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Arthur broke the kiss between himself and Abigail, her warm smile melted his heart. His hands explored every inch of her upper body before he pulled her closer for a final, follow up kiss.
On his way back from a successful hunt he caught sight of her, bent over as she was at the rivers edge. Her slender fingers worked furiously to scrub the dirt out of the garment in her hands. Rolled up sleeves and a lifted skirt, revealed more of her skin than Arthur could handle without feeling... something.
His presence hadn't gone unnoticed to her, she tilted her head towards him and smiled with the warmth of a thousands suns. It beckoned him over, but they were close to camp, too close. In spite of the many trees between them and their tents, it would still be a risk to do anything he wanted to do to her right now.
As if she read his mind, sensed his doubts, she undid the bun in her hair and allowed it to flow freely.
Damn.
Arthur licked his lips, cast one more glance around himself before he dismounted and walked over to her. He tipped his hat at her.
“Abigail.”
“Arthur.” She said with a twinkle in her eyes.
There were a few seconds of silence between the pair before Abigail leaped to her feet and smacked her lips against his. He moaned into her mouth and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“You're so beautiful.” Arthur cooed.
“I want you Arthur, right now.” She said with an unmistakable lust in her voice.
“We can't, darling. Not here.” He carded a hand through those angelic locks of hers.
She sighed at him and nodded.
“Will you ever tell him?” He asked.
“I can't, not with Jack, the boy needs-” Her words faded as she turned her head away, a look of sorrow overcast her tender face.
Arthur cupped her chin in his hands, he gently turned her head until their eyes met again.
“I love you Abigail Roberts.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.
She smiled at him, stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. “You should go, before someone sees us.”
He sighed and nodded his head. She hadn't returned the words, never had. Arthur turned his back to her and returned to his horse. With one foot in the stirrup he stopped and glanced around with a deep frown on his face. He shook his head and shrugged it off. In one swift move he flung his other leg over the saddle and made his way to camp.
~~~
Arthur was in high spirits, he'd been away from camp for three days on his long journey to the West Grizzlies. He came here in search of a white Arabian. Near Lake Isabelle, Hosea said he had spotted her many moons ago. He hadn't even caught a glimpse of it the other day. But this morning, as he packed up his tent, he heard a faint neighing in the distance. Now here he stood, at the edge of the frozen lake while he stared through his binoculars at the most beautiful horse he'd ever seen.
“You think she'd want to join us, boy?” He said to his own horse.
As he stashed his binoculars, two things happened simultaneously. A gunshot cracked through the air and an explosion of pain erupted in his left thigh, right before it buckled under his weight.
He darted forward in search for cover, stumbled and fell. A second gunshot echoed across the mountains around him. The indentation of it's impact all too visible in the snow, it had missed his head, but only just.
Arthur's head danced around as fast as it could, there was nothing for him to hide behind, not a single tree or rock to assist him in not getting killed.
He let out a short but sharp whistle for his only chance at escape. His body surged with adrenaline, it allowed him to clamber to his feet. Arthur's body had to work hard to close the distance between himself and his horse. The snow, deep and soft as it was, made it difficult for his feet to find a solid purchase, especially with an injured leg.
A third shot.
Bits of snow flew up into the air in front of his horse, it made the stallion rear and him stumble backwards to avoid it's front legs from kicking him in the chest. Arthur's heart sank when his horse darted off. Now, his only option was to stand his ground and fight. He drew his revolver, aimed it at the treeline ahead of him while his panic filled eyes desperately searched for a target.
Arthur spun around several times, unsuccessful in his attempts to spot even a hint of where the shots had came from. There was an eerie silence around him as he stood there, breath labored, a trail of red which mixed with the soft snow at his feet.
Either the shooter had left or they patiently waited to line up a final shot which would kill him. Whatever it was, he wasn't going to stick around long enough to find out. There were a few rocks about sixty feet to his right, he could make it.
As soon as he took his first step, there was a sound as if a giant had cracked a whip on top of the highest mountain. His whole body was forced backwards when a most unwelcome agony originated in his right shoulder. The impact of the bullet had caused him to lose the grip he had on his gun and made him trip over backwards into the snow.
A fifth shot.
When he turned on his side and reached for his revolver, the fifth bullet disturbed the snow close to it's grip. It was then that Arthur realized that his assailant was in fact an expert marksman who hadn't failed to kill him. They simply weren't trying to.
Since re-arming himself was out of the question, he instead crawled forward towards the rocks he had marked as a safe spot. To his surprise, he was permitted to reach it without being shot at again. His back rested against the large rock, he dared not look past it in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whoever else was out there. Thinking fast, he used his bandana as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his thigh. The hole in his shoulder he pressed down on with his hand.
