Work Text:
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
---
The first time John took a bullet was when he was fourteen years old. Scared the hell out of everyone, and rightly so.
The gang was much smaller back then. Just Dutch, Hosea, Miss Grimshaw, Bessie sometimes, and of course Arthur and John. And as such,they took smaller jobs, less risk. They lived the free life that Dutch had always preached about, and they lived it well. They stole from the rich, gave to the poor. The real Robin Hood style that Dutch relished. He would never admit it, but everyone knew he loved how the people seemed to worship him as he gave them food and blankets and coin.
The gang never stayed long in one place, moving along just as surely as the seasons would change. Sometimes they would go back to the same place months later. But they migrated, just like the bison or the deer almost. They moved with the land, wherever it took them. They thrived on it, never setting in roots… except for Hosea, when he would visit Bessie for long periods of time. But it was fine. More than fine, it was good. They were free .
It was a cold snap during the fall of 1887 when they found themselves in upper Washington. A wild and beautiful country Arthur had never been to before. The trees and their massive, wooly red trunks amazed him. He filled page after page of his journal with sketches of the flora and fauna around them.
John of course does not care about the hills or the trees or the forests. He cared more about that little pea-shooter of a revolver that Dutch gifted him by taking pot shots at birds and squirrels when he got the chance. That, and avoiding his camp duties than anything else. Just as a teenager would. But Arthur would sometimes take him on rides, just in case it would pound some sense of respect for the Earth into the boy’s thick skull, unlikely as it was.
As Arthur was tacking up Bodicea, Hosea wandered up to his side and warned. “Be careful.”
They had just made camp in a new area after a long day’s ride, but there was still some daylight left. Arthur wasn’t one to waste it. Hosea patted Bodicea’s nose. He continued, “I’m not familiar with these parts. We don’t know what gangs already have a foothold in the area. Don’t go stirring up trouble. We’ll check out the town tomorrow,”
Arthur gave him a lazy, lopsided smile, “And why do you think I’m out to be stirring trouble. Just goin’ for a ride, Hosea. Up to the hill to look down on the town and the sunset. Not far.”
John seemed to appear out of nowhere behind Hosea. He was all awkward oversized legs and arms and ears of early teenage hood. “Can I come?” He asked almost too earnestly.
“Since when did you care about riding out with me. All you do is complain,” Arthur tightened the girth on Boadicea's saddle
Hosea raised his eyebrows at John as well, seeming to ask the same question.
John made a ugh noise and held his arms out from his sides, “I just wanna see the town.”
“I said we’ll go in tomorrow,” Hosea said.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Arthur relented, “I’ll take the kid with me.”
Hosea held up his hands in defeat and walked away. “Yes!” John said in victory. Arthur mounted and held out his arm to help pull John up behind him. John hooked his skinny fingers into his belt as they trotted out of camp. “We’ll be back before dark!” Arthur called over his shoulder.
The land truly was beautiful and not dissimilar to Oregon or Northern California, which Arthur was fond of. There was a crispness and a chill to the air that was refreshing. Most of the trees were evergreens, but there was still a smattering of brightly colored oranges, reds, and yellows all around. Arthur half-wished he could capture the colour as well as the visual in his journal. He’d have to try to write the beauty instead, but he knew he would never get the words quite right.
After a few minutes of riding in silence, Arthur finally asked, “So, why’d you ask to come along anyhow? I know you ain’t the sort to admire sunsets and fall leaves.”
“Maybe I am!” John said defensively. Then after a pause, he confessed, “I didn’t want to help Miss Grimshaw set up camp.”
Arthur barked out a laugh, “Why do you think I rode out?”
The boys laughed together, at the expense of poor Miss Grimshaw who had two less men to help her work. Arthur put in more than his fair share of work to keep the camp running, so she was resigned to the fact that he would usually ride out at the first chance he got. John would no doubt get a good tongue lashing for it though. But they laughed regardless and scared some prairie chickens out from some bushes.
