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Chapter Text

Were Charles not feeding kindling to the fire, he might’ve mistaken the snap of a branch for the crack of flame.  He raises his shotgun.

“Who goes there?”

A figure steps into the dim glow of the firelight.  The deep lines of age on the stranger’s face and the graying, almost silver hair make for a more genial continence than Charles is accustomed to encountering in the woods late at night.

The stranger keeps his hands held above his head, “Forgive the intrusion.  Just an old and weary hunter.  I appear to have wandered too far from my horse and camp to relieve myself and gotten lost in the dark.”

The stranger is the most unusually dressed hunter Charles has ever met.  It’s almost as if he stumbled out of a crime novel; his tailored clothes are quite fine, except for slight wear and fray around the edges.  He more closely resembles a gentleman than the hill folk of the region.

Charles lowers his shotgun, but keeps it close with an even closer eye on the stranger.  “I would think an experienced hunter such as yourself would be less liable to lose his way.

“Unfortunately, experience is often accompanied by age, of which I have an abundance.  As such, my eyesight’s not what it used to be.  I spotted your campfire and assumed it was mine or at least that of a fellow huntsman who might be in need of some company.”  He holds out his arm, “Hosea Matthews.”

“Charles Smith,” he accepts Hosea’s hand.  “Please, sit.”

“Don’t mind if I do.  These old bones could do with a bit of rest and a warm fire.”

Charles offers Hosea the plumpest portion of the day’s catch and in return the older man regales how he came to be so helplessly lost in the dark.

The longer he goes on, the more Charles finds himself amused by Hosea’s exploits and charmed by his company.  Though the manner of his talk suggests Hosea is too smart to step away from his camp so carelessly, Charles cannot in good conscience allow his new companion to wander back into the woods.

“It’s too late to search for your horse now.  You ought to spend the night here.”

“Why thank you, Charles Smith,” Hosea makes himself even more comfortable by the fire.  “I’ve probably bored you to tears about myself.  What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Tell me about yourself.  Where are you from?  What brings you out here on your own?”

Charles sighs heavily; he’s not one to talk much about his past, not that anyone’s shown any interest in hearing it before.  Warning Hosea, “My story’s not exactly a happy one.”

The weariness Hosea joked so easily about is suddenly plain, “Most living this life don’t have happy stories.”

Without so much as another word, Hosea’s sorrows are as unmistakable as the lines etched on his face; age, experience, trials and hardships.  Hosea’s lived a life Charles can only guess at.

But Hosea’s already offered his story and Charles supposes one story for another is a fair trade.

Unable to meet Hosea’s eye, Charles focus on the flames instead, “I’m on my own because I have been since I was young.  It’s just – easier, I guess.”

Hosea is a patient listener, never prodding for more than Charles is willing to say but attentive nonetheless, on occasion offering his own insight.  Charles can’t explain it, but he trusts Hosea, even on such short acquaintance.  They exchange stories until the fire burns down.

The scent of a fresh kill rouses Charles from his bedroll.  Hosea tends to a cut of meat over a renewed flame.

“Good morning,” he greets Charles brightly in spite of the low fog hanging over the camp.  “It appears one of my traps had some success last night.”

Charles rubs his eyes.  He’s met some strange folk in these parts before, none of them has ever stuck around, let alone made him breakfast.

Disbelievingly, “You’re still here.”

“Seemed only right to return the favor.”  Hosea holds out a plate.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Matthews, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Of that I have no doubt, but I am mighty grateful to you.  Besides, there’s safety in numbers, my boy.”  He offers the plate again.

Charles accepts, still puzzles by Hosea’s generosity.  “Let me help you find your camp.”

“If you’re so inclined.  I believe it was west of here.”

They find Hosea’s horse easily enough, but no camp.  Hosea shrugs, “Must’ve hitched my horse up poorly.”

Except Hosea has to untether the horse before they continue.  They continue along the stream but to Charles’ eye there’s no trace of another camp at all.

“You can’t have wandered this far,” he voices his rising suspicions.

“I’m certain it’s not much further now,” Hosea calls back.

Charles is now quite certain he’s being led on by a wily old fool.

Out of a tangle of branches up ahead, a gruff voice calls out, “That you, Hosea?”

“Indeed, it is.  And I’ve brought along a new companion.”

“You know Dutch don’t much like it when you bring back strays.”

The voice’s owner emerges from the thicket, tall and broad shouldered with a rifle in hand.

A black hat covers his face until he lifts his head to chastise Hosea, though his piercing blue eyes seem to lock on Charles.  Charles reins in Taima, not daring to cross the other man.

Hosea reaches down to pat the man’s shoulder, “I may be getting on in years, but Dutch knows my instinct ain’t failed us yet.  I’ve gotta a good feeling about this one, Arthur.”

Ushering Charles forward, Hosea leads on; Arthur’s gaze never wavering from Charles’ back.

Past the trees, there is no doubt they have located Hosea’s camp.  He is greeted by near every person as they dismount; most give Charles either a polite nod or a curious stare, but otherwise say nothing.  Still, Charles hangs back as they approach a lavishly decorated tent.

Arms spread wide, another man with refined clothes and slicked hair comes toward them, “What news, Hosea?  Have you discovered the buzzard meandering too near to camp?”

“I have, Dutch, and I think you’ll like this one.  This is Charles Smith.  He’s an excellent hunter and an outcast like us.  Charles, this is Dutch Van der Linde.”

“Well, how do you do, Mr. Smith?  You’ll forgive my rudeness; I had no idea you were among us.”  Dutch takes Charles’ hand firmly in his grasp and shakes it.

Charles’ head is spinning too rapidly to notice the insult.  “No offense taken.”

Hosea isn’t some lost traveler; he’s an outlaw and he played Charles like a fiddle, sizing him up and leading him on, deciding if he was an asset or a danger to the gang.  Charles supposes he should be glad it wasn’t the latter.

Dutch claps Charles on the arm and lets go of his hand, “I have some business to attend to, but we’ll talk later, Mr. Smith.  Hosea – when you have a moment.”

Dutch retreats into his tent, leaving Charles and Hosea be.

“I apologize if this comes as a bit of a shock to you.”

“I can’t say that it hasn’t.”

Hosea nods in understanding.  “You’ve no obligation to stay.  I just didn’t so much like the notion of killing you for getting too near to our camp.”

Charles snorts, “You’ve got a strange sense of kindness, sir.”

“Perhaps, but I weren’t lying neither, there’s safety in numbers.  Here – everyone who does their share, gets their share.  If you’d like, you could have a place with us.”

Charles has been in camp all of five minutes and already he dreads returning to his lonely campsite.  For the first time in a long time, Charles wants to be a part of something.

----------

He’s not on watch, but Arthur trudges to the outskirts of camp to find Karen, nursing the very butt of her cigarette.

Holding out a fresh carton, “Per the lady’s request.”

“Just in the nick of goddamn time.”

Karen inhales the last of the butt and flicks it away, eagerly diving into the new pack.  Clamping a pair between her teeth, she strikes a match with her thumbnail and lights them up.

Passing the second to Arthur, “Stick around, if you like.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Leaning against a tree a little ways back behind Karen, Arthur stares into the tangle of branches overhead and sets his mind to wander.

He wouldn’t have figured Karen for a contemplative smoking partner, behaving all impetuous and loud-mouthed as she does.  But so long as she ain’t being disturbed, Arthur’s even seen her take the occasional cigarette with Grimshaw.

Which is exactly the sort of company Arthur needs at the moment with all the commotion Micah Bell stirs up in camp.  Leering at the women in a vile fashion, riling up Bill and the Callander boys, getting their blood hot over reckless takes; if that weren’t enough to put Micah on thin ice, he seems to enjoy giving personal offense.

But Dutch overruled Arthur and Hosea’s objections.

“He saved my life,” Dutch punctuated each word.  “What sort of man would I be if I wasn’t loyal to those who have proven their loyalty to me?”

He would hear no other word on the subject.  It don’t mean Arthur has to like Micah, but so long has one has Dutch’s good graces, they’re welcome among the gang.

As if reading Arthur’s thoughts, Karen asks, “What do you think of that new fella?”

“I think I’m liable to clock Micah in the jaw if he keeps shooting his mouth off.”

“Tell me something everybody in camp don’t already know,” she snickers.  “But I wasn’t asking about him.  I mean the other one – the one Hosea brought in.”

“You mean Charles?”

“Yeah – Charles.  I can’t figure him.”

It ain’t like Karen to lack for an opinion about folk, especially folk in the gang.  But then Arthur’s not exactly sure what to think of Charles either.

Charles Smith is about as different from Micah Bell as he can be: solitary and reliable.  While Arthur ain’t heard a bad word about Charles from anyone, though no one particularly flocks to him neither.

He has Hosea’s good opinion, which garners a good amount of respect in the camp, but much like Dutch’s favor, that don’t ensure folk are well liked.

After a spell, “I trust Hosea’s instinct.”

“I didn’t ask for Hosea’s opinion.  I asked for yours.”

Arthur swallows; he ain’t sure he’s got one.  He and Charles ain’t crossed paths much: Arthur riding out on jobs, Charles going out on hunts; Charles preferring his own company and Arthur required at Dutch’s side.

Shrugging, “Quality of game in Pearson’s stew has certainly improved since Charles has taken over the hunting.”

Karen huffs, “That’s what everyone else has said.”

Arthur’s not exactly sure what she’s getting at.  “If you wanna get to the know the fella, why don’t you try talking to the man yourself?”

“I tried, but he weren’t interested –” Arthur chokes, interrupting her.  “Said he weren’t interested in availing himself of any of the girls.”

Pounding his chest, trying to breathe again, “That weren’t what I meant.”

“Quit acting like an old maid, Arthur.  Just because you ain’t let your pecker get sucked in years, don’t mean other men don’t have needs.”

“Other men’s needs ain’t any business of mine.”

“But it is a business of mine and it’s peculiar that a strapping fella like Charles don’t have an appetite.”

Karen ain’t even being coy anymore.  She thinks Arthur the same sort of peculiar for rejecting her advances when she first came to camp.  She’s long since given up on him, but Arthur fears she has discovered a new target for her curiosity about the measure of a man.

“Leave poor Charles alone, Karen.  Just because he don’t have a particular appetite for you, don’t mean he don’t have one.”

She snorts, “Speak for yourself, Arthur.”

“I mean it.  Don’t go scaring him off with your wiles.”

“Alright, Arthur.”  She rolls her eyes, but Arthur knows she’ll behave.

Ain’t no point to driving away the best hunter in camp.  Besides, Sean’ll be back from scouting around Blackwater in a day or so and then her attentions will be elsewhere entirely.

Arthur should harass Karen about her own peculiar appetite for the Irish tongue-wagger, but he figures the discussion would somehow wind up being about him again.  Best he take his leave while he still can.

Flicking away the remainder of his cigarette, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Thanks for the smokes,” she says, striking another match as Arthur heads back toward camp.

Pearson’s just announced dinner’s ready when Arthur emerges from the trees.

He’d rather not crowd around the stew right away, so he stops to see to Boadicea.  Arthur absently strokes her neck, his conversation with Karen still occupying his thoughts.

Karen knows as well as anybody why Arthur don’t avail himself of the women in camp.  His brief time with Abigail aside, and God forbid Karen recall that, he wasted his heart a long time ago, that’s all the explanation she needs.

And though Arthur instructed her not to pry into Charles’ peculiarities, she ain’t the only one who’s curious.  Charles is something of a mystery to them all and Arthur wonders if maybe Charles has a similar sad story to him.

A pair of soft footsteps approach and Charles places a hay bale between the horses.  “Evening.”

Arthur nods in greeting, not trusting himself to speak.

Charles thankfully starts for the pair of them.  “She’s a fine horse.”

“Not the fastest I’ve ridden, but more sure-footed than most.”

“Speed you can always demand of a horse when the moment requires, but you don’t come by that sort of reliability often.”

Boadicea snorts as if in protest to only being considered reliable.

Arthur grins at her tempestuousness, “Still a bit of spark never hurt.”

Glancing at Charles, Charles don’t seem able to look away quick enough.  Arthur returns his attention to the mare.

Arthur’s not the conversationalist nor the wit either Dutch or Hosea are, and neither would it seem is Charles, a silence falling over them.  Ordinarily that would suit Arthur just fine, but at this moment he feels awkward as shit having nothing to say to the other man that wouldn’t be prying.

“Well,” Charles breaks the stillness of the darkening evening, “she seems to have a real fondness for you.”

“Just about the only woman that does,” he jokes.

Only Charles doesn’t laugh.  Arthur supposes he ain’t been around long enough to hear tell of Arthur’s misfortune in love.

Instead, quietly, “I better finish seeing to the rest of the horses.”

“Catch you later then.”

Leaving Boadicea in Charles’ capable hands, Arthur joins the rest of the gang for supper.

When Charles finally grabs his own, Arthur can’t help but notice how he keeps to himself even around the campfire.

Give it time, Arthur tells himself.  Not everybody’s as keen on making a fool out of themselves as he seems to be.

----------

Setting traps around the abandoned settlement gives Charles something to do but no creature in its right mind would traverse so far from their den in this weather.

If game won’t come to them, they’ll have to go to the game; that’s the long and short of the matter.  He says as much to Pearson and Pearson sends Lenny and Bill – of all people.

When they come back empty-handed, Charles picks up his bow and takes off a little ways into the woods, where no one can watch.  The string digs into his seared fingertips and the arrow looses before he’s even fully drawn back.

“Shit,” Charles hisses at the sting.

Shivering, he tucks his hand deep into his coat.  He’s never felt more useless.

From his vantage point in the trees, Charles spies Arthur and Javier’s return with John, all the worse for the wear.  It’s not long before Arthur’s making the rounds, taking stock of everything they don’t have; Charles follows him to the shed serving as Pearson’s kitchen.

Charles’ mind is made up before Pearson even raises the issue.  He’s seen Arthur shoot and as long as he’s got a steady hand and a good eye, it won’t make a difference if it’s a rifle or a bow he’s fixing to take aim.

The fact that he’s ordering about Dutch’s second-in-command doesn’t even enter Charles’ mind until they’ve hit the trail.  The prospect is food, otherwise there very well won’t be a gang for Dutch to lead.

Despite his protests, Arthur turns out a decent shot with the bow, though it’ll be a long time before he’s a master hunter of any sort.  For now, Charles is content with the pair does stowed on their horses’ backs.

Perhaps for a lack of anything else to do or perhaps for having too much weighing on his mind, Arthur talks near the whole ride back.  He’s right, of course.  They haven’t talked much before now, only a passing conversation here and there.

Only it doesn’t strike Charles as odd as it seems to Arthur.  He’s not exactly in the inner circle and they’ve each got their own duties to occupy them.  Still if Arthur’s open to talking, Charles is keen to listen.

It’s strange, having a hunting companion, let alone speaking so freely with one another.  Through all their talk, Arthur is somehow less intimidating to Charles than he was on first acquaintance.

Charles learns more about the other man in a matter of hours than he has in months of being in camp.  He’s intrigued by how Arthur speaks of Dutch and the life – equal parts reverence and fondness and exasperation.

Less secure in his place among the gang, Charles couldn’t have anticipated having Arthur’s confidence, so he makes little comment in return.  Nonetheless, Charles enjoys the company.

His hand is completely stiff when they return.

Excusing himself from the skinning and butchering, Charles doesn’t make his way to the men’s quarters but the women’s.

Miss Grimshaw sets Tilly to redressing his hand and helping him to regain the feeling in his fingers.

“Arthur and you have any luck out there?”

“Yeah.  Found enough for a few days.”

“That’s good,” she nods.  Looking despairingly at his hand, “This won’t heal proper if you have to keep going out there.”

“Just doing my part.  Same as everyone else.”  He tries to give Tilly an encouraging smile, but he bristles too much at the fib to fake one.

Karen and Molly smoke like chimneys near the door, too cold to go outside to spare the other ladies and John in his convalescence.  One structure over, he knows Bill and Micah are up to nothing productive at all, likely just complaining for the sake of complaining; he’s sure if there were any drink around, they’d be drunk too.

But Charles won’t sit around useless while Dutch and Hosea decide what their next move will be.  Or while Arthur is shouldering the brunt of the responsibility for keeping everyone together; Charles does not envy the position he is in, being pulled in all directions.

Resolved not to be a further burden, Charles decides to set more traps further out from Colter while his hand is out of commission.  With any luck, in a few days the weather will have cleared enough and those traps will have yielded something, sparing them the need to ride out again.

Charles sets out early the next morning, determined if doubtful the traps have succeeded in their purpose.

The deeper Charles goes into the woods, the greater he misses the previous day’s company.  But even if Arthur hadn’t ridden out with Dutch and the others earlier than even Charles left, going back would defeat his purpose.

“Another time,” he mummers to the silent forest.

----------

Arthur ain’t the only one taken notice of Charles’ talents since Colter.

Dutch sends him ahead with Javier to rescue Sean.  John agrees to ask him to join in on his train job.  All that in addition to his usual duties and Pearson still counts on him as his best hunter.

Arthur has a rare respite of his own when he spies Charles readying to ride out again.

There’s eagerness in Charles’ generally reserved tone about the bison when he asks Arthur to join him.  Arthur can’t think of a reason to refuse.

“You can even use your gun this time,” Charles smirks.

Arthur’s transfixed by the expression; his fingers itch for a pencil.

His sketches are mostly stoic portraits of faces that stick with him, but Charles’ grin is so unusual a sight, Arthur might make an attempt when they return.

Maybe his memory is playing tricks on him, but Arthur don’t recall Charles ever being in such high spirits, let alone willing to share about where he come from.  Even with Hosea, when they spotted them Indians, he seemed reluctant to talk about it overmuch.

Charles is lucky to have fond memories of his mother and childhood.  Arthur wishes he’d stay content with just listening, for every time he opens his mouth, he makes a damn fool of himself.

Yet somehow the mentioning of the sad similarities in their histories don’t dampen Charles’ mood any.  And the moment is all but forgotten when they come upon the herd.

Though Charles may have been joking when he said he’d allow Arthur the use of his gun, it takes four shots to the head with a revolver to bring down just one bison.

Arthur shudders to think how poorly he would’ve faired with a bow, especially once the beast came charging toward him.  Arthur don’t exactly ignore Charles’ warning about overhunting, but he ain’t about to try that again.

Arthur’s had some more practice skinning deer and the like since they last went hunting together, but the bison is an entirely different creature.  Charles talks him through it, but nearing the end, his attention is elsewhere.

Coming upon the abandoned carcasses, Arthur watches Charles’ spirits sink.  Arthur is at a loss how to help, beyond accompanying Charles as he tracks the culprits.

A rage come over Charles when they discover the poachers, the likes of which Arthur thought only he experienced.  Leastways, Charles can say he was provoked, Arthur doesn’t always have such an excuse.

Charles is more subdued on their way back; Arthur doesn’t broach the subject.

On the outskirts, Charles reins in Taima.  “I need some time alone.”

“Sure.  Take as long as you need, Charles.”

Arthur waits til Charles disappears before heading into camp.

Pearson don’t believe Arthur killed and butchered the bison hisself.

“That Charles is a wonder,” Arthur gives credit where it’s due, keeping the rest of the day’s events to himself.

Returning to his tent, Arthur means to take some time with his journal to sketch: the bison on the prairie; Charles, before their hunting trip took a turn.  Only his purpose is deferred by the letter awaiting him.

Mary Linton.  Arthur is dizzied by her writing to him in such a fashion after such a time.

He paces in his tent, debating to write or ride.  He ain’t never been a reliable correspondent, but calling on her would make him appear all too eager.  Either way, he is a great fool for not being able to leave it where it lies.

Strauss, Goddamn him, interrupts Arthur’s internal war to pester him about the damn Downes debt again.

“Alright, damn it.  I’ll see to it.”

He’ll see to it then he’ll see to Mary.

He rides past a calmer, if still troubled Charles on his way out the next morning.  There’s no time to stop and welcome him back, just a tip of his hat as he passes by.

Next time they ride out, Arthur hopes things will be less complicated.  For now, it is business as usual.

----------

Proximity to Rhodes keeps Charles closer to camp.  He’s not the only one uneasy about coming further south either.  Tilly, Lenny, and Javier don’t wander far, if they don’t have to, and mostly sticking to cover of darkness when they must.

When Charles does have to ride out, he finds himself less inclined toward asking Arthur to join him than before.

Even if Arthur wasn’t riding out near every day on some errand or another, it was an ugly side of him Charles witnessed, wanting to shoo off that German family for a scrap of land that wasn’t worth the effort.  It’s hardly the worst crime Arthur’s committed, just needlessly cruel; Charles thought better of him.

Keeping himself occupied, Charles volunteers for more guard duties as Kieran’s mostly taken over care of the horses.  When not on guard duty, Charles fletches unique arrows and watches close.

Business is as usual in the camp, jobs to run and scams to pull.  Hosea’s needling at the Grays and Braithwaites seems like asking for trouble, though nobody asked Charles.  Yet another reason to keep his head down, he figures.