His breath came out in large puffs as he sat there and weighed his options. Wait it out, they'll have to approach if they want to finish the job or attempt to capture him, whatever they intended. Up close he might stand a chance with the two throwing knives he possessed. But he was bleeding, badly, he wouldn't have long until the blood loss and cold would weaken him.
Or he could attempt to reach the treeline to his left and hope for the best, perhaps even find his horse again. But how far would he get on an injured leg?
He waited... and waited. The cold started to hurt his legs which had sunken down into the snow. He had to move now or risk his limbs going numb. At the count of three he'd get up and run for it.
One.
Arthur took a few deep breaths to steel himself.
Two.
He shifted his stance, groaned as his leg protested against the movement.
Three!
He leaped up and sprinted as hard as he could. A few steps away from the cover of the forest he tripped and crashed to the ground. His hand reached for his side, he'd been shot, again. Unwilling to give up on his attempt to get to safety, he used his elbows to pull himself forward. Lightheaded and disorientated, it became harder for him to focus, even more so when the edges of his vision slowly darkened. His gloved hand buried itself in the snow as a last ditch attempt to crawl forward, it was then that his whole body collapsed and his consciousness faded.
~~~
Arthur groaned his way into the land of the conscious. Bleary eyes opened and found themselves staring down at a hardwood floor. His brows furrowed as his mind worked hard to assess his current predicament. He was sat on his knees with his back against what he assumed to be a thick, wooden support beam. His arms hugged said beam behind him and were tightly bound together. More ropes were crisscrossed over his chest and under his armpits, they served to keep him pressed up against the wooden beam. He felt cold metal around his ankles, assumed they must be shackled, also behind the beam. All in all he was pretty damned trapped. He tried to escape his bindings but found it impossible to move even an inch.
As he panted from the effort, his breath still came out in the form of small clouds. Much to his dismay it was then that he realized that his clothes were dumped in a pile in front of him. Arthur was bare feet and wore nothing but his long-johns. A sobering prospect. His eyes darted around the room. Ten feet to his left he saw a small bed, with a dresser at it's foot. A few feet in front of him stood a small table with two chairs on each side. His satchel and empty gun belt hung from one of them. The window above them was covered in ice and impossible to see out of. Lastly, on his right a small stove crackled as the fire within consumed it's fuel.
As soon as he finished mapping out his surroundings, his body alerted him to the injuries he had sustained. Almost simultaneously, the wounds in his side, shoulder and thigh flared up and made their presence known. The spots around them had turned his long johns from a bright red to a darker shade. He craned his neck down towards his side, grateful to see that bullet had only pierced the outer edge of it. The hole in his thigh hurt the most, from prior experience he knew the bullet was still lodged inside of it.
Arthur turned his head to the right when he heard the cracking of snow followed by a pair of boots as they stomped on wood.
“Good, you're awake.” John said, he closed the door behind him. In his left hand he carried a large metal pot which appeared to be filled with snow. He placed it on the stove, crouched down in front of it and held his hands out towards the fire to warm them.
Arthur's mouth was agape. For a second he thought John had been here to rescue him, as impossible at that would be. But the man's casual approach towards his predicament revealed the terrifying realization that the expert marksman had been John Marston of all people.
John pushed around some bits of burnt material with the fire iron. He took his time, paid no further attention to his captive until he finally rose to his feet and walked over to Arthur with the fire iron in his hand. It's tip so hot that it glowed.
“What's the matter Arthur, cat got your tongue?” John's eyes were as cold as the room they were in.
Arthur had to tilt his head backwards to look up at him. His mouth opened and closed a few times as his mind raced to piece everything together.
“Or did you leave it behind in the mouth of my girl?” John's words were filled with venom.
He knew.
Arthur swallowed deeply, turned his head away in shame.
“I've had my suspicions for some time. But then I saw yous together a few days ago. Your hands all over her.” John's eyes narrowed, without warning he pressed the hot fire iron against the wound on Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur arched his back, he screamed up a storm while the wound on his shoulder sizzled and the smell of burning flesh filled his nose.
“Can't have you bleeding out on me.” John informed him. The younger man took a few steps towards the stove and placed the front half of the fire iron back inside of it.
Arthur's chest rose and fell rapidly when the pain died down and his screams stopped. That was a pain he wanted not to experience again.
“John, I'm s-sorry.” He said through grit teeth.