Bodicea’s pace was slow and gentle, allowing for Arthur to get lost in his thoughts. He could feel John fidget restlessly behind him, letting the boredom finally take over. Arthur decided to start pointing out tracks, animals, and plants that John may not know.
And so they fell into a steady rhythm of teacher and student. Arthur would show John some tracks and ask him to identify them, or ask him to track how far they led into the bushes. That kept John occupied for a while.
Finally, they made their way to the top of the hill. John scrambled down and Arthur dismounted by kicking his leg over Bodicea’s neck. She set off to graze, not straying too far. Arthur sat and began to sketch the landscape ahead of him in his journal as John prowled around like some sort of blundering fox.
The sun hadn’t quite dipped low in the horizon, but the colours of the clouds were a mixture of vibrant pinks and oranges, tipped with silver as they met the darkening blue sky. The down beneath the clouds was small, even for a railroad town. A smattering of ramshackle wooden houses, probably a saloon that Arthur would spend too much time in, a bank, a sheriff’s office, and a doctor’s office if the town was even big enough for one. There were a few homesteads settled on the hills near the town that had some sort of livestock, though Arthur couldn’t tell because the wind was against them. It was quaint. Perfect for someone who was looking to settle.
Of course, they weren’t the settling sort.
Arthur finished his sketch as the sky deepened to a purplish hue and the clouds lost their spectacular vibrancy. He stood and turned to see Bodicea resting a hind leg, her posture relaxed and slightly drowsy. John was nowhere to be seen.
“John!” Arthur called and Bodicea lifted her head, startled slightly at his call. “John!”
When he didn’t get an answer, Arthur started to panic. John had a certain knack for getting himself into trouble, but there was barely anything around on this hill but scrub brush and a lopsided, bushy tree.
“John! Where the hell are you?” Arthur yelled again, trying not to let the fear seep into his voice.
As he approached the tree, a loud whoop rang out and Arthur turned, his hand reaching for the revolver at his hip. Suddenly a gangly teenage boy swung from a tree limb and careened into him full force, knocking them both to the ground. If all of the air hadn’t been knocked out of him, John would have been cackling. Arthur did not share the same sentiment for the moment, and instead his face was a perfect picture of shock.
Unfortunately for the younger boy, Arthur got his breath back first and was up, quick as a rattlesnake, “Goddamn you, Marson. I knew you was up to somethin’.”
John didn’t have much time left to recover from the ground. He let out another little whoop as he scrambled along the ground and around the tree, just barely dodging Arthur’s grab.
“Come here you little monkey!” Arthur growled and chased John. They scrambled through the brush, around the tree, and in the dirt. Finally Arthur got the best of his younger brother and despite John’s pleas for mercy, he caught John in a headlock and knuckled the top of his head until John was dizzy and his hair frizzed. Arthur then picked up John and slung him over his shoulder as easy as a sack of grain and trekked back up the hill to the waiting Bodicea.
“No fair,” John grumbled from his upside down predicament, “You always win.”
“I’m older,” Arthur said, as if that explained everything.
Arthur deposited John on the back of Bodicea. John glowered at him and Arthur laughed, “You know, if you keep sticking that lower lip out like that, a bird’s gonna come poop on it.”
“Shut up,” John said and jutted out his jaw, “Lyin’s a sin.”
Arthur chuckled--as if they weren’t all going to hell anyway. He swung up into the saddle,, making sure not to dislodge John. Arthur held out his right hand and put his left hand to his chest, “God’s honest truth. I seen it.” Then he clicked his tongue and Bodicea started taking them down the hill at a gentle pace
“You ain’t seen no bird poopin’ on people’s lips,” John shoved Arthur’s back and laughed.
“Why do you think we wear hats all the time, huh? It ain’t for the sun, that’s for goddamned sure,” Arthur chuckled at his own joke.
“You’re full of horseshit,” John laughed too, then quickly said, “No, birdshit. You’re full of birdshit .”