Still Charles somehow finds himself dragged into others’ messes.  Uncle’s wagon robbery upends itself in fewer than five minutes.  Robbing Cornwall – another beast they ought to just leave be.  Arthur at least agrees, seeming more himself then when last they rode out.

Charles wonders if his encounter with the Pinkertons and the shootout in Valentine rattled Arthur more than he lets on.  Only there’s no good time to ask him when their barn hideout goes up in smoke and they flee into the woods with Uncle and Bill.

It is only at Dutch’s behest that Charles rides out again so soon after, alongside Arthur once more.  He is wary at the prospect, the pair of them seeking out Trelawny, and not knowing which of Arthur’s moods to expect.

But Arthur proves in better spirits, making conversing with him easy once more and Charles is pleased by how his tracking’s come along.

Even in their urgency, Arthur grins at his praise.

Charles’ heart misses a beat in its regular tattoo, giving him pause.

Truly, Charles cannot make heads or tails of Arthur Morgan.

In camp, he strides around with an air of authority, but on the trail, Arthur curiously marvels at the world, sketching everything from herds of wild horses to worm-eaten tobacco plants.  Yet when a hammer clicks in place, there’s no better man to have at one’s side.

Steadfast and true, Arthur is the embodiment of Dutch’s talk of loyalty to a fault – to his own detriment even.

Charles would have to be deaf not to have heard the gossip in camp of Arthur’s bygone sweetheart, her unshakeable hold over him and how she left him devastated.  Given their talk, he assumes she is the cause of Arthur’s deepest bouts of melancholy.

But for all Arthur’s moods, he looks at Charles with unwavering trust.   Charles can’t figure what he’s done to earn Arthur’s respect, but he doesn’t want to lose it.  He doesn’t want Arthur to stop looking at him like that.

They catch up with Trelawny and the bounty hunters, deeper into Braithwaite territory than Charles is comfortable.  Weaving through the cornfields, Charles imagines what the bounty hunters will do if they find him first; he’s not exactly a predominant member of the Van der Linde gang, but a man of his color gives others in these parts the leeway to do what they will.

Arthur’s shout puts Charles’ heart through its paces, racing at a gallop he didn’t know it could when he finds Arthur with a lasso around his neck.

Holstering his shotgun, Charles has no idea how he manages to keep his voice steady as Arthur chokes and splutters.  The bounty hunter offers Charles a bribe; it’s his fatal mistake.

Darkly Arthur jokes Charles should’ve taken the money.

“I know, I’m a fool,” unwittingly Charles echoes Arthur.

If Arthur hears it, he doesn’t say anything.  He rubs at his chafed neck, staring at Charles that way again.

However much the bounty hunter might’ve offered or however prudent it would’ve been to run; Charles isn’t willing to sacrifice Arthur’s life for temporary security.  Loyalty, Dutch would call it; Charles suspects it is something more.

Swallowing the rising lump in his throat, Charles follows Arthur in giving chase when the shooting resumes.

It is something of an odd relief when Arthur sends him and Trelawny back to camp without him.  Trelawny’s incessant talking preventing Charles from overthinking it all too much.

Except staying with the gang now doesn’t afford Charles the same peace of mind it did before.  Charles watches Arthur with greater diligence, realizing Arthur’s behavior in camp in more than displays of ego.

True, he is gruff when the other men are drunk or stupid, but he can be thoughtful and reassuring too when their minds are troubled.  He’s even gentler with the girls, all genuine and charm.  With Jack, he is the most attentive.  Arthur is not above listening to any of them.

But for all he’s watched Arthur, Charles has yet to see him look at anyone else in that manner.

Desperate to fixate on anything else, Charles notes Arthur’s comings and goings.  He will often set out on a job with others then come back separate, having taken on another solo job; he is a near on three days behind Bill, Lenny, and Karen after they finish off that bank job in Valentine.

So, it wouldn’t have been so unusual if Arthur didn’t come back along Dutch and Micah after their talk with Colm O’Driscoll.  Only he never showed up at the meeting point and no one has any knowledge of any other job Arthur was to set out on at its conclusion.

Charles’ stomach drops; Arthur wouldn’t just disappear like that and he’s not the only one in camp who knows it.

Dutch presses Kieran harder than ever for anywhere else the O’Driscolls might be hiding; Kieran gives no resistance, rattling through every detail he remembers.  The information is accurate but likely outdated.

“I don’t know nowhere else they might’ve taken Mr. Morgan, I swears.”

The O’Driscolls could be anywhere.

“John!  I need every able-bodied man on their horse out looking!” Dutch rallies the camp.  “You find Arthur!  You bring him home!  You find any sign of those O’Driscoll bastards and you ride back immediately!  We’ll regroup and take them on together!”

John sets to handing out riding assignments, each man in a separate direction, Sadie included.

Taking Charles aside, John speaks low, “I need you to go with Micah back to the parlay spot, see if you can pick up the trail or any trace as to where they might’ve gone.”

Charles glances over his shoulder; as little as he likes Micah, he’s the only one who can lead him to the ground where Dutch and Colm O’Driscoll met – to Arthur’s last known position.

Micah attempts to goad Charles the whole ride; Charles bites his tongue so hard, he’s sure it will bleed.  He wholly blames Micah for this mess; he’s the one who set up the meeting, the one who suggested Arthur be their eyes from above, the only one unconcerned by Arthur’s disappearance.

Charles finally snaps when Baylock tramples the first clear prints Charles discerns.  “I told you to keep that horse at a distance!”

“Well, excuse me for getting in the way of the master tracker at work.”

Growling, “If you can’t keep that horse under control, go back.”

“Can’t go back.  Boss told me to stick with you.”

Charles fumes, but looks beyond the ruined tracks.  The light is fading fast and tracking is slow going.  Micah continues to disrupt Charles too, making it all the more obvious, Micah doesn’t want to help bring Arthur back.

They’ve not far off from their starting point when galloping hooves charge toward them through the darkness.

Lenny’s out of breath, “Arthur’s back.  Came stumbling back into camp on his own he did.”

Were poor Maggie not already overtired, their ride back would be swifter.

As it is, Lenny explains what happened to Arthur, how the search parties are out looking for each other now.  “I think you boys are the last.”

When they see the glow of the campfires through the trees, Charles pushes ahead.  There’s a stillness over the camp, apart from the girls running back and forth from Arthur’s tent.

Charles catches Tilly by the wrist as she runs to fetch clean linens.

“What can I do?”

“I – I’m not sure,” Tilly stammers helplessly, barely knowing what to do herself.

“If you’ve got energy, Charles, we need somebody to take over for Sean on watch,” Hosea orders.  “We can’t afford any distractions – not tonight.”

Charles nods, letting go of Tilly’s arm.

Night passes slowly, morning arriving with a grey dawn when Sadie comes to relieve him of his watch.  She immediately lights up a cigarette, muttering to herself.

“How’s Arthur?” Charles dares to ask.

“That O’Driscoll bastard got him in a real bad way.”

Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson take turns watching over him, occasionally sending one of the girls for fresh water.  Those who are not of use, sit and wait.

There is no idle conversation around the campfire, each one occupied by their own nervous habits.  Even Abigail, who Charles expected to see clinging to her son, takes up a cigarette.  Charles ponders his pipe a while, unable to bring himself to smoke.

The prolonged silence and tension are unbearable, like seeing the lasso around Arthur’s neck all over again.

Incapable of standing it any longer, Charles paces along the shore; the lapping of the waves calms his nerves some.  He doesn’t realize how far he’s walked until Reverend Swanson calls out to him.

“Mr. Smith, would you watch over our patient a moment?  I have an urgent need to relieve myself.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, simply leaving a vacant seat for Charles to occupy; tentatively, Charles sits.  He lets out a long breath, compared to Arthur’s irregular ones, and glances around.

He never took much note of the personal touches in Arthur’s tent before; he is more sentimental than Charles took him for, being always on the move as the gang is.  One portrait, in particular, catches his attention.

The frame contains an image of a pretty, dark-haired young woman.  Charles assumes she must be Arthur’s sweetheart – Mary, he thinks she was called.  She is the very picture of the sort of woman Arthur ought to want, if anyone spoke well of her.

Charles sighs, matched by a long shaky inhale.

“If this were Hell, you wouldn’t be here, so I must not be dead,” Arthur wheezes.

Charles is astounded how Arthur can crack a grin at a moment like this, more so that Arthur’s pulled through.

Smiling weakly back, “Not quite yet, my friend.”

“He’s awake!”  Swanson shouts upon returning.  “He’s awake!”

Hearing his call, Dutch and Hosea push in past Charles to take up residence at Arthur’s side.

Charles absents himself, returning to the fire where those who don’t flock to Arthur’s tent still cast glances in its direction.

“He’ll be alright then?” John asks, his voice even more raw from disuse.

“I reckon he will be,” Charles nods, feeling a weight come off his shoulders as he says it.

John exhales deeply, putting out his still-smoking cigarette.

Charles is surprised by the display of concern, given how Arthur spoke about John’s year-long absence, but it confirms something else to him: Arthur Morgan is irreplaceable to the gang.

It isn’t until a few weeks later, when Charles is assisting Arthur onto his horse, how just how irreplaceable Arthur is to him too.

----------

They’ve been at Shady Belle less than a week when another letter from Mary finds Arthur.

If his head weren’t already spinning from Sean’s untimely demise, Jack’s kidnapping, and his own capture, this would be enough do it; each sentence more dizzying than the last.  Still, he traces the curve of her signature.

Arthur knows what most everyone thinks of Mary, how she muddles his thinking, which is why he doesn’t mention the letter to anyone.  With any luck whoever left it in his room won’t spread that awful gossip again.

They’ll likely all find out anyway, he laments.  Leastways there’s plenty of goings on in Saint Denis to disguise his true purpose in mounting up.

Arthur is caught off guard when it is Charles who saddles up his horse.  “I thought this were part of Kieran’s chores now.”

Charles shrugs, “Haven’t seen him this morning.”

“Maybe I should fetch the gelding tongs, that oughtta spook that O’Driscoll out of hiding.”

Arthur means it as a joke, of course, though Charles ain’t so amused by it.  He shakes his head, strapping the saddle in place.  Arthur don’t think Charles means to shame him, but it does.

Stepping up beside Charles, Arthur fills his saddlebags.  “Ah – I won’t really.  All my talk don’t mean a thing.  I like that Kieran, really.  He’s a good kid.”

Charles looks up, meeting his eye with a calm sort of look Arthur wouldn’t rightly know how to describe.

Simply, “I know.”

“You know what?  That my talk’s all bluster or about Kieran?”

“Both,” he grins slyly.

“How could you possibly know that?”

Charles shrugs again, “I suppose I’ve just got a feeling about you, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur stares blankly while Charles finishes his work.  Aside from Dutch and Hosea, nobody’s ever read him so easily, not even Mary.  If she ever heard him talk so, she’d likely chastise him with a disapproving ‘oh Arthur’ and brush it aside.  Not Charles though.

Satisfied the saddle’s secure, Charles hands Arthur the reins.  “Good luck out there.”

His mouth is still curved into that elusive soft smile, though Arthur’s got no notion what he’s done to draw it out of Charles this time; his chest swells at the notion that he’d done anything to amuse Charles.  Maybe later he’ll finally make an attempt to sketch it.

Suddenly Arthur feels awkward, staring so much at the other man.  Clearing his throat, “I’d better be off.”

Mounting up, Arthur’s thoughts slowly turn back to Mary.

He really oughtn’t be surprised the mess she’s in this time involves her daddy, but Arthur ain’t going to make her beg.  He couldn’t if he tried.

Mr. Gillis is much the same to Arthur’s recollection, though his disdain for Arthur seems to have somehow worsened in each other’s absence.  And still Arthur agrees to help Mary follow him.

With every close call, Arthur would swear it were nearly getting caught which set his heart pounding, and God could send him to Hell for that lie alone.

His one consolation is that, in being pressed chest to chest against that wall, he could tell her heart were beating twice as hard as his.

It must be the elevated heartrate that fuels Mary’s fury at Mr. Gillis for Arthur ain’t never seen her like this, but she settles back to herself quick enough once Mr. Gillis has scurried off again.

Arthur almost feels like a proper gentleman, stepping out to the theater with Mary on his arm.

It’s a pretty little dream, but it always ends the same.  It don’t change because they don’t.  She’s still got Jamie and he’s still got Dutch.  He knows that but he still somehow deludes himself into thinking he’ll run away with her one day and maybe one day his heart will learn its lesson.

Arthur stays in town a while in order to dull the familiar pain of old regrets.  He’s not ready to hear the ladies’ gossip about Mary as he nurses his wounds.

Evelyn Miller is the last person Arthur expects to run into on the street, let alone to commission him for a job – stealing from Leviticus Cornwall on behalf of the Wapiti, no less.

Mr. Miller is confident enough in Arthur’s talents.  His Indian acquaintances are less optimistic; the chief cautiously so, his son more doubtful.  Arthur can’t blame Eagle Flies; he’s still young and prideful.

Arthur remembers what it was like, Dutch and Hosea always batting him down and begging thieves and mercenaries for help ain’t exactly dignified.  That don’t prevent Arthur from reminding the boy that he’s got troubles of his own.

Arthur’s immediately ashamed of his callous tone.  That same day Rains Fall recalls laying eyes on him for the first time, Hosea and Charles made it clear their version of robbing and murdering ain’t all that different from the army’s.

Their troubles ain’t remotely the same, but Rains Fall promises more money, enough that Arthur would be a fool to refuse.

On the outskirts of Cornwall Kerosene & Tar, it’s apparent that Eagle Flies don’t trust him, not like Arthur’s done anything to prove himself worthy.  It don’t concern Arthur overmuch; he’s only here to get paid, after all.  Still, he can appreciate it ain’t easy for Eagle Flies to sit on his hands while others go to work on his behalf.

Robbing the oil refinery this time ain’t as simple as it were to do for John.  An oil wagon is one thing, he barely had to crossover into the compound to nab it; land development documents are another thing entirely.  Arthur wouldn’t have even known where to look if Mr. Danbury hadn’t been so obliging.

With the documents in hand, there’s a touch more of his father in Eagle Flies than Arthur could previously see.  Though if the young man has difficulty articulating what sort of hope this brings him, far be it from Arthur to put words in his mouth.

There’s something in Eagle Flies’ change in demeanor which Arthur can’t shake throughout the lonesome ride back to Shady Belle.

Arthur deposits more than the camp’s usual share of his take; it’s an empty, guilt-ridden gesture.  He really ought to have refused the money, but then he would have to explain to Dutch why he’s doing work gratis.

The rotten floorboards seem to creak with the weight of his conscience as Arthur passes through the house, lost in his thoughts.

John and Abigail take their meal with Jack at their feet.  John’s eye catches Arthur’s through the hole in the wall; Arthur nods.  They ain’t talked about it, but they got an understanding.  John’s forgiven so long as he takes care of his family now; Arthur can’t be pulling him into things that don’t concern him.

Downstairs, Hosea tries to hide another coughing fit.  Though Arthur often seeks out Hosea’s advice in these matters, now doesn’t seem the time – he’s earned his privacy.

Mrs. Adler – Sadie is keen to discuss matters of her own with him; Arthur is in no state of mind to offer his opinion on wholesale slaughter of O’Driscolls, even after his capture.

Beyond the reaches of the camp, Arthur starts thinking more clearly.  Troubled as the situation of the Wapiti is, Rains Fall didn’t ask Arthur for charity.  He offered him a job.  There shouldn’t be any guilt over honest pay for honest work.  And yet…

“I thought the change of the watch wasn’t for another few hours.”

Charles’ footsteps are so soft, Arthur startles at his approach.

“Christ, Charles.  You’re lucky I didn’t pull a gun on you.”

“Probably,” Charles smiles unconcerned.  A silent reminder Arthur never did attempt a sketch of him; he likely wouldn’t get it right anyway.  “So, what are you doing out here?”

Arthur sighs, “Contemplating.”

Charles doesn’t press, but waits for him to explain further and suddenly it all spills out.  Rains Fall and Eagle Flies, this strange mounting guilt on his shoulders that he didn’t do more.

Charles listens with his usual stoicism before letting go of a long exhale.  “How come you sound like you’re apologizing to me?”

“Cause they’re your people,” Arthur says dumbly, wincing.

Shrugging, “I don’t know – they could be, but I don’t think so.”

Not knowing what tribe his mother came from don’t instantly make Charles a member of every tribe they come across, however similarly the U.S. army and government have mistreated them.

Rather than say something else incredibly stupid, Arthur holds his tongue.  Though he can’t hold back the damned awkward, ill-timed cough.

Charles bows his head, “You did them a great service, regardless.  I hate to admit, but it’s more than I’ve ever done for my people, whoever they are.”

Arthur puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder.  “I reckon I don’t fully understand your dilemma, but I do hope you consider us to be your people, Charles.  Cause we sure as Hell count you as one of ours.”

That elicits another grin.  “Some tribe of reprobates and thieves we are.”

“You’re far too generous in your estimations of us.  But even we’ve got a moral code and our loyalties.”

Arthur watches Charles chew his lip as if holding something back; Arthur wishes he wouldn’t.

Over the past months, he’s found he values Charles’ wisdom higher than most.  Arthur would welcome whatever Charles had to say, be it criticism or praise.

But the moment passes and Charles exhales.  “Then I guess I’m stuck with you.”

For his part, Arthur hopes it will be for a long while yet.

----------

One look back is all Charles needs to make up his mind.  They need a diversion.  His chances of losing the Pinkertons are about as good as anyone else, but the bounty on his head isn’t as large as Dutch or Arthur…

Oh, that man.  There’s a new haunted look in Arthur’s eyes; Hosea and Lenny were too great a price to pay for this.

Charles doesn’t give anyone the chance to argue, hooting and hollering.  He runs until his feet sink into muddy water and then lies low until he no longer hears the dogs coming after him.

It’s near dawn when he hitches a ride on a wagon heading towards Catfish Jacksons.  Pleading with the pinking sky, Don’t let this have been for nothing.

The sight of Shady Belle isn’t the relief it ought to be, folk packing up quick as possible.  Not that Charles is much of a sight for sore eyes either, likely looking an absolute fright; the whole camp comes to halt when he comes stumbling down the road.

Miss Grimshaw orders Mary-Beth to clean up the cuts and scrapes he didn’t even realize were bleeding.  Sadie demands to know what happened before he’s even caught his breath.

“I don’t know how, but they were ready for us.”

“Abigail said those bastards killed Hosea –”

“They got Lenny too,” Charles says unthinkingly.

The silence that fills the room is as if all the air were sucked from their lungs.

Sadie swallows first and keeps on pressing, “What about the others?  Where are they?”

Charles shakes his head, unable to meet Sadie’s eye.  He’s already buried so many of the gang; Sean, Davey, Jenny – Kieran’s grave is still fresh in the field nearby.

Karen, of all people, jumps to his defense, though her slurred words detract from the sentiment somewhat, “Leave off him, Sadie!”

Sadie snatches the bottle away from Karen, pressing it into Charles’ hands.

More emphatically, “What the hell happened to the others?”

For once, Charles welcomes the whiskey’s stiff burn.  “If all went according to plan, they got on that boat and are coming back for the rest of us in a few weeks.”

“We ain’t got a few weeks.  We’ve got to get out of here now.”

Charles is inclined to agree with her.  “So long as the Pinkertons have got John, then they very well know where we are.”

“John’s not dead?” Abigail’s voice catches.  Charles didn’t even realize she was listening.

“Not yet at least.”  He wishes he had better news for her – for any of them.

Best they can do for themselves now is to keep moving then find out what else they can.

“Where were you planning on heading?”

Sadie’s got a hard look in her eye, “Strauss had an idea, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

She’s not wrong, but a plan is a plan; Lakay will have to do, even if it situates them too close to Saint Denis.

Charles waves Mary-Beth off, there’ll be time for healing once their settled.  For now, there’s work to be done.  They’ve got to keep a close eye on the borders, finish packing up camp, and make sure the roads are clear.

Charles is lending Pearson a hand loading the last of the wagons when another thought occurs to him.  He finds Sadie back inside, hunkered over the table.

“How do you intend for them to find us when they get back?”

With a flourish of her pen, she slides the paper she was working on to Charles.  “Leaving one here, dropping some at the post office.  Hopefully it ain’t too obvious.”

Impressed, “You’ve thought of just about everything.”

“Somebody has to with the others gone.”

Charles flinches.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, honey.  Even if you hadn’t of come back, we’d still be in this predicament.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad your back.  I just wish that –”

“That it had been Arthur.”

Sadie chews the inside of her cheek.

“I know what you mean,” Charles admits.  It’s almost a relief to say it out loud.

If it had been Arthur who’d walked through that door there would be a feeling of reassurance, some authority they knew they could all follow.

Instead, they got him.  Charles supposes they find him trustworthy enough, but he doesn’t exactly inspire universal confidence the way Arthur does – the way Sadie is taking charge.

