Chapter Text
"You know, I think he's asked just about everyone in camp now."
Arthur didn't need to look up from his saddlebags to know who it was Hosea was referring to; he'd seen the O'Driscoll boy approach everyone from John to Sean, trying to bait them with his score like he'd bait a fish with a worm. But men were harder to reel in, and these men in particular were wary of turncoat O'Driscolls promising gold and glory. Stealing a brief glimpse across the camp, Arthur saw that this time Kieran was trying to work his limited charms on Charles. He couldn't hear them over the hustle and bustle of Pearson preparing the morning stew, or the incessant buzzing of the flies whistling by his ears, but that didn't matter much-he saw Kieran's face crumple, watched him nod his head low until the brim of his hat covered the red of his cheeks, and knew that Charles had said the same thing that they'd all said: No. Absolutely not.
"Has he asked you yet?" said Arthur.
Hosea met his eyes over the top of the crime novel he'd been pretending to read. He looked healthy today. The sun shining down through the trees dappled him with gold, chased away the sickly pallor he'd been wearing for the last couple of days. He laid the book flat atop the table, smiling that small amused smile of his. "He did." he said, his words measured.
"And?"
"I just gave him the look."
Arthur was intimately familiar with 'the look', having been on the other side of it on numerous occasions after he'd made particularly idiotic decisions. John had seen it a few times too, had been leveled with it recently back at Colter when he'd lay wounded and embarrassed on his cot in the back of that ramshackle cabin. No words were forthcoming when Hosea measured you with the look, you just took your exit as graciously as you could and hoped -in time-you could crawl your way back into his good books.
"Oh, here we go, this seems a good time for a bet." Hosea was looking back across the camp, his gaze following Kieran as he wrung his hands and looked between Micah and Bill. "What do you say, who do you think he'll ask first?"
"Look, I know the boy's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Hosea, but even he's not stupid enough to go out on a job with either of those fools."
But Arthur was wrong. Kieran was, in fact, stupid enough. He approached Bill like a mouse approaching a cat, stealing furtive glances around the camp as though trying to reassure himself that he was safe, that nothing could possibly happen to him on such a bright, glorious morning. Arthur watched him wring his hands again and again, saw him swallow down the lump in his throat. A bead of sweat had collected in the creases of his eye, he blinked and it fell down his cheek like a tear.
Arthur didn't hear Kieran's proposal, but he certainly heard Bill's response. Half the state of Lemoyne probably heard Bill's response.
"You in that much of a hurry to lose your balls, boy!"
Kieran was shaking his head, backpedaling with his hands up in supplication. He looked like he was trying to tame a wild beast. The way Bill rounded on him, the sheer size and strength of him, made him look like something feral that had been dragged out of the woods. "Go on," he yelled, "git."
Hosea turned back to Arthur. His smile was all teeth. "Well," he said, "that went better for the poor bastard than it could have."
Arthur nodded. His throat was dry as old paper. He swallowed down the lump stuck there. Kieran moved through camp with all the speed of a man with a pair of gelding tongs at his back. Arthur watched him until he disappeared over the ridge, down towards the lake. The boy was braver than he'd given him credit for. Stupid, but brave. He turned back to his saddlebags, stocking them with all the things he'd need for the long trek ahead; winter clothes, ointments and tonics, oatcakes for Pegasus, ammunition... By the time he was ready to leave, his arms were aching and the sun was at its zenith. He mounted the great Ardennes he'd picked up in Valentine and urged her towards the edge of camp.
He was just dipping down into the shade of the trees when he saw Micah twirling that damned knife in his hands and making his way over to Kieran.
Arthur dug his heels into the soft meat of Pegasus' side and carried on.