“Ah, you’re late on that joke, Johnny boy,” Arthur grinned over his shoulder. John shoved him again.
They got back onto the main road soon enough and it was a fairly straight shot back to camp. But a wagon pulled around the corner and stopped in the middle of the road. A few men on horseback flanked them. This was obviously set up so they couldn’t run, even if they tried.
“You boys are out pretty late,” One of the men on the wagon said. He was wearing a grey overcoat that barely covered a bandolier full of shotgun shells. Buckshots, all of them. “Don’t you know there’s a curfew in Davis Springs?”
“We don’t mean to cause any trouble,” Arthur held out his hands away from his gun and knife placatingly. He hoped John was doing the same, or at least trying to look like an innocent fourteen year old boy. “We’re new around these parts, just got here today. Haven’t even had the chance to get to town yet. Davis Springs, is it?”
“Maybe you’d like an escort intoto town then,” Grey overcoat leaned forward onto his knees and peered at Arthur and John, sizing them up. He was well spoken and had a certain charm that Arthur recognized from years of running with con-men. Hosea always said never to trust a well-spoken man. Grey overcoat continued, “The roads get real rough, especially at night.”
Arthur didn’t like his options. They were already out later than he intended and now he’s pretty sure they met the gang Hosea warned them about.
Grey overcoat kept talking, “Not that it looks like you need the help with all the weapons you’ve got. But it’s easy to get lost in the woods off trail, if you catch what I’m saying.”
Arthur did in fact catch what he was saying: This is our territory. We know it better than you do, and if you think you’re going to run… well, you aren’t going to get off so easy .
The best they could do was just act innocent and go along with the men for now.
“We’d be obliged, thank you,” Arthur said. He felt John stiffen behind him.
Grey overcoat seemed to be the one in charge, but the large man with the wooly brown coat that made him look like a bear was holding the reins to the wagon. Grey overcoat nodded and Arthur turned Bodicea around, and they started to walk towards town. Wooly man clicked his tongue and snapped the reins and the wagon started forward. The riders on the horses--one had a blue frock coat and the other had a worn looking stovepipe hat--fell in behind them like a proper escort.
There was no way they could run.
“What the hell are you doing?” John hissed in Arthur’s ear, “We can take them, there’s only four of ‘em.”
“Have you ever heard of the saying ‘don’t cut your losses’? Well this is one of ‘em times,” Arthur whispered back, “We play along, act innocent, and we don’t get into trouble. Just like Hosea said.” As if Arthur always followed Hosea’s rules...
John fell silent, but Arthur could feel him seethe with anger behind him as the kid’s bony fingers tightened on his belt. He was probably eyeing up each man like he could take them on one by one, with or without his little revolver. Arthur let out a shaky breath and tried to act as outwardly calm as possible, though he could feel his own adrenaline building within him.
“Now,” Grey overcoat said, “There is a matter of payment when it comes to protection, of course.”
Arthur tried to play dumb, “I don’t get your meaning.”
“We escort you to town so you don’t get into any trouble,” Wooly man spoke up for the first time, “And you pay us for our trouble of the escorting.” Not nearly as articulate as grey overcoat, but enough to get the point across all the same.
“Look,” Arthur felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck, despite the chilly fall air, “We’re itinerant workers. We ain’t got nothin’ to our names.”
“That is a shame,” the tone of grey overcoat’s voice took a deeper note and Arthur saw him shift position slightly. Wooly man slowed the wagon until it came to a stop. “That is a real shame.”
Bodicea stopped with them, her ears flicking nervously. Arthur frowned at the man in the grey overcoat and opened his mouth to speak, but one of the horsemen behind them spoke up first. “I don’t think we’re going to make it to town, Samuel,” Arthur wasn’t sure which one it was. He could feel John twist around behind him to look.