She pats his shoulder, “You and I are gonna make the best of this, Charles, for everybody.”

----------

Arthur’s not entirely sure he didn’t swallow the whole damn ocean the way he’s been incapable of breathing.

“You’re imaging things, Arthur,” Dutch tells him.  “It’s this humidity.  It’s worse than Shady Belle.”

“You still want to go to Tahiti?”

Dutch glares at him, “Tahiti is an incomparable paradise.  Not some festering, stinking –”

Arthur interrupts him with another coughing fit.

Dutch expression softens, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, “Get some rest, dear boy.  I’ll have a plan soon.”

“Whatever you say, Dutch,” he wheezes, leaning his head back against the warm rock.

Dutch leaves Arthur to his thoughts, settling around a makeshift fire with Bill and Micah, trying to figure how to get Javier back.

But there ain’t no rest here; Arthur’s face blisters under the blazing sun and his chest aches more than his skin.  In closing his eyes, he sees Hosea in a pool of his own blood, Lenny with a hole clean through his head, Charles vanishing into the darkness…

His chest seizes up again.  Damn tropical air.

There ain’t been time to mourn them, let alone speak with Dutch about it.  Though he supposes that’ll have to wait until they’ve left this Godforsaken island and are back with the rest of the gang – if there’s even a gang to get back to.

He still don’t understand how John got caught and Abigail – he’s got no notion what’s become of her.  He knows the girls will look after Jack, but the thought of that boy losing both his parents in one day – he has to stop himself from working himself up about it.

If he can’t rest then he must save what strength he has left or Micah will see to it he’s left behind next.

They should’ve stayed and fought.  Chance or no chance of making it out alive, at least it would’ve been more dignified death than languishing away here with all their money lying at the bottom of the ocean.  If only Charles hadn’t –

Arthur can’t finish the thought.  Hosea, John, and Lenny’s lives are too much too bear already; a father and two brothers.  He won’t accept that Charles threw his life away for nothing.

Though it’s almost assuredly a lie, Arthur tells himself Charles made it back to camp.  And if Charles can make it against all odds, so can they.

Dutch’ll come up with a plan – he always does, especially when their lives depend on it.  But now Arthur better understands there’s no accounting for outside forces.

There’s no fighting an oncoming storm, but just maybe they can outrun it.

----------

It’s undignified, slinging Hosea’s corpse over his shoulder to carry it out of the prison yard, but it’s what must be done.  Sadie doesn’t have any easier a time with Lenny.

Once they’re back at the wagon, they lay their fallen companions down gently, side by side.

Abigail rejoins them near an hour later.  Charles don’t have the heart to make either of the ladies sit in the back, handing the reins to Sadie.  Climbing into the cart, Charles is careful not to get any mud on the corpses.  He still can’t believe they’re gone.

Hosea – Charles looked up to the man, Hosea brought him into the fold, looked out for him, and respected him in return.  Lenny – Charles didn’t know the boy as well as he should have, but to die so young – it’s a waste.  It was all a waste.

He didn’t shed tears for Kieran or Sean, keenly as their losses were felt by others.  Any he might’ve shed after Blackwater would’ve all frozen from the cold in Colter.  But for Hosea and Lenny – Charles wipes his face on his sleeve.

Back in Lakay, Charles mutters softly to Sadie, “I’m going to look for a place to give them a proper burial.”

“Should I send the reverend to help you?”

Charles shakes his head; he’d rather be alone.

There’s no burying ground or quiet hill or pasture for miles, but Charles finds a patch of solid ground large enough for a pair of graves, side by side.

The reverend recites a passage of pretty words, though the gang is hardly comforted by them.

The men bow their heads and most of the ladies are crying.  Miss Grimshaw doesn’t, but her tough exterior is broken by the tremble of her lip; Charles supposes she knew Hosea the longest outside of Dutch.  Jack tosses flowers into the open graves.

Filling their graves, Charles feels numb and hollow.  It’s not just the loss sinking into his chest but the uncertain fate of Arthur and the others.  He goes to wipe the sweat from his brow only to find silent tears once more.

Neither Trelawny, nor Strauss says a thing when he returns to the men’s shared shack about his raw eyes.

“One of you have a razor I can borrow?”

“Whatever for, dear boy?”  Trelawny questions the odd request, but retrieves one from his pack.

Ignoring him, “You got a mirror?”

“There ought to be one in Arthur’s trunk.”

In the corner, Arthur’s possessions have remained untouched.

Charles finds the shaving mirror and sets in on top of the trunk, kneeling before it.  He partitions his hair and poises the blade against his skin but hesitates.

He’s seen this in practice, a long time ago, but never done it himself.  Not even after his mother was captured, but he was so young back then, so unsure of what her fate had been.  It is long overdue on her behalf, a symbol of his deep sorrow at the splintering of the gang and for those whose fate is still unknown to them.

With a deep breath, Charles shaves away the hair at the sides of his head.  It’s none too clean, nicking himself a few times, but it’s done.  He braids what remains.

Charles tosses the sheared locks on the fire and watches them burn.

“Want some help with that?”  Miss Grimshaw watches him, letting her cigarette burn down.

“It’s fine.”

She snorts, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Miss Grimshaw makes short work of the hard-to-reach areas, silently chastising Charles for rejecting her help.  He supposes he’s not the only one who feels the need to make himself useful.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t think nothing of it.  You’re not the first of these boys I’ve had to make sure didn’t look like animals.  John always put up a right fuss, but Arthur, he –”

She chokes down a sob; Miss Grimshaw’s grief palpable.  It might as well be a foregone conclusion: John will hang and Arthur and the others are lost at sea.

The days are long in Lakay, but the nights are somehow longer; Charles hardly sleeps, Pearson’s snores seem to rattle the whole shack.

He loses count of the days since Saint Denis.  He wanders further north, entangling himself with the Wapiti, acting as a mercenary on their behalf.  All the while, trying to keep the gang safe and together, though there’s no accounting for Molly’s absence.

Karen drunkenly mutters, “Good riddance.”

That starts a fight with Mary-Beth, telling Karen she don’t mean that; Karen insisting she do.  Sadie silences them with a bullet in the air.

After that, things stay pretty quiet.

That is until Micah comes hollering into camp like he rose from the dead.  Tensions were high enough in the camp already without his presence, but his return does signify the work of some miracle or another: they survived.

Micah’s not been back two minutes before Sadie slams him against the side of a hovel, “Where are the others?  Dutch and Arthur, why are they not with you?”

“Relax, woman.  All part of Dutch’s grand plan – we came ashore separately.  I imagine they’ll be washing up on your doorstep any time now.”

Surprising no one, he has very little care for how they all fared in the interim.

Javier returns a few hours later, hungry and bedraggled.  He at least asks after John.

With two more mouths to feed, Pearson and Abigail get to work fixing something to eat.  Charles finds the hovel overcrowded.

Out back, Charles leans on the rail of the dock.  He doesn’t mind the rain so much, what he can’t take is the anticipation of it any more.  He’s of a mind to ride out and search for the remainder of their gang – for Arthur.

There’s another uproar from within.  Charles peers back inside and, for a moment, he doesn’t recognize the new arrival.

But behind the unkempt beard, Arthur still has the same piercing blue eyes.

Charles’ heart has never been more glad.

Chapter Text

Burying his face in Charles’ shoulder somehow makes it all real – he’s back, they survived.

All too quickly Charles pulls away, but he’s wearing the broadest, true smile Arthur’s ever seen on his face.  He’s home.

The Pinkertons are a nasty surprise to their homecoming, but dealt with thanks to Sadie’s quick wits and faster action.  Arthur is badly winded by the end of it.

“I just need a bit of rest,” he waves off Sadie and Abigail’s looks of concern.

Charles follows unusually close as Arthur makes his way to the men’s hovel and falls onto a bedroll he ain’t even sure is his.

It’s late when he wakes the next day, though near impossible to tell through the thick fog.

Arthur finds his trunk in the corner, shaving mirror perched on top, catching a glance of himself for the first time in weeks.  It’s worse than an unruly beard; his eyes are sunken and bloodshot, his hair matted and unwashed.

Arthur sighs and sets to grooming himself, washing away the salt and seawater of Guarma.  He regrets the shaving as soon as it’s done; the beard at least would’ve hidden his shallow cheeks and blistered face.  As if he weren’t ugly enough to begin with.

Most folk are already up and clearing away the rubble of last night’s battle.  It’s only Bill who sleeps later than Arthur, but he ain’t the only one absent.

“Where’s Dutch?”

“Paying his respects,” Tilly points in a direction beyond Lakay’s borders.  “I could show you if you like.”

Faced with the choice, Arthur’s not so sure he’s ready to say goodbye.  He’s lost a father and a brother already, he ain’t gonna lose another, not if Sadie has anything to say about it.

Only when Arthur opens his mouth to answer, he is overcome by hacking and wheezing.  Tilly frets, offering him water or a seat.  Arthur declines with a shake of his head until he’s able to regain his composure.

“I’m alright, Miss Tilly.  I’m gonna meet Mrs. Adler in town.  I’ll see them another time.”

Tilly eyes him warily.  Arthur’s sure she’s the reason Charles joins him by the horses as he takes stock of his saddlebags.

Irritated, “I told Tilly – I’m fine.”

“Course you are,” Charles agrees, but don’t leave him alone.

Arthur takes another look at Charles.  What happened in Saint Denis took its toll on everyone, but Charles looks well enough, if hardened by the past weeks; the shorn sides of his head accentuate the effect.

Arthur supposes he should be grateful Charles is alive and didn’t get himself captured or killed in his escape, instead Arthur is frustrated by his own inaction.

Absently, Arthur mumbles, “You shouldn’t have risked your neck like that.”

Charles don’t meet his eye.  “I did what I had to.  I don’t regret it, if that means you made it.”

Arthur is stunned by Charles’ forceful earnestness.  He still don’t agree it were the right thing to do, but he don’t know how they would’ve escaped otherwise.

At least they are spared an awkward silence as Arthur is overcome yet again.  This one near doubles him over.

“Arthur?” Charles stands over him, grabbing him by the arm.  “You sure you’re alright?”

“It’s this damned climate.”  He tries to brush Charles off, but his grip is firm.  “I’ll be fine.”

Charles clearly don’t believe him, but lets go.  “Ride safe.”

Arthur heaves himself into the saddle, taking nearly all his strength to do it.  He’s determined not to look back as he rides off.

Being back in Saint Denis is strange, both familiar and foreign all at once.  He remembers most streets well enough, though he don’t exactly know them by name, resulting in him getting turned around on his way to meet Sadie.

The dusty streets irritate his cough further.  Arthur practically chokes on it, forcing him down from his horse.  It’s as bad on the road and getting worse as the trolly rolls by.  Arthur collapses onto the tracks.

He don’t know the gentleman who drags him by the foot off the rail, but the gentleman leads him to a doctor.  It’s the same familiar and foreign sensation as he falls into the chair; Arthur’s been here before, only he don’t recall the details of the occasion.

The doctor’s diagnosis hits with the force of a shotgun shell.  Arthur’s dying – there ain’t nothing else for it.

He’s always known he was riding a road to Hell.  He weren’t the only one aware of it neither; Hosea saw what lay ahead as clear as any of them.  Only Arthur always thought it would be a bullet that would be the end of him, not some long, protracted illness.  Arthur would rather the bullet.

Arthur can’t leave the office quick enough, but the streets are no more welcoming as whatever the doctor injected him with begins to course through his veins.

A buck crosses his path. A buck, in the middle of the city.

He never set much store by signs, but if ever there were a sign he were damned, this surely would be it; it don’t belong here anymore than Arthur does.

Against his better judgement, Arthur follows it.

He loses track of the buck outside Doyle’s Tavern, where Sadie awaits him.

He really ought to have asked more questions about how she planned to save John’s skin before agreeing to help.  His stomach lifts with Arturo’s balloon and for an instant, Arthur fears he might fall prey to another fit, but it ain’t the TB which causes him to lose his breath this time.

Arthur thought the world seemed so much smaller and so much larger from atop Mount Hagan, but from the air – it ain’t quite Heaven, but just maybe that buck weren’t leading him to Hell just yet after all.

The sight’s almost enough to make him forget his purpose, but they are hovering above Sisika soon enough and Arthur sets sights on John.  Arthur ain’t usually an optimistic person, but he feels something almost akin to hope, only for his pessimism to be proven warranted on the way back down.

He has to wonder if Sadie knows how to not get herself into trouble whenever she’s left to her own devices, though he knows the answer is far less complicated than that.  She redirects their conversation to being about John again.  They got their confirmation; now they just need a plan.

Arthur falls back on what he has always relied on, “Dutch will have a plan –”

“Dutch ain’t himself.  When it were you, he didn’t hesitate and you know it.  Why’s it any different now it’s Marston in trouble?”

Deep in his bones, Arthur knows she’s right, but he don’t believe Dutch ain’t trying to come up with something.  John’s been with them too long for Dutch to let him swing from a hangman’s noose.

Dutch is back in Lakay when Arthur returns, though he don’t seem all there.  He accuses Arthur of sounding like Hosea, if only he were listening to Arthur the way he did Hosea.

Arthur coughs, each one another nail in his coffin, but he don’t have it in him to tell Dutch; not when Dutch is hurting this way, missing Hosea, not when he’s relying on Arthur to find the gang their next safe haven.

To Arthur’s relief, Dutch instructs him to take Charles along.

Charles answers Arthur’s call with fervency.  “Always.”

There is a trueness to Charles’ voice that convinces Arthur that Charles would follow him into Hell if Arthur asked it of him.  Arthur don’t think he could ask it of Charles, though they always seem to raise enough of their own.

Charles were right about the Murfree Brood – as nasty a bunch as Arthur has ever met.  He don’t feel the slightest remorse in driving them out of the cave.  Especially not after they find the girl; Meredith trembles like a spooked filly until she is safe in her mother’s arms.

Arthur don’t much feel like he deserves either the reward from Meredith’s mother nor Charles’ approving glance when he runs into Mrs. Downes yet again.

Her dejected client pushes past Arthur; Arthur feels lower than ever before.

----------

Charles has burned enough corpses to know the smell is never pleasant; Molly’s pyre is worse, like the gin on her breath as she waged her personal war against Dutch.

He would’ve rather found a quiet place to bury Molly, but this is how they dispose of enemies’ remains.  That doesn’t change simply because they knew Molly – because she was one of them.

‘Traitor’ Miss Grimshaw called her, but all Charles can see is how disposable they all are to Dutch.

A fact that only grows more apparent when Arthur and Sadie bring John back.  Arthur and Dutch have never been at odds like this, dividing the gang.

Charles uses the fissure to slip away to the reservation.  Half the gang likely doesn’t even notice he’s missing; the other half may, but say nothing for having heavier weights on their minds than his tenuous loyalty.

Charles doesn’t think he would even care if it was discovered he was going behind Dutch’s back.

There is no shortage of work to be done on the reservation; tending the sick, hunting, repairing tents.  In return, they welcome him to partake in their ceremonies; Charles declines each time but the offer stands.

Though he does not participate, Charles observes, dwelling on the faded memories of his mother’s tribe.  They flicker in the flames of the fire, but do not fully return.  These customs may not have been her own, but is the closest Charles has felt to her in years.

Rains Fall inquires as to Charles’ interest in their customs and Charles tells him all he can remember.  Rains Fall listens with quiet attentiveness.

As much as Charles unburdens himself of his past, he does not tell the chief of what else troubles his mind.  The gang, Dutch, Arthur; Rains Fall shouldn’t have to bear responsibility for them too, but they weigh on Charles more each day he spends in camp, Arthur particularly.

He can’t be the only one who sees how haggard Arthur’s grown of late.  Riding in and out of camp at odd hours, he’s not working on any jobs Charles can speak to, but neither is he returning empty handed.

The sapphire bracelet barely covers a fraction of their missing coffers.  Once fenced, Arthur ensures the proceeds are put to supplies.

“So much for the Braithwaite treasure,” he murmurs to Charles.

Charles silently wonders if Arthur might benefit from Rains Fall’s wisdom as well.

Though his other travels are less lucrative, but Charles notes how they lift Arthur’s spirits.

“You should join us when we go fishing sometime,” he offers, telling Charles of a one-legged veteran he met.

“I’m not much of a fisherman,” Charles begs off.

He must be some kind of fool to think Arthur looks disappointed, but he already gave his word to Rains Fall.  Mounting Taima, Charles overhears Mary-Beth telling Arthur that Dutch and Micah await him in Annesburg.

Charles can’t help but glance back, puzzled how Dutch can still summon Arthur so, he doesn’t mean to catch Arthur’s eye; weary and drained, there is little of the brightness Charles has come to know.  He nods as if to tell Charles to go before he gets roped in as well.

On the reservation, Charles assists the tanner in skinning the kills from their most recent hunt when Paytah rides in like a wild fire.

“Leviticus Cornwall is dead!”

The news sends the camp into an uproar, everyone asking the same questions: Is it true?  How?

“Shootout on the docks in Annesburg!”

Charles braces himself against the butcher’s table, his blood running cold.  He doesn’t have to ask who was involved; it couldn’t be anyone else.

Around him speculation begins and hopes rise.  With Cornwall gone, there’s no pressure on the government to relocate them again, the army will back off.

Through the commotion, Rains Fall remains subdued.  Noticing Charles’ shock, he places a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Promise me, no matter what comes of this, you will not take up arms on our behalf.”

“Sir –”

“Please listen, Charles.  I do not know if this dispute can be settled over a negotiation table, but I am certain it will end in defeat on a battlefield.  Any violence will only aggravate the issue.”

Nodding stiffly, he has always avoided violence where he could, but he understands Eagle Flies’ frustration at being told to sit idly by in the face of everything.

Rains Fall firms his grip on Charles’ shoulder, “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, but I have come to think of you as a member of my tribe and I hope you can lead my son by example.”

Charles inhales sharply.  He doesn’t know how to tell Rains Fall what it means to hear him claim Charles as one of his own or how to explain the pull he has felt in two separate directions of late.

He thinks he could find belonging among the Wapiti.  Perhaps they were his mother’s tribe, likely not, but Rains Fall has accepted him and maybe that’s enough.  It certainly seemed that way when Hosea brought him into the fold.

But try as he might, Charles cannot will himself cut the tether which binds him to the Van der Linde gang.  There are still good people among them and Charles cannot abandon them and leave them to the wolves.  He knows there are more, but Charles thinks only of Arthur.

Any action he takes on behalf of the Wapiti, whether he is a member of the tribe or of the gang, all anyone will see is his skin and they will use it as an excuse to come down on the Wapiti with a heavy fist and call it justice.

Charles makes his promise to Rains Fall and another to himself to find other means to further their cause.

----------

Arthur don’t trust the glint in Dutch’s eye as he looks over Eagle Flies.

Even in retreat and especially when his back is up against a wall, Dutch’s silver tongue has been known to be lethal.

Charles looks helplessly to Arthur, his hands bound in a promise to Rains Fall.  Arthur ain’t so sure what he can do to stop this, but he can at least make sure Eagle Flies gets back to his father.

As they ride, Arthur feels Dutch’s eyes bore into the back of his head.

If this is how Hosea felt positioning himself between them and Dutch’s ill tempers for all them years, Arthur don’t know how he did it.  He don’t like being on the wrong side of Dutch, but all he’s hearing is a lot of nonsense he don’t agree with and can’t fight.

Looking ahead, he fears Charles is having about the same amount of success getting through to Eagle Flies.  Stubborn fools, the pair of them.

They wait on the shore for dark.  Dutch and Eagle Flies reviewing their plan with Paytah.

Charles keeps his voice hushed, “I’m coming with you.”

“What about your promise to Rains Fall?”

“I said I would not fight – I didn’t say I wouldn’t keep Eagle Flies safe.”

Arthur will admit he feels better having Charles at his side as they climb over the side of the boat, but he can’t help feeling Charles is toeing a fine line.

He ain’t even thinking of Charles’ promise to Rains Fall anymore, at least not in terms of Charles going back on his word.  He’s worried how Dutch will perceive this new allegiance to the chief, what it will mean for Charles’ place in the gang.

After rescuing John, the word ‘traitor’ rung in Arthur’s ear like a death knell, though Dutch never uttered it.  But Charles’ position ain’t ever been as secure as his or John’s and Dutch ain’t likely to refrain again.  Should it come to it, it pains Arthur to know where he’ll stand; he ain’t gonna watch anyone else die for this madness.

Yet somehow, Charles’ disloyalty has turned into the greatest asset of Dutch’s new plan and he redirects his anger at Arthur, dangling a test of loyalty before Arthur: Colm’s hanging.

Arthur knows he must go, but it’s been weeks since he could work himself into a hot-blooded rage over their rival gang.  What’s more, Dutch knows it.  Just as he must know that this borders on getting revenge and all them things he taught Arthur separated them from the O’Driscolls.

