. And the officer didn't look like he had any patience to spare.

"No," he said. "Thanks."

He took himself out.

Let the door swing shut behind him.

Blackwater bustled along in its dry indifference. Whatever secrets it had, it held them close as ever. And John couldn't think of what to do to shake those secrets free.

Nothing for it but to head back home, if there was no more trail to follow here.

Charles met him on the road just outside Beecher's Hope. He was crouched over a coyote, its head neatly split by a throwing knife; he drew the knife out, cleaned it, and tucked it back into his boot as John rode up.

"Doing some afternoon hunting?" John asked. Climbed down off Rachel's back to get a better look.

"Just guarding the fence," Charles told him. "They're getting bolder."

"We still have all our chickens?"

Charles grunted. "Check for yourself. I think so." He waved back toward the house. "Abigail said to leave the things on the counter in the kitchen."

"What?"

"The molasses, and whatever else," Charles said. "She said just leave them in the kitchen."

John's thoughts had been circling the same few things, over and over, like cats planning a fight. Now they shifted like ice underfoot. He had gone into Blackwater for a reason, and Arthur hadn't been it.

He must have been staring at Charles like a startled deer. Charles glanced at him, and squared up. "Something wrong?"

Ashaming, more than distressing. Abigail had called him useless for years; all across America, all up and down the Yukon, in the gang and after it. He'd thought Beecher's Hope could prove him of some use, somehow. Evidently some things didn't change with four walls, a roof, and land. "I... forgot."

"You forgot?" Charles said. "What were you doing all that time?"

John could just... not tell him. He had a feeling how the conversation would go. But then he'd have to make up a lie or refuse to tell him anything, and before he'd convinced himself that either of those options were better, Charles had caught on.

"You're still thinking about it," Charles said.

John let out a breath. There was no use, if it was that obvious; of course, this would be the thing written on his face. He hadn't said a word on his thinking to Charles, or to anyone else on the ranch, today.

"So what did you find?" Charles asked. He crossed his arms. There was challenge in his tone.

Made John want to meet it like a challenge. "Heard tell of a man who sounded like him," he said. "Spent the night in jail after a bar fight."

Charles stared at him. The silence stretched out like a cat, unimpressed. "...that's it?" he asked. "A bar fight? How many people in Blackwater have gotten in a fight in a bar?"

"How many people do it after buying the bartender a bottle?" John asked. "Complaining about the city?"

"More than one, I have to imagine." Charles eyed him. "You spent all that time in the bars?"

"I wasn't drinking."

"No," Charles said. Then muttered something like, "that would be too easy."

"What?"

"So what next?" Charles asked. "Visit every saloon in West Elizabeth, hunting for a dead man?"

"What if he's not dead?" John asked.

"John—"

"I never saw him fall." He'd come back to that thought, more than once. More than he ought to have. He'd heard Arthur bellowing behind him, ready to take on the whole damn Pinkerton Detective Agency, and he'd heard gunshots. A lot of gunshots. And then he'd heard the gunshots stop.

And he'd assumed.

But if anyone could have managed to kill every Pinkerton on the mountain that night, and slip away clean...

Charles burst, "John, I buried him!"

John shut up. Because there was that, as well; Charles had seen it. Not the fight, no, but he'd come all the way back from Canada to bury—

—to bury what?

"How do you know?"

Charles stared at him, stubborn as a bull, before saying, "...what?"

"How long did it take to get word up there?" John asked. "What did you bury?" It couldn't have been a short trip. Rumor didn't spread that fast.

Charles looked away, the feather in his hair falling against the side of his face, hiding one eye for a moment. "...bones," he admitted. "There were a lot of bones in that pass. Scavengers had scattered some of them pretty far. But there were some... set away from the others. Some clothing left, too, even after all that. I found his belt — the one with the buckle he took off that Italian in Bronte's mansion. The clothing... it was Arthur's coat. It was him, John."

A coat, a belt buckle, some unknown bones. A man in a bar, who hated Blackwater, who tipped well and fought hard. Scratchy clues, either way. "He could have... left them behind."

"Why would he leave his coat and his belt?"

"I don't know! To lay a trail, to—"

"On another man's body?"

"Maybe someone took them. Some Pinkerton wanted a trophy—"

"And then died, halfway up the mountain?"

"I don't know. But there's a chance, isn't there—"

"Did Arthur think so?"

John didn't want to consider that. He flinched, and Charles pressed on:

"When I spoke with him... he knew he was dying."

Well, people could think they knew just about anything. John knew what he'd heard. Charles knew John couldn't have heard what John knew he heard. One of them knew something that weren't true. And Arthur hadn't always been right about things.

Hell, he'd been defending Dutch, far longer than good sense would have had it.

"People can pull through," he said.

"John!" Charles's voice was sharp, like a slap back to sanity. "Listen to yourself. This was Arthur, not some rich New Yorker in a sanatorium. I saw how he looked, near the end. You saw how he looked at the end. Did he look like a man who was going to pull through?"

No. He hadn't. He'd looked like he should be on a deathbed, not running up a mountain pass. Like the frustrating mass of bullishness and brashness and fight that made up Arthur Morgan was crumbling away like the ash on the end of a cigarette, and taking his body with it. "No, but—"

"Stop torturing yourself." Charles clapped him on the shoulder, with a force like a bear trying to be kindly and firm. "I know you feel that we couldn't do right by him. But both of us — we've done as well as we could."

"This ain't about how well I've done—"

"Isn't it?" His hand was heavy. Like he'd hold John against the earth until he rooted there. "You say that he stayed behind to get you and your family away clean. He wanted you to have a future. If you really want to honor him, keep your mind on the future, not on the past."

As though honor had a place in any of it. As though honor held the future, not the past. Farming the grudging earth. Minding the sheep. Watching Jack grow. Trying to outpace him, out-think him, so that maybe there'd be something for him to grow into before he'd grown. Some purpose to carry Jack into his own future, which might carry him far from his parents, this land. Leave John to tend the ranch, tend himself, tend however many years he had, maybe grow old, in a way not even Hosea had quite grown old—

Occurred to John that he'd be buried here, one day.

Decades away, maybe. Or not. A striking snake, a raiding Skinner, an old enemy coming up out of the woodwork; some guard from Sisika with a long memory and a debt to claim; Dutch himself riding up full of anger and hot betrayal. He'd bought Beecher's Hope, and when he'd done that, he'd bought a plot of land that swallowed him day by day, and would swallow him entirely in the end.

Keep your mind on the future, Charles said.

Occurred to John that if he kept at this place, worked it, walked it, he'd find himself sometime treading over and over the site of his own grave.

Keep his mind on that. A grave Charles had dug, years ago, lost to the shifting earth. A grave who-knew-who would dig, and who-knew-when, on land that never shifted, in a place that never changed.

He stepped away from Charles. Slipped out from under his hand.

"You can give up if you want," John said. "I won't."

Charles turned a look on him that John had only ever seen him turn on Uncle. "What do you mean, give up?"

John's mouth was outrunning him. He had a feeling like his heart might outrun him, like the moment might outrun him — leave him scrambling to catch up, watching the world ruin itself without his input, like drawing guns at Beaver Hollow. "You know just what I mean."

Charles reached out, and caught his arm like a manacle. Hauled John back to face him. "You think I gave up?"

Charles had done more than anyone. Weren't right to accuse him, and John flinched back from that; said, "No." But there was then, and there was now, and the anger moved smooth and restless as a snake in his stomach, and he said, "Yes. —I don't know. I just know something happened on the road, and I mean to find out what."

"And how do you plan on finding that out?" Sharp as a cracking whip. "Take a census? Go through every person in West Elizabeth?"

God, he didn't know. "If I have to." He tugged at his arm. Charles held his grip.

"And when he's not one of them? What then? Every person in America? In the world?"

"Let me go."

"This is not a search you can end," Charles said. "You cannot find someone who isn't there to be found."

"I met someone on the road last night," John said. "I can find that person. I can find him." Leave aside the fact that he had no idea how.

"John, please," Charles said, and for a moment he sounded less exasperated, more pleading. "I carried his bones from the mountainside."

He'd carried some bones. Heard some stories, come a godawful long way and gone hunting a past he hadn't been there to witness. He'd done something none of the rest of them had been able to do, but bones didn't carry a face; didn't carry a voice; didn't introduce themselves. Not even by so much as a taunt by the side of a road.

One thing or the other had to give.

And he wished, he wished, he could explain his certainty; he wished he could pull Arthur's voice out of the night and play it for Charles, like music on a gramophone. Any sort of proof that it had happened. Proof that could knock that old mistaken burial out from under their feet.

But he couldn't. And when he looked for words to say it, he found hardly any.

"I don't believe you," was what he said.

Chapter Text

He'd been dreaming of something. Couldn't remember what now, of course, but he had a feeling it had been bullshit; some nonsense the night had made up to mock him. Like, maybe he'd had the trail, he'd been on the trail, and followed it along just to find Uncle and Pearson in a poker game at the end of it.

Something.

John woke to quiet and a cold bed. After a moment the sounds of the ranch came to him: the hens clucking, the steady thump of an axe, a crow calling from a tree outside.

Light was pouring in through the window.

Been a while since he'd slept so long, and no one had woken him.

He pulled himself from bed and dressed, and went out into an empty house. The stove was cold; there was a jug of cool tea on the counter, but no coffee made. He went outside, afraid for a moment that he'd walk out and find everything changed, but all went on just as it always had: Jack was under his tree, Uncle was under a farther tree, and Charles was back by the woodpile, chopping away. And if the rhythm of his axe sounded a little more forceful than usual, well, who was to say it wasn't just John's imagination? Nothing else was out of place.

...except Abigail.

Knocked him like a gunshot, that did. Woke him harder than coffee would. Had him crossing the yard to Jack's tree quick enough that the boy jumped up, looking like John was bringing a fire or a stampede or a gunfight with him. "Where's—"

"Ma said she went into town to get a few things," Jack said, quickly. Then, still pinned by John's look, "she said she'd be back by afternoon?"

"...oh," John said. Heart still ready for something; wasn't sure what he'd expected.

Couldn't shake the feeling that they'd fought, last night, though he remembered all they'd said, and it hadn't been much of a fight. No, mostly Abigail had been concerned, just this edge of frightened, and he'd less rather deal with that than with shouting or rage. Those, he knew. Those, he could weather.

So he'd gone out to the fire and glared Uncle into sharing a bottle or two. Old man always had something stashed away.

And now here he was, eyes tight against the daylight, feet unsteady because the night itself seemed something like a dream. Distant and implausible. Gone now, and who was to say it had ever been?

Who was to say any of it had been?

He tried to shake it off. Let Beecher's Hope bring its solid reality back to him, and chase off any dreams with the dry heat of day.

Jack was lingering, not quite looking at him but not going anywhere, neither; nor settling back in to read. He had been worried, or frightened, maybe, when John had come storming out. Now he looked sullen as the grudging soil. Something unsaid prowled the edges of the silence like a coyote.

Didn't take long before John couldn't stand its stalking. "What is it?"

He could see the boy gather up his courage. "Are we leaving again?" he asked.

The question swept John's feet out from under him; second time that morning something had. "What?"

"It's just—" Now Jack was speaking quickly, like to get the words out before John interrupted him, told him something or other was nonsense, though John wasn't sure just what was, here and now. "You're arguing again. You and ma. And I — I don't want to leave here. We were supposed to be able to stay."

"No one is leaving," John said. Argument — he was upset over an argument? It hadn't been much of one, not really. Maybe, maybe John had been a bit snappish, coming in, hoping to head off whatever Abigail would have to say to him, but Abigail hadn't even — they hadn't even raised their voices. Or not much. No, there'd just been something strange in the air. Uneasy. Uncertain.

She hadn't said—

She hadn't said. A watery fear moved through him. "Did your mother say something about leaving?" She'd done it before. Taken Jack and gone, while his back was turned. Leave him to pick up the pieces of that, to get himself in line, to tempt her back.

"No. She didn't say, but—" Jack seemed to hold as little faith in this life they'd built as John did. "You — I don't want to leave!"

"You don't have to." John had the sense that this thing, this problem he'd been chasing to ground, had become a much different problem while his eyes had been closed. "No one is leaving anywhere. If she thinks—"

If she thinks she's going to take you away, he might have said, but he never got the sense Jack had been taken anywhere. If she left, what were the odds the boy would want to stay?

"I'll talk to her," he said. "She just went into town?"

"Blackwater," Jack confirmed, unhappily.

"...I'll talk to her." Have to wait until she got back. He wasn't going to chase after her, have this discussion on the city streets.

He was making some goddamn mess of things.

...things were making a goddamn mess of him.

He left Jack to his tree. Didn't go in. The sun had burned night off the land; seemed to glare at him, low in the sky and still casting too much light and the promise of too much heat. Nothing on the Great Plains could hide, it seemed; everything was flayed open, stripped and laid bare, and there was no shade for secrets anywhere.

Except that the world was sure as hell holding at least one secret from him.

And that was the problem. That was a problem. Too much was happening: things that seemed to be stalking him through the tall grass, and things he'd caught a glimpse of and needed to run to ground. Needed to. Something had happened, and damn them all if they thought he was just mad; damn him if he was. Too many questions crowded that searing sky. He'd do nigh on anything to make a few of them settle, but all his attempts to just stirred something else up.

He didn't know what to do about any of it.

Charles was by the water pump. John went over and called out, "Hey," and Charles looked up at him, and held his own opinions close and quiet.

"Morning," he said.

Still didn't feel right. John reached for some smalltalk. "Anything planned?"

"Same work as always," Charles said. Then, and maybe John was the only one who thought the word was pointed, asked, "You?"

"Right," John said, and realized that wasn't an answer, and said, "uh... maybe I'll see about the... I was thinking of putting together a firewood shed." It was the first thing that came to mind, and as soon as he said it he felt like a fool for saying it.

"Sure," Charles said, and then looked at him, and said, "we have the lumber?"

...there was that. No, they didn't, and Charles would probably have opinions on him going into town to buy it. And John wasn't precisely eager to take on more debt, even if he could get away with going.

"It's something to think about, anyway," he said, and looked over the land he'd fenced in. A lot of nothing, it seemed like, some days. Rocks and a few lines of vegetables that withered on the vines. Sheep and the scrub that poisoned them. The road leading east to Blackwater...

"Well," Charles agreed, feet still planted in the dust, in the moment, "I'll think about it."

John grunted something in response.

He should... probably apologize. Wasn't sure what for. For believing himself? Not believing Charles? For—

For the whole mess, probably. Couldn't think of how this was his fault, but it had come riding in on his shoulders. And now it was rustling through the ranch like a snake, silent and threatening, and he didn't know where to turn to see it.

He went to check on the hens.

Unbearable. A question with no answer. An answer with no path to it. He could live his whole life out and never know what had happened on that road, and he knew that weren't impossible; how many folk lived and died and saw this or that and never understood what they'd seen? Weren't the way of things, that all a man's questions owed it to him to be answered. Weren't as though he were God, all-seeing, or a prophet who could demand answers of the almighty.

And yet this, if he didn't get an answer to it, would sit in his head like an ember. It would burn him up, if he let it.

Fed the hens. Brought them water. Took a look over their fence, and didn't see that anything had been worrying at it. Maybe Charles had taken out all the coyotes who'd dared it: a moment of aim, an offhand cast, and one scrabbling little life ended in the dusty dirt. Life were cheap.

A moment of cunning, a hollered threat, a gunshot. Three horses panicking.

John had always known life were cheap. Hard lesson, early learned. And now here was another hard lesson: somewhere, in all of it, he'd started to believe that he and his might escape from that.

Hadn't known he'd had that much faith in him. But surely it wouldn't sting so much, if he hadn't.

He kicked a bit more of the grain back in past the chicken wire, and checked the nest boxes in the coop, and picked up one egg, still warm from the hen who'd borne it. That was it. Maybe more would lay later in the day, but he didn't count on it. Wasn't planning to get in the habit of counting on much.

Couldn't count on sense, could he? Or reason.

Are we leaving, Jack asked, and Abigail was already missing — out on errands, sure, but something had changed. And he couldn't see that it should have. Couldn't work out how the night, or the day, or the night before that had wound up with him here.

God damn reason.

Bountyman's dog, called the stranger, in his memory. Seemed like there ought to be something to pick apart, there. There were more places in West Elizabeth than Blackwater; had to be a dozen towns or more putting up bounties. Outside of West Elizabeth, too. Maybe some sheriff would know him.

But... bountyman's dog, the stranger had yelled. Unless John had mistaken the words. Unless confusion and chaos had twisted them. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Arthur hadn't really been the sort to work for anyone, Dutch and Hosea excepted. Even playing at being a deputy, in Rhodes, he'd barely kept it behind his teeth how little he appreciated that.

Course, the stranger had been fool enough to try to take Arthur on the road. After a shout of threat, which as much as amounted to warning. The stranger had underestimated Arthur's skill with a gun. Underestimated his position, too?

Bounties. Bounties made sense, was the thing; Arthur didn't have Abigail to talk him out of it. And he always had picked up bounties, with the gang — as a way to make a bit of money on the side, to keep an ear on what the law was up to. Thinning out the competition, Hosea sometimes called it. When he wasn't calling it Arthur's good deed for the day. If he were here, trying to find his way in the world, why wouldn't he pick up bounties? Good money, and it played to his skills. It seemed like a trail that should lead somewhere.

Even if that somewhere weren't in Blackwater.

Reason had led him that far.

Blackwater posted bounties. But Strawberry did, too. Maybe some of the smaller towns might — White Arrow up by Owanjila, or Purgatory up by the Dakota, or Larchwood, up near Mt. Shann. Hell, he wouldn't put it past Manzanita Post to take up collections and toss up a bounty or two, given all the problems they'd had out that way.

And outside of West Elizabeth, too. Just because John had run into the man heading into Blackwater hardly meant that Arthur kept to the boundaries of the state. He might find the trail down by La Orilla, or out knocking around near Armadillo; up by Valentine; all the way out near Adelville or Rhodes...

For a moment, Charles' challenge came back to him. How many towns and cities were there to search? How many could he search, and find nothing?

Where did it end?

But, if it were possible, if another lead, another clue might wait in any one of them...

And if Beecher's Hope, or at least the people in it, up and vanished as soon as he turned his back on them, what then?

He rubbed a hand across his face. Chapped skin caught on rough stubble.

Maybe he could just ride out to Manzanita. It weren't far. He could ask around if anyone had heard something, seen something; it would be like Arthur to get himself caught up in the whole Skinner business. Wouldn't hardly take a moment.

He went back inside. Put the egg in the kitchen, drank up some of the tea Abigail left, got his satchel, and got out as far as Rachel's stall before Charles was somehow in the barn's doorway, like he'd just happened to have some business there with one of the doorframe's beams.

"Traveling somewhere?"

Casual question, if John could believe it. Thing with Charles — thing that had always been with Charles; thing Dutch had loved about the man, when he first folded him into the gang — was that Charles's voice when he was passing the time was the same as Charles's voice when he was about to kill. It made the hackles on folks' necks rise.

Made the hackles on John's neck rise. He didn't much want Charles as an enemy. And he could tell himself that he was reading much into nothing, but if he was reading it, it was in his head for something.

"I was going to get some air," he said. "...maybe ride out to Manzanita Post. See if they... had heard anything about the Skinners."

Charles regarded him so levelly that John could hear the lie rolling around the silence like a pebble. "You think they're coming back?" Charles asked, at length.

"I... haven't heard anything," John admitted. "I just thought..."

"Sure."

Charles didn't even sound like he disbelieved him, was the thing. And still, John felt like he'd been caught out.

And then Charles said, "Want me to go? I can take a look around the countryside. See if there are any signs." And John winced, because if he had actually believed for a second that the Skinners might be back, taking backup with a keen eye would be the obvious decision.

Neither one of them were talking about this thing they both knew.

And John knew just why they weren't talking about it, and still felt rotten for it. And resented feeling rotten, and thought, maybe if anyone would just believe for a second that he might have heard what he'd heard—

"No," he said, and pulled open Rachel's stall door. "I don't really think there's anything there. It's just... something I need to do, is all."

"If that's what you need," Charles said. Sounded less like a blessing, more like he was washing his hands of it. And John made himself busy saddling Rachel, and bridling her, and pretending that it wasn't all so broken, this thing they found themselves in.

Rode away from it. Tried to let the dust blunt the sense of it at his heels.

And of course there was nothing at Manzanita Post.

Seemed that half the people there didn't speak English. Those that did grumbled about having no money for bounties, and how the folk who passed by weren't the bounty-hunting sort anyway. Said they were like to help each other with their problems, not trust them to outsiders.

Said, in any case, that the Skinners hadn't shown themselves there for a while. Said everyone hoped they'd blown on, like inclement weather.

John lingered a while, though to no purpose. He'd come mostly because it was close, and he'd thought he might make it out and back without being missed; Charles had put paid to that notion, but he'd been... stubborn. Caught himself on his own stubbornness, like a fish fighting a line, and now he was... here, landed, looking around as though he wasn't sure where how he'd managed to get to the place, and of course had nothing to do.

Wandered into the main trading post, eventually.

Lard. Lamp oil. Thread. Molasses.

Sure, Abigail had gone herself to get them. So far as John could trust her word, or Jack's. And they really didn't have the extra money to spend, buying anything twice. But he could bring in the coyote pelts, or something, to sell — because Charles gave up all he had to the ranch, and never took a cent or a hair of pay for it — and John didn't know where to start with fixing a thing, but fixing this might be a step toward something.

He made it back to the ranch before Abigail did. Set the goods in the kitchen and slunk back outside to make himself useful, and it was late in the afternoon before Abigail rode in. She held up a moment when she saw him, like she were the one who needed to steel herself for some conversation.

But that passed, and she climbed down, and gave him a halfhearted smile.

"I went out to Manzanita," John said, because better she hear it from him. She seemed surprised.

"What for?"

"Them things you asked," John said — and if she didn't believe him, well, then they could have that argument. Might as well. But then he looked her up and down and saw that she hadn't come in with parcels of any kind. "I thought you went in to get things."

And he'd hope they could both ignore the fact that if he thought she had, it made his own spendthriftness rather more transparent.

But Abigail gave him another halfhearted smile, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and said "No, I... I just had to get out for a while. You know how it can be." And didn't look at him for a moment, and then looked at him a bit too directly, and John had the feeling something had passed over his head.

He stared at her. Might be that this was what Abigail looked like when she was trying to hide something — hide it, under his own nose — and he didn't have the first clue what he would do if he were being lied to.

Best just get to it. "Jack thinks you're planning to leave again."

Well, at least she looked surprised, at that. Probably couldn't pretend that, so well. "What?"

"He didn't get the idea from me."

"He—" Abigail let out a rough breath. Closed her eyes, shook her head; for her, maybe this was just one more part of her family kicking up a fuss that she had to clean up. "I'll talk to him."

The two of them had something between them that John could never see inside. Weren't right that of all the people he'd come across, sometimes the one John was most jealous of was his own goddamn son. "Will you."

Abigail looked at him, sharply. Seemed to catch on that there was something she hadn't said — not in so many words, least. "I'm not leaving. Not over something like this. John—"

She reached out. He almost, almost, stepped away. But he didn't, and she laid her hands on his arms, and then both of them ran out of words for a minute. Didn't find any of them, the right ones or wrong, until Abigail finally said, "What's happening with us, John? What's happening with you? Seems like I'm looking at you, and you're... you're coming full undone."

"I'm not."

"Seems you are." Her hands closed on his arms, firm. "I worry."

Movement in his gut like a creature stirring there. Digging in its claws. "You don't need to."

"Well. I still do."

Now she was searching his face, and he held as long as he could before he pulled away. Said, "I'm going to check on things," and her expression got real sharp for a moment, but by then he was already escaping. Off across the yard, under the open air, feeling trapped by it just the same.

It was another awkward night. Dinner was so strained that even Uncle picked up on it, and Jack vanished into the woodwork the instant he was let free of the table. Abigail picked up and followed him, and there was a long patch where John could just about hear their voices from Jack's bedroom: some winding conversation that might have been about him, but surely didn't include him.

The next day he was up before Abigail, and in the grey light of pre-dawn he stole out of the house and fetched his supplies. Was tempted to take up the hunt, but knew it for a distraction from his own mind; his thoughts were racing enough that he couldn't think where next to go, and had to think that if he did hare off without a plan, he'd come back to more of a disaster than he'd left.

No; instead, he went a short ride up the Upper Montana, and found a likely spot for fishing. If he were lucky, it might settle his mind. If not, at least hopefully he'd come home with some fish.

If neither of those things panned out, at least he'd have gotten away from the ranch for a few hours.

A few hours turned into most of the day. His buckets filled, slow and steady; he'd learned a few skills, up north, but he'd always been better at pulling fish from the northern rivers than gold. The catch grew slowly past what they could eat in a meal, and then a day's meal, and then two days'... grew to the point where he had to consider admitting that what he was doing was closer to running away than calming his thoughts.

The sun was relaxing toward the west when there was no more space in his buckets for either fish or excuses. He glared at them, and they didn't grow or empty, which left him with nothing to do but haul them up and ride home.

He was just turning onto the path that rambled past the property when he saw Sadie Adler, sitting tall in her saddle, riding out from Beecher's Hope.

He reined in when he met her, and Sadie did him the courtesy of doing the same. Nodded his way. "John."

"Sadie." Charles, Abigail, Uncle... some folk, John saw every day. Sadie showed up, and he always felt that it was some occasion. And given the last occasion she'd brought with her, he wasn't sure he trusted this one.

...then again, there was always some small chance that she had reconsidered; that maybe she had work, and enough faith in him to bring him along. A solution to one problem, even if it wasn't one of the problems crowding his thoughts just now.

"You looking for me?"

"Looking for Abigail," Sadie said. Dashed that hope. Raised a question in its place. "You said it; I don't want her to feel like every time I show up, she has to fear for your life. I brought some stick candies from Blackwater and we talked about girly things."

...she was staring at him with a look that dared him to disbelieve her, which meant he probably ought to disbelieve her. "Stick candies with Abigail."

"We saved Jack one."

"Well, that was considerate of you." He looked her over. She was well-equipped for trouble, but with Sadie, that just meant the sun had come up that day. He could try to find a question that would uncover what was going on, but doubted he'd have much success; no, strange enough that Sadie was keeping something from him, and he had no doubt that she could shut up tighter than a clamshell.

She looked to the buckets he carried. Changed the subject. "Looks like you got quite a catch."

"A day of fishing will do that for you," John said. Decided, maybe he'd leave today's mystery alone; turn back to an earlier question. Get a straight answer on goddamn anything. "Hey, Sadie—"

"I still ain't decided," Sadie said. "Listen, John, if it's just money you need—"

"I ain't looking for charity." And that was that topic told. "You're on your way, then?"

Sadie snorted. "You've been out for a while," she said. "It's getting late." Before he could say anything, her mouth twitched up. "And no, I can't stay. Business."

Business which didn't concern him, apparently. He could try to argue that, but trying to argue anything with anyone was... going less well, recently, than it even normally did. "Well. Sorry to miss you."

"I'll see you around, John." She clicked her tongue, and took herself along the road.

John turned to watch her as she went. Granted that he didn't have the best sense for danger, but the encounter prickled in his attention. Sadie and Abigail, both acting strange... Abigail and Charles, both convinced that he had gone strange.

He rode back into Beecher's Hope. Shouldered his way in through the front door, and Abigail came rushing out from the kitchen, and he could see the moment when she saw the fish, and whatever fears or suspicions she'd harbored settled themselves down. She offered him a smile, even, though that felt grasping.

"What have you got there?"

"Food for days. Hopefully. Maybe a little to sell." Not that he was about to ride into Blackwater to try to sell them now, and not that they would be worth the time and effort of riding in to sell after they salted them, but maybe if they scraped together enough excess — enough eggs, some of the halfhearted squash that were failing to thrive in the little garden patch, some sheepsmilk — it would make the exercise less ludicrous.

Maybe if they both grasped after some kind of normalcy, one or the other would find it.

He came into the kitchen and and set down the buckets of fish by the basin. Turned a scrutinizing eye on Abigail. "Ran into Sadie on my way back. Said she brought you some stick candy."

"Oh, she did," Abigail said, perhaps too quickly. "But we ate it all."

John had a feeling that both these women were keeping something from him, and it weren't candy of any sort. "Really, what were the two of you talking about?"

Abigail smiled, and hmphed. "Talking about what boys we're sweet on."

Now he knew he was being mocked. At least it were familiar. "That had better have been a real short list in your case, missy."

"Oh, it's short enough." She set down her cleaning cloth and came around to kiss him, and he noted that her mouth did, in fact, taste faintly of wintergreen.

Didn't mean she wasn't conspiring about something. Just meant that she was a smart woman, and knew how to give herself an alibi. And her eyes lingered on him a bit too long, when they broke apart, and then she looked away from him a bit too quick, just as he'd decided to find something else to ask.

"Anyway," she said. "This will cook up nice, for dinner."

"Abigail—"

"Why don't you go see if you can pull up some herbs, outside? I think I saw thyme, growing out by the fence." She pulled down one of the Geddes' pots, and thumped it onto the stove.

John didn't feel good about any of this.

Wondered if this were how it felt, when the land started shifting for a landslide. Took himself outside anyway, and looked around.

To hell with the thyme. There was something going on that Abigail didn't want him asking about. Most natural thing in the world, to find someone to ask about it.

He found Jack just where he expected, under the shade of his reading tree, with Rufus curled up beside him and gnawing a stick into splinters. "Hey," John said.

Jack looked up, sharp. "Oh. Hello, pa." He didn't close his book. Looked like he wanted to escape back into it.

At least he didn't seem worked up about anything. "You feeling better today?"

Jack swallowed. "I, um, yes," he said. "I think so."

Still, didn't sound like he did by much. "We're really not moving," John said. "I — I can't promise it, but I won't let that happen." Even he wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean.

"Okay," Jack said, in a tone that more said I don't want to talk about it than I believe you.

John gave up on that. Moved to what was probably the harder conversation, anyway. "Listen, did..." He wondered how best to ask. Jack was his mother's son; if Abigail had asked him to keep a secret, he surely would. Maybe not well, but he would. But John didn't have a better way than asking outright. "Your mother said she and Sadie got together to have candy from the city."

"Oh," Jack said. "Yeah. Mrs. Adler came in, a few hours back. Had a bag of them." He paused, and looked at his father, and something passed in his expression. "...did you want some?" he asked, and fished the paper-wrapped candy out of the pocket of his waistcoat. "I was saving mine, but you can have half, if you want."

A strange pain moved in John's chest. Most of the time, he wasn't even sure Jack liked him. And still, here he was, offering half of a rare treat up, just to play fair.

"No. You keep it," John said. Somehow, despite the life he'd been born into, despite his father's example, it seemed like the boy might be turning out decent. John wished he knew the secret of that, because it surely weren't anything he were doing. "I was just wondering if you happened to catch what they was talking about."

Jack returned him a blank, slightly panicky look. "I... I was outside," he said, and made a weak gesture with the book. "Reading." Then, like he thought his father might have something to say about that, "...and playing with the dog?"

Weren't exactly a life of excitement and intrigue the boy lived. John did have a comment or two on that, but... now weren't the time. Didn't feel like the time. "That's all right," he said. "I was just wondering." Looking for any ally he could find, in this place.

"Oh," Jack said, and the awkwardness took its place between them.

John said, "Don't worry about it," and took himself away.

Stopped, after a few steps, and turned back.

"Thank you," he said. "For the stick candy. For offering. It means a lot."

"Sure," Jack said, sounding uneasy again. John left him to his reading.

Found Charles drawing water from the pump.

Charles, he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. Wasn't sure what their footing was. Wasn't sure of anything, these past few days, and the more he turned it over the more he wondered if he was going mad; the whole world seemed to be jarred out of place, and he didn't know how to fit back in it.

But there was enough he didn't know. Had to hunt down something he could.

He hailed the man, "Charles." And Charles set aside the water bucket and watched him come up.

"John."

"You see Sadie come in?" John asked. And Charles looked at him, flat and even, and gave no hint as to his thinking.

"Sure."

"...you happen to catch why?"

Charles shrugged one broad shoulder, and picked up another bucket. Put it beneath the pump. "Some."

Wasn't in a chatty mood, clearly. And when he got recalcitrant, Charles could out-stubborn a rock. Still, John had to try. "What was all that about?"

"Had something to talk over with Abigail," Charles said.

Irritation offered itself up, and John brushed it aside. That was the thing; John knew — John had known — people who'd put a conversation in the ground just by irritating you until you gave up on it. Charles, so far as he could tell, didn't do that. No, if he wanted out of a conversation, he'd just make you work for every inch of it; turn the whole affair as inviting as a barren mountain rock. Never gave the hint that he was trying to rile you. No; you got riled, and that was your goddamn problem. "You happen to know what that something was?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Charles said.

That sounded an awful lot like a man trusting his own judgment on the matter. "You overheard something, didn't you?"

Charles paused with his hand on the lever. Turned to look at John as though this conversation might take all of his attention. That made it look a lot like the answer was yes.

"John," Charles said. "Do you honestly believe that your wife and Sadie Adler are conspiring against you?"

The noble thing would probably be to say no, that he had utmost faith in his friends and family. Unfortunately, he knew his friends and family too well for that. And besides, he wasn't the one who'd brought up the word conspiracy. "Yes," he said. "I do."

Charles fixed him with a flat look. "Then why would you assume that any sane man would go against both of them at once?"

John opened his mouth.

Realized after a moment, that he didn't have an answer for that.

Closed his mouth again.

Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Like I said," he said. "I wouldn't worry about it."

Well, so it was dread that followed him, the rest of that night long.

Midday, creeping up on high noon, and John hadn't yet worked out how to sneak out from under Charles's gaze and Abigail's both. Not without looking guilty as sin. Not even when Abigail took a basket and went out into the plains. Or maybe that was just an excuse for John not knowing what his next step properly ought to be; world was too wide to go hunting without a trail.

Meant that he was still there, pulling up weeds for want of any other task that could keep him away from people, when the heavy tread of hooves announced Sadie riding in.

Curiosity and suspicion in equal measure goaded him up to the gate to greet her. "Here for Abigail?" he asked. "She went out. Collecting herbs or something."

And god, how he wished he could believe it were Sadie talking herself around, or talking Abigail around, to feeding John a job now and again. But Sadie looked right at him, catching him up like a hawk catching up a rabbit, and said, "Let's talk."

Let's talk. Suddenly he was sure he wanted no part of whatever she wanted to talk about.

But she was already pulling the saddlebags from Hera, and she walked past him into the house, and what was he meant to do? Run? Sadie, he believed would chase him. And probably hogtie him and carry him back, and then say her piece while he was struggling in the dirt. He followed her inside.

"What's this about?" he asked.

She'd already gone to the dining table, and tossed her bag on it. "I bribed some fool who works with the Pinkertons," she said, which was unwelcome news whatever she was going to follow it with.

"What? Why?"

"To steal this," Sadie said, and pulled a bunch of papers from the saddlebag. Dropped them on the table. "Now, don't go running off with it; I promised the idiot I'd get it back to him so he could sneak it back into the office before anyone ever noticed. The file was dusty; I don't think no one cares no more, but I did promise."

A dusty file, was it.

Something felt like it was shaking, behind his lungs, between his shoulders. Something that weren't quite him. He stood and stared at the papers like they were a rattlesnake, and waited for them to strike.

"John," Sadie said.

"Stealing things from the Pinkertons," he said. The words were dry in his mouth. "Dutch would be proud."

Sadie didn't take the bait. Took up one of the papers instead, and read, "Report on Kamassa River and Ambarino border incident," and the date of a day eight years ago.

He could feel pieces of himself numbing by degrees. Strange, hearing it all from the Pinkerton's side: the raid on Beaver Hollow, the confusion of the chase. A list of dead agents in the caves and the forest and the mountains. God, but they'd made a good accounting of themselves; he and Arthur, Dutch and his partisans, they'd none of them passed from sight without earning their way in blood.

And. Something stirred in his chest when the report for that night ended. He looked at Sadie. "They didn't get him—?"

Sadie looked at him, and her expression was tight. John didn't want to know what his own looked like. Not one to match hers, and he wondered if she'd really read what he'd heard; the Pinkertons had withdrawn, fallen back to regroup, the price proved higher than they'd been willing to pay.

It sounded a hell of a lot like there was a chance—

But Sadie said, "Seems no one knows what happened, that night. Pinkertons sent another group up later, see what they could find out. And they — up there—" She looked back to the report. Took a deep breath; sounded rough in her lungs. "Says here: found a dead body believed to be Arthur Morgan, known associate of Dutch van der Linde; had a particular embossed revolver known to be carried by the man, and witnesses at the Murfree site — that's the cave—"

"I wasn't aware we'd left any witnesses," John said.

"—shut up and listen, John." Sadie cast him a killing glare. "Witnesses at the Murfree site confirmed that a man in the clothing described had fled the scene. Pinkertons removed the gun and some other articles as evidence, and they had a photographer up to document it all. Look."

She spilled the pages over, and out of them fell several photographs, none of which John wanted to see.

He picked them up anyway.

Weren't... hard to recognize Arthur. Slumped against the cliff face as he was, beat to hell, unless the Pinkertons left it so long that the black bruising was rot. It were Arthur; the same coat he'd been wearing when he'd stayed behind — when John had left him behind, when Arthur had chased him off, wouldn't push on, told him to go, be with his family, be a goddamn man.

The shoulder was streaked with a patch of bird shit. Crows had been at his eye.

But it were Arthur.

He stared at the photos for probably too long.

"You all right?", Sadie asked, eventually.

John couldn't find anything to say.

"Listen," Sadie said. "I know it's gruesome; I'm sorry. But I had to — I guess I had to know, too. And them photos, they don't lie."

Gruesome, yeah, but nothing he hadn't seen before. He'd seen dead bodies before. Hell, he'd seen the dead bodies of his friends, his brothers in arms, before. Helped bury them.

But—

"We lost him, John," Sadie said. "Him, and Hosea, and Lenny... so many of the good ones. And we ain't never getting them back."

A whole history, a whole family, a whole way of life, vanished into the gaping maw of the turn of the century. No, the clock weren't turning back. They'd get nothing back from it.

But for a time, he'd had a flicker of... hope, he supposed he'd have to call it. Could call it disbelief, confusion, desperation, but none of those things struggled so hard or all in vain when something came to push them beneath the waters. None of those things, he'd mind if Sadie came to hold them down until they drowned.

"Abigail tell you to do this?"

Sadie sighed. "Abigail's real worried about you."

"She shouldn't be."

"Yeah, well, she says you're hearing things, and talking to ghosts, and whatnot."

"Weren't a ghost." He hardly felt the words fall out of him. Weren't a ghost, but maybe it should have been. Maybe he'd be left to believe it could've been Arthur, if it had been a ghost, that night.

"Well, it weren't him, either," Sadie said. "You know it, John. You ain't this much of a fool."

Where she'd gotten that idea, he'd never know. "Sadie, you... you saw the same thing I did, when we rode up north. His grave weren't there—"

"What, you think he rolled away the rocks and walked out like Jesus?" Sadie asked.

"I heard someone—"

"So there's one person, somewhere in West Elizabeth, who sounds a bit like Arthur," Sadie said. "John—"

"I just want to find him," John said. Falling back on that, because there was nothing else left to fall back on. Hope, was it. Didn't goddamn feel like it, but who was he to say? "Whoever it is. If it's not Arthur, then great — then I'll know. But I have to know, Sadie."

Too much to ask. Sadie shook her head. "I got real work to do, John," she said. "I can't go chasing after ghosts."

"He weren't a ghost—"

"God damn it, John!" Sadie's patience snapped. She brought her hand down on the photos, squaring her shoulders like a fighting dog. "He's dead! He's dead. You think I wouldn't give — I wouldn't give near anything to have him back? I'd give near anything to have a whole damn lot of people back!" She sent the photos skidding across the table toward him; he almost jumped back from them. "My Jakey. Old Hosea. Hell, even Miss Grimshaw. But ain't none of them walking this earth, and you—"

She ran out of words just as the door pushed open, or maybe she let the outside air snatch them and blow them away. Charles let himself into the dining room; not reinforcements for John, surely.

"What's all the commotion?"

"It's nothing," John said, right as Sadie looked over at him and said "This fool is convinced that Arthur's still alive, and he wants to go running across the state looking for him!"

Charles folded his arms. Looked, for a moment, less like he was exasperated and more like he was gathering his strength, but then that melted away; he looked at John like a rock that had stirred itself to judgment.

"What's it going to take?" he asked. "John. You're going to burn yourself to the ground, doing this."

John scrubbed a hand across his face. "One person," he said. There was something thin and desperate in his own tone; he'd have stamped it out, if he could. "I just need help finding one person. Whoever I met on the road that night—"

Sadie came around the table, and collected the photos. Held them out to Charles. He glanced at her warily before he took them; glanced at John warily after he'd examined them.

"Sadie showed you these?"

He couldn't explain those.

"That's the belt I found," Charles said. "...and the jacket." He threw the photos back onto the table. Scowled down, like they'd accused him of something.

"I heard him," John said. The excuse seemed weaker every time he said it, bouncing off Charles and Sadie as it did. Bouncing off those pages.

Probably meant something, and nothing good, that Sadie was the one who sighed and tried to gentle her tone. "You learn to live with grief," she said. "I mean, you learn not to let it kill you. I mean—"

"This ain't grief," John said. It felt more like... he didn't know. Anger, or fear, or sickness, or something, and if Sadie Adler was a model for living with her grief, he wasn't sure he wanted to follow on. She was the one who'd gone charging into Dewberry Creek after all of them Del Lobos, telling him Look — I want to die. She'd left him with the taste of that in his mouth, and nothing to say to it, and doubting there was much to be said.

So she said, you learn not to let it kill you, and all John could really see was a woman too stubborn to lie down and die, and too angry to let anything get the better of her. And still—

They none of them were exactly models for dealing with things well.

He got as far as thinking, well, except—, and Charles turned, walked out the kitchen door, and threw it closed behind him.

John jumped. Tried to think if he'd just said something he hadn't meant to say, again; realized that Charles hadn't even been looking at him. He'd been staring down at the photos. Where that dead face weren't staring at anything, any more, nor ever could again.

Sadie set her jaw, and looked down at the pages like a buzzard looking at some scrap of death too dry to ponder eating. Like there was nothing left in it for her. "You seen what you need to see?"

More than he'd needed to see. "...yeah."

"Well."

Sadie hung there for a moment more, then gathered them all up and folded them back into that file she'd bribed out. Tucked all of that away, and took herself out the side door, following Charles.

It occurred to John that he might try to follow the both of them. Mend some bridges, or whatever the hell he was meant to do, here. But his legs didn't agree, and he knew already all words would escape him. He stood there, staring down at the table where the photos had been, all this impossible problem circling over and over in his mind.

Eventually, he stirred himself to move.

Made it to the livingroom, even, before sinking into the couch and staring at the table in front of it. A table never so misused; all it carried were a vase and some flowers, pretty purple weeds going brown at the edges.

How long did it take for crows to get that brave?

He sat there for a long time.

He was still sitting there when Abigail came in, the creak of the door oddly tentative as she opened it. She settled on the arm of the couch, hands smelling of grass and rosemary; ran her fingers down the curve of his skull, down across his cheek, drew him in to lean into her just above the curve of one hip.

"Sent a telegram to Sadie, didn't you?" he asked. "When you went in to Blackwater, the other day."

Abigail sighed. "I asked her for help," she said.

Help. And Sadie had come in with... with that. He made a noise that wasn't much like a laugh. "Sure."

"I'm afraid I'm losing you," Abigail admitted.

Irritation and shame wrestled briefly in his chest. "You're not losing me," he said. And really, after this past year, she could say that? She'd been the one to leave him, last. She was the one who Jack probably thought might pull him away, unless Jack was afraid John would send the whole of Beecher's Hope to hell like he had so many places. Maybe, given all their history, they all ought to be afraid. They both needed to shoulder some blame. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You?" Abigail asked. "You don't have to. You can get lost on the inside of your own head." She poked him, one firm jab, right to the crown of his skull.