“Is you? Bit late for that ain't it. I've seen the way she looks at you.” John knelt down in front of him and inspected the wound on his thigh.
“I... I'll back off, won't go near her no more.” Arthur promised.
“Ssshhh, save your breath for screaming.” John shushed him, he clamped Arthur's mouth shut by pressing his hand against it. The index finger of the younger man's free hand wormed it's way into the hole in Arthur's thigh and fished around.
“Mhhhh!” Most of Arthur's agonizing scream lingered in his throat, the rest of it was muffled against John's gloved hand. His nostrils flared as they attempted to suck in as much air as they could. Arthur's eyes widened, he rapidly shook his head when John unsheathed his knife.
“Bite down on this.” John reached behind him and retrieved Arthur's blood soaked bandana. He stuffed it into the older man's mouth, continued to pack it until the man gagged. Satisfied with Arthur's reduced volume, he used the knife to dig around inside the wound. It elected one muffled scream after the other from the injured man. Until finally, he managed to pull the bullet out.
Arthur let out a sigh of relief when it was finally over. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, even in this cold, it felt like his whole body was on fire.
“Don't be thinking it's over just yet.” John said as he retrieved the hot poker.
“Mmmh...” Arthur's eyes pleaded with the younger outlaw. A futile attempt, the man cared not and proceeded to cauterize the wound on his thigh in the most painful way possible. His senses were overloaded, they couldn't process the pain anymore and sent him down the path of darkness.
A vicious backhand across his face pulled him back to reality with a muffled grunt.
“You don't get to pass out.” John threatened. “One left.”
Arthur twisted and pulled against his bindings, but as he surmised earlier, he could hardly move an inch in any direction.
John wrapped his fingers around Arthur's throat and squeezed as he forced the glowing tip of the fire iron against the bullet hole in the man's side. The older man's strangled and muffled screams satisfied him more than he could have hoped.
Arthur's head lolled forwards when it was finally over. The younger outlaw seemed displeased by this and grabbed a fistful of his hair to pull his head up. A pitiful sob was absorbed by the gag in his mouth.
“Serves you right for committing adultery.” John spat.
“Mhhhmm.” Arthur tried to apologize again. He knew something was up that morning, but still he allowed himself be tempted by her divine appearance.
“I thought we was brothers Arthur, family.” John snarled.
Arthur lowered his gaze towards John's boots. The younger man was right, he was guilty of betrayal on the highest level. He knew that from the beginning but still continued to sneak off with Abigail, time after time.
“Since you ain't got no girl to call your own. I figured the best way to make you feel what I feel on the inside, is by doing it to you on the outside.” John let go of him and retrieved a cup from the table, he carried it over to the pot of ice from which steam now rose.
Arthur's eyes remained locked on John, he watched every single move of his. Watched the younger man fill the cup with boiling water and casually walk back over to him. He could already guess what was coming. He begged and pleaded, the words muffled but he knew John had understood. Understood and couldn't care less.
John went slow with his next torture of choice. He dripped small amounts of the boiling water on various areas across Arthur's body. His preference had become the soles of the older man's bare feet.
After the fifth refill of his cup, John finally set it down on the table. He circled around the bound man, used hit boot to prod at Arthur's bright red and blistered feet.
“You understand how I feel now, Arthur?” John knew he wouldn't get an answer.
Arthur strained against the ropes, his throat hurt from all the screaming he had done. A muffled whimper was held back by the gag in his mouth when John crouched down in front of him. He groaned when a hand held on to his jaw with a vice like grip.
“Her I can forgive, I've not been as good to her as I should be. Always away from camp, working.”
John's free hand rested on Arthur's injured shoulder, his thumb pressed down on the cauterized wound.
“You on the other hand, should have known better.” John raised his voice to speak over Arthur's muffled outcries.
“How many times Arthur? How many times did you take her?” John's face hardened. The thought of Arthur being on top of his Abigail made his blood boil. His hand on Arthur's shoulder reached for the gag in the man's mouth and pulled it out.
“J-John p-please.” He said with a hoarse voice, his throat was so unbelievably dry.
“Answer me, I got more boiling water if needed.” John threatened.
Arthur closed his eyes, figured he could lie, keep the number low so he wouldn't anger John further. The younger man grew impatient, mushed his face together when his jaw was squeezed harder than before.
“T-three or... f-four times.” In truth it was well over twenty, they've been seeing each other for a long time. Whenever John was out of camp, he had taken her out shopping. An excuse to rent a hotel room so they could be all over each other without fear of discovery.