For Sadie’s sake, if for no other reason, Arthur must go.  He must ensure she gets the justice she deserves for her husband and don’t get any ideas about enacting vengeance for herself.

Charles don’t make any move to follow Dutch and Eagle Flies back to the reservation with the horses.

He looks at Arthur with a deep concern, for once in these recent weeks Arthur ain’t convinced is on account of him.  It don’t mean Arthur can ignore the desperate apprehension in his tone as he asks Arthur to speak with Rains Fall.

Though Charles don’t make requests lightly, Arthur cannot bring himself to immediately go to the chief.  Arthur tastes iron in his mouth as he promises Charles he’ll go after the hanging.

He cannot ride away quick enough to disguise the oncoming coughing fit.  Safely out of Charles’ view, Arthur spits blood on the ground; he don’t need to give Charles any more cause for concern.

It’s a long ride to Saint Denis, one that only takes longer as Arthur tries to rest up.  Only it ain’t so easy when the thoughts in his head won’t settle: Dutch, the Wapiti, Charles.

A ringing bell finally pulls Arthur out of his own head; Sister Calderón smiles as she asks alms for the poor.  However briefly, making a donation lightens Arthur’s heart.

Meeting up with Dutch and Sadie, Arthur wishes he’d gotten here sooner.  Sadie’s already in her cups; Dutch is railing, evoking Annabelle’s memory in a way that makes Arthur’s jaw set.  He didn’t love Annabelle the way Dutch did, but she were family as much as Molly were.  This isn’t what she would’ve wanted, but there’s no convincing Dutch of that.

He’ll admit Dutch’s fears weren’t unfounded that Colm’s boys would be here, trying to save his neck, but he don’t prevent Sadie from turning the whole affair into a bloodbath.  Arthur swears under his breath as he clears the way for their escape.

There ain’t no rendezvous with Dutch and Sadie after.  Arthur heads toward Butcher Creek on his own, still stewing on the hanging.

Colm is – was just another remnant of the old days and they as good as killed him.

He rides on to Beaver Hollow, head spinning with newfound sympathy for Colm O’Driscoll.

Camp ain’t the refuge it used to be.  If folk ain’t glaring at each other, they’re giving each other long wearisome looks.  Arthur can’t escape sidelong glances each time he draws a long, rattling breath.

He ain’t back two minutes when Tilly finds him, asking after the hanging.  He honestly don’t know what to tell her.  Reluctantly, she hands him a letter from Mary, which he grabs too eagerly in turn.

God, what a fool he is that his heart still leaps at the thought of that woman.

It don’t take a moment to recognize the ring that falls out of the parcel and his heart plummets like a stone.

In the chaos, he forgot his promise to run away and left her in Saint Denis without so much as a sign he would come back for her.  It’s too late for that, on more accounts than one.

For once, Mary’s words don’t confuse or confound him.  Arthur takes her full meaning: there can be no life for them together – maybe there never was…

Perhaps, maybe, some day – they were all excuses to deny him anything he ever wanted for himself.  They all ring so hollow now he don’t have much time left.

He barely glances at the enclosed portrait, tucking it and the letter into his journal.  He don’t need the reminder of the days when they were young and hopeful; them soft dreams they shared were never more than just that – dreams.

Arthur lays on his back, staring at his tent canvas, unable to rest yet again.  He’s said ‘goodbye’ to Mary so many times; this might be the first time he’s heard it from her.

----------

Charles follows Dutch and Eagle Flies back to the reservation, unsure if he can prevent Dutch from sowing dangerous ideas in Eagle Flies’ head.  Charles didn’t think Dutch would try to sway Rains Fall too.

Dutch talks, likening the tribe’s troubles to those of the gang.  Rains Fall listens in stern silence; whether he buys a word of it, is impossible to say.

Frustrated by his unproductive attempts to charm the chief, Dutch makes his excuses and takes his leave.  He passes Charles without acknowledgement.

Rains Fall beckons Charles.  “I did not know your friend, Mr. Van der Linde, had any interest in our cause.  Though I do not believe he fully understands the delicacy of the matter.”

“Interest is one word for it,” Charles mutters.

“How do you mean –”

“Charles!  Time to go!” Dutch summons him from atop The Count.  Impressive a figure as Dutch once seemed to Charles, he seems small and petty now, but he doesn’t linger at Rains Fall’s side.

Dutch doesn’t wait for Charles to be properly in the saddle before taking off at a breakneck pace.  Charles urges Taima to keep up, leaving some distance between them until The Count rears to a sudden halt.

Narrowly avoiding a collision with Dutch.  “What the Hell are you doing?”

“What am I doing?  What are you doing?  Going behind my back, making alliances with folks I can’t be sure of.  Or did you forget about loyalty too?”

Charles knew the ice beneath him and Dutch was thin, but now he hears it cracking.  One wrong move and he’ll be plunged into the icy depths.  Unable to address Dutch’s accusations, Charles sets his jaw.

Clicking his tongue, “You’re lucky I was able to salvage something out of your blunder.  Get back to camp and stay there.”

He turns The Count south toward Saint Denis.

After Colm’s hanging, Dutch keeps a closer eye on Charles.  At any given moment, Bill or Javier watch him, waiting for him to step out of line.  He supposes he’s lucky Micah is too preoccupied to dog him.

As if the smell of hooch on Karen weren’t enough of a reminder of Molly’s pyre to keep him in camp and away from the reservation; Charles has no intention of letting Dutch lead Eagle Flies into some rash plan.

Charles rubs his temples, disbelieving the thoughts in his own head.  If Dutch wants to use Eagle Flies in the manner Charles suspects he does, his presence won’t stop Dutch one way or another.

He has to hope whatever Arthur says to Rains Fall will be enough of a warning – that it will get through to Eagle Flies.

Only Arthur rides east, not west, when he next sets out from camp and Charles cannot bring himself to remind Arthur of his promise.

It’s Sadie who catches Charles’ eye as they watch him leave.

“He’s gonna work hisself into a Goddamn grave,” her voice cracks.

Charles won’t argue, but neither can he bring himself to agree.  Arthur’s breathing’s not getting any better, but he’s seemed more lost than anything else since Colm O’Driscoll’s hanging.

Arthur’s been going through the motions of what he’s supposed to do – what’s expected of him, but his heart isn’t in it.  Charles suspects Arthur’s devotion to the gang has been waning for longer than he or anyone else could guess, except for maybe John.

On the ridge overlooking the river, John watches over Jack playing by himself in the weeds.  He is a different man from the one Charles met; no longer indecisive and equivocating, but resolute and protective.

If Arthur’s part in rescuing John from Sisika meant anything, Charles’ guess would be that he’s finally forgiven John for leaving all them years ago.

If he hasn’t – well, Charles has to ask somebody.

Swallowing his nerves, “How’s Arthur seem to you?”

John’s jaw clenches, “Tired and tense – like the rest of us.  How’s he seem to you?”

“Like he’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Wouldn’t you?  I don’t mean it as a judgement – most folk would rather be rid of this place.  At least you’ve got a place to run.”

Charles hates that John is right.  If he wanted to, he could take up Rains Fall on his offer, leave, and never look back.  He wishes things were so simple for everyone else.

But twenty years Arthur’s devoted to Dutch, to this gang – it is no easy thing for him to choose to abandon.  John, at least has Abigail and Jack, but where would they go?  There’s nowhere safe for any of them to hide while this all blows over, not unless they scatter to the winds.

Rain comes down through the trees and John calls Jack back to the tent.

There isn’t much other activity in camp anymore.  What little supplies there were have been all but used up.  Charles doesn’t see much point to guard duty when there’s nothing more to guard, but volunteers for the post, so much as it keeps the eyes off his back.

He hears galloping hoof steps before he recognizes the rider.  Arthur’s hat is pulled so low over his eyes, Charles can barely see his face; it isn’t until Arthur’s right on top of him that Charles can see how angry Arthur is.

It isn’t long before the whole camp knows it too.  Arthur shouts and threatens Strauss, tossing money at his feet as he throws Strauss out into the cold.

Quick as it happened, it’s over and Arthur succumbs to a coughing fit in full view of everyone.

Charles steps toward him, but Tilly and Mary-Beth are nearer to help him to his cot.

Not that Charles had any particular attachment to the man, but it’s hardly as if debt collection is an unfamiliar occupation to Arthur.  Charles wonders what could’ve angered Arthur so to expel Strauss from the camp and further hasten the gang’s splintering.

His watch over, Charles’ thoughts won’t settle and he finds himself pacing outside Arthur’s tent.

“Something on your mind, Charles?”

His head snaps up, startled.  “You should be resting.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “You’re the one lingering outside my tent.”

Charles doesn’t have a response, merely drops his gaze to the ground.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll speak with Rains Fall – I haven’t forgotten,” Arthur assures him.

A weight lifts from his shoulders, but still Charles hovers – same reason he hasn’t left the gang himself yet: Arthur.  Charles can’t bear the thought of what Sadie said being true and him having contributed to that burden.

“I shouldn’t have asked that of you.  It was –”

“I said I would and I will.”

Charles holds his tongue.  It won’t do Arthur any good to waste his strength arguing.

Nodding, “Alright, Arthur.”

“Now don’t take that tone with me,” Arthur groans.

“What tone?”

“Like I need coddling.”

Charles snorts, unable to suppress the flicker of a grin.  How just like Arthur to make a fuss over being looked after.  Arthur even manages to cracks a smile, pained and tired though it may be.

Drowsily, “Don’t you start worrying about me too.”

Standing watch as Arthur drifts to sleep, Charles murmurs, “Too late, I’m afraid.”

----------

He didn’t intend to visit Hamish, but it were on his way to the reservation, and well, Arthur needs to clear his head.

Though Isaac’s rarely ever been far from his mind, Arthur ain’t been able to stop thinking about him since he laid eyes on Arthur Londonderry’s boy.

He were about that age when he – he would’ve been about ten now…

Arthur’d bet Isaac would’ve liked fishing with Hamish.  Hunting, Arthur ain’t so sure, but riding, Arthur would’ve liked teaching him how to ride.

Thinking on Isaac makes Arthur slow on the draw when they come across them wolves.  At least Hamish is quick enough, giving Arthur the time to recover and help him finish off the rest of the pack.

“You was miles away for a moment there, friend.”

His heart’s still pounding, “Suppose that ought to be a lesson to me.”

Hamish laughs heartily, “That hunting and daydreaming don’t mix?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Until next time,” Hamish claps Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur’s still got no notion what he can say or do for Rains Fall, but he made Charles a promise and he don’t intend to break it.

The reservation isn’t what Arthur expected; cramped and dirty, the sick outnumber the well.  He has often heard the Wapiti called a proud people, but this is not how the prideful live; they live as though already defeated.

Arthur cannot shake their long, vacant stares.  Ducking into Rains Fall’s tent does not shield him from them.  The air is thick and close in the tent, making it all the more difficult for Arthur to breathe.

Rains Fall shames Arthur for participating in Eagle Flies’ raid and Arthur don’t dare defend himself.  The consequences were as much his doing as the army’s or Dutch’s.

He ain’t sure if Rains Fall asks him to accompany him on a ride out of pity or because he wishes to continue their talk in private, but he is grateful to be in the open air once more.

They haven’t reached their horses when a uniformed officer comes riding in.  Captain Monroe don’t bring good news: the mayor and Bureau of Indian Affairs have approved the oil company’s plan to drill on the reservation.

Arthur don’t need any persuasion to agree to help Captain Monroe.  Whatever the task may be, the Wapiti have suffered and been humiliated enough.

Alone on the path with Rains Fall, Arthur still don’t know quite how to start this conversation.

He is at a loss what to do about Eagle Flies; he wishes he could do more than warn Rains Fall of Dutch’s intentions, but he simply don’t know what Dutch has planned.  Yet somehow, Rains Fall puts Arthur at ease to speak of Dutch in such a manner and when they are silent, he don’t feel judged for his doubts.

Riding higher into the mountains, the country stretches out vast and wide below them.  A breeze rustles the brim of Arthur’s hat.

“You know, I had a son once.”

Arthur don’t know what’s overcome him.  He talks more about Isaac and Eliza than he ever did to anyone while they were alive.  He tells Rains Fall of how bright Isaac was and how young and hopeful Eliza were and how he shoulda done right by them.

An ugly sob is choked in his throat by a cough.  He shouldn’t unburden himself on the older man so; the chief has greater concerns than a dying outlaw who’ll likely do more harm than good before his time is up.

But Rains Fall listens with continued tranquility nonetheless, and sensing how the conversation distresses him, explains how the herbs he’s collecting will ease Arthur’s suffering.  Grateful as he is, Arthur fears Rains Fall’s efforts are wasted on him.

It ain’t until they reach the summit and the desecrated ruins of the shrine that it occurs to Arthur why Rains Fall asked Arthur to accompany him.  Arthur sees it in Rains Fall’s anguish, the old man is lonely.  He’s done everything in his power to protect his people from extinction, but still the world he knows is fading before his eyes.

Arthur won’t say it’s the same; he can only imagine a small measure of Rains Fall’s despair, but he understands loneliness.

Rains Fall offered him comfort and aid with no expectation of anything in exchange; retrieving his sacred objects is the least Arthur can do.  It is more difficult than Arthur imagined to recover the Chanupa without injuring anyone, but he walks away standing taller.

They don’t speak much on the ride back down the mountain, leaving them each to their own thoughts; Arthur’s turn to Isaac and Eliza once more.

It won’t be long now until he joins them in the ground, but someone ought to remember there were once a young boy, called Isaac and his momma, Eliza.  Him – him the world can forget.  He ain’t never done anything worth remembering, but them – they deserved better.

Still as Arthur departs the reservation, he cannot help but think on who might remember there were once a man called Arthur Morgan and what they might say.

Dutch – Dutch from before might remember all them years Arthur devoted to his dream of living free.  John, Arthur hopes, will learn from his mistakes and make a better life for himself and Abigail and Jack.  He knows all too well the pain Sadie endures, outliving their loved ones, maybe she’ll find the peace he never could.  And Charles –

Arthur don’t know which side of him Charles will think on after he’s long passed.  God knows, Charles ain’t always seen his best self.

So lost in thought he were, Arthur doesn’t recognize the trail beneath his horse’s hooves.  Worse, Arthur finds himself intruding on someone else’s grief.

Charlotte Balfour don’t so much remind Arthur of Sadie in her recent widowhood nor even Mary in her fine manners, but of Eliza.  She has the strength of will she needs to survive, she just lacks the necessary skills to do it.

Arthur watches closely as Charlotte gets her soft hands dirty for possibly the first time in her life and smiles approvingly at her success.  She glows with excitement.

In another time – in another life, Arthur might’ve considered Charlotte beautiful.  Not that she ain’t pretty, but he don’t feel himself drawn to her in that way; she appears to him the ghost of so many he’s loved and lost.

He closes his eyes to blot out the vision, only for another to appear.

A faint smile lights a pair of dark eyes.  Charles.

Excusing himself, Arthur retreats to the river.  He splashes his face with cold water to shake him from his reverie, only it don’t wash away his thoughts of Charles.

Arthur wonders how long Charles has been standing right in front of him; blinded by bygone dreams.  He don’t believe he’s ever met anyone quite like Charles: steady and true, challenging him to be a better man even if he don’t know how.

He is almost certain Charles’ unyielding loyalty proves he feels the same.  Only it’s too late.

What purpose would there be in telling Charles how he feels when there is no hope of starting something new?  Or perhaps his loyalty is just that, Arthur tells himself as he runs the risk of presuming too much.

Resting his head against a tree, Arthur laments what a fool he’s been.  If Charles remembers anything of him after he’s gone, he hopes they will be good memories.

Charles deserves that – he deserves to be happy as much as any of them.

----------

There is a marked change in Arthur when he returns from his conversation with Rains Fall.

He doesn’t immediately tell Charles how it went, but it’s obvious from the way he holds his head higher and walks with his back and shoulders straighter.  His cough has even subsided some.

With little else to give them hope these days, it is hard not take this as a sign their luck is finally changing.

Arthur leads Charles away from prying ears.  “I’ve warned Rains Fall – it’s about all I can do.”

Charles swallows his disappointment it isn’t more.  “It’ll help.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Another blow to Charles’ hope.  He avoids Arthur’s eye.

“Getting a young man like Eagle Flies to hear the wisdom in what his father says – well, it’ll take more than my intervention, that’s for damn sure.”

“But it’s a start,” he insists, still refusing to meet Arthur’s gaze.  “What other news is there?”

“Oil company’s still making their move on the land.  Fella named Monroe came to tell us, you know him?”

“Some.  He’s a good man – trustworthy.”

“I agreed to help him with a job.”

That catches Charles’ attention, “What job?”

“I don’t rightly know – something he thought should be taken care of by friends outside the reservation.”

“Okay.  Where are we meeting him?  When?”

Arthur’s mouth twists unusually, “Not you.  Just me.”

“You expect me to sit here and do nothing?” Charles snaps, instantly regretting his loss of temper.  He knows Arthur means well, but he is tired and frustrated with doing nothing.

Arthur is not unsympathetic.  “I got the impression it was more of a one-man operation.  Besides he couldn’t ask anything of you that might break your word to Rains Fall.”

Charles flinches at the reminder he is somehow always caught between worlds.

“And if we’re perfectly honest, you can do more on the reservation than I could.  Try talking to Eagle Flies again – maybe you can get through to him.”

Nodding, Charles still doesn’t think his voice is enough to break Dutch’s hold on the Indian prince, but Arthur’s permission is all he needs to return to the reservation and renew his efforts.

Anyone who was watching his movements in and out of camp is too caught up in Dutch’s new plan to notice his leaving.

Rains Fall welcomes his help once more, but Eagle Flies eyes him with suspicion, Charles can only guess at the falsehoods Dutch has filled his head with.

Captain Monroe arrives not long after, followed by Arthur; the pair of them set out immediately.

Charles is distracted as he tends the sick with Rains Fall.  Monroe’s return doesn’t make it any easier to stay focused, restraining himself from prying into Arthur’s current whereabouts.

Joining them, the captain tends to a nearby patient.  “It’s good to have you back with us, Mr. Smith.”

“It’s good to be back.”

His sense of purpose is clear here.  Yet another pull away from the gang.

“If it’s not too forward of me to mention, I believe your being here is a comfort to the chief.”

Charles holds the compress in place to his patient’s forehead, glancing over his shoulder to check Rains Fall is out of earshot.  “How do you mean?”

“Told me once you reminded him of his son.”

“Of Eagle Flies?”  To Charles’ eye, the pair of them could not be more different; it is why Eagle Flies refuses to listen to him.

Monroe shakes his head, “No.  Of his eldest.  He died at the Battle of Beartooth Beck, but he saw fighting as a last resort.  It was his death that committed Rains Fall to his current course.”

To be sure, Charles is honored Rains Fall thinks of him in that manner, but it gives him pause as well.  He hasn’t considered himself in need of a father’s guiding hand since his own took to clutching the neck of a bottle and Charles never looked back.

But perhaps that is precisely why Rains Fall garnered such a promise from him not to fight.  So that they may fill the absences in each other’s lives and succeed where others failed them.

More forlornly, Charles considers it yet another reason Eagle Flies will not hear him out.

“I cannot imagine how hard it must be for Rains Fall to watch Eagle Flies fall prey to his anger,” Charles redirects the conversation.

“No.  Nor can I,” Monroe agrees, turning his attentions to his patient.

Charles is even less focused than before.  Any reason he has left to stay with the gang should pale in comparison to what Monroe revealed about Rains Fall’s frame of mind.

Except that Rains Fall hasn’t breathed a word of it to Charles himself, leaving Charles grasping at thin air.  He’s not even sure if it’s true or even if he could bring himself to step into that role.

Though Charles supposes he cannot fault Rains Fall for what he dares not do himself.

With each day Charles spent in camp, it became more obvious that Sadie, John, Abigail, Jack – all the rest, they’re all excuses to hide from the truth.  He cares for them, of course he does, but he doesn’t fear what will become of them if he leaves the way he does Arthur.

Charles considers himself some new breed of coward, keeping close but never uttering of a word of how he feels.

He does not dare to imagine Arthur thinks of him in the same manner, but still he hangs on Arthur’s every action as if he will be proved otherwise.  As if Arthur will say something on both their behalf.

Before long, Rains Fall calls Charles to his side to discuss the coming negotiations with Colonel Favours.  Charles will be the first to admit he is not well-versed in the art of diplomacy, but it is plain now how much Rains Fall relies on his opinion, even if Charles does not always him give the answer he wants to hear.

Through the opening in the tent canvas, Charles spies Arthur returning, carrying the medicine they were expecting far earlier.  With a shake of Monroe’s hand, Arthur is off again.

Bringing Rains Fall the vaccines, Monroe explains, “I had a suspicion the army was planning to divert resources.  Our mutual friend, Mr. Morgan, retrieved them before they were redistributed.”

Rains Fall tentatively accepts the offering, “Was anyone hurt in the process?”