Sounded a lot like disbelief, to John. "You know I — I'm not leaving you. Or the boy." If it was a matter of loyalty, then it... weren't that. "If it was you, any of you, I'd—"

—what? He didn't know what he was doing now; should he know what he might do, if all this confusion had twisted around a different way?

It made sense, in his mind, but only when he didn't think on it. Seemed he was only tied to anyone through some bond of obligation, because what else was there? Nothing else solid enough to build a thing upon. Abigail, he owed because of Jack; Jack, he owed, because the boy was his. Charles, he owed for too many things — and before those, he'd sought him out in Saint Denis because... because something. Because that old law of the gang was still deep in him somewhere, like a bullet it was more dangerous to dig out than let lie. Sadie had saved him and saved Abigail and employed him and whatever else, and Arthur....

And Arthur.

"Just, he was always there to pull me out of trouble," John said. "Until the end. The rest of the gang fell apart, and he was still there, helping me. Helping us. And now I... I feel like he's out there, somewhere. And maybe..."

Maybe needing help. Though when had he ever needed help in a way that John could have helped with?

Maybe it were just him, wishing he had some way to pay back a debt there weren't no repaying.

"You can't save a man from being dead," Abigail told him. "You can't, John. You're not Jesus, to raise Lazarus."

John snorted. "I know that." Of all his many foolishnesses, some belief that he was capable of miracle was not one of them.

Abigail moved her hand in slow patterns across his back, same as she comforted Jack. Made him want to run.

"You didn't..." He swallowed that. "Tell me you didn't see what Sadie had." Somehow, the thought of Abigail looking over those photos was worse than anything.

Abigail's expression got tight. "She told me what she found. I didn't ask to look."

Relief welled in him, and shame fought it down. For a moment he couldn't grasp why it had been important, and then it struck him: whole business was sordid. Digging up those photos... hadn't been much less a desecration than digging up a grave. Given the furor that surrounded them in those last days, Arthur had been lucky not to have his body hauled down for a trophy, have it paraded in the Saint Denis streets, or something. But here Sadie, in all her rough bloody pragmatism, had found a way to drag his corpse out for display anyway.

Only done it because of him.

He scrubbed his palm across his face. Felt sick with it all. Abigail squeezed his shoulder, and said, "I'll make dinner. You'll feel better with something to eat, won't you?"

"Sure," he said, and didn't think that were true.

He passed the rest of the evening in a fog. Took his dinner out to the porch, where no one else sat, and ate without tasting it. Ducked around anyone's companionship, be it Abigail's care or Charles's silence, Uncle's chatter or Jack's distraction. He stayed out until the rest of them drifted over toward the campfire; then he snuck back in, feeling like a thief in the empty house.

Went to the bedroom, took out his satchel. Unearthed something from within in.

Went outside.

Out to the fence, that thin laborsome line that just divided his little patch of earth from the wide uncaring world. Not that this patch of earth cared much for him either, in the end.

There he stood, staring out toward the dusky horizon, thumb tracing absent patterns on the age-worn leather.

And that was where he stood when Jack caught up with him, which was a surprise, as the boy seemed to want nothing to do with him, in the main.

"Sir," Jack said. He didn't even have a book in hand.

"What is it?" John asked. He didn't feel he had much time for this, whatever it was.

Even if, really, he had nothing but time.

And Jack didn't seem too keen to be there, himself. He got as far as, "I just...", and whatever he just, it didn't seem like he was eager to share it. He looked about for some distraction, and settled on the thing in John's hands. "You read?" he asked.

John's hand clenched. "Of course I read," he said. "You know that."

"I just... I never see you with a book," Jack said. "What is it?"

The ways in which John didn't want Jack poking his nose into this were many, and varied. But the words, that's none of your business, died on his tongue; he found himself saying, "It's a journal," instead.

Jack looked at him like he'd sprouted antlers. "You keep a journal?"

He'd... scribbled a few things in the last half of the pages; he'd tried his hand at draftsmanship; he hadn't left it to be some relic, half-finished, an eternal reminder of things left undone. But now, knowing what he... thinking what he'd thought... he had a hard time thinking of it as his journal, really. He kept it like a man kept a borrowed thing. He wondered if it'd been wrong to take a pencil to the pages at all. "It were Arthur's."

That shut the boy up, and John regretted it. Jack only said, "Oh," and then lapsed into an uneasy silence, the way he always did when the conversation turned toward... the end of that time, and the running, and the leaving people.

He was a smart kid; he probably knew why he'd never seen the book before, and probably could guess that John wouldn't want him reading it. Well, he probably knew the half of it; he certainly didn't need to be reading about all the crimes they'd run around committing or the way his Uncle Dutch slid sideways into madness, but John didn't much want him reading about Arthur's flattering opinion of his mother or unflattering opinion of his father, either.

But most of it was... John didn't want the cloud of it all hanging over Jack, any more than he wanted it hanging over him. And Jack never could bear up under things half as well.

Jack had used to have nightmares, after all that madness, all that running. Not helped by the days when everything came crashing down on Abigail, and she'd cry, and try not to let the boy see; days when it had all come crashing down on John and he'd lost his temper, yelled, raged. Times when they hadn't kept their voices low enough and he'd heard scraps of things he wasn't meant to hear. Things like died, or goddamn Dutch, or if they catch us.

He didn't know if Jack was still having those nightmares. Hadn't asked. But he was happy enough not letting Jack read all about how all the people in his early life had gone mad, been killed, fallen ill, or disappeared.

He didn't know what Jack might imagine was caught in those pages.

For John's part, it had taken him a month and a half, freezing on the banks of the Klondike, before the burr of not knowing edged out the expected hurt of knowing, and he'd cracked open the journal. Expecting accounts or robbery plans or tips or leads, which he happily would have burned.

And finding, at first... pictures of birds, and flowers, and trees. Of Tilly, bent over a basin, wrist-deep in laundry — which he'd wondered at, for a while, because Arthur hadn't seemed to have eyes for her or for any of the women in camp. But, a few pages later, sketches of Javier and Hosea; the one falling-down drunk, the other apparently holding court over a poker table. Sketches of the random folk he met on the road.

And thoughts — thoughts that pinned down one moment, or a day, or a whole sweep of current and happenstance, calm and wry in a way John wasn't sure he'd ever heard, conversing. Maybe a few times, long ago, when he'd been old enough to be thoughtful for a second or two, but before the whole mess with Abigail had come between them, or later the whole mess of leaving. And a few times, there, at the very end.

It was like... being introduced to a brother he'd never known. And never would know. A whole separate Arthur, known to no one but himself.

He'd kept reading.

And he'd found that this other Arthur... might have been known to a few others, besides.

A kid, all of fifteen, trying to con folk with a shell game outside Flatneck Station; Arthur had apparently stopped to teach the kid a lesson or two, and ended the journal with Might have brought him back to Hosea, but with Trelawny and Karen and sometimes Mary-Beth I think we already have quite enough of that.

A woman, widowed, out in the woods by Annesburg; proud and stubborn and a quick learner. In any case, she is comfortable enough to eat salt rabbit broth rather than return to a neat sum set aside in the city's banks. I believe she shall be just fine.

Some strange collection of religious folk in Saint Denis. They speak about the goodness in people the way Dutch and Hosea used to speak about our promised land in the West. I suppose we all find a way to believe in some story, freedom or salvation or the kindness of strangers.

A one-legged Civil War veteran, hunter, fisherman, apparently in some long feud with the pike who ruled his lake. I should consider myself fortunate that O'Creagh's Run is too small a pond to support a white whale.

A photographer, hell-bent on taking photographs of the great predators, or possibly being eaten by them. Another veteran, in Valentine, who might have been crazed, but at least seemed happy to be so. A woman whose well-trained and well-beloved horse had died; a strange blind man who fancied himself a prophet; a woman raising money for a home for survivors of the War. Dozens of folk — and he'd crossed into their lives, not robbed them or harangued them or done much of anything to suggest he was the outlaw he was, and went on his way with a chuckle and another page's worth of amusement.

Never seemed to occur to him that this was something strange, either. Not that he might be up to something noteworthy. All his amusement — fond or biting, dry or warm — was fit for other people, and not a scrap for this thing he was doing, himself.

Funny thing, that. Some folk went into town to drink, or gamble, or whore; some folk came back to camp full of swagger about it. Arthur drank and gambled plenty, smashed bottles, busted ribs, then apparently took himself off into the wilderness and was kind to folk.

And never told a single soul. John would have laughed, had he known.

Course, it weren't funny, by the time he learned.

He'd thought he'd understood Arthur, when he'd been alive. Thought it was pretty simple: Dutch had trained the man well — well enough that he'd do anything for the gang, no matter his annoyance or his disappointment with them. Break Micah out of a jail cell. Drag Bill Williamson's sorry carcass away from the bounty hunters who'd jumped him. Ride out in the blowing wind and freezing cold to save his idiot brother from blizzard and wolves. And then, beyond that, people were fair game, like the deer in the forest; this was the man who could kill half a dozen lawmen and take their stars for trophies, and who was happy enough to crack a man's skull on the evening train for not being quick enough to hand over his wedding ring. He was a rough bastard, an outlaw bred; good man to have on your side, if only because he was good to his own and going up against him would be worse.

Seemed, somewhere, John had got part of that backwards. Badly so.

And now, he was left to do... what? with that knowledge.

Nothing, maybe. But here he was, standing with it... and here Jack was, waiting for something, and it crept in through John's awareness that Jack had every opportunity to have taken himself away; to avoid his father and any chance of having to speak with him. And he hadn't. He was lingering, scuffing his foot against the dry dirt.

It got to be too much for John. "Come on. Out with it."

"Is it true?" Jack asked.

"Is what true?"

"That you saw a ghost," Jack said. "Uncle Arthur's ghost."

Would be so goddamn easy to believe he'd seen a ghost. To let that stand, between him and Abigail and Charles and Sadie and all of them. A ghost on a dark night, a brush of a spirit or a memory, and nothing more solid than that.

But the conviction had stuck in his lungs like a fish bone in his throat.

Arthur was dead; he knew Arthur was dead. It were foolish beyond foolishness not to think so.

And still, he didn't think so.

"You believe in ghosts, boy?" he asked. He wasn't sure he himself did, even after everything.

Jack pulled in on himself, a little. "You and — and everyone, you always called it all nonsense. Ghosts and all that." He frowned; thinking hard, John would wager. "But if you said you'd saw one, I guess I'd believe you."

"What I saw weren't a ghost," John said. "It were a man in the flesh." In the dark, in glimpses. "Who had Arthur's voice." And he was tired of the argument, and tired of being told that he hadn't heard what he thought he'd heard, and tired of fitting his mind around the evidence and the evidence and the goddamn evidence. All pulled him in too many directions.

"You mean..." Jack frowned harder. "You mean you saw him?"

"Right." John scoffed. "Sounds plausible, does it?"

Jack didn't seem to want to answer that.

John pushed away from the fence. "What would you do?" He weren't really asking for advice. Jack might have been a smart kid — more book-smart than he had any right to be — but this weren't anything anyone could claim to know.

And sure enough, he didn't seem to have an answer ready to hand. He scuffed the dirt. "You think it were really him?"

Of course not. Of course, it couldn't be. Sadie and Charles and Abigail all agreed on that, and none of the leads he'd chased had panned out, no more than the over-prospected rivers in the Yukon, and Charles had buried Arthur's clothes and someone's bones, at least, and Sadie had... she'd... those damn photos. There was no talking his way out of those, or around them. They showed a dead man.

"I think I do," John said.

Jack looked at his feet.

Kept looking at them, no clever remark, no knowing-it-all. It was a bit unnerving, really; John didn't know how to get through any conversation with his son, and didn't know his way through this one, most of all. "What is it?"

"I—" Jack shook his head. Frowned so hard he looked miserable with it, then hid that look away. Gave over little enough that it seemed he weren't going to answer, before he said, "I miss him, you know?" Then, like he was afraid John would tell him that was stupid, or silly, or make some other remark, he rushed on: "I miss a bunch of them. Aunt Tilly and Uncle Hosea and Uncle Sean... I'd... I'd give a lot, to have them back again."

That seemed like a safe enough, if a useless enough, platitude. "So would I."

"So..." He hooked his thumbs into his belt, and shrugged a little. "Uncle Arthur. If you saw him, then... maybe we could just... you know. Look into it."

John startled. Then the words jarred him enough to laugh; not so much that it was funny, but that his mind had to scrabble for a handhold, and laughing were the way it tried that. Here Abigail thought he'd be a bad influence on Jack. Seemed it was the other way around. "Where's this 'we' coming from?"

"Well..." Jack said, and then seemed to consider all the ways he could possibly help, and how unlikely those were. "I guess it'd be you. But—"

"You want me to see if I can track down Arthur," John said. Arthur, who by all rights should be eight years gone. Arthur, who if that had been him, had last been pointing a gun at John, and surely hadn't seemed to know him. Arthur, who could be anywhere in the state, or any other state.

"I know ma doesn't like it when you're away from the ranch," Jack said. "But I could... I could do more of the chores. Mr. Smith could teach me how to chop wood, or something."

"I don't even know how I might look for him," John said. "He could be anywhere."

"Well, not anywhere," Jack said. "He can't be in Atlantis, or... or across the gulf of space, or anything."

"Well, so long as we can rule out Atlantis," John said.

"We can think about it, anyway."

John realized that he was staring.

Here, Jack — who, no mistake about it, didn't exactly have his head in the real world — seemed willing enough to dig in, hunt the trail, believe him. Not that it helped. Not in practical terms. But there were one soul on the ranch John hadn't made some enemy of, and that weren't nothing.

Might be everything.

"You're a good kid, you know that?"

And Jack seemed startled by that, and John could see — like a little mirror, a bit of himself that had made it into the boy — he could see Jack grapple with what to say. "I..."

John reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's late," he said, thinking to spare him that. "We oughta get to sleep. Before your mother comes after us."

"So, we'll start tomorrow, then," Jack said.

As though those photos would be un-taken, the past be un-written, tomorrow. "Sure," John said. "Good night, son."

"Good night, pa," Jack said. Sounded less grudging than ever John'd heard him.

And John went in to bed, and caught Abigail's concern, and managed to say "I'm okay," when she asked after him. And got closer to believing it than he would have expected.

Abigail cast him long, strange looks, like she didn't believe him or didn't know why she should, but he didn't want to explain. There was something in his chest now, restless and wary, and he didn't want to pull it into the light.

Or the dark, when they put the lantern out, and it occurred to him that, no, it might be hope. Stubborn, idiot hope, clinging like a weed on a rockslide, unwanted and unwilling to give up. Needing nothing but a place to get its roots in, and a breath of wind and a sidelong glance from the sun, and a chance, and out of the whole wide world, Jack Marston was set on being the one to provide.

That, in itself, seemed one impossible thing.

And where there might be one, maybe, just maybe, there might be another.

John slept more soundly than he had for a long time.

Chapter Text

Jack found him the next morning as he went to turn out the sheep.

Ran up to him while he was still crossing the yard, and looked around like this was their secret to hide. Prudent enough, at that, but then he drew close and said, "So, what needs to get done first?" and that took John aback. For all Jack's willingness the day before, he hadn't honestly expected the boy to follow through on his word, first thing in the morning.

But it seemed the boy had been serious. Maybe more serious than John had been, in believing him.

"Let's... take care of the animals," John said.

And Jack seemed eager for the drudgery. "Right!" he said, and ran off toward the barn. A spring in his step, and all the energy of youth.

John shook his head, and followed his son.

All the world had shuffled a step sideways, and he wasn't sure what to do with it. With Abigail's nervous soft concern, with Charles's sharp-edged silence, with Sadie and her... Pinkerton atrocities. With Jack, who could barely get his head out of the books or the clouds for anything, now beating him to the barn door, so that John had to hurry to catch up with him.

Made him wonder what he was meant to make out of the pieces of it all.

Made him wonder what the boy would be like, if he applied himself to — anything, really.

They pulled the barn door open together, and ushered the sheep out. Jack ruffled the head wool of one as it passed, and John tried to make a note that that one was — Mabel? Missus? Goddamnit, he couldn't even remember the sheep's name. But Jack had said he liked one of them.

At least he wasn't called on for the knowledge. Jack went and got the shovel and the pitchfork, and handed one to his father.

"So," he said. "Where do you think you're going to start?"

That was the question. "I don't know," John said. "I ran into him—" the man who had to be and couldn't be him, "—when I was going into Blackwater. But I already asked around in Blackwater, and I couldn't find him. It's too big a city to go turning over every stone." Though if that was all he had, maybe that's what he should do, anyway. If nothing else, he might be able to hide it around the edges of errands. ...provided he actually remembered the errands.

"Well, what... what happened, when you ran into him?" Jack asked. "On the road."

John wasn't sure he wanted to actually tell his son that. Jack didn't do well around gunfights. Or around the subject of gunfights. "I... it was complicated."

Jack also didn't do well around knowing when not to ask questions. "In what way?"

"Confused," John said. "I... this other man came up to me. I think he had some... argument with Arthur, or something. He wanted help settling his dispute. And Arthur, he... left, before I could really see him, or he could really see me."

"What about the man who was arguing with him?" Jack asked, which meant he'd fortunately got the entirely wrong impression, and which John also wasn't sure how to answer without giving him the right one. "He know anything?"

"He... I didn't get a chance to ask him anything." Because Arthur killed him. "And he's long gone."

"You're sure?"

The man had been dead before he fell off his horse. "Real sure."

"You know who he was?"

"No clue," John said. And his body had vanished from the side of the road, and he didn't know how to go about finding whoever had taken it. Hell, for all he knew, it could have been dragged off by a cougar. "Whole thing was over in an instant. Horses spooked, and it all went crazy. Like I said, it was real confused."

Jack flipped a shovelful of muck into the wheelbarrow, and gave his father an odd look. Like maybe he was reconsidering the wisdom of believing him based on this fistful of confused evidence, or something.

But, no. Just thinking, apparently. "What about his... where he was supposed to be buried?" Jack asked. "Ma said something happened to his... his grave."

"There was a landslide," John said. "It ain't answering any questions."

"Well, no, but..." Jack shook his head. "There are folks who talk to the dead. Spirit mediums, and stuff. I see signs for them."

Where had Abigail been living, with the boy? John let out a long breath. "Most of them are con men, Jack. And con women. Charlatans." Hosea had tried his hand at it, once; found it wasn't to his taste. Said it was too much theatre and not enough showmanship, or something similar that hadn't made much sense to John. All John really remembered was that Copper had knocked over a bottle of oil of phosphorous, gotten it all over Hosea's bed; Hosea had threatened to skin the dog and make a new bedroll out of his pelt.

Arthur, if he recalled correctly, had found the whole thing hilarious.

"Well, then, are there any folk who live around, up there?" Jack asked. "By the grave, who might have seen something?"

There had been that man Arthur had written about in his journal. Hamish, by O'Creagh's Run. John might ride up and call on him, if he was even still alive; he'd been old when Arthur had met him, and a stretch of eight years wasn't kind to many folk. But... "I really don't think he crawled out of his grave," John said. People didn't do that. Dead was dead. It had to be that Charles had been mistaken, somehow—

That that photo had been wrong, somehow—

Which seemed impossible. But... not as impossible as someone coming back from the dead. He was stuck between impossible things. If he just hammered at one of them long enough, it had to break.

Course, the one he had, near at hand to hammer at, were the man on the road. Easier to believe that it'd been just some stranger with the night twisting his voice than to walk back in time eight years, and deny the Pinkertons as they walked up the mountains with their cameras.

Still not easy, by any accounting.

"But he had a grave," Jack said. "You did go up there."

"Charles buried a man. He thought it was Arthur."

Fortunately, Jack didn't consider too hard how a body might come to be mistaken for another one. "Why'd you go up there, anyway?" he asked. "You never did before, did you? Did you hear that something might have happened?"

"No," John said. "No; Sadie came by, and she wanted Charles to take her up there, and I decided I'd go... along with them..."

And now he trailed off.

He'd gone up because it seemed cowardly not to. Charles had gone because Sadie had asked, and he'd been the one to know the way.

Sadie had had her own reasons for going.

He hadn't been thinking about Sadie's side of things.

And in that barren little space of not-thinking-about it all, he'd let it fall by the wayside. As though it had just been coincidence; that she'd just happened to want to go up there, a couple weeks before John had run into a man on the road.

And if it hadn't been some coincidence that drew her?

Now he was recalling it. He had asked — on the way up, in those long days of riding, of scraping out all the conversations the three of them could put together between them. He'd asked her why she wanted to go all the way up there, why now. And she'd said it had been running into all of them that had put her in a remembering mood... but she'd also said she'd seen someone.

Goddamnit. He couldn't remember, exactly. Weeks had passed; there'd been more pressing things. That had been no more than an offhand comment in an aggravating conversation; it had fallen out of his head before he'd even reached Ambarino. But Sadie had been up checking bounties; she'd seen a man in passing. Looked a lot like him, she'd said. Evidently she hadn't stopped to look close.

But she'd been reminded. She'd been reminded so strongly that she'd come all the way out to Beecher's Hope to find Charles, to have him lead her up into a different state, to see Arthur's grave.

Which hadn't been there.

John had done his damnedest not to think about that trip, after he'd made it. All a waste, he'd thought; no point in reminiscing, and no point in dwelling.

But there had been someone in Strawberry who'd looked like Arthur, and Strawberry was a smaller town than Blackwater.

It rushed in on him like a summer storm. Got his heart thundering. "You know what, son?" he asked. "Maybe you ought to try your hand at being a detective."

"I — what?"

"Strawberry," John said, and clapped Jack on the shoulder. Jack was nearly staggered by the force of it. "Sadie got to thinking about going up to pay respects, because she caught a glimpse of him in Strawberry. Only, she didn't think it were him."

"But... we were up in Strawberry," Jack said. "For a while. Ma worked there. Wouldn't we have seen him?"

"Maybe not," John said. His mind was galloping; it were halfway up Big Valley already. "Might not live there. But if he were passing through... it's worth a look. Might be there's someone who remembers him."

The plan was already falling together in his mind, for all that it was little more of a plan than the one he'd gone into Blackwater with. In Strawberry, there weren't even a saloon to ask in.

"The stranger who caught me on the road that night... he said something about bounties." He looked at Jack, and at least Jack looked like he was willing to believe that this was a plan, and maybe a good one. "I think Arthur's been running them. I'll check in with the sheriff there, see what he has to say." And there it was: a thing he could do, one real thing with a real destination in mind and a real reason behind it, and Jack grinned, broad as John had ever seen him.

"Great!" he said. "You go up to Strawberry, and I'll — you can leave a list, or something, of all the chores, and I'll do them. I bet Rufus will help me, too."

"I'd like to see Rufus feeding the chickens," John said, but he could find no scorn in it, and Jack didn't seem to hear any in his tone. Jack was riding high on some kind of giddiness that John didn't think he'd ever felt, no matter how young; still, it seemed to carry him along with it. "I'll make a list. I — thank you."

He ran inside.

Dug out a pencil and paper, scribbled out a list and whatever instructions he could think of, though his mind was miles away. Didn't bother to read it over before he snatched up his satchel and supplies, and came back out to see Jack struggling with Rachel's saddle.

"Why do they made these so heavy?" Jack asked.

John laughed, and traded the saddle for the list. "Got to be sturdy, for all the work they do," he said. "And they've got to be big to balance the weight on the horse. You know how to cinch it?"

"I... I think I remember," Jack said, and watched as John worked beside him. Instructed his hands. "Are you going to bring him back here?"

Leaping, in a bound, from a hopeful clue to a hoped-for conclusion. John had to race to keep up. "Well, if I find him, I'll surely ask. I hope so." God knew what the man had gotten up to, if it was the man he were chasing. Might have a home somewhere out there, or business he was getting up to. It had taken Sadie long enough to come out.

But, even for a chance; even just to see him, and tell him he hadn't made such a goddamn mess of things, after all; even just to mention that Jack was growing up into some kind of fine young man, and would love to see him again—

John just about leapt up into the saddle. Looked down at Jack. "If your mother asks, tell her... tell her..."

"I'll tell her you went on a quest," Jack said.

John laughed. "I don't think she'll be happy with that." Not that she would be happy with anything else John could think of. "Maybe tell her I needed to clear my mind, so I went riding for a while?" She'd probably believe that.

"Okay," Jack said. "Good luck, pa."

"Thank you," John said, again. "Try not to wait up for me." Long way to Strawberry. Still, he imagined he might not have slept, waiting on news like this.

Jack patted Rachel's nose, and stepped back from her. And John took Rachel out of the barn fast, and out of Beecher's Hope at a gallop, outstripping whatever discouragement anyone else could muster.

Time and distance took the heft of out Jack's giddy excitement, so that by the time the sun was high what John had left in his chest was tight anticipation. By the time the trees began to grow thick from the rising ground the edges of anticipation had started to blacken to dread, because Strawberry was coming ever nearer, and soon he'd have to go in and ask real people if they'd seen a real thing, and that would be that — chips in the pot, cards on the table; showdown.

If he did go in and ask — ask the sheriff, ask everyone he could find — and the answer were No, never seen the man, never heard of him, what then? Go back to Jack, hope the boy pulled another stroke of genius out of his vest pocket? Make his excuses to Abigail? Risk her and Sadie and Charles all thinking up something worse than what they'd already done?

And with what he'd done, what he was doing now, even having seen what they'd brought for him to see... how long would he argue that they was the ones in the wrong?

This is not a search you can end, Charles had told him. True in more ways than one. If he found nothing here, he didn't believe he could end it here. He didn't have it in him.

He hitched up outside the sheriff's office. Pulled off Rachel's saddle and brushed her down, and gave her a nosebag, aware the whole time that he was avoiding the issue. Not that she couldn't use some care, but...

He'd rather walk into a gunfight, than this.

Eventually, with Rachel as cared for as she could be, he reasoned he was being a coward. Steeled himself, and walked into the door.

Soon as he stepped inside, he saw the sheriff already arguing with someone. Some important man, or some man who clearly thought himself important; fancy suit, brushed hat, prim mustache. Red-faced as anything, and it were none of John's business, so he went to look at the bounty posters on the wall. Then had to look twice at them. None of them said Wanted or Reward; they were all headed something like Apprehended! or Captured! or, in one case, Famous Outlaw Brothers Cornered And Shot Dead In The Wilderness — See The Site Of The Great Battle — Charter Your Tour And Lecture From Big Valley Lore Expert George Joseph Thomas!

He was still staring at that one, wondering what the hell the world had come to, when the important man finished up with an "And I will see you pilloried all the way from here to the Saint Denis Times!" And stormed out the door.

John turned back to the sheriff, who was looking toward the heavens, or at least the ceiling, with a hard-pressed expression. John cleared his throat.

"Sounds like trouble," he offered.

The sheriff dropped his gaze to him. "Hardly. He's in here three times a week about something. Wants me to arrest a dog for digging under his fence. A dog!"

"...oh," John said.

The sheriff rummaged in his desk, and drew out a cigar. When he looked back up at John, he took in his scars, took in his sidearm, then seemed to recognize him. "Wait. You Adler's boy?"

"I'm — no," John said. Rumors must have been circulating. Sadie Adler apparently had a bit of a reputation. "I work with her sometimes. That's all."

"She isn't the sort to work with other people," the sheriff said, and bit the end of his cigar. It seemed a little suggestive.

"I'm married!"

"Is you, now." Sheriff's mouth ticked up. "And what does your wife think about you running off with some other forceful lady?"

John was annoyed enough that he snapped back without thinking about it. "They get together to eat wintergreen candies and talk about me behind my back. Listen, I came to ask you a question!"

At least he was amusing the sheriff. The man chortled, knocked ash off the end of his cigar, and had a bit too much of a twinkle in his eye when he asked, "What can I help you with, Mr. Adler?"

"My name is Jim Milton," John said. "And I was wondering if you'd seen a man passing through your town." Couldn't give his name — Arthur probably wouldn't be using it even as freely as John could, here in this territory, and the sheriff here would have more cause to know the history of the town than most.

"We have more men passing through than we know how to deal with."

"He'd be a bit older than me," John said. "Look like he knew how to handle himself. Bit taller, broader-set, green eyes. Maybe got into some trouble. Scar on his chin. You saw him, you'd probably think hunter, or bounty hunter."

The sheriff shrugged. "Not one of the ones who lives here, but I don't know. He might sound familiar. Maybe he passed through."

John's heart took a triple-step. That was one shade more than nothing, but just that shade was enough to draw him on. Enough to draw him, and little enough to stoke those doubts again. "Do you know where I might find out more?"

The sheriff sighed. "We get lots of people passing through here," he said again. "If he stayed in the city, the Welcome Center would know best. Them or the Post. Otherwise, short of stopping random folk on the street, or asking at every saloon and sheriff's office from here to the edge of the Territory, I don't know."

He didn't particularly want to do that. Abigail would already be taking him to task for riding all the way out to Strawberry for no sensible reason. He could check the Welcome Center, anyway, though it didn't sound like any place Arthur would be by.

He shouldn't be feeling like the trail had gone cold. Really, there shouldn't be a trail; Sadie and Charles and Abigail were all agreed, on that. Rather, there should be one trail, eight years cold, that led nowhere but a mountain pass that didn't exist no more.

But...

No. There was one more lead to chase up; or if not a lead, something to fill in the picture, just a little bit more. Why Sadie'd been up here, that day. "One more thing," John said. "I was wondering what the name of the man is, who claimed the Wilson Grey bounty."

The sheriff's eyebrows rose. "That would have been our boy Cooper Marks," he said. "Funny kid. Wouldn't think he'd be much of a bounty hunter, but he's been delivering. Not just here, either; Sheriff as far out as Annesburg wrote me about him."

A career bounty hunter surely had to know how to keep his eyes open. Keep track of what was going on around him. Wouldn't he? Thin connection, but they'd been in the same town at the same time...

Or, if Arthur had been up here looking for bounties, maybe he'd been looking for Grey the same as Sadie was. Sadie seemed to know most of the bounty hunters around, by name or reputation. He couldn't ask her if she knew of one who sounded like Arthur, not without those photos coming up between them, but maybe Cooper Marks knew some of his career rivals...

Oh, it were a faint hope, he knew that much; they were all faint hopes. But this were something. "Where can I find Mr. Marks?"

"I don't get involved in disputes between bounty hunters," the sheriff said.

"I have no dispute with him," John said. "And I'm not a bounty hunter. I just work with Sadie — with Mrs. Adler sometimes. I promise."

The sheriff eyed him. "He lives over outside Valentine," he said, at length, having evidently decided either that John was harmless or that he didn't care enough to get in his way.

Valentine. All the way in New Hanover. Abigail was absolutely going to skin him alive. "He wouldn't happen to be in town now, would he?"

"No," the sheriff said. "He comes through now and again, checking up on bounties, but I don't know when he'll be by."

"Great." Abigail would have to swallow her anger. Or, rather, he'd just have to bear up under it. "Thank you." He walked outside.

No one had heard of a man who sounded like Arthur at the Welcome Center, nor at the post office, nor the general store, nor the stables. John left those all, and went to catch some of the cool air outside.

Strawberry, the town, was busy enough, and utterly indifferent to his presence there. Back the better part of a decade ago, John understood it had been the focus of a few of the gang's problems; now, it was like they'd never stepped foot here.

Oh, John supposed that if he went up to the graveyard or asked around, he'd find a few scars left. He suspected that might be true of anywhere they'd been. But for the most part, the world had closed up over them like the surface of a lake. For all their ruckus, all their bravado, Dutch van der Linde and his boys were like speckles of dust in the pages of a history book.

Except for the inconvenient price that still lingered over their heads.

You'd have to be a bounty-poster collector to know about that, these days. Nowadays, the walls and boards of the sheriff's were covered with more recent ne'er-do-wells.

Valentine. He checked his gear, wondered if he should stop again in the general store; wondered if it would make Abigail more or less angry with him if he sent her a telegram telling her he'd be away from the ranch for longer than he'd expected. Valentine was another one of those places too soaked in memory, which nonetheless would have forgotten him.

He did decide to; erred on the side of something, but hardly remembered what he said to have sent. His mind was already a state away.

He rode out toward Riggs Station, to catch a train to New Hanover.

John had never been on many trains — not as a passenger. They'd all snuck onto one, him and Abigail and Jack, eight years ago; fleeing the central states as quick as anything could take them, with Old Boy dead and Abigail with no horse of her own. But he didn't prefer them. He didn't much like being in a box on rails, with no chance to get out or turn aside if something should go sour; he never could shake the feeling that folk on the train ought to be afraid of him, and that he ought to be doing something to make them fear.

But he was past that, and trains were fast. Much faster than a horse, and he wanted that speed, just now.

It was a decent time for calling on folk, just about, when it pulled into the Valentine station, and John retrieved Rachel from the livestock car. She stepped out and tossed her head, clearly not at all sure what to think about this rattling, swaying stall she'd been consigned to, and John could empathize.

But now they were here, out of the train and under a different sky, and there was work to be done.

Always strange, how even the sky could feel different. Not just because the day had turned over, but because a great swath of country had been cut in not a great deal of time. He was far from Big Valley; even far from Riggs. How much further was this going to take him? He was running after something, like chasing a leaf that got dropped on a racing stream; he was making a fool of himself, that was for sure.

But the other option was giving up, and that was no option at all.

He walked into Smithfield's, and the bartender looked up, recognized him in an instant, and showed both palms in a placating gesture. "Now, mister, I don't want no trouble. From you or from — where is she?"

Apparently if he was known for anything, around these parts, it was going to be for running with Sadie Adler. Dutch van der Linde had nothing on her when it came to notoriety, it seemed. This time, he decided not to even argue. "I'm looking for a man named Cooper Marks."

One of the men sitting at the bar picked his head up, at that. Gave John a suspicious look. John was halfway to thinking this was the man in question, but he caught the gleam of something silver on his chest, and the bartender said "Mr. Marks? Why?"

"Wanted to ask him a few questions," John said, and showed his own palms. "I'm not bringing him any trouble, I swear. I'm looking to track a man down—"

And he was about to say, I thought he might have seen him, but the bartender laughed, and the other man — deputy, maybe — snorted and went back to his drink, and it seemed like that was all they needed to hear, for some reason. "He's up in the hills, a ways," the bartender said. "Go past the church, past the house with all the cats in the yard; his is the one with the red door."

"Thanks," John said, and was on his way.

And the same dread that waited for him outside Strawberry snuck in behind his footsteps, here.

Another question to ask, and another chance for everything to shatter. He didn't let himself stop to think about it. Rode Rachel up past the church, past a house with far too many cats — John counted nine, before he stopped counting — and drew up in front of the kind of quaint little house Abigail would probably have loved to live in. The front door was painted red, and well-weathered; a rocking-horse was tucked in the corner of the porch. A few flowers were growing by the house's foundations, and a rambunctious vegetable garden spilled around the sides. Soil here was better than it were in Great Plains, that was clear.

He went to the door and knocked.

Someone called from inside — "Just a minute!" — and there were the faint sounds of moving about; a quick patter of small feet, a child's giggle, then a man opened the door and blinked at John curiously. Said, "Hi there."

The Strawberry sheriff hadn't been lying; Marks didn't look like much of a bounty hunter. Looked like a fresh-faced young man who aspired to be a lumberjack, good and stout, but open and friendly. John would have been surprised if this kid could kill someone without having nightmares for days.

"Jim Milton," he said, and extended his hand. "I'm sorry to intrude on you at your home."

"Oh, it's no problem. No problem at all," Marks said, though he did close the door behind him when he came out onto the porch. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm looking to find someone."

Marks blinked. "Well, you've come to the right place. I'm good at finding folk."

But he delivers, the sheriff had said. "Not as a bounty," John clarified. "An old friend of mine. We... lost contact," for a few years, after he died, "—but I heard that he might be knocking around here. —I mean, I heard he might be knocking around Strawberry, and that you was in the area when he was—"

It was all coming out hopelessly garbled. John paused for a moment to collect his thoughts into something that'd make sense as words.

Marks didn't leave him the time to, but he didn't seem like he thought John was a rambling lunatic, either. "Well, who is it? What's his name, what's he like?"

Likes a clean gun, a tall horse, a hard fight, a big take, and a stiff drink, John thought, but now probably weren't the time for that joke. "Bit taller than me. Broader. Lightish brown hair, greenish eyes." Dead. "Rough sort. Knows his way around a horse and a gun. Sarcastic bastard; scar across his chin, here."

Marks stared at him in open disbelief, for a moment. "...Mr. Smith?"

John caught the disbelief; held it himself, for a breath. Mr. Smith was a long way from Arthur Morgan. Still, it'd only make sense for him to take an alias, too.

Not as much sense as it would make for him to be dead, eight years in the ground, and for this to be some other rough sort a bit taller than John, with brown hair and a scar on his chin.

But...

"I wasn't aware he had any friends," Marks said. "Really?"

"We grew up together," John said. "I haven't seen him in years. How do you know him?"

"I work with him," Marks says. "I guess I hire him. Or I hire myself to him, depending on how you want to look at it."

Bountyman's dog, that stupid would-be robber had yelled, at the man who'd sounded like Arthur. Who'd had Arthur's voice, right down to the threats he'd hurled. John was on the track. He was on the right track, and there were a track, and he just had to follow it. "That's... that's great." A man who looked like Arthur, a man who talked like Arthur, a man with the same goddamn scar; if it weren't him, it were at least someone close enough to be mistaken for him, and if—

If—

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"He's working as a hand over at Oak Rose Ranch," Marks said. "Over in West Elizabeth. By the bend of the Dakota River, north of Bard's Crossing."

John tried to think if he had ever heard of it. Sounded familiar, but just barely; probably somewhere he'd been told about, in passing. No luck thinking of where, not with his heart loud enough in his ears that it made it hard to think on anything. But that was... not exactly in his neighborhood; it was up past Blackwater and across the Upper Montana, but it was closer than Valentine. It was almost on the way home.

"Great," he said. He'd been afraid this snipe hunt would take him over to Rhodes next, or some nonsense like that. "Thank you. I — can't tell you how much this means to me."

If, if, if—

"You grew up with him, you say?" Marks asked.

Here, he had to be careful. No telling what Arthur had told Marks; John knew enough to tread lightly when he was walking in on another man's con. Or... alias; if he was down working on a goddamned ranch, running bounties, this was probably no more of a con than John's own life, of the moment. "I did."

But apparently Marks wasn't angling to interrogate him, or looking for any details that might catch him out in a lie. "Well, I'm glad if I can help reunite you two. He's a good man."

"He... is," John agreed. He was. As much as any of them were. More than most of them. Not good exactly, but their life hadn't made any room for good people.

"Saved my life, you know."

And that caught him, held him, present and pressing as water up to his chin.

It could have been anyone. Anyone could save a man from something. But that was that, and the last of his doubt vanished into the air, and damn near took his voice off with it. All it left him with was hope, and he thought he'd better pray hard that hope didn't fray; if it dropped him, God knew where he would land, or if he'd survive the fall.

"Saved mine too," he managed. "More than once." He tipped his hat. Didn't want to linger here; wanted to get on his way. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Marks."

"Best of luck to you," Marks said, sounding bemused. He raised a hand in farewell.

John galloped back to the station.

Weren't a train leaving yet, of course. Had to sit and wait for it, feeling like a wildfire was eating up his chest. Couldn't hardly sit still. For all that he knew the train would get him there quicker, even with the wait for it, he wanted to get on Rachel's back, get moving, race for the river and the horizon. Not... sit here, holding Marks' words like a hot ember in his hand.

A good man. Marks didn't know anything but the first thing of it. A glint of gold in a river of gold and silt.

Once upon a time, there had been a code. Or not a code, exactly; just Dutch's ideals, all the things that fell out of his mouth when he preached about that better world they was supposedly building.

Target the people who hoarded their wealth: the bankers, the oil men, railway barons. —that had always more of an ideal than a standard. Until their skirmishes with Cornwall, most of the big barons were far beyond their reach. Give to the poor and downtrodden; well, a few stunts, here and there — Arthur had kept that clipping of his first bank robbery, the one where he and Dutch and Hosea had gone out and played Robin Hood, tucked away in his journal — but it had never been what John would call a regular practice. Always mind your manners, be a gentleman as well as a thief; that had narrowed to mind your manners with the folk you're not targeting, narrowed again to mind your manners with innocents, narrowed again to it can be nice not to draw attention. Offer succor and solace to the downtrodden had become look at us; we're the downtrodden; whatever you have to do for the gang, for me, you're in the right.

Don't involve women or children or bystanders. Never shoot a man's horse. Never seek revenge. Tell your family the truth, and tell it straight. Don't kill unless you have to; by God, never enjoy it.

Be good to each other. Don't leave your brothers behind.

Piece by piece, all of it had fallen apart.

It had hit Arthur hard. John knew it; he'd seen it at the end, read about it in that journal, after the end. And sure, Arthur had always been too rough with his tongue, too happy to throw a punch; never did have the decorum Dutch wanted to see or the eloquence Hosea tried to teach them. But he'd still been giving dollars to beggars when Leopold Strauss joined up with them to shark poor men for interest; he'd been teaching widows how to hunt game while Dutch had been—

Anyway.

He'd believed there could be something noble in what they were doing, up until the point when the whole thing had become too bloodsoaked for any of them to pretend, any more.

And by then, his hourglass was already emptying.

Charles had said that getting sick, as he had, must have given Arthur some clarity on what his life was about. Maybe. But in John's mind, Dutch was as much to blame for teaching him — teaching all of them — evil, as any of them were to credit for finding what was good.

No surprise that, if he were here, if he'd survived, he'd be leaving a trail of grateful folk behind him. Probably a trail of drunken brawls and dead would-be robbers and mortally offended city folk, too, if he'd just known where to ask about them.

A ranch hand. Hard to believe. —all of this was hard to believe, though, and that might be the least strange part of it.

And all he had to do was take the train back to Riggs Station, and then ride out to that ranch.

All he had to do was count his heartbeats until the train came in.

Chapter Text

The day started goddamn well enough.

Smith woke in the small hours, just before the rest of the bunkhouse. Old Greek was just beginning to stir, and it was rare enough that anyone was up before him — and Smith didn't feel foggy with fatigue, or unduly alarmed by the night's dreaming, so it was a fine enough thing to rise and enjoy the twilight a while.

(They'd been oddly quiescent, the stag and the wolf. Another of those dreams where they just stood together like old associates, so quietly congenial that Smith half-thought that if he'd offered them a smoke, they would have shared it between them. Only, he didn't seem to have cigarettes with him. Just a letter that itched at his hand, and though it was in his hand, he'd been driven half distracted with the question of where he'd set it down.)

He dressed, more or less, and let himself out into the grey early light. Drank up the human silence of the hour, and let his mind wander until he heard Cook muttering at the fire by his chuckwagon.

Smith wandered by. Cook glanced up from his work, his dark face lit by the newborn flames, and beckoned Smith over; Smith still couldn't understand most of the words he said and he doubted he ever would be able to, but over a few similar early mornings they'd come to some understanding, nonetheless. He helped the man haul flour and fatback from the cellars out to the chuck wagon, and Cook chattered, incomprehensible as always — though he seemed not to mind how one-sided the conversation was, so long as Smith made a noise or two to show that he was listening.

He'd done this four or five days, now; not in sequence, but whenever the night woke him earlier than it should have. He was half-used to it, and maybe it was only that: here was a bit of routine, like scribbling in that journal he kept, that was his own thing and not handed down from Dryden or the overseer or the needs of the ranch. But the weight of the sack on his shoulder was comfortable, and already there was something just the far side of familiar about it.

And despite having not much idea of what Cook was saying, he felt he got to know the man better, this way. Here in the early mornings were the only times he'd ever seen Cook irritated; scolding the fire, or muttering some sharp invectives against this pebble or that small dark shape he flicked out of the flour. Come daylight, it was like he put on his habitual cheeriness like the rest of the ranch pulled on its boots; by the time the sun hit his expression, Smith had only ever seen him smiling.

He wondered what the man's secret was. And how many he had. And how many folk might know them, or if it were only Cook himself.

Never had much time to ponder the question, though. Soon Greek was up, and making his coffee, and then the rest of the ranch followed on after, and then it was time to work until the lunch bell.