“I'm tempted to keep you alive, go back and find out if she'd give me the same answer.” John's eyes bored into Arthur as the older man searched his for the possibility that he'd make good on his threat.
An overwhelming sense of dread washed over him when John had implied that he otherwise would not be allowed to live. This punishment he understood, somewhat, as extreme as it was. But murder?
“Dutch...”
John's smirk sent a chill through Arthur's spine. This was a side of the man he had never seen, not expected to. With the scars on his face and his short hair, the younger man actually appeared very menacing.
“You think I care about Dutch? Besides, ain't no one ever gonna think I had something to do with your disappearance.” John's cold expression mimicked exactly how he felt towards the man he once called brother.
“Don't... I won't say nothing to Dutch, I'll stay away from Abigail, you got my word.” He promised John.
John sighed at him, he let go of Arthur's chin and patted the man's cheek. John's hands used Arthur's shoulders to push himself to his feet.
“No Mr. Morgan, 'fraid it's too late for that.” John bent down to pick up Arthur's pants and tossed them into the stove.
“What are you doing?” Arthur watched as John did the same thing to his shirt, socks and boots.
“You ain't my brother no more. But you was, just for that I won't be killing you myself.” John picked up Arthur's hat. He stared at the fire for a few seconds.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Arthur attempted to clear away the lump in his throat.
“It means I'm giving you a chance.” John tossed Arthur's hat on top of the table. Arthur's satchel was his next target. He fished around inside of it and pulled out the leather journal.
“John.” Arthur warned. Even through the pain he felt, the death he potentially faced. He still felt strongly about his most private possession being touched.
John scoffed at his tone, leaned back against the table and started to leaf through Arthur's journal. He was astonished at the quality of Arthur's drawings, but they weren't why he picked the book up. After a few minutes of going through the pages his eyes finally landed on something which interested him.
“Oh Abigail.” John started to read. “When I stare into your pretty eyes, it feels as if I'm lost in a sea of bliss. Your heart is the purest of emeralds, your smile the sweetest of candies. I know I am fool for wanting you, for loving you. Long ago you told me you was a good thief, it must be true because you stole my heart.” John closed the journal.
Arthur turned his head sideways and blinked a tear away. It was true, he loved her unconditionally, wanted to spend every waking moment taking care of her and Jack. Save up for a house, somewhere nice and secluded, somewhere safe for Jack to grow up. If only he asked her before John had, if only.
“Them's some pretty words.” John walked over to the stove and tossed the journal into the fire.
“You bastard.” Arthur's anger rose up faster than a flying bullet. “You don't deserve her.” He spat.
“What did you just say?” John withdrew the fire iron from it's resting place inside the core of the flames.
“You don't even care about the boy. I do, I always have.” Arthur continued with new found vigor.
John's face darkened. Without saying another word he pushed the glowing end of the iron against Arthur's chest. He continued to apply pressure against it while he traced it down towards the man's stomach. The heat burned through Arthur's long-johns with ease and left a nasty trail of burned skin in it's wake.
Arthur's guttural scream came out through grit teeth. When the object of pain was removed he finally let out the breath he'd been holding in a series of pained gasps. When John's fist crashed into his stomach, he was trapped in a fierce coughing fit.
“She... she ain't never gonna to be happy with the likes of you. You don't know the slightest bit about keeping a woman content.” Arthur knew his outburst would bring him more pain, but he figured he had nothing left to lose, might as well antagonize John enough until he puts a bullet in his brain.
“Son of a-” John grabbed a fistful of Arthur's hair to steady the man's head as he slammed his knee into it. Once, twice. Until the older man's nose oozed blood over his lips and down his chin.
Arthur's eyes were transfixed on the strand of blood which hung from his lower lip and now dangled freely in front of his chest. He heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked back and felt the cold metal of a barrel press against the top of his head.
John's finger itched to pull the trigger, the nerve of this bastard. To antagonize him while he was bound and beaten. Defending his actions, his betrayal. The nerve.
Arthur closed his eyes. Of all the things and folk which threatened to end his life on a daily basis. He never thought it would have been John of all people, to be the one to do so.
“B-be good to her, s-she deserves it.” Arthur said with a low voice.
“Pretty words ain't gonna save you.” John struggled to keep his hand steady. He was enraged, wanted nothing more than to blow Arthur's brains out. But then that would be it, then the man would not be spending another moment alive to regret his actions. To regret that his vile hands ever dared to touch my precious Abigail.
“I know...” Arthur breathed the words out.
John's thumb eased the hammer back in place and holstered his revolver. When the older man lifted his head with a frown of confusion, he felt more than happy to inform him of what lay ahead.
