Chapter Text
Arthur was already half-awake, aware that someone was walking around camp calling for John, Hosea if he had to guess, when the tent flap was opened and the early morning light poured in.
“Arthur?”
On any other day, he would have grumbled a yes, maybe buried himself deeper in the blankets to avoid getting up, but the second his brain processed that one, it was Abigail, and two, she sounded like she was about to cry, he was on his feet; not even bothering to grab his boots before he crossed the grass to her.
“What’s going on?” He asked, and her jaw trembled.
“I woke up a couple minutes ago and John wasn't there. Thought he was just out by the fire eating but then I noticed that his bag and Old Boy are gone, Arthur. Did he say anything to you? Maybe that he was going to work a job?”
Arthur shook his head, “I'm real sorry, Miss Roberts, but he didn’t say anything to me. No note or nothing, you're sure?”
She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, and he took a deep breath, trying to process what was going on, “I’ll talk to Hosea and Dutch, work on sending out a search party. Alright?”
Abigail threw her arms around him with a sob, and he awkwardly patted her on the back before sending her back into the arms of Tilly, who was standing behind her. They walked back towards the fire, and he heard Grimshaw tell Abigail to eat something, that everything would be okay.
He made his way over to Dutch’s tent, where the man stood tense in the doorway, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. Hosea was talking to Davey and brought the younger man over to talk to Arthur when he saw him.
“Arthur, Davey says there’s tracks from where the horses are kept, going south. Get something to eat for the road and then I’d like both of you to go see what you can find out there.”
Both men nodded, and Hosea clapped his hand down on Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, before continuing his walk towards Abigail and the other girls.
Arthur and Davey prepared and left without a word, climbing atop the horses and following the tracks out of camp a ways.
Davey, who Arthur had always said was a far better tracker than he could ever be, stopped suddenly and climbed down off his horse, Penelope, seconds later. He cut through the brush on foot, and Arthur dismounted to join him, and soon they found themselves at the bank of the nearest river, open plains on the other side.
“Tracks lead down to the riverbed,” Davey said, kneeling in the soft dirt, “There’s no good place to get up on the other bank here though.”
Arthur’s chest tightened uncomfortably with the words, combined with his knowledge that John couldn’t swim to quite literally save his life. If the horse had startled and bucked him or had fallen?
He couldn't consider the possibilities, not now.
“Let’s check the banks for more tracks down the way.”
They returned to the horses, riding down both sides of the riverbank, but Arthur found nothing on his side; cut off by a series of jagged rocks that blocked his way further down.
“Might have some tracks here, but look.” He made his way over to Davey, looking over to where he was pointing. A group of wild horses grazed nearby, their hoofprints littering the ground; destroying their ability to track any further than here.
“It could have been Old Boy, or it could have been them.” Arthur sighed, catching sight of a horse the same size as Old Boy, “No way to know.”
“Yeah, no way to know. But I’m sure he’s fine Arthur.”
They rode back to camp in silence, and Davey offered to be the one to tell Dutch and Hosea. Arthur accepted, gratefully, and went to sit down near the fire and warm his hands.
“Anything?” Karen whispered, and he shook his head.
“How is she?”
He could remember her sobs just an hour or two again, the way her hands clung to his jacket, how Jack had cried when he was leaving camp and how it felt like a knife had gone through his heart when he’d heard it. His cry was far too similar to Issac’s when he’d leave for weeks yet again.
“Not well, I think she’d like to see you though.”
“No, she wouldn't, Karen. I’m about as helpful as a dead horse at the moment.”
He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. Not because they weren't true, no, they were and he knew it, but because of the little fire that glowed murderously in her eyes after.
“Arthur Morgan, I don’t want to hear you say that again.”
“Of course Karen, won't happen again.”
She didn't seem appeased but backed away where she had leaned towards him in her moment of anger.
“It’s not true, Arthur.” She said it with conviction, and he wished he could believe it.
He didn’t say anything back, knowing that it could lead to an argument and he didn't have the energy or the will to deal with that right then, and deciding to appease her; stood, nodded in her direction in goodbye, and walked slowly to John’s, no, Abigail’s tent.
“Miss Roberts?” He asked, and Tilly appeared, opening the flap to let him in and gently squeezing his shoulder as she stepped out.