Lunch came along in its own time, today as every day, and with it settled a brief lull in the bustle. Smith was sopping up the last of his plate with his sourdough when Zeke called out to him, and Smith turned and saw the kid rushing over, some book under his elbow.

"What is it?"

"Few of the boys and I are putting together an order," Zeke said. "Reckoned you might want in on it."

"An order?"

Zeke gave him an odd look. By now, Smith reckoned that Zeke respected him enough not to say when he thought he was a fool. Course, by now, Smith knew him well enough that he didn't need to say anything. "A mail order," he said. "From the catalog." He plunked the book down on the bench's folding table, and opened it up. "See, you can buy just about anything from one of these — cheaper than it is up at Purgatory. Even cheaper and finer than some of the shops in Blackwater. You can get clothes, medicines, guns... they even have another catalog, out this year, where you can buy full-blown houses."

"Well, I'm sure I don't have the money to buy a full-blown house." Smith reached out, and flipped through the catalog, getting a sense for what was inside. Shaving soaps, poultry feed, groceries by the barrel, horse timers, ladies' jewelry, cake baskets, mantle clocks, book sets, shotguns, pen nibs, rocking chairs, violins, field glasses, baseball uniforms, folding litters, horse wagons, tonics... he was startled into a laugh. "You weren't kidding!"

"This is the way of the future," Zeke said. "No general store's going to match those prices. Or that selection." He chuckled. "You hold onto that for a bit. Write down whatever it is you want, and we'll all send it as one order. They'll deliver it direct to the ranch."

"Suddenly Abersson's supply of fancy waistcoats makes a lot more sense," Smith said. "Thank you. I will do that."

Zeke left him with the catalog, and Smith turned back to the index. Flipped to a few likely pages, and then found himself browsing the tack and saddles.

Dryden had all his tack made for the ranch. Knew a leatherworker out in Strawberry, apparently; made trinkets for tourists when he wasn't supplying the finer ranches in the state. Just like the horses, just like the buildings, just like the men's time, just like everything in Oak Rose, all the tack and saddle that hung in the barns and got conditioned and polished and mended day by day belonged, in the end, to Dryden.

Here, Smith could buy his own. They had more in the catalog than he'd seen in his days doing odd jobs in Purgatory; he might pick some up from the book and take it into town to be fitted properly, altered to measure. It were a thing that could be his, alongside the guns he'd picked up in Blackwater, spending near all the money he'd earned from the bounty on Fleur.

Well. He might pick up tack and saddle in good time. With good earnings from whatever Marks rustled up.

And he might have it fit to... whose back? Gambler's?

Raised another question, that did. And Smith stood up, tucked the catalog against his side, and thought for a moment.

Then went to seek out Mr. Dryden.

The man was in the main house, in a room that might once have been anything and was now a wide office. He had his arm up in a sling, still, though Smith had seen him take the arm out to do various small tasks — read documents, and the like. Still, he was taking it easy on that bullet-torn muscle, and he was a man who could. No hard work for him to do that couldn't be handed to someone else.

He had been lucky. Bullet had hit, but it could have hit harder. He'd come within a handspan of having his life snuffed out on that road, and Smith had to wonder how close he himself had come on his own way into Blackwater, not so long after.

Roads had been getting safer, Dryden said.

Well, of course, Smith didn't know what they'd been like before. But he'd found enough trouble on the road — enough trouble had found him on the road — that he questioned just how safe they were, now. And wondered how unsafe they had been.

And ever since that night, like a splinter in his mind, he'd found himself wondering if he could trust Mr. Dryden.

Odd thought. Odd fear.

Not that Dryden had had a thing to do with it, no; Smith couldn't suspect that. More... not that he would want a thing to do with it, and that were the problem.

Really, Smith told himself, it was none of Dryden's business if some trouble had found him. If two men had hunted him out. He'd got one of the bastards, and the other hadn't seemed too keen on shooting at him, and hadn't seemed to know who he was, and hadn't followed him back. Hell, that might not have even been an ambush meant for him; could have been some other bounty hunter those two had crossed, or been crossed by.

And even as he thought all of that, he knew in a way he was lying to himself.

He couldn't find much sense in the night, beyond that some folk — probably those cousins Grey had been boasting about — had tracked him down. But what sense he did find told him that the trouble on the road had been his trouble, much as the blood in his veins was his blood, much as his voice and his thinking and his fondnesses and irritations was his nature.

Folk here didn't have much reason to get into that sort of trouble. Weren't the kind of people they were. And they might not appreciate a man who found that trouble following his footsteps, like it was his own damn shadow.

So.

He found himself wondering if he could trust Mr. Dryden. If he could trust any of them. If they wouldn't just as rather drive him out, soon as they could be rid of him.

So he'd mentioned it to Marks. And hadn't mentioned a thing to anyone on the ranch, for all that he'd spent a good long time in the gunsmith's before riding back here.

Dryden looked up when he came in. Gave a grunt of acknowledgement, finished the page he was writing, and set the paper aside. "Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Dryden." He cleared his throat, wondered if there were some elegant way he was meant to walk around to the topic. But he couldn't think of one, and Dryden's frown stretched at the second of silence he took, so he went right onto it: "First time we met, you seemed to think I might be interested in buying a horse."

"I did," Dryden agreed.

"How much would I have to put aside for that?" Smith asked. He wasn't going to ask for a discount, or a line of credit. He had more pride than that, though perhaps that was not the thing to waste his pride on.

Dryden rested his pen in its stand, and gave Smith an interested look. "Now, that's not something most of my ranch hands ever have occasion to ask me," he said. "Do you have your eye on one?"

"Not yet," he admitted. It was a new idea. Sure, getting a horse had been a dream for... ages, now, it felt like, but he'd thought he'd have to content himself with just any. One of the fine Oak Rose horses was more than he thought he'd earn, before Marks and his bounty hunting. "I like Gambler well enough, but I was thinking... one of the mares."

"A mare?" Dryden gave him a skeptical look.

Smith shrugged. "Not sure which." He hadn't had the chance to work with any of them: all the working horses on the ranch were geldings. The mares all got bred or sold on — the nags to Purgatory, the good-enoughs to Blackwater, and the fine breeding stock who didn't get kept at Oak Rose went to that contact Dryden had outside of Blackwater, Nussbaum, who Smith was told paid very well.

Meant there weren't exactly any ready to be sold, except the ones destined for the Blackwater stables. But even next year's stock might be fine, if he allowed himself the luxury of looking so far ahead. Further into the future than he even had a past.

"Has Gambler been giving you trouble?" Dryden asked.

"No. He's fine. Bit short, but fine." Smith shrugged. "I like mares. Calmer."

"All my geldings are well-tempered," Dryden said. "I don't keep rigs around. And mares have their own issues."

Smith shrugged again. "Still." It was a preference he could feel and not well explain, like his preference for pencil over pen, or for skies over cities.

Dryden didn't press for an explanation, at least. Man in his position, he probably had to know that folk had preferences, and they might make sense or make none. "Why don't you take a look over them," Dryden suggested. "You let me know if any look likely, and I think we can work up—"

Whatever negotiation he might have offered was cut short by a sudden noise outside: a shout, and then a scream of raw outrage or panic.

Dryden leapt from his desk and ran to his window. Smith almost followed, but another chorus of shouting voices changed his mind; he ran for the door instead. Got out, got onto the path, followed the sound.

No gunfire. Not the tones of violent terror; not an attack. Urgency, yes, and coming from the back paddock—

A few of the hands were running that way, too. None quite as hard as him. He bellowed them out of the way, and something in his voice got them to jump; he was only the second or third to reach the scene. Had to gauge it in an instant:

Grady, crumpled on the packed dirt, arm over his side, shuddering with the effort to tuck himself smaller. Legionary, coming around from the far fence, making to charge again.

Smith didn't have a rope on him. There was a lunge whip in the dirt a few feet from Grady; it would have to do. A few hands were running into the stables, looking for — God knew what. Too damn slow. Smith took the last yards of the path at an all-out sprint, boosted himself over the fence, nearly landed on top of Grady, and yelled, "Hey!"

No time to grab the whip. No time to do anything but throw his hands wide, try to clap, try to make himself big, make a little noise. To startle the horse, any way he could. And it worked, barely, barely — Legionary pulled up, so sharp and so close to him that Smith had to give ground, duck aside, to keep possession of his shins. Legionary looked affronted, and stamped, and tossed his head; recognized Smith, surely, but while Smith might be a better friend to Legionary than anyone else on this ranch, he wasn't so foolish to think that made them friends. And whatever the hell Grady had done meant Legionary wasn't in any sort of a charitable mood.

Legionary could easily decide to rear or kick or bite, and Smith had nothing in his hands just now to prevent that. Just stupid good luck or more faith than he'd earned had the horse break off, run to the other side of the stable, and square up again.

Gave him enough time to grab the lunge whip. Better than nothing, but not good — the tool was unfamiliar in his grip. A rope, once he had the weight of it, he knew just how it would behave; he well knew what to do at one end to get the other end dancing as he wanted. This...

Legionary charged. Smith snapped the whip into the dirt, farther from the horse than he would have preferred. Didn't get Legionary to turn. Just got him to stop, and then he did rear, a tower of muscle and hard hooves and rage, and how humans had ever looked at these creatures and decided to tame them was an act of hubris to make the Devil proud.

"Someone better get Grady out of here," Smith called. If he didn't have his own control over the whip, he couldn't have much control over the horse. And he couldn't even set Legionary to work — not with Grady crumpled by the edge of the fence where Legionary would need to run. "Someone get in here!"

Legionary's hooves came down on the dirt like cannonshots. He stamped, tossed his head, ears back, profile like a striking snake's, and Smith brought the lunge whip up flat. Rod braced between both hands like he could make a barrier of it, like its twig-thin girth would provide any fence between them if Legionary charged. Held like this, it wasn't even in a position where he could lash it easily.

Behind him, he could hear someone jumping into the paddock, voice spooling out a line of oh god, god, I got you, come on, more panic than proper speech. Abersson. And Grady made a choking, agonized sound as he was moved — dragged, sounded like — and Legionary turned to get distance again, and Smith backed up after the terrified and the wounded. By the time the horse had squared up again, eyes blazing anger, Smith was at the gate, and before Legionary had decided to kill them all he was closing the gate in front of him.

Smith checked the latch twice before his hammering heart would let him turn. A right crowd had clustered around, none of them too close; a couple — Old Greek and one of the cowherds — had had the sense to get something to work as a litter; Old Greek waved Abersson away and piled Grady onto it. Dryden was standing in the midst of all of it, expression tight.

The overseer came jogging up, from some far corner of the ranch. Dryden turned to him.

"Put Mr. Grady up in the spare room," he said. "And send someone to get the doctor in. Have them ride hard."

The overseer took in the situation in a glance, and decided that he had no questions that were urgent to ask. Motioned to Abersson and another hand to grab the litter, and bustled off the moaning horse-trainer, barking orders as he went.

Smith's hand was tight on the handle of the lunge whip. Dryden glanced at him, and looked into the paddock, where Legionary seemed to take it as some bitter triumph now that he was undisputed king of his little ring of dirt. The horse regarded the collection of men outside the fence like a commander might, ready to fight on the walls of some besieged fort.

Dryden, standing like an opposing general, gave Legionary an exasperated look, then turned to the hand whose shout had started this adventure. "What happened?"

The hand shook his head. "Grady was working him," he said. "Gave him a crack across the haunches to get him to gallop, and the horse just went crazy. Kicked him halfway across the paddock."

"He whipped him?" Smith demanded. White-hot rage at the news. The whip in his hand seemed sharp, suddenly, like the fangs of a snake. Arrogant horse trainer, and Grady didn't have eyes in his goddamn head? Couldn't figure what was going on right in front of him?

"Smith," Dryden said, his tone a warning.

And not one Smith was inclined to heed. He turned on the man; cast a finger out toward Legionary. "That horse," he snapped, "is done being whipped, Dryden. You can see it for yourself. Man you bought him from, I reckon he was a heavy enough hand on the whip. He'll cooperate — you saw I got him cooperating — but you hurt him, and he's gonna hurt you right back. Or kill himself trying."

"Grady said," the other hand started — and Smith turned to look at him, and the hand caught his look, and paled, and bit his words back. Had to look to Dryden for courage before looking at the dirt and saying, "Grady said sometimes, you have to knock the bad behavior out of them."

"Grady is a goddamn fool, is what Grady said," Smith snapped. "And he got what he deserved for it."

"Smith," Dryden said again, tone just as sharp.

And Smith wasn't of a mind to hear whatever threat Dryden might be making. Something in his gut said, he'd fight this man; no matter that Dryden ruled here, he'd fight, and might ought to have fought sooner. "You can break a horse, and all you'll get is a broken horse," he said. By god, he knew Dryden was more a businessman than a horseman, but this? "It's a goddamn animal!" And animals — horses and dogs and whatever else man might find use for — they had brains, and a broken animal would give its body to the work, readily enough, but buried its brain under the bite of the lash. Became less like a partner and more like a steam engine. That wasted half the animal, half the point of an animal, and for — what? Obedience? Obedience, you could get either way. Impatience?

"Mr. Grady has trained the horses at this ranch for seven years," Dryden said.

Trained a bunch of horses born and bred here, to do nothing more complicated than behave under saddle, to ground-tie, to be good for strangers. Never would have done anything else with his time. Not taught a horse to hunt water, or find its way home over distance, or stay steady under the crack of a rifle, or come at a whistle, or stand guard over some lonely campfire.

...and had he?

Smith spat into the dirt. He knew the sound of Dryden's tone; that was some kind of loyalty, there, and he didn't want to tread carefully, but prudence said he ought to.

Wasn't sure how much by the way of prudence he had in him. Wasn't sure how much he wanted.

"He may be real fine with the ranch horses," Smith said. "But I guarantee you — you let him work with Legionary, and you will ruin that horse for good." Or maybe Legionary would trample Grady into the dirt and have done with it, which Smith thought all for the best.

Dryden took a breath, and glared right back at Smith glaring at him. Then stopped, and his eyes narrowed; he seemed to take the measure of Smith, and the argument, and the horse glaring balefully out behind Smith. Seemed to tally up all he had to gain or lose from pressing the issue... and deem it not worth his time.

"Calm this horse down and stable him," Dryden ordered. "And calm yourself down, Smith. Have a smoke, or something."

He turned to stalk back off toward the house.

Got the last word in a sense, Smith thought. Not that that was all there was to it. But maybe a man in Dryden's position could think so; give an order, and be off on his way, and trust that if things weren't clean by the time he came back it was another man's failings, and not his own.

God damn the man. And maybe it was just the rush and the threat from Legionary, but Smith felt he was itching for a fight. Ready to make it a good one.

No place for it, here.

Most of the hands were dispersing, creeping off like mice, back to their industry. Legionary was watching him, picking up on his anger, and tense because of it.

God damn Grady, and Dryden, and the whole mess of it.

Smith turned to one of the hands who had lingered. "Get me a goddamn rope," he said.

Took most of the afternoon to get Legionary calmed enough to handle, and enough to handle didn't mean much more than that. The horse still looked at him like any sudden movement would start the war up again, and refused to take a pat on the shoulder or even a lump of sugar from Smith's hand. But he went in his stall again, and Smith left him there, and went to report to Dryden.

Found the man in the main house, lingering by the door to one of the back rooms. Room had a cot set up in it, as private a bedroom as this place could afford to a man neither owner nor overseer. Grady was lying in the bed, face pale, breath raspy, and a man Smith recognized as the Purgatory doctor — the real, well-regarded one — was sitting next to him.

Dryden caught sight of Smith as he came in, and pulled himself away from the doorway. Lowered his voice. "Well," he said — and no great charity, in that tone. "That horse has killed a man, now."

Smith looked back through the door to Grady. There was a rough, knifelike feeling at his lungs, and he wasn't sure if it was because Grady made that cot a deathbed, or what.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he managed to say.

Dryden seemed to take that just about as he meant it, but he didn't press the issue. "Crushed his ribs," he explained. "Didn't break his back, but doctor says he's bruised inside, and bleeding. All of it's just... too much." Dryden shook his head. "We've given him morphine. We'll try to make him comfortable."

"...bad business," Smith said. Didn't have much else he could say.

He did think that he ought to feel solemn, or regretful, or sorrowful, somehow. Even if he didn't like Grady, he ought to find some smear of human sympathy for him. But instead, he found himself looking at the man on the bed and fixing the image in his mind, as though the grey mood in the house were the same weight as graphite, and if he could catch it and mark it down, he might make sense of it.

Foolish notion. He didn't have time to think on it before Dryden said, "Legionary is a problem."

Of all the problems that afternoon, Smith wasn't sure just how many to lay at Legionary's hooves. "A man goes to handle a horse like that, he ought to be careful," he said. It were as close to criticizing Grady as he felt it safe to come, here at the dying man's door.

"A man should be able to work his horse without fear for his life," Dryden said. "That horse is more dangerous than I'm willing to accept."

"Wasn't, to me," Smith said. Ignore the fact that when they first saw each other, Legionary would have done the same, and with less provocation. Ignore the fact that without the rope in his hand then and the whip in his hand now, Smith too would have found himself broken under the beast's hooves.

No doubt that the creature was dangerous. Any animal was. But so was any gun, any knife, any hammer... so was any man.

"Perhaps not. Not in the two days you spent with him." Dryden's words ceded territory, but his tone did no such thing. "And yet, here we are."

Smith wondered if Dryden was speaking to him, here, simply because he was a human mind who could put English to something, and speaking to Legionary wasn't an option. "I ain't sure quite what you're saying."

"Can you train it out of him?"

A tension came to the air like a sheet of ice, about to snap under a man's weight. "I can't train a horse to accept a whipping," Smith said. No question that it could be done — plenty did. Plenty were happy enough to take a horse's fear and obedience in place of its willing cooperation. But he didn't know the trick of it, and didn't search too hard for the knowledge. "And if I could, I wouldn't do it."

Dryden fixed on him. His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

More fear crept into him than should have, at that slight disapproval. Part of Smith wanted to scrabble back, to appease the man, to offer some excuse or explanation or compromise — and part of him balked, and said dig in your feet, and made it feel like own his life, or something more important, depended on it.

Legionary, maybe. The horse's life might well be in the balance. His life, or his home here at Oak Rose; who knew but Dryden might sell him on, and to an owner who had none of Smith's compunctions.

Though why Smith might care more about him than his own livelihood and hide were an open question.

"I could train him," Smith said. "Train him so a whipping's not necessary. Whatever Grady needed out of him—"

And as though the man's name, spoken aloud, had summoned him out of the fog of morphine and bleeding, Grady jerked up on his bed and moaned.

Dryden turned abruptly, and stepped back into the room. Made his voice gentler than Smith had ever heard it; rested his good hand on Grady's shoulder and said, "Easy, son. You rest. Doctor's here."

Smith trailed after him. Held back in the doorway; didn't feel right to invite himself to Grady's bedside. But Grady turned his head, and looked at Dryden, and then past Dryden to where Smith stood waiting in the door — and convulsed, and looked on Smith wild-eyed and terrified, so frightened the air went thick with it. The doctor leapt up, put one hand on Grady's forehead and one on his shoulder, tried to hold him down.

"Grady! Grady! Benjamin!" Dryden pushed down on his shoulder, only for Grady to buck harder; the man lashed out, more strength that he should have possessed still, or a strength born of sheer, final panic. Sent Dryden crashing into the wall before he could get his shot arm out to steady himself; knocked the doctor away, and Smith rushed in before he could think twice about what he was doing. Caught the man's shoulders and pushed him down against the bed.

"Easy. Easy, you fool!" Recognized too late that he was snapping — the tone he used with idiots, not a tone to use with the dying. Quieted his voice, searched for that calm he had with wounded animals, with Legionary. "Easy. We're trying to help you."

Grady's eyes were locked on his. Still fighting, with whatever was left in him. Gaze clouded by pain first, then morphine; motions made sloppy by the blood pooling under his skin. Looking at Smith like the air was dark around him, like—

Smith let go.

Let that look chase him from the door. Fled to find the silence in the main room, where the overseer's desk sat empty; had to press his back into the wooden walls, and close his eyes, and let his heart finish outracing whatever it bolted from, and catch breath that had been well-spooked by nothing.

Nothing yet.

Nothing but a memory of a man he'd never known, with a noose around his neck; nothing but a tall darkness that seemed to crowd the room with Grady, breathless breath cold on Smith's neck, waiting for its moment to be seen.

He stood there for a while, as the light reddened outside, as the crickets started up their evening lament. No one came for him, to drag him off to work or remind him of the dinner bell, until Dryden stepped out from the back hallway and saw him, and his expression went narrow and hard.

Smith found his voice. "He's gone, ain't he?"

"He has family in Kentucky," Dryden said. "We'll send notice tomorrow morning."

"Right," Smith said. Ought to say something more. Ought to be something more to be said.

Dryden seemed to think so. He went to the overseer's desk and ran his good hand over the wood, then looked at Smith again. Looked like he was weighing accounts inside his mind.

"Mr. Grady seemed afraid of you," he said, once he'd taken their measure. "Was there a reason he should have been?"

Quick as a drawn pistol, Smith felt the threat close in. His mind scrabbled for an escape. "We quarreled," he said. "Didn't get along; no secret about that. But I didn't train the damn horse to attack him. I kept Legionary off him. Weren't angling for him to die."

Dryden held his gaze for a long moment. Finally said, "I didn't believe that you were."

Didn't believe. But certainly had thought it. Might well have suspected it. And suspicion were like snake venom; it got in beside belief, didn't it?

How long before that snake sunk its teeth deep?

Dryden huffed. "It will change things here," he said.

"Course," Smith said, because it was something he had at hand to say.

"I need a man here, training the horses," Dryden went on. Then knocked the air out of Smith: "That will be you, Smith. We'll speak tomorrow about what that will mean. Especially considering your... extra duties to the Purgatory sheriff."

The bounty hunting, he meant. And Christ, but here was a way to stoke that suspicion higher, weren't it? Grady died, and Smith stepped right into the man's shoes. "I—"

"Perhaps you could give it up," Dryden said, and it felt like the crack of a whip in the air. "You'll have a higher salary as a trainer, of course. And people in the business know the horses of Oak Rose; you could make quite a name for yourself."

The last thing Smith wanted was to make a name for himself. Last thing he wanted was to be tied here, stuck in a stall like a stallion.

"I don't," he started, and considered how little I don't want to meant in the life of a man like him. "That is, that's real fine, but—"

Dryden shook his head. Seemed bitter at the turns of the day, or exhausted by them. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk about it. I should... compose a letter." He looked at Smith. "And I'm sure you have something to attend to."

He turned and walked away.

Last word in.

Smith stood and watched him, and his footing felt shaky. One foot in the grave. Like the dust and dung of Oak Rose would open, jaws wide, and swallow him.

Part of him just wanted to run. Marks would be able to find him, surely, and what else did he need?—he could live off bounties. Surely, he could live off bounties. He'd thought he'd found a good enough place here, but all a sudden, the thought of being trapped day by day on the ranch were like the thought of moving to New Hampshire. Just as friendly a thought as walking up onto a gallows.

Buy a horse. Buy any horse; didn't need to be one from Oak Rose. Borrow a goddamn horse from Marks, if he had more than one working animal. Escape into the freedom of open land and sky, maybe stake out enough wilderness to pitch a tent northeast—

And there he had to stop, and catch the racing thoughts by the tail, because — northeast? Oh, that thought slipped in like a thief, or like a message sent from someone. From something.

Trapped here, and a trap waiting, there. Couldn't trust the ground or the sky, the men of Oak Rose or his own damned self.

His feet were numb. He took himself outside.

There was something to be done. Always some work or some routine, on the ranch; if he buried himself in that, maybe nothing else would come to bury him for a time. Maybe he could catch his breath and settle his thoughts and think.

Maybe the stars, just beginning to consider the darkening sky, wouldn't pick him to pieces before he could.

Rumor had beat news. By the time he walked out, it were in the air, and the ranch were shivering with it. Tight clusters of chatter around the bunkhouse; a wave of silence that washed over the chuck wagon when he went and got his plate. Even Cook's smile had a solemn tinge, and seemed wooden when he turned it on Smith.

Or maybe he imagined that.

But he didn't goddamn imagine the way silence fell around him like the light of a lantern, and murmurs fell into the shadows.

He withdrew from the chuck wagon and the bunkhouse; found no relief, as the overseer caught him. The man was standing looking into Legionary's paddock, smoking a cigarette; his eye fell across Smith, and he beckoned him over. "So you'll be the new horse trainer, then."

Like being lashed to something, that was. Like the fences all around had shouldered their way up much higher than they had been. Smith might have said, I ain't decided, but he couldn't recall anyone asking him. "Dryden say so?"

Useless question. The overseer didn't bother to answer it. "He has a head for business," he said, instead. "If he sees potential in you, you'd do well to develop it."

The words seemed to wrap around some other sentiment, like a coal. Like something Smith ought to remember. You have it in you... "I ain't sure."

"Nothing to be afraid of," the overseer said, and turned Smith's stomach, how wrong he was. Didn't sound like he believed it, in any case. More like the words were dry, cut out from a catalog full of meaningless things. "You're the sort of man who will rise to a challenge."

Smith might have asked how the hell he'd got that impression. Might have, except one of the hands ran up, and said, "Overseer. There's some man over at the big house, asking around." Didn't manage not to cast a look at Smith, like he was suspect in all of this.

The overseer looked at the hand, then sighed at this sudden intrusion of his other duties. He cast a last look at Smith, as though he might say something worthwhile as a parting gift, then shook his head and went off toward the main house.

Leaving Smith there, to steep in the uncertainty.

Leaving the quiet, alien suspicion of the ranch to close back around him, a hand that held him as he might hold a living bird. Careful, only just, not to crush him. Careful also not to let him get away.

Whole ranch knew he hadn't killed Grady. Course, they knew. Rumor could have suggested it, but there was the evidence of plenty of witnesses that said, no.

Grady'd tried to handle a horse that Smith could handle. Handled it badly, and got kicked, and that was the end of it. Weren't no more to it.

Except.

Except.

Except a man was dead, and Smith was a killer, and Smith's hand was in the little ranch legend that Legionary had become. And Smith and Grady had no love lost between them. And the witness of all those ranch hands weren't enough to kick the suggestion of something terrible out the doorway.

And it curled around him, grasped at him, until he blinked and caught himself thinking: maybe it would have been better just to kill the man.

Just shoot him, outright.

Turned the idea over and over—

And what would that have saved? Saved some trouble with Legionary, sure. Wouldn't have fractured that fragile trust. But would have ended Smith's work here, and certainly his freedom as soon as the sheriff caught up to him, and maybe his life, depending on how the sheriff felt that day.

But would have saved the ranch from Grady.

...was the thought. The thing that kept Smith circling back. Saved the ranch from Grady. As though Grady could have done more harm, would have done more harm, than cracking a whip across Legionary's hide.

Dryden had listened to Grady. Knew he made mistakes now and again, but what man didn't? Still had listened to him. Still had trusted him. And Smith had no ground to contest that, Johnny-come-lately as he was, but it got under his skin like a tick all the same. And why? The man had been a fool around the horses, sure enough, and Smith hadn't shed a tear at his passing. But it wasn't the sort of thing a man killed another man for. Not when the horses weren't even his.

Being a fool around the horses weren't the sort of thing that ought to make Smith feel he'd been dangerous to all of them — the whole ranch, the whole lot of them, the whole family that weren't a family, weren't much more than folk who worked together and slept under the same roof.

The night was offering no relief. The paddock surely weren't going to. He turned and walked the ranch paths, seeking something.

Sure enough, there was a new horse hitched by the main house. Thoroughbred; not the doctor's horse, for he had left, and no one else to do with Grady, if Dryden planned on leaving that business to lie until the morning. And surely an undertaker would come with a cart, anyway.

For a moment, the lunatic thought struck him that he could grab the horse, hop on its back, vanish into the evening. To hell with whoever had come visiting. Smith's mind was full of crimes, like every bad habit he'd suspected himself of having was rearing and champing at the bit; he could be a sneak thief, a killer, and what would it matter, now?

He just needed to get his head on straight.

What was there to do? Mend tack? If he sat down it might just keep him from doing something stupid. Didn't want to go near any of the horses, just now; stoke some rumor or other, tempt himself to flee more than he was already tempted.

Maybe he could try to get some of this, any of this, down, but he didn't think his journal might be safe, just now.

He went to the feed shed. More because it was close and empty than for any other reason. Feed shed always had pests, of course it had pests, and pests brought cats to eat the rats, and a couple of those cats slunk out of his way as he approached it and one, lying sprawled on the top of a barrel, stretched its forelegs and showed its claws and looked at him with a green glint in its gin-clear eyes; he was an intruder here, it seemed to say, and a guest on their territory, and he'd be tolerated only so long as... so long as... something.

Might be a scar or two, hidden on that cat's lean body. A whole history of contest, of violence, that he could only guess at.

He went inside.

Lit the lanterns, and set himself to moving all the heavy crates and barrels to get behind them with a stiff broom; work that always needed doing and was never done enough. Hay debris, stray kernels of corn, oat groats, mouse droppings, splinters; dust rose from the slatted wood floor, and it felt like he was doing something, at least. Even if that something was futile, and likely to be undone as soon as folk pulled feed out the next morning.

He'd swept a neat pile out the door, and probably moved every bale and barrel in the shed twice, when the overseer called out, "Smith!", from the direction of the main house.

Whatever this was, he didn't want to deal with it. It wound him tighter, though. Tension in his shoulders like he'd snap in half along his spine. Wasn't until the overseer called his name again that he managed to clear out his throat and call, "I'm here! Give me a minute," and threw the broom back against the wall.

His shoulders ached. He'd managed to pick up a splinter or two in his fingertips and the palms of his hands. And the evening felt just as awful unbearable as it had when he'd started.

But the overseer had called him, and he had to answer the man. See whatever new calamity had written itself into his day.

He left the feed shed, passing back under the imperial gaze of the barn cat, and turned back toward the main house. Turned around the corner of the shed, and didn't see the overseer. Saw some other man walking fast across the ranch toward him, and as soon as that man saw him, he startled, then broke into a run.

"Arthur!"

...that was a voice he hadn't been expecting to hear.

Smith stepped back. Took the newcomer in. Kinda oily black hair; impressive set of scars on his face. Didn't recognize that face, but the voice was damn distinctive.

The tension that had wound around him tightened; now it was like a burning in his lungs, fit to smother him. His hand, without his input, readied itself to draw; found by the lightness at his hip that he didn't have a gun to draw, because the fine weapons he'd picked up in Blackwater were tucked away in the bunkhouse, and even the now-passable arms in the barn were closer, but not nearly to hand.

The stranger, he noted, was well armed.

And the goddamn overseer had pointed him right at Smith, and not bothered to linger to see the results of it.

"You again?" Smith demanded. Mouth outraced his thinking. His thinking was still stuck, trapped in the notion that this might be his death, come to fetch him. "Listen—"

"Jesus!" the man said, pulling to a stop far too close for comfort. Smith took a step away; kept turned to face him. He was closer than a man would stand to shoot another man, generally; though now Smith was on his guard for a knife. Would make more sense to use a knife, too, in a busy place like this, where someone would hear a gunshot. "It is you. It goddamn is you! How?"

How. The only how Smith was interested in was how this lunatic had tracked him to the ranch, on a day too full of disaster to begin with. Only good thing about having him standing this close was that if he went for whatever weapon he chose, Smith could likely go for his neck. Whole situation had put a headache between Smith's eyes, growing like a thunderhead on the horizon. "Listen," ...what had his name been? Something very common, for the first part; "—John." John Marston. He'd almost got the bastard to spell it for him. "I don't know who you think I am, what business you have with me—"

Except it be killing him in the name of his cousin or cousins or whatever, and he weren't much interested in that.

But the stranger didn't look much interested in killing him. Not just now. Now he was staring at Smith like he were a living jackalope, hands just slightly out like he was getting ready to grab for him. "Overseer said," he started, each word uncertain, "there might be something wrong with your memory—"

Smith grit his teeth. Overseer had a big goddamn mouth, apparently, and he might need to have a conversation with the man about that. ...he might need to find a way to have that conversation without getting the sack. He might need to find in himself if getting the sack were even something he were afraid of just now. But if rumor got out here, out further than the ranch hands, it was going to make him the target of every ten-cent conman from here to Saint Denis, as though that little problem needed to be piled on all the bigger ones. "Not really your business, is that?"

He took another step away. Marston stayed facing him.

He was having trouble reading the man. Reading the whole goddamn situation. Didn't look like the man had shown up bringing a fight — and he'd been the one, that confused night on the road, yelling about how it'd all be a damn mistake. But that night on the road had been nothing friendly. Smith would wager anything on that.

Maybe he'd misread things, then or just after. Maybe it was nothing to do with Grey at all. Still left a question in its wake. Still left that goddamn ambush in its wake; a man coming up at him, hollering, his pistol raised—

And this man, who'd been riding with that other one, here and now, looking at Smith like... this.

"I know who you are!"

Today, Smith was in no mood to be trusting. And what little history he had with this man didn't inspire trust, anyway.

"Sure you do." A trick of some sort, if it weren't a trap. Next, perhaps, Marston would say that Smith owed him money, or that they had a business venture together, or that they were long-lost brothers who needed to claim a relative's inheritance, or some damn thing. Or that he needed to come somewhere, see someone, be fetched out of Oak Rose to find some proof, where maybe the entire Grey clan would be waiting for him. Would that be it? "Nice of you to stop by. You can head on out, now."

Neither the tone nor the words nor the look Smith gave him seemed to get through to Marston, though maybe he couldn't manage a look quite as scathing as he wanted to. Marston just hung for a second on the words, looking like Smith's simple lack of credence had knocked the wind out of him. "...you're not the least bit curious?"

Oh, Smith was. Despite himself, he still was. Curious, but suspecting the answer weren't nothing he'd be eager to find — and curious, but not credulous, not with this man, at this time. And in no mood, with the thumping ache in his skull, to waste any of his time listening. "In what you've got to say? No. Not the least bit."

He took another step away. Marston took a step closer.

"You're my brother!"

Hit him like a kicking horse, that.

And then the pain in his head clicked down like a revolver hammer, and sense knocked him back; he looked at the man, compared him to the face he saw in the mirror every time he went to shave. Measured the two of them against each other.

Liar. He sidled, angling away from the shed, back toward the main cluster of buildings. Let himself start walking, start at a good clip, when it seemed the man wasn't going to try to stop him. "Course. Look at us. We're practically twins."

"Well — not literally my brother," Marston said, hurrying to catch up. "We was like brothers. We grew up together. —I mean, I grew up with you. We—" He dropped his voice. "We ran together."

Jesus, the man couldn't keep a story straight to save his life. Smith wondered how much of a knot he'd tie himself into, if he was just left to babble. Probably more than enough of one to tie Smith up with it, trap him with the uneasy mystery and the pain between his eyes. "The more words you say, the less sense they make. I hope you understand that." He lengthened his stride.

"I know," Marston said, and rushed to keep up. "I'm not explaining this well. Hell, until I saw you, I wasn't even sure..."

He trailed off. There was something like hurt or desperation in his tone, in his face, not that Smith knew why; maybe the kind of desperation that could lead a man to try some trick or con he weren't ept at, though what he hoped to gain was anyone's guess. Inheritance? Favors? Still something having to do with the fact that Smith worked with Marks? Was this all some complication from some other bounty Marks hadn't researched thoroughly enough?

Goddamnit. There wasn't enough room left in his head to consider it, around the grinding in his skull.

"Arthur," Marston began.

Smith stopped, and stuck a hand out, and Marston nearly ran into it before he could stop his own hurry. "Name's Smith," Smith said, knowing that it weren't. "Mr. Smith, to you. And whatever you're selling, I ain't buying."

Marston didn't bother to shake his hand, which was fine. "I ain't selling anything," he said. "I thought you were dead."

A flash of pain stabbed up out of the rolling headache like a bolt of lightning. Dashed what little patience he had remaining to bits. "Well, you was going to try for that, wasn't you?"

He might as well have thrown a bucket of water over the man, he stopped up so quickly. "—what?"

"Come riding up on me in the middle of the night—"

Marston was shaking his head. "That weren't me; I had nothing to do with it. That man you shot—"

Deserved to be shot. "Look." He stepped forward. Marston, frustratingly, didn't step back. "Your friend drew on me. He got what he had coming." And maybe he should have aimed to disarm the bastard and not kill him — he had a feeling that the police chief of Blackwater didn't like extra corpses any more than the sheriff of Purgatory — but there had been two of them and one of him, and at the time he hadn't known that John Marston apparently had the killer's instinct of a particularly small and friendly mouse.

"He weren't my friend," Marston said. "I'd never met him before."

Smith looked at him. Not just that the headache were making it hard to think, but how much of an idiot did Marston believe he was?

"I was riding in towards Blackwater, and this guy comes up to me and says he needs an escort into the city. I think he wanted to pressgang me into shooting at you, or intimidating you, or something." Marston shook his head. "Obviously, it was a stupid idea."

"Obviously," Smith agreed. So stupid, in fact, that he had trouble believing anyone would come up with it.

"Listen, I know how it sounds," Marston says, "but this kinda thing happens to me a lot."

"What, you getting shanghaied into an idiot's ambush?"

"Well... not that exactly, but yeah," Marston said. "Come on, you have to remember. There was this time up by Deer Creek—"

"Listen," Smith said. "Why don't you just tell me what you goddamn want from me!" Goddamnit, his head. Like a howling in his skull.

Marston seemed to have trouble with the demand. Took it like a slap to the face, anyway. Said, "I—," and then had to stop and think, staring at him like a dog seeing a mirror for the first time. After a bit, he said, "I guess I had to find out if it was you."

"I am me," Smith said. No idea who that might be, and he doubted Marston was going to tell him anything sensible. The headache was his fault, surely, his and his nonsense, at least in part, and it had Smith in its teeth. "So, you can go right along your way." He, meanwhile, was going to turn and go right along on his.

He'd made it three steps toward the barn — had no business in the barn, but it was better than trailing this over to the bunkhouse — before Marston's brain caught up with what he was doing, and the fool hurried to catch up with him. "Arthur—"

"Will you stop calling me that?" Smith lengthened his strides. Marston lengthened his.

"Listen, I just want to talk—"

"You been talking. And I'm happy for you to stop at any point." He could feel his own heartbeat on the inside of his skull. Felt like the ticking of the game watch in Purgatory; too fast, too fast, poised to stop at any time. He leaned into his stride.

"I might be able to help you—"

"I've had enough help." He remembered Strauss with his interminable tests, his godforsaken teas. He threw open the door to the barn and went past the tack, over to the cabinet where Dryden kept his mistreated stash of pistols. At this point he might put one to his own head if it would make the headache stop.

"Arthur!"

And that was the last argument Marston tried, because it turned out even he shut up when he found the barrel of a revolver digging into his gut.

He did look surprised. Like this was somehow not a reasonable expectation, leading off from his current behavior, or from Smith's general mood. He put his hands up, slowly.

"I think you should leave now, partner," Smith suggested.

Marston swallowed. Stared a little too hard into his eyes. "I guess... maybe I should."

"I don't want to see you around here."

Another flash of that hurt desperation. Maybe he should have seen if he could get to the bottom of that — maybe this man was tied up in a bounty, maybe he had a problem that it'd be no great charity to fix — but Smith was in unaccustomed pain, and there'd been no sense in anything said so far.

The wonders of holding a gun on someone. Seemed like it served pretty well to discourage argument. Smith could see this becoming a regular way of life, if he weren't careful. "I hear you," Marston said.

Smith gave a little push with the revolver, and Marston backed away. Even and slow, never taking his eyes off him. Didn't even look down at the weapon in his hand. The damn thing was empty, but it seemed enough of a threat; Smith swung it up, pointed it dead between the man's eyes, and that got him backing the rest of the way out of the barn.

The headache gave another hard flash, like a lightningstrike, and Smith yelled, "And stay away!" at the dark doorway. Held the pistol on empty air for near a minute, then flung it to the wall and collapsed. Curled in around the tearing pain inside his skull, cradled his forehead in his hands.

Managed not to howl, but it were a near thing.

Eyes closed, he lost himself in the pain that rushed in on him like a river from all sides, tearing around his skull, flooding his throat and his chest and his muscles from the pit of his gut to his fingers, curled like claws. Felt like something was ripping at him, murmuring around him, like that goddamn dream that hadn't felt much like a goddamn dream, and—

And he was shaking, and he ought to stop, ought to put his hands down and stand up and brush himself off because folk were bound to be curious just what had gone on, and curious folk stuck their noses in things, and he ought not to make a spectacle of himself.

Still, it took some time before anyone put their head into the lion's den the barn had become.

Anyone's voice was wary, because here was a man to be wary of. "...Smith?"

He took a deep breath, shakier than he'd like. The headache had settled a little, but with the air of a cat watching to see if its mouse was really dead or just pretending. At least it were enough to let him deal with this new problem. "What?"

The man at the door took another step inside. Voice clearer, now. "You okay?"

That'd be Abersson, then. He groaned, "No," then made himself drop his hands and stand up, surprised to find his balance. "Just a headache that came on. I'll be fine."

"You need something?" Abersson asked. "Tonic, or... whisky, or something?"

God, but the whisky sounded like a solution. Just drink until he no longer cared what the night had in store for him. Drink himself into a stupor here in the corner of the barn, leave the bunkhouse alone to get back used to the idea of him. Maybe it would even quiet the dreams down for the night. He surely didn't remember much of his night after the bar in Blackwater.

He could. He could. He could.

And just what would he wake to?

"I'm fine," he said. He felt like he imagined a man would feel as they placed the noose around his neck.

Abersson didn't leave. After a moment, he said, "Who was that man?"

"No one," Smith said, and the headache stabbed again. "I don't know. Nothing good."

"You want I should get the overseer?"

"No." The last thing Smith wanted was to have the overseer involved, again.

"Right," Abersson said. "You want I should just... leave you alone for a while?"

First sensible or helpful thing anyone had said since the lunch hour. Smith swallowed. "Yeah," he said. Might have found a way to make that more tactful, if he'd been thinking straight, and he'd cared. "I'm fine."

"Right," Abersson said, and didn't sound like he believed him. But after a moment or two, he took himself away.

Smith walked to the other wall on legs that were only a little unsteady, and picked up the pistol he'd thrown.

No escape from any of it. Except the pistol seemed to glint black, for a moment, and he remembered himself fleeing from Grady's room, and it seemed as though he might be walking a very narrow road between one kind of ruin and another. Too much clustered in the air and the ranch and his own mind, and maybe it were no wonder that it was splitting his skull.

He didn't put the pistol back in its cupboard. Instead he went and took down a horse blanket, and found a corner in the barn mostly hidden by hanging tack, and settled down and closed his eyes and caught whatever quiet and solitude he could. Tried not to think of the headache as the points of wolves' teeth, digging ever deeper in him.

Well.

So.

...it hadn't been the night he'd expected.

John stood outside the barn until hands started asking questions he couldn't answer. Stood outside Oak Rose for a longer while, hand on Rachel's reins, feeling like he'd been shot and unsure what to do with the lack of blood spilling onto the green earth.

He'd started out following a thread that seemed as thin as spiderweb. One that had widened, clear and undeniable as the track of a river, and tossed him up, here — and, well...

He'd found him.

Found the man, alive and real and whole, and somehow John had thought that would be the end of the matter — like, all the tracking and trailing and digging for clues would lead him to a yes or a no and the end of the story. In no way had he expected what he'd found.

And in no way had he prepared for it, and in no way did he know how he should have.

Arthur was alive. Alive, and close by, and separated by something he'd never even considered: not death, nor distance, but plain not knowing himself or John or anyone.

John hadn't quite believed the overseer, when the man had listened to his business and chewed on the end of his cigarette and said You know he's had some... trouble, word is. Well, trouble; they was all used to trouble, or had been, once, and if they'd all made it this far...

They was all used to the kind of trouble you could pay off or shoot down.

But Arthur was alive. He was alive, and god damn that photo Sadie had rustled up from somewhere, and god damn all the doubts and confusions, and god had damned John, clearly, handing him this problem, the latest in a set that he had no earthly idea how to solve.

But the man was alive.