“It gets pretty damned cold out here at night. Which is... “ John turned his head towards the window, “not too long from now."
Arthur closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. He now understood why John had burned all his clothes.
“Like I said, you was my brother once. So this is the chance I'll be giving ya.” John produced a small key from his pocket and showed it to Arthur. He then placed it on the ground.
“You stay here and die of starvation or freeze to death. Or you go outside, try to get back to camp while avoiding wolves, bears and whatnot.” John continued.
“Some choice...” Arthur muttered. Outside with just his undergarments and bare feet. A death sentence for sure.
“You messed with the woman of the wrong man, Arthur Morgan. I want you to live long enough to regret it.” John said.
“I already do...”
“Damn you Arthur Morgan, damn you to hell.” John drew his revolver and smashed the butt of it against Arthur's temple. The older man's head lolled forward. John quickly sawed through all the ropes until Arthur's unconscious form fell forward and smacked against the ground. He left the man's feet chained around the wooden beam.
John cast one last glance down at Arthur, he felt no pity, no regret, only hatred. He flung Arthur's satchel over his shoulder and took it with him. Once outside he tilted his head backwards and stared up at the gray skies. It would be dark soon. Arthur would be lucky if he survived even a single night, the stove would burn for another hour at best. With that, John mounted his horse and set off for the long journey back to camp. Determined to be the best possible man for his love, his life, his Abigail.
~~~
Arthur's eyes slowly opened, he remained still, used only his eyes to scan his surroundings. He was still in the same cabin, only now it was much darker. The fire which had burned fiercely before was reduced to embers. A splatter of blood flew forward when he coughed, it made him realize his cheek was lying in a small puddle of it. His body lacked the energy it needed to do much of anything. When he tried to move, his ankles were stopped by a chain between them. Too tired to search for the key, he closed his eyes again.
~~~
When Arthur next awoke, it was almost pitch black around him. His hands frantically searched around for the small key which John had left him. He cursed himself for drifting off when time was against him. He was exhausted from the effort of sitting up on his knees and repeated attempts to unlock his shackles with stiff fingers. The cabin had cooled down fast, likely even faster as the night closed in on it. His heavy sigh left a large cloud of his breath behind itself.
To make matters worse, he discovered John had left with his satchel. His heart sank. He had nothing to start a fire, nothing to eat, nothing to help him survive the night. The shivers had gotten worse as the minutes went by. Minutes. Not even hours, just minutes. The bed behind him had no sheets on it for him to use as protection. Every dresser he checked, every cupboard he opened contained nothing.
His teeth chattered as he weighed his options. Stay here, roll over and die during the night. Or go outside and risk being attacked by a wild animal and die an even more painful death.
“A-at l-l-least y-you'll h-have t-tried.” Arthur stammered to himself. He donned his hat, the only belonging he had left and opened the door. It took him a tremendous amount of willpower to even take a few steps outside, the cabin was cold, but at least there wasn't an icy wind to torment him further.
He hissed when his bare feet sank into the snow, it felt like a thousand tiny knives were plunged into them. On top of that, the blisters on his soles protested heavily against the friction. But he persisted. One foot in front of the other, he made his way forward and left the cabin behind him. He walked and walked, while the wind assaulted his abused body. The only positive was that most of his body felt numb, numb enough to drown out the pain from the gunshot wounds John had bestowed upon him.
More than once had he tripped and dropped to his knees, more than once had he gotten up again and resumed his agonizing journey. He made a few attempts to whistle for his horse, a smidgen of hope that his stallion still lurked in the area. Unfortunately, every attempt was greeted with silence.
~~~
By now, the moon had reached it's highest point in the night sky. Arthur was beyond the point of exhaustion. He dropped to his hands and knees. In spite of the endless snow around him, he felt hot, too hot. He unbuttoned the topmost few and bared his chest. His movements had become sluggish, but still he managed to crawl over towards a nearby tree which he could lean against.
He needed to rest, just a quick nap to regain his energy, then he'd continue. A distant giggle made him open his eyes and lift his head.
Abigail.
His sweetheart stood in front of him with Jack at her side, they waved at him, with smiles as wide as the horizon behind them. Abigail's hand reached out for his, so he lifted his arm to meet it.
Abigail, sweet Abigail. I'll be with you soon, just let me rest for a spell.
When he closed his eyes again, Arthur felt the warmth of the sun on his face as he walked through a multicolored field of flowers. On his left there was Abigail with her hand in his, on his right, little Jack. In front of them, the ranch they had built together. His family, his home.