Abigail’s face was splotchy and red, eyes bloodshot, but for the moment her tears had stopped. He supposed it was for the best that she wasn't crying, for both of them. He couldn't allow his own grief and worry to bubble to the surface, not now, not when everyone needed him to be strong; he knew that if he sat with her while she wept that he would inevitably cry with her.
“Did you see anything out there? Anything that could tell us where he went?” She asks, hands grabbing at the blanket in her lap. No, not a blanket, a coat. John’s coat. The one that Abigail stole on occasion when the evenings where cool and her and John were speaking to each other softly instead of yelling.
Something bubbled up then, worry, the water and how deadly it could be, how many times he had fished John out struggling to breathe, and his hands shook.
“Not yet,” His voice wasn’t as steady as he hoped, “But I’m going to keep looking, I promise you that.”
She looked away, reached out to smooth out the blankets where Jack slept next to her, on her other side away from John.
“Arthur,” Her voice wavered, “I don’t think he wants to be found. I think that…”
The tears returned, and he forced himself to look away, to squeeze his own eyes shut.
“I don’t know if he’d even come back if you did find him.”
He drew in a sharp breath, and her tear-filled eyes returned to him.
And in that moment, he couldn't stay any longer. Couldn’t look into those eyes filled with tears, couldn’t stay in this tent, buried in memories and the smell of the soap Abigail liked to buy. The kind she made John use when she could get the man without a few feet of water without him bolting.
Water. The river. John could have drowned and there was nothing Arthur could do to change it.
He couldn't breathe, turning on his heel and escaping the tent. The sunlight was almost too much, and he stumbled blindly towards his tent. He needed to be able to breathe, to grieve privately, to avoid the eyes that were just waiting for him to snap.
A hand curled around his arm and he pulled away, only for it to tighten and a voice to accompany it, “C’mere, son.”
Dutch. Relief coursed through his veins, and he leaned into the hand, blinking the world into a bearable amount of light once more as Dutch pulled him into the meeting tent. The tent flap fell shut behind them and Arthur sank into an offered chair, burying his head in his hands.
“Arthur,” A hand rested on his hair, and he heard Dutch pull a chair across the dirt in front of him to sit down. He didn’t have to say more than that, the meaning was in his tone. The same tone he had used when he’d come home after Mary had called off their engagement, a tone both stern and kind.
Talk to me , it said, and he did.
“Did I miss something?” Arthur asked, half a whisper and half a sob, “Some sign or moment when he was struggling and I just didn’t notice? How long did he go on like that before he finally ran off like he did?”
“Hosea and I didn’t see anything either, Arthur,” His voice was strong, calming, but under it Arthur heard that familiar thread of grief, “Sometimes, people try their hardest to hide that they're struggling until they can’t handle it anymore.”
“We can’t change what’s happened, dear boy,” Hosea said, resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He wasn't sure when the older man had arrived, “It’s not your fault he’s left us.”
Arthur wept, and Dutch and Hosea did too. For John, for Abigail, for little Jack, for Dutch and Hosea and everyone else in camp; still there and gone alike.
For Issac, for Eliza, for years lost and voices fading from his memory.
John would forget too if he never came back.
Arthur hoped it wasn’t too late for him to change.
. . .
The day passed, and John did not return to them.
When Jack cried because his mother cried, Arthur retreated into the forest; returning hours later with meat for the next day's dinner.
He was almost asleep when he picked up on the sound of footsteps outside his tent. He pushed himself up on his elbow, looking towards the door as knuckles rapped against the pole before the tent flap opened.
It was Abigail, blanket wrapped around her shoulders and carrying one of the oil lanterns. She didn't say anything, only slipping in through the opening, letting the canvas fall shut behind her, and sitting down on a chair by the desk.
“Are you okay?” She asked as he sat up fully, grabbing his coat from the end of the bed to keep warm while he was outside the blankets.
“I’m fine, ma’am You don't need to worry about me.”
“You ran out while we were talking, Arthur, of course I’m going to be worried.”
Shame flushed his cheeks, “I’m sorry about that, Miss Roberts.”