And liable to kill John and have done with it, if he pressed the matter. Or... or something; Arthur never had seemed like the sort of man to put up with shit from strangers, though John had never known him except as part of the rough family that had folded him in. He'd never been a stranger to him, not really. How was he to know?

What was he supposed to do?

Leaving seemed wrong. Staying seemed, at best, futile.

But...

But Arthur was alive.

And more to the point, John knew where he was, now.

Fell into place like the last beam of a built house, promising a roof to hold up and walls to be graced by and some kind of life inside, and shelter. He'd found the man, and that was proof, of a sort. Not the kind he could fold up and take with him, but proof of his own eyes, of more than a shout in the darkness, and it was something he could bring back. If anyone would believe his word.

Better option than a bullet to the gut.

He near about vaulted onto Rachel's back. Took her down the road at a gallop, as though he'd turn and walk straight back onto the ranch if he didn't outrace the idea.

Couldn't keep her at a gallop the whole way, of course. Long road back to Beecher's Hope, and the air pressed heavy around him as the hours wore on. Felt like they'd bury him breathing.

His body was thrumming with exhaustion, and Rachel had her head slung low, by the time he rode in the Beecher's Hope gate. It were either the small hours of the night or the small hours of the morning, or both, or it made no difference, and he was dreading having to wake someone when he walked inside. As it turned out, he didn't need to. The moment the front door swung closed — no more loudly than it ever did — Abigail was rushing out of the bedroom, hair mussed, nightgown tangled around her, as though she'd been sleeping poorly or not at all.

John barely had time to hang his lantern on the wall. Then she'd reared up and hit him, full in the chest, and then hit him again hard on the shoulder, and then a third time before he got himself together enough to catch at her wrists. "Abigail!"

"You useless—" Abigail ducked out of his grip, looked for a moment like she was going to get a knee in, and John scrabbled to the side and decided that the fists were fine, and he could tolerate those. "You no-good, you miserable — you said you wasn't going anywhere! Anywhere, John! What kind of 'urgent business' could you have that would take you all the way out to Valentine? What's going on with you?"

He didn't have the time or the patience for this. He'd known as soon as he'd set out that she'd be angry; hell, she was probably right to be angry, so far as her part was concerned. But it turned out that he was right to have gone looking. "Abigail—"

"Don't 'Abigail' me! And now you've gotten Jack involved in this foolishness? What've you told him? —you know he's not the type to think clear about any of this!"

"Abigail," he tried again.

One final blow, aimed at the side of his head, and she at least seemed to run out of violence. "How much of our lives are you planning on destroying with this!"

"None of it!" Abigail's fist made to rise, and he stepped forward. Seized her arms, and held her there. "It's done. Abigail, listen to me—"

"Listen? You want I should listen—!"

"I found him," John said.

Chapter Text

They gathered before the sun was up to greet them. Around the diningroom table, over steaming cups of coffee — and even Jack had a cup of coffee, despite hating the stuff every time he'd tried it. He looked like he was taking his position here, sitting among the adults, very seriously. And if the coffee were one of the accoutrements of adulthood, well, he'd take that seriously, too.

Besides John and Jack the table held Abigail, looking tense and unhappy over her mug; Charles, looking like he honestly had no idea what to think. And Uncle, who nobody had invited, looking like he was going to do his utmost to make sure nothing productive was done.

John couldn't think of how to deal with that. He was having a hard time keeping his thoughts on anything; his whole body seemed taut and ragged with fatigue, like those nights right when they'd begun to flee, and hadn't escaped the central states yet. Like sleep was one more thing he had to run from.

One more thing to keep his eye on.

"I don't see what the fuss is," Uncle was saying. "I thought you was dead, John. You thought Charles was bound to be. Stubborn bastard that Morgan was, why, it's no surprise he's still kicking around somewhere."

John couldn't stop himself from sliding his gaze across to Charles, and Charles caught his eye and thankfully said nothing. John couldn't tell what he was thinking, now any more than any other time. Hoped it wasn't trouble, behind that impassive face. Right now, he could deal with one thing set in front of him, just about. Couldn't think much further than that.

Uncle, like Jack, was perhaps not the ally John would have chosen. And — like Jack — he wasn't a very well-informed one. Less reliable an ally for that, but then, who could John blame for it?

But Charles didn't bring up any of his arguments. Not the body he'd found, and not the photo Sadie had brought. It made John pause, and adjust his balance, like he'd found level ground underfoot where he thought there'd be a slope.

Abigail threw her hands up. "And you've seen him, you say."

John wrested his attention around, and aimed his words at her and Charles. "I know you both think I'm crazed, or I been conned, or something—"

"I don't think you've been tricked," Charles said. "But I don't see that it's possible. I don't see how it's possible."

As if that were something he could answer for. "Neither do I," John said. "But I know what I saw. I know who I saw." He spread his hands. "It's Arthur."

"You're sure it wasn't just a... a strong resemblance?" Abigail asked, for what must have been the fourth time.

"Abigail." He couldn't even blame her, really. If, before all of this, she'd come telling him she'd run into Arthur in Blackwater or Strawberry or something... "I can't explain it, okay? I know I can't. But I saw him with my own two eyes." He rubbed his palms against his own two eyes. At the moment, they were the front windows into a growing headache. "And he didn't remember me. Or anything about any of us."

Uncle chuckled. "Oh, the old 'I-don't-know-you,' is it? It's the oldest line in the book, John—"

"He weren't spinning a line." He pressed his palms further against his eyes. God, but he could have dropped off right there; let the confused darkness take him by the mind and drag him off into sleep. Wake to wonder if all of this had been some dream. God, it would make it so much easier if Arthur had been guarding some alias, playing some line. But Arthur, playing a part, would have found a way to signal John off. Even with eyes watching, which there hadn't been, they knew each other enough to pass a signal.

The more he thought about it, the more he thought that Arthur, if he'd known himself at all, would never have let John see the shade of fear in his eyes.

As if John had been something to fear.

Uncle chortled. "And how would you know?" he asked. "You'd fall for someone selling sand in the desert—"

"He weren't himself," John said. "He — clearly."

He could feel Charles watching him. He dropped his hands, and only then realized how much those had been holding him upright.

"Well, it's been a long time," Jack offered. "People change a lot in all that time, don't they?"

Fate had to be laughing, putting him in a position like this, where he couldn't even agree with his allies. "Yes, but not like this."

Charles was the one who finally cut the knot. "What happened?"

Meaning, John suspected, what makes you say that? What makes you so certain? Questioning his belief, as John had pretty much expected.

What makes you so sure he was Arthur? What makes you so sure he wasn't himself?

The answers were one and the same, were the joke. "Well, he..." John paused. Cast a sidelong look at Jack. Then continued, almost apologetically, "...put a gun to me."

There was silence at the table for a long few seconds. Then Jack said, "What?", and Abigail put her head in her hands, and made a low, frustrated noise.

"We didn't exactly meet up in the best of circumstances, that first time," John said. Even to his own ears, the excuse sounded lame.

"I will not forgive you," Abigail said. "I will not forgive you. If you get yourself killed in some damnfool way because of this, John Marston—"

"Ain't going to get myself killed," John protested. "If he really wanted me dead, I'm sure he could have found a way to kill me."

Probably not the best thing to say. He glanced at Jack, and the boy had gone pale. And Abigail was just glaring at him, and said "Please tell me why I should find this a comfort."

"I'm still alive, ain't I!"

Uncle had gone back to laughing. At him, at everyone. "Well, I'm convinced," he said. "That's Morgan, all right."

"Shut up," John growled.

Not for the least reason that Jack was still listening, and that Jack looked at him, all wide eyed, and asked, "Even — even if he didn't know you, Uncle Arthur wouldn't hurt you, would he?"

"Uh..."

John wondered how to put this delicately. How to explain that, behind Jack's fuzzy memories of the man who'd taken him fishing and riding when he was a slip of a thing, there was a man who had never blinked too hard at killing.

He was too tired for any of this. "...no. Of course not," he lied.

Abigail was glaring at him fit to light him on fire. He shifted in his chair.

"Anyway," he said. Happy enough to get off that topic as soon as he could. Of course, then he realized he had nothing else to follow it with, beyond what he'd already said.

A silence passed around the table, or maybe five silences: John, having nothing more to say; Uncle, having nothing at hand to mock; Jack, hesitant to speak with the air so taut and heavy; Abigail, caught in the long frustration which had already blossomed to anger; and... Charles.

Charles, who watched John as though he were trying to figure something. As though the pieces didn't add up, still didn't add up, and some lasting madness might still be the cause of it.

John felt his stomach curdling.

But Charles sighed, shook his head, and said, "You want me to ride up there with you?"

The night had been long, and all the strength and patience John had was ebbing. Left him just... worn down. No hope, no dread, just nothing. "Why? So you can tell me I'm imagining things, and it just happens to be someone who looks and sounds and talks exactly like him?"

That had been petty. And John knew it had been petty, and he hated, a little bit, the pettiness. But still, so far, his friends hadn't seemed to hold a great deal of confidence in his sanity, and he half thought they believed he'd found some cowboy and paid him to dress up as Arthur to make himself feel better about things most of a decade gone.

Charles didn't bat an eyelid, in any case. Short of swinging a fist at him, John wasn't sure if anything he did would get Charles to bat an eyelid once his poker face was on. "So I can see him," he said. "Talk to him. Maybe find out what's going on."

What's going on. For a second, in his fatigue, all John could think was that Charles was still looking for the edges of the trick. But then he wrested his mind around by force, and reminded himself that he didn't know, either, how to make all of this make sense. How to reconcile any — let alone all — of what he knew.

Eight years of separation, a chance encounter, a man's memories wiped out like... like a grave under a landslide. A dead man revealed to be alive; revealed, in this wide and busy country, to be hardly half a day's ride away. These things happened in campfire tales. Not in the indifferent light of day.

And even if all that fell together, the Pinkertons had sent someone up into that mountain, eight years ago. And they'd found someone who looked exactly like Arthur, lying dead against a rock face.

And maybe John could believe the man had been only close to death, had passed for a corpse and still somehow pulled through, but...

But crows had eaten his eye. And the man at Oak Rose had both eyes, and a man might survive tuberculosis, but an eye wouldn't grow back.

But the man at Oak Rose had been Arthur. There weren't no doubt about that. Sure, he was — maybe he didn't know he was. And maybe that opened up some other possibility, like he was a different man, some unknown twin... but he talked the same; he had the same scar; those weren't things even a goddamn twin would have.

So John had to choose not to believe something. Not to believe the photo and the scattered remains — bones and clothing and a belt buckle — Charles had found, or not to believe the living, breathing man he'd run into.

Weren't a hard decision.

Maybe wouldn't be for Charles, either.

"Yeah," he admitted. "If you'd come up there, I'd be grateful. Maybe he'd talk to you."

"John," Abigail said, and John brought his fist down on the table. Hard. Didn't realize he'd done it until the mugs all jumped, and he and Jack and Abigail all jumped, and only Uncle and Charles looked like they'd expected the outburst.

John stared at his hand. After a moment, he realized that the sensation in his chest, shrouded in weariness and gripping his lungs, was anger.

Anger weren't something he could do a damn thing with.

"I'm done talking about it," he said, and stood. "Charles."

"It's not even light out," Charles said. Cut down the idea of leaving before John quite knew that he had raised it. "And you'll work Rachel to death. We'll leave later in the morning."

And get there in the afternoon, maybe the evening. John was about to protest, maybe say he'd take one of the other horses, give Rachel a rest, but Charles stood from the table as well, and John could recognize that much as he was done talking about it, Charles was, too.

"Well," he said, and had nothing to follow that with. "...fine."

Then he walked out of the room before anyone could say anything else to him.

The eastern sky was paling when he went out, though the world was still all slates and greys. Two steps down off the porch and John realized that all he was doing was running away again, and he stopped; turned the idea over in his head, as though by turning it over, he'd find some hidden sense in it.

It was too early to let out the sheep. Even the chickens hadn't started up their gossip yet. John turned his footsteps toward the barn, and then thought better of that; someone might come out, suspect him of saddling up one of the horses, and then... then some kind of unpleasantness. He turned back, toward the little lean-to shed that he'd stashed his toolbox in, and brought his hammer out toward the loose board in the fence.

Realized, once he got there, that he'd neglected to bring any nails.

And at that, all the dissimulation ran out of him. He placed his hands on the fence, and let them hold his weight; let his shoulders drop. They shivered, almost, with the exertion of keeping himself up. Wakefulness was like a line tossed to a man in a river, the way he grasped at it.

But what else could he do?

Eventually, Abigail came out to find him.

He knew it was her by the crunch of her feet on the dry grass. He turned his face away, staring out into a twilight that offered him no answers.

"You're not fooling nobody, you know," Abigail said.

She always could start a conversation by knocking his feet out from under him. Felt like that was what she was doing, anyway. "And how'd I be fooling you?", he asked the wide horizon.

"Acting like you've really gotta... fix the fence, or whatever, after all that." She came up behind him, and he could hear a rustle of skirts and just knew she had her hands on her hips, just the way she did. "What, were you thinking I'd go off somewhere, or you could sneak off, and avoid having to say a damn thing to me?"

He could always hope. "No. Of course not."

"You're a rotten liar, John Marston."

Abigail came to the fence, and took the hammer out of his hand. Made the morning worse in two ways: now, he had no choice but to stop pretending he had a reason for being out here, and now, she had a hammer in her hand. And was idly tapping it against her palm, and frowning, and hopefully not thinking of just how hard she could idly tap it into a man's skull.

"We ain't never been too good at talking," she said. "Me and you. Not about this, not about anything."

By which she probably meant you, John thought. You ain't never been too good at talking. And he ought to have a response for that, maybe, but he was having trouble thinking of one just now. He grunted.

Abigail let out her breath. "You want to think it's him."

Never mind the hammer. John turned back to the fence anyway. Looked out into the distance, where there weren't much but the fading stars, the faint ripple of grass in the sluggish light, and the occasional dark stand of trees blotting out the horizon. "I'm done talking about it."

"Alright," Abigail said. "Fine. I'm thinking Sunday school, for Jack."

Every argument he'd already tried was lumbering toward John's tongue, ready to be tried again, and as a consequence he didn't understand for a moment what Abigail had said. "What?"

"Sunday school," Abigail said. "There's one the ladies run in the church in Blackwater. I know we can't... well, I mean, there's no way we could send him into town every day for schooling. But once a week, I think we could manage. It's an hour of bible study, but then they teach mathematics, and composition, and geography, and some civics too. And it's free. I could find work in the city on Sundays, take Jack in for the afternoon, stay there until the evening, and bring him back. He won't want to go in by himself, you know."

The words rushed past him, around him, over him, and for a moment he couldn't grasp the sense of them. "...you shouldn't be on the road that late, either."

"Well, then, you could get work in the city on Sundays and take him by," Abigail said.

"You don't want me on the road that late—"

"If I could trust you not to take a shot at something or get shot at, you'd be just fine." Abigail's hand curled around the head of the hammer. "We've got to do something with that boy. He's too smart to sit around this ranch all day. Especially now, he's started getting into..." she gave him a pointed look. "Trouble."

Took John a good long stare and more than a handful of heartbeats to realize this wasn't an argument.

From some far corner of himself, dusty with fatigue, he retrieved some part of his wits. "You know what?" he asked. "I think you're just jealous you're not his favorite any more."

He didn't quite mean it, so it was good that Abigail smirked right back at him. "Sure, John. I'm real torn up about it." She stepped closer, like she'd recognized that for an olive branch, which John supposed it had been. "You know, I hoped the two of you would find something you could talk about. Just my luck it'd be something like this." But before that could bring them right back into the argument, she swung the hammer's handle up behind his neck; caught him like a yoke and pulled him forward. "Well," she said. "Come to bed."

"It's—"

"I know," Abigail said. "And I bet you haven't slept a wink since you left. Have you?"

"That's not—"

"So come to bed. At least for an hour or two. You can do that much for me."

"I—"

"John." And he hadn't noticed it change, but now Abigail's voice was as hard as the hammer's steel. "Come to bed."

He gave up. Wouldn't put it past Abigail to take the hammer and knock him right between the eyes like a steer she planned to slaughter. "Fine."

He had to count it as grace that she didn't take him by the elbow or the ear to drag him back inside. He fell into bed in his clothes, taking the smell of horse and road dust with him, and lay there with his mind stumbling from thought to thought and making a mess of each one of them. Finally fell to slumber as the rooster began to crow.

Smith's dream that night was green.

Green... so much green it choked the eye. More green than a forest. Everywhere — broad leaves of green, bright birds of green, thick hanging vines of green, green like drowning, and in the distance, like fire spied through the clustered boles of trees, a glimmer of gold, and something tall and horned and stately moving along through it.

And then fog rose up like the rim of a grave and choked him.

He turned and found that he was tied to — something; crumbling ruins around him, and he couldn't tell if it was a grand old plantation house or some ancient edifice of stone. The world around him was something restless, tossing and turning, tossing him about with it. Like a storm-tossed sea—

He was in a cave, scattered with refuse and detritus, and in the cave's mouth was the silhouetted wolf, staring at him with eyes like ink.

He turned and walked toward it. The walking weren't something he felt he'd chosen to do; it was a thing that were happening, like a thunderhead rolling in. "What do you know?" he asked. "What now? Why are you following me?"

A party. High goddamn society; people in fancy suits, glasses of champagne, and it made sense, clear as day, to his sleeping mind that the people were wolves — or some of them were, only it was hard to tell who was which. And over — there — across the fence, there was open plains, and the stag, and he wanted to walk toward it except all the paths kept turning him around into the party, into the thick of it, and one of the men or one of the wolves stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"It started here," he said.

"Course it started here," Arthur said. There was no surprise, in the dream, that he was Arthur. No question of it, even, but he could have just as well been — been — been any one of these faces. He could feel the corners of the dream, now, and was thinking I have to wake up and this is a nightmare before he even knew he felt the fear; before he knew he'd been feeling it all along. And he also thought, no, it started well before this, maybe years before, and what the hell am I thinking, what started, what does that mean, and the Arthur in the dream was in terrible danger, but he didn't know it, and the man doing the dreaming didn't know why.

The man in front of him had a red waistcoat. Blood painted red all across the side of his face. "I made a pledge to you," he said. "We would survive, son, no matter what."

And then he said, "Who are you?" — and he was a different man, no waistcoat, no features, and the party was gone, and the plains were gone into a grey howling, and the man yelled "Who are you? I'm asking you: what are you doing here? What are you doing here?" And the man pulled back his fist to strike, and Smith woke up.

Woke to confusion. Thought he'd been thrown in some corner, somewhere, and for a moment the shapes in his eyes looked like chains or bars — but no, it was tack; he was in the tack corner of the barn, and he was breathing mighty hard.

He was in the barn. Oak Rose's barn.

He brought his hand to his face, and — goddamnit — the memories of the passed night came rushing back in on him, like they didn't want him getting too cozy. He might have shed a whole life's worth of memories. Might have started getting comfortable with the fact of it. But now he were here, and here to stay, and all his mistakes could come find him.

He stood. Tested each limb in turn, and his balance; he was no more stiff than the night he'd spent outside Legionary's paddock. Though his head ached more.

Arthur. He'd dreamed he was this Arthur, or at least his dreaming mind had worn the sense of Arthur like a man might wear a duster. Nice to believe it didn't mean anything. Because if that meant something, then maybe the rest of it did, too, and he still didn't know what kind of person that would make him be. No good one, surely. Which seemed less to the point than the bit where all he ever saw in those dreams were abandoned places, all emptied out and forgotten.

Except... this one. A nightmare, outright.

It would surely be nice to think that maybe he was having the kind of dreams that normal people had, where scrap from the day's events or the year's toil would show up, all jumbled and nonsensical. But too much hadn't come from the day's events, or anything he'd known since Purgatory. No: who was Strauss's adopted laborer, to be dreaming of tailcoats and jungles?

That idiot Marston had said, I thought you were dead. Whoever he was, he had no interest in being a ghost.

Arthur. The name did sound familiar. Like... like something very far away.

But nearer to that were the sounds of Oak Rose stirring. And Smith had more to trouble him than all of this, much of it though there was.

Smith didn't dare walk back into the bunkhouse. Course, that hardly mattered when morning brought breakfast with it, and all of them had to go by the chuck wagon anyway. And now Smith was not only a man who killed too quickly by the side of the road, and a man with a past as shadowy as some midnight campfire story, and a man who the dying struggled to run from, but he was a man who disappeared at night to go sleep in the corner of a barn.

He kept this up, and soon there would be no more room for strangeness in his reputation. He'd have filled it to the brim, and over.

He kept his head down. Pretended that if he didn't see the looks folk shot him, those looks were nothing to concern himself about. It lasted him until he got his eggs and sourdough and reached for the coffee pot, and somehow there in his way was Zeke, frowning at him.

Smith paused for a second, hackles rising in anticipation of a fight. But Zeke didn't look about to fight him, and so Smith stepped around him, took the coffee, looked away. "Didn't write that order up," he said.

Zeke didn't even acknowledge the dodge, feeble as it had been. "Who was that man yesterday?"

Smith poured himself a mug. Enough coffee would chase off the last of the night, just as it did every morning. And at least the conversation was falling there, and not on Grady, or anything too close to him. "Some lunatic," Smith said. "Thought I was his dead brother or something." The coffee was too hot and bitter, like it'd been sitting on the coals since midnight, and it burned his mouth when he tried to down his mug. He spat it out before it could burn his throat or anything, and just for a second, the spray of coffee onto the ground seemed to gleam red like blood.

He blinked, and it was just coffee again.

"He looked dangerous," Zeke said.

Yeah, well, I'm dangerous, too. Smith scuffed the stain into the dirt with his boot. "Anyone can look dangerous. Doesn't mean they are."

He needed to shake off the last evening. Not only that; he needed to shake off this damn mood that had followed him into wakefulness. Goddamnit, if he could have just one night, just one night without some kind of horseshit, some dream, some nightmare. If Strauss had been right, if all of this was his lost memories building up pressure until they burst, like some corpse left to rot and rupture... he didn't want the goddamn things back. He'd do his best from here, memories or none, history or none, thank you, and good day.

"What did he have to say to you?" Zeke asked. Not about to take the hint Smith had given him, apparently.

"Nothing worth hearing," Smith said. He took his plate and mug and walked away. Toward one of the benches scattered across the ranch property; one far enough from the chuck wagon that hopefully not many hands would eat there.

At least Zeke didn't follow.

He was just finishing up, choking down the last of the bread crust, when the overseer came around and found him. Took a good eyeful, like he had questions now he hadn't had before, and Smith set the plate aside. "Need me for something?"

"At the main house," the overseer said.

Dryden had said, Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk about it. Came altogether too soon, in Smith's reckoning. The trapped, uneasy feeling was in his chest again; taking one of the horses and running was sounding more and more like the sensible option. And who was going to stop him?

Well, at the moment, the overseer might. Standing right there.

"Right," Smith said, and got himself up off the bench. Fell in behind the overseer as the man headed back.

Hoped to avoid any discussion, but that was a faint hope; two strides in and the man was saying "Odd man, your friend—"

Smith's stomach moved, uneasily. "Weren't no friend of mine," he said. "Con man, I think." —thought and didn't think, because that explanation seemed to make as little sense as every other. "He found me on the road; must have tracked me out here. Wants something from me, and I ain't in a mood to entertain him."

The overseer glanced at him, and blinked. Looked like he was going back over the previous night in his head. "I had no idea," he said. "He seemed genuine." ...then, thinking a bit further, "I suppose there was something a mite suspicious about him." And, a bit further: "I suppose I wasn't at my best, last night. I usually have a, um, good head for people."

Smith doubted that. But he also didn't want to linger on the subject of anyone being at their best, or not, or of the previous night. He grunted.

"Well, I'll let the boys know to turn him away, if he comes around again," the overseer said. "What a mess."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that.

The door of the main house was just swinging open, as they came to the porch. And there was Dryden, dressed for business, tugging on his riding gloves. He looked at Smith, seemed to shelve two or three comments, and said, "Come along. We're going out to Strawberry."

Got Smith's hackles up. "Why?" he demanded.

"Time for you to start learning the business," Dryden said, then stopped and looked over Smith with a critical eye. "...we'll stop in Purgatory first. Get you cleaned up."

Like a show horse, was it? No escape had been left to him. Couldn't plead more important work; place like this, whatever the boss said was the most important work. And if he pled too ill to ride, he'd be too ill to do much beside lie in the bunkhouse, and that felt as though he might as well just give in and die.

"Right," he said. "I'll just..." and he waved a hand vaguely at the bunkhouse. "...get my things, shall I?"

Dryden showed his palm. Seemed to be granting permission.

Smith went back to his bunk.

Kept his head down. A man or two was still lounging inside, getting a late start on the day; Smith ignored them with a kind of tense fury, and they ignored him with the manner of folk who didn't care to invite trouble their way. Smith grabbed his pistol, grabbed the longarm he'd managed to buy alongside it: good enough, but not so good. Grabbed his satchel. The weight of the journal within it was comforting, and more than it should have been.

He stood for a moment, looking over his meager collection of belongings. They offered him no more excuse to delay, so he took himself outside again. Met Dryden with a hand already bringing the horses over: a tall black thoroughbred with white stockings, for Dryden. Showy damn thing. Gambler for Smith, as though someone or other had been paying attention.

And with no further ceremony, they set out.

Dryden sat tall in his saddle, ramrod-stiff and straight, as though if he put on a crisp enough image he could warn off all the trouble that Legionary and Smith and Grady could all combine to bring him. It made him look a little fragile and desperate, to Smith's eye, as though his manner had been painted on to cover something shaky beneath. Smith hardly wanted to be trailing him.

Weren't much else to do.

Half a mile or so out, Dryden cleared his throat and said, "Overseer tells me you had a visitor last night."

Smith winced. "Someone followed me to the ranch," he said. "He causes trouble, I'll deal with it."

"Someone you knew?" Dryden asked.

Smith snorted. What could he say to that, really? "Wanted me to think I did."

Dryden glanced at him sidelong; watched him for a moment. Maybe wondering, again, just what Smith was: how much this problem with his memory was going to invite other problems in on its heels.

And Smith wasn't sure what he'd like Dryden to think. No, not quite sure: he'd prefer Dryden not pay him any mind at all, neither to groom him to follow Grady's footsteps nor to mark him as a problem the ranch might need to handle.

Certainly not both.

"I'll deal with him," Smith said, again. Wanted to wipe that whole subject away.

And Dryden seemed inclined to let him; he shrugged, and said "Oak Rose has a certain reputation to maintain. It requires the cultivation of certain connections — farriers, toolmakers...", and launched into a lecture on, as he'd promised, the business.

Smith set his jaw, and tried to follow along. Found, to his own surprise, that he was following along; Dryden's little network of connections and contacts, all the folk who lived at the ranch and who didn't, and just what he got from each and every one of them: it seemed to make a map just as crisp and necessary as any of the maps of roads and mountains he'd bought. He knew more than he'd ever thought to ask about the ranch — about who fed and shod it, who bought the horses and where those horses ended up, even how the saddles marked out their horses as neatly as a brand would have — by the time they reached the outskirts of Purgatory.

Smith started listening with half an ear as they rode into town. They were greeted by the smell of sheep and dirt roads, fitful herb gardens and working men, and the occasional waft of baking bread or roasting meat. The sight of folk going along their business; the little businesses of living in a town like this.

Purgatory was always the same.

Seemed that way, least.

Not that he hadn't had a fistful of introductions to it: coming here begging charity; coming here because he thought he might pick up a bounty; coming here because it was the nearest saloon to hand... and now, he was coming here on Dryden's heels.

But it weren't the town that changed. It were only ever him.

He knew enough, by now, to know that he'd be the subject of some talk as soon as he showed his face there. Already Mr. Billcott, who Smith had mostly failed to shepherd for, had caught sight of him and was raising a hand in greeting; Smith raised his hand back, because ignoring the whole damn place would only make him look sullen, which would only get people talking faster.

Town was too small to get lost in the crowd.

They slowed up on the main road, outside the hotel. Dryden extracted a few bills, and handed them to Smith. "Have a bath," he said. "Get those clothes washed and ironed dry. And—" he gestured, vaguely, to Smith's head. "A quick trim might not hurt."

By which he apparently meant, Your job is to make me look good, on this engagement. Wasn't a job Smith felt himself particularly eager to take. Look... something, maybe; he recalled showing up at Riggs, turning Marks immediately into a man to be taken seriously, but that wasn't the kind of looking good Dryden was likely to need.

Dryden did not, likely, want him to show up to show some strong-arm. Even if — if that was, what, previously, usually—

I'm asking you, barked the man in his memory; an errant splinter of dreaming. Who are you? And Zeke, at the side of the road, what the hell are you?

At the moment, he was edgy, and irritated, and had enough problems in the here-and-now without chasing any past mysteries. "Sure," he said, and took the money, and went to go be gossiped over.

By the time he emerged from the bath and the trim, he thought he likely looked like the cleanest ranch hand in three states, but still like a goddamned hand. Dryden was ready for them to be on their way, and they mounted up and headed out without much discussion.

At least the bath had given him some time to think, though the thinking hadn't helped.

Mostly, he'd thought about how the last time he'd set foot in that hotel, he'd been living in the city, under Strauss's roof. Now, he was living under Dryden's. And there seemed something to that: one man's business, and his compensation, and the other's.

But that were just... how men lived, weren't it? A man took on work, and worked for someone, unless he were one of those proud few who owned all the labor under them. It were something else that nagged at him. Something about how he'd got caught up, once and again, in nets of... words, and obligations, and expectations, like a fly in a spiderweb. And part of him felt that if he could just sweep his hand through it, it'd pull off its moorings like a spiderweb, and leave nothing. All these things men built their faith upon — promises and duty, employments and agreements — might be nothing. Might be the work of a moment to cast them all aside.

Might be... he wondered what else might be. This path, trodden into the dirt. The buildings of Purgatory as they left them behind. Already they passed a fence or two, guarding some long-abandoned cabin, its planks already shaking themselves loose to gape like a ribcage. Fence hadn't done much to guard the cabin against time, against being forgotten, being abandoned.

Folk built these things.

Folk built them, and trusted in them; went into debt for them, planned to get rich in them, planned to rear children in them. And then... what?

Folk drew their little ambitions on top of the rolling earth, and the earth rolled its shoulders and shrugged them off, and they were gone. The wood would fall and moulder, and moss would creep over it, and mushrooms, and then grass, and shrub, and herb. And that was the way things was. So long, perhaps, as they weren't part of some damn place like Blackwater, all brick and stone and mortar and fight.

But Smith could imagine, just about, how the land here would lay without paths, without cabins, without signposts. How it must have looked before men had ever come to this place.

And then he had to wonder if there had been a time before trees, before grass, before the rolling of the hills...

He caught Dryden looking at him. Sidelong, like he was loathe to interrupt. Like he thought Smith might be doing something where interruption was a concern; keeping an eye out for bandits, or something so useful.

For Dryden, maybe even something so simple as taking in the landscape ought to serve his business in some way, or be hardly worth considering at all.

Smith cleared his throat.

"This," he said, and gestured at the horses, at the idea that had them out on the road. "Ain't a good idea. I'm no businessman."

Dryden snorted. "I'm not expecting to turn you into one."

"Then why—"

"Because I want you to have some familiarity with the business. Consider it another eye on the road." He tapped the side of his head. "Grady knew all of this. Sometimes he saw something that people were eager to keep out of my sight. It's useful to have a man on hand who your partners underestimate."

Well. If that were it.

"Seems to me," Smith said, "you need a man who can keep up with the business. Don't need him training the horses. Or," he said, as Dryden frowned, and looked ready to object, "maybe find your man to keep an eye out first, and then teach him the horse work." Dryden was still frowning. "I could train one of the boys," Smith pressed. "What I do... it ain't that hard, really."

Dryden gave him a long look. "You don't think so?"

"Uncommon, maybe, but not hard." He turned that over in his mind. "Just takes a little thought. And maybe folk don't tend to think about it. But it ain't nothing special."

"You sell yourself short, Mr. Smith." Dryden was still looking at him oddly. "You told me, when you first came to Oak Rose, that I wouldn't find another like you. The longer you stay, the more I'm convinced that's true."

Smith rolled a shoulder, resettled the rifle on his back. There was something uneasy about the whole situation, like his skin didn't fit. "I was trying to get you to hire me on."

Dryden's mouth slanted into a sardonic smile, tugging his mustache skew. "I'm no stranger to salesmen and braggarts," he said. "And I give credit where credit is due. What about you?"

The turn left him confused. "What?"

"I've seen some of your work with Gambler," Dryden said, nodding to the horse. Gambler flicked an ear at him. "I'm sure I haven't seen most of it. And you say you could bring Legionary to heel, well enough that a man would never need to use a whip on him. Given the opportunity, I'll have that skill for my horses."

Like he was looking at Legionary, there. I want his bloodline in my horses. Having Smith for his training were just as good as having a horse to stud, it seemed like. Or it appealed to Dryden in the same sort of accounting.

And, given the opportunity, he said. He'd had the opportunity. Had since the moment Smith came looking for a job, since the moment Smith got himself up on that stallion's back. Maybe it had been consideration for Grady that kept Smith mending tack and shoveling shit; maybe it showed just how much Dryden cared about matters. How much did his buyers care what Mr. Smith of Oak Rose could do?

Maybe Dryden just didn't like being denied a damn thing.

"If it's skill you want," Smith said. Fit his tongue around the words like he was holding a bullet between his teeth. "If it's skill you want, then let me train somebody. Train the whole damn ranch, if you need me to."

"A trainer of men as well as horses, are you?" Dryden asked, his tone dry.

That, Smith didn't know. "If needs be."

Dryden seemed to put as little faith in that as Smith did. "And just who would you suggest? Can you name another man who isn't afraid of that damn horse?"

Smith turned over the question. Thought his way through the hands. He figured he'd probably worked with most all of them on something or other; a few only seemed to work the cows, and them he didn't know so well, but the ones he did know...

If Legionary was the test, that were almost simple. Legionary was a horse, not a man. Easy to know what he was about. It didn't take much brains to understand how to get a horse to do what you needed it to: look at Smith. He managed it.

Took less brains than it took to work out why a man might ambush him on the road, hunt him down to a ranch half a state distant...

Smith shook his head. Back to the matter at hand. Old Greek, he'd trust with Legionary, and the rest of it. But the more he thought on that, the less Smith was sure Old Greek would want it; the man had his space on the ranch, well-worn, and had it since before Dryden's time, and every step he took patrolled its boundaries. Smith liked horses, and still hadn't been happy to have this dropped on his back without his say-so. He didn't want to be the voice that spurred Old Greek into a change he'd never asked for.

"Abersson," he said, at length. Kid was clever, and attentive, and worked hard. It might be enough.

Dryden raised his eyebrows. "Pescatawney Abersson," he said, which startled Smith. He'd never heard the kid's first name, same as no one had ever heard a first name out of him, though in Abersson's case, now he thought he saw why. "I suppose he's eager enough. You think he can pick it up?"

"Intending no offense to the dead, I think he'll do better than Grady ever did," Smith said. Hoped he wasn't making some promise that neither he nor Abersson could keep. "Give me a week or two."

"A week or two," Dryden repeated, and then laughed. "I've never seen a man try so hard to work himself out of a place of privilege. Well, then. On your head be it. See if Abersson can learn everything you know. I won't object to having two skilled trainers on hand."

That didn't sound quite like what Smith wanted, but it was the closest he'd heard to it. "I'll do that," he said.

"And in the mean time," Dryden said, "you'll learn what I need you to."

Which, today, meant a bath and a trim and a ride to Strawberry. Nothing left but to accept with whatever grace he could muster.

John woke up to the sound of Charles' and Abigail's voices outside.

He'd had some kind of confused dream, all dark places and turning around, and it slipped through his grasp like smoke when he tried to remember it. It had seemed, while he lay half-awake with his cheek against the smooth pillowcase, terribly important. As soon as he was on his feet, he couldn't recall why.

But dreams did that. Nightmares, especially. Made you think there was more to them than there was.

His mind was still gritty with weariness, but the short sleep had at least cleared out some of the cobwebs. He went out to the kitchen and took a long drink from Abigail's jug of tea, then wandered outside.

To find two horses already saddled, their saddlebags packed.

Charles was standing with his hand on Falmouth's shoulder, and he and Abigail both looked over to John when he approached. Charles said, "We were just about to wake you."

"I'm awake," John said. "We going?"

"Ready if you are," Charles said.

John looked to Abigail. She'd taken the time to look him up and down, and her smile, when she graced him with it, seemed tight and strained. But she didn't say anything about it. Just held out a napkin, tied into a pouch, and said "Here. You ought to eat something."

"Thanks." John took the pouch, and glanced inside — two boiled eggs, and a few strips of salted fish. Not the worst trail food he'd ever packed. "Where's the boy?"

Abigail snorted. "Off with Uncle."

That wasn't anything John had expected. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," Abigail said, but her lips tugged into a sidelong smile that belied the words. "I sent them down to the river to see if they could bring home anything. It was that or I was going to take a frying pan to that man's skull. John—"

She was about to ask why they kept Uncle's useless hide around. John knew it, or at least could guess it. But before she could say it or he could think up a good reason, she sighed and shook her head.

"It'll keep," she said. "You best be on your way."

Oh, how he wanted to be relieved that they weren't going to argue about that, or apparently about anything. But it felt like walking on ice. He wasn't sure he trusted Abigail's sudden agreeability; didn't think he'd managed to convince her, no matter what he'd said.

Maybe she was biding her time. For... something.

Hell, he never could understand her.

"Guess I should be," he said, tucked his breakfast into his satchel, and climbed into his saddle. They'd brought out Bully, his other riding horse, not Rachel; apparently Charles felt that Rachel had been bothered enough for a day.

Well, Bully could stand the work, anyway. He tossed his head when John settled in, impatient to get moving. Charles mounted up too, and turned Falmouth for the gate.

"Don't do anything foolish, you hear?" Abigail called.

"I won't," John said, and then caught Abigail shooting a sharp look at Charles. Charles looking back at her. Man just raised his hand in acknowledgment, and there was some agreement there that John hadn't been invited to.

It came to him, as they rode out, that Abigail had entrusted him to Charles, in some way. Trusted Charles to go with him, to keep an eye on him... to come back with some proof, one way or another, that her husband was or wasn't sane.

Came to him that Abigail had entrusted him to Sadie, first. And Sadie had found her own way to handle the whole question.

More he thought about it, more he realized that Abigail had a way of finding her own allies. When she'd left him, from Pronghorn, she'd left a note saying a kind lady in the village helped me write this. She'd found her way into the Strawberry doctor's good graces in an instant, and up by Roanoke — before he'd killed a man — she'd already been settling in with a few of the women there, watching some children, helping with some laundry.

In the Yukon, she'd been in thick with the handful of other women along their patch of goldless river, and in the gang, she'd had a small army of folk to help her with Jack. All those aunts and uncles Jack could hardly remember. Hadn't been John who'd taught the boy to read, or write, or fish—

He glanced at Charles.

Charles didn't look like he was thinking of this outing like he'd been asked to nursemaid one of Abigail's collection of troublesome boys. But he had a hell of a poker face, and John had his suspicions.

It wasn't the kind of thing that lent itself well to discussion, and John couldn't think of much else to say. It was a silent ride.

They came to Oak Rose not too late in the day, which was something. Coming back up here, with room in his head for something other than doubts and anticipation, John had a chance to look over the place: larger than Pronghorn, feeling more dug-in, more polished.

Part of John felt like this was some added mockery on the part of... something. Even not knowing John, or what he'd been up to — even not knowing himself — it seemed that Arthur always had to find a way to get himself the lion's share. Get up to something grander than what John could manage.

Part of John felt like that alone should be enough to convince folk.

But he looked at Charles, and saw Charles taking in the place; looking over the hands that were going back and forth on their business, eyes lingering on the horses. They were good beasts, from what little attention John had paid them. Charles seemed to come to no conclusion he'd like to share, and the two of them rode through the gate in the same silence that had ruled the ride up.

And right away, John could tell something had changed.

First man who saw them set his jaw, turned his back, and jogged over to the main house to pound at the door. Weren't more than a few moments before the the overseer came out, saw them, and immediately frowned. Left his hand with some instructions that had the man scurrying off, then came up to approach them, still scowling.

Started a bad feeling in John's gut. He dismounted, and said, "Evening—"

Overseer didn't even let John greet him. "Listen," he said, "you'd best be getting on. We don't want your kind here."

That was so far removed from the reception he'd got the previous night that John stopped dead in his tracks. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not sure what kind of scam you and your friend are up to," the man said, "but folk here are decent. We don't want no part of you. So you just go on, now. Get. You're not welcome here."

John didn't have the first clue what to say to that. "We just wanted to talk to Mr. Smith—"

"And I said you're not welcome." The overseer planted his hands on his hips. "Come on, boys, let's not let this get unpleasant."

"John," Charles said, soft, behind him.

John glanced back at Charles; saw him looking off deeper into the ranch. Followed his gaze and saw a knot of ranch hands coming up, pistols ready in their hands.

"Mr. Dryden's an honest businessman," the overseer said, while John was still wondering what the hell Arthur had told these people. "And he's not in a mood to tolerate any mischief around these parts. Like I said, you'd best be getting on."

"John," Charles said again; firmer, this time, as though John couldn't already tell this was a losing battle. John held up his hands, palm-out, and backed toward his horse.

"We really just wanted to talk to Mr. Smith," he said. "We didn't want anything from him." But the armed men were coming up, and he stepped up into Bully's saddle and said, "sorry for the bother," before he couldn't think of anything else to say. Let the men chase them off the property, Charles riding close behind him.

They stopped on the curve of the road, just out of sight behind a hill. Charles turned Falmouth around, and stared back toward the ranch. "How much of a nuisance did you make of yourself, when you came up here?"

"I was fine," John protested. "I didn't do anything!" He'd only wanted to talk. Just to goddamn talk, and Arthur hadn't even given him that much. Of goddamn course the man would dig himself into a ranch full of people who all thought that waving a gun at someone was a fine way to end their conversations.

Or... start them.

"Look," John said. "I stopped by, I had a chat with the overseer. Explained I was there to see Mr. Smith. Got his name off a bounty hunter in Valentine..." He wondered if he should back up a little. "You remember how Sadie said she saw someone like him in Strawberry? That's why she came out to see us. Go up to his grave."

Charles frowned. "Yeah, she said something like that."

"Jack put it together," John said. Felt strange admitting it. Felt strange bringing the boy into the discussion, like he was already part and parcel of their councils. The boy was growing up.

Once, they'd thought that he might grow up, take his place in the gang. As John had. As Arthur had. Now, well...

"I went up to Strawberry," John said. "Sheriff hadn't seen him, but I remember Sadie said that she'd crossed paths with another bounty hunter that day. Asked after him, and the sheriff sent me to see some kid named Cooper Marks in Valentine. I stopped by his house, and gave him Arthur's description, and the kid had been working with him. Gave me the name he went by. Pointed me out here."

"All right," Charles said. Sounded like he was waiting for the point.

"Well, I came out here," John said. "Talked to the overseer, told him I was looking for Mr. Smith. Overseer got real... curious; said Mr. Smith was a strange one, and no one here had him figured yet. Showed up out of nowhere a while ago, and gentled some crazy stallion for them. Went riding with a few hands and got in a scrape, and killed a dozen bandits. And rumor was, he didn't remember who he was."

He let that hang. After a moment, Charles said, "I see."

And... "That's it?" John asked.

Charles sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

John grit his teeth. Proof. He needed proof. He had Charles here, right at Arthur's goddamn doorstep, and Arthur — Smith — had taken so much exception to John's being there that he'd gotten the overseer to set out men with guns.

Part of him thought that all the proof he should need was right there, in how utterly impossible the man was being.

"Maybe we can catch sight of him," he said.

"How you plan on doing that?"

John turned to look over the hills that rolled smooth around the ranch. "You brought your binoculars, didn't you?"

Which was how they found themselves up a hill, lying in the green grass — much greener here than the brown by Beecher's Hope — and staring down into Oak Rose, watching the ranch hands go about their business as the shadows lengthened and the light deepened toward gold.

