Archive of Our Own ^beta

Coonhounds make for excellent hunting dogs. They are intelligent, agile, obedient, and most importantly of all, intuitive – quickly learning to anticipate what their masters need from them, knowing exactly when and where they need to be and what to do there.

Copper is none of these things.

“What you got in your mouth? What’re you eating? Spit that out! Copper, drop tha- Get back here!”

Still hurriedly chewing, Copper bolts, leading Arthur on a merry chase around camp – dodging furniture, skating around or through half-constructed tents, leaping over a pile of tarps, and hurtling between Mac’s legs, tripping him up and leaving him on the ground cursing Arthur’s mother for birthing him as he jumps after the mutt, yelling back an apology over his shoulder. By the time he finally catches up with the idiot pup, he’s panting, tongue lolling out – with no trace left of whatever it was he ate.

“Dammit Cop. If you spend the night shittin’ all over the place again...”

Copper gives him his usual doggy grin, happily sitting by the one person he knows Arthur will never scold him in front of (not that Arthur’s ever been able to do more than talk at him sternly anyway.)

“He’s a good dog, Arthur,” Hosea murmurs, petting Copper’s head.

“Pssh. A good dog who still ain’t learned not to eat things he shouldn’t,” he grumbles. Just to rub it in, the ‘good dog’ belches, before nosing back into Hosea’s lap for more pats. Arthur watches the two of them uneasily for a moment. Decides it’s worth a try.

“I was thinking of going for a ride,” he lies, “just to see what’s around these parts, get a look at the town – just a quick scout around, y’know. You wanna come with? You can ride with me, or, or I could saddle up Silver Dollar for you...?” He tries, very hard, not to sound too hopeful.

Hosea hums, hands smoothing over Copper’s silky ears.

“He’s a good dog...”

Arthur bites back a sigh, another little bit of his heart splintering away.

It’s been six months since they received the telegram. Arthur had immediately known something was wrong when he saw it was addressed to Hosea Matthews, not Norman Foster, their current alias. It was very brief.

Hosea had looked up at Dutch with a helpless expression. But Dutch had simply grabbed some of the tinned food they’d just bought, shoved it into Silver Dollar’s saddlebags, and told Hosea to go – they’d catch up with him. Hosea had nodded, spared a glance at Arthur and John, then rode off as fast as he could.

Mrs. O’Farendale, Bessie’s closest neighbour, told them that he’d arrived at the homestead in time to say goodbye.

And never mind all the times his father had beaten him; never mind all the times he’d curled up in some back alley, shivering with cold and hunger and not sure he’d open his eyes again if he went to sleep; never mind all the times he’d been chased down by the law; never mind even reading that telegram over and over again, because surely there was some mistake, surely there was more to say Bessie was in a bad way but would pull through; Arthur has never been so scared in his life as he was when they finally arrived at Bessie’s homestead, and found Hosea lying face-down in his own vomit.

The drink does different things to people. His father had gotten violent. Dutch gets loud, boastful, even manic. Arthur himself tends to get far too chatty – and apparently gets very keen on singing and dancing, or so he’s told. But Hosea just goes quiet. And somehow, that’s even worse – he doesn’t scream, doesn’t wail, doesn’t rage at the world for taking the love of his life too soon. He’s just... quietly breaking into pieces. And it feels so, so wrong, holding a drunk, silently-weeping Hosea to his chest, murmuring soothing nonsense – Arthur is taller and broader than Hosea, has been for years. But in all those years and more, it’s usually been the other way around; Hosea has always been his source of comfort, a port full of calm reason and steady assurances during whatever storm he’s facing. And these past few months, Arthur’s been feeling distinctly out of his depth.

And he’s not the only one floundering. Losing Bessie had pulled something at the very fabric of the gang, even if she wasn’t around all the time. But now they’re losing Hosea to the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and the gang’s starting to come apart at the seams. Hosea may have been a voice of reason and calm in Arthur’s own life for over a decade, but he never realised how much those quiet words over a cup of coffee in the morning or by the fire at night helped to hold everything together.

“For Pete’s sake Mr. Pearson! Were you raised in a cave?!”