“No, sir.  I don’t believe so.”

Quietly pleased, Rains Fall nods.

Charles cannot wrap his head around it, “Arthur stole this?  And it didn’t end in a shootout?”

Monroe seems just as taken aback, “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Mr. Morgan.”

Charles feels as if he doesn’t know Arthur as well as he thought he did and is deeply proud to know him, putting aside his nature in favor of what is best for others.

Over the course of the next few days, Arthur is absent from the reservation.  But when Colonel Favours accepts Rain Fall’s request for a meeting, there is only one other Charles trusts to stand behind the chief alongside him.

And even though Arthur offers some resistance, Charles knows his faith in him is not misplaced.

----------

He don’t know rightly at what point tears began rolling down his face, but Arthur raises his head to the sky and waits for them to stop before he keeps riding.

He ain’t sure how much he believes in God, but he do believe Sister Calderón were right.  He didn’t know his heart could be so light and so heavy all at once; perhaps this is what it feels like for one’s heart to be full.

Near everywhere he goes, Arthur sees that love do exist in all forms.  From Charlotte thriving in her and her late husband’s dream of a simple life to Hamish stubbornly pursuing his final prey, praising and cursing nature in equal measure.

It ain’t as easy to find in camp anymore, but it still shows itself in smaller gestures; Mary-Beth slipping the bottle away from Karen as she sleeps, Uncle joining Pearson in his melancholy tune, Tilly minding Jack as Micah hounds Abigail about John’s loyalty.

Arthur may be dying, but he damn well ain’t dead yet.  There’s still time to do as the Sister said.

Starting by making amends for his most recent blunder.  Keeping his voice low, he apologizes to Charles for how out of hand things got after the negotiations.

Charles shakes his head, “You did right by Captain Monroe.”

“But Rains Fall –”

“Understands we did what we had to do.  You didn’t hear the majority of the talk, but things weren’t going well even before you starting taking hostages.  The fight’s only going to get uglier from here.”

So long as Dutch gets his way, Arthur don’t doubt it.  Unless he can get through to Dutch, but he ain’t sure how to make Dutch listen.

He don’t begrudge folk getting out.  Swanson and Trelawny, they did; so should the rest of them while there’s still time.  He only wish John were so inclined; ain’t no one else as stubbornly loyal or got so much to lose.

It were a stroke of luck Dutch and Micah sent Arthur to go assist John in planting the dynamite on Bacchus Bridge.  Arthur ain’t never talked of dissent so openly.  He can only hope something he said got through to John.

It’s all so clear where everyone else is concerned, but Arthur ain’t got a damn clue what to do on his own account.

Despite what he told John, Arthur ain’t so sure what matters to him anymore – what he ought to be loyal to.  The gang, Dutch – they ain’t what they used to be that don’t mean they don’t matter, but they are at odds with each other more often than not these days.

And when Dutch is not at odds with the gang, he is at odds with all the world whether it has done anything to him or not.  It is precisely why he worries what Dutch has got planned to make some noise.

Whatever he’s planning with Eagle Flies, the pair of them have remained tight-lipped to anyone not involved.  What shocks him, once the plan is in action, is that Micah weren’t involved; the whole damn situation has that trigger-happy bastard’s fingerprint all over it.

Christ, what a Goddamn mess.

Through the smoke and the gunfire, Arthur loses track of Eagle Flies.  Dutch drags him away from the battlefield, intent only on saving their skins; Arthur dreads only what retribution this damned foolish attempt to intimidate the army will cause.

On the edge of the cliff, it ain’t only Dutch standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur but every doubt Arthur’s ever had about the man he once revered above anyone else.  But still he jumps when Dutch do.

Arthur simmers as they crawl onto the bank of the river, furious with himself for following one of Dutch’s outrageous schemes yet again.

He don’t even try to disguise how difficult a time he’s having to regain his breath.  Rapids and river water no better for his condition than the heavy exertion of outrunning an entire platoon.

Dutch lays a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and for a moment is feels like the old days, when Arthur understood why’d he throw himself off a cliff with Dutch – when it felt like together they could take on the whole world.

“Rest up, son.”

“We have to help Eagle Flies –” Arthur coughs harshly into his hand.

“There ain’t nothing we can do for that boy.  But we got the noise we need.”

He tries to argue, but the tuberculosis beats him to his gasp for air, allowing Dutch to take his leave without so much as a challenge.

It ain’t an easy ride to the reservation, evading the army as they doggedly pursue their assailants, and the dropping temperatures making it even harder on Arthur’s lungs, but he must tell Rains Fall what happened – to tell him he weren’t able to stop it.

By the grim expression on Charles’ face when he finally arrives, Arthur knows he is too late; the news has already reached them.

“Charles, I –” Arthur cuts himself off, unsure what to say.

What can he say?  That he’s sorry?  What good will that do?  It certainly won’t fix anything, won’t save Eagle Flies.

Shaking his head, “We’ll talk after you speak to Rains Fall.  He’s waiting for you in his tent.”

Arthur nods and, swallowing his pride, ducks into the tent.  Rains Fall’s disappointment ain’t directed at him, but Arthur feels the weight of his failure all the same.

He sees himself reflected in the rash and prideful young man; he sees himself reflected in the father’s sorrow – another boy, another son he couldn’t keep safe.

He ain’t been in the chief’s company more than a minute when Arthur knows what he must do.  He’s gonna put this right, only he don’t have the faintest idea how he’s going to do it.

Arthur’s verve is met by Charles’ anticipation of breaking Eagle Flies out of Fort Wallace.

It only fair that Charles gives Arthur the tongue-lashing Rains Fall should’ve.  Arthur don’t dare defend himself or Dutch’s actions; he only tries to explain why he has to try to reach through to the Dutch he remembers, but this might be the only subject he and Charles won’t ever see eye to eye on.

Having said his piece, Charles is quiet a moment.  It reminds Arthur of the old days, before the dam of silence between them was broken, only it is loaded in a way it weren’t back then.

It pains him to admit it to himself, but Arthur understands.  Rains Fall, the Wapiti – they matter to Charles, probably in a way the gang never could.  He will stay loyal to them; they are Charles’ way out and Arthur knows it.

Unable to stand the silence any better than Arthur, Charles remarks on the change in the weather as if Arthur didn’t already feel it acutely in his chest.

Raising his face to the sky, Arthur exhales.  “Listen, Charles.  If it goes bad in there… you get yourself out.  You got… more to lose.”

For a moment, Charles stares at him as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing and as if all his worst fears have come true.  His denial of the truth is near as near as bad as Arthur’s or worse.

After his conversation with Sister Calderón, Arthur thought telling folk about his condition would be easier, less painful.  Only he still couldn’t bring himself to tell Dutch and telling Charles…

Well, he already told himself he shouldn’t pursue these new feelings, but somehow this feels like it did when Mary told him she were engaged to someone else.  Like it did when he saw Isaac and Eliza’s fresh graves – like the end of something that never had the chance to begin.

“Oh, Arthur.”

Arthur’s brow knits at being chastised for being sensible at his situation.  But then Charles…

Oh, Charles.

Sister Calderón may have comforted him and soothed him in a moment of fear, but Charles, he lifts Arthur’s spirit like no other soul could.

Charles has a hope Arthur don’t possess for himself.  Hope that Arthur can change in whatever time he has left.  That if it all ends tonight or some other day, he will strive to be a better man.

Plunging their horses into the deep, wide river, reminds them both what they are here to do and their conversation is put aside.

The rain clouds certainly help in disguising their approach, but Arthur agrees they best wait for full cover of night before the get any closer to the fort.

Crouched between the low branches, Arthur is all too aware of the sound of Charles’ breathing, calm and steady as if they weren’t about to raid a cavalry fort.  It eases Arthur’s nerves to be so near to him, but his heart still races.

If things weren’t the way they were…

Charles catches Arthur staring at him and his breath hitches.  Arthur can’t tear his eyes away quick enough.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to –” Arthur coughs lightly to cover up his poor excuse of an apology.

“It’s fine, Arthur,” Charles assures him, his gaze lingering longer than Arthur might’ve expected.

Arthur almost wishes Charles weren’t alright with this.  It would make letting him go so much easier when the time comes.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur spies some movement – a change in the patrol.

They make ready as swiftly as they can; Arthur steals one last look as Charles pulls his bandana over his face.  One way or another, there’s no going back from this night.

----------

Of all things, Charles lets out a relieved laugh.  Stunned, Eagle Flies stares at him, but Charles pays him no mind.

They’re alive.  They did it.  And no one was left behind.

Charles glances at Arthur on his other side.  He’s staring too, but transfixed; Charles tries not to let it show how his chest swells under Arthur’s gaze, but the approaching dawn chases away the shield of darkness.

The grey light reveals the dark shadows beneath Arthur’s eyes; the pounding in Charles’ head dims for him to hear the rasp of Arthur’s breath.  The grin slips from Charles’ face.

Arthur’s revelation came as a greater shock than Charles cares to admit.  He’s watched Arthur’s appetite fade, heard the coughing fits through the night – only Charles refused to believe what was happening before his eyes.  He even hoped, however briefly, Arthur would get better.

What a fool he is.

Charles doesn’t know where he found the strength and wisdom to give Arthur courage to meet his fate a changed man or perhaps Charles simply gave all his courage to Arthur, leaving himself vulnerable.  Either way he would not take it back, for whatever good it will do.

He does not wish to leave Arthur’s side, but Charles must bring Eagle Flies back to Rains Fall.

“I cannot go back to my father like this,” Eagle Flies gestures to the coating of blood and soot and dirt.

Arthur nods with a light cough.  “There’s a bend in the river, not far from here.  You can get yourself cleaned up and rest –” the cough is harsher this time.

For as intently as Charles has been looking Arthur over, he notes the state of him for the first time, coated in gunpowder and mud.  If anyone is in need of rest, it is him.

“Show us.  You could use a break and, frankly, you’re in need of a bath yourself.”  Arthur opens his mouth to object, but Charles insists, “Come on.  I’ll keep watch.”

The trio climbs down to the river’s calmer waters.  Eagle Flies slips right in, while Arthur puts himself at a remove to undress and bathe with a little more discretion.

Charles waits on the bank; it is a good spot, secluded and unlikely for anyone to stumble upon as the storm passes over.  Truly, he doesn’t mean to intrude on Arthur’s privacy, but as he scans the tree line, he can’t help how his eye catches the pale glow of Arthur’s back through the mist.

It is nothing Charles hasn’t seen, the men in camp taking turns keeping watch as they bathed, but difference now is how thin and frail Arthur’s become, compared to the steadfast and imposing figure he used to cut.  It is the cold, hard truth stripped bare before him and Charles cannot turn his head away.

A rustle of the leaves finally returns Charles’ attention to keeping his lookout, refusing to let his gaze dip back down as it passes over Arthur.

Eagle Flies climbs back onto the shore first.  His wounds clean, Charles helps Eagle Flies to bandage the worst of them from the pack he found upon a soldier’s abandoned horse.  None of them are as deep as Charles initially feared; before long they will leave naught but pale scars and a bad memory.

He is not yet finished binding Eagle Flies’ leg when Arthur starts coughing again.  There is a great splash as Arthur doubles over, the fit winning out.

“Go.  I can finish this myself,” Eagle Flies takes the bandages from Charles.

Grabbing the bedroll off the horse, Charles rushes to Arthur.

Protesting as Charles drags him from the water, “Quit your worrying, I’m fine.  I’m alright.”

It won’t help to remind him they both know that isn’t true.

Charles draws the blanket close around Arthur’s shoulders, helpless to do anything else for him, but neither can Charles force himself to pull away.

He deliberately avoids Arthur’s eye, focusing instead on the small patch on his chin where his beard won’t grow, more distinct now from the lack of a shave.  Impulsively, Charles brushes it with his thumb, listening to Arthur’s labored breath.

Arthur utters his name in little more than weak, but desperate whisper, “Charles…”

Finally, Charles must meet his eye; Arthur’s gaze is locked on him with the deadly precision of a marksman.

The words escape Charles’ tongue before he can overthink them, “Arthur, I love you.”

“Charles –” Arthur’s voice cracks, wrenching Charles’ heart within his chest.  “Don’t.  It’s too late for that.  I couldn’t – not to you.”

Charles never thought himself particularly stubborn, but from this he will not budge.  “I can’t help it, Arthur.  I’ve felt this way for some time.  I’m sorry if you don’t feel the same –”

“It ain’t that.  It ain’t that at all,” Arthur shakes his head.  “It’s just – well, you know… I ain’t got much time left.”

Charles is bewildered.  Arthur hasn’t outright rejected him, but of all the things Charles thought would be an obstacle to his feelings, he never considered it might be this.

“That’s all?”

“Course it is.  You shouldn’t waste yourself on a dying man.  You especially shouldn’t waste yourself on me.  You – you deserve better.”

There’s no convincing Arthur what a good man he already is, Charles knows that, but he can prove he doesn’t want anyone else.  That his heart is already wasted on Arthur.

Closing the small distance between them, Charles boldly touches his lips to Arthur’s.

Only momentarily stunned, Arthur leans in, eagerly deepening the kiss.  Perhaps it has been too long since Charles kissed anybody, but he doesn’t recall it feeling quite like this.

The last was fleeting and nigh on two years ago – a stranger in the saloon of a mining town; they were both just drunk enough that when their hands brushed, their faces flushed.  Charles pressed him against a wall in a dark alley and woke the next morning to find his bed fellow gone.

But with Arthur, it is as if Charles found a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing.  He has no fear of finding himself alone.

Arthur pulls away suddenly, struggling for air.  It is all Charles can do to absently rub Arthur’s back as he recovers.

Hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Charles puzzles as he was the one that took certain liberties.

“That I’m a coward as well as a fool.”

Charles doesn’t think Arthur is either.  A coward wouldn’t face death with his head held high and a fool wouldn’t caution against falling in love under circumstances such as theirs.

“No more a fool than me,” he assures Arthur, spying the sliver of a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.

The sun finally finds a way to break through the fog on the river and dawn’s golden light seems to both greet and mock them in its brilliance.  Eagle Flies’ soft footsteps too herald the end to their solitude; he warns them of the soldiers on the road.  Their departure cannot be delayed much longer.

Charles disposes of the cavalry branded-tack while Arthur dresses, draping the blanket over the horse when he is finished.

His gambler hat covers his eyes as he suggests that Charles and Eagle Flies ride on without him.

“They won’t pay me any mind on the main road, but the pair of you – they’ll be on the lookout.  Take the mountain road to the reservation – it will be longer but safer.”

Charles sees the reason in his plan, but it doesn’t sit well with him.

Arthur grasps Charles hand over the horse’s back, promising, “I’ll meet you there.”

Squeezing Arthur’s hand back, “You’d better.”

Without another word, Charles leaps onto the horse, pulling Eagle Flies up behind him, ready for the journey, but Arthur doesn’t let go of the bit.

Lifting his head, the light catches Arthur’s face in such a way that his eyes are startlingly clear and Charles almost doesn’t see the drain of his sickness.  Softly, “Before you go, I – come here.”

Charles leans over to hear what Arthur has to say, but instead Arthur grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him into another kiss.  Quicker but fiercer too.

“I love you, Charles.  Now git!”

The horse rears at Arthur’s command, setting off without so much as a moment for Charles to process the declaration.  Even at a gallop to put as much distance between themselves and the army, Charles looks back until the trees obscure Arthur from sight.

Eagle Flies is a quiet travel companion, though Charles supposes he wouldn’t know what to say after witnessing what he just did either.  Charles hardly knows what to think himself, except that he is immensely happy like the sun warming the cool morning air.

They reach the border of the reservation when Eagle Flies finally speaks, “My father says Mr. Morgan is unwell.”

Eagle Flies would’ve done just as well to plunge Charles’ heart into icy water.  “It’s true.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“So am I.”

“Is there nothing to be done?”

Charles shakes his head.  “The doctor didn’t think so.”

“Then I am sorry for you as well.  You have both been so generous to us.  I promise, I won’t say a word.”

“Thank you,” Charles barely manages to unstick from his throat.

Of course, Eagle Flies did not mean it unkindly Charles knows, but it was a beautiful morning to forget, however briefly, that he and Arthur do not have long together.  But Charles confessed his feelings with his eyes open; he has only himself to blame for whatever heartache comes after.

Eagle Flies slips off the horse and goes in to see Rains Fall alone, leaving Charles to see to what work must be done.

Arthur arrives some hours later, the afternoon sun high in the air.  His grin when he spies Charles across the reservation is near enough to make Charles forget all over again that Arthur is dying, that the army will come down hard on the Wapiti for what they have just done, that the gang is splintering.

In spite of it all, Charles smiles back; somehow Arthur’s brightens even more.

They speak at the same time.

“How is Rains Fall?”

“We ought to be heading back.”

Holding onto his query, Arthur nods.  The longer they are absent, the more questions Dutch will have.  And they have already risked provoking his ire enough.

On their way, Arthur asks again after Rains Fall.  Charles regrets he cannot provide him an answer; the chief and his son still sequestered away when Arthur arrived.

That Arthur has a vested interest in the affairs of the Wapiti doesn’t so much surprise Charles, Dutch’s meddling all too plain to see yet seemingly impossible to prevent, as how his attentions seem wholly on them.  As if there were not a dozen other weights on his mind.

It only occurs to him once they reach the river crossing north of Beaver Hollow, how it must be easier for Arthur to direct his efforts toward another people rather than the only life he has ever known crumbling out from under him.  How he must dread going back only to watch it all fall apart.

Their horses ankle deep in the river, Charles reaches for Arthur’s hand, slowing them to a halt.

“I won’t be far,” he promises, pressing Arthur’s hand to his lips.

“Thank you, Charles.”

His hand slips from Charles’, his fingers reluctantly letting go as he urges his horse forward.  From behind, Charles watches Arthur straighten his spine and square his shoulders.

A day ago, Charles might’ve described his posture as strong and ready for a fight.  Now, he would say it is rigid as though bracing for impact.

Arthur isn’t the only one of them who fears what the coming days will bring, but Charles will lend him what strength he has.

----------

Every time he tries to set his pencil to the page, Arthur suffers from a loss of words.  He can’t articulate how Charles makes him feel without sounding like a downright moron in his own damn head.

He thought he has pushed those thoughts of Charles aside, that he had decided not to entangle Charles in his hopeless situation.

He tried – tried to warn Charles there weren’t no point in involving himself with him now.

Only it seemed Charles’ mind were already made up and Arthur can feel that first kiss on his lips as though were still happening.

After that, it were impossible to talk himself out of telling Charles he loves him too.  Couldn’t even prevent himself from admitting it in front of Eagle Flies.

Feeling inadequate with words, Arthur’s attempts to capture Charles’ likeness are all similarly failures.  He tears the page out when he can’t get the soulfulness of his eyes right, regretting the impulse as the adjoining page slips from the binding.

Perhaps it’s for the best, keeping his feelings between him and Charles.  Not that anyone’s ever gonna read this battered, old thing once he’s gone.

Frustrated with himself and his inability to express how he feels about Charles on the page and that Charles ain’t at his side this very moment, Arthur lights a cigarette.

He regrets that almost as instantly too, the smoke exacerbating the pain in his chest.

Sadie gives him a cross look, taking a drag of her own, “What’s got you all wound up?”

Everything.  Charles.  John.  Abigail and Jack.  Her – hunting down every last O’Driscoll she can find.

“Nothing,” he grunts back.

“Sure it ain’t.”

Hanging Dog Ranch may as well be a lake of blood by the time they’re through.  Course none of it makes Sadie any happier – it don’t bring her husband back.

Her tears only remind him of how he wept for Isaac and Eliza when killing their murderer didn’t bring them back neither.

Strange as it is, it occurs to Arthur he never worried about what’s to come of Sadie once he’s gone.  She’s got a survivor’s instincts and she was never so invested in the gang as the rest.  Something tells him she’ll be alright.

Charles waits anxiously for their return on the edge of camp.  Arthur’s breath must catch in his throat cause Sadie looks at him funny; Arthur tries to disguise it with a light cough.

“I’ll leave you two boys be, shall I?”

Arthur ain’t sure about letting Sadie out of his sight just yet, but she don’t let him argue.

He watches her retreat into camp as Charles wonders, “Did you tell Sadie?”

Arthur blinks in bewilderment, “No.  Course I didn’t.”

As suddenly as Arthur realized his feelings for Charles, not once did he question how natural it were to fall for another man; he spent a lifetime seeing how close Dutch and Hosea were, after all.  For all the other things he could be hanged for, Arthur considers this the least of his crimes.

Still, even as much as he trusts Sadie, he don’t think he could take that chance with their lives again.  Or Charles’ life more accurately.

“She sure seems to suspect something.”

“Maybe.”

If she do know something of him and Charles, she’ll keep it to herself, Arthur is sure of it.  But Arthur’s done enough worrying on Sadie’s account.