"I wonder how a man gets a ranch like this," John muttered, at length. The whole place reeked of prosperity; the buildings didn't look new, but they looked in good repair, and the horses all looked well-fed, and the hands didn't have the edgy, scuttling air of men fenced in by cares. "Think Beecher's Hope will ever look this way?"

"Don't know," Charles said. "First ranch I've ever lived on."

"Yeah," John agreed. "I tell you I was out at another ranch, before I bought that place?"

"It came up," Charles said.

"Not as big as this one. Still, the owner — Mr. Geddes — he's been a good friend to me. To us. He's the reason I could buy that property."

"His boys brought all that furniture?" Charles asked.

"Yeah."

"Sounds like he thought you'd been a good friend to him, too."

"I tried to work hard," John allowed. "Didn't know I managed it." He sighed. "Just... I wonder, sometimes, if this was always something we could have done. All Dutch's talk about buying some land, settling down... maybe we was just lying to ourselves, and if we really wanted that, we would have made it happen."

Charles was quiet for a while. Below them, the hands were beginning to congregate at the cook wagon; it made John's stomach rumble.

"I don't know," Charles said. "I think it gets easier if you don't need to stay together. But a lot of those people... even at the end, they wouldn't leave."

John closed his eyes. Arthur wouldn't leave. Arthur didn't leave until Dutch leveled a gun at him, and then... then, he'd made a choice. Javier hadn't left, even then. Nor Bill. And when John had made it out to Copperhead Landing, he'd met up with Tilly along with Abigail and Sadie and Jack, and Tilly had only left because Arthur had given Jack's safety over to her, given her money, told her to run.

Problem was, they'd loved Dutch — most of them. Or, too many of them had loved Dutch, too well. Dutch had saved too many of them, too early on.

It still sat in his chest like an ache in his lungs.

Beside him, Charles shifted on the grass. "You see him?"

John pulled his attention back to the present. Opened his eyes, and stared down through the binoculars. There was a right mess of hands gathering at the wagon — all sorts, broad and narrow, short and tall, white and black and red, folk who looked barely old enough to shave and folk who looked like they'd been there as long as the hills around them.

But no Arthur.

"Not yet," John said. He looked over the paths, and each building in turn. Where the hell was the man?

A few minutes passed. The crowd at the wagon began to thin.

"Don't look now," Charles murmured, "but there's someone sneaking up on us. Up the hill."

"Great." Well, the two of them looked suspicious enough. That was the problem with trying not to be seen: if you weren't seen, then everything was smooth, but if you were, you just had more explaining to do. "Well... let's not make any sudden movements."

John set down his binoculars. Charles followed suit, and they stood, slowly, hands in plain view.

The man coming up behind them was old, grey, spare, and narrow-eyed, with grey whiskers which concealed half his face from view. He was also holding a Litchfield repeater. He stopped a fair few paces away, and stared at them.

"We're not planning any trouble," John said. "Just looking for a friend."

The old man's eyes narrowed. Nearly slits, they were, now.

"Mr. Smith," John said, like that would help.

The old man's hands tightened on his rifle.

John glanced at Charles. Charles glanced back. John spread his hands a bit further. "Do you, uh... you speak English?"

"Sure," the old man said.

"All right," John said. "Listen. I don't know what he told all of you. I think he had something mistaken—"

The rifle in the old man's hands was rising. Had been for a moment, now, so smooth and steady that John had hardly noticed it. Soon as he did, though, it took on the flavor of a threat.

"...you don't need to shoot us," he said. Wishing he had any sort of persuasiveness he could lay into his tone. For a man raised by two of the most convincing bastards on Earth, John certainly didn't know how to swing a single person to his side.

"Sure," the old man said again.

Just as John was wondering if it might just be worth it to start a fight out here, Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on. We should go."

"We just—" John began.

"We're sorry for any bother," Charles told the old man. He grabbed John's elbow. "You take care, now."

John didn't have much choice but to follow, when Charles put it that way.

He managed to shake off Charles's grip halfway down the hill, and trudged back to Bully in intense poor grace. The old man was still watching them from the hill's crest, though at least he hadn't felt the need to escort them off. Charles raised a hand in polite salute, as soon as he was in his saddle, and took off. John had to spur Bully to follow.

They put another couple twists in the road behind them before Charles said, "Think Arthur put him up to that?" His tone was pointedly neutral.

"Probably," John said, and tried to work out whether or not Charles was mocking him. "Listen, I'm not making this up!"

"Hm."

"I don't know why we couldn't see him, I don't know what the hell he told these people, but I told you it didn't go well." He had said that, hadn't he? Come to think of it, he couldn't remember. The conversation they'd all had, when he'd come back in to Beecher's Hope, seemed foggy and faintly unreal. "Where are we going?"

"We're leaving before someone starts shooting at us," Charles said.

John reined in.

Charles noticed almost before he'd made the decision; turned Falmouth around to face him. And there they sat, poised on their still horses, like a photograph of some lost and melancholy time.

There was nowhere else to go, really, if they weren't staying around here. But if they rode back to Beecher's Hope now, what else could Charles tell Abigail but that they'd followed a trail, and the trail had run out, and there was nothing at the end of it?—not even so much as a handful of dust?

Charles still hadn't commented on any of it. It stuck in John's throat.

"You still don't believe me."

Charles breathed out. "John..."

What else was he expecting? "Just say it," John said. "Go on." You're crazy, or Are you finished now?, or Guess we've seen all there is to see, or something. But Charles shook his head, and for the first time, something dark made its way into his expression.

"I don't know what to believe," Charles said. Real frustration in his tone. "I believe that you believe this. I don't think you're trying to trick any of us. But—"

Every well-worn argument they'd had filled itself into the silence. They'd seen the same photos. They remembered the same past — each of them more or less of some part of it, but enough that the sum was still damning.

"I don't understand it," John said. "I can't explain it. But I'm not mistaken."

"John, it's — of course, I want you to be right about this!" Charles said, and it almost startled John off his saddle. "But whatever it is you're seeing, I'm not!"

And what startled him most weren't the words, but the sheer bloody rawness of them.

Weren't the voice of a man irritated by a friend's foolishness. That were a voice like a man too used to being locked out of paradise.

And... why would it, at that?

Twisted John's whole thinking around. Being the only one this nonsense had come to had brought him nothing but trouble: guns leveled at him, money spent, his friends arguing with him, a past raked up that ought to have been let lie. Misery, new and remembered. He hadn't stopped to think of it as something enviable.

Charles... had been Arthur's friend, back then. John thought. He hadn't ever paid so much attention to the politics inside the gang; things shook out however they did, and for the most part John would work with whoever would work with him. Charles was easy to work with. But he seemed to remember Charles riding out with Arthur more than most folk did, and more toward the end, he reckoned.

John had a longer history with Arthur than just about anyone. Not as long as Dutch, and Hosea, and Grimshaw — but long enough. But long didn't mean close, not really; he'd learned that when he learned how little he knew the man.

Learned it late. Too late to know if Arthur had been close to anyone, when it all came down. And maybe he'd assumed that if Arthur had thrown in his lot with John's, at the end, that no one else had been as close; that the question didn't need raising.

For the first time, he wondered what Charles thought of all this. Not of him, John, his insistence, what must have sounded like nonsense... but of Arthur, maybe out there somewhere to be found; of himself, Charles, sitting there as powerless as John when it came to the looking.

Of Arthur, maybe having found his way into some life that didn't invite either of them in after him.

"...there's a town," John said. "Up by the way."

"Hm. Purgatory," Charles agreed.

"Let's..." John glanced up at the sky. "We should stop there." He waved his hand at the road. "We'll be camping over the night, even if we start back now."

Charles watched him for a second, then shrugged. "Okay."

Just like that. Like it didn't much matter, one way or the other; nothing for them here, and nothing for them there. And John turned his horse on the road, and wondered what more there was to say.

He spent most of the ride chasing words around the cage of his head. Had enough things to fill a book, by the time they hitched the horses up, and none of it sounded good after he thought about it a second time.

At least Purgatory had a nice warm saloon waiting for them: rough-built but well-enough maintained, and the people inside seemed glad enough to be there. There were a knot of men playing five-finger fillet at a table in the corner; a pair of fools laughing and plucking artlessly at guitars in the back.

Kind of place he'd been in a thousand, thousand times. Full of camaraderie and the little well-worn histories that didn't make much noise beyond these walls, that didn't invite a stranger into them.

John followed Charles up to the bar itself, and Charles bought them drinks. John didn't ask where the money had come from. He'd never seen Charles take any pay or trade any goods for anything he'd done, not since boxing in Saint Denis, but he didn't want Charles to think that he thought it was any of his business.

At least here, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, he could feel like maybe they could manage not to be on opposite sides of this thing. Didn't see how such a thing were possible, but everyone in his life was pretty well agreed that he was a fool, so maybe... maybe he should stop thinking about it.

Plenty of other things to think about.

"I just want to know what's going on," he said, at last. Seemed like the only thing to say.

Charles gave him a long look. Then he waved over the saloonkeeper, bought them another round, and asked, "What can you tell us about the ranch down the way?"

"Oak Rose?" the saloonkeeper asked.

Charles grunted agreement.

"Well," the man said, like this was a topic that could keep him for a while. He set down the bottle he'd been carrying, and fished a towel out from under the bar somewhere. "Best horseflesh in the state, but then, we'd think so. Owner, Dryden — he's a good man. Does good business in this town. Passed through earlier today, I hear." The man chuckled, and leaned forward. "Heard it from Mr. Fife — he owns the hotel — that Dryden's got a new horse trainer he's polishing up. Taking him out to Strawberry. Bit of a surprise to us; the man he hired used to be a bit of local news around here. Odd feller; got picked up on the road west of here. Didn't remember who he was."

John stood up straight. Charles, perfectly casually, reached out and appropriated the bottle the barkeep had left; when he shifted his hand to take it, he also dug his elbow hard into the back of John's hand.

"Sounds like a story, there," Charles said. Threw a few more coins the man's way to pay for the bottle, and the gossip.

The barkeep took them, and gave Charles a little salute with them. "Well, we had this strange little German doctor here, Uve. Ah, Doctor Uve Strauss. Nice enough man, though he did go on. Our Mr. Smith got dropped on his doorstep one night; some man passing through brought him in, after finding him out on the road, walking off to nowhere. Uve adopted him. They went about for a while, trying to jog his memory. Made him work for half the folk in town, trying out this and that. He always was an odd sort — well, both of them were. But they both left when Uve got that news about his grandmother, or great-aunt, or something like that. Then Smith turned up again at Oak Rose, working the horses."

John leaned forward. "Can you tell us—"

What he was like, what he looked like — any number of questions could have flushed something from the brush. But Charles interrupted, "I think that man over there is calling for you," and jerked his chin at the other end of the bar. His elbow was digging into John's arm again.

The saloonkeeper looked down the bar, and gave Charles another little salute, and went to see who might want drinks. Which, as soon as he arrived, someone was almost bound to.

John watched him go, then dropped his voice. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"You don't know how to keep your head down," Charles said.

"Of course I—"

"No. Listen." Charles gathered in his drink, and turned to face John. Dropped his own voice to match. "Seems to be a story going around that ranch that you're a con man. Folk here, they know this man. They don't know you. If he comes around, they'll tell him if someone was asking after him. And then he'll probably tell them what he told the overseer at Oak Rose. If this isn't Arthur, we're just making trouble for ourselves. And if it is, how do you think he'd react?"

To a pair of con men who thought they could run him to ground. John paused to think about that, and decided that the answer would probably come with a knife in the dark.

"...right," he said. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know," Charles said.

John stared at him.

"I don't," Charles said. "Look, we know he wasn't in today. Explains why we didn't see him. If he's out at Strawberry, he probably won't be back until tomorrow, maybe the day after."

"We—"

"We're not going out to Strawberry," Charles said.

John grit his teeth. First thought was to argue. Charles didn't give him the opportunity.

"Look, you made a mess of things at the ranch," Charles said. "Then we we went in, the both of us, and hid in the hills, and made more of a mess. If we go running after him out to Strawberry, even if we do find him, we'll probably make an even bigger mess. We can't just go racing off in all directions. We need some idea of what we're doing."

Racing off in all directions had gotten John this far. After a fashion. In any case, this seemed no more directionless than following that lead Jack had sniffed out, and that lead had led John to Arthur in the first place. "So what do you suggest?"

Charles sighed. His eyes tracked over to the saloonkeeper, who'd been snagged into conversation with some other man. Charles's gaze was pensive.

"Let me look around," he said, after a moment. "See what I can find out."

"You?" John demanded. After all of this, after following him up to look for proof or disproving, after seeing John made a fool again... "Why?"

"Might be able to find something," Charles said.

Which hadn't been what John was asking, at all. It took him a moment to get his tongue around the words. "I mean, why are you doing this? You—" wouldn't lift a finger before, he wanted to say, but he caught himself in time to recognize that it would be uncharitable. Not that what he came up with next was much better. "Abigail only sent you out here to drag me back home, didn't she?"

If Charles was surprised that John had caught on to that, he didn't show it. He shrugged. "Seems clear you're going to keep after this," he rumbled. "If you're not going to stop, I guess I... I either help you, or I start ignoring you."

Simple as that. John caught the words like a blow to the chest. That... was that, then; John's part in it was all but writ in stone, and Charles being Charles, as soon as he saw the choice for what it was... he set himself to helping.

A rush of sudden fierce gratitude filled John's chest, almost as overwhelming as rage. Grief. Any other feeling that could have come out of that whole history they held between them, which he'd come back into when he found his way back into the central states.

To think he'd left this all behind.

To think so much was still here, waiting him.

"We can stay in the hotel tonight," Charles said. "Then you go back to Beecher's Hope in the morning. I'll stay here. See what I can find out. I'll come back when I can; I'll send you a telegram if there's anything urgent."

John toyed with his glass. "You don't want me to stay?"

"I think you should take care of your ranch," Charles said. "Raise your son."

Who knew how long he and Abigail had been talking, that morning, while John caught his sleep. He had a feeling this was an argument it would do him no good to win. Still, the gratitude lapped, like the edge of water, lapping, up against eight years and change of suspicion. He, unlike Abigail, had never been good at finding people to trust.

How much did he trust Charles? His faith, his belief, his abilities?

Would it be right for him to trust Charles any less — after all the man had done — than John wanted Charles to trust him?

"All right," he said. Felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, but instead of being a relief, it left him unbalanced.

"All right," Charles echoed, and that was that. They finished drinking in silence, and then Charles went out onto the busy-enough street, and John followed him. Blinked in the aging daylight.

There'd been a sense, years ago, coming down off that mountain... when the sun had come up over Ambarino and lit up a world with no one aiming to kill him as far as his eyes could see, John had nearly been staggered by the immensity of it all. A man, alone, on foot, smudged with dirt and sweat and choked with anger and disbelief and fear, but alive. And the future and the horizon both stretched out around him, afire with threat and possibility.

And now, standing in the latest strange town in a lifetime spent being a stranger to town after town, it felt... as though the future hadn't much diminished. It was still larger than he could get a grasp on. And he was still surprised to have made it so far.

He turned, and clapped a hand to Charles's shoulder. Left it there longer than was necessary, under Charles's questioning gaze.

"Thank you," he said.

"Of course," Charles said, as though there'd never been any question. "Come on. Let's take a room."

Chapter Text

Strawberry was a pleasant enough town, Smith thought, but it was all set up so its pleasantness seemed meant for someone entirely unlike him. Someone like Dryden, maybe; he seemed to like the place well enough. He fit into it: businessman in businesstown; a man interested in looking good visiting a town interested in looking good for visitors. At least having Dryden in good spirits made the trip less uneasy than it might have been.

Still. It were a relief when they left, and rode back out to Oak Rose.

Brought with them a hire-wagon of goods and supplies, tools, and tack better than what could be got in Purgatory — and contracts in Dryden's name to start supplying some business up this way with horses, starting in the next year. "Strawberry wants to advertise itself as 'the Best of the West'," he'd explained. "That sounds appropriate to me."

By which he meant, it sounded appropriate that he be painted with that brush, too.

Trip might not have been uneasy, particularly, but Smith found he weren't easy with it, neither. Spending so much time around Dryden. Man seemed foreign, for all that he was as American-born as... as Smith might have been. But then, what was America but a collection of strangenesses, whether in pockets the size of a cabin or a tent in the wilderness, or in sprawling cities like Blackwater? Every man at Oak Rose seemed foreign to Smith in some way.

Dryden thought in numbers. In debts and profits. Dryden saw a piece of tack and didn't think how well it would do to fit a horse, to handle a horse; he thought of how it well it would make the horse sell. Dryden saw a place like Strawberry and didn't wonder why he ought to be there; he wondered how the town could serve him.

Dryden, the more Smith thought about it, saw a man like Smith himself, and tolerated him just so well as he could be fit into Dryden's grand plan.

Smith didn't have a grand plan, himself, nor see himself much needing one. So long as the world didn't go changing underfoot. Course, the world was changing, and hadn't asked him his permission, so perhaps he should have been grateful.

Instead, it felt like a rope thrown round his neck.

Dryden kept up his lectures on business philosophy on the way back, and Smith kept up listening with half an ear. Wasn't until they were near in sight of Oak Rose, and the sun had settled, that Smith got a strange feeling, sat up, and twisted around in his saddle.

There were folk on the road. Not unusual. And no one looked overmuch like they were watching him. Still, something prickled at his attention; like maybe some shadow among the trees were deeper than it should have been, or the grasses on some hill didn't sway so much in the wind.

Dryden glanced up and down the road, then turned to watch him. "A problem, Mr. Smith?"

"Not sure," Smith said. Scanned the landscape around him before settling, reluctantly, back into his saddle. The feeling hadn't gone away, but he didn't feel like explaining it to Dryden. "Maybe not."

The trouble they'd had on the road so far had come roaring up to them, and been dealt with. It was a different sort of trouble that knew not to let itself be seen.

Still, they made it back to the ranch without incident.

A hand came up and took both their horses, as though Smith's time now were too valuable to be spent stabling his own beast. Smith stared after him, feeling out of sorts, but the overseer came up to both of them and said "Productive trip, then?"

"Very," Dryden said, and caught Smith's attention again. "Come join me for dinner."

Overseer touched the brim of his hat, and left them.

"I was going to just... stop by the chuck wagon," Smith said, and Dryden huffed, peeling the riding gloves from his hands.

"Nonsense," he said, already striding for the door. "They'll have shuttered it by now. Come along."

Put like that, he didn't have much choice.

Seemed that Dryden sat to a simple enough spread, though each part of it were fine. Steak and potatoes and string beans — and biscuits; no sourdough here. Pats of sweet butter. Glasses of wine.

Knowing Dryden as he did now, Smith couldn't help but wonder what purpose the dinner had. Not for some easy companionship, he wagered. No, Dryden was likely inviting Smith into his confidences, giving him a taste of what the boss's favor could buy.

As though a decent meal, sitting at a table indoors instead of a bench by the chuck wagon or the edge of a bed in the bunkhouse, might buy him away from open skies and honest work.

Smith found he was more angry, than tempted.

"So," he said, irritated enough to barb his words. "Abersson. You want me to start on him tomorrow?"

Dryden looked up from his plate, and his eyes narrowed.

"The training, I mean," Smith said.

"I haven't forgotten," Dryden said. Which weren't so much what Smith was concerned about; more that he'd conveniently neglect to remember. "We'll speak to him tonight. Then, yes, you can start with him tomorrow. I'll have the overseer give you the list of all a trainer's duties here. All the behavior we expect to see in our horses."

"All right," Smith said, and turned back to his meal.

Finished before Dryden did, but then Dryden wasn't apparently used to inhaling his food before he had to get back to his labors. Seemed to fluster the man, which Smith took a small, sharp joy in. So it was with a bit of ill grace that Dryden got up and went out to the overseer's desk, caught the man in his correspondence, and said "We'll talk to Mr. Abersson on the porch. If you would—"

Overseer nodded, and took himself out the front door. Dryden gave Smith an exasperated look before he followed.

Someone had been by to light the porch lanterns. Dryden walked to the railing and rested his hands there, looking out over his domain, and Smith lingered behind him.

Wasn't long before Abersson arrived, at a good trot. Not one to keep Mr. Dryden waiting. Dryden stood straight and beckoned him up onto the porch, and there the kid stood, nervous in front of the both of them. He'd pulled his hat off, and the close-cropped waves of his hair shone with pomade in the lanternlight.

"Mr. Smith is interested in taking you on as an apprentice," Dryden said, and frowned. "Not the way we've usually done things, but Smith is intent on it."

Abersson stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes cut across to Smith and back. "...sir?"

"Mr. Smith," Dryden said, placing each word carefully, "is disinterested in becoming our sole horse trainer. He's of the opinion that you'd serve tolerably well. Do you think you're up for it? If not, you had better tell him now."

Abersson looked to Smith. His eyes had gone wide, and now they narrowed a little, under pinched brows — and then the confusion gave way to something more stunned, and finally to a look Smith wasn't sure he was comfortable seeing. Looking like Marks, when he'd handed over that first bounty. As though Smith had done some unaccountable charity.

Abersson swallowed. Turned back to Dryden. "I'll do my best, sir. My absolute best."

"I'm sure you will," Dryden said, clipped. He turned to Smith. "Gentlemen. Good evening."

He took himself inside. Smith snorted, and started down off the porch; Abersson scrambled into step beside him.

"Really?" he asked. "You're going to train me?"

"Sounds like what Dryden just said, doesn't it?"

"I just — I never—" Smith hadn't seen Abersson lost for words, before. "I won't let you down," he decided on. "I promise."

"I'm sure you won't," Smith said. Weren't a matter of Abersson letting him down. It were a matter of both of them, dancing to Dryden's satisfaction.

He reached the bunkhouse door, and cast a look off into the distance, past the ranch fence. Still... felt a little like there might be something out there. Someone.

Abersson was looking at him. He shook his head, and stepped inside.

"Thank you," Abersson said, trailing after him, the both of them catching odd glances from the men inside.

"Ain't nothing." Seemed now he was getting thanked for throwing some other fool to the wolves. This... goddamn place had him turned around in circles. "We start tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep."

"I will," Abersson said, and Smith took himself over to his own bunk. Lay down his things.

...took up his satchel, after a moment; dug out his journal. Stared at a blank page as though it'd order his thoughts for him. No such luck, of course; and all he could scribble into the pages was a heap of confusions.

But it was better than nothing.

In time, he put the pages away, and turned over to sleep.

John didn't hear anything from Charles the next day.

That ate at him, as he worked with Jack to take care of the animals, and started teaching him the other business of maintaining the ranch. Hard to keep his mind on what he was doing. It seemed, more and more as they day rolled on, as though all the work of Beecher's Hope — this place he'd bought with grit and sweat, this place he planned to build the whole of his future on — were just busy-work, and a distraction from everything he ought to be out doing.

Abigail wouldn't be pleased to hear him say it. And he himself thought it might be some hold-over from earlier days; the camp, when he'd run with the gang, had been nothing but a place to sleep and drink and pass time, with all the real work elsewhere. It had never been something permanent. Never been intended to be.

Again, the traitor thought came to him: what had Dutch honestly had in mind, with his talking about taking and taming some land? Had he believed a single goddamned one of them would be content with that?

Had he believed anything?

Another two days passed before a man came by, and it weren't Charles. Some rough-looking feller, face weathered by sun and wind, trying to hide the roughness by contrast of a worn suit coat, keeping himself safe on the road with nothing more formidable than a revolver. There were half a dozen ways John had written him off before he came up to the gate.

"You look likely," he said.

John set down the wheelbarrow he'd been moving. Maybe there had been something to Uncle's taunt, back when he'd first bought this place: every week seemed to bring a new crop of rocks out of the ground, and John didn't know where they could be coming from. John, the rock farmer. He wondered if there were money in it, somehow.

"Likely for what?" he asked. Unless the man had a masonry project he was looking to supply, John wasn't feeling likely for much.

"Looking to hire on some extra labor," the stranger said. "A day or two, that's all, just to get some ground cleared for some construction out in Tall Trees. Chopping down trees, digging up stumps. Need it done in time for materials to be delivered, come Monday. Pays more for the rush. You interested?"

He'd been whittling away all the money he'd earned, recently. This nonsense, chasing Arthur from state to state, had bled their savings, too. "Sure," he said.

"Come out by Manzanita Post, then," the man said. "Foreman's name is Wollett." And without another word, the man rode on. Probably to see what other willing hands he could round up.

Well, there were no more willing hands to be found at Beecher's Hope, certainly. John knew enough that he didn't want Jack around where trees were falling, and Uncle wouldn't stir himself. As for Charles...

Three days, and no news. Part of John wondered if Arthur had just shot Charles and had done with it. But as much as he might be wary of the man and his lack of trust and memory, Charles was too smart by half to let it happen.

So. John supposed he'd have to just... bide, and trust at least one of them.

He went in to find Abigail, tell her that some work had found its way out to him, and then saddled up and rode westward until he came to the rough logging camp the man had described. A motley assortment: most of them looked like poor city folk, and not a lot had brought their own axes.

The foreman, when John found him, was an irritable and hard-featured man who took one look at John, decided he didn't look like a lumberjack or a digger, and pointed him toward a bunch of men dragging off felled trunks with ropes. None of the men on the site were men he recognized.

After the second or third tree, he recognized that most of the people of Manzanita Post conspicuously weren't looking their way, or meeting their eyes.

Most of the people John was working alongside didn't seem to notice, or care. But John had a feeling that whatever they were clearing the ground for, the locals weren't happy to have it. Made the back of his neck prickle. He was more likely to go into Blackwater than Manzanita for his supplies, true, but he didn't much want to have any of his neighboring towns developing a dislike for him. It just made him think of the days when the gang would burn all their bridges, make some mess of things, and have to flee to another state.

Come lunch time, he found himself sitting on a felled tree next to an old black man — or, maybe black; maybe some mixed blood in him — wearing too many clothes for the heat of the day. Gloves, long sleeves, long trousers, high boots, a scarf around his neck, a wide-brimmed hat jammed down over his ears. He turned to look at John as John was taking the measure of him, and John saw a torn mass of skin below one eye; the eye seemed permanently swelled half-closed.

John could almost feel the man's gaze catching on the scars on his own cheek. Then the man laughed, loud and explosive, and reached out to clap John on the shoulder.

"You look like you been through the war, you have," he said. His voice was tight, reedy, like he spent a lot of time shouting over hill and dale. He had a bundle of cloth tied to his belt, and extracted it and unwrapped it; revealed biscuits and tinned meat and some kind of withered apple or something, and a flask, which he offered to John. "Them don't look like knife scars."

John found, rather to his surprise, that he liked this man.

He took the flask, saluted him with it, and drank. Weren't a drink he recognized; something sweet and musky and strong, and he whistled before he handed it back. "Wolf," he said. "Up in the Grizzlies. What happened to you?"

"Snake," the man said, cheerfully. "Sleeping outdoors, and I woke with the sun and startled this thing, pretty thing, had cuddled up right by me for warmth, it had. And — bap!" He struck his own face with the tip of one finger, fast as an adder strike. "Laid me up for a month and a half, it laid me. I heard angels, brother, flying real close by. You did?"

"No," John said. "No angels."

"Lucky man; lucky, lucky man," the man said. "Awful and terrible, they are."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that.

The man took a drink from the flask, rolling the alcohol around his mouth with evident delight before he passed it back. "Name is Praise Lord Josephs," he said.

John laughed. "I don't envy you that name," he said, and shook his hand. "John Marston." Occurred to him, late as usual, that he should have said Jim Milton.

"John, my brother," Praise Lord said. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise."

"And how'd you come to be signed up with these men?"

"Same way as most of them, I guess," John said. "Man rode by and asked to hire me."

Praise Lord made an agreeing noise.

"Seems like a... strange way to go about things," John said. Took another drink, and passed the flask back. "I guess they was planning on having the locals help them." The locals who looked just about like they might set fire to the whole camp, if it weren't such an investment in effort.

Praise Lord laughed, and took a drink, himself. "No; they knew they wasn't wanted. Whole time, they knew. But all them men, that they brought in..." He whistled, chuckled, shook his head.

That didn't seem to bode well. "What happened to them? Skinners?"

"Skinners?" Man seemed surprised. "No, boy, no, Skinners, they don't fight a big group like this, all at once. They're yellow-bellies, they are. No, something much smaller. Much smaller, boy."

He reached out and seized John's arm.

John jumped, and made to pull away, but the man's other hand was already jabbing into his forearm, more like he was making a point than he was making an attack.

"There, you see?" he asked, and John made himself settle, and stared down at the man's fingers. And... just next to the fingers, a small black shape, that twitched when he looked at it.

Tick.

He jumped, reached for the thing, and Praise Lord tapped his hand away with that same snake-quick move he'd used to illustrate his own scar. Let go of his arm. "Now, don't pick it, do you," he said. "You'll be fine if you don't sleep on it, your hear. Best thing is you get two little sewing needles, so, and you have someone look you all over, see how many they can find. Pinch 'em between the needles and lift them straight off, then you scrub down with moonshine, good. And you burn all them ticks with rosemary, and you don't sleep before the whole thing is done. Do that, and you'll be fine, I reckon."

"Great." Now that he was looking at the thing, it itched. Now that it was itching, every poke and twinge across his body sprung little legs and biting mouths in his mind, until he could imagine his whole body crawling with the things. "I just let it eat me?"

"Better than to scratch them, yea," Praise Lord said. "Scratch, and they just go down into your flesh, they do. Eat you up there."

That sounded even less like something John wanted. "Great."

"Live in the trees out here, they do," Praise Lord said, and chuckled. "So you want to work out here, yeah, you dress up like I do." He raised his hands, showed off his long sleeves and gloves. "Otherwise, they get you sick, they do. Then boss man, he have to hire up a whole new crop of fools. Fools, and Praise Lord." The man grinned. Patted John on the shoulder. "But don't worry, Mr. John. Praise Lord will look out for you."

Then lunch was over, and they all went back to work in the tick-infested woods.

At least at the end of the day, the foreman counted out wages in good, solid cash, and it were enough to push the spectre of John's bank loans back another week or two. And Praise Lord gave him another pat on the shoulder, and told him to look him up if he was ever down Stillwater Creek way.

So, he supposed, that were a victory.

He rode back to Beecher's Hope and found Abigail sweeping out the dirt, and he tracked more dirt in under her fond exasperation. "...could use some help with something," he said, and explained.

At least after she stopped laughing at him, she sent Jack out to Uncle's stash to bring back anything in an earthenware jug or without a label, and she went to get her sewing kit.

She was still snickering while he sat on the bed with his clothes off, and she worked her way across his back and shoulders and arms and up the line of his neck, and an alarming number of insect bodies gathered in the bottom of a teacup while he winced at every pinch and prick. "Hold still," she said.

"I'm pretty sure he said pinch them off, not dig them out," John said. A needle jabbed into him, and he twitched.

"I am pinching," Abigail said. "You'll know if I start digging."

"Feels like you are."

"Maybe I should start embroidering your hide," Abigail said, still with laughter in her tone. "Dress you up a little."

"I'm glad one of us is enjoying this," John said, and flinched at another sharp point of pain.

Outside, on the path, the sound of hoofbeats was slowly coming into hearing, with Rufus's barking to greet them. John twisted around to stare out the window, heard someone call out a friendly hail — not a voice he recognized — and Abigail put her hand on his shoulder and pressed him down as she jabbed him again. John heard Jack saying something — off by the front gate — and a brief conversation, and then there were footsteps on the dry ground outside, and the front door swinging open, and running feet in the hall.

"Knock!" John yelled, and Jack's footsteps stuttered to a halt just outside the door. Abigail chuckled, and stood to go see what the commotion was, tucking herself outside the door without hardly seeming to open it at all.

John heard Jack say, "This came in," and there was a moment's silence, and then Abigail said "Thank you. You let me talk to your father," and a noise of disappointment from Jack before Abigail had tucked herself back inside and brought John a piece of paper. A telegram. He snatched it.

OAK ROSE HORSE TRAINER TAKING HORSES TO BLACKWATER TODAY RIDES LIKE HIM=

CS=

He read it twice, then looked up to see Abigail's eyes fast on him. "Charles," John said. "Says Arthur is heading in to Blackwater."

Abigail's eyes got sharp around the edges. "Does he say it's Arthur?"

John looked down at the paper in his hands. "He... almost," he said. "Says, 'rides like him'. That's not a no."

And Charles, if he had a reason to say It's not him, wouldn't hesitate to say it. From Charles, John had to think, any admission at all was as good as a vote in John's favor.

Abigail might think so, too. She looked at John, long and considering, and then let out a breath. "Right, then. Get yourself... washed and dressed, I suppose."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Grabbed a scrap from Abigail's sewing kit — it looked a bit too ragged to be used for patching or mending, though what did he know — and upended a couple of Uncle's bottles of moonshine over his head, scrubbing down the skin and hissing as the alcohol found every last little tick bite. Then he practically jumped into his clothing, and was out the bedroom door and heading outside until Abigail caught his arm and dragged him by main force over to the dining table. Jack joined them, near buzzing in place.

"What do you plan on doing?" Abigail asked.

"He's heading into Blackwater, Charles said." John tried to work out just how much time he had — how quickly Charles could ride to Purgatory and have a telegram sent, how quickly the telegram office in Blackwater would send a man out to Beecher's Hope, how long it would take a rider to make his way from Oak Rose down. He tugged at his arm.

"And what do you plan on doing?" Abigail said, again. "If he's still in a mind to put a gun to you."

He didn't shoot me then; he's not going to shoot me in a city with a decent police force, John might have said, but he glanced toward Jack and reconsidered the wisdom of putting it so baldly. Besides, it wasn't as if a decent police force had ever provided that much insurance against either of them getting up to whatever they needed to. That got him to pause, and consider.

He'd been thinking that, if he were quick, he might be able to meet Arthur on the road. But meeting him on the road was almost certainly a bad idea; Charles had evidently thought so, if rides like him was as close as he'd chosen to get. But if he were taking horses to Blackwater, odds were he had business in Blackwater; odds were he wouldn't risk that business by doing anything as obvious as shooting a man...

"Charles says he's taking horses in," he said, thinking through the plan as he said it. "I guess I go and catch him in the city. Try to pull him aside once his business is done." Preferably on a nice busy street with a lot of foot traffic and possibly a uniformed policeman or two. Hell, if Arthur tried to tell a policeman that John was out to con him, John could counter by saying he was a bounty hunter, he worked with Sadie Adler, and maybe make this look like nothing more than a bountyman's dispute. If the Strawberry sheriff was any indication, the law didn't care to pay much attention to those. He gave Abigail a look. "I'll be careful."

"You think I could talk to him?" Jack broke in.

Abigail shot John a look right back, sharp as a hatchet blade. And good thing she cut that thought down, because for one lean moment the idea was tempting.

Of course, the problem came up hard on its heels. John would feel safe enough bringing Jack to Arthur — but he'd feel safe with Arthur. He knew Arthur Morgan.

Knew much less about Mr. Smith.

"I wish you could," he said. "But I need you here, looking after the ranch." He took a chance, laid his hand on Jack's shoulder. Narrow shoulder, that; the boy had grown like a weed in these last years, but mostly upward and not out.

A frown flitted over Jack's face. Looked like disappointment. John was expecting argument, but Jack said "You think he... well, no. I suppose not," instead.

No way that could be good, could it? "What?"

Jack looked down at the table. "I was going to ask if you thought he remembered me," he said. "But he don't remember anything, does he? So... he wouldn't."

Oh. Just that.

"If he remembered anything, I know he'd remember you," John said. Hell, back then, Arthur had been closer to the kid than John had. Bitter joke, that: John had probably only really surpassed him when the man had died.

When... he thought the man had died.

A lot of things that had been bitter jokes, John wasn't sure how to think of, now.

"You said you didn't remember those days so well," John said. "That's 'cause you were little, Jack. The rest of us, we all remember just fine. He would, too."

Jack brightened to the point that John wondered if he'd heard something else in the words. Agreement, maybe. But before the boy could get any ideas in his head, Abigail sighed, brushed off her skirts, and said "Come on, Jack. Let's you and me and Rufus go... see what's growing out by the crick out by that old cabin. Think I saw some mushrooms out that way."

John shot her a look. "You going to be poisoning me when I come back here, woman?"

"Listen, you," Abigail said, catching Jack's shoulder. "I may not be much of a cook, but I've been pulling things out of the ground to feed us since the olden days. Come on, Jack. We'll make an evening out of it."

"But—"

"We'll let the men talk it out," Abigail said. Maybe wasn't the thing to say to Jack; a cloud passed over his face when she did. But that was Abigail's to deal with, today, and John was happy enough not to raise that question just now.

John ducked out a different door when he left, straight toward the stables, then straight to the road.

For all Smith's irritation, all his agitation, for all that he had it from Old Greek and the overseer that Marston had come sniffing around the ranch again and brought backup with him... nothing had seemed to happen, the next few days. Smith had the restless feeling, sometimes, that he was being watched, but he hardly needed to leave the ranch for that: every man there, Cook and Greek excepted, seemed to find some kind of entertainment in him.

At least Abersson's entertainment was mostly amazement. Kid still seemed to think a single wrong word or mistake would see his new position snatched from his fingers; didn't seem to realize that Dryden, who might want that, weren't watching too closely, and Smith, who were there watching, wanted nothing more than to leave him the role entirely.

And at least Abersson was clever. Clever enough, at least, to know all he didn't know, and ask questions, and pay hard attention. Maybe not so quick at picking up some things — some things that Smith felt were clear as the summer wind — but, hell, Smith would work with what he had.

Even if the kid was scared of Legionary. Which Legionary, no fool himself, noticed, and weren't inclined to behave for.

First couple days, they worked mostly on Gambler and a few of the yearlings. Gambler helped, there; set a good example, and it were damn near impossible to be afraid of the boy. All harder things could come later.

And it weren't long — just those first few days — before the calendar caught up to them; the day came that Oak Rose was to run all the year's remaining horses down to Blackwater. The best and the worst had already gone out. Now it were the whole middle swath, destined for the Blackwater stables. Even around the chuck wagon, the usual grumbling fatigue had given way to jokes, anticipation; this were a day folk looked forward to.

They brought out enough horses to make a proper herd; enough hands to make it look like a cattle drive. Working day, surely. Still, for most of them, it seemed more like a holiday.

Abersson told him that getting this lot into the Blackwater stables was the end of the work year, in a sense — for all that it was the same work they'd be going back to, and much of the same work, the entire year round. Dryden gave them all a few days off, in shifts, and the men who took the horses down got theirs first. Most of them would stay in Blackwater, or roam further, at the end of the day.

Abersson stuck close by Smith's side as they gathered up — and this time, no one objected when Smith brought his pistol, and a rifle slung across his shoulder. Dryden put Smith and Abersson on the left flank, keeping an eye on things without having to handle the ropes themselves.

And they all set out, blessed by clean morning sunlight and cool dew, with most of the hands joking back and forth — the usual ribaldry only a little dampened in deference to Dryden's presence. Smith settled in for the ride.

He'd thought, given how little he appreciated riding out with Dryden, and how little sure he was of his position with most of the hands, that this would be another uncomfortable day. Instead it felt almost... proper; a whole rough lot of them on the road together, off on some job. Almost was like a holiday; like going out singly or by twos was the normal state of affairs, and this was an occasion to mark. Called him to be ready, surely, though ready for what, he couldn't say; but it was enough that the men were cheerful, and nothing seemed amiss in the world around them.

Until, at least, the sun had tracked its way across half the sky, the world had smoothed out and dried out around them, and the green river terrain had yielded to golden plains grass.

The road to Blackwater always seemed a willing conspirator in somebody's plans, though never Smith's. Seemed like every time he came to this city there was some trouble waiting for him, some mis-step to make. Even that first time, coming in on Strauss's wagon, he'd felt it. Wasn't a fit place for man.

For all that hundreds — thousands — of men called this place their own.

Men on horseback, men on wagons, passed them coming and going; more here than up by the Dakota. Weren't a surprise. But something nagged and nagged at the edge of his attention, until he had no choice but to pay it some.

"Slow up a second," Smith said. Abersson obliged, and Smith rode just far enough past him that he could twist in his saddle, look back at Abersson, look from a distance like he was just conversing; only riding ahead so that he cold make a point of looking back. Taking the boy to task, or something. Putting him in his place.

"What is it?" Abersson asked.

Looking back at Abersson meant he could look back past Abersson. Smith tilted his head, catching the horizon on the rim of his hat. "Someone's following us."

Abersson stiffened.

"Don't turn around," Smith said. "We're just having a conversation. No one's looking at anyone." The man trailing them was back by the bend in the road, half-hidden by a stand of brush, and Smith looked forward again, turning over options in his head. Drawing, shooting — too much trouble for him to start. If there were going to be bullets, this close to Blackwater, with this many folk around to watch him, the other man would have to be the first to shoot. And he wouldn't, not with him alone, and so many hands on Smith's side.

That, assuming he was out to kill. Out to spook the horses, maybe; sabotage Dryden's business some other way — just as likely. Were there other reasons a man would trail them, trying not to be seen?

"Are we in danger?" Abersson asked, then let out a little laugh. "Well, I... how would you know? Do you know?" Sounded honestly curious, that. Nervous, sure, but Smith could tell by his voice he was still looking forward.

"I don't know," Smith said. Cast another glance back at Abersson, past Abersson. Trees in the way. He looked forward again.

"Well, with you here," Abersson said — trying to sound light about it, and mostly failing — "I wouldn't be afraid of Hell's demons on us."

That bit at him, like a rat's teeth. Scrabbled at the back of his mind, but so far under all that he needed to pay attention to that he dashed it out of his thinking. "I take it this ain't the sort of thing that usually happens."

Abersson swallowed. "Mr. Dryden's always had a little trouble, but..."

Another glance back. The man down the road shifted out of cover, just enough for Smith to catch his profile, and Smith growled. "Never mind. He ain't following us, he's following me."

Abersson almost turned around to look, at that, but caught himself. "How can you tell?"

"Because it's the same idiot from before," Smith said. "Come on aside me again."

Abersson spurred his horse, then fell in alongside him again. Looked just like they'd had some little argument, Smith had made his point, and Abersson was back in his good graces. At least it were easier to talk, this way.

If only Abersson could find something Smith wanted to talk about. "Is it true?" Abersson asked. "About you not remembering anything, I mean."

Smith snarled to himself. But at least Absersson had the decency to ask him, and not ask around everyone else and assume that would get him the truth. "True enough."

"Can't imagine," Abersson said, and was quiet for a moment — clearly imagining. Then he laughed. "Maybe you're famous, or rich, or something," he said. "The long-lost heir to someone, somewhere. And that's why that man's following you. He read about you in a newspaper somewhere and couldn't believe his eyes. Maybe there's a reward for finding you."

Smith's shoulder twitched, like he wanted to shrug the rifle down into his hands. Maybe there might be a reward for finding him, but likely not the kind Abersson was thinking of.

But he didn't say that. Instead he made himself laugh, because the notion of himself as some lost businessman or heir or robber baron was so ill-fitting as to be hilarious. "Right," he said. "Sure. That's it. Look at me — can't you just see me in a palace in Europe somewhere?"

Abersson looked at him, and laughed too, to his credit. "Well, no," he said. "But don't you ever imagine? Waking up one day, and finding that there's a fortune waiting for you to claim it?"

"No," Smith said. "I never imagined." Didn't know why that was a question it made sense to ask, until he glanced at Abersson and saw the kid's expression. "Why? Did you?"

Abersson's expression went all strange, and then he faked a smile. "I," he said. "...my family. We're as common as they come."

Smith tried another laugh, at that. "Well, you're in good company there," he said. "Rich people, famous people, they're all insufferable."

Abersson eyed him. "Have you met any?"

Wolves in tailcoats with glasses of champagne. Smith shook his head, and shook off that scrap memory of a dream. "No," he admitted. "Suppose I'm just guessing."

Abersson made it three more strides on his horse, then fixed his gaze on the horses they were bringing in. Then, sharply — as though all his self-control had worn out — twisted to glance back down the road. Looked forward again, sheepish, when Smith snorted out his irritation. "Think he's still back there? I didn't see anything."

"Probably is," Smith said. "No big secret where we're going."

"We should tell Mr. Dryden."