“Will you quit harping at me woman? I’ve been doing this for near twenty years, I know what I’m goddamn doing!”

Arthur sighs as yet another argument erupts over by their new wagon. Everyone’s just a little more... on edge. They’d picked up a cook a few months back – an ex-Navy man who was all too happy to join up with them to ‘see more of the world, since he missed his travelling days’ (though Arthur suspects it may have been more due to the loan sharks that were circling him at the time). And Mr. Pearson is an efficient quartermaster and decent cook – and Lord, Arthur never knew it was possible to peel a potato so quick. But the man’s a heavy drinker himself, and he and Susan are always getting into spats about running the camp – what supplies they should buy, what they need and what they can do without, what repairs need to be made and what’s just ‘frivolous décor’. Hell, the other day they were quarrelling over the best method to slice a carrot. Stupid, ridiculous arguments that Arthur knows Hosea would usually shut down before they escalate. He’s tried a few times himself, and it sort of works – in that it directs their ire at him rather than each other.

Mac and Davey, meanwhile, have been coming up with more and more outlandish schemes, and Dutch lets them get away with it. And sure, those two have always been more balls than brains, but they keep trying to rope John into their jobs; and at seventeen, the kid’s full of bluster and bravado, desperate to prove himself and show he’s Not A Kid Anymore Arthur Stop Calling Me That! And because Dutch ain’t being any help on that front either, it usually falls to Arthur to drag the boy away from whatever harebrained idea they’ve cooked up this time (sometimes literally. By the ear.) So now he’s on John’s shit list, the kid only breaking his sulking silences to whine about Arthur treating him like a baby.

And then there’s Dutch himself. As much as they work as partners, Arthur knows Hosea’s been the voice of reason in Dutch’s life for even longer than in his own. They make for a damn good team, but they have a very set dynamic; Dutch comes up with the plans, Hosea makes them work. Dutch is the architect, Hosea is the builder. Dutch charts the course and stands proud at the helm, but Hosea’s the one down in the boiler room making sure the engines are running smoothly. And without Hosea, Dutch has been cooking up harebrained schemes of his own. Sometimes, he backs down – worry and indecision and uncertainty clear. More than once, Arthur has overheard him trying to engage Hosea in his planning, trying to get his opinion, asking what he thinks their best options are. But Hosea is, for the most part, either drunk or hung-over. And in the fleeting moments in-between, he’s just remorseful – over his dead wife, over his own state, over what’s become of them all, and Dutch is left looking dejected and lost.

But other times, he barrels on ahead – one of these times has led to their current predicament. Dutch got the idea to rob a town bank far bigger than the backwater trading posts they usually attempted, and they barely got away with their lives, let alone any money. Thank God for Annabelle. She was the one who convinced Dutch it would be better to sneak in at night, rather than hold the place up in broad daylight, and who told them about this place they could hide out in until the dust settled – a nice woodland area, only an hour’s ride from a little market town. And she’s been helping to curb some of Dutch’s more outlandish ideas – as well as keep the peace in camp. Between her and Arthur, they’re managing.

And they’re all right, for the mean time. Mac and Davey, of all people, had stepped up with a plan, said they had a nice little job cooking, run of the mill, they’d done it a hundred times before, piece of cake, nothing to fuss about, they’d be back in three days (and sorry Johnny Boy, but this is a two-man job, we’ll bring you a souvenir). Sure enough, on the third day they caught up with the rest of them, with over four hundred dollars in cash, a stuffed parrot, and no eyebrows.

In the year since he’s known them, Arthur’s learned it’s better not to ask.

But as long as he can keep things going – keep bringing in food, keep John from haring off into some half-baked scheme that’ll get him killed, keep Susan and Pearson from biting each other’s heads off, keep getting Hosea to eat something once in a while, keep his remaining family safe, and keep his own grief, for the second mother he’s lost in his life, buried deep down along with the other Things He Does Not Think About – they’ll carry on managing. They have to.