Arthur was gone from camp for four days. He was as weary upon his return as the first time he'd ridden down from the mountains. The tiredness he felt went deeper than flesh, it had sunk into the very marrow of his bones, and the only thing holding him upright on his horse was the bright lights of Clemens Point beckoning him home through the trees, and the cheer of familiar voices as they hooted and hollered. It sounded like a party was going on. He followed the path along the lake, hoping to sneak in quietly. If he could just reach his tent and collapse into his cot without anyone spotting him, or bothering him with inane requests or small-talk, he might die a happy man. Dutch would want to know all about the bounty. And the money. Of course. But Arthur hoped-prayed-that Dutch was having too much of a good time with the festivities to bother him tonight.
Someone was shouting something.
Arthur pulled on the reigns, slowing Pegasus to a stop. He listened. Suddenly it didn't sound much like a party at all. It sounded like a fight.
"That was my score. Y-y-you can't just cut me out of it!" Christ, was that Kieran?
"I can, and I have, Cowpoke."
Was that Kieran backchatting Micah? Kieran-Please don't cut my balls off, Sir-Duffy? Arthur found himself reevaluating both his night and his opinion of the young outlaw. Kieran wasn't brave, he was mule-kicked-in-the-head stupid. Arthur spurred Pegasus on, heedless now of being spotted; he had just enough energy left, he supposed, to see the outcome of this bizarre showdown.
He saw Micah first, or at least the back of him. Arthur didn't need to see his face to know what kind of expression was on it, he could tell just by looking at the outrage in Kieran's. The whole Van der Linde gang had circled around them, some of them were cheering, most of them were drinking. He saw Javier and Lenny in the back, circling the group, taking clips of money. Sean had Karen balanced on his thigh, one hand down the front of her dress and the other pumping the air. The Irish shitstain was probably having the time of his life-tits, beer and good old fashioned brawl.
Arthur hitched Pegasus just on the outskirts of camp and made his way forwards. Micah was dancing around the ring now like a circus performer, riling up his audience, the smirk on his face bitter as old milk. He'd unbuttoned his shirt, flashing the pink round flesh of his belly; he looked as much a fool as he'd always looked, and Arthur was reminded again by the tight fist curling around his stomach that he'd never despised anyone quite so much as he despised Micah. For that reason alone, when Javier reached him-showing some surprise to find him there-Arthur placed his bets on Kieran.
"You want your money?" said Micah, turning to face Kieran. "Well you just come and get it."
Kieran looked then like he wanted to balk. Arthur could see his hands through the crowd, see the nervous twitch as they jerked towards one another, but he seemed to gather himself and his wits just as quickly as he'd lost them. He held himself tall, his posture straighter than it had ever been since coming off of that tree all those months ago.
"I earned that money, Mr. Bell." Were it not for the look on his face, and the low, dangerous way in which he spoke, Arthur might have thought Kieran's nerves had won out after all. But the way he was looking at Micah from under his hat... his eyes were black with unrestrained hate. Whatever had happened between them out on the job went deeper than money.
"What is this all about?" asked Arthur to Javier, who was counting through the money he'd collected.
"Hell if I know. It's been going on for two days now though. Ever since they got back-Ohhhh!"
A chorus of similar cries burst through the crowd. Arthur turned back just in time to see Micah staggering, holding the left side of his face. Kieran Duffy-the skinny, stuttering turncoat who'd begged for weeks for his balls, for food, for water, for mercy-had punched him. Lenny was the first to cheer, his voice so loud it startled Uncle from his drunken stupor around the side of Pearson's wagon. Arthur didn't cheer, but he found himself smiling, he found himself throwing his hands together over and over until his palms were red and aching.
The ghost of a smile was hovering at the corners of Kieran's mouth. Arthur thought, for the first time, that he looked like he belonged there, among the group. Then Micah recovered and threw his own punch, and the boy went down like a sack of potatoes, and he looked-again-like the outsider he'd always be.
"Guess you lose this one, amigo." said Javier with a shrug.
Arthur turned and headed towards his cot. He could still hear Micah cursing and beating on the O'Driscoll half an hour later.