Turning his attention to Charles, Arthur intends to savor what time they have.  Each stolen moment together has been serene bliss.  They discover a secluded grove where they can slip away for an hour or so without arousing suspicion.

When Arthur’s feeling stronger, his mouth wanders from Charles’ lips down to his neck and across his chest; his deep groans are all the encouragement Arthur needs to continue his exploration.

It is Charles who unbuckles their trousers first, his hand reaching down Arthur’s.  His touch is warm and exciting in a way Arthur didn’t think were possible, his hips buck as Charles quickens the pace.  Charles whispers something Arthur can’t hear over his own heavy breaths, but he nods wanting for more – wanting Charles.

Except the exertion is too much for his condition and Arthur’s overcome by one of his coughing spells.  Despite being left unsatisfied, Charles does not stray from Arthur’s side.

Weaker more often than not, Charles holds Arthur close and tells him stories he remembers of his mother.  When Charles don’t feel compelled to speak, Arthur’s content to listen to his steady heartbeat; he coils the ends of Charles’ braid around his fingers.

At night, when Arthur’s fits are so bad he spits more blood into the dirt, Charles slips into his tent simply to sit with him.

Each morning, Arthur wakes to find Charles’ place empty, but it is only a moment before he spies him around the campfire with John or Sadie.

Mornings are frequently accompanied by bad news.  Uncle, Pearson, and Mary-Beth vanish in the dead of night; Dutch is livid, but no one seems to notice Karen’s missing too.

Unsettlingly, there’s little news of the Wapiti.  Arthur thought breaking out Eagle Flies from the fort would’ve brought the cavalry down hard on the reservation.

Charles waits for the worst to come, but he don’t leave camp.  Arthur knows it’s on account of him.  He don’t like to see Charles anxious, but selfishly he is relieved Charles is never far – his shelter in an unending storm of tension and anger.

What Dutch is waiting for, Arthur couldn’t exactly say.  He reminds Arthur to have faith; Arthur still don’t tell him about the tuberculosis.

The camp is near empty when Micah brings a pair of hired guns to Beaver Hollow.  A rougher, uglier pair Arthur’s never seen greeted by Dutch so warmly.

Arthur won’t pretend they’re not a few men short for the train robbery, but he don’t trust Joe or Cleet further than he could spit, and that ain’t so far these days.

He tries again to make Dutch see how he’s taken leave of his senses; Micah voices his opinion where it ain’t wanted.  The only thing that saves Micah’s jaw from Arthur’s fist is the pounding of hooves thundering into camp.

The army’s retaliation is worse than he or Charles ever imagined; they mean to provoke a war and they ain’t even trying to hide it anymore.  Eagle Flies’ rallying cry falls on deaf ears, but Dutch stokes the fire of the boy’s already burning rage.

Charles’ presence at his shoulder keeps Arthur from crossing any further over the line, though Charles is only barely restraining his own temper.  Rains Fall’s swift arrival prevents them both from doing anything they’d regret.

His plea to his son ain’t angry or disappointed or even distraught as Arthur has heard Rains Fall before, but wretchedly helpless.  Arthur hates that he knows Eagle Flies won’t hear a word of it; he is so young and has already endured too much on his people’s behalf – that Dutch is already too far into the boy’s head.

Rains Fall hangs his head as Eagle Flies’ horse kicks up dust behind him, his purpose in coming here abandoned as he rides without the support of more guns to take on the cavalry.

Arthur does not even think of refusing Rains Fall’s request, whatever Dutch and Micah think of his so-called disloyalty.  They don’t know what it is to lose a son and Arthur won’t let Rains Fall lose a second.

He doesn’t have to ask Charles to ride with him, but Arthur didn’t expect how many others would answer his call, Dutch least of all, but John, Sadie, Javier, and Bill mount up with him.

God help him if he rescues Eagle Flies only for John to die in the process.

Gripping the reins tighter than he has since he were learning to ride, Arthur leads them all into a Hell made of oil and smoke.

Arthur don’t know by what miracle they manage to reach Eagle Flies, but it is just in the nick of time.  He don’t count on having the same luck getting out.

He keeps looking over his shoulder to make sure they ain’t lost nobody, but everywhere he turns there’s more soldiers.  One takes aim at Charles as he sinks his tomahawk into another; Arthur can’t reload fast enough, but Sadie’s carbine echoes next to his ear and the soldier falls.

Once they regroup, the battle is over quickly, but it don’t feel like much of a victory.  John and Bill are still firing at fleeing soldiers when Dutch starts berating Arthur for doubting him.

Eagle Flies insists he won’t leave until he’s found all his men, Charles volunteers to stay with him; everyone else has orders to get out before the reinforcements arrive.

Following Dutch into the warehouse, Arthur gets that eerie sense of familiarity and foreignness again; he felt safer sneaking into this place when it were crawling with workers than he does now with Dutch.  He wishes he didn’t know exactly where to tell Dutch to find the foreman’s office.

A few thousand dollars might just get them to Tahiti, but it don’t help them retreat when the army reappears with a vengeance.  Arthur covers Dutch as they make for the exit.

It should’ve been a simple escape, but just like every damn job since Blackwater it goes horribly awry.  A soldier pins Arthur to the ground and Dutch does nothing – worse than nothing, he turns on his heel.

Everything – every heist, every fight, every shootout, all them damn years – Arthur didn’t think Dutch could just forget it all, not even for a few thousand dollars.

Betrayed and weak, Arthur is locked in a struggle he don’t think he can win.  The knife hovers inches above his neck when the soldier’s guts splatter across the floor.  Eagle Flies extends his hand to Arthur, but as suddenly as he appeared to save Arthur, another figure emerges from the darkness behind him.

Time slows as Arthur watches the bullet enter Eagle Flies’ chest.  He don’t know how, but Arthur’s aim is true and Colonel Favours and Eagle Flies both crumble to the ground.  Eagle Flies is still breathing, but Arthur ain’t sure for how much longer.

His anger with Dutch is stayed by his concern for Eagle Flies.  He can’t even look Charles in the eye as he lifts the boy onto his horse, knowing he failed him too.

The ride back to reservation is long, but Eagle Flies don’t let it show how hard it is on him.

Stupid, brave, foolish boy…  All this – it were all for nothing.

Arthur helps Charles carry Eagle Flies into Rains Fall’s tent, laying him gently down, but then excuses himself, unable to witness Rains Fall’s grief.

Arthur don’t know where he’s heading, but he don’t stop til he’s reached the edge of camp.  He rests himself on a fallen log and lets his heart spill over, crying for father and son.

Once the tears start, Arthur don’t think he can stop.  He’s been holding everything in for so long that he can’t, no matter how much he wipes his face on his sleeve.

A pair of sturdy arms wrap themselves around Arthur’s quaking shoulders.

“You did everything you could, Arthur,” Charles consoles him, but Arthur only weeps harder.

“It ain’t just Eagle Flies.”

Softly, “I know.”

Only he don’t.  How could he when Arthur’s done everything he could to put Isaac’s memory behind him?

Charles sits beside Arthur; one arm still tight around him, the other lacing their fingers together.  Neither of them has any happy thoughts to share, but Arthur asks Charles to talk to him anyway; the sound of his voice soothes Arthur and eventually his tears slow.

Glancing back and inhaling deeply, Charles changes subjects once more, “They won’t be able to stay here after this.”

“Course.  Their chances of deferring the relocation were never good –”

“I mean, they’ll have to leave the U.S. entirely if they don’t want to be wiped out.”

“Where will they go?”

“Canada.  Things aren’t much better there, but it’s far enough away from this mess.”  Charles is quiet a moment.  “I’m going with them.”

Arthur’s throat and mouth are already dry from weeping, but he cannot seem to form any words.

“I’ve been considering it for a while, but then you –”  Charles fights back a wave of his own tears, but they fall silently anyway.

Arthur squeezes his hand and kisses the scar along Charles’ jaw.  He hates seeing Charles torn like this, such a far cry from the small grin that first caught Arthur’s attention.

Valiantly continuing on, “And today, when Dutch came out of that warehouse without you – I should’ve gone in, but I let Eagle Flies –”

Arthur can’t believe what he’s hearing.  If it hadn’t been Eagle Flies, it would’ve been Charles dying for no good reason and he cannot abide the thought of that.

Fiercely, “You didn’t let that boy do anything he weren’t already gonna do.”

“But I should’ve gone in with him.  And now they need to flee and I can’t leave Rains Fall –”

“Then I’ll stay too,” Arthur offers without thinking.

“No,” Charles’ voice catches.  “No.  You have others who need you.  Good people.  You can’t abandon them, Arthur.  You couldn’t.”

He means John.  He means Abigail.  He means Jack.  He means anyone in the gang who hasn’t taken leave of their damn senses.  He means Dutch, despite everything; Arthur still has to try.

They are each wholly decided on the matter and Arthur’s afraid it is an impasse they cannot cross together.

If Arthur weren’t already dying, he thinks it might kill him to be parted from Charles in this manner.  But he is dying and there are so many circumstances they can’t change.

“I might hate you a little for being right as usual.”

Charles’ chuckle is more like a snort, “I might hate myself for it too.”

Another thought Arthur cannot abide, “Then don’t forget how much more I love you than that.”

“I won’t,” Charles promises in no more than a whisper.

He leans his head against Arthur’s and they stay still a long while, awaiting the inevitable.  It comes in the form of a great wail; Eagle Flies has breathed his last.

Loathe to move from their spot, Charles goes to Rains Fall.  Arthur watches at a distance as the uncertainty of what’s to come takes hold of the Wapiti.  When he emerges, Charles guides them through their confusion and fear.

Quick as any camp they’ve had to leave in haste, Charles oversees the packing away and loading up of everything they possess.

Arthur tells himself he shouldn’t interrupt, but it is only so he don’t have to say goodbye.

Looking back, Arthur spots Charles standing still amongst the chaos.  Meeting Arthur’s eye, he nods understandingly.

Arthur hates knowing it’s the last time he will ever see Charles, but he forces himself to look forward to whatever awaits him on the short road ahead.

O

Chapter Text

Between the sick and elderly and the muddy, disused trails, the caravan moves slowly; their passage north less than ideal.

Charles joins the men in clearing another fallen tree from their path.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he thinks running away has never been so tedious.

Not running away – surviving, a distant voice echoes in his head.  Charles brushes it aside too.

When he’s not digging wheels out of the muck, Charles turns south, waiting for any kind of news.

It’s only been a week since they parted ways, but his heart feels Arthur’s absence all too keenly, it may as well have been a month.  He wonders how Arthur is faring, if Arthur thinks of him as often as Charles does.

Stars overhead, Rains Fall stands beside him, their gazes lingering on separate points on the horizon; Charles’ toward Beaver Hollow, Rains Fall’s toward Eagle Flies’ burial place.

Even in their haste, they saw to Eagle Flies’ body; Charles unable refuse Rains Fall’s request for him to partake in the ceremony.

Somehow knowing this is the right decision doesn’t make it any easier to leave either of them behind.  Bitterly, Charles thinks it made it harder.  Arthur couldn’t even say goodbye; Charles doubts he could’ve either.

The trail narrows, the higher the mountain climbs.  Charles slows Taima, falling to the rear so as to not lose anyone through the pass.  Out of habit, more than expectation, he glances back.

A rider follows on their path.

Charles blinks, he must be imagining them, but the rider pursues them still.

Wary, he shouts ahead to Paytah, “I’m going to find out what they want.”

Friend or foe, they will carry news.  For good or ill, Charles will have some answers.

At a closer distance, Charles can see the rider is little more than a courier.  Dropping his guard some, he calls out, “What business brings you here?”

“I have a message for Chief Rains Fall from Mr. Evelyn Miller.”

Scarcely a name Charles thought he would hear again, but he recalls Arthur mentioning how he was first recruited into assisting the Wapiti by Mr. Miller and escorts the courier to Rains Fall.

Rains Fall remains expressionless as the courier delivers his message: the Leland Oil Development Company is moving forward with their plans on the abandoned reservation, Mr. Miller merely sends his regrets there was nothing he could do to prevent it, especially not after the massacre at Cornwall Kerosene & Tar.

Charles tuts, “Tell us something we don’t already know.”

The courier grimaces, “Might we speak privately, sir?”

Rains Fall puts a staying hand on his arm, but does not send Charles away.  “Anything you have to tell me, may be said before Mr. Smith.  Have you any other news?”

“Nothing as pertains to your situation, sir.  The Pinkertons are conducting a manhunt throughout Lemoyne and New Hanover for any member of the so-called Van der Linde gang.  Made it near impossible to deliver Mr. Miller’s message.”

Charles’ blood runs cold.  His head races, but Rains Fall tightens his grip, keeping Charles calm.

Evenly, “We’ve had our own dealings with that band of outlaws, not all of them to our benefit.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, though I can’t say I’m surprised.  Robbing a train of a bunch of military payroll is just the latest I’ve heard in a long list of delinquencies they’ve committed.  Heard the Pinkertons managed to flush them out of hiding too, only to lose them somewhere out near O’Creagh’s Run.”

“Was anyone killed?”

The courier stares at Rains Fall, unsure of what to make of his question, eventually admitting, “I don’t rightly know.  For the size of the manhunt, it’s all been very hush-hush.”

Rains Fall nods, “I thank you for delivering Mr. Miller’s message and your other news.  Please, have a rest and something to eat before you take your leave.”

“Thank you, sir.  Much appreciated.”

The courier rides out before sunset.

Once more, Charles cannot tear his eyes away from the southern horizon.  It is all too much to process and somehow not enough to answer his questions.

He knew the gang couldn’t possibly outrun the Pinkertons forever; he didn’t think they would catch up so soon after his departure.  He can’t bring himself to speculate who might’ve slipped from their grasp – who didn’t…

Rains Fall joins him along the ridge.  Paytah stands close at hand.

“You suspected what news the courier would bring.”  It is a statement of fact.

Reluctantly Charles nods, “It was only a matter of time.  They all knew what they were getting themselves into.”

‘They’ll likely all hang for it,’ he leaves unspoken.  Perhaps he is better off not knowing what became of each of them.

Rains Fall exhales, “You’ve lived with so much uncertainty in your life, Charles – your mother, you father.  Do not add Mr. Morgan’s fate to your list.”

Charles doubts Rains Fall how could know to whom specifically his thoughts stray each night, but with as much delicacy as he possesses, Rains Fall’s words reach directly for the tender bruise on Charles’ heart.

He chose to leave that life – to leave Arthur; he must live with the consequences of that choice too.  He can’t simply race back at the first sign of trouble.  What then would be the point in his choosing to leave at all?

As if each night Charles has not resisted the urge to mount Taima and ride back into Arthur’s embrace.

“I can’t keep living two lives.”

“But your heart will not be easy until you know.  Go and Paytah will ride with you.  This is not a journey you should make on your own.”

“What about the tribe –”

“We will manage as we have always done.  Our survival does not rest on your shoulders alone.”

Of course, Rains Fall anticipated Charles’ excuse.  Keen observer as he is, he must have noticed how Charles has been throwing himself into the labors of their journey.

Perhaps it is not so farfetched that he could have seen how Charles and Arthur cared for each other too.

“Go now.  Before it is too great a distance to travel.”

“We will not be long,” Charles promises.

Rains Fall bows his head.

Paytah is ready with their horses and supplies.

Pushing hard, a journey that took over a week by caravan should only take three days if they ride through the night.  What sort of welcome awaits them Charles can only guess.

----------

The road to Beaver Hollow is soaked in blood, horses as well as men.  Charles slips from Taima’s back and continues into camp on foot.

His eyes go wide at the carnage.  Each body he turns over bears a badge and an unfamiliar face.  He should be relieved he doesn’t recognize any of them, but neither his heart nor his stomach will settle.  The scene offers no explanations, only begs more questions.

“Charles, over here!”

By the shreds of Dutch’s tent, Paytah kneels over the corpse.

“Miss Grimshaw,” Charles breathes, unable to express the strange twist of grief of his heart for the iron-willed woman.

“I’m sorry,” Paytah offers, though he hardly understands what for.

She was the last pillar of the old guard, holding them all together.  If Miss Grimshaw is dead, then the gang is truly no more.

Trying to understand what happened here, Charles searches the ground.  The spread of the bodies, the tracks in the dirt; it’s chaos.

“They must’ve chased them into the caves.”

But Charles doesn’t recognize any more bodies, just more scattered Pinkertons.

Paytah suggests they turn back and see to Miss Grimshaw’s body.

Exhaling, Charles casts another glance around the cavern; there must be some kind of way out of here or they would’ve found someone else by now.  Sunlight streams in through the cave’s roof.

Discovering the ladder to the walkways above, Charles orders, “Go on back.  I’ll catch up.”

He blinks against the daylight, unable to believe his eyes.  He rubs them again, just to be sure, but a pair of boot tracks lead down toward the road.  Foolish as it is, Charles allows himself to hope: someone escaped the turmoil of Beaver Hollow.

Charles returns to camp to fetch Taima.  Paytah clears away the rubble, Miss Grimshaw’s body shrouded in the least tattered canvas he could find.

“Shall we bury her here?”

Charles cannot think of a worse insult to her memory.

Shaking his head, “No.  There’s a spot not far from here that should do nicely, but it will have to wait.  I’ve found the trail.”

Paytah knits his brow, uncomfortable with leaving the body untended to.  Warily, “You’re sure that’s the way they went?”

“What other direction could they have gone?”  Charles grows impatient.

They got lucky the Pinkertons haven’t already seen to clearing away their mess.  Too occupied by their hunt most likely, but all the more reason Charles and Paytah cannot delay their search.

Paytah points westward.  “A group of them went this way – pursued on horseback.”

Examining the slope down toward the river, there are four distinct sets of footprints.  Maybe a fifth and sixth – Charles can’t tell, the tracks trampled beneath their persecutors’ hooves.

“More of them fleeing means the trail is more likely to split ways,” he observes.

“All the more reason to follow them together.”

There’s no guarantee the trail leading out of the cave isn’t a dead-end, but Charles can’t ignore the instinct it was Arthur who escaped that way.  He can’t explain it to Paytah; somehow, he’s just sure of it.

But the longer they linger and debate, the colder both trails become.  They must part ways if they are to follow either.

Charles climbs the hillside, only to follow the tracks back down to the road where light footprints meet with heavy hooves.

From there the trail is more difficult to follow; pursuers chase them over the river and the tracks turn in dizzying circles at a fork in the road.  Taima strains against the bit as Charles attempts to make sense of them.

Determining they turned northward, Charles discovers the first grim sign he was correct.  Off the road, a pair of horses he knows all too well lay dead.

Fear rises in his chest as he searches for their riders among the fallen, but their bodies are nowhere to be found.

Charles calls their names, though they are both sure to be long gone, “Arthur!  John!”

Beyond the rustle of the wind, it is desolately quiet.

“Arthur!”

Winter’s first chill hasn’t reached these parts yet, so Charles shivers against the silence instead.  He has to keep tracing their steps.

Charles follows the ever-climbing trail on foot, marked less by tracks but by Pinkerton corpses.  The prints he does find are unaccompanied and uneven, as though walking backward, stumbling over rocks, and taking cover behind boulders.  The scene of someone’s last stand becomes clear.

But at the cliff’s summit, there’s no body – no sign of either Arthur or John.

Charles shakes, unable to will himself to go any further.  This can’t be it.  These can’t be all the answers he’s to have.  He came all this way...

The sun beginning to dip below Mount Hagan, Charles retraces his steps, searching for a second pair of tracks.  He finds them leading around the side of the cliff-face and is suddenly hesitant to follow them.

It was Charles who reminded Arthur of his reasons for staying with the gang.  If Arthur and John were escaping together, Arthur would’ve let John get away without so much as a second thought for himself.  It would’ve been Arthur making his final stand atop the summit.

Charles braces himself against the rocks.  His heart beats a short but heavy tattoo; his lungs aren’t getting nearly enough air.  Arthur would’ve sacrificed himself for John, no matter what it took.

He were dying anyway, a voice nags at the back of his head once more.  Charles cannot brush it aside so easily this time.

He isn’t so sure he wants to know the truth anymore, but he must keep going; he can’t keep wondering all his life.

His legs resisting each step, Charles wills himself forward until he notices another body.  Cast in shadow by the cliffside and turned eastward away from him, Charles would know Arthur’s shape anywhere.

Running the final distance, Charles drops to his knees beside Arthur.

“No.  No-no-no-no.  Arthur, please.”  But pleading with him won’t make Arthur’s chest rise and fall.

Charles lets out a terrible cry as his heart tears itself in two.  Clutching Arthur to him, Charles weeps unbounded.

He weeps for every moment they shared and each one they could have had; for the man Arthur could’ve been, for the man Arthur was – for it was him Charles loved, flaws and all.  He weeps until his cold is cold and numb but cannot let go.

A hand grabs Charles by the shoulder, pulling him away from the body.

In a flash of anger, Charles grips Arthur tighter with one arm and somehow draws his shotgun on the intruder with the other.

Paytah lifts his hands above his head, “It’s only me, Charles.”