“Okay. Guess I’ll catch you later then,” he mumbles. Figuring Hosea will be okay for a bit if he’s got Copper to distract him, he casts about for whatever else needs doing. After he’s helped John set up his tent (without so much as a thank you in return), defused yet another argument between Susan and Mr. Pearson (this time over whether the cook wagon should be north or east-facing), assured Dutch that no, it weren’t his fault, these things just happen, things’ll surely go better next time, re-hammered all the tent pegs that John did, and chopped up enough wood to keep the fire going through the evening, he’s ready to drop into his cot until dinner time – only to realise he hasn’t unpacked any of his own things yet. With a sigh, he starts untying his bundle of tent cloth.

“How you holding up, Arthur?”

Annabelle appears beside him and takes the canvas, letting him move on to putting up the support poles as she carries on unfolding it.

“It’s good spot. Ain’t no one gonna see us from the road, easy to get fresh water, sounds like that town should be used to strangers coming and going...”

“Well, I’m glad you approve! But I asked how you are.”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm, and I’m the First Lady.”

He pauses, looking back at her, but she just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Dunno what you mean-”

“Darlin’, you ain’t just got bags under your eyes, you’ve got suitcases.”

“Well, we had an early start this morn-”

But he almost winces as she tosses him a withering look.

“I hope you don’t take me for a fool, Arthur Morgan.”

He sighs, relenting.

“Guess it’s just... been a long few months,” he mumbles, clearing his throat roughly.

“That it has,” she murmurs, expression gentling as she steps around the tarp to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Come on, how about you go take a break? Go find a nice vista to draw or something. We’ll have your tent set up for you by the time you get back.”

“Well that ain’t fair. Why I should get to take a break when everyone else is-”

“Sweetheart, you been running yourself ragged to keep this camp afloat. We’re safe,” she insists, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ve got money, we’ve got a good setup here, we’ve got time to breathe. Go look after yourself for once.”

He’s about to argue, when he hears a sound that’s rare these days – Hosea’s laughter. They look across, and see Davey and Mac perched on the bench, jostling for room in front of Annabelle’s mirror. Both have got little brushes and what looks like pots of Susan’s eye makeup, and are making valiant attempts to draw their eyebrows back on (“Budge over ya fat bastard, I can’t see!” “Aw, you bumped me y’arsehole! Me eyebrow looks right daft now!” “Good, it matches the rest of ya!”) while Susan tuts and rolls her eyes and Hosea laughs at them.

“See?” Annabelle smiles at him, “we’ll be fine here. Go relax for a few hours.”

“Well, guess I can go see what sorta fish they got around here...” But Annabelle brandishes a tent peg at him.

“I said go relax, not go get more food!”

“Fishing is relaxing!” he protests. She narrows her eyes at him, but then glances over his shoulder.

“Hm, well, you might need to head down to the river anyway. Looks like someone’s made a start on digging the latrine!”

Arthur turns to look, and groans. Copper, in the absence of head scritches, has apparently elected to dig his first hole in the new campsite, and now looks less like a redbone coonhound and more like a chocolate Labrador. Annabelle just laughs and gives him a gentle push.

“Go on, off with you. I’ll keep an eye on Hosea.”

Arthur gives her a grateful nod and heads for the horses, whistling for Copper. And he feels guilty for thinking it, but hell if it won’t be nice to get an hour or two to himself. Just him, Copper, Bo, and hopefully some big fat fish...

“Hey, where you goin’?”

Or not.

“Talkin’ to me again are you?”

“Shut up.”

Arthur just huffs as he saddles up Boadicea.

“...Well?”

“Thought I was supposed to shut up?”

“Arthur...”

He rolls his eyes, finally turning to John.

“Fishing. Be back in a couple of hours.”

“Well hold up, let me get my saddle.”

“Wha- You hate fishin’!”

“Do not!” John calls over his shoulder.

“You said, and I quote, ‘it’s like watchin’ paint dry except your fingers get sore’!”

But it’s too late – John’s already saddled up and is nudging Blue towards Bo even as he scrambles up onto her back. Arthur just sighs – he seems to be doing that a lot lately – and heads out, idiot pup who won’t listen and Copper in tow.

“I’m bored.”

“Then go back to camp.”