“No,” Grey overcoat--or Samuel as his name seemed to be--said, his voice flat, “I don’t think we shall. “C’mon boys. Strip ‘em of what they’ve got.”
Arthur sprung into action and pulled out his revolver. As he kicked Bodicea’s sides to urge her away from the group, he aimed at the lantern at the wagon’s side and shot. It burst into flames, dousing the side of the wooden wagon in flaming oil. Some of it caught onto Wooly coat’s jacket and he shrieked as he jumped from the wagon. The horses attached to the wagon screamed and began running, trying to outrun the flames they were attached to. A part of Arthur ached for the horses.
Then the bullets started flying.
Arthur dismounted, closely followed by John. Bodicea whinnied and kicked at one of the nearby horsemen, but unfortunately missed. She ran a safe distance from the firefight just like Arthur taught her.
Arthur hit the ground running and scrambled behind one of the beautiful redwoods. He hoped its thick trunk would protect him from Samuel’s shotgun and would provide just enough cover for anything else coming his way. He could see Samuel had escaped the wagon fire and was also taking cover behind a tree. Wooly coat was still in the middle of the path, shrieking and trying to take the oil-doused, flaming clothes off his back. Arthur quickly put him out of his misery with a headshot. He lay there, a silent smoldering lump of fur and skin.
An explosion of splinters from his tree meant that Samuel knew where his cover was. He’d have to be careful—the round was definitely a buckshot, just as he suspected. It would take Samuel longer to reload his shotgun, but he had more bullets than Arthur could count. Arthur tried a shot, but it flew wide. Damn.
And Arthur still hadn’t seen John in the madness. He hoped the kid found a well-hidden spot.
The blue frock coat horseman rode by, yelling explicatives and other things that sounded something like “The kid shot me!”. Arthur barely had to lean from his cover to take the man out. It wasn’t a clean hit, and blood sprayed from his shoulder as he tumbled backwards. The horse spooked, but blue frock coat’s foot caught in the stirrup. If the shot hadn’t killed him, the long drag over rough terrain surely did.
Arthur turned to the other side of his tree and barely missed another spray of buckshot splinters. Samuel wouldn’t give in that easily. He couldn’t even lean out enough to get a decent shot on the man.
However, Arthur did see stovepipe hat man. He was horseless and hatless, stalking towards a low rock. Arthur couldn’t see John behind the rock, but he guessed that’s where the kid would be. He had a clear shot, so he took it.
Just as stovepipe hat man stepped around the rock and raised his rifle, time slowed to a crawl for Arthur. His vision seemed to blur around the edges and he could clearly see his target—all weak spots, all the organs he could hit that would harm him without killing him, or take him out cleanly and efficiently. It only took Arthur one shot.
Stovepipe hat man seemed to jump backward as if life was pulled out of him by force. He didn’t get up.
“John!” Arthur yelled, and got another spray of buckshot splinters. He was pinned and couldn’t move. He checked his revolver, remembering to count his bullets. One left. He’d have to reload, which would give Samuel time to cross the distance between them. Or he’d have to hope that the last bullet would be enough. He didn’t have enough time to decide.
“What’s your move, boy?” Samuel shouted to Arthur, “It’s just you and me now. Sooner or later, you’ll run out of bullets and more of my gang will come along.”
“John!” Arthur yelled, trying to search for the kid, panicking slightly. He couldn’t be… no…
“It’s just you and me now,” Samuel said again, pleasantly enough, as if he was calming down a horse. “Just you and me now. We could use a man of your talents, you know.”
“Goddamnit!” Arthur cursed and checked his one bullet again. He called out, “John?”
“I’m sorry about the boy, I really am,” Samuel said, his voice sounding sad, but without any real sadness behind it, “Was he your son? Brother?”
Arthur tried kneeling to see if he could get a lower shot at Samuel and peered around the tree. He nearly got his own face blown off for the trouble.
“But, I was saying,” Samuel continued, “You have true talent. I’d sooner rip a master painting than kill a gunman like you. You could join my gang. Live like a king… even though you already cost me three of my men, some of them my best.”