Exhaling with relief, Charles’ arms feel weak; he drops the gun, struggling to maintain his hold on Arthur.  Careful not to startle him again, Paytah helps Charles lay Arthur down.

Softly, Paytah offers his apologies, “I’m sorry.”

They might as well be swallowed up by the hollowness in Charles’ chest.  Sorry won’t bring Arthur back to him.

Observing, “Mr. Morgan wasn’t killed by any gunshot.”

For the first time, Charles notes there is no blood stain, no bullet wound.  There are fresh scrapes and bruises, but Arthur is otherwise unmaimed.  That it was the tuberculosis which took Arthur from him stings all the more.

“You were right,” Paytah continues.  “The trail split ways before long.  I followed the one that was most closely pursued – it led me here.”

Paytah sounds distant to Charles, but perhaps he is the one that is far away.  He doesn’t know what to make of how Paytah found him here.

“Your other friend – did you find any trace of him?”

Charles nods then more resolutely shakes his head.

What became of John remains a mystery, but Charles won’t go any further.  He doesn’t wish to know if Arthur’s sacrifice was made in vain as he dreads it was.

Unable to coax Charles out of his shock or away from Arthur’s side, Paytah grows silent.

Darkness falls soon after, Charles is reluctant to leave, but they must.  There’s no knowing when the Pinkertons will return to collect their fallen.

Paytah offers the bedroll from his horse as a shroud.  Pressing his lips to Arthur’s unlidded brow, Charles covers the body.

The journey to Beaver Hollow is more difficult with Arthur stowed on Taima.  Even shrouded it makes Charles sick to see Arthur’s body hanging limply from the back of the saddle.  He lays the body next to Miss Grimshaw’s when they return.

Exhaustion takes a fast hold, but his feet don’t lead him to his old tent.  Charles lays down on Arthur’s cot, breathing the last of him in.

----------

His mother’s song is like a half-remembered dream; the melody is faint, leaving nothing but a haunting impression.  Charles hums it absently as he digs a spade into the dirt.

It is a peaceful spot, especially in the morning.  He doesn’t recall how he came across it, but he can picture Miss Grimshaw here, cigarette in one hand and tin cup in the other.  Charles thinks she would be content.

Satisfied with his work, Charles sets the spade aside and places her body in the grave.

The over turned dirt is soft and easy to replace.  He erects a simple marker, bearing her name, and drapes the cameo he found lying in the dirt beneath her over it.

He ought to say something, but Charles doesn’t have the Reverend’s gift with words as an offering of comfort to grief.  The half-mumbled lyrics of his mother’s song will have to suffice.

Unfair as it is, Miss Grimshaw has no other mourners and Charles cannot linger.  The days grow short and he has long ways to travel yet.

“Are you sure you do not wish company?” Paytah offers one more time.

Intent on setting out on his own, Charles shakes his head.  “Better you gather supplies for our return journey.”

There is no way for Charles to stow Arthur’s body on Taima with any grace, but the spot he has in mind is not easily accessible by cart, presenting him with little choice.  But he can think of no better place for Arthur to spend his eternal rest.

Charles sets out at a hastened pace, eager to cross the East Grizzles before dusk – sooner if he can manage.  Avoiding the main roads, Charles follows the narrow hunting trails shown to him by Eagle Flies; they guide him through the mountains rather than around, cutting the distance by near half, but Charles does not make as good time as he would’ve wished.

Charles slows Taima as he passes over hills and through valleys, struck as if for the first time by the grandeur of the wilderness.  There is pride atop the mountain peaks and wisdom in the eaves of the trees that is ageless and unyielding even as civilization encroaches upon it.

It’s no wonder why Arthur would often lose himself out here; Charles is liable to do so himself, but he cannot put this task off forever.  He spurs Taima higher into the mountains.

Still east of the ridge along the Dakota River, Charles directs Taima off the road once more.  But without a trail to follow, he does not urge her any further than a shady cluster of trees.  Using the spade as a walking stick, Charles continues on foot, Arthur’s body slung over his shoulder.

Beginning to lower, the sun hangs brilliantly in the sky, casting an orange glow across the view of the Clumberland Forest, stretching across the Heartlands, all the way to Big Valley.

“I hope this suits.”

An eagle screeches and soars overhead as if in accordance.

Charles breathes deeply and sinks the spade into the hard earth.

Just as before, the memory of his mother’s song returns to Charles as he toils, but it is stronger now.  Words and tempo more fully recalled, Charles more than hums to himself – he sings.

Though he never learned the meaning of the words, his mother sang it for him.  To him, it was a song of safety, a song of love.  Charles sings it now for Arthur.

His voice is deep and clear at the start, but thickens as tears roll down his cheeks.  He makes no attempt to brush them away, knowing they will keep coming anyway, but he continues his song.

He sings as he lays Arthur’s body down into the ground and he doesn’t stop until a lump catches in his throat as he replaces the dirt.  Charles stifles the sob, but his song gets caught with it.

Unable to will himself to sing again, Charles stares at the simple marker.

Once more, he feels inadequate to the task of speaking over a fresh grave.  Even for all the love in his heart, Charles lacks the words he needs to lay Arthur to rest.

Tearing his gaze away from Arthur’s name, Charles looks out across the vastness of the world as another faded memory comes flooding back to him.

His father mostly prayed when he was at the end of his rope or at the bottom of a bottle, but if he did happen to remember it was Sunday, he always read from the same passage.  And though Charles doubts any view could compare, he can’t help imagining it must’ve looked something like this when Jesus gave his Sermon on the Mount.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven,” he recites as he would as a boy when his father read the Bible aloud.  “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied…”

Blinking away more tears, Charles looks back at Arthur’s name.  The marker is insufficient now.

Collecting more wood from the mountainside, Charles carves the verse into the bark.

He can’t say if Arthur has been satisfied, but Charles watched as Arthur turned into the sort of man Jesus preached about: the kind who did what was right, simply because it was – even if Arthur never would’ve believed it of himself.

Nailing the new pieces to the marker, Charles continues his recitation.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called Sons of God.  Blessed are those who –”

His memory and tongue falter through the final lines of the Beatitudes.

Of all things, Charles never thought he would’ve regretted not snatching his father’s Bible when he ran away.  How he wishes he had, though still he could never find comfort in its pages the way his father did.

Finished, Charles sinks to his knees and stares at the completed marker, unsure how he’ll ever manage to leave this spot.  Time and the elements will eventually weather his handiwork, his body would just be another fixture in this place.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he lingers there, but the stars are bright and innumerous above when he hears Paytah calling his name.

His legs stiff, Charles braces himself on the marker to help him stand.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

Taking in the view one last time, now glistening with the glow of hearths across the countryside, Charles inhales the night air, only exhaling once he’s descended from the mountain.

----------

The snap of a branch turns his head in the direction of a great buck over his shoulder.

Charles doesn’t dare breathe for fear of frightening it, but neither does he draw back his knocked arrow.  The longer he waits to move, the closer the buck comes.  Entranced, Charles could swear if he stretched out his hand his fingers would graze its hide.

But then comes the unmistakable twang of a bowstring and an arrow flies past the buck, missing by inches.  The buck bolts away.

Exhaling, a cloud of cold air forms at his mouth.

“What were you waiting for, Charles?  You let it get away.”

Charles shakes his head, coming back to reality.  “I’m not sure.”

Paytah won’t mention anything, still Charles feels guilty for letting their best game in weeks get away.  He can’t explain why, but he just couldn’t bring himself to kill the buck.

The rest of their hunt passes without further incident and they return to camp with naught but a few boney rabbits.

Though each morning they’ve only woken to heavy frosts rather than snow drifts, it promises to be a hard winter.  The new century does not promise to be any kinder to them than the last.

Canada has been little more hospitable to the Wapiti than America, shoving them onto an overcrowded reservation with a number of other tribes Charles has never even heard of.  Rains Fall does what he can with the situation, sitting down with the other chiefs to best allocate their resources.

Charles struggles to ignore how his skin bristles under the stares of the other tribes.  He’s as much an outcast from civilized society as them, but they don’t understand why he’s here and lately neither does he.

When not in the company of Rains Fall or Paytah or any of the other Wapiti, Charles keeps to himself on the edge of the reservation.

Puffing on his pipe, Charles wishes he would quit looking south at every opportunity as it only serves to make him miserable.

And miserable is how Rains Fall finds him this evening when he doesn’t partake in the evening meal.  Offering him a bowl, “You must keep up your strength”

“I have strength plenty.  Better to give the extra to the children, they’re scrawny enough as it is.”

Rains Fall gives him a forlorn look, but does as Charles suggests, leaving Charles to stew only a moment longer before coming back.

Observing, “You have not been yourself much of late.”

“Maybe you don’t know me very well then.  Maybe this is who I really am.”

“I do not believe that.  You are in mourning.  You are in pain, but Mr. Morgan faced his death with great courage –”

Abruptly, Charles stands and puts a few paces between himself and Rains Fall.  He does not wish to hear what Rains Fall has to say about Arthur; it is all still too close.

He runs a hand through his newly grown hair.  The sides have not reached their previous length, still slipping from the braid, making him frightfully disheveled.  It is a terrible reminder of how long it’s actually been since everything fell apart.

He doesn’t understand how it can somehow be too close and so long ago; it makes him listless.

Rains Fall continues, testing Charles’ patience.  “Mr. Morgan faced his death with courage and honor.  It is a disservice to his memory to not live as he would’ve –”

“What do you know about Arthur?” Charles snaps.  “What he would’ve wanted or how he would’ve lived?  He was already sick by the time you knew him, clinging desperately to a way of life that was over.”

Charles breathes heavily, trying to regain control of himself.  It’s been a long while since he last lost his temper so suddenly; not since before he joined the Wapiti, certainly never at Rains Fall.

The other man looks stricken as Charles realizes he might’ve just as well as described Rains Fall rather than Arthur, but his response is firm.

“True.  I did not know Mr. Morgan long.  He also tried to persuade me he was a no-good outlaw, but I never saw that side of him.  He struggled as we all do to become who we really are.  But the man I knew was honest and good-hearted and he watched over my boy as he would’ve his own son.  Whatever else he may have done, whoever else he may have been – I will always think well of Mr. Morgan.”

Charles’ anger dissipates, he stares at Rains Fall curiously.

“What did you say about Arthur’s son?”

“That he protected Eagle Flies as if he were his own.”

Charles shakes his head, “Arthur didn’t have a son.  That boy in our camp, that was John’s boy.  Not Arthur’s.”

Rains Fall only came through the camp a few times, but he must’ve seen Jack and assumed he was Arthur’s son, though why he would think that is beyond Charles.

Rains Fall’s brow furrows, “I do not recall Mr. Morgan speaking of another’s – only that losing his son changed him.  That it taught him a lesson that is difficult to unlearn.”

Losing his son?  Everything Rains Fall is saying makes even less sense than before.

These past months, Rains Fall has grown frailer and more forgetful.  He must be confused, for Arthur surely would’ve told Charles he had a son.

But then maybe he wouldn’t.  Charles was only with the gang for a year and they only just started to know each other in the last months, to love each other in the last weeks.  But to never mention a son – not once… Arthur always did keep his journal to himself.

Charles can’t begin to conceive of the things he didn’t know about Arthur, not now he’s no longer here to learn them from.

He turns and walks into the forest.

“Where are you going?”

“Not far.  I need to be alone.”

For all the assurance in Rains Fall’s voice, Charles believes Rains Fall must be mistaken.

Watching the sun set, Charles usually feels Arthur’s presence by his side, but it’s different this evening.  Arthur’s there, but unreachable and unknowable.

----------

Charles has already made up his mind to move on.  He always seems to do that long before he actually does.  What he’s waiting for, Charles is never sure – a reason, an excuse to leave?

There’s nothing much here for him.  The Wapiti have settled in alongside the other tribes and Rains Fall’s memory falters a little more each day.

As Charles shrinks away from the aging chief, Paytah takes his place beside Rains Fall.  It is a long way off yet, but one day Paytah will be a leader his people can look to.  The kind Charles could never be.

Luckily, no one else will notice if he’s gone.  Packing his trunk, Charles sets out and doesn’t look back.

Wandering aimlessly feels as though he has gone back to the days before the gang.  Charles earns spare cash and a roof over his head some nights on the occasional homestead.  The further south he travels, the less willing folk are to take him on.

Most nights, he finds himself staring up at the stars, wondering where the next day will take him and how it was so simple to leave the reservation when it wasn’t to leave the gang.

The answer to both questions becomes clear one morning, finding himself on a road leading through Ambarino.  Despite the purpose living with the Wapiti gave him, his heart was never fully committed; Charles left it buried beside Arthur.

His chest aches, his heart calling him back to Arthur’s burial place, but Charles turns around on the road.  Ashamed of himself for abandoning the people he meant to protect and still unsure what to make of Rains Fall knowing Arthur better than himself, Charles isn’t ready to see Arthur again.

He gives the Grizzles a wide berth, but while the new century has been slow to take hold up north, civilization encroaches on the wilds here.  Even Taima senses the change in landscape, shying away from the sounds of sprawling towns which were once no more than struggling outposts.

Charles sighs as he removes the bridle and saddle from his faithful companion; she’s earned her rest in quiet pastures.  “Go on now, old friend.”

Annesburg is near as inhospitable as Charles remembers.  Passing through, Charles overhears talk; it seems the vanishing of the Van der Linde Gang is something of a local legend now in these parts.

“I’m telling you, I heard him.”

“Heard who?”

“That German fella the Pinkertons tortured in the mines.”

“Austrian,” Charles mummers, without thinking.

“Excuse me?  You got something to say to me, friend?”

Charles bites his tongue and hangs back, careful not to show he’s still listening.

“That’s what I thought.  As I were saying – I heard his spirit while I were down there just the other day.”

“You did not.”

“I did!  I were down there with the canary and he asked me if I needed any money.  Told me I could have a loan, only the devil would have my hide if I didn’t pay him back on time.”

“What a load of horseshit.”

“It’s true!  I swear, it’s true!”

“You didn’t hear a damned thing, cause that German never said a damned thing to them agents, remember?  Beat on him for weeks and didn’t get a word out of him.  You sure that canary were still alive when you came out of that mine shaft?”

Stopping in his tracks, Charles doesn’t believe it: old Strauss, loyal to the end, even after Arthur threw him out.

He ought to know better than to listen to rumors, especially those spread by folk who believe in ghost stories, but Charles keeps an ear to the ground for news of anyone else.

All he hears is more of the same: Pinkertons drove the Van der Linde gang out of Beaver Hollow and they scattered to the winds across Roanoke Ridge.

Aside from Strauss, no one can confirm if any else was killed, but Charles hears guesses: Van der Linde himself, Bell, Williamson, Escuella, Marston, Morgan… the list goes on.  The chinwags are at least partially right on that last account.

On occasion, Charles hears his own name amongst the litany of the dead.  He should count it a sign the rumors are false, but without evidence to the contrary, Charles takes them at their word.

Leastways, if they are alive, they’re well hidden.

It’s a thought that should give him some comfort, only his mind wanders to those whose names’ he hasn’t heard: Sadie, Abigail, Tilly, Jack… those who didn’t get away before the end…

None of them ought to have been high enough on the Pinkertons’ agenda to hunt down, but the lack of rumors doesn’t help Charles put the pieces together.

He hears more of the same in Van Horn, though it’s changed far less and still as rough as they come.

Charles only stops for a quiet drink at the saloon when finds himself out of cash.  He hasn’t had any work since he came south and civilization has a way of emptying a man’s pockets that nature doesn’t; he imagines Hosea would agree with sentiment, which makes him chuckle for the first time in a long while.

He’s about to take off when the blackjack table is turned over and a drunk launches himself at the dealer.  The old barkeep fires a shot in the air, but it doesn’t so much as startle the drunk off his target.

Instinct grabs Charles, as though a fight were breaking out in camp, and he seizes the drunk by the collar.

Dragging him outside and down to the waterfront, Charles dunks the drunk’s head below the surface and yanks it back out again.  “Had enough or do you still need to cool off?”

Gasping, “Enough!  Enough!”

Charles drops him on his knees in the water, “I’d think before lose your temper over cards next time.”

His teeth chatter as he nods, but he doesn’t move until Charles has waded back to shore.

The barkeep waves Charles back inside and slides a plate to him.  “Least I can do for your service.”

“Thank you,” Charles accepts gratefully.  “Would’ve thought a saloon in a place like this would have a bully of its own.”

“That’s just the problem, no one ever sticks around long enough in a place like this for me to be able to keep one on.  Firing blanks is usually enough to keep things from getting out of hand.”

Charles can’t promise he won’t eventually leave, but they work out a deal.  As long as he’s in Van Horn, he’ll have room and board so long as he keeps the unruly patrons in line with a small bonus for each time he has to remove one from the establishment.

Weighing the risk, he gives the barkeep his real name, but there is no glimmer of recognition in his eye for the outlaw Charles Smith.

It’s not meaningful work, but it’s work; Charles has a roof over his head and food in his stomach for now.

----------

He doesn’t stay anywhere for long.

Back on the road, Charles continues to avoid the Grizzles, taking himself anywhere else.  If it is cowardice not to return to Arthur’s graveside, then a coward he will be.

As towns grow and spread across the landscape it is harder to escape the need for money, at least he has found a way to use his considerable size and physical prowess to earn honest pay.

Some saloon owners and tavern keepers like how his color intimidates folk, others would rather not have him for fear of offending their white customers; Charles is never sure which it’s going to be when he enters a new town, he tries to ignore how degrading both responses are.

There isn’t much dignity in being a bouncer; patrons spitting at his feet, whispering comments they mean for him to overhear.  Charles holds his tongue.

But more often than not, he has the pleasure of expelling those folks.  Usually, they’re too far gone in their cups to land a punch, but occasionally one puts up a real fight.

A lucky blow splits Charles’ lip before he throws the rowdy patron into the mud.  Coming back inside, Charles presses a rag to his lower lip, blotting up the blood.

“That was an impressive display,” a man in a tailored suit leans against the bar next to him.

Shortly, “Thanks.”

“Ever think about testing your strength in the ring?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Boxing – think of the money you could make.  It’d be an easy fight to sell too.”  Holding his hands up as if seeing the headline on a marquis, “The Lone Wolf versus –”

Charles rolls his eyes, “Not interested.”

He hears enough of that sort of talk without needing to advertise it.

“Well, if you change your mind,” he slips Charles a card, “you know how to find me.”

It doesn’t take long for Charles reconsider.  The patron returns later accompanied by a few compatriots; Charles doesn’t fare so well when it’s four-on-one.

One of the compatriots has him by his hair when the law shows up to put an end to it, but they don’t make much of a show of pursuing the assailants after they’ve scattered.

The bookie pulls out a chair beside him and orders Charles a drink.

Slouching over the table, “How much are we talking?”

“More than you’d make in any saloon and the fights are always fair.”

Charles takes a swig and accepts the bookie’s hand with a firm shake.

Except the fights are almost never fair and almost always rigged.  There’s a host of gentleman’s rules Charles must learn before he sets foot in a back alley ring and even then, the bookie has the fights arranged in order to mark Charles as a contender.

Doesn’t take long for the bookie to realize Charles doesn’t need his assistance to win fights and soon he’s introducing Charles to Guido Martelli, who looks him over once and offers to pay him more to throw fights.  He should’ve realized he was being smooth-talked, like the bookie took a page out of Dutch’s book.  It’s been longer since Charles left the gang than he thought.

But Charles agrees to the played-out narrative: the savage native tamed and put in his place by the stalwart white man.  It rankles, but it keeps him on the move and well in pocket.

After each match, Charles finds himself at tavern, pushing his latest earnings across the bar.  He thinks he’s finally starting to understand why his father couldn’t draw himself out of the bottle.

An Irishman prattles away as a guitarist picks at the strings of his instrument, if Charles closes his eyes, he can imagine it’s Sean bothering Javier for a song.  He can almost smell the campfire, the roar of the gang’s laughter surrounding him; he can picture them all still so clearly, except someone’s missing – someone important.

The stool next to him scrapes across the floor and Charles’ eyes snap open, hoping.

But it’s not Arthur.  Of course, it’s not.

Draining the rest of his drink Charles leaves.

The fighting circuit brings him back to Saint Denis.  It’s close to the last place Charles would’ve chosen to return, but it’s where the money is, and he finds his reputation proceeds him.

The odds in his favor, Martelli finds it pertinent for Charles to win more fights than he loses, though he still takes key losses to ensure Martelli’s man comes out the victor.

They’re not supposed to socialize – it would look bad for Martelli, but they watch each other in the ring.  Simon’s a fierce competitor, but Charles figures if the matches weren’t predetermined, Simon’s perfect stance and form wouldn’t serve him as well.

“Boy, I sure lucked out,” Simon manages to get in close after Charles has finished pummeling his latest competitor.  “I’ve never seen tactics like yours.”

Charles isn’t sure exactly what Simon means, still too new to these rules and regulations, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask.