“What, to peel potatoes for an hour while Pearson makes fun of me for bein’ so slow? No thanks.”

“Oooh, it all makes sense now. You didn’t wanna come fishin’ – you just wanted to get out of doing chores!”

“Fishing is a chore!”

“It is with you.”

“Shut uuup.”

Arthur just snorts as John elbows him in the ribs, giving his line another flick. They’ve found a little pier sticking out into the wide, meandering river that cuts through the valley, and now sit on the end, legs dangling over the water.

“’Least Copper’s having fun,” John mutters glumly. They watch as, in the absence of any cover whatsoever, Copper attempts to sneak up on a flock of ducks roosting on the riverbank. He doesn’t even get within thirty feet before they flap off in a flurry of feathers and indignant quacking. Copper stares after them, mystified, for all of five seconds, before espying another flock of ducks further up the river and repeating the process.

“...Thought you said he’d get smarter as he grew up?” John muses.

“Yeah. Shows what I know. I thought the same thing about you.”

This time he grunts as John jabs him in the ribs hard.

Copper and John have a lot in common actually. Both are in the ‘awkward youth’ stages of their lives, each possessing four long gangly limbs but only three brain cells with which to control them – Marston’s clumsy as all hell, forever tripping up and knocking things over, while Copper has taken to sometimes nose-diving into the ground mid-stride for no apparent reason – part puppy, part grown dog, all idiot. They’re even starting to sound the same – Copper is more inclined to bay and yap, but he can give a mean-sounding growl when he wants to (he usually reserves it for leaves blowing by and pigeons). John, meanwhile, is starting to sound like he gargles rocks every morning – voice turning hoarse and gravelly, punctuated by the odd high crack that never fails to make Arthur hoot with laughter (it’s led to some hilarious arguments – the angrier John is, the more his voice cracks. The more his voice cracks, the harder Arthur laughs at him, and the angrier he gets. Multiple times Arthur has ended up on the ground, near-sobbing with laughter while half-heartedly defending himself as John tries to give him a black eye, screeching like a rusty gate all the while).

The major difference between them of course, besides the tail, is that Copper can swim.

“Sure is warm today,” he says conversationally.

“...Yeah?” John already sounds suspicious.

“Bet a dip in the river would be a nice way to cool-”

“Piss off.”

“Oh come on, you gotta at least learn how to float-”

“I don’t gotta do nothin’! I lasted this long, ain’t I?”

“Not without help,” Arthur grumbles. But that just sets John to sulking again, so they sit there in silence. But Arthur suspects there’s been something else bothering him, so he waits – kid’s bound to spit it out eventually, never could keep his mouth shut. Having given up on the ducks, Copper reappears, flopping down in between them with a yawn. Sure enough, John scratches the mutt behind the ears for a minute or so, before blurting out,

“How come you ain’t cried?”

“Huh?”

“Bessie. You ain’t cried. At all. Why?”

Honestly, the question blindsides him. Not least because it ain’t true. But Bo and Copper were the only witnesses to his grief in those first few weeks, on hunting trips deep into the wilderness where no one could see; Bo standing guard over him, Copper climbing into his lap and licking the tears away, whining in distress. After that, it was easier to just... not think about it. To squash it down into that dark, tightly locked part of his brain and slam the lid shut. Because he can’t afford to break down again, not when his family needs him. He has to stay strong – for Hosea, for Dutch, for all of them.

“Just... ain’t been the time,” he finally mutters, clearing his throat roughly. He seems to be doing a lot of that lately too.

“Is Hosea gonna be okay?” John asks, voice small.

“Sure he will. He just... needs time.”

“But, why do we keep buying whiskey if he’s just gonna drink it all...?”

“It’s like Dutch says. Better he gets drunk at camp where we can keep an eye on him.”

“But why do we let him get drunk at all?”

Because if they try to keep the booze away from him, he’ll just sneak off and seek out oblivion elsewhere, where he could get hurt. Because Arthur fully understands the compulsion to rot all your other organs if it’ll only stop your heart from hurting for a few hours. Because the one person who might have been able to help is now gone, buried under the tree she loved to sip her tea and watch the sunsets from in the evenings. Because forcing Hosea to stay sober somehow seems infinitely crueler.

