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To the untrained eye it was a day like any other in West Elizabeth. The omnipresent sun beat down on the two riders as they made their way across the plains and gave no indication as to what day it was, why it was different from any other. When you were an outlaw, Christmas Day was just another day. But The Van Der Lindes weren’t an ordinary gang, and as with many other things, they differed in this by celebrating as if they were a family.
Because they were one, in their own right.
Charles had beckoned Arthur away from camp with a cryptic, “I’ve got something I want to show you. Ride with me?”
Arthur had answered with his typical non-committal grunt, and away they went. They rode in companionable silence into The Heartlands, the sun sinking lower in the sky with each hoofbeat.
“How much further, Charles?”
“Not far. We’re almost there.”
With a nod, Arthur clicked his tongue at Boadicea, and they rode hard until Charles signaled for them to stop at some still river water and lush grasslands inhabited by a herd of horses.
“So?” Arthur questioned, looking on at the herd of horses. “What are we doing?”
“A little game,” Charles began, digging his binoculars out of his satchel and peering through them at the herd. “Take a look at that silver dapple pinto.”
Charles handed the binoculars to Arthur, who looked through them at the horse in question. “It’s very beautiful. So what?”
“First one to catch and break it, keeps it. What do you say?”
Arthur contemplated it for a moment before asking, “What about Taima and Boadicea?”
“They’re not going anywhere. But it never hurts to have one in the stables just in case. Plus, our girls could use a break every now and again, yeah? We ride them pretty hard, and all over the country.”
With a nod, Arthur agreed, and they set up camp just on the periphery of the water so they could see the herd movement.
“Might take a few days to wrangle ‘em, hope that’s okay,” Charles had mentioned in an aside before they’d pitched their tent.
Arthur had shrugged in response. “If it gets me away from Uncle drunkenly singing ‘God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen’ for the hundredth time, I’m okay with it.”
They’d shared a good laugh at that before getting to work. Once the camp was set up, they decided that Charles would be the first to attempt to approach the silver dapple. Arthur watched from a distance as Charles timidly approached the horse, getting close enough to see it for how tall it actually was, but not close enough to pat it. When Charles came back, he sat down with a sigh.
“Well, he definitely looks like a fine horse.”
“He? So it’s a stallion, then?”
“Yes.”
“Oh boy.”
Arthur heard the deep rumble of Charles’ chuckling as he stood, making to approach the horse himself.
“Good luck,” said Charles, to which Arthur responded with his signature two-fingered wave. Charles watched Arthur’s back as he walked over to the pinto.
As Arthur grew nearer to the stallion, he began to call out to it in a gentle tone of voice.
“Hey boy,” he said, getting its attention. His eyes grew slightly wide and wild-looking as he assessed Arthur, pawing the ground in agitation.
“Easy, boy, you’re okay,” Arthur coaxed, slowly but surely growing nearer to the horse. With snorts and low nickers it always kept its eye on him, but he did not move. Arthur was now close enough to reach out and touch the stallion’s thick, spotted neck if he wanted to. Raising a cautious hand, he tested the waters, reaching out with an open palm.
The stallion reared up with an angry whinny, kicking its front legs. Arthur took a step back.
“Hey, it’s alright, boy. Calm down.”
As if obeying his command, the stallion returned his legs back to the ground, but still pawed at the earth. Arthur attempted to get closer once more, gently clucking and shushing the creature as his fingers spread outward.
When his hand met the coarse hair of the stallion’s neck, he patted it gently, and the horse seemed to take to him a little bit.
“There ya go, boy. See, that ain’t so bad, now is it?”
But now was the tricky part. Mounting the beast and subduing it. Arthur continued to rub the stallion’s neck in slow, soothing circles as he waited for what he felt was the right moment to try.
When the stallion’s eyes grew calm, blinking with peacefulness, Arthur threaded his fingers into the wiry hair of its mane and swung his leg across its broad back quickly. Immediately, the horse reared and let out a loud whinny, then began bucking wildly. Arthur held on for dear life, both hands clutching the horse’s mane, his thighs clenching around the roundness of its belly. He wished he could afford to turn around and see Charles’ reaction to this development, but he feared the action would give him whiplash or worse.
