Chapter Text
There's a scream that splits through the night, like a gunshot, snapping John out of from his sleep. So abrupt and sharp that he has to take a moment to simply blink and breathe, mind rattled, yanked violently from the warm depths of slumber by something deep and instinctual, responding to the ragged noise that has carried into his tent. Abigail is jumping from her own sleep at John's sudden movement, pushes herself up onto an elbow, dark hair tangled around her face.
"What?" She's asking, voice sleep rough and confused, squints up at John through the darkness. John doesn't answer her, sat up and still, listening hard. The noise, raucous howl, she couldn't hear it. Just far enough to be out of the range of human ears, but close enough for a wolf to make out clearly.
It calls out again, much more quiet and desperate this time, and it has John lurching forward, kicking out of the bed roll and shoving his feet into his boots, duster over his shoulders. Grabs his gun from where it's set on the ground and pushes through the tent flaps, hears Abigail call sharply after him and then proceed to gently shush Jack as he starts to wake at the sudden commotion.
He nearly bowls into Dutch, who had strode out of his own tent, can see Javier stumbling toward them, rubbing at his eyes. "What is it?" John asks, skin crawling and prickling uncomfortably. Listens hard for any further noise.
Dutch doesn't provide an answer; steps forward and looks hard and still to the North, to where the scream had wormed it's way through the trees that barricaded their camp, nostrils widen as he scents at the air. John tilts his head back and scents as well, but catches nothing fresh or poignant. Nothing other than the Earth, the horses, the gang. Small animals that scrabble through the underbrush and the smoke from their campfires. "A trap?" He murmurs in question, shifts in place. A quick glance around and he can see that the other wolves have risen as well and are gathered close, looking just as unsettled as he feels. Javier looks out into the trees, then back to Dutch, "what's going on?"
"Sounds like some fool got himself caught," Micah is saying as he sidles up, hands on his gun belt, dips his head to look at Dutch.
"Should we be worried about it?" John asks, looks between Micah and Dutch, mouth twisting into a frown. A wolf typically doesn't howl in such a way unless it's out of pure and last ditch distress, in loose hopes that another wolf may hear it and offer aid. It's a hard thing to ignore, a ritual so deeply ingrained that it practically runs through their blood. The thought of something so violent and terrible happening that it would cause a wolf to drop all entrenched pretenses of hiding from the world, it sends a hard shudder down John's spine.
Micah slips closer, worms into Dutch's sight. "It ain't our problem," he drawls out. "We've got enough heat on us as it is."
Dutch finally breaks his gaze from the darkened tree line, turns around to face his nervous pack. "John," he orders, "and Charles. Go out there, see what's goin' on."
John nods then, holsters his gun and steps back. Looks at Charles, who must have been awoken by the sound of them speaking. Shotgun holstered close at his hip, wordlessly he moves toward the horse hitches. John makes to follow, stops and turns to look at Dutch. "What do we do?"
"If you see anything, don't engage." Dutch tells him, looks dubiously out at the trees again, eyes darting around. His stance guarded and stock still. "Keep your noses clean; just make sure there'll be no trouble for us."
Dipping his head again, John strides over to the hitches, where Charles had already gathered up Taima and Old Boy, their reins held in each of his hands. He holds Old Boy's reins out once John is close enough, then quickly mounts up onto his own animal. They spur out of camp hard and fast, weave out through the maze of trees, John's ears and nose straining to pick anything up.
"So what do you think?" Charles asks, following John as he takes the lead. The night is clear, warm, and the moon is a bright hole punched through the blackened sky, hazy blue light heavy and wide over the rolling hills of Scarlett Meadows, long wispy grass flickering with silver in the low breeze. They stir a group of grazing deer as they tear across the terrain, sending the animals scattering hard across the fields.
"I don't know," John admits, kicks his heels into his horse's flanks to drive him faster. "Like Dutch says, we'll just take a look."
"Is this a good idea?"
"Maybe not," he says as he pulls on the reins, slows down a bit as they crest over a low hill. Looks around and sniffs at the air lamely, grimaces at a new scent that carries on the light wind, sharp thing that stings the insides of his nostrils. Maybe something carrying out from Rhodes. "But a threat is a threat. And we don't take no chances."