But how can he explain that to John? John, who’s peering up at him through locks of dark hair, suddenly looking a lot less like a moody seventeen-year-old and more like the scrawny, frightened child they picked up what feels like a lifetime ago. He wants to tell him that it’s okay, if he wants to, needs to cry, to let it out. That he certainly shouldn’t take his brother as a role model when it comes to how to deal with feelings, because Lord knows, Arthur’s useless at it. Trouble is, he’s useless with words too. So he just reaches over Copper, slings an arm around the kid’s shoulders. John hesitates only for a second, before hiding his face against Arthur’s side, burying his fingers in Copper’s fur. They sit like that for a while, listening to the burbling of the river, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional irritated duck.

“...You stink,” John finally mumbles.

“Well you try cuttin’ firewood for an hour, see how good you smell.”

“Reckon I’ll stick with potatoes.”

“Come on, we gotta get some muscle onto those twigs of yours somehow.”

“Shuddup, ya big oaf.”

But at least the kid’s smiling again. A smile that suddenly splits into a grin when his fishing rod jerks.

“Hey I got something!”

“Well, quit gawping and pull’er in!”

Arthur flicks his own rod again, watching as John musters all three of his brain cells and starts reeling the fish in as Copper prances and yaps in excitement.

“Damn, it’s a big one!”

“Yeah?” From the splashes alone he... very much doubts it.

“Gonna be the fattest trout you ever saw, I reckon! It’s a fighter!”

“Sure,” Arthur does his best to keep the laughter out of his voice. After a minute of struggling, John manages to pull the ‘monster’ to the end of the pier, and Arthur reaches down to grab it.

“Well I’ll be Marston, this has gotta be some kinda record!”

“Really?” John breathes excitedly, tossing his rod to the side, trying to peer past him.

“Oh yes – this right here might just be the smallest fish ever hooked!”

John’s face falls as Arthur holds up his prize – a perch not even six inches long.

“Ah don’t sulk kid, it’ll make for a fine toothpick,” he consoles as he hands it over, “besides, it suits you!”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s a scrawny lil’ fish, for a scrawny lil’ fisherman!”

“Ugh, shut up, asshole!”

His voice cracks on ‘up’, which of course sends Arthur into a fit of laughter, and he has to let go of his own rod with one hand so he can fend off John’s attempts to punch him.

Which means he is entirely unprepared when suddenly there’s a hard tug, and the rod goes flying out of his grip into the water.

Copper may be a useless coonhound, but he’d make for a decent retriever; if there’s one thing he excels at, it’s Fetch. Throw a stick or ball? He’ll hare after it, come rain, shine, or storm of bullets. Quickly toss away some incriminating forged documents as the Sheriff approaches? Copper will bring them right back. Throw a going-bad venison leg over the side of the cliff after dinner? You’ll wake up to a horrible stench and a muddy coonhound looking very pleased with himself (Arthur literally tried to wash his mouth out with soap after that one, but the mutt ate the damn soap.) He’d even had a rock thrown at him by some hysterical city woman a few weeks back – he’d grabbed it and dashed back over, dropping it at her feet and crouching expectantly, tail wagging all the while.

And with Arthur’s fishing rod floating tantalizingly on the river’s surface – how could he resist?

An excited bark is all the warning they get before Copper launches himself into the water, managing to snag the fishing rod in his jaws. Which is fine – Copper’s an idiot, but he’s an idiot who can swim. And Arthur needs his rod back anyway.

What is not fine, is John giving a panicked yell (“Copper no!”), and jumping after the mutt. Because John is an idiot who can’t swim.

“Oh for-!”

Arthur has the sense to strip down to his shirt, jeans and boots, before diving in after them.

So much for a relaxing break.

It’s a good thing Marston’s so scrawny after all, because he’s clinging on to Copper, who’s managing to keep them both afloat. But even as Arthur reaches them and manages to get an arm around John’s waist, the stupid mutt won’t let go of the damn fishing rod.