Smith glanced up to the head of the line, where Dryden rode straight and proud on his thoroughbred. Looking like a cavalry general bringing his people out for review. All of which was undercut by the rough assortment of lads who rode after him.

"Nah," Smith said. "I'll deal with him once we get into town." Didn't need to be Dryden's problem. And somehow, Smith had a feeling that running into the idiot wouldn't be a problem.

Discouraging him might be. Man seemed more persistent than he had any cause to be. Smith wasn't even sure how he'd managed to track him to Oak Rose in the first place, but then, he wasn't sure how anyone had ever managed that, or why anyone would bother.

The mystery would keep, and wouldn't be called to keep long. Not when the lot of them were almost to Blackwater, turning onto the last stretch leading in to that miserable mess of a city.

They rode in, and Dryden took charge. Meant that Smith and Abersson were both dragged along to see the dealings, get their business education... but then Dryden turned to them, pressed a bonus into each of their hands, and said "That's that for the season, then. Enjoy yourselves, lads. You've earned it."

Abersson nearly glowed with the praise. Followed at Smith's heels as Smith went out onto the streets, and then turned a grin on him. "What're you off to? Me, I think I'm going to stop in at that tailor's, down the way. Then maybe an evening show..."

Abersson was thinking of taking his leisure. Smith wished that were a consideration he could afford, just then.

He looked down the street. Didn't see the man he was seeking, but no matter, that. City were big, but only so big, and Dryden's business had to be well-known. "Got business to take care of."

"It's a holiday—", Abersson said, and then caught on. His mouth formed a silent O, and then he swallowed that, and went grave. "You need help?"

"No," Smith said. He had two good guns to his name, and a disinclination to be taken for a fool. That was enough.

"I'll stick nearby—" Abersson began.

"No." Christ, but having anyone around would only make things worse, Smith reckoned. No call for the kid to go hearing anything. And no call for him to be around, if fists or bullets started flying. "I'll take care of it, alright? Go enjoy yourself."

Abersson looked liable to protest, for a moment. Then Smith turned a hard look on him, and the kid quailed, stepped back, and gathered himself again.

"Right," he said. Then, softer, "right. You — don't get into anything you can't handle, you hear?"

"When have I ever," Smith muttered, and set off down the road.

He walked out of the better part of town. Left Gambler behind; place he was heading, a fine horse might just get rustled. Headed in toward the docks — into the rough neighborhood where he'd caught Fleur, where fights and pickpocketing were good entertainment in the small hours, and no one much asked what men got up to in the daylight. Tucked himself into a different saloon; a good, comfortable, disreputable one where no one gave the guns he carried a second glance.

At least Blackwater had its fair share of saloons. Maybe a couple other towns' shares of saloons, too.

This one was tight, cozy, not much more than a bar with stools on one side and shelves on the other. The bartender eyed him up with not much interest and not much welcome, but still came by to see what he would have. Smith tossed a few coins on the bar, got a drink, and settled in to nurse it.

Wasn't long to wait. Five, six minutes maybe before the door creaked open and exactly the man he wasn't hoping to see sat down beside him — looking far too pleased with himself, and just reeking of moonshine.

"Fancy meeting you here," John Marston said.

"Jesus," Smith said. He had a sense, now, of just what kind of luck life held for him, and it would be just his luck that the man following him would be the most disreputable man on Earth. "You go swimming in the stuff?"

Marston looked thrown. "What?"

"Never mind." Smith took in an eyeful. Whatever the man's game was, he was goddamn persistent. If this was a con, there had to be easier marks.

If this was a con, there had to be something the man wanted. And Smith didn't know, yet, what that could be.

There ought to be a way to drive the man off. Apparently all the guns of Oak Rose hadn't done it.

Smith turned his attention back to his whiskey, wondering how much he wanted to cause trouble in a hithero-untainted saloon, anyway, and how much it would likely cost him to get out of the jail if they threw him in it again. Another twenty-five? Less if he only mauled the one man? More because he should have learned his lesson the first time? "I saw you trailing us on the way in. Count yourself lucky I didn't put a bullet in you."

"I just want to talk."

Smith drained his whiskey, and made to stand. "You talked plenty."

Marston caught his arm, and released it when Smith turned a glare on him that might well have preceded the forceful removal of Marston's hand from the rest of his body. "I'll buy you a drink," Marston offered.

Smith hesitated.

"I'll buy you the bottle," Marston said.

Smith had plenty of spending money, now, for things like bottles of whiskey, but it did seem somehow dishonorable to refuse. He sat back down.

"You're welcome to buy," he said. "But I ain't agreeing to believe anything you have to say."

"God's honest truth," Marston said, and waved the barkeep over.

Smith caught himself, managed not to flinch at that. Last time god had been supposed to get involved had been Strauss's shaman tea, and he wanted no part of that now or ever again.

Marston didn't give him a chance to say so, not as he would have taken it. "I know what I was saying didn't make a lot of sense," he said, which was a goddamn understatement. "So I thought maybe if I got it all out, in order, then..."

Then something, apparently. The barkeep's arrival, a moment of negotiation, and a couple bills tossed on the table got a bottle of good whiskey set between the two of them, and the barkeep to leave them alone for the time being. Smith still didn't know what Marston's game was, but the addition of alcohol made it somewhat more bearable.

Liquor never dulled a good man's senses. Well, good men weren't exactly thick on the ground, here. So he poured himself a shot, and poured Marston one too, because he had no intention of being the only one off his guard. "Here's to getting it all out in order, then. Try me."

Marston looked around — the bar was all but empty, and he probably could have told that, the moment he walked in — and lowered his voice, presumably so the barkeep couldn't hear him. "Your name is Arthur Morgan," he said. "You were — we was both part of an outlaw gang. Long time ago now; that's all over. But for a long time, we were Dutch van der Linde's boys."

And Marston thought that this was starting from the beginning, in a way where everything would make sense. Smith drank. "Never heard of them."

Marston ground his teeth. "How can you not — we were the last of the big gangs," he said. Voice very quiet, keeping it between the two of them. The barkeep was off on the other end of the little room, which was as much privacy as he really could offer them. "Near about. Touched off the Blackwater massacre. Killed Leviticus Cornwall. Blew up Bacchus Bridge."

Sounded like this gang had a list of havoc as long as Smith's arm. He kept his voice to a mutter, too, because it wouldn't do to start a new crop of rumors down in Blackwater. A medical freak in Purgatory, some bad old outlaw here... "Oh, so I'm famous." Abersson would be beside himself.

"Arthur—"

Still, it had a shuddery feeling to it. Yeah, there were rumors about him... people, a few of them, were suspicious. Grady for sure had been. The sheriff in Purgatory, for all that he saw Smith as someone he could use. Smith knew he was good with a gun, and good in a fight with a gun.

But that could've come from anywhere. Could have been in the goddamned army, for all he knew; people shot and got shot plenty there as well, surely. So maybe there were rumors — so maybe Marston had been sniffing around, and he'd come across them. Didn't need to be the truth to sound plausible; any half-decent con man would know that.

...so maybe Smith did know that, and know it without thinking about it. Plenty of ways to come by that knowledge, too. Working in law would do it, for all that law made his neck itch.

Didn't have to mean anything, for all that it made his skull ache.

"Famous outlaw. Scourge of the Great Plains. Go on."

Marston was glaring at him, like he was offended that Smith hadn't swallowed all this down like a fish hook. But he put that aside, kept spinning out his little tale. "It wasn't just the Great Plains. We was mostly out west, for a long time... I mean, we got driven out east, but only there at the very end. It's — let me start again."

Smith drank. It didn't settle his stomach. "Please do."

He half expected the man to pull out notes. "You rode with Dutch for most twenty years," Marston said. "I was... less than that. Still a long time, though. We was together in the gang for just about fourteen — I mean, give or take a year or so."

The way he said that, it seemed like he was trying to paper something over. Odd detail, for something Smith was still looking at as a pack of lies. "Give or take a year, huh?"

"That ain't important," Marston said. "Dutch picked us both up when we was kids. Him and his partner, Hosea — they was like fathers to us. Taught us to read, and all. And the outlaw stuff... I guess you could kinda see it as the family business."

The hell was this drink? Smith's head was beginning to hurt.

He picked up the bottle, looked at the label. Not something he recognized. But his currency on recognizing things weren't what it... what it surely had been. Once.

Marston seemed to be waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, he cleared his throat and said "You don't remember any of this?"

As though he should have.

Pain was knocking at him like a woodpecker at the back of his eyes. He took another drink to chase it off. Didn't help. "Taught us to read," he said. "All the classics? Paradise Lost?" Sitting there, in Strauss's parlor, shaking off the effects of a drink even yet more miserable than this one—

Startled Marston, that. "Goddamn Paradise Lost," he said. "You know, Dutch never could get enough of that book. At least it weren't that damn whale book Hosea insisted was a masterpiece. I think he got us both, on that one."

Something itched at the edge of his mind. To the last, it seemed to say. Words he might have grasped, but couldn't hold, no matter how he grappled. To the last—

Part of him wanted to take it as confirmation. But he'd fed Marston the line, he'd given him a title; he'd played into the con, if it was a con. Stupid mistake. Didn't mean nothing.

He knew what ought to mean something.

Seeing Lovro hang in Purgatory. Killing six bandits in as many seconds on the road to Blackwater. The sharp cold satisfaction in Dryden's voice when he talked about that other gang, the one out in the west of the state, getting driven out, beaten down, by some other ranch owner and his men. What Smith knew of life told him well enough what happened to outlaws, and what he knew was the experience of less than half a year. So in that regard, he was as good as a six-month-old babe, not wise or strong enough to leave his mother's arms. And still he knew—

We ain't long for it. The words pushed up into his head like weeds. Cracked the surface a little further; brought their own red pain and their own scabbed frustration. He pressed two knuckles into the bridge of his nose; dropped his hand when it didn't help at all. "So, you and me, big famous outlaws, and then one day I trip and hit my head, is that it?"

He was riling Marston up, and he could see it. The man didn't rise to the bait, though; took a deep breath, clenched his hand on his untouched shot of whiskey, and found his place in the little tale he'd apparently crafted so carefully. "It was eight years ago. Things was going bad. Pinkertons, bounty hunters... our luck had turned sour. We ran across half the country, going from one place to another, and Dutch — this man we'd all looked up to — he started coming unwound. Going crazy, killing more and more folk. Leaving people behind. The whole gang was falling apart around us. Then you got TB—"

That hit like a slap to the face. Whole thing had taken a turn into nonsense. "And then I got TB."

"You was—"

"And the TB made it up into my brain, did it?" Smith knocked his glass away. Got barbed wire up around his head, now; twisting around his brain like the closing of a range.

"I don't know what happened, Arthur; I haven't seen you in eight years—"

"And how is it, given all that, that I'm not eight years in the ground? After all you say happened? Pinkertons, and — and—"

"I don't know!"

For how little composure Smith would have guessed Marston had, it had taken surprisingly long to crack it. But crack it he had, and Smith wasn't sure he liked what he was seeing behind it.

"I thought you were," Marston said, and wrestled his voice back into something kind of quiet, more like a hiss. "The last I saw you, you was shooting at an army of Pinkertons, coughing yourself to death. Years ago. Then — then that idiot caught me on the road outside Blackwater, tried to get me to help rob you, or whatever, and I couldn't believe my goddamn ears. I don't know how you survived, but you're here, ain't you?"

Ain't you?

A shudder passed between his shoulderblades, something wound too tight. For a moment, he couldn't hardly see; that old futile tug into the northeast, that line cast out from the mountains, caught him and washed over him and stole all his senses away from him. Smith took a breath, fought his way back to the saloon, the drink, the conversation, and looked to see Marston staring at him, so much in his eyes it felt like—

Felt like—

Goddamnit, he couldn't think. Was it possible to look like the wolf and the stag both, and like just the opposite of both, at the same time?

"You look just the same," Marston said. "Except... not dying."

Couldn't help but think he wasn't meant to be here.

He looked away, back toward the bottle, got as far as pouring himself three fingers before realizing that it might be the source of his misery and hadn't yet offered any relief. The pain was pushing at him, like something trying to press its way out of his skull. Pressing on his eyes, making his vision fuzz around the edges; pressing on his ears, making the blood rush strangely, making it sound like conversations just past the edge of his hearing.

Like a rush of shadows and a howling wind—

(This is poison.)

(I assure you not—)

"You think I'm lying," Marston said.

"Lying or crazy," Smith agreed, taking the out that was offered. He dug his fingers against the wood of the bar. "Hadn't fixed on which, yet."

"I'm not," Marston insisted. "How do you want me to prove it to you?"

Proof. Proof. That he was just exactly what Grady had seen him as; just exactly what Marks hunted and Dryden hated and any number of sheriffs would see hang.

His hand took the glass again, and he had to catch himself, and set it down.

All this — it could mean anything. Could mean anything. Marston could be a liar, could have heard all manner of rumor, could have taken it on himself to embellish, to craft his little tale — though for what? Could be a lie. Could still be.

So maybe Dryden and the sheriff between them might convince Smith he was a gunslinger, some real talented shootist, but that were a skill, not even a profession. Might as easily have been a bounty hunter, as he was working at being now. Might have been a hired gun.

Might — might — yes, fine, true, might have been an outlaw, or some common criminal, petty murderer, thief; had certainly thought about stealing, enough. Might have been. Might—

Like bullets in his brain, this was. Every goddamn beat of his heart, like his head getting knocked against a wall, against a rock face, a bash to the skull with the butt of a rifle, no good fight, this. A high lonely place with no joy left in the fighting, nothing at all left for him but a heavy satisfaction, a slow decline into a deeper darkness.

He knocked the whiskey away, and stood. "I've heard enough." Turned for the door.

Marston scrambled up after him. Seized his arm. "Arthur—!"

Instinct spurred him. Didn't care to be grabbed. He turned hard, took Marston by the neck, shoved him back into the wall — felt the heartbeat, quick and hot and fragile, under his pressing fingers; the hard lump of the throat, ready to be crushed against his palm — caught a glimpse of the look in Marston's eyes, all surprise-confusion-offense, no fear there, not for a second, and by the moment it occurred to Marston to maybe be worried Smith had dropped his own hand like he'd scalded it, stomach roiling at the threat. At the threat he'd made. "Get the hell away from me!"

Marston didn't follow. At least he didn't follow, as Smith stumbled out into the street, one hand clenched so hard on his forehead that he was near to shattering his skull himself.

Smith spurred himself on toward the end of the block, back up the way toward the stables and Gambler, and halfway up the street there was the other man he didn't want to see, running toward him.

"Abersson!"

"I was, I was in the neighborhood—"

"No, you wasn't." Smith stormed past him. "What, you was buying a new waistcoat from—" he glanced across the street. "—the ladies at the Red Lamp Inn?"

Abersson colored, as much as his skin would allow. Pointedly did not look at the building across the street. "Where are you going?"

"Home," Smith growled. Meant more, going back. It was home for lack of any better option.

Abersson ran to catch up with him. "I'll come with you."

Goddamnit, Smith was tired of arguing with everyone about anything. "Get the hell off of me! You stay, enjoy your goddamned vacation."

"I should see you safe home—"

The notion that Abersson, peacemaker among the Oak Rose hands, should be protecting Smith was... unbearable. "I can take care of my goddamned self."

"What if you can't?"

"Then what the hell are you fixing to do about it!" Smith rounded on him, just for a step, just to make a threat in the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. "What you think is gonna happen, Abersson? I get jumped by some — some big, scary outlaw?" Chance had come and gone for that. "Going to kill 'em for me?"

Smith turned on his heel, bulled off down the street again. That wolfish, red anger was getting up around his lungs again, same as it had in Blackwater before; he wanted a fight, he would have paid for a fight, tried to drown out the tearing pain in his head by tearing some man else apart before him.

Abersson was convenient. Abersson was still following him. And there was just enough thread of sense or decency left in Smith that he didn't want to rip the kid to pieces.

And scrabbling, in amongst the ragged scraps of pain, some fragment of argument was echoing: You want to head out there? —them things hunting us got guns of their own.

How many enemies did he have, if there was anything to what Marston said? How many enemies, and how many — whatever Marston was?

Abersson was still goddamn following him.

He reached the stables and the hitching post outside, and pulled Gambler free with a twist of the wrist. Turned to see Abersson with his jaw set, more fire in his eyes than Smith would have credited.

Smith must have made one piss-poor outlaw, if Marston was to be believed about any of it. Couldn't even warn off the most harmless man on the ranch. "The hell are you still doing here?"

Abersson's face twisted up. Then, "My grandfather got headaches like that," he burst, like he was angry at having to say it and ashamed at being angry. "And then one day he had a fit, and fell from his wagon, and lay in the snow we don't know how long before my father found him."

The way he said it, seemed he'd told the end of the story without telling it. God knew how long the kid had been carrying that along with him, and Smith didn't want it pushed on him: one more hurt to seize him between the lungs. "I ain't dying, Abersson. And I ain't your grandfather, or your father, neither."

"No, but you're the one who's taking a chance on me," Abersson said. "Dryden never would. I want to see you back safely."

What did the kid expect he'd be able to do, if Smith ran into some trouble on the road? Be that bandits or his own head tearing in two; kid weren't a fighter, and he weren't a doctor. Didn't even claim to be one.

But what was Smith going to do about it? Couldn't forbid the kid; the roads were open and free.

He shook his head. "It's a waste of your time," he snapped, "but it's your time to waste." He hauled himself up into the saddle. "Come on, then, if you're coming."

He didn't wait. Clapped his heels to Gambler's flanks, and took off as fast as the crowded city would allow.

Abersson caught up to him before they'd even left the Blackwater outskirts, but seemed to take just being allowed to follow as its own sort of triumph, and didn't press for conversation on the way. Suited Smith just fine.

Not that he preferred being left with his thoughts. But those were what he had; thoughts and questions and a grinding headache. Each one seemed to prop up the others.

He'd spent every step of the way asking himself what the hell Marston could want out of him. The answer always came back: he didn't know. There were easier ways to get at Dryden; easier way to get at Marks. And Smith, in himself, didn't have much to offer, nor to pursue. No money. No influence, not really — not except for this damn horse-training businessman job he hadn't wanted, but Marston had showed up nearly before that were even decided. Well before it became common knowledge.

Left... left the possibility that he were telling the truth.

Garbled as it had been. Miserable enough thought. And if he were? —the hell did he want, if he were?

Hell did it mean if an old career outlaw came hunting out one of his partners in crime?

Nothing good, probably.

It were a bad situation, and he didn't see a good way out of it. Part of him added, except maybe killing the man, but the thought turned his stomach in a way he didn't quite understand. Maybe because some sheriff or policeman might have much to say about that.

Maybe because it were the way an outlaw might think to have things settled.

They'd covered a mile, perhaps, and Smith had found no relief from questions or headache when the low-rolling hills surrendered up a man coming south on the road, whose gaze glanced over Smith, and who looked at him — and looked at him. And the look crawled up Smith's spine like one of Strauss's goddamn spiders. Or like the man he'd caught watching him outside the Purgatory saloon, that first night; a man, come to think of it, he didn't think he'd ever seen again. There was altogether too much in that look, except that when Smith took Gambler's reins in one hand and readied his other to draw, the look smoothed away, and he couldn't read a damn thing in the traveler's expression.

"Evening," Smith called. Heard the wariness in his own voice. And the man nodded back, for all the world like he was just... observing another person, met on the road.

"Evening," the man said, back. But he slowed his own horse as he approached them.

Black man. Hair straighter than even Abersson's mulatto curls, though, and worn long. With feathers. Smith guessed that was an Indian style.

Overseer had said that Marston came back by the ranch, while Smith was with Dryden in Strawberry. Brought some other man, a black man, with him. Hadn't told him more than that, and who the hell knew if this was him? More than one black man in West Elizabeth.

"Say, friend," the man said, and Smith tensed. But all he followed that with was, "you know the way to Clemens Point?"

Smith cast a glance back at Abersson, who looked as confused as he did, if not so wary. "Ain't heard of it," Smith said.

The man grunted. "How about Horseshoe Overlook? Any idea how to make a way there?"

...if this was a con, Smith couldn't see how. Not unless he was just being held here for an ambush to catch up with him, but this was scrub land, level but for low hills; no good place to hide an ambush, on this stretch of road. "I'd buy a map in Blackwater, friend," he said. The cup of his hand found the polished wood grip of his pistol. "Never heard of the place."

The black man raised a hand — in farewell, or appeasement, or in signal? But no one sprang upon them, and no shots rang out, and all the man said was "Sorry for taking your time," and set his horse to moving again.

Smith sidled Gambler, and turned to watch him go. And the man went, without a backwards glance, until the roll of the road hid him from view.

Smith watched the empty road for a moment more.

At length, Abersson cleared his throat. "Trouble?"

"I don't know," Smith said.

Abersson brought his horse closer. "You know that man?"

"Don't think so." His heart was going faster, and every thump announced itself between his eyes, against his crown. He half wanted to turn Gambler around and follow the man, see where he was headed, see if there were something there to be learned. And for what? Why? —because the man seemed to look at him strangely, and asked for directions to places Smith didn't know?

His head still hurt. His head still hurt. Felt like if he pressed too hard against it — thought too hard against it — he might fall straight out of his own skull, and scatter on the ground.

He wheeled Gambler around and forged north again.

It was, John thought, the worst kind of unfairness that sent him back to Beecher's Hope with nothing to show for his efforts, and forced to be grateful that he hadn't found some damnfool way to get himself killed and prove Abigail right.

Arthur always had claimed he was lucky. For John's part, it seemed like it would be just his luck to have Arthur throttle the life out of him because he'd worked out the trick of annoying the man, and never the trick of getting the last word in.

He put Rachel away in the stable. Headed indoors, rubbing a hand against his neck and hoping Arthur hadn't left a goddamned bruise. He had enough he'd have to explain — and explain sooner than he thought, as well. He pushed open the door to find Charles sitting at the dining table, staring down into the dark mirror of a cup of coffee, looking well unsettled; didn't even look up as John walked in.

John groaned, and sat across from him. Wondered how he was going to break the news of this most recent failure.

As it turned out, he didn't have to.

Charles let out a breath and, still staring into the coffee, said, "I met him on the road, coming out of Blackwater."

John sat up. "You saw him?"

Charles scowled. "I saw him," he agreed, not sounding happy about the fact. "Spoke a few words to him. And then I left, because I couldn't think of what to say. He didn't look like he was in a trusting mood."

"Yeah, we... argued, I guess," John said. Hell, he didn't know what that had been, in the saloon. He rubbed his hand across his neck again. "But you saw him. You know I'm not crazy."

"No, now I think we're both crazy," Charles said, not sounding like be believed that. He turned the coffee cup between his hands, and the motion made John's eye catch on his wrists, the line of his shoulders, his neck. Man was tense. Tenser than John had seen him, recently.

"I doubt you've ever come off as crazy," John said.

Charles didn't even bother to answer that. "John, who did I bury?" he asked. "Who was up there, on that mountain? And those Pinkertons... how did they take a picture of a dead man if the man wasn't dead?"

John could grapple with that question until Judgment, and still not wrestle it to the ground. But the more he thought of it...

"I don't care," he said.

Charles looked at him sharply.

"I don't care," John said again. "If it's Arthur, that's enough for me. I don't know what happened to most of us, these past eight years. Hell, sometimes I think I don't even really know what happened to me. And I didn't think I'd see any of you again."

"That isn't the same."

"No," John said. "Maybe not. I don't know. But I know who I saw, and you know who you saw, and... I ain't throwing that away, just because we both thought we knew something. Years back. I don't care how it's happened, but it's happened, and all I care about now is how to get him to remember all of us." He shifted in his chair. Tried not to prod at his neck again. "Or at least sit still and listen."

Charles huffed out a breath. "I don't know how to do that, either."

John let out a chuckle, because of course it wouldn't be that easy. "Well, at least I'm in good company."

"Huh," Charles said. Didn't sound particularly like agreement. He turned his cup again, one full circle, then back the other way.

Being lost in good company weren't the worst that could pass. In a way, John thought, that described some of the better parts of his life.

"We could send Abigail after him," he suggested, startling a laugh from Charles. "Or Sadie. He wouldn't dare pull a gun on Sadie."

"I suppose we should let her know, at least," Charles said. "Any idea where she is?"

John shook his head. "I haven't heard anything. So, Valentine, probably. If she's not out hunting." Knowing Sadie, she probably spent most of her time out hunting. She could have had money laid away for years, but Sadie Adler didn't strike him as the kind of woman who'd be content for long in saloons or theatres or sitting at home and... mending clothes. God help her late husband, and God rest him, too, if she'd been the least bit back then the way she was now.

"That man you talked to," Charles said. "The one Arthur's been hunting with. You said he was out by Valentine?"

"Yeah," John said.

Charles grunted. "Maybe I'll ride out there. Talk to him. See if Sadie is still at the hotel."

Seemed reasonable. But the thought of sending Charles out again itched at him, like a tick Abigail hadn't found, getting under his skin.

"No," John said. "I'll do it."

"John—"

"I spoke to him once," John said, pressing on. "He knows me. A little. And if Arthur's told Mr. Marks anything, then better he doesn't know your face."

"Sadie is not going to believe you," Charles said, flatly.

"So I'll send her here to talk to you."

Charles looked like he wasn't convinced that Sadie would believe him, either. But he said, "Fine," eventually. Gave John a cutting look. "But be smart about this."

John showed his hands. "I will." He hoped that were a promise he could keep.

Charles pushed away from the table, leaving the coffee un-drunk. "I'm going to go check on the sheep."

"Thanks," John said, and stood too. Sadie was welcome to her disbelief, as long as it lasted. John still felt like he was gathering allies. Knowing Arthur, he'd need all of them. "Guess I'll go see what Abigail and the boy have gotten up to, down by that creek."

Hard ride back to Oak Rose.

Long night.

Stars made it out before Smith made it in, and Gambler's head was sagging when they came in the gate. Abersson had trailed him the whole way, and looked grim as an undertaker's apprentice.

Smith hadn't fallen dead from his horse. The headache had lingered, but it had gotten no worse. All Abersson's misplaced concern, and for... what, exactly?

For loyalty, maybe.

The thought stung. Smith didn't know how he was to feel, having men who felt loyal to him.

"Well, here we are, then," he said. Stepped down off Gambler's back; led the poor boy on foot back toward the stables. "Not precisely the day you had imagined."

"I had nothing much planned, anyway," Abersson lied.

"Here," Smith said, and held a hand out. "I'll take care of the horses. You go on, get some rest, or whatever." Leave me alone, was what he wasn't saying.

And either Abersson heard what he wasn't saying, or he was tired enough to shirk when the opportunity was presented to him. "All right," he said, and handed over the reins. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Smith said, and brought the horses back to the stables.

Ranch was quiet. Strangely so. The silence seemed to echo, while he brushed down the horses; curl around the stable like a palm, so that he and the animals seemed the only living things around.

Most of the other hands would stay in Blackwater; wring out all the enjoyment they could from their little work holiday. There were just a handful of folk in the bunkhouse when Smith made his way in, mostly them who'd stayed; one, sitting at the corner table and playing a round of poker with Old Greek and one of the cowboys, called him over when he stepped in the door. Smith muttered something about his headache and stumbled to his bunk.

The ride back and the open air hadn't cleared his head, and nor had the quiet of the stables or the easy work brushing down the horses. Standing by his bunk, he couldn't think where else to look for clarity. Sleep never had helped before.

And his mind kept circling back to that idiot Marston, who was the world's worst con man, if he were one.

And if he weren't one, then what the hell did Smith do from there?

Part of an outlaw gang. There was something to tell the sheriff. There was something to tell Dryden. Whisper it to Grady's ghost. And from what Marston said, that gang had come to no good end, so what the hell was his game?

He'd thought, once, of asking Marks what he could find out about his past. Shrugged it off as a bad gamble. Now, looked like it might be a worse one. If Marston, rough and disreputable, had come up out of that past, come up waving that past like a goddamn cavalry flag, he probably ought to stay far away from the man — or get far away from him. Whipping up a new gang, in this era of roads getting safer and ranchers whipping up posses, were a fool's bet. And that before Smith considered how easy a time someone like Marks would have of finding him.

Goddamnit. Maybe it were all a lie. He could goddamn hope that it were all a lie.

Ought to have felt more like a goddamned lie.

He shucked shirt, boots, spurs, belt, holster, and dropped onto the thin mattress. Pulled the rough blanket over himself. Maybe he should have gone out to goddamn New Hampshire after all. Maybe he ought to write to Strauss, say I believe I am insane, ask what the hell an insane man was to do upon learning the fact, but he didn't think Strauss would give him any advice he'd care to follow. And this... it didn't feel much like insanity, neither.

He didn't know quite when he dropped to sleep.

But he knew sleep by the dream.

Unsettled thing. Like a world that couldn't decide what it wanted to be: wide-open land or heavy stone city, a storm on a mountaintop, the close wet rot of marsh air. Wasn't feeling pain, here, swathed in sleep, but the dream ached anyway.

And in the center of it, two clear points in the shifting morass, were the goddamned stag and the goddamned wolf, both of them standing still as statues.

Dread seemed the only answer.

But they stood steady, and the dread came more from the nonsense surrounding Smith than it did from them. No firm footing, but there they was; companions ever since he'd woke outside of Purgatory, and staring at him now, just the same.

Oh, he knew this game. And he walked toward them.

But neither bolted. Nor even stepped away. They watched him — eyes full of him, still no wariness held for each other, hunter and prey that they was.

Actors, that they was. Liars. No wolf, no stag, wearing those shapes like a man might wear a mask. But what could wear the whole of an animal, that way? Even in dreams?

Especially in dreams...

He stopped, standing before the both of them, so close that he could see the wind — didn't feel like there was wind — rustling in their pelts. See the little thrums of motion in their muscles, the slight quaver of their nostrils as they breathed, the shift of light — didn't seem like there was light — in their eyes.

"What is it with you?" he asked the both of them. "I wake up, I don't know a damn thing, but you're following me. Modern medicine can't help me, nor all of Strauss's devil teas, but you're always watching. Now — now there are folk claiming they know me, and I surely don't know them, but you two are familiar as old goddamn stockings. Why are you following me? What do you want from me?"

The stag blinked. The wolf yawned, showing its teeth. He wondered if he was asking the right question.

"What do you got for me?"

Seemed like there was a quiver, there. Anticipation, maybe.

Smith reached out, expecting them to flee or vanish, but they didn't. Just watched his eyes, paying no attention to his hand.

Maybe this time, maybe, he could actually reach one.

Wolf, or stag. Stag, or wolf.

He touched the wolf.

It was on him, teeth in him, in an instant.

And so was — memory.

He was

—drowning, clawing for air, in a sea thrashing with other drowning men; limbs reaching for the sky, while fire cast jagged orange light on the breaking waves. A hand gripped his shoulder, dragging him down; he kicked out, felt a rib crack, struggled back to the salt air; he was—

—tumbling sideways, and the world lurched around him like it was trying to buck him, but the world was just the size of a trolley car; it battered him against the wall, the ground, then opened into a storm of bullets and screams, the bustle of a city turned into the butchery of a gunfight; there was—

—guns, riders, charging through the marshy lawn of an old house that was no more than a carcass, and he wasn't sure if he was meant to be killing the folk inside or killing the folk coming in, but he was killing, no mistake about that; killing—

—a goddamn army of men, in a town built quaint like a painting, decorated now in gunsmoke and blood; coursing like wolves through the streets, gunshots punctuated by the cries of the terrified and wounded and the screaming of—

—a woman, stiff-backed and severe, powerless hate in her eyes, declining as he watched her; her hair falling limp from its widow's knot, her dress flaking away to a stained gown as if class and manner were things that could rot—

(Do you ever think about the afterlife—?)

(—I hope it is hot and terrible, else I'll feel I've been sold a false bill of goods...)

The ground writhing with fire, the air clotted with smoke, heady and thick like good tobacco, him dealing death from two pistols that flashed like wolves' eyes in the night—

A old matron, wailing, running from him into a mansion of flames—

A man, thin and shaking — dying — dying — pressed up against a wooden fence; bruised and battered, who convulsed with a cough that sprayed blood like burning oil across his face.

Then he was the one coughing, convulsing, tangling himself in the rough blanket, fighting it as though it fixed to strangle him; choking on something that tasted like blood. He rolled out of bed, hit the ground — the rest of the bunkhouse was stirring, most of them with curses or grumbling, a few with real concern — and he scrambled out of the building, into the dark night, made it halfway across the yard before he collapsed to his hands and knees.

Felt like a lifetime's worth of injuries on his body. No dream, that; it was waking hurt, except that it was fading, except that the cool bite of the night air was more present than any — what, dreamed? Remembered? — ache or pain.

The door to the bunkhouse creaked open, and someone came out. Smith winced; he didn't want to see anyone, or be seen by anyone, at all.

"Smith?" the other man — Abersson, of course it was Abersson — asked.

"Fine." He spat into the dirt.

"You don't look fine."

Abersson came and knelt down, striking a match on his hastily-pulled-on boots, and looked at him.

Then he jumped up, dropped the match, and yelped, "Jesus! Oh, lord!"

"I'm sure I don't look that bad," Smith said.

The pain was fading. Now, he could barely feel anything aside from a pinch in his lungs, and he stood up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Abersson struck another match, and in the sharp, small flare of light, Smith could see that his eyes had gone wide.

"What?"

"I... I don't know," Abersson said, and approached him with all the care of a man who didn't know if a shape in a stream was a piece of twig or a water moccasin. "...the light was funny, I guess." He let out an uneasy laugh. "For a second there, you looked like a corpse. Like a man beaten to death."

For a moment, he'd felt like a man beaten to death. "Yeah, well, you ain't that pretty when you just woke up, either."

"No," Abersson agreed, still giving him a look like a spooked horse. "You... sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. Just a bad coughing spell. Something I ate." Nightmares. Memories. Something.

Memories. Soaking through his dream like a bloodstain — he grappled after them, tried to seize them before they were lost to wakefulness, and found that the more he grasped, the more blood he felt on his hands.

Sheriff thought he had a past. Seemed he might be right.

Marston had said, We touched off the Blackwater massacre. Killed Leviticus Cornwall. Blew up Bacchus Bridge. And oh, he could almost smell the dynamite, and hear the cracking of timbers in the cool air. Had never seen Bacchus Bridge, not that he could remember, but oh, he could feel the blast in his bones.

And Dryden, frowning at him, saying Damned impressive shooting. —compared to anyone. And Zeke, shocked still, saying You goddamn buzzard!

What the hell are you? Ain't you got no decency?

What the hell was he?

"Smith—"

"I'm alright," he said. "You go on back inside, now."

"You sure?" Abersson asked, but he was already backing away.

"Yeah, kid." He wasn't. Never been less sure about anything.

Sure enough that he was hungry, in a way that had nothing to do with food. Hungry in the way where if he closed his eyes, that wolf might be hungry to sink its teeth into him, tear his chest open, finish the job.

No mistaking the way his heart was beating faster.  He might not know much, but he knew enough to know that wasn't all fear. Good part of it was. Not all. He knew excitement when it wrote itself on his body.

Excitement for what, now — for a fight, for a killing, (fine morning for a killing), for—

Enough.

Marston could say all he wanted — about havoc, about murder. Couldn't prove it, surely. Could have claimed a bounty already, with proof in hand.

Smith remembered watching Lovro hang in Purgatory. Didn't fancy following him onto the gallows. And if that old threat of an outlaw's end explained the fear he'd felt that day—

Enough. It couldn't be proven. It was lies or it wasn't, or it was part lies like a good con was, and in any case, lies or god's honest truth, it were nothing he wanted a part in.

He was Mr. Smith, a good-enough ranch hand, horse trainer, good-enough bounty hunter, who would put away enough money somehow to buy a horse in cash and then the world would be open to him. He could get away from the past, if it was his past; with all this trouble with his memory, it had surely gotten away from him. Maybe he'd just make the separation permanent. Nothing to worry about, that way. Nothing to fear.

Except... for all he had none of that memory to hand, he did carry it in him, didn't he?

He didn't want to go back into the bunkhouse. Didn't want to go back to sleep. Not knowing what was waiting for him, now. He'd spent so much time trying to untangle the mystery of those two damn beasts, and now that he'd begun to, he wanted nothing more than for them to go away.

He heard himself make a noise, then; a moan like a wounded animal. Felt too hunted, too exposed, out here on the face of the world, with the stars above seeming to take too keen altogether an interest.

Run as far as you like, they seemed to say. Gleaming like wolves' eyes in the dark. We don't forget. Nothing is forgiven.

And when would it be, and whose teeth would it be, that found him?

Chapter Text

The train rolled into Valentine just after noon, and of its many passengers, one in particular stepped into the city streets with a grim resignation and more than a fair parcel of dread.

John couldn't have explained the dread. Except maybe that everything he tried, recently, seemed to go wrong in some way or other, and this visit had more ways to go wrong than most. Worst part was, whatever might go wrong, John had a feeling it would be nothing he even expected: getting bit by a rabid dog on his way up, or Marks running across an old bounty poster showing John's face, or Colm O'Driscoll hauling himself out of the grave to burn down the city, or something.

Nothing he could do about... goddamn any of it.

He stopped by the hotel first, of course. He was expecting a fight, and one with words instead of bullets; by far his weaker skill. But he didn't get one. Hotel owner looked at him when he stated his business, seemed to ask himself what kind of man could come looking for a woman like Sadie Adler, and said "You're too late. She rode out a day or two ago. Took her big pack, so that likely means she'll be gone a while."

"That predictable, is she?" John asked. Missing her was a relief and a shame, all at once; he might not have had any way to argue her into believing him, but he still could have used the backup. Especially if Arthur had gotten to Marks first.

"Oh, Mrs. Adler does steady business here. And across the way," the man said, nodding over toward the sheriff's office. "I don't know when she'll be back, but a pack like that means she'll probably be coming back to celebrate. I hope no poor fool over in Smithfield's ends up getting his arm broken over it."

Or his hand split in two, John thought, though Sadie hadn't seemed much like she was celebrating, that day. "That happen often?"

"Well," the man admitted, "just the once. Last year. But believe me, they're still talking about it."

"Right." Not much more for John to do, then. Sadie was out of the city, apparently on some big hunt that, naturally, she hadn't invited him to.

He tried not to feel too sore about that.

"Well, when she comes back, let her know that Jim Milton was by looking for her, will you?" God knew it was just as likely he wouldn't have this sorted by then.

"Jim Milton. Sure will," the man said, and John took his leave.

Picking his way through Valentine, past the main road, up the hills — passing by all the familiar sights: there's the auction yard we tried to sell those sheep at; there's the street where Arthur shot one of Cornwall's men, right past my ear — he couldn't help but feel that his history, or his life, or something, had got a knot in it. Why not expect some strange calamity? Two dozen wolves come down from the mountains to hunt him, only him, of all the men in the world? Sisika Island lurching up from the waves and flapping over the mainland on great buzzard wings? Given what was already happening, it seemed anything could happen, and John felt that was more a threat than a promise.

His walk turned into a trudge, then finally something like a slink, by the time he reached the Marks' red door. Paused a moment, trying to compose himself, and knocked.

As before, he could hear Marks call, "Just a minute!", and hear the quiet sounds of some life going on indoors. A few breaths, and then the door swung open, and Marks was looking at him, and John was trying to look friendly. "Cooper Marks."

"Mr. Milton," Marks said, and blinked at him. "I wasn't expecting you again. Was there something I could help you with? You found Mr. Smith, all right?"

"I did! I... yeah," John said. Be smart about this, Charles had told him. Hadn't told him just how he was meant to do that, but John had a feeling it involved not letting slip that Arthur didn't want a thing to do with him, didn't trust him, and would do near anything to kick him off into the wilderness. "I... just... how well do you know him?"

Marks thought for a moment about that, and seemed surprised with the answer. "Not terribly well, now that I think of it," he said. "Once I — that is, I met him by accident. And then I had to find where he worked, but that was just a matter of asking some station clerks about a man and a horse."

"Really," John said. Wished it had been that easy for him.

"It was a very distinctive horse," Marks said, sounding a little sheepish. "And tack. I mean, of course, we work together, and we talk — that is, on those long rides, there's not much to do but talk. But mostly it's about... I don't know, this and that. The land. Philosophy. Not about us, really. Rather, not about him. I know he's a terrific shot." He quirked his head at John. "Why do you ask?"

"He had some trouble with his memory, folks tell me," John said. "Out around Purgatory way. He didn't remember me when we talked, and he didn't seem inclined to talk when we was around the ranch." Or when they met in Blackwater, or at all, ever, but easy enough to pretend the ranch had been the problem. Seemed that Arthur hadn't told Marks that he wasn't interested in hearing what John had to say. That was good. Of course, Arthur didn't tend to tell anyone anything, and for once that was working in John's favor.

Long might that continue.

Proved well enough when Marks said, "...I didn't know," and frowned like he was going back over something in his mind.

"From what I can tell, riding out with you is just about the only time he has, mostly to himself," John said. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me when I could catch him."

Or when Charles could catch him.

But now Marks was frowning at him, though maybe more in thought than suspicion. Still got John's hackles up. "What is it you do, Mr. Milton?" Marks asked.

John didn't trust that question. "I'm a rancher," he said. "Out by Blackwater."

"Hm," Marks said. "Deputy seemed to think you were a bounty hunter when you came by, last."

Only enough of one to make his life more difficult, apparently. "No," John said. "I work with one, from time to time. Not much, recently." No, Sadie was off having her own adventures, and not inviting him along for fear he'd get broken.

"I only really see him when we go to capture a bounty," Marks said. "I respect him a great deal, and I like him well enough, but we're not very close, all things considered."

There seemed to be something John was meant to catch, in those words, and after a moment, he caught it. Showed his palms. "Wouldn't dream of trying to steal a bounty from you," he said. "Or him." He'd apparently made enough of an enemy of Arthur just by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time; he wasn't interested in feeding that fire.

Marks was still looking at him. Weighing him, most likely.

"Swear to God," John said.

Marks sighed, and apparently took that as more of a promise than John would have. "I do have something I'm nearly ready to move on," Marks said, and gave him a measuring look. "Could be I'll be riding out with Mr. Smith in the next few days."

John tried not to look excited, or at least tried to look like the right thing might be exciting him. "So, I can meet him then?"

"I can send a telegram to you," Marks said. "When we head out. Just—" He gave John an unexpectedly shrewd look. "I know it's a competitive business, and if this is some kind of underhanded—"

"It's not," John said. "On my honor." What little he had of it. "I just want a chance to talk with him. Somewhere where there ain't a dozen other ranch hands angling for gossip." Or turning him away at the gate, which was his more pressing concern.

"All right." Marks nodded. "Where should I have the telegram sent?"

It was something. "Beecher's Hope, over in Great Plains," John said. And if Arthur got the name of the ranch from Marks, and decided to show up to cut this little Gordian knot of theirs in person... well, John would trust to Jack and Abigail and Rufus to charm him. Or something. Maybe he'd just see Arthur coming on the road, tell Abigail they had to move again, then hide behind the barn until debris stopped flying. "Thank you."

"Of course," Marks said, and tilted his head like he was wondering if there were anything else.

Be smart about this. John cleared his throat. "Uh... there was one other thing."

"Oh?"

"If you could just... not mention you saw me," John said. "I don't want him to get it into his head that someone's chasing him. He can be a little..."

Marks seemed to know what he meant, which was fortunate, as John had no idea how he should have ended that sentence. The kid's eyes unfocused for a moment, like he was imagining something.

"Always has been," John said.

Marks eyed him, like he was wondering exactly how much trouble this little favor was going to get him in. John halfway expected to be thrown off the man's porch then and there.

"I'm not bringing either of you any trouble," John lied. Then, because Marks seemed inclined to take him at his word, "I promise."

"I hope you're not," Marks said, and cast him a dubious look.

Discretion was the better part of being smart about this, John decided. He tipped his hat. "I'll leave you to your day. Thank you again."

Then he retreated before he had a chance to make anything worse.

Jack caught him when he rode back in to Beecher's Hope, late that night. Later than he should have been up. Looked like he'd been at the campfire with Uncle, though Uncle was now stretched out on the dry dirt, snoring loud enough that John could hear him from the gate.