Arthur looked around the other side, peering through some low ferns. Samuel didn’t have as good of a view through the ferns, so Arthur would have to make the shot count. He took a deep breath and readied himself for the same moment of slow crawl and deadly aim that he used to take out the stovepipe hat man.
Then he suddenly saw movement.
John was behind Samuel.
Arthur nearly hollered--in joy or for the kid to get out of there, he wasn’t sure which. But John had his pistol out and he was truly prowling slow and low to the ground. Arthur had to keep Samuel distracted.
“How do I know you won’t just kill me on the spot if I give up and join your gang?” Arthur tried calling his bluff, stalling for John.
“I suppose you don’t,” Samuel said. Arthur could barely see the outline of Samuel’s shoulder and hat brim around the tree. He shrugged, “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“I’m certainly having some mixed feelings about that right now,” Arthur shouted back, then shifted position and muttered under his breath so Samuel wouldn’t hear, “C’mon John, any day now. I can’t keep him distracted forever.”
“Trust is a funny notion in this world, is it not, mister?” Samuel said, suddenly sounding philosophical. Arthur looked around the other side of the tree again and another buckshot round hit the space where his head was, just slightly higher. It flung his hat off into the treeline.
“S-save your philosophising for some other cowpoke you come across, bastard,” And craned his neck for his hat. He couldn’t reach it. He peered back through the ferns at John and Samuel.
If Arthur was right, Samuel would have to reload now. This was the perfect opportunity for John. John was right behind the other gang-member now. Arthur watched as John grit his teeth, pulled back the hammer, and aimed with two shaky hands and outstretched arms.
He fired at Samuel right in the back just as Samuel was saying something again about trust, but it came out as a confused, wet gurgle.
The shot didn’t kill him.
Samuel spun around and John’s eyes were as wide as they could be. Arthur grabbed his hat as Samuel stood, blood pouring down his back. John pulled back the hammer again and hit Samuel in the shoulder this time. Samuel still didn’t go down. Arthur began running towards them.
Samuel raised his gun and John raised his too.
Time for Arthur slowed down again. His breathing sounded like a freight train and his heartbeat sounded like war drums. Again, the edges of his vision blurred so dark until he could just barely only see his target in front of him as he ran. Each step seemed too slow, too sluggish. He pulled up his revolver. Always count your shots--he had one left. Just for Samuel.
Three shots rang out into the night.
Samuel slumped over. No pleading, no preaching words. Just another dead body. Arthur kept running until he saw that Samuel had landed on John.
He pulled the dead man’s body off of the kid and saw blood… a lot of blood. He couldn’t tell which blood was Samuel’s and which blood was John’s. In the end, it was all red and everywhere.
John looked up at Arthur in shock. John tried to say something, but it only came out as a pained, nonsensical noise. John’s side was a bloody mess. The kid took a shot point-blank from a buckshot and somehow lived. It’d be a miracle if he lived any longer if Arthur shook himself out of his shock and stopped gawking.
Arthur quickly set to work. He pulled out his knife and ripped some fabric from Samuel’s sleeve and wrapped it tightly around John’s skinny waist. John cried out in pain and began to hyperventilate. He grabbed Arthur’s jacket and held onto it with alarming strength.
“C’mon, shh” Arthur said. He didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t anything else to say. John was quiet, Arthur was quiet. Arthur’s hands covered with blood as he worked, he wiped his forehead--John’s blood in his hair, on his forehead--“I know this hurts, but you gotta stay with me. Breathe with me.”
Arthur tried to exaggerate his breathing, slowly and calmly. There was a lot of blood and John’s breaths came in short gasps. But to his credit, John tried. He really did. He tried breathing slowly and calmly, until he hiccupped and cried and passed out from the pain. Arthur whistled for Bodicea.