“None of that Miss Roberts mess now, Arthur. I’d like to think we’re friends, friends call each other by their names. I shouldn't have said what I did. It was too soon and I know you're hurting too.”
She paused, and the oil lamp now sat on the desk, flickered; casting shadows across the canvas.
“Maybe that’s why I said it to you and not the others, because you care about him too. The others do, of course, but it’s different with us, you know? He’s more family to you and I than anyone.”
“Yeah,” He sighed, “I know.”
“I just,” her voice cracked, his heart did too, “I just want to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you even more than you were.”
“It’s alright, Miss Abigail. You don't need to worry.” He stood, shrugging on his coat fully and moving to step into his boots, “I’ll walk you back to your tent, if you’ll allow me.”
She nodded, and he offered her his arm, and the two lonely people wandered out into the darkness.
. . .
He dreamt about Eliza that night, the troubles of the day bleeding into his sleep.
In the dream, he searched for her, but couldn't get to her. She was always just out of reach, but never out of sight.
When he woke, a new feeling filled his chest. Not grief, no, not sorrow or tears.
Anger, rage, hate, whatever you like to call it, had taken up residence in Arthur’s soul.
It had begun at breakfast when Abigail was still asleep but Jack had woken up. Arthur had heard him fussing from his own tent and had gently taken him from a half-awake Abigail who gladly went back to sleep. He’d been feeding the boy breakfast, the pot of oatmeal horribly bland but hot enough to cut through the chill that came with the Autumn mornings, when the feeling had crawled into his chest.
John had given this up, had thrown it away as if it was garbage or something unworthy of his attention. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
He’d run like a coward into the night, and he didn’t want to be found.
Jack squirmed, wanting down, and Arthur set him down on the grass to crawl, keeping an eye on him and knowing that Grimshaw was doing the same from her seat behind him.
“If he ever comes back here,” He whispered to the fire, the rage pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart, “I’ll make him wish he had died.”
Hosea gave him a look over the fire, a soft, heartbroken thing, but Arthur could find no remorse within him to give.
. . .
On the third day, Abigail didn't get out of bed.
When Grimshaw took over watching Jack after breakfast, Arthur packed a bag and climbed onto Boadicea.
“I’ll be back by the end of the week at the latest,” He told Hosea, who nodded, concern in his eyes.
The days were growing colder as winter approached, and he found his mind drifting to the ratty blankets at camp. Jack had grown out of his coat, they’d need a new one, and he could think of a dozen other things they needed before it gets any colder. He figured that while he was on his way south towards Tumbleweed to ask around about John, he could hunt a bit, maybe get some pelts to sell for money to buy blankets and such for the camp..
A pack of wolves ambushed him on a mountain road and met a quick death, their pelts soon stacked behind his saddle and meat wrapped in brown paper to be sold in the nearby town of West Victoria.
When he passed travelers on the road, he asked if they had seen John, showing them a picture of John holding Jack earlier that year that he’d managed to track down in camp.
But no one had seen him.
He reached West Victoria shortly before nightfall, selling the meat and a couple of the pelts, setting aside the best ones for an idea he’d had; wrapping them up and tucked them away into the saddlebag. He hitched Boadicea outside the local tavern and went inside.
“Excuse me,” He stepped up to the bar and the bartender moved to speak with him, “Do you know if this man passed through town in the last couple days?”
“Hmmmmm,” the man took a long look at the photo, before frowning and shaking his head, “Sorry partner, I don’t recognize him. Might ask the man at the general store? He sees more of the people passing through than I do, believe it or not.”
“Thanks,” He tossed a couple coins up onto the counter, followed by a handful of dollar bills “For your time, and could I get a room?”
“Of course. First door on the right upstairs. Let me know if you need anything else.”
He nodded in thanks, climbing the stairs and sinking down onto the bed. He pulled his journal out of his bag out of habit, but couldn't find the words to express how he felt about everything going on, so he put it back.
“We have to go on,” He said, trying to convince himself, seeing how the words felt on his tongue, “He’s left, that was his choice, we can’t stay up waiting.”
He nodded, even when his throat burned, and then he pulled out his journal; writing those words out instead of a regular recollection of his day. A reminder, for every time he went to write, that life had to go on.
John was dead to him now, it was how it had to be.