Jack didn't look happy. Looked down the road when John stepped down out of the saddle, and said, "Ain't had any luck?"

"Luck with what?" John asked.

"Uncle Arthur. Just... I thought he might come by, by now," Jack said. "You found him. You've gone out to meet him—"

"I wasn't up there today," John said. "I was out in Valentine. Talking to a man he works with." He laid a hand on Rachel's neck, absently. "I'm trying, Jack. But this thing with Arthur's memory..."

Didn't seem like an excuse Jack wanted to hear. "Why can't you just explain to him who we are? If he don't remember anything, don't he want to know?"

Well, that were the problem. "I'm sure he does," John said, because he couldn't just say no. "But it's... the thing is..." Thing was, Arthur didn't trust John one whit, and that didn't look to be changing. Rather, Smith didn't trust John one whit. Arthur knew him, had the measure of him, might be none too impressed with him but still listened when he had something to say. Smith, though... "It's complicated."

"Complicated," Jack echoed. "Why's it complicated? How? In... in what way?"

"Just... a complicated way," John said. "Losing all your memory? That has to rattle you. We just need to give him some time."

"Well, how much time?"

"Some of it. Or maybe we have to... I don't know, okay? But we're trying."

Jack shook his head. "Well, what can I do, then?"

"You've done enough," John said. "You helped me find him—"

Weren't enough for Jack, apparently. "I'm tired of always being the only one folk don't trust!" Jack burst out. "You all talk without me, you — you go out there without me, and all I can do is shovel out the barn." Never mind that he'd been the one asking to shovel out the barn, if it were the only way he could help. "You won't even tell me what's really happening! I know you ain't telling me."

Telling Jack the half of it were inviting some unpleasantness. "I don't want you to worry—"

"But there is something to worry about!" Jack's voice was rising, now. John cast a glance back toward the house, wondering just when Abigail would come rushing out. "And I just don't know what it is, because none of you will tell me. What's going on? Is it Uncle Arthur? Is something wrong?"

"It's just his memory," John said, making a placating little motion with his hands. "You knew that. We told you that." His memory, and the fact that he'd good as threatened to kill John twice, now. John was mostly sure he wouldn't follow through on it. Mostly.

"You're still hiding things from me!" Jack accused. "You and Ma! You always are!"

"Jack," John tried. The boy was nearly frantic with this. One would think Rufus had got bitten by another snake. "You're my son," John said, and that left a rotten taste in the back of his mouth; reminded him too much of Dutch. "Abigail's son. You're still young, yet — we just want you to be safe, alright?"

Wrong thing to say, apparently. "I ain't that young!" Jack's hands were fists, his voice was tight, and his face had that look that only a thirteen-year-old boy's could have. "I worked with Ma in Strawberry. I worked on the Pronghorn ranch. And I take care of the ranch here, don't I? When are you going to start treating me like I'm grown?"

When you start acting like you're grown, was on the tip of John's tongue. "Ain't all fun and games, Jack. You want to be a grown man? Okay. How about you... come out with Charles and me, look for some fallen trees to bring back. You can ride Rachel. She's a good horse; she'll take care of you." It were a bit more man's work, hard work, and Rachel was calm enough to take a nervy rider.

Too nervy. Jack got his shoulders up around his ears, stared at John like John were offering him a pistol and asking him to sneak into an outlaw camp. Finally, he looked away.

"Ain't no shame in—" John began.

"You don't understand," Jack said, and stormed off. Left his father to stare after him, and wonder what any of that had been. Had it been anything? Had he been that moody at that age?

He sighed. Probably, honestly, he'd been worse. It were a wonder that Arthur had never tried to strangle him before that argument in Blackwater.

He stabled Rachel and went inside. Drank and dressed for bed, and climbed onto the mattress — still an unfamiliar thing — behind Abigail, who stirred and turned herself to face him. She mumbled something, half asleep.

"All's well," John said. " 'cept we have to talk about Jack."

Abigail sighed, and pressed her face into his shoulder.

"Tomorrow," John said.

She made a sound that sounded like agreement. Left him to put an arm over her, feel the solid warmth of her, and be thankful that this was something else they was on the same side of. He cherished those things, these days.

Hard work, John found it, just not doing anything stupid over the next few days. Had to measure out his time at Beecher's Hope like breathing. Sunrise, sunset; inhale, exhale. Chop wood. Carry water. Try to fight the urge just to leap atop Rachel, ride up to Oak Rose, try to do... something.

Like a tick under his skin, that thought was. He knew just where Arthur was. Weren't even so far away. Long day's riding, but not more than a day. And still...

Still.

It were a mercy when a telegram came in.

John was stripping new weeds that might be plains oleander when the man rode up, and the moment the paper was in his hands, his heart was hammering again. No matter that any excitement were most of two states away. He found Charles at the water pump, and came up to him at a jog; caught the man's curious expression, and the understanding that followed it before he had time to say a word. "New Hanover," John said. "That bounty hunter, Marks — he's meeting with Arthur for a bounty. Heading in through Annesburg, and the bounty was posted in Brandywine."

"Sounds like they'll be taking the train in, then," Charles said.

"Probably," John agreed. "...maybe." Arthur wasn't — Arthur never had been overfond of trains. Good for getting to a place quick, though. If he was heading out to meet someone in New Hanover, get on a job, he might not want to ride the whole way. "Guess we should, too." Meant riding up to Riggs — which were the closest station to Oak Rose, as well. Halfway between them, near enough exactly. "Might catch him at Riggs."

"Maybe," Charles said. "Folk in Purgatory said Dryden's important, up there. Does a lot of business. Telegram might get to Oak Rose faster than it would come here."

...well, that were an issue. Telegram office in Blackwater might have any number of messages to deliver in and around the city, before sending a rider all the way out to Beecher's Hope for a man who weren't too important to anyone. "Right. So..."

There were a few possibilities. One, that they'd run into Arthur at Riggs Station, and... that would be that. Two, that they'd get to Annesburg on an earlier train than his, and have to catch him when he arrived. Three, that they'd get to Annesburg on a later train, and have to catch him when he came back through.

...four. That he would ride out, and never set foot in Annesburg at all; the only person they'd meet there would be Marks.

...five. That he'd get to Annesburg on an earlier train, do his work wherever it took him, and then ride home. Meaning they wouldn't catch him coming or going. Meaning the whole trip would be a waste, and the two of them together would be be no better at this than John had been alone.

Six, seven, eight, a hundred: if he thought about it, there were more ways for this to go wrong than there were for it to go right. Simple as it seemed. And Arthur might as well been made of water, he tended so much to go flowing out of John's grip.

"We should move fast, and split up," John said.

Charles nodded. Seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "I'll set up in Annesburg. You take Brandywine."

Meant that Charles was more likely to catch Arthur and Marks, coming or going. John wanted to argue that, but... he'd already decided to trust the man. And it weren't as if John'd had any luck talking to Arthur on his own. "All right. Yeah. I'll grab my things."

Charles was already heading for his own.

Wasn't much to grab. His guns, a coat, his satchel — and as he grabbed the satchel, his fingers brushed over Arthur's journal.

He hesitated. Stared at the thing like a familiar face, met unexpected on the road. There was something he hadn't considered: if nothing he could say would get through to the man, maybe this—

His own words, in his own handwriting, his own pictures—

Assuming the man would recognize his own handwriting, his own pictures. Recognized little enough else. And the last half of it, now, was John's own thoughts, and not ones he was eager to share. He could cut those pages out, but rebelled at the idea: knowing Arthur were alive, knowing he was so close by, destroying anything of his seemed an unforgivable offense.

But...

It were something. He'd be a fool — more a fool — not to grasp at anything that might help him. He made the decision quick; tucked it away in his satchel. It were a card he could play, if he had to. One up his sleeve.

Outside, Abigail had taken a moment away from the constant stream of domestic tasks; she was sitting with Jack under his tree, while he led her through one or another of his books. She'd noticed — of course she had — when the telegram came in, and now that he approached her she looked up, a question written plain in her expression.

"Charles and I are off, up to Annesburg," John said, and cast Jack a sidelong look. He wanted to say I am taking Charles; you trust him, but had more pride than that.

Abigail's lips pressed together, but she must have seen something like this coming the moment the telegram came in. "And when will you be home?"

"I don't know," John said. Then, at her look, "I don't. Not more than a day. I hope."

And through this, Jack had been working his way up to something. Now he set his shoulders, took a deep breath, and said "I'll come with you," in a tone a bit like desperation.

"No," John said. Said it right over Abigail, saying the same thing. A storm condensed in Jack's face immediately; John tried to chase it away by saying "We need you here. ...you're the man of the house, while I'm gone."

"Sure," Jack said, in a tone that said You're lying; I know you're lying. Abigail rolled her eyes skyward.

Charles was already out of the house, heading toward the barn. John backed up after him. Abigail called out to both of them, "Take care, you hear? And good luck."

Luck. Probably, they'd need it.

"Thanks," he said, and they were on their way.

Smith was out in the paddock, with Legionary facing him and Abersson watching him, when the overseer found him.

Man didn't say much — just, "Mr. Dryden wants you in the main house," — but Smith felt the summons raising the hair on his nape, just the same. Then, most things did, recently. Conversations he weren't a part of in the bunkhouse at night. The clouds going along their business in the sky. The look Legionary gave him or Abersson, when they came to him in his stall.

Hadn't been sleeping well, and that were part of it. Last couple nights, Smith'd had a bottle of brandy to escort him into that darkness, and the wolf hadn't come for him yet, but hadn't left him, neither. And Smith carried that tension, that sense of being only meat and prey, with him into the waking light.

And now Dryden called for him.

"Sure," he said. "Let me put him away." Tilted his head toward Legionary, who regarded the overseer with his calm haughty disdain.

Horse still was head-shy. Still wouldn't take a bit, though he tolerated Smith looping a rope around his neck and leading him back into the stables. Abersson still kept Smith between him and the horse, though Legionary hadn't taken so much as a snap at him.

"Suppose it's trouble?" Abersson asked.

"I'll find out, I reckon," Smith said, as he put the horse away.

Inside the main house, Dryden was ensconced in his office; he looked up when Smith came in. Frowning already. And on the desk, pinned beneath Dryden's fingers, was a telegram.

Took Smith a moment to work out what it could be. And then all the pieces fell into place: only so many things would bring a telegram to the ranch, and only so many of those things would be any of Smith's business at all. And Dryden looked aggrieved; not like a man with some opportunity to share, which happened to involve a man good at horses.

"Marks wants me," Smith said.

Dryden's frown was all the confirmation he needed. "And you think it's a wise use of your time to go haring off into the wilderness after criminals."

"You did, once." Dryden had given his blessing; did he expect Smith to have forgotten that?

"I did," Dryden agreed. "And the Purgatory sheriff hasn't seen you recently, nor heard much of you from his colleagues elsewhere, though I assume you're out there, doing something."

"Marks been the one—" Smith started to explain. Dryden waved the explanation off.

"Besides, you realize that things have changed here, now we've lost Mr. Grady."

I do believe I was there, was on his tongue, but Smith didn't say it. Didn't want Dryden to think on that too hard. He grunted.

"And yet, you still want to go," Dryden said.

As though this were hard to understand. Maybe for a man like him, it was.

"A couple... few days at a time," Smith tried to reason. And maybe that weren't the angle to take. "I know you'd rather have me give it all up. But it ain't something I'm willing to do." Had to press on, then, because he had the sense that Dryden would have words to say on that. "I worked hard to come here. And I'm real appreciative of all you've done for me. But if it's gotta be one thing or the other, then... I can't stay."

He hadn't meant it to be a threat, and wouldn't have believed Dryden might take it as one. But Dryden got real sharp in his expression, like this would be a fight.

As though the man were capable of anything so direct. "Discovered a real passion for justice, have you?"

Justice were the least part of it. The money, the sky, the open road... hell, even the fight, if there was one; the honest exchange of bullets and blood. They all called to him. Justice weren't hardly a whisper.

Best not to mention that.

Best not to think on it too hard. Open that door, and who knew what would come rushing out?

"Mr. Dryden," he said. "I ain't anyone you looked to have on your ranch in the first place." He saw Dryden's eyes narrow; tried a different argument. "You made a place for me, and I ain't ungrateful. I'm willing to work. I ain't willing to do nothing but. Hell, even — even Grady went off to Kentucky, wherever; he were gone when I came here. I know it ain't usual, being able to come and go. But..."

But, it were what he wanted. That likely mattered little to a man like Dryden.

Dryden studied his face. His own face was drawn taut. He leaned forward, eventually, and folded his hands over his desk. "You'd really rather train up Abersson."

Smith shrugged. "He's keen," he said. "Smart, too. Don't reckon he'll disappoint you."

"And what about you?" Dryden asked. "I won't pretend I don't have some self-interest. You should, too; it's one of the foremost American virtues. I'm thinking about your future."

Panic closed its hand on Smith's lungs.

"Bounty hunting's a young man's game," Dryden said, not seeing or caring to notice that the air was coming stiff past Smith's teeth. "It could kill you. Certainly it won't keep you to old age. But you could have a home here, just as long as Old Greek has. Solid work, for all that time."

A future, was it. Smith couldn't turn his mind to much of a future. Dryden held one out in the palm of his hand, and all Smith could see lying there were dust and bones. And why should that be?

He'd been content enough, going from day to day. Got himself out of the Brooks & Inverness office, which he couldn't bear. Got himself here, which he... mostly could.

In all that time, hadn't thought much about a future. Thought about, sure, putting some money aside; buying a horse. Hadn't thought much about growing old.

Had no idea why the notion was like a knife at his chest.

"No," he said. Hauled it like a brick from his lungs. Couldn't chase around the meaning he wanted to follow it with. "No, I, I don't think—"

Dryden weren't wrong, was the thing of it. Weren't many old bounty hunters. Were more than a handful of dead ones. But it weren't a death by some outlaw's bullet that scared him, it were something else; waiting for him around the edges of that future Dryden promised. Something which would stalk him if he sat still to let it.

Something with teeth far darker than wolves' teeth.

"Ain't for me," he said. As though there were something for him; something he'd forgotten. We ain't long for it. Scraps, and scraps, and—

And another scrap answered it, in an unwelcome, familiar voice: Then that's the way it goes, I guess.

—for me, yes.

Dryden was haunted by none of this. Man had his place in the world. "I think you're making a mistake," he said, "but I'll give you leave." He shook his head. Held the telegram out. But before Smith could take it, he caught his eye and said, "but think about what I've said. You could make a fine life here."

A life here, and a shallow grave, it seemed like; seemed the dust in the air would as good as bury him. And it had seemed so inviting, when he came up from Blackwater. So much closer to freedom than he'd been before.

The past chased him, and the future stalked him, and here he was: in the scope between the one and the other, with nowhere to run but forward.

"I'll think about it," he said. He was a liar; he'd learned that early. "Thank you." Liar, still.

He took the telegram, and fled.

The open sky was an antidote to many things. The open sky, and the open road, and Gambler; or maybe it had just been a strange mood that took him, and it passed off. Or maybe the mood would keep chasing him from one place to another, eating up every last breath of comfort he could find.

But for now, the open road was an antidote, and Smith let it ease him. He was feeling almost normal by the time he got to Riggs Station.

Feeling trapped, again, when he loaded Gambler into the livestock car and himself onto a passenger bench, but that were to be expected, surely.

He arrived in Annesburg in good time, though he didn't catch Marks in the station. Asked the clerk, and the clerk pointed him out toward the mine's company store. Smith thanked him, and and stepped out into the mouth of the Devil.

Annesburg. City turned his stomach more than Blackwater. Whole place thumped to some industrial heartbeat, slow and heavy and nothing human to it. It breathed, too: long ceaseless exhalations of black smoke, stinking of coal. Grime was on the building walls; grime was on the people's clothes. Folk here looked like they'd eaten coal for breakfast and ash for dinner, and washed it down with the oily, reeking water from the troubled Lannahechee.

The company store was a low building that looked just like all the other low buildings, with a window and a grate at the front; not a store folk were allowed in, apparently. A menu of goods was by one side of the window, and the other side had a sign, large as Smith's spread arms, that said PAY SCRIP AND SAVE. Someone had scrawled under it, Earn scrip and DIE, and another, much smaller sign said, NO CASH.

Marks was there, in earnest conversation with the shopkeeper. He caught Smith's eye when he came up, and waved to him. Smith touched his hat, stood for a moment listening to Marks extracting some last information out of the man, then shook his head and wandered a few steps off.

City didn't open itself to his observation. Full of houses that looked all the same; buildings that looked all the same. Few signs to welcome travelers. Nothing that looked much like a hotel, and good thing someone had apparently taught him the word BIERHALLE at some point, because otherwise he wouldn't have thought there to be a saloon, neither. Even that seemed uninviting, with its heavy closed door and dark windows. City seemed to have turned its back on the world, but for the train station.

He wandered around the corner, where a lean man with a lazy eye saw him, looked him up and down, and grinned, and waved him over. "You look like you're buying."

With how Smith felt he looked, he didn't know what the man thought he was in the market for. "Do I?"

"A drop to get you through the day," the man said, and knocked his knuckles against one of the barrels he was leaning on. Annesburg was lousy with barrels; Smith hadn't thought these were anything more than the city's wretched debris. "Local stuff."

Well, now, that were about the best of the options he might have been presented with. "Moonshine?"

"None better," the man said, and pulled a flask out of his thin vest. "Go on. Take a sip."

Hard to imagine anything good found its way out of this place, but Smith took the flask and drank in any case. Then nearly regretted it. "Jesus!" he said. That would strip a man's breath from his body. "The hell you make this from?"

"Corn mash and coal coke," the man said, and took the flask back. "You buying?"

"I'm buying," Smith agreed.

The man gave him a grin which reminded him, forcefully, of the shark-toothed man in the Purgatory saloon. "Closest a man can get to the waters of the Lethe, says my woman at the stills."

"That'll do me, then," Smith said, and dug out his bills. This man, at least, took something other than scrip.

Ran into Marks when he stepped back around the corner, apparently finished with whatever questions he'd had. "Sorry for that," Marks said. "I wanted the latest news."

"I understand," Smith said. Tucked the moonshine into his saddlebags. "So, what is that news?"

"We'll be heading up into Black Balsam Rise," Marks told him, handing Smith the wanted poster. "I'm not sure just where in it, but it's the first time I've heard anything even this solid, and folk say they saw someone heading up a side path by a broken cairn. Mr. Leefield has been around and about all of Roanoke Ridge, but he's good at disappearing."

Smith studied what he'd been given. Davis Leefield, wanted for... murder, murder, and more murder, apparently. Not much else to be learned from the poster. "Well, let's get going, then." He tucked the poster into his satchel, and swung onto Gambler's back. "Get out of this place."

Marks didn't seem to share his distaste for the human ruin around them. He clambered on his little dun mare and led them north on the path, into a landscape that seemed ravaged by Annesburg's sheer proximity.

The mine country out near Strawberry, where they'd tracked Grey, had been more or less abandoned. Left to heal, or at least scar over. This place was still part of its massacre: stumps of trees that had been felled to feed Annesburg's fires or shore up its mineshafts, with all the stumps and all the standing trees blackened by soot until Smith suspected that Black Balsam weren't the name any original settlers had picked. Even the earth seemed angry: all louring outcrops of rock, loose stones underfoot in scree soil, sudden cracks and drops.

Marks kept an eye out, until he caught a rough, tumbled pile of stones, only its size and the fact that some part of it still looked intentional distinguishing it from the rest of the landscape. He motioned them up a narrow path — almost a game trail — and let Smith take the lead. "Tell me about this bounty," Smith said. "What are we looking for?" He knew by now that the poster wouldn't have the best of it.

Marks cleared his throat. "He styles himself a hunter, I think," he said. "Fur hats and the like. He's done brisk business with the trapper who makes his rounds through these parts. According to him, he started shooting people who trespassed on his land — not that he has legal claim to any land, around here. Man I spoke with, he thought Leefield just got a taste for hunting young men instead of deer and beavers."

"Charming," Smith muttered. Then, clearer: "What are we looking for? Horse? Man on foot?"

"On foot, from what I've heard," Grey said. "Last seen heading up this way. A few folk in Annesburg have seen him coming and going, but the people of Annesburg seem to be... rather apathetic, when it comes to the matter." He shook his head. "I suppose that next to the Murfrees, Leefield must not seem like much."

Sounded like this place had more troubles than industry. And the words that slipped from his mouth weren't entirely his own, he didn't feel: "America is designed to induce apathy in people."

Marks cast him a curious look. "What do you mean by that?"

...what did he mean by that? It seemed a neat enough sentiment, but when he tried to get his fingers into the edges of it, it seemed like something he had to work to pry apart. At once obvious and unquestionable and strangely philosophical.

"Folk in Annesburg," he said. "Seems they have enough troubles. Not sure the folk in them mines are thinking about hunting, be it deer or people. Folk at Oak Rose, they don't think 'bout anything but Oak Rose. And down in Blackwater..."

He scowled. Down in Blackwater, they might not notice if the rest of the world dropped away, leaving only Blackwater behind. Might not notice if Blackwater swallowed the rest of the world up, leaving only city, from the yawn of the Atlantic to the roll of the Pacific.

"Everyone has their own troubles," Marks said. Maybe agreed, maybe disagreed. "I don't know that it's something America has done, especially. But I've lived here all my life."

Well, so had Smith. Probably. Maybe. And if he scratched the surface of that certainty — any certainty — what would he find underneath? The notion of America, good or evil, were familiar to him as anything, and still beyond him. He didn't know that he could argue it with Marks or anyone.

So he let the conversation lie. Leaned over the side of his saddle, peering at the rough land, seeking messages in the dirt, the loam. This... might not be bad country, but for man. But for the misfortune of finding coal beneath the surface. Could have been something far different, less ravaged, more clean.

There were footsteps, all right. Leading them onward.

Riding out, like this, with earnest Cooper Marks following behind, Smith couldn't help but feel — something. Slow and heavy and solemn, like he was mourning — something. But what? A country that had no interest in him? A future he had no interest in? A past he didn't want?

A past, the more he learned about, the more he thought he didn't want.

Had to wonder at this partnership he had with Marks. He was taking the lion's share of the pay, and doing little enough of the work; Marks sought and questioned and hunted for days or weeks, and Smith's part of it was to ride out for an afternoon, maybe; spend a bullet, maybe, if he had to. Tie a rope. Let Marks sit in his shadow, should violence threaten. Looking at the two of them, one might think Smith had come out ahead.

And yet somewhere, Marks had the life tucked away that Smith had only let himself wonder about, maybe dream of having, a little. When he'd been riding to Oak Rose, when he'd been following that path up into the mountains, when he'd been sitting in the Purgatory hotel scribbling lies for Strauss: a home somewhere, a family.

Well. Marks hadn't ever mentioned a dog. Might be he didn't have that.

Smith, of course, didn't, either.

Smith had a wolf who threatened him every night, even when it did nothing but watch him and grin.

He and Marks were of different lives, that were sure. Smith had taken his leave from Strauss, and might send the man a letter now and again, but Strauss moved on without him. He'd vanished from Inverness, and Inverness like as not didn't care. Dryden, now, Dryden wanted to keep him around, nail him down, but that were no comfort.

And then there were Marston.

He pulled his thoughts away from all that. Put them back on the trail.

Dismounted, after a time, because the path grew narrower, rockier; the footprints were fainter. Had to look at the lay of the land, more; had to guess, more often, what path between the trees and the shrub would be most appealing to a man losing himself in the wilderness. Marks dismounted, behind him, and then there were two men and two horses picking their way through the Rise as the sun moved the shadows around them. Following this trail or that, doubling back, seeking any signs of recent humanity amidst the wild herbs and exposed roots. The thread widened, and narrowed; disappeared, reappeared, and finally led them down a rough hillside, until the trees broke and the land evened out and let them all into an odd bowl in the earth, rough-edged, mostly clearing except for the grand patriarch of trees that stood in the middle.

Tree bearing the oddest fruit Smith had seen.

"Marks," Smith remarked. "You didn't tell me that the bounty was a god-damned monkey."

"I—" Cooper stared up into the boughs, as taken aback as Smith was. "I swear, in all my legwork, I never came across any mention of this."

Leefield had found himself a grand, ancient live oak here, stubbornly hanging on this far north of its proper place, whose branches were so long and heavy that they bowed to the ground and seemed to root there before curving back up to greet the earth rises. The tree was wide as a house, and not quite as tall as it was wide, but it was tall enough that Smith wanted nothing to do with the upper reaches.

Which position was, sadly, not universal. Leefield had a big wide hammock slung up there, hanging in what seemed to be a precarious sort of way, and a sheet slung over it for a rain fly, and Smith thought he could spy a few separate packs hanging from the smaller branches. A rifle, too, on a nearby branch, though Smith reckoned he could hit Leefield quick enough if the man went for it.

Looked like the man could live up there for days, the amount of bags he had. Though if that were the case, Smith decided he'd rather not know how Leefield handled his toilet needs.

"Well, what are we supposed to do now?" Smith asked. Hammock was bowed, and didn't move much in the breeze; seemed it was weighed down, likely by Leefield himself.

"I..." Marks said. "I don't suppose you have any ideas?"

Course. Smith's part in this was to bring the bounty in; Marks had done his work in finding the man. And no, he didn't have many ideas. Least, not many useful ones.

He growled, took his rifle, and walked out into the little clearing. "Hey!"

There was motion in the hammock, and Smith got the impression someone had looked out. Couldn't see them, though. Might be a tear in the fabric up there, or something; enough to let someone observe without being seen.

"You up there!" Smith bellowed. Hell with subtlety. "Looking for someone named Leefield. You him?"

"Are you sure—?" Marks began, but he was interrupted by a cackle from the tree.

"What if I am?" probably-Leefield answered. "These are my hunting grounds, boys. You'd best step off before I get a mind to shoot you. For trespassing."

"Nah, we ain't doing that," Smith called back. Held up the rifle, in case the man was watching. "And you ain't shooting us, neither. Come down, let's talk. Be men about this."

"You ain't no men," Leefield called down. "You're whining curs, the both of you. Go running back home to the sheriff who owns you. This is my land, and you ain't taking me from it."

"Didn't really think that would work," Smith said.

Marks stared up into the branches. "What is all that he has up there?"

"Food, probably. Water. Whatever else. Looks like he can sure outwait us," Smith said. "And I ain't climbing up there to get him."

"Then what do we do?" Marks asked. "Should I... is this why people raise up posses? I could ride back to Annesburg..."

Kid had never been part of a posse, clearly. Weren't anything a dozen of them could do that the two of them couldn't, here and now. "Cooper," Smith said. "I know you're not gonna like this, but I don't think this is a bounty we're bringing in alive."

"—what?"

"We wait," Smith says, "and he waits. We leave, he leaves. I shoot him..."

Then the problem was solved. Not ideal, but nothing else was, neither.

"We... they'd rather have him alive," Marks said.

"Yeah, I know," Smith said back. "But poster says they'll pay for him dead, too. And he won't be out here killing more folk. You got a better idea?"

Marks seemed troubled. But evidently he didn't have anything better, because he came up to stand just behind Smith, and yelled, "Excuse me!" Kid had a decent set of lungs, but he didn't know how to use them. He could do loud, but not carrying. "Excuse me! Mr. Leefield!"

"I ain't coming down there, bounty man!" Leefield's voice came back, distant and mocking.

"My friend here wants to kill you," Cooper yelled. "Surely you'd rather come down than fall all that way with a bullet in your chest."

That was the wrong thing to say. "They'd hang him in Brandywine anyway," Smith muttered. "You think an appeal to his sense of survival is the way to go about things?"

"He can't want to be shot," Marks said, keeping his voice lower than was necessary.

"He can't want to get hanged," Smith said. "Look, a bullet — if it hits right, it's over in a second. Hanging, sure, they'll try to snap your neck, but before that, it's waiting, it's listening to the sheriff gloat, it's being gawked at by a crowd of people... most folk, if they have a choice, they'll rather be shot than hanged."

Cooper turned toward him, giving him a long, level look. "This is something you've thought about, then."

Smith hadn't thought it was something a man would need to think about. It seemed clear as day, straightforward as a railway bridge, to him. "I..."

He didn't find anything to follow that with. Cooper shook his head, then looked up at the figure high in the branches. Who still hadn't gone for his rifle, and Smith only hoped he didn't have a pistol or something in the hammock with him. "If it hits right," Marks murmured. "Are you going to hit him right, Mr. Smith?"

Well, that was the question. Smith squinted up. "With that hammock, I can't even tell which end is head and which is feet."

Marks frowned. Looked... honestly concerned, as though the exact manner of Leefield's death were something to bother himself over. "Gruesome work."

"More than one of those bounties you helped bring in got hanged for it, at the end," Smith pointed out. "The idea of a dead body disturbs you?"

"They were hanged at the end. After the due course of law was carried out. No, that doesn't bother me nearly so much," Cooper said, which seemed like a meaningless difference to Smith. "I didn't come into this looking to be a... summary executioner."

They were delivering men to their deaths. What, should a bounty man blame the sheriff, the sheriff blame the man who threw the trapdoor lever, the man who threw the lever blame the rope? They all had their hand in it.

Didn't seem like the thing to say to Marks, somehow. "It's legal work," Smith said, though he wasn't sure that was what he wanted to say, either. What did death care for law? Didn't make it any less death, at the end of it. "If they only wanted the bounties alive, they'd only pay for them alive." It clearly weren't the sheriff, or the law, who were bothered when a bounty died in the field and not on the gallows.

Marks made an agreeing noise, but not one he sounded happy about.

Kid was... kid was something. Gentle, maybe. Yellow, part of Smith thought. But it seemed to have nothing to do with courage; it was something else he lacked. Or something he had, that Smith lacked.

"Why don't you go take a walk?" Smith suggested. "I'll get you when it's finished."

Marks looked tempted. Honestly did. But he took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders, and said "No. You're right. It's here or in Brandywine."

"Alright." Smith looked back up into the tree. Nothing had changed; the rifle still hung on its branch, and the hammock still sagged with the weight of a man. "Last chance, Leefield!" Smith called. "I'll fill you with holes if I have to. Or you can come down now, buy yourself a few more days... roll the dice. Hell, you might escape, if you're lucky. There's a hope, at least."

"You don't give a damn about my chances, bounty man," Leefield called down. "Stop pretending that you do. I ain't gonna surrender, and no man will take me alive."

"If that's what you want," Smith called back.

"Go to hell!"

"Be meeting you there," Smith muttered. Cast one last look at Cooper, who was already pale; shouldered his rifle, and took aim. "Please don't get caught in the branches on your way down."

He fired.

The hammock jerked, and spun. A body tumbled from it, hit a branch with an unhealthy noise, hit another branch with an unhealthier noise, and fell in a heap in front of them with a sound that had Cooper going green.

And then a further noise that had Smith taking a sharp breath: a choking whimper that proved he weren't dead. Not even blacked out, yet, because if God was watching he surely had no mercy.

"Oh my god," Cooper said, and Smith grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

"You step away," he said. "Go sit down behind the tree, there. Go on, then."

Cooper didn't need to be told twice. He turned and scrambled out of the way, leaving Smith to kneel by Leefield's head.

"Sorry, feller," he said, and unsheathed his knife. "I'm real sorry."

He put his hand firm on Leefield's skull, and cut the side of his neck quick as though he were bleeding a deer.

Blood painted his hand, though he was kneeling right that not much got on his clothes. A last wheezing gurgle, and Leefield went still. And something dark passed, like a cloud whipping in front of the sun, and Smith went stiff and still until he could convince himself it had been nothing.

If it hits right. A bullet in the right hands could be a kind of mercy. Those first six bandits who'd rode up on Mr. Dryden, that man on the road to Blackwater... they hadn't had the chance to feel much pain. But bullets weren't merciful, of their own selves. He'd seen too many people die—

He'd seen—

A hard, sick feeling passed through him that had nothing to do with the butchered body on the ground.

He put his bloodied hand on the cool earth. Braced his forehead with his other hand; remembered to breathe.

What did he remember of death? He remembered Lovro, on the gallows in Purgatory, staring at him with the fear due an angel of it. He remembered that tall torn shape that had hunted Lovro at the end, which he'd thought had hunted him before. He remembered bullets fired in the heat of the moment, corpses falling from horses; remembered Grady, a room away; of course, he remembered slitting Leefield's throat. Hadn't happened but a moment ago. But what did he remember of torture or mercy?

Dreams. Just dreams. Only wolves and goddamn dreams.

He wiped his hand on Leefield's shirt, finding a patch that wasn't already soaked through. Then he stood and walked to Marks, who was sitting on the ground by one of the low-swung boughs, his back pressed to the knotted wood. He looked up as Smith came close. "Is he dead?"

"He is, now," Smith said.

"Oh," Marks said, and leaned to one side, and threw up.

Smith winced, and looked away until he was finished. Then he went to Gambler, rooted around in the saddlebags, and came back to Marks with that moonshine he'd picked up. Closest man can get to the waters of the Lethe. Seemed the thing to feed to a kid who was wanting some relief. "Here."

Marks tried to wave him off. "No, thank you."

"Rinse out your mouth," Smith said, "and have a drink."

Marks spat into the dirt, and said, "That's not going to change what we just did, Mr. Smith."

What I just did. "No," Smith said. "But it'll make it harder to keep your mind on it." He sat down, and clapped Marks on the shoulder. "Trust me, kid. Best thing for it."

Marks looked at him with a kind of despair, then took the bottle. Rinsed his mouth, spat into the dirt, and drank.

The shine seemed to hit him like the head of a bull. He coughed. "People drink this? Willingly?"

"Grows on you," Smith said. Took the bottle and took a swig of it himself, before handing it back. "That your first dead body?"

Marks laughed, shakily. "No. I was with my father when he passed, but it was... peaceful. That's the first who's died... like... like... while I was... cowering on the other side of a tree."

"He weren't going to make it," Smith said. "Killing him was a mercy."

Marks shuddered. "I know." He closed his eyes. "That sound..."

Smith nudged the bottom of the bottle up, and Marks drank without seeming to think about it. Until the moonshine hit his throat, at least; then it was hard not to think about it. "It's a doozy, all right," Smith said. "It's done now." He laid a hand on Mark's shoulder, and took it away again when he realized it was still blood-grimed. "You relax for a bit. I'll get the body wrapped and stowed."

Hadn't brought anything to wrap a corpse, of course. Should have thought ahead, on that score. He ended up taking his own bedroll to the task, and stuffing the kerchief he'd thought to gag the man with against the gaping maw of his slit neck.

Marks was on his feet by the time he had the body stowed across Gambler's haunches, making his way to his own mare. Smith watched to make sure he got into the saddle okay, then led them out of the clearing. Left Leefield's goods to hang, maybe to confuse some real hunter come out this way.

They picked their way through the broken land, up into Balsam Rise again, westward until they found the road cutting through the wilderness. Then, turning their horses toward Brandywine, Marks shuddered.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The shudder passed off his shoulders, brushed across Smith's. Sorry didn't mean much, leaned up against dead. "For what?"

Marks made a gesture, back toward the clearing. "Back there," he said. Swallowed. "I don't... maybe I'm not cut out to be a bounty hunter. I don't know if I can... do this."

If Smith had heard that tone once, he'd heard it — he'd heard it—

God damn it. The headache was coming back, rising and vanishing, like a slow, labored breathing in his skull. Something was just there, just out of reach. If he could reach it—

—the wolf's teeth, sinking through his dream chest, into his dreaming soul; the stag's antlers, catching the lightless light, near enough to touch, untouched—

(You take that kid into town. Get him drunk. And—)

"Let's get to Brandywine," he said, and nudged Gambler into a foxtrot. A faster ride might clear his head, and if not, he could take some of his pay into the saloon and fix things there. Brandywine had better not be a dry town.

Marks matched pace with him. Looking glum and troubled, as he rode, as Smith sought something to say. Didn't find much.

"It was a bad situation," he offered, at last. "Ain't all like that."

Marks swallowed. "If I can't handle the worst of it, should I really... am I... I might not be fit for any of it," he said.

Never a fear Smith had faced. Not on this. On any number of other jobs, yes; the sort a man like Marks might have found easy. Put Marks in Inverness's office, would he have found his fortune there? Let him at Dryden, would the two of them agree?

Smith were fit for this, right enough. Maybe the one place in the world he fit.

Maybe not.

They was riding toward the Kamassa, toward Brandywine on its banks. And toward — they crested a rise, and saw a farther horizon, and the sight caught Smith like a pain in his chest, tugging him westward. Into the mountains. He could almost see the pass not far from Cumberland Forest, the place where he'd delayed until he'd lost Dooley to Marks in the first place; could almost taste the mountain air—

Could almost feel that tall dark creature glowering at him. Angry at the intrusion.

Or angry at the escape.

Or angry it had taken him so long...

He shook his head. Tore his gaze away. Looked over at his partner, and Marks was riding along, looking like a clerk, all upright and stiff, hardly remembering to move with his animal. Probably would be more comfortable at a desk. "You thinking of getting out of bounty work?"

(Why? You thinking about getting out of the life?)

(—me? No. ...of course not.)

(Listen—)

Marks was quiet for a moment. "I should just toughen up, shouldn't I? These are criminals. It's legal work. My grandfather might call it almost righteous."

"Didn't ask what your grandfather would call it," Smith said. He didn't want to lose his partnership with Cooper, but the kid was still looking pinch-faced and pale. "Asked what you were thinking."

(Listen, if—)

"Does it ever get easier?" Marks asked. "If you have to kill them, I mean. I mean, I'd rather bring them in alive; money's better that way, and it seems more... more just, somehow. Even if, if, they'll die anyway." He was nervous, that was clear. And Smith wasn't sure he wanted to know why he had an answer.

"Killing gets real easy, if you work at it, or you let it," he said. "But you're right: never should be the first choice. Not cold. And whether or not you're cut out to be a bounty hunter, you're surely cut to be a bounty tracker. Not sure I've met anyone like you."

Marks's expression said that were a bitter pill. Smith tried to find something else for him to swallow.

"We're on the side of the law," he said, and the idea moved in his gut, restless and sharp. "And the law ain't all good. But people... who don't have strength, who don't have anywhere else to turn... they need protecting." The words were falling together, and the sense of it seemed right, but something about it was wrong. "A man like Leefield hurts folk, because he's stronger, because he can. Folk like that need to be stopped. Ain't—"

Ain't much more to it than that, were the words, but they were wrong; they were lies, and easy as it was to lie, he couldn't voice that one once he knew it for what it was. They were on the side of the law, all right, but the law didn't care if a bank took a man's home when his cattle died or his harvest failed; that was the strong acting against the weak, too, weren't it? And the law didn't care when a boy was on the streets, hungry and frightened, and weren't a boy like that weak enough to stand some protecting? The law, the more he thought about it, were more like the dogs and cowboys who protected the cattle from the wolves; sure, wolves were a danger, right enough, but the cows were still meat at the end of the day.

So at the end of the day, Smith was still a cowboy, much as he thought he'd get out of it.

But at least he wasn't a wolf.

That were something.

"Ain't nothing else I know how to do, as it is," he said, instead. "Not on this side, least."

Cooper rode for a while, watching the horizon, face lined in thought. Smith left him to it; there were enough thoughts circling the inside of his own mind, chasing the pain down into something fainter and half-forgotten.

Tried not to look out west. Turned his head from that far threat until his neck ached.

"Do you think the world is a better place for our actions it it?" Cooper asked.

Startled him. And beneath him, Gambler read that startlement, and tossed his head.

He should say yes. He ought to say yes. It were the right thing, a decent man's thing, to do.

Instead, he cleared his throat. Tasted something bitter at back of it. "Folk like Lovro wouldn't think so."

Marks shot him a sharp glance. "Who?"

"...Leefield." Smith frowned. "Come on. Let's get in to Brandywine."

Brandywine was a proper little boom town. More boisterous than Annesburg, though Annesburg sat not so far to the southeast; seemed cleaner, too, with the hard white rock and river-darkened soil in contrast to the coal soot that grimed everything in its older sister city. Brandywine clung to the eastern bluffs of the upper Kamassa, over the Brandywine Drop, with some kind of modern machinery descending like a spider's long limbs into the water: harnessing the rushing river for electric power, in some way. One more thing for man to harness. Smith wondered where it would end. Would some inventor, some industrialist, find a way to fix reins on the sun, given long enough?

And maybe it weren't so different from watermills and water wheels, but there were lines strung across the streets, and electric lamps standing on the streetcorners. The low-slung cliffside building that Brandywine grew up around seemed to do something much stranger than milling flour or whatnot. Water into lightning. Half science, half sorcery.

At least the waters here weren't so stinking and poisoned as the stretch of the Lannahechee near Annesburg, and at least the trees had their proper colors. And though the water plant filled the city with its own noise, at least some of that noise were the babble of the river and the calling of the falls, and not the growling, thumping devil's forge of the Annesburg mines.

Sheriff's office was a trim, long building, settled at the edge of town like a lookout dog. Neat porch near the door. Wooden front, stonework back. Smith hitched up at the post outside, and turned to Marks, who clambered off his own beast.

Marks looked at their bounty, uneasy. "I—"

"I'll help you," Smith said. It was good of Cooper to strong-arm the living bounties into the sheriffs'; to take on that whole business side of things. But this bounty were a dead one, and might warrant some explanation. He pulled the body off the horse, and shouldered his way inside.

Sheriff looked up at the intrusion. Looked at Marks, seemed to recognize him, then looked to Smith and seemed to find an explanation for something. Marks cleared his throat, and the man looked back at him almost as an afterthought.

"We have Davis Leefield," Marks said. "...dead." His tone was apologetic.

Smith dropped the body on the floor, making Marks jump, and stripped away the bedroll. Leefield's head lolled to the side, the wound gaping red and vulgar, torn wider from the ride.

Marks made a quiet, stifled noise, and looked resolutely at the far wall.

The sheriff stared down at Leefield's corpse, and then looked directly at Smith. "Had a little fun, did you? You know one of those lads he killed?"

"Weren't fun," Smith said. The back of his neck prickled. "He was hiding up in a tree in a goddamned hammock. Had to shoot him to get him down. Only the fall didn't kill him, quite."

"I was there," Cooper said. Still carefully not looking at the corpse. "I don't honestly know that we could've done anything different, save waiting him out or leaving him there."

"Would have found some other tree to hide in the moment we left," Smith said.

The sheriff looked down on Leefield's corpse again, then shrugged. "Rather have had him to hang," he said. "But better this than knowing he's still out there. All right, men. You've earned it." Slid open a drawer in his desk, pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked something. Finally extracted a stack of bills, and counted them out carefully. "Can't give you the full bounty, of course."

"Course," Smith said. "We appreciate it."

Sheriff looked to Marks again. "Stop by again," he said. "Plenty of crime in these parts."

And that was the end of it. Smith turned to leave, noticed Marks weren't leaving, and laid a hand on his shoulder to pull him out. Back into the sunlight and the sound of water.

Marks stood silent while Smith divvied up the take — the pay — and handed him his share. "Was thinking of getting a drink," Smith said. "Might do you some good."

Marks made a face. "No," he said. "Thank you. No, I—" He looked out toward the stagecoach, one on a line running passengers down to Annesburg and the train station there. No train stopped here, not yet. There were rails to the north, and maybe a station would be built there, but the city were still young. "I think I'm going to go home, and hug my daughters and my wife." He swallowed. Still looking unsteady. Smith had half a mind to offer to escort him back, make sure no one took him for an easy target and jumped him for his pocketful of bills. "Mr. Smith, it was..."

"You don't have to tell me it was a pleasure," Smith said. "Go on. Go home."

Marks nodded, and offered his hand. "I'll be in touch," he said. "I will."

Smith clasped hands with him, trying not to feel like it was a farewell. "Don't rush on my account."

And Marks turned, and walked away.

Smith stepped down off the sheriff's porch. The money in hand was half what he'd been expecting, when he'd thought they'd be bringing Leefield in alive. Not enough to buy a horse and stable it, now, which meant it'd be at least one more bounty before he could make progress there — assuming Marks were still in this with him.

If not, then what? Try to make it on his own? Much luck he'd had of that.

He'd just turned to check on Gambler when someone shouted from the saloon — cross the street, and one door down. Good place for it.