He pulled John’s bloody fingers--John’s blood, John’s blood --his little bloody fingers off of his jacket and pulled it off. He carefully wrapped John in the jacket and wiped his hands in the grass, but the grass was already muddy with blood, so much blood-- John’s blood. I could have stopped this.
He carefully loaded John onto Bodicea in front of the saddle and pulled himself up after. Then he spun her onto the road and spurred her back to camp as fast as he could. He held John close, hoping, just hoping that he wouldn’t be too late. All that blood from just one little kid. I did this. But he had to double back multiple times, just in case he was followed. Dutch’s rules. What if that’s what kills him.
My fault.
John’s blood.
Finally, he got to camp.
It was pitch black, save for the camp lanterns lighting each tent and the dying light of the fire pit. Their tents were already closed against the cold of the night. Arthur rode into the middle of camp and nearly dove off of Bodicea carrying John in his arms, limp and already wrapped like a mummy in his bloody jacket..
“I need help! Help!” He called and laid John on the butcher’s table, “Help! John’s hurt!”
That roused the camp quickly and everyone came out of their tents in various states of dishevelment and undergarment. They all crowded around the table--Arthur at John’s head, Miss Grimshaw at John’s bloody side, and Hosea and Dutch on John’s other side.
Miss Grimshaw firmly set to work unwrapping haphazard bandaging as Arthur shakily explained what happened with the gang and the ambush. Hosea’s words were weak when he said, “I told you to be careful,” but there was no real anger behind them. He was afraid. They all were.
Dutch held one of John’s hands and said, “Oh John, no. John, no, not now. John, please.” And kept saying that, over and over, “Oh John. Oh John…”
John woke up again as Miss Grimshaw finally got Arthur’s messy bandage off and cut John’s shirt off Arthur’s knife. He looked down at his wound, then trembled and squirmed, crying out in pain. Miss Grimshaw ordered Dutch to get water, whiskey, and linen, and Hosea to go get her tools. Arthur stood at John’s head and held his shoulders with his bloody fingers. John’s blood on his fingers. How could I be so stupid?
When they came back with what she needed, she helped John drink the whiskey. The kid spluttered and coughed and cried some more, but she gritted her teeth and set the bottle aside.
Miss Grimshaw said, softly, “I’m sorry John. I think the buckshot is still in there and probably some of your shirt too. I’ll have to get both out.” She turned her attention to the men, “Hosea, hold his legs down. Dutch, his arms. Arthur, his shoulders. John, bite on this wooden stick.”
They all did as they were told. Miss Grimshaw rolled up her sleeves, took a swig of the whiskey herself, and set to work.
Arthur had killed many people in his life. He’d seen heads blown clean off by his own shotgun, he’d even had to stitch himself back together, he was used to the blood and the killing and all of that by now. But seeing John--his skinny little brother--on the table taking a surgery like a grown man, not even screaming… he didn’t know what to say. John’s blood on my hands.
I did this.
My fault.
He’s just a kid.
He just looked down at his hands, covered in John’s blood leaving streaks of red in John’s sweat as he held the boy down. John trembled and looked up at the stars in the sky as if he wasn’t even seeing them. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was seeing something else out there, but Arthur couldn’t peel his eyes away from Miss Grimshaw and her little needle-like tongs and the blood and John’s blood.
John whimpered and Miss Grimshaw said, “There, bullet.”
Dutch was saying something under his breath, maybe a prayer, though Arthur never knew him to be the praying kind. Maybe he was just reciting poetry. Maybe he was just saying whatever came to mind. That’s probably what it really was. Dutch was his own preacher and they were his church. But this time, Arthur couldn’t hear his preachings. All he could hear were John’s whimpers through the stick and see John’s blood .
“And the shirt piece. It’ll patch,” Miss Grimshaw said finally.
Hosea let out a long breath like he’d been holding it the entire time. And maybe he had been. Arthur had no idea how long it had actually been. Maybe seconds. Minutes. Hours. All in all, too long.