For what felt like almost 10 minutes, the stallion continued trying to buck him off to no avail. Eventually, he grew tired and came to a halt, panting helplessly underneath Arthur.
“There you go, it’s okay,” cooed Arthur, drawing a carrot from his satchel and offering it to him. He took it, and Arthur knew that the horse was now his. With a click of his tongue and a slight kick to the side, he spurred the horse into a light trot back towards camp.
As he grew within talking distance, Charles stood and clapped softly, trying to show his appreciation without spooking the newly-tamed stallion.
“Great job, Arthur. What will you name him?”
“I’m not sure yet. Why don’t we ride back to camp, though?”
“Nah, it’s too late now. Let’s just hang out beneath the stars, you and me.”
Arthur hesitated, but nodded, dismounting and hitching his new horse a little further away from Boadicea, not wanting to agitate the both of them.
Arthur and Charles cooked some canned vegetables in a pot and made stew for dinner. As they ate, they made faces at each other from across the fire.
“Well... it’s soup,” said Arthur, struggling to swallow the lumps of pinto and green beans.
“This does make me wish we had Pearson’s stew, and I never thought I’d hear myself say that,” joked Charles.
“The bar was pretty low to begin with, but this is just awful.”
They tossed the remnants of the failed stew into the bushes behind them and pulled out a flask of whiskey, passing it between them as Charles asked Arthur to tell him stories of days long ago, when he’d first started running with Dutch and Hosea.
“...When we picked up John, he was nothin’ but a scrawny thing. Street rat. Annoying as all hell,” Arthur recounted, slurring his words slightly. “I don’t think I ever wanted to punch a thirteen year old boy in the face before I met John. And I was about twenty, twenty-one maybe at the time. But then suddenly I was supposed to be like his big brother and teach him how we do things in the gang. What a nightmare.”
“Well, now I see why he turned out the way he did,” jested Charles, bumping Arthur’s shoulder teasingly.
“Shut up,” Arthur replied lamely, though Charles could see the faintest hint of a grin on his face. “When he knocked up Abigail, it was like watching my kid brother finally become a man. Although it wasn’t what I ever imagined for him, not with the way he acts. I was terrified for Abigail, to be honest. In hindsight, I probably should’ve seen him cuttin’ and runnin’ from a mile away, but I wanted to believe he’d man up.”
Charles hummed in understanding, trying to allow Arthur to let out all these things he’d kept inside his chest, too stubborn and too guarded to reveal unless he wasn’t sober.
“And now he’s back and I just... I don’t know. It’s hard to forgive him. I can forgive the woman who broke my heart in two, and all it takes for her is to bat her eyelashes at me. But John is just... John. He’s infuriating.” Arthur paused, staring into the flask of whiskey before knocking back a long sip and passing it to Charles. “I don’t know how to let it go.”
“Just give it time, brother. Forgiveness is a journey we all must take.”
A bitter exhale in response. “In this line of work, sometimes forgiveness is a luxury we can't afford," Arthur frowned, poking the fire with a stick before turning to Charles and asking, "You ever have someone like that? A person who you just couldn’t forgive?”
Charles sighed deeply. “Yes.”
A pause. “...Do you want to talk about it?”
Closing his eyes, he said, “The thing about my grudge is that it’s not just against one person. It’s got to do with many people. Anyone who ever did me or my people wrong. I try to mete out justice, sow goodness wherever I can. Stand up for those who cannot. But what good does it do when no matter what I do, there are whole companies of soldiers behind me to erase it?”
“That’s what I admire about you, Charles. You’ve got something else to fight for, something bigger than yourself. Me? I’m just an outlaw, fighting for the survival of the gang.”
Charles turned to look at Arthur, watched the firelight dance across his pensive face. “Well, maybe that’s enough. For now.”
Arthur looked back at him, then nodded slowly. “For now.”
The pair of outlaws spent the night watching the stars, each contemplating their own private battles. When they finally turned in to sleep, Charles spoke.
“Arthur?”
Arthur grunted in response.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Charles.”