“Drop! Copper! Drop th-”

He’s cut off by a mouthful of water as suddenly all three of them are dragged further out into the river.

“What did you hook?!” John yells.

“Hell if I know!” Arthur sputters back. He’s getting a distinct feeling of déjà vu. They’re way out in the middle of the river now, where the water’s fast and deep. Arthur only just manages to skim the bottom with his toes every so often, and even if they weren’t being pulled along by whatever the hell is on the other end of that line, the current’s too fast for him to have any chance of pulling both John and Copper to safety. And he’s got no idea what’s further downstream – rocks? Rapids? Probably a waterfall, knowing his luck. Perhaps he could at least steer them towards the shore, if it weren’t for the damn sea monster keeping them in the middle of the river. Intending to at least cut the line, he reaches for his knife-

And comes up empty. It’s with his gunbelt, back on the pier. He can’t even reach around far enough to try and pry the rod out of Copper’s mouth, not without letting go of John. And he’s getting tired just keeping their heads above the water.

“Arthur,” John chokes out, starting to panic.

“Dammit – Copper, drop!”

If it comes down to saving Copper or John, the choice is obvious. But he really doesn’t want to leave his dog to be swept away. He should have trained him better, should have been more strict with him, shouldn’t have let that goofy doggy grin win him over so many times, should have taught his pup to damn well listen to him.

Too late now.

But just as he’s about to tell John to let go, something massive surges through the water beside them.

They never have been able to figure out what kind of horse Boadicea is. The day Arthur brought her back (with several less sugar lumps and many more bruises – he doesn’t think he so much broke her in as she just got bored of throwing him and decided she’d rather pester him for treats instead), Hosea had hypothesized that someone’s Turkoman stallion had got out and mounted a wild Hungarian Half-bred or the like. Because no one in their right mind would abandon such a magnificent horse. With the speed of a racer, the bravery and stamina of a warhorse, and a golden coat and silver mane to boot, Bo was the envy of many a passing rider.

More importantly, she’s real damn tall, and has more sense in her left ear than Copper has in his entire body.

She whickers as she reaches them, and Arthur manages to grab the saddle horn with one hand, hauling John over Bo’s back with the other, grabbing Copper as well.

“Back girl, back! Come on, take us home, ya!” He gets another mouthful of water for the trouble, but Bo seems to get the message. The next couple of minutes, or perhaps hours, Arthur can’t tell anymore, pass by in the rushing of water, Bo’s determined huffs as she doggedly hauls them towards the shore, and Copper’s little snarls, because he still hasn’t let go of the damn rod. Clinging to Bo’s saddle strap with one hand and Copper’s scruff with the other, Arthur’s blearily starting to wonder which shoulder is going to dislocate first when his boots scrape against gravel, and he manages to stagger the rest of the way onto the bank. He stays upright long enough to see John and Copper safe on shore, then makes the executive decision to collapse onto the ground and just... stay there for a bit.

“Holy shit...” John gasps, flopping down beside him. Arthur can only hum in agreement, letting his eyes close. They lie there for a while, getting their breath back.

“Well,” John finally says slowly, “’least you n’ Copper have had a bath now.”

Arthur would like to ask if that’s what John took away from this experience, and not the fact they were nearly drowned and/or swept away to God knows where. He’d also very much like to ask which of his trio of brain cells was responsible for his decision to jump into a damn river when he can’t goddamn swim. As it is, all he manages is a grunt, one hand sluggishly coming up to pat Bo’s cheek as she sniffs at him.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. He hears scuffling beside him as John gets back to his feet.

“...He’s still got it, Arthur.”

“My rod? Go get it off him, wouldja? Don’t want bite marks all over it,” Arthur mutters, not bothering to open his eyes.

“No I mean, he’s still got the fish.”

Arthur does open his eyes at that, craning his head up just far enough to see – because surely the line had snapped by now? Sure enough, Copper’s currently engaged in a war of attrition with whatever it is on the hook. But tug-of-war is another one of his favourite games, and now he’s on solid ground and the fish is tiring, he’s slowly, incrementally making his way further up the bank, paws scrabbling in the dirt, still snarling at the fish. Or loch ness monster, or river demon, or whatever the hell it is.