And Miss Grimshaw stitched him up--she stitched up Arthur’s little brother like she’d stitch up a hole in a sock. Stitch, knot. Stitch, knot. Stitch, knot. Done.
That was it. She gently used the rag and water to wash away the blood. But she couldn’t wash away John’s blood that Arthur had spilt. Nothing could clean that river of blood .
“You did well, my son,” Dutch came around and pulled the wood piece from John’s mouth. John was delirious with pain and his head lolled to the side. There were deep bite marks in the wood. “Rest now, you can rest now. You’re safe, son.”
---
When John woke up, he was in his tent and the faintest of morning light peeked through the flaps that didn’t quite sit together. A faint breeze pulled the canvas apart a little more and the morning light crossed his eyes.
His mouth felt dry and bitter and coppery.
He tried to move, but found that any movement brought a quick and sharp pain to his side. He gasped and opened his eyes a little more. He looked down.
John saw his blankets covering his torso and arms, then he blinked a little and saw Arthur slumped in an uncomfortable position in the chair next to his bed. Arthur was fast asleep, arms crossed and head to his chest. There was a bottle at his feet, tipped over. Empty.
John worked his throat and mouth a little bit and finally managed to croak out Arthur’s name, despite the dryness and copper that seemed to take hold of his tongue. Arthur woke with a startle and turned, his eyes wide and worried.
“John,” Arthur said and leaned closer, “John, are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
“Th-irsty,” John managed.
Arthur nodded and stood, stumbling slightly, still waking up or half-drunk, John couldn’t tell which. He poured some water into the tin cup from a pitcher from John’s bedside table, then turned and awkwardly held it out to John. He tried to reach for it, he really did, but his arms just couldn’t find the strength.
“It’s okay,” Arthur put the cup down. He gently cradled John and pulled him up with his pillows, then tucked an extra jacket behind the pillow to have him in more of a sitting position. Arthur handed the tin water cup to John.
John drank the water thirstily and suddenly the events of the night came back to him in a flash. His hands shook and Arthur managed to pull the cup out of his hands before he spilled it all over himself.
The two boys looked at each other for a long time. Finally, John said, “Am I gonna die?”
“No,” Arthur said quickly and decisively.
“I’m scared,” John couldn’t help but tremble. It hurt. Everything hurt. “I wasn’t scared last night, but I’m scared now.”
“Don’t be,” Arthur sat down on John’s bed, he held out his hand. John took it, his grip was strong
“I don’t wanna die yet.”
“You ain’t,” Arthur said, “You’re the strongest kid I’ve ever met. Hell, you’re probably gonna outlive me.”
“Don’t say that,” John said quietly, his lip trembling, “Don’t say that, not now.”
Arthur softened his voice, “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry, I should have been more careful.”
John, who had been so strong during the fight and who had shot multiple men... John, who had been so strong after the fight, he didn’t even cry out when Arthur haphazardly wrapped bandages around him… John, who had been so brave during the surgery, he barely whimpered as Miss Grimshaw pulled a buckshot out of his side…
But John was only a fourteen year old boy who had just seen his own mortality, and he started to cry.
Arthur, who was responsible for John’s involvement in the fight by bringing him along in the first place… Arthur, who had watched in terror as his adopted brother was shot at point-blank-range with a shotgun… Arthur, who did the best that he knew to keep the kid alive to get him back to their ragtag family where he might not even make it then… Arthur, who had killed and slaughtered and lived a life full of sins that would sink him into the darkest pits of Hell would fight his way back up through just to make sure John was safe and healthy.
Arthur was just barely ten years older than John and still couldn’t get the image of John’s blood out of his hair, his clothes, his skin, his fingernails, his mind, no matter how much he washed them. John was part of him now, and Arthur was part of John now. They’d always be, through thick and thin.
Arthur leaned forward and carefully hugged his sobbing brother.
John held on for dear life.
Arthur would always be there to save John.
Always.
--
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.