And Smith would have ignored it. Shouts in saloons were none of his business, unless he were in the saloon at the time, in which case they had a way of becoming everyone's business. But this were a voice he knew, and wished he goddamn didn't.

Looked up from Gambler's saddle to see Marston rushing toward him.

"You again—!" How the hell did this man keep finding him? "You followed me all the way to goddamn Brandywine?" Would he follow him to goddamn Los Santos, if Smith went there?

"I just want to talk," Marston said.

"Yeah, about me being your dead brother, who ain't your brother, who was some infamous outlaw, who died of TB, who ain't dead. That cover it?"

"Listen—" Marston said.

"No!" He was tired of this. He was tired of this day, and he was tired of this man, and he wanted a smoke or a drink or both, and a quiet sleep somewhere that weren't a bunkhouse, no matter if it had to be under a tree under the stars. No chance of nothing quiet here, and the headache was threatening, again. "I'm done listening. Tell me what you want from me."

"I want you to remember!" Marston yelled.

Heads turned on the street. And then turned back, most of them; crazy men yelling at each other on the packed-dirt road must not have been anything novel, here.

And that want — that should have made two of them. Remembering... ought to be the reasonable thing to want. And ought to be a goal the two of them could share.

The more Smith thought about it, the more Marston talked, the more he felt there was something. No good news, but all the dreams he'd had — all the scraps he'd imagined, or thought he'd remembered — seemed more real than they ought to, and more present, closer to hand.

But the dreams that wolf brought with it...

"What do you know about wolves?" he asked. And stags, and dreams, and all of that nonsense. Could be his mind playing tricks on him. Could be he'd not remembered what he thought he saw, or what he remembered in that dream weren't at all like anything that happened. Could be.

Felt like, for the first time, his hand had brushed something real, though. Like feeling the approach of a train through the thrumming of a track underfoot. All blood and evil. And if this was something Marston knew about—

If he was part and parcel of all of it—

Marston was staring at him, half-offended. "What do you mean, what do I know about wolves?"

"Wolf man," Smith said, not quite knowing why he said it. Just saying it brought a lingering sense, like an aftertaste of memory, of high places and misery and frigid winds. A shiver between his shoulderblades.

Marston looked annoyed at that. "Of all the things you could have remembered, it had to be that?"

Smith didn't feel like he'd remembered anything. Not just yet, not just now. But if Marston was of a piece with the wolf in his dreams, he wanted nothing to do with either.

"Well, then," he said. "I suppose that's enough."

"What? —what's enough?"

Marston stepped forward. Smith stepped back, swung up onto Gambler's saddle, and took off. Scattered a few men going along their business; earned a few curses sent his way. No matter. They could curse him all they liked, if he were already a man damned.

I hope eternity is hot and terrible—

The man who'd smirked those words had no residence in Smith's mind; none he was aware of. None beyond dreams.

Behind him, Marston yelled. Wasn't long before a clatter of hoofbeats sounded on the road. Still, Gambler was spirited, and Smith was a fair enough rider. Maybe he could shake the man, and all the memories he threatened.

Maybe he could outdistance his sins, whatever they were.

Arthur really couldn't have gone through Annesburg.

John almost regretted catching him in Brandywine. Was regretting it more than not, as he tore out of the city on Rachel's back; if he'd just sat still in that saloon, let Arthur go along his business, the man might have gone back to Annesburg where Charles would have caught him. And it were hard to see how Charles might have worse luck than exchanging ten words with the man and having him spook and run off.

Never mind that the notions spook and run off were not things John had thought to worry about. Arthur Morgan was not a man who spooked. Got fed up, sure; threw his weight around, made threats, stormed off in a bluster or a huff. But not just backing and running, not from anything short of a lawman's posse. And... this man, this Mr. Smith stranger, was too like Arthur, sometimes; too unlike him, others. John couldn't predict him.

Left John here, racing after him, out of the streets of Brandywine, onto the southern road.

"Arthur!" he yelled. Wondered if the man knew where he was going. Wonder if there was a where, other than gone. He was headed south, though, not east, not back Annesburg way, which meant that John and his fool need to rush into things might mean Charles wouldn't get a chance at him. "Come on! Just let me talk to you!"

"I'm through talking!" Arthur yelled, and spurred his horse on faster.

Ridiculous. Ridiculous. Part of John wanted to just rope Arthur and be done with it; hogtie him to make him stay still enough to goddamn listen. But most of him knew that was a fine way to somehow end up knifed in the back.

His horse was damned fast. Rachel had a longer stride, naturally, but Arthur's horse put on speed like a racing beast; might not keep that speed for long, but might not need to. Arthur turned, diving off the road into the wilderness — and the land by Brandywine might be lovely, but it also weren't meant for horses. Four horselengths, five, and he was cutting down through steep hillsides, past broken outcrops of hard white rock; bone-breaking territory, no friend to horses's hooves. And Rachel's long legs also meant that she had further to fall, and less confidence on the terrain.

Again. Man was too like to Arthur to make things easy; too far from him to make them familiar. This mad ride was the first time John had ever been able to see over Arthur's head, on horseback; man usually stuck himself up on the tallest horse around, and damn balance or rough terrain. Had to goddamn break from type just to be inconvenient.

"Please!" John yelled, and wasn't sure what else to say after it.

"Give up!" Arthur called back. "Will you just give up?"

"No!" The chestnut horse in front of him hit a slope, skidded for a moment, then leapt free; John lost precious seconds in finding a path Rachel could follow. "Arthur, what are you scared of?"

Not clever, saying that. He could hear Arthur's annoyance, for all the man said nothing. But it didn't turn the chase into anything other than a chase — not even a fight, which John might have taken, at this point — and there was another scree hillside, another gut-dropping slide and scramble and leap, and then at least they were on flattish land again, for however many breaths that would last.

They crashed through a stand of brush, scattering leaves and small birds and a squirrel or two, and Arthur ducked under a branch that nearly took his head off. Goddamn showy, risky riding, for horse and rider both; John lost another second veering around the tree, and had to spur Rachel and hope she had a good enough eye on the ground to let him gamble for speed.

Arthur glanced back, half a second, not enough to let John catch his expression. Enough to let Arthur see that John was still on his heels. "You going to keep chasing me?"

"You going to keep running?"

"Seems like I got reason to!" The chestnut put on a burst of speed, widening the gap between them; John dug in, and Rachel dug in under him, narrowing that gap again.

"No," he called, "you don't." Spurred Rachel on harder. "Goddamnit, Arthur. We was like brothers!"

"Do I recall something about you leaving the family?" Arthur called back.

Arthur's horse took a leap over a log that John barely saw in time to adjust for. Rachel followed, and the landing jarred him, all the way up his spine to his teeth. "You can't remember your name, and you remember that?"

"I don't remember a damn thing!"

John would have given his left arm to know what the hell was going on in Arthur's mind. As it was, he barely had room in his own mind to wonder. Now they were well and truly off the main road. Rachel should have easily outstripped Arthur's little chestnut foxtrotter, but this goddamn path — all its twists and turns — parts of it looked like a game trail, no proper path at all, and Arthur's horse was nimbler, and Arthur a better rider.

Arthur had always been the better horseman. Arthur cared to be; he liked horses more than he liked human beings. He'd taught John to ride, and then tried to teach him a whole catalog of other things John had no interest in learning at the time. Story of John's goddamn life: people always trying to teach him something when he weren't in a mood to learn, and then by the time he needed to know it, something or other had soured.

Whatever memories he'd lost, Arthur still remembered how to shake some goddamned pursuit. All John could rely on was that he still remembered to keep up with a man while they shook some pursuit together.

Then they were out of the trees, clipping the edge of the Kamassa like there were scent hounds to throw.

And now something more than the furor of the ride was gathering in John's stomach; that line Arthur cut was bringing him away from the lovely rugged land, the falls, the green forest, and toward the sucking lowlands and the muck, the fogs. "Arthur, we really don't want to go this way—"

"And I still don't know that's my name!"

"This is goddamn Murfree country, Arthur!" Still claimed this whole area. They hadn't been hunted to extinction yet. Goddamnit, would that mean a thing to him?

"You can turn around and go home!"

Apparently not. Then they were off the bank, into the trees, where the shadows seemed to gather more thickly than they had up north. Rachel didn't like it. Tossed her head and protested, and John dug in again, promising he'd make it up to her if she'd just get them through.

Through to where, though—

Up, up, the land sloping up, and suddenly whatever trail Arthur had been following or imagining ran out. Looked like a sheer cliff in front of them, and Arthur reined in, and John thought he might have cornered the man — and just had to worry about a gun in his face, or something — but Arthur leaned forward, and must have made a gamble, because his horse bunched and leapt, and vanished.

John reined in so hard that Rachel reared. Came up against the cliff in time to see Arthur land on the path below, which to John looked like an impossible leap. Saw his horse turn, saw him dig in, take his beast at a flat sprint north toward the Kamassa River crossing.

"Arthur!" John yelled again. Then, with all the force in him, "Damn it!" And turned Rachel, took her south because the ridge lowered toward the path there, and Arthur was well out of sight and his hoofbeats out of hearing by the time John was on the path and racing after him, even knowing that he'd lost him, because God knew there must be hundreds more game trails and sharp turns and rough rises and—

And John almost overshot him when did catch up with the man, because Arthur wasn't riding anywhere any more.

He was sitting, rigid and ragged, in the saddle, staring at the clearing he'd found himself in. Rock rises and thick trees, toppled wagons. Bones. Bones hefted on pikes. Bones tied into macabre warnings. Bones scattered and gnawed by scavengers who came and saw nothing in the brutality but a chance for a quick meal.

But of living humans... nothing. No one. No one outside, anyway. Place was eerily quiet, like a country graveyard; John supposed there were enough ghosts about. And who knew who was waiting down in the caves.

The horses were nervy. They didn't like this place any more than John did. And when he brought Rachel up alongside, John could see Arthur breathing harder than he should have, from a ride like that. John had seen him take rides as wild as that and bring them up with curses, not panting.

Course, that had been before he... died.

Almost died. Might have died. Got sick enough to die but didn't die.

Something.

"What is this place?" Arthur asked — disgusted, affronted, like he'd come around a corner and found a pile of dead rats sixteen hands high.

"Beaver Hollow," John said carefully, edging Rachel closer, eyeing Arthur like any moment would see him take off again. This is where it all fell apart, for good. "You remember anything?"

"Course I don't remember—" Arthur started, and then started coughing.

John's horse sidled. "Arthur?"

"God — dammit," Arthur said. He was coughing harder now; hard to get words out between them. "Not—"

Now or this or again; who knew how that was meant to end. Instead, it ended with him gripping the saddlehorn with both hands as the coughing shook him like a wolf breaking a rabbit, and he started to list sideways.

"Arthur!"

John got down from his horse in time to catch Arthur's arm before he hit the ground. Probably wouldn't be thanked for it; nearly wrenched the arm out of its socket. Felt uncomfortably like handling a fresh corpse, too.

Arthur's face was wet with sweat, and the way he was wheezing didn't bode well.

"Come on, Arthur!" John hauled him up and pounded him on the back, open-handed. Didn't seem to help much. "Breathe, damn you!"

Arthur made a noise that probably would have been a searing remark if it hadn't been a wet, racking cough, and collapsed.

Nearly brought John down with him. Best John could do was half-break his fall, get him on the ground on his side, watch him roll onto his back and his eyes roll in their sockets.

John stepped back. Stared for a moment, then went through every curse he knew, and half again for good measure. He'd spent most a decade thinking Arthur was dead. What, was the man going to run himself to death, the moment he crossed John's path again? Survive by a breath and a prayer, somehow, just to make sure John was there and watching when he passed for good?

God, no. No. The man was alive. Still breathing, even now those breaths were coming labored. He'd made it this far, and looked better than he had back then. Had to be a way he'd make it further still than this.

This all could have turned into more of a disaster, though just now John weren't sure how. Beyond the fact that he still had Arthur with him — not in a state to do any talking, and that coughing fit weren't no good thing, surely — there weren't a thing about this John felt easy with. Commotion might have drawn any sort of unpleasantness their way. And sitting in the ruin of Beaver Hollow...

He should just get out of here. Sling Arthur over his own saddle. Haul him out of this place, back to Annesburg, hope he didn't wake and take exception to that on the way. Hope his horse were inclined to follow Rachel. Hope they could make it back out through Murfree country with one man laid out and helpless, without drawing attention; hope that if they did draw attention, John could handle all of it without putting Arthur too much at risk, without his horse bolting in the confusion, or a Murfree pulling him straight off the saddle...

More he thought about it, more it seemed like a terrible idea.

Didn't help that staying here seemed like a terrible idea, too.

That were always, always, always the problem. He got himself into these places, and all the choices seemed bad, each one worse than the other. Then whatever he decided to do, some kind of disaster followed and bit at his heels.

And Arthur always called him lucky.

Should have let him go back through Annesburg. Should have argued to take Annesburg so that Charles would have met the man in Brandywine. Should have just sent Charles out and stayed home and worked the ranch with Jack. Should have understood from the start that if he had a thought and he were the one to have it, that thought were bound to be wrong.

Nothing for it. All he could do was take another chance and hope he could handle the aftermath.

He pulled his rifle from Rachel's saddle holster, and looked across the treeline. Stared into the dark silent malice of the cave. Then steadied his own breathing, marked the height of the sun in the sky, and hoped beyond hope that some kind of better luck was due him.

Chapter Text

Hunted.

He was hunted.

All he knew, in this wretched place he found himself; where fog crawled so thick across the ground he couldn't see his feet; where the ground lay so wet and shifting that it grasped at his boots like the earth didn't want to let him go. A cave yawned in front of him, and the mouth of the cave was the path Orpheus must have walked down — into that underworld of his, there to seek and lose everything he cared for.

Whole place, cave and fog and twisted trees and grasping soil, was ringed with outright swamp. No path here. No path out. This scrap of land huddled up next to the cave like a cowering thing, dressed in roots and weeds that looked like bone the closer he looked at them, garlanded by tents lying in tatters, crowned by wagons tipped over, burnt, splintered.

Nonsense. Goddamned nonsense—

Whoever had called this place home, if there'd ever been men so unfortunate, had vanished from it long ago. He wrenched his eyes from the debris.

—only to see the wolf, rising out of the cave's darkness like a promise made. Its face was eager, pink tongue lolling, a look in its eyes that said, join me.

Follow me.

Come to me...

He'd followed once, and seen ghostly memory. Touched it once, and had more than that gnawed into him. He wanted nothing more to do with that wolf.

Only escape was into the dark water.

And the water took him like it had claim on him; as the walking had walked him, the water walked him, fear rushing like an undertow at his heels. Took him off the drier land, struggling into the swamp until he was up to his waist in the murk. And the swamp bed seemed to slope down in every direction, with every step; he was up to his chest before he stopped, and still felt that he was sinking, whether he moved or didn't.

The wolf howled behind him. High and mournful and somehow triumphant, also, and at its call something shifted in the water beside him. Slow and leviathan, present and grave. Stooped shy of the surface.

How many goddamn things were hunting him?

It's a dream. He could feel the rasp of air in his lungs. Clawing, drawing blood, inside him. At the end of it, he would wake up; should have been clear. But he wasn't convinced of any of it — that he'd wake, or that any of this were passing fancy, or that it would ever, ever end.

He turned, and the water lapped up around him. Curled like arms around him. He spread his arms along the surface of the water; too heavy with sins to swim.

If he sank far enough, would he wind up back in that place that Thing had taken him, surrounded by shadows, with no way back?

No way back — even here, because there on the shore, the only shore, stood the wolf, and its mouth lolled open and eager to greet him.

"What do you want from me?" Smith yelled. Spread his hands wide. "Any of you?" That Thing in the water, that beast on the shore — all he knew was, he weren't planning to come near those teeth. But if it was the only way out, if his other choice were to sink and touch that vast tarry Darkness—

God, but he was trapped here, brought to bay, and not a goddamn thing inclined itself to mercy.

Except.

A sound.

Soft footfalls, like steps through summer grasses, autumn leaves. Ripples in the surface of the water, and clean golden light.

He turned. The water dragged at him, every inch.

The stag had come to stand over him, hooves balanced on the surface of the water as delicately as a leaf might float. It looked down at him with long patience, then tossed its head, and lowered its neck down until its antlers brushed the murk around him.

And waited. Branching antlers open, almost to cradle him, almost an embrace.

Smith forced himself one step back; another inch deeper. Stag didn't follow. And should it?—beast was no hunter.

Stag were different from a wolf. And maybe here, where nothing was really what it claimed to be, the difference were something more than just predator and prey. Each line of it seemed to say something, in a language he'd never learned; seemed to take him in, and take the wolf, and all the whole world wide; seemed almost to ask:

Do you want to make a different choice?

And... yes.

Yes.

A chance to make things different. A chance that this place, the sucking muck and mud, weren't the mess he'd made of things, the scabbed blood and old ash of the wolf's depredations. That there were clear water and clean air, and a breath of forgiveness waiting him.

Faint hope. Foolish dream.

But the stag were waiting.

And he seized the stag's antlers with both hands, and felt the strength in its neck as it hauled him from the swamp. And the world warmed and melted like a sunrise, shining out from that grip.

And Smith found himself — elsewhere.

In a place like echoes written on reflections; a wooden cabin, white light coming in through the windows and the cracks in the walls, woodsmoke and dust on the air. A fire, or the memory of a fire, burning in a hearth.

And he rose from where he sat, and approached a man at the window.

The suggestion of a man. His clothes, indistinct. Features, indistinct. An impression of age and wisdom — or canniness, failing wisdom.

And maybe he weren't really the one rising; or if this person rising were the person dreaming, too, he was held apart from himself. A gasp of separation; just as much distance as the breadth of a memory. He was watching, here, as though he were slightly outside himself, as he accepted a tin cup of something steaming. As he mentioned—

—should really be me getting you a drink, shouldn't it, old man?

Heard the answer—

Ah, let me do this. Little enough I can do here—

—little enough for any of us to do here.

Those were good deer you brought in. Keep folk fed—

A name, there; he couldn't hear it. It was blurred past echoing. —should get the credit. I just shot the things. Left to my own, I probably would have got eaten by a bear.

Laughter. Bear's good eating. Question is, who does the eating: you, or the bear—

A cough. Another, longer one. An old fear, like yellowed paper, threatening to crumble at any touch, any day.

—you okay?

I'm not dying any faster than ever, and another name, dissipating quicker than breath in winter; you leave it be—

—maybe you should go sit by the fire. Catch up on your reading.

And maybe you should go worry over someone else. Go check on the women, or—

Names, names, names, and he left the cabin, out into the searing light of snow; the snow brighter than the sky, catching the sunlight, shattering it, gleaming brighter than cut diamonds. The snow, heavy and wet and on the edge of thaw. And in the snow, the impression of a child, packing it together into a snow-dog or something; and across a trampled yard, more cabins, and in each of those cabins, he knew it, people, and people who were his, or near enough. Not sons, wives, thinking of the nonsense he'd written for Strauss, but... maybe brothers, sisters, or if not that, then maybe his in the way the sheep belonged to the sheepdog. And a strange, warm weight was carried in his chest, like an animal gripping the scruff of its young.

And a deep, deep grief was in his dreaming mind, because there were so many questions to ask, here, and somehow he knew that the time for all questions was over.

He turned and took in the landscape. The close-gathered summits of mountains, the stubborn plants prickling their way out of the frozen ground. In another building, down by the end of the row, half a carcass was hanging; a deer, and a pile of bones on a table by it, roasted and cracked and looking about ready to be tossed in a pot for broth.

On the path by the butcher's, calm and unconcerned, stood the stag.

He regarded the beast. It had brought him here, sure enough — kinder than the wolf had been, though that ought to have come as no surprise. And it had taken up station there by the butcher, by those good deer he'd apparently brought in; accepting the sacrifice of their flesh to feed him the same way it seemed to accept the snow and the sky and the summits, and his presence here, and his need for guidance, and the weight of his body when it pulled him from the muck.

It looked at him, and shook itself all over — lightly, gently, as though to dislodge a dusting of fallen snow. And the whole little village shook, too, and shook itself to pieces; crumbled like the crust of ice on a bramble bush when a hand brushed against it, and left a darker mountain pass behind it. One which seemed colder, for all that it wore the chilly damp of autumn, not the heavy snow of a late blizzard.

"Wait," Smith said, as the stag turned and walked away.

The dream began to crumble.

"Wait," he called out after it. "You — you brought me here—"

You must know why, you must know what it means, but there was no chance to say it.

The dark mountain pass was giving way to sodden dirt and fetid green growth; the odd warm weight in his chest giving way to a cold ache and a pressure between his eyes. "Wait—!"

He ran, and couldn't catch up with its walking. It brought him back to the place he'd fallen, and took its place beside the wolf. Turned to look at him one last time, and the wolf looked at him, and it damn well seemed like they expected something, and he didn't have half a clue what that something was.

And it — hurt.

"What do you want from me?" he asked — and it was the wrong question, always the wrong question. Maybe they didn't want a thing from him. Only watched to see what he would do.

Led him from the cave to the mountain. From the mountain to the cave.

The cave was there waiting for him, when he opened his eyes.

John sat with his back to an empty crate, rifle across his lap, wishing the air were clearer. Fog had rolled in, as it did in this place; mostly wisps snaking along the ground, but enough in the air that it made it hard to mark the progress of the moon through the trees. Daylight had retreated from the west. Was still a long way off from the east.

He kept thinking about just slinging Arthur over his saddle and leading the horse out of here, to Annesburg, or all the way back to Beecher's Hope if he had to, but...

He'd argued with himself enough already. Made his decision. Better to stay somewhere he might be able to defend than to lead an unfamiliar horse laden with an unconscious man through dark woods which might be swarming with Murfrees. And Arthur wouldn't stir, no matter how John shook him.

At least his breathing had settled.

There'd been nothing for John to do but spend the last of the daylight walking the horses in circles around the old camp, taking the saddles off and brushing them down, re-saddling them because the way his luck held he'd be mounting up again in a hurry, checking the perimeter... and settling in to wait. Wait for something to happen, as the evening fog rolled in to smother the stars. Wait for Murfrees to arrive, or Arthur to wake, or himself to wake and realize that this was all a dream, and not a very kind one.

He kept thinking Arthur looked... pale. Not like he was sick. More like John could see the ground through him. Cruel trick his mind was playing, and kept playing; any time he looked closely, Arthur was just as solid and real and infuriating as... well, as ever. Sort of, as ever.

He wondered how long Charles had waited in Annesburg. If he were still waiting. If he'd given up, tried to find John in Brandywine; if he'd turned his horse back to Beecher's Hope and tried to explain John's absence to Abigail; if he were hunting the wilderness for John right now.

He wondered what the hell he were meant to do from here.

Didn't dare light a fire. Two men and two horses were conspicuous enough without lighting up the landscape. Made little enough difference, in the end; he heard them, not long after the last of the twilight was gone. Footsteps, voices, in the dark.

"You smell that? I smell horse."

"You don't smell nothing—"

"Nah, Ratty's got a good nose! You oughta trust his nose. What else you smell, Ratty?"

John could hear someone snuffling. Seemed more performance than anything. Then: a high giggle, nothing a man should make. "Oh, I smell men, too. And close, they are."

Shit, John thought. Muttered, "Well, that's it, then." Took a breath, shoved Arthur's shoulder once more for good measure, then readied his rifle and pressed himself into a crouch behind a stand of debris.

"Which way?" asked another. And another: "We gonna cook tonight? Oh, we'll have something good, tonight!"

More snuffling. Footsteps coming nearer.

"Oh, he went down into the Hollow!" That was the man they'd called Ratty, voice winding higher and higher, some kind of incredulity, some kind of feral delight. John shifted, keeping himself in as much cover as he could; the voices were spreading out, though he couldn't see anything but... shadows and more shadows. Prefer not to have to aim on sound, unless it were really necessary.

"The Hollow?" one demanded.

"Down the Hollow," took up another one.

They were moving just beyond the trees. Not coming any closer, and John couldn't hear the telltale sounds of weaponry; nothing being drawn, nothing being cocked or loaded. Shifted again, waiting to catch a glimpse of them, waiting for any chance to maybe shoot first, bring the fight on his terms. Little enough chance of that.

"Hey, boy," one of them called. His voice echoed strangely in the Hollow, in the trees. "Hey, boy. You gonna die down there, boy."

Another one started it up: "Come down to the Hollow, don't you, boy. Make peace with your momma, boy."

Then, a third: "Ghosts gonna eat you, boy."

John grit his teeth. Growled "Come on," but kept it quiet, buried beneath his breath. Murfrees were supposed to rush in; they didn't fear bullets, and didn't show much skill. It was the one thing he had on them. Soon as they broke from the trees he could start shooting, hopefully take them out before they reached him.

They ought to be charging. Why the hell weren't they?

Then, every time he'd run into them, or heard tell of someone run into them, it'd been a mounted man, armed, looking like a threat. Maybe that was how they dealt with threats. Maybe this was how they treated prey.

"He gonna scream, ain't he?" one called. "Only, I never been here when one starts screaming..."

"I wanna watch him blood get wrung out. I wanna watch him flesh peel off him bones."

"Think that'll feed the Hollow?" another one called. "Oh, then I could go down there, get me my shiny I dropped down there—"

A sound of impact, fist on flesh. "Idiot! He don't get full. He always hungry..."

Another voice. Seemed there were five of them, maybe six, that John could tell. "You hear down there, boy? He gonna eat you. Lick your marrow from your bones, boy..."

Something rang out on the bare stone.

John jumped. Twisted to look. A rock — just a rock, thrown onto the broken ground. Another followed, biting into the earth too near Arthur's head. John leaned out from cover, swept the treeline with his rifle, still couldn't see a damn thing.

"Wake him!" one of them called. "Wake him!" And another rock flew; hit one of the hanging skulls with a godforsaken thump, sent it flying to hit the ground and roll back toward the cave.

John twisted, marking the cave entrance with his rifle. The skull rolled to rest. Nothing else stirred.

An earlier voice again: "You say hello to the old gods, boy; tell your name to the devil, boy; he come up out of the Hollow, he smell you sweating, boy..."

Horrible, eager laughter.

John's nerves, drawn taut, snapped forward like a bowstring. "If you want to fight, come down and goddamn fight me!"

Soon as the words were out, he knew he'd lost some fight. They knew they'd pushed him, knew they'd shaken him, and for a moment they was all laughing. Sound of their laughter seemed to blur any humanity in them; the sound seemed more like the howling of wolves or the screaming of coyotes than anything from a human throat.

And then something — changed. At once, the taunting fell apart; the Murfrees out in the woods were screaming, running, and John had his rifle up and aiming into nothing when he realized all the footsteps were tearing away. The crashing they made through the forest growth spelled flat panic, to John's ear. He heard one trip, go down, scream out, and then whimper; the whimpering sounded like a broken thing, not a man who'd been gloating moments ago.

Heard nothing else, though. Nothing to cause such fear. After a minute, the whimpering man picked himself up and fled, stumbling, now sobbing, through the night.

John stood, frozen, until the noise faded in the distance.

Forced himself to look around.

Nothing within the Hollow had changed. Nothing John could see or hear had moved. Whatever ghosts they were fleeing hadn't made their appearance here.

Weren't until his chest started aching that he realized he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out, slow.

Madmen. Lunatics. He... was on the right side of some Murfree superstition, maybe. That, or maybe a bear had moved into the cave.

Meant nothing good that that seemed one of the better possibilities.

Piece by piece, the night crept back in on the silence those Murfrees had startled out of it. There was the rustle of some rat in the undergrowth; there, the calling of an owl, cool and inquisitive. And John was shaking; his body had got itself ready for a fight, and now that fight was bleeding out of him in little shudders. Nothing he could control.

After a time, the fog broke.

Let the moonlight down; brighter and colder than he remembered it. Enough to silver all the bones, dry and forgotten, guarded by whatever the Murfrees thought was lurking here. Just an... old, brutal graveyard, a midden dry and forgotten. Even the bones that had been strung up seemed more resigned, than anything, when they knocked together in the breeze.

Didn't sound like anyone was in the woods, now.

John let out another breath, and lit his lantern, at least. Then, when time passed and it seemed like he hadn't tempted fate into anything yet, he started circling stones for a fire.

Just had the first few sticks beginning to smolder when Arthur groaned, and dragged a hand up to his face. Relief broke over John like another fog lifting. "You alive, brother?"

Arthur whimpered. John smothered a shaky laugh; he knew that whimper.

"No," Arthur said.

"You've had worse after a night of drinking." He'd never heard that tone out of Arthur when he was actually hurt.

Arthur muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and laid his arm over his eyes.

John moved the lantern between them. Fed a few more sticks onto the kindling fire, considering his options. On one hand, if Arthur was suffering under some great landslide of a headache, maybe he'd stay put long enough for them to exchange a few words. On the other, if the headache was as bad as he was acting, all those words were likely to be short ones.

But he was awake. The Murfrees were afraid of this place — or had been half the night, anyway — and Arthur was awake, and not bolting out of the Hollow, and if the Murfrees changed their minds and brought a fight back, well, John knew that Arthur remembered how to shoot, at least. Things were looking better than they had been.

...and really, if he thought about it, the fact that Arthur was just trying to run away from him and not trying to murder him these days was its own progress. Of a sort.

John hadn't really thought much through when he'd decided to go hunting for Arthur. At least, he hadn't thought as far as what it would actually be like, interacting with the man; Arthur never was the easiest of people to get along with. And that had been when he trusted John, much as he trusted anyone, and had no reason to doubt every word John said. Not... like this, remembering nothing, mistrusting everything, and without half a reason to give John the time of day.

John didn't see that there was a good option. Or, if there were, it were something he didn't know how to pull off; something that needed to be put into words, that he'd never be able to find the words for.

But silence, at least, seemed to move them along. Just as well. It was what he had to hand.

Arthur pushed himself up, scowling. John offered his canteen; earned himself more of a wary look than he thought he deserved, but at least Arthur took it and drank. Stared at it in the flickering light, when he was done, like the canteen were something more than a canteen, and might tell him secrets.

"So, you say we ran together," Arthur said.

Even knowing him and trusting him, Arthur always had the great power not to take anything John said for what it was worth. "We did run together. I don't know how you want me to prove this to you." There had been photographs; a few of them. Before their faces became so well-known. He didn't have any in his possession, though, and short of asking Sadie to bribe her friend into stealing something from the Pinkertons, he wasn't sure how to get his hands on one. Even if they still existed.

He had the journal...

But Arthur's mind was apparently on a different track entirely. Opened his mouth and confused John before he could even raise the possibility. "You know anything about a deer?"

"A deer?" John repeated.

"Golden one." He set down the canteen. "Stag."

"Gold like... like a statue? A buckle or something?" Arthur'd had that one saddlebag — it had a clasp on it, John thought, that he'd decorated with some belt buckle he'd taken off some luckless fool who'd crossed him. Arthur had been like a cat, in a few regards; always showing up back at camp with some little memento of some vermin he'd killed. In any case, John was pretty certain that buckle had been a deer or an elk or something. ...or maybe a horse. ...or a dog.

"Not a buckle," Arthur said. "A real deer. ...think it was real. Probably in a clearing, maybe — usually." He grimaced. "Or out on the plains, or something. Sunrise, sunset... some time of day."

"We never went out hunting," John said. "That was you and Hosea, or you and Charles."

"Weren't hunting," Arthur said, and picked up the canteen again, went back to staring at it. "But you know wolves."

"Arthur."

Arthur shot him a look, which was at least better than shooting him a bullet. Felt near as sharp, though. John bit back the first few remarks he wanted to make.

Man didn't even have to know him to mock him.

"See these?" he said, turning his face into the light, prodding a finger into his scars. "Up in the mountains; north Ambarino. Near that little mining town, Colter, by Spider Gorge. We ran right into the biggest spring blizzard in a decade, trying to get everyone safe." He was telling this backward. Had to be. But would Arthur even listen if he backed up, tried to explain Blackwater, tried to untangle how it had all started going wrong? "Dutch sent me ahead to scout, and a whole pack of wolves decided to have some fun with me. You and Javier had to ride out and find me." He set his teeth. "Saved me."

Arthur stared at him. Stared at his scars, mostly. John glared back, then reminded himself that he probably shouldn't be glaring, and glared into the fire instead. Pulled his attention away from that to check the treeline, look for Murfrees, now that they were talking, making some human noise that might draw someone barely human back toward them.

The trees kept their silence. So that was that.

"I said I owed you for life," John said. "You and Javier." And there was another debt he'd never be able to repay, and maybe that last night at Beaver Hollow — here, on this selfsame ground — had cancelled that debt outright. John would have liked to think so. Didn't quite know if he did.

"Saved you, did I," Arthur muttered. Sounded mostly to himself.

"Got into kinda a habit of it," John muttered back.

Arthur shook his head. Shook that off. Turned to stare at the mouth of the cave, a deeper darkness within the larger darkness of night, yawning with shadows and history.

John took in his expression. The firelight and lanternlight made it strange. "You still don't remember this place?"

"Course not." Arthur sounded less than certain of that, though. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. "Why? Should I?"

"It was our last camp. Our last hideout." Yours more than mine, he wanted to say. John had no part of choosing this place, or moving to this place; he'd... visited, it felt like, between disasters, and not for long. Sure as hell never felt welcome here, when he walked in, trailing Arthur and Sadie, to see Dutch looking at him like a mangled rat, only to say, What are you doing here? — I hadn't sent for you.

To hell with him. And John had enough goddamn memories of this place; fewer than Arthur should have, and still too goddamn many. He could almost envy Arthur his forgetfulness.

He stood up. Reached for his satchel, but something about the Hollow tugged at him; some shadow on the ground, and he took up the lantern and turned his back on the fire and wandered a few steps away. Might have been as good as an invitation for Arthur to vanish; leap up into his saddle, tear off into the night, but... he didn't.

John picked his way through the old camp. Most of the bones here were dry, but none of them were that old; no human remains had been sitting here a decade. Murfrees must have come back here sometime, used this place, moved on. Moved on months ago now, or a year ago, or... who knew. Charles might be able to read these bones, but John couldn't. But were there even a point to asking when, or why, those Murfrees did anything?

Thought the place was haunted. Any hauntings John might know of would have needed to haunt this place far longer than that.

"Hey," John said. "Come here."

He'd found the remains of Arthur's wagon.

All the gang's wagons had been overturned, and long since looted. Left to rot, here, among the bones of other wagons, stagecoaches, horsecarts — all the depredations of the Murfrees, of all the time they spent here.

John wondered if Dutch had come back and retrieved any of the things they'd left. Must have; must at least have gone back for the money, the instant the Pinkertons had swept on from this place. Might have taken a cart and a horse, if any horses had found their way back. John was half-surprised that Dutch hadn't come back and burned Arthur's wagon to the ground; denied anyone else the loot there, gotten the last word in. Taken his revenge on something, denied a chance to revenge himself on someone.

Last he knew, John and Arthur had been holding guns against him, and Dutch van der Linde was not a man to suffer an insult like that quietly.

Even if he had been the one to turn on them, first.

Even if by that point, the concept of paying back the insult had been... redundant, at best.

Redundant, except that Arthur had survived. Somehow. Was right here, somehow, not remembering, somehow.

Arthur prowled up behind him, staring at the wreckage with wary unfamiliarity. John held the lantern close, pulled a corner of something out of the protective shade of the fallen wagon's side; an edge of that tooled leather cover Pearson had made for Arthur's table, still clinging on but barely recognizable.

This little scrap had been protected from sun and rain. Not from the damp fog that rolled in, or the teeth of anything scurrying around. But there was still just enough to see the pattern stamped into it, and John could just about recall Pearson sitting in the afternoons by the fire, log in front of him and hammer in hand, working. Stitching satchels and saddlebags. Making those terrible hunting trophies he'd never been the one who'd hunted. Oiling hides.

And where was he, John wondered, if he was anywhere at all?

"It was yours," he said, holding it back toward Arthur. More than a little surprised when Arthur took it. John waved a hand at the wreckage; he could see how it all fit back together, well enough. "Whole wagon here was. ...well. Not that." Some other poor unfortunate's skull had rolled to rest with the mouldering wood.

Arthur looked at the debris, clearly not impressed.

"Come on," John said. "I know, it's... but you don't recognize any of this?"

"I see..." Arthur turned over a lump of wood with his boot. "Splinters, some rotten leather." He rummaged around in the wreckage with his foot a moment longer. "Old tin can."

And what had John expected?

He could see a little of the old camp here, because he remembered it a little. Enough to imagine. To stitch together the pieces. But far more was gone than remained. There was no sign of the tent he'd shared with Abigail; even Dutch's tent had been removed or long rotted to nothing. There was another wagon — would it have been Strauss's wagon? Not much left of it; a wheel, broken; a wall, staved in.

Might not have been his, at all. Might have been some other person, dragged here and added to the ghosts. More of the ruin here wasn't theirs, than was.

"Then why'd you come here?" Must be a thousand ways to flee Brandywine, and get lost in the wilderness to the south. Yet Arthur had carved a path straight here; nearly as straight as the crows flew. "If you really can't remember anything, why ride right to the place where—"

Where the family they'd had frayed around them, until it snapped, like a rotten cable on a rope bridge.

Twenty years of faith, for Arthur.

Twenty years, where he'd given more than John believed anyone had ever given, to a man who got more than John believed anyone had ever got. Man who still didn't think that were enough. Maybe nothing would have been.

The opinion in the camp always seemed to be that John was the favorite son. John hadn't seen it that way. Arthur had always been the one Dutch relied on for the big things, the one he'd toss the lead to, the one who could talk back to him more than anyone else except Hosea. More than Hosea, really; Hosea always apologized, smoothed things over. Arthur didn't have much apology in him, before—

And Arthur's word, Arthur's tread, carried more weight in the gang than John's ever had. He was the one folk wanted to bring in on their jobs, wanted approval from. Arthur had complained to him, once, I used to be the prize pony. Now I'm the workhorse. Didn't seem to think that was the honor most of the rest of them saw it as.

And it had been more than that. Something more.

Dutch could sell sulphur to the Devil. Hosea could charm the fangs off a snake. Arthur... could get in a fight with a driftwood log. And still, somehow, Arthur managed some kind of charisma that drew folk to him.

Dutch might have been the one with the grand plans, but Arthur was the one making sure they worked when the bullets was flying. Dutch might say it was time to move camp, but Arthur more often than not found them the camp and made it safe. Dutch was the man folk listened to. Arthur... he'd been the one they looked to.

Last they'd been here, John had been watching the strings come undone. Seen every person fraying. Hadn't put it together, when it was happening, but he saw Abigail turn from Dutch to Arthur, in those last weeks; saw Charles and Sadie pulling themselves toward Arthur's side; even caught Trelawny, once, watching Arthur with that foxish, measuring gaze. Dutch started faltering, and the whole gang started acting like compasses, pulled between two norths, or losing their pull altogether.

Hadn't... much mattered.

Arthur might not even have noticed.

Man didn't like being the one to come up with the plan. Got to a point, after twenty years, and he'd hardly bothered to cook up his own jobs any more; nothing more complicated than robbing a stagecoach or sneaking into some farmstead. Half the gang might have followed him if he'd took a stand, made the call, thrown down the knife at Beaver Hollow... but Dutch had led them, and Arthur had been his right hand until he wasn't no more, and so far as John could tell, that was all he'd ever wanted to be.

"Last camp, huh," Arthur said. Taking the silence as John having nothing more to say. "So, did we..." He waved a hand at the hanging bones, and John flinched.

"God, Arthur, no," he said. "We was outlaws, not animals." John looked across the treeline again. Still quiet. "The folk out here — the Murfrees. Gang of crazy killers. We hid here because even Pinkertons thought twice about coming out this way. Soon as we moved on, I think the Murfrees came back."

Arthur rocked a piece of wood with his foot, and something skittered out from under it. Vanished in the darkness. "Cheery place."

John wasn't in a mood to joke about it. "The best of us was already dead, most of us was waiting to die, and you was dying," he said. "This place was a goddamn nightmare. I never wanted to come back to it."

Yet, here he was. Laid the blame for that square at Arthur's feet, where Arthur made free to ignore it. "Yeah, I remember you told me I got sick. Tuberculosis," he said, and his voice was like he was handling a dead rat. "I'm supposed to be this big, scary old outlaw, and you want me to believe I died of consumption?"

"I don't think tuberculosis makes a special point to avoid outlaws," John shot back.

"Leaving quite aside the fact that you want me to believe I died in the first place," Arthur said.

"Well, clearly, you didn't. I guess you must've got better. I guess." What other explanation was there?

Even if it didn't explain—

He'd given up trying to explain the half of this.

"What I hear, this is just what happens to outlaws, ain't it?" Arthur brushed the whole place with his hand. "Live some bloody life. Die some bloody death."

John didn't know of many outlaws who'd made it to retirement. Supposed that Uncle might count. Himself, too, even, if only he could convince himself of it. "Well... maybe it is," he said. Which is why we got out, he might have said, but that hadn't been why. He'd got out because there'd been no way to keep in; because Dutch had left him to die, and because Arthur had forced the issue. And Arthur...

He hadn't thought Arthur had gotten out. And if he had, as he must have done, John hadn't been around to talk about his reasons.

"And it matters to you," Arthur said. "That... just... what happens. It happened."

"Of course it goddamn matters." Arthur was a rough bastard; he could pretend to shrug off death with the best of them, or the worst of them. But he felt those deaths, every damn one, and if he hadn't said as much John would still have known.

What lies, what nonsense, had Smith swallowed down, in the space of his forgetting? That outlaws didn't feel that sort of thing?

"You gave your life for me," John said. He was angry, now; he'd spent so much time bottling up the anger that it threatened to run away with him, like a horse, or a fire. "You gave your life so that I could get away with my family. Get away from all of that, dammit; make something better. I've spent the last eight years trying to live up to what you did for us—"

"If I was dying of TB," Arthur interrupted, clearly not swayed by this particular outburst, "I weren't really giving my life for anything, was I?"

"Arthur, you rode to Van Horn to rescue my wife from Pinkertons. You took on a goddamned army of the bastards so I could run away clean. You—"

"Turned water into wine and straw into gold, yeah, sure. I sound like a real hero. Between the murdering and the blowing up bridges I'm supposed to have been doing." He rubbed his hand between his eyes.

He looked tired.

John ground his teeth. Arthur wasn't — wasn't even leaving, was the thing. Had to be something that kept him here, or something he was waiting to hear, or something he was looking for. But instead of goddamn saying it, he left John just enough line to try to reel him in without knowing when that line would snap. Left him just enough rope to hang himself with. "Why are you being such a horse's ass about this?"

"Why are you stalking me across hill and plain like I'm a prize buck, or something?"

"I told you! Must've told you a dozen times!" And Arthur clearly wasn't about to believe anything he said, so why the hell was he even bothering to ask the questions? "Why won't you even consider what I have to say?"

Arthur worked out a crick in his neck, and turned to John with that look in his eyes that said he was in no mood to be reasonable to anyone. "Because," he said, each word grudging, "I find you powerfully annoying."

That was it.

That was the very last straw.

There was no good to be dug up from continuing to be civil with the man, and the only reasonable course of action left was to throw a punch at him.

Felt good when his fist connected. Hit a real live person, real flesh and blood, who staggered and bellowed out air and didn't — didn't — didn't vanish like a cold fog, or whatever it was a ghost was meant to do. John shoved him, for good measure, surprised that he'd surprised Arthur enough to get two hits in, and then Arthur took a swing at him, and then they were really fighting.

And goddamnit, it felt good.

It hurt; it felt like getting pummeled, but there was a kind of freedom in it that John hadn't felt in — in — god, he didn't know if he ever had. Times he'd lost control in the last years, of himself, or of the situation; times he'd uprooted himself and Abigail and Jack and forced them to move because he'd brought too much trouble down on them: no, none of that, here. Just a good honest fight between two people too inclined to fighting, with no expectation that anything would be fixed or broken at the end of it.

The hope, anyway.

They never could get in a fight in camp. Someone was always there to break it up, and Dutch never turned a kind eye toward it. Brothers, he called them; sons, and if they had the energy to be hitting each other, they had the energy to go hit some tempting target out there in the world. They were supposed to be in this together.

To hell with him.