Once they've slowed to a trot, John is scenting and listening again. He can't hear anything, nor can he smell anything other than that unpleasant odor, sharp and tinny. It's familiar but John can't quite place it. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, heavy awareness on his shoulders. John looks quickly to the right at the sound of hoof beats that press in then, hurried and almost panicked, can hear the animal wheezing as it runs. Bringing that sour smell with it too. And he has to quickly yank on Old Boy's reins to tug him out of the way as said horse rounds on the trail hard, blows past them in a wild flurry.
Both John and Charles are frozen in surprise for moment, only a moment, before they recognize the horse. White flash of a thing. And it's rider, slumped over the beasts neck like a corpse.
"Arthur?!" John is yelping out in shock, face scrunching up at the horrible scent radiating off of him in waves. So thick and heavy that he can't even discern Arthur's own scent beneath it.
Charles is quicker to react, pushes Taima to catch up with Arthur's horse, grabs the lasso rope that's hung on his saddle and gives it a few swift whirls before casting it out. The rope cleanly swoops around the animal's neck, and she twists and brays out in surprise when the rope tightens in close, Charles yanking it in toward his chest to slow her down. Spooked to all hell, she responds more violently to the action than Charles had anticipated, rears hard and angry, throws a limp Arthur from her saddle.
"Shit!"
It's like a whip crack, and the second Arthur collides with ground he's writhing and bawling in pain, shout wrenched out ragged from his throat. Arching his back off of the ground and digging his bare heels into the dirt. "Sorry, sorry," Charles starts to placate, drops the rope and jumps from Taima, quick to place himself at Arthur's side.
John snaps out of his loose daze and hops off of his own horse, makes to join Charles but stops short when it feels like he's run into some kind of wall, stumbling and tripping over his feet. He coughs and recoils, lifts an arm to stuff his nose and mouth into the crook of his elbow. He recognizes the acrid smell emanating from Arthur now. It's more than one scent, a harsh mix of things that are hard to identify when swirled so finely together, but he can still make them out, just so. Those instincts, deep inside of him, know it well. Danger.
Silver, and wolfsbane. Pure and evil poison for a wolf.
"God dammit," he's spitting and pawing at his face, the odors burning his nose and throat like fire, making his eyes water and sting.
The outburst from being kettled seems to have taken all of Arthur's remaining energy, for he's fallen limp and still on the ground, limbs sprawled. Breathing like his lungs have been shredded. Charles' hands are steady and careful as he prods for injuries, checks his pulse, murmurs and coos at Arthur to try and soothe the immense pain that seems to be consuming him. John inches forward, his throat tight. Moves as close as he can bare, tries to get a good look at Arthur. He looks... bad. Horrible.
Stripped to his underwear, the fabric of it over his left shoulder is blasted away, revealing ugly, bored open flesh. Any visible skin around the gore is filthy and red, festering with a clear infection and congealed blood. John should be able to smell the rot be he can't, hidden heavy underneath the silver and wolfsbane. He can't even smell the blood that soaks Arthur's union suit. There are several bruises marring his face, purple and black stains along his jaw, the ridge of his brow. Skin waxy and pale.
"Help me get him onto the horse," Charles is saying, carefully scoops an arm under Arthur's shoulder to prop him up, Arthur wheezing and jerking in pain at the abrupt movement.
John hesitates, his fingers twitch. "I- I can't." He's saying, bites his lip. Unable to look away from the ragged buckshot wound dug deep into Arthur's skin. Can see that Arthur's claws are curled out from his fingertips, teeth elongated and tapered into fangs, ears slightly curved into points. Like he's stuck between his skins.
"What?" Charles barks, shuffles Arthur's weight to lean onto his chest, tries to arrange him into a better hold. "John, help me."