“Oh f- Copper drop!” Arthur calls tiredly. He doesn’t know why he even bothers. But John’s wandering down towards the water’s edge to have a look.

“Marston if you end up back in that river, I ain’t comin’ in after you again!”

But John ignores him – wading in up to his knees, tugging at the line, and,

“Holy shit Arthur, look at the size of this thing!”

Arthur huffs, finally pushing himself upright.

And stares.

As the sun starts to set, their return to camp is distinctly... soggy.

Davey’s on watch, complete with eyebrows, and he waves them in – but his cigarette drops out of his mouth as he catches sight of what’s strapped behind Bo’s saddle.

“Lady Mary’s left tit!” he swears, “which one of you lucky bastards caught that?!”

“Copper did,” Arthur replies wearily. “Boadicea helped.”

“Bugger me. Hold up, I’m coming in with you – Pearson’s gonna have a heart attack when he sees that monster, I wanna watch.”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your concern,” Arthur drawls, nudging Bo forwards again.

“’ere, why you two soaked anyhow?”

“Surprise swimming lesson.”

“Oh? Good on ya, Johnny Boy! How’d it go?”

“I ain’t ever gettin’ in any water ever again. I mean it this time,” John replies miserably, already shivering. Davey’s loud chortles announce their arrival back at camp.

Everyone comes over to meet them, all talking over each other – Dutch wants to know where the hell they’ve been, Annabelle wants to know if they’re okay, Miss Grimshaw wants to know why on earth they’re sopping wet, don’t they know they’re going to catch their death of cold, riding around in wet clothes at this time of year?! And Mac and Pearson just want to know if they caught anything, otherwise they’re having beans and half a tin of strawberries each for dinner.

“Funny you should ask...”

But when he turns back to Bo, the fish is gone.

“What in the-?!”

“What’ve you got there, boy?”

Copper’s tail is wagging hard enough to create it’s own weather system as he drags the fish – which is bigger than he is – over to Hosea, who sits alone at the upturned crate they use as a cards table. He drops the fish at his feet, then sits back, looking real damn proud of himself.

“Well, blow me down! That’s a striped bass, that is. You haul it in, Arthur?”

“Uh, it was kind of a... joint effort.” On the ride back, he and John had agreed on not mentioning the whole ‘almost drowned, again’ part of their day. “But it was mostly Copper, really.”

“Well, aren’t you a clever pup!” Hosea praises, smothering a delighted Copper in pats and belly rubs, “catching such a monster! Why, reminds me of an enormous salmon I pulled out of a lake once, down on the other side of the Grizzlies – took forever reel that bastard in. Bessie had to hold on to the back of my coat so he didn’t pull me into the water!”

And everyone else freezes, just for a second, glancing at each other.

Because it’s the first time in six months that Hosea has said Bessie’s name without sobbing.

Pearson prepares the bass with barely-contained glee, and they all eat enough grilled fish steaks that they can scarce move. Even Copper gets his own massive slice, which he wolfs down before flopping into Arthur’s lap as they settle by the fire for the evening. Dutch and Hosea trade fishing stories (Arthur has to hear the story about ‘his’ three bass for the hundredth time), Mac and Davey bicker over who’s the better fisherman (“‘Master Angler’, my arse! Last time we went fly fishing, you near took me eye out!”), and Annabelle tells spooky tales about fishermen who pulled up more than they bargained for, until the moon is high in the sky.

Back on the cards table, a bottle of whiskey lies forgotten.

Coonhounds make for excellent hunting dogs. They are intelligent, agile, obedient, and most importantly of all, intuitive – quickly learning to anticipate what their masters need from them, knowing exactly when and where they need to be and what to do there.

Copper is not intelligent, or especially agile, and he certainly ain’t obedient.

And yet, as Hosea launches into another fishing story beside him, eyes brighter than they’ve been in months, Arthur thinks that maybe the dumb pup is more intuitive than he gives him credit for.

“Good dog,” he murmurs, scratching him behind the ears. Copper just wags his tail and gives him his usual goofy dog grin.