"I can't get close!" John splutters, clears his throat and tries to explain. "It's- they used wolfsbane on him I can't-"
Charles scoffs, just a bit. He doesn't know all of the intricate details of werewolves; knows that wolfsbane and silver are the only things that can seem to crack their metaphorical armor. Hasn't quite been informed of all the small things just yet. But for now, it doesn't matter. Arthur needs to be taken care of, and fast. He doesn't waste any more time in debating with John, whispers into Arthur's hair, a hushed "sorry." And pulls Arthur's arm over his shoulder, moves to stand, wraps an arm over his hip. Wrinkles his nose at the smell of sweat and sick that clings harshly to him. Arthur cries out, head limp and neck bared. Charles whistles for Taima, who trots over to them nervously. Snorting and stamping her hooves.
John curses, and after some brief hesitation closes the gap between them, coughs roughly, rubs at his nose. He helps haul Arthur's near dead weight up onto the horse's back, as gently and quickly as he can. Grabs Arthur's leg and carefully pulls it over the saddle, braces a hand on his thigh to help Charles seat him on the thing. The second that Arthur is situated as well as he can be, John is stumbling backward; gagging wetly, blood dribbling out from his nose. He curls over, hands on his knees. Spits and heaves for a moment.
"That bad?" Charles asks, eyes on John. One hand on Taima's speckled flank, the other on the small of Arthur's back to keep him steady.
"Yeah," John rasps, shakes his head out. He wipes the blood from his chin and straightens up, clicks his tongue for Old Boy. "Wolfsbane, it's.. it's like a repellent and silver just.. burns. I can explain later."
Charles nods, hauls up onto his horse's back. Arranges himself behind Arthur and cages his arms around him to keep him from tumbling off in their haste, grabs the reins tight. "We need to get him back to camp." He says curtly, "get his horse." He then kicks his heels into Taima's flanks, spurs her off in the direction of their current home.
John strides over and grabs the lasso rope that's still hung around the neck of Arthur's horse. "Easy girl," he says quietly as she dances uncomfortably in place, snorts and throws her head back. There's a dark red stain of blood smeared down her broad shoulder, it's not hers. And it smells toxic. He ties the slack rope tight around the horn of his saddle, mounts Old Boy and quickly drives him off, Arthur's horse whinnying and falling in line. Spurring hard into Old Boy's sides to catch up with Charles, John keeps a healthy distance between them, wants to be closer but simply can't. He keeps eyes on Arthur as he sits limply in front of Charles, arms loose at his sides. Bad feeling pooling in is gut.
"What happened to him?" Charles is asking, yipping at Taima to move quicker. Chin over Arthur's shoulder as he stares hard and mean down the road in front of them.
"I don't know.." John mutters, looks to his white knuckled grip on the reins, takes a breath to try and calm himself. "Some 'hunters' musta gotten to him while he was out." It's on the tip of his tongue to suggest the O'Driscolls, but really? A mere day or so ago, Dutch had had that incredibly uneventful meeting with Colm, at least uneventful in his own words. Dutch had returned that evening, shaking his head, expression twisted up. In no mood to speak to anyone, even Hosea. Micah stalking after him like a fly on shit.
There'd been no such 'peace treaty' as desired or discussed, but Colm wouldn't have been so bold as to make a move on them so soon after such an event. Would he? None of it added up, really. The whole meeting hadn't been so long ago; Arthur had even been there. He hadn't returned with Dutch and Micah after the fact, and later on that night, when asked off handedly where Arthur had wandered off to by Miss Grimshaw, Micah had lamely explained that Arthur had left before the meeting even ended. Sharpening that knife of his, sitting on the outskirts of the camp, bemoaning at how Arthur had apparently left them 'vulnerable' during the summit to go galavanting around the countryside. It had drawn John's ire, most things that Micah said tended to do that, but given Arthur's propensity to wander and disappear for days at a time, he hadn't even questioned it.
And now he felt like an absolute fool for not thinking twice.
John is not the cleverest of men nor wolves, but he suspects that it wouldn't be a far off assumption to believe that this was Colm's doing. The man, evil and cruel as he is, has no desire for peace. To end the bloody feud between himself and Dutch; what would he ever have to gain from stepping away? Hosea had outright said that it was a trap, and he was very likely correct.
Flicking Old Boy's reins harder against his neck, John drives on faster toward the camp, fiery anger beginning to burn in his blood.