Being in this city brings back memories Charles would’ve just as soon forgotten.

He ducks out of sight of every police officer as if they were still on high alert for any member of the Van der Linde gang.  He feels the weight of Hosea’s corpse over his shoulders; he sees the look on Arthur’s face as he bolted in order create a diversion.

No, Charles certainly would not have come back to Saint Denis if he had a choice.  He thinks he might’ve even tried Blackwater before coming back here.

Charles’ mind is made up to leave again.  Martelli purses his lips when Charles tells him of his decision.

“Stay for the end of the tournament, at least.  You have two more matches before you’re scheduled to fight Simon, win them if you’d like.  Then lose to Simon as planned and you’re free to leave.  I’ll even book the steamboat myself.”

Charles isn’t keen on staying another day, let alone another week, but he can survive three more fights.

“I suppose a little extra cash couldn’t hurt.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

Aside from the few adrenaline-fueled minutes he’s in the ring, memories keep coming back to haunt him: Lenny’s body crumpling on the rooftops, the explosion that heralded the start of their failed heist.

He’s convinced that John’s voice behind him is just another one of his apparitions, but hidden behind a heavy beard, it’s John.  Real – alive and in the flesh.

Arthur did it.  He saved him.

Charles has never been more ready to leave a place behind.

----------

Hitching Falmouth to Nell, the horses tear down the rotting shack within seconds.

Hardly the sort of task Charles had in mind when he finally decided it was time for a new horse, but it is the beginning of a new chapter for them all.

Beneath his abrasive exterior, John is a changed man and determined to prove so to Abigail and to Jack.  Uncle is much the same as he ever was.  Charles knows he must have changed himself, but doesn’t feel it, falling easily back into their company.  He wonders how much of a difference John and Uncle see.

Together the three of them make a strange band of bachelors, toiling on this desolate scrap of land to make it into something none of them could’ve dreamed of years ago.

The promise of the life Arthur wanted for his brother.

Building the ranch is just the start.  Charles puts his back and sweat into it, but John puts in his heart.

Charles knows he’s got no claim to feel this way, but he’s proud of John, making something good and peaceful of his life.  He’s sure Arthur would be too.

He thinks on Arthur more these days than he ever let himself while on his own.  It’s hard not to now he’s flanked on either side by former gang members.

More than an occasional passing memory or stab of grief, his thoughts are less consumed by those terrible final days.  He thinks more on the brief time when things felt like they might turn out okay – when Charles was just starting to realize how much Arthur meant to him.  And on how much he still means.

It is only after a hard day’s labor, when John talks about his plans for the ranch and it is apparent how much he misses Abigail that Charles thinks on stolen moments he and Arthur shared.  There are no other memories he buried quite as deep, only recalled in the darkest of hours.

He excuses himself for the evening, removing himself far away from his companions, but there is no replacement for the feel of Arthur in his arms.

Putting the finishing touches on the house, they track mud across the freshly laid floors.  Charles doubts Abigail would be impressed to see her new home in such a sorry state, but John’s had no word from her, so they make little effort to clear it up.  They’ll likely just track more in later.

Charles is laying the stonework for the hearth when a black hat catches his eye in an open chest; he thought for sure John went out to look for Uncle wearing his hat.

On second glance, he realizes it’s not John’s at all.  Charles lets out a small gasp, fingering the worn and familiar brim of Arthur’s gambler hat.

John told Charles he had Arthur’s old journal, but his hat – Charles hadn’t given it any thought to its fate when he found Arthur’s body.  It shouldn’t, but Charles’ heart stings.

All this time, John’s had it.  Course, he didn’t say anything.  Why would he?

It’s not as though Charles has been especially forthcoming and it’s clear John isn’t exactly sure how to talk about Arthur either.  Aside from their reunion, both of them are guilty of being mute.

Their grief is mutual, but left different wounds on each of them.  Charles supposes it is easier to leave these things left unsaid, unless it is about killing Micah if they ever get the chance.

In hindsight, it’s not as much of a shock that Micah squealed to the Pinkertons and even if Micah wasn’t the rat, Charles wouldn’t mind crushing Micah’s throat.  Every bit of suffering the gang endured can be traced back to him and that damned Blackwater job.

Charles shakes with so much anger, he has to replace Arthur’s hat before he crushes it too.

Collecting his pipe from his bag, Charles leaves his work unfinished and steps outside.  Hours pass, before anyone comes looking for him.

John passes him a bottle.  “You said you went back and buried Arthur.”

It’s not the conversation opener Charles was expecting.  “I did.”

“I was considering visiting him.  Care to join me?”

Charles chews the end of his pipe.

This could be their opportunity to discuss Arthur or they could ride there and look at the view in silence; the latter being the more likely.

Though neither of them is keen on talking about their feeling, Charles wouldn’t know how to begin that conversation.  How to tell John that he loved Arthur; not as a brother, but more than a friend.

Even if John talked and Charles kept quiet, he’s not sure he could listen to John reminisce without asking the burning question in the back of his mind.

Charles is even more ashamed of what Arthur would think of him.  After Charles assured Arthur could be a better man with the time he had left, what has he done with his life in all this time?

John needs this; Charles isn’t ready.

----------

Beecher’s Hope comes alive with joy and laughter in the stir of Abigail and Jack’s arrival.  There are irritated spats too, mostly between Abigail and Uncle, but their home is finally complete.

Charles mostly feels as though he is watching them all at a distance.  Abigail, of course, threw her arms around him in warm reunion but Jack…

Jack extended a hand as though they were strangers.  Charles supposes in some way they are to each other.  Jack was a child only when they last met and Charles never made much of an effort to entertain or keep an eye on him; he had so many others looking out for him already, Arthur included.

John tries to tell Charles not to take Jack’s manner personally.  “It’s just how the boy is.”

But then John’s never been particularly at ease with fatherhood, determined as he is to mend those fences.

Leastways, Jack doesn’t completely shrink away from Charles the way he does when Sadie finally graces the farm with a visit.  She was always a tough woman in Charles’ estimation, but she is a steely one now.

They’re in need of supplies from Blackwater or Charles would join them for dinner with their guest.  Sadie manages to steal away from Abigail’s gushing to the barn while the evening’s meal is being prepared.

“John told me you turned up,” she says by way of casual conversation.

“He told me he’s been working for you some too.”

“Did he mention I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground about Micah?”

“He did.”

“I’m getting real close.  There’s a feller upcountry – the description fits.”

Her eagerness is palpable.  Charles feels his own heart pounding in anticipation of the hunt.

“When you find him – I’m coming.”

Sadie’s lip quirks upward, “I thought you might.  Bastard’s had it coming for too long.”

Charles spies Abigail waving Sadie back to the house, nodding in her direction, “Just – just be careful what you say about that around her.  Abigail’s not too keen on the idea of anything that could get John shot.”

She shoots him a look like she knows what she’s doing, though it’s obvious now this isn’t just a friendly social call.  She’s aiming to take John out on another bounty.  If it isn’t related to work or revenge, Sadie hasn’t got much time or use for it anymore.

Finished loading up the wagon, Charles sets out.  Both Sadie and John are gone by the time he returns.  Jack and Uncle give Abigail a wide berth as her mutters fiercely to herself.

“Did you know about this?” she fires at Charles as he walks through the door.

“Yes.”

“How come you didn’t stop him?”

Charles hangs his head, “It’s not my place.”

She fumes, “And I suppose you’re just as eager to see Micah dead as the two of them!”

Inhaling deeply, Charles looks Abigail square in the eye and nods.  “It has to be done.”

“What is wrong with all of you?  Killing Micah won’t bring Arthur back!”

When Charles doesn’t have an answer for her, Abigail pushes past him and slams the door of the bedchamber behind her.

Shakily, Charles exhales.  Whether she knows it or not, Abigail has hit upon all of their reasons for going after Micah.  Whether she intended to or not, she’s reminded Charles it wasn’t Micah that did Arthur in.

Somehow Charles doesn’t think it would make much difference to John or Sadie whether it was Micah or the tuberculous; they’d rather see him dead.

Charles wouldn’t mind seeing the end of Micah, but he can’t stop thinking about what Arthur would’ve wanted instead.

John comes home, a little rattled, but otherwise in one piece.  It takes some coaxing, but Abigail finally opens the door to him.  He’s done with bounties, or at least, Sadie’s done with hiring him on for bounties.  He focuses back on the farm and his family.

Watching John’s efforts with Jack, Charles keeps coming back to the same conclusion: Arthur would’ve wanted John to do what he couldn’t.  He would’ve wanted all of them to break away from that life and be good people, once and for all.

God knows, John’s trying.  It’s more than Charles can say for Sadie or himself.

But at least John and Sadie know what’s holding them back from letting go.  Charles doesn’t have the same excuse.

John and Jack don’t exactly have the pleasant fishing trip John had imagined, but once Rufus is out of danger, the whole house calms.  Charles finds John outside with a cigarette.

“I just can’t get it right with Jack, can I?”

“I’m probably the wrong person to ask,” Charles shrugs.

“’Course.  You’re right.  Sorry.”

John’s got nothing to apologize to him for, but Charles doesn’t correct him, leaning against the railing of the porch.

Now doesn’t feel like the appropriate moment to tell John Micah didn’t kill Arthur after all, but Charles has got to do it sometime or another.  At the very least, he’s got to say something before Sadie comes back with confirmation.

He’s on the verge of telling him when John speaks up again, lost in his own thoughts.

“Arthur were always so good with Jack.”  He snorts derisively at himself, “Would’ve made him a better father than me – that’s for damn sure.”

A question hangs in the air, Charles doesn’t know if he’ll ever have another opportunity to ask.  If anyone knows for sure, it’s John.

“Rains Fall told me something strange – he said Arthur had a son.  I figured he must’ve mistaken Jack for Arthur’s.”  Charles tries to brush it off with an uncertain laugh, but John’s stricken expression only serves to confirm Rains Fall’s claim.  Swallowing the truth, “He did, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know how Rains Fall could’ve known – Arthur didn’t much talk about Isaac when he were alive.  Even less after he passed.”

Charles’ chest aches for Arthur, though not in the manner in which he’s used to; Arthur must’ve been in so much pain to never talk to anyone about his son.

Why Arthur took Eagle Flies’ death so hard; why he would’ve spoken to Rains Fall of his son, but not to him, suddenly makes sense.  Charles feels like a prize fool for not understanding it before.

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No,” John shakes his head.  “No, Arthur kept Isaac away from the life – much good that it did him or his poor momma.”

“That wasn’t the woman from the picture in Arthur’s tent, was she?” he tries to ask as levelly as he can.  Arthur’s dead and this was all such a long time ago, it shouldn’t matter, but Charles has to know.

If it strikes John as odd that Charles noticed the personal touches in Arthur’s tent, he does well not to show it.

“Mary did strange things to Arthur’s head, but no, she weren’t Isaac’s momma.  Thank Christ.  One less reason for him to be hung up on her.”

Charles heard plenty of talk about Mary in camp, none so harsh as John’s damning opinion.  It makes Charles less sure he could ever tell John what was between Arthur and him in the end.

John continues to puff on his cigarette, stewing.

It’s not fair to John, being his brother’s keeper, pressing him for every last shred of Arthur.  But Charles doesn’t think he can bring himself to ask to read Arthur’s journal.  What he knows now will have to suffice.

Clearing his throat, “You give yourself too little credit, John.  Jack’ll come around.”

“You really think so?”

Charles thinks on his father; what little he knows of John’s, of Hosea and Rains Fall, and even now of Arthur.  Each of them trying do what’s right by their sons, not always succeeding.

“We can’t all be destined to repeat our fathers’ mistakes.”

“I hope you’re right about that,” John snorts.

----------

Charles spies Sadie from the field.  There’s no mistaking the urgency with which she’s riding in.

Inhaling the oncoming storm as it hangs in the air, Charles shouts for John; Abigail follows on his heels.  Sadie hasn’t even dismounted, but they all know why she’s here: she’s found Micah.

Staring at the dirt on his hands, anger twists up inside Charles.  Not just about Arthur, but every member of the gang he buried.  He’s known what his answer to her question would be for a long time.

“That’s your business,” Abigail spits, her efforts focused on getting John to listen to her.

None of them is surprised, John can’t be convinced otherwise.

But Abigail’s helpless cries don’t fall entirely on deaf ears as they mount up, only it takes Sadie insisting they owe this to Arthur for Charles to realize what they’re doing – what he’s doing.

He watches John and Sadie beat, threaten, and string Cleet up to discover Micah’s whereabouts; he watches as his friends turn into monsters.  Charles doesn’t participate, but he does nothing to prevent it.  He can’t justify or moralize it either; a part of him still wants Micah dead too.

They leave Cleet’s body limp on the gallows and they don’t turn back.

The night is cold, the company is as frosty as the air.  None of them is inclined to voicing their thoughts.

John pulls on his winter coat and dons Arthur’s hat.  Despite it, Charles suspects John’s thinking more of making Micah pay than of his brother.

Sadie eyes it too.  Her glare is clear; she’s hoping to be the one to pull the trigger.

Whatever Charles thought he came here to do; he’s changed his mind.  He has to see John and Sadie safely home.  He’s not burying anyone else – not because of Micah Bell.

The mountain pass is the quickest but most reckless route; Charles weighs their other options and takes the lead.

The sniper’s shot pierces the silence.  Charles doesn’t feel the bullet’s impact, but an instant later he’s lying on the ground, his shoulder throbbing.  Falmouth and the other horses flee in panic.

More gunshots echo through the valley.  John and Sadie shout.  Charles can barely hear them over the pounding pain and rage in his head.  Somehow, he manages to crawl behind cover and waits for a final decisive crack of a gunshot.

How could he have been so careless?  To come all this way to protect John and Sadie, only to be utterly useless to them just when they need him the most.

It can’t end like this.

The shooting stops.  Charles tries to push himself up to get a better look.

Sadie pushes him back down, inspecting the wound, unconvincingly assuring him he’s okay; mostly she sounds annoyed he’s going to slow them down.

He glances at his shoulder for the first time.  Blood seeps through the layers of his shirt and coat, but it looks worse than it feels, and it hurts like Hell.

He doesn’t like the notion of sending John and Sadie on ahead, but they have as much surprise and momentum now as they were ever going to have in order to catch Micah; they can’t wait for Micah and his men to descend on them first.

Charles doesn’t expect John to be so tenuous about leaving him, not after they came all this way.

But Charles still has two working legs damn it; he’ll follow them.  He has to – Arthur’s sacrifice for John can’t be in vain.

When the shooting begins again, Charles makes another attempt to get to his feet.  Bright red blood stains the snow, making for an easy trail to follow.

He’s lucky John and Sadie are making quick, easy work of Micah’s men, leaving none alive, for now that he’s on the move, Charles feels the drain of his wound.  His arm is weak, barely able to grip his shotgun.

Breathing heavily and struggling to stand upright, Charles thinks of Arthur – pushing and fighting in spite of everything.  Arthur is the last person Charles should be thinking of right now, but he is the only one he can think of.  He attributes his fresh tears to the blistering wind.

The gun fire’s getting closer again; Charles is catching up.  He wishes it was an encouraging thought, but it means their ascent’s either been slowed down or halted in its tracks.

Charles encounters his first adversaries since the sniper.  His aim is sloppy, but the shells do their work; dead or alive, he won’t be followed.

But John and Sadie leaving anyone alive means their need for revenge is outnumbered.  Charles pushes himself to go faster.

Gunshots aren’t echoes across the mountainside anymore; shouts are distinct.  Charles is gaining.

“Sadie!” John yells.

Then suddenly everything is too quiet for a fight like this.

Cresting the peak, the glint of a knife catches Charles’ eye.  Only he waits too long for a clear shot, and the knife is plunged into Sadie.  Not waiting any longer, he pulls the trigger and Sadie’s assailant falls dead.  Charles collapses too.

John pummels his own attacker and helps Sadie to a place she can rest; Charles staggers toward them.

The pair of them squabble worse over her injury than they did Charles’.  Her blood coats the snow more than anyone else’s, but Sadie’s always been worse than stubborn – she’s determined and ferocious.

John orders them both to stay put and continues the charge on his own.

Charles is just starting to feel like he can breathe again, adjusting to the thin air and blood loss, when Sadie pushes herself up.

Pulling her back down, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to finish this once and for all!”

“You can barely stand!”

Her face twists, trying to bite back some rash words.  Instead, “Charles, that bastard killed Arthur and you’re okay with him letting him get away again?”

Now is not the time to tell her, in the end, it wasn’t Micah that killed Arthur.  She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Insisting, “John will –”

“You really think John’s capable of finishing this on his own?” Sadie’s voice cracks from pain, from distress – Charles isn’t sure which.  Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s just Sadie.  “John, who’s loyal, but – I’ll be honest – ain’t exactly the brightest fella!  How much back luck has he had since you’ve known him?”

She’s right.

Charles barely remembers John’s face without the scars and his luck only got worse from there.

“John’s got more to lose than either of us, but if he hesitates for a second, you can be damn sure Micah won’t!  So, either you or me has gotta go after him!  What’s it gonna be, Charles?”

Sadie’s right again.

Charles promised himself he would protect John and Sadie for Arthur’s sake; it should be him who goes, but he is frozen in place.

He’s already failed Sadie.  What sort of protector would he be if he let the same happen to John?  Or to let Sadie follow and be hurt worse?  If only those were the reasons holding him back.

Micah deserves to die, Charles believes that.  He believes that John needs to return to his family and that Sadie should be able to finally let go of her anger.  But Charles is stuck between his conscience and his memory.

He’s taking too long to make up his mind.  Sadie’s already managed to push herself to her feet; one way or another, she will see this through.

“Go.”

Sadie doesn’t need to be told twice.

“But you better bring him back alive!”

She’s already too far ahead to reply.

Charles has every intention to follow, but he no longer has the strength to keep pace.  He hopes to God her determination will be enough.

----------

The recovery of the Blackwater gold is more believable to Charles than John and Sadie’s return down the mountain, but it’s done.  Micah’s gone.

Charles helps share Sadie’s barely conscious weight as they climb back down.

“You didn’t see Dutch, did you?” John asks.

“Dutch was here?” Charles is absolutely dumbfounded.

“Yeah.”

Shaking his head, “Must’ve gone by a different road.”

John grunts, keeping his thoughts to himself.  Charles doesn’t press.  Whatever Dutch’s presence here meant to John; Charles is inclined to let it go.

In their condition, the ride to Beecher’s Hope is slower but harder than the ride to Mount Hagan.

Charles and Sadie collapse into heaps on the sofa, trying to peel away their bloodied coats as fresh water and bandages are collected, as John tells their tale to Abigail and Uncle.  Jack makes himself scarce, but listens to their talk.

There’s some relief Micah is dead; there’s no consensus over what cost they would’ve been willing to pay for it.

There aren’t many other places to lay down in the big house, but John won’t hear of either of them sleeping outside, so Sadie stretches out across the sofa and a bed is made up for Charles on the floor near to the fire.

Only sleep doesn’t come.  Charles misses the sounds of nighttime and after tossing and turning for what feels like hours.  Utterly listless, he steps out onto the deck.

The smell of tobacco hits his nose before he notices Sadie.  By the looks of it, she gave up on sleep even longer ago than him; a trail of cigarette butts litters the railing.

Joining her, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“Nice night not to sleep.”

Sadie snorts and takes another drag, blowing the smoke up to the stars.

They are quiet for a long time; understanding passes between them about what transpired on that mountain.  In the end, they both failed to achieve what they set out to do.  They are alive, though not through any feat of Charles’ doing.  Micah is dead, but not by Sadie’s hand.

Her brow furrows before breaking the silence, “Did you really mean what you said before?”

Charles can’t think of what she’s talking about, he hasn’t said much of anything since they’ve been back.

“That you’re thinking of going back to Canada, finding a wife, starting a family…”

“Oh.  That.”  Charles can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed his mind on several occasions.

Living with the Marstons, welcoming and generous as they’ve been, Charles can’t help feeling like he’s intruding – a constant reminder of the past they’ve been trying to shake off.

It’s not like when it was just him and John and Uncle anymore.  John’s standing on his own two feet.  It’s past time Charles found a way to do the same.

“Yeah.  Maybe,” he says still unsure.

Sadie huffs to herself, “I guess, I just always thought that you and – never mind.”

Charles stares at Sadie intently; she refuses to meet his eye.  He remembers suspecting once that she always perceived more than she let on, he’s near certain of it now.

Prodding, “Always thought that I what?”

“It ain’t my business.”

“That I cared for Arthur and him for me,” Charles finishes her original thought.  It is terrifying and a relief to admit out loud for the first time since Arthur died.

“So I weren’t imagining things?”

“No.”

“Christ, Charles.  Then how come it weren’t you leading the charge up that mountain?  If any one of us deserves retribution –”

“Because Arthur didn’t die for us to waste our lives seeking revenge on his behalf.  He died for this,” Charles gestures out across Beecher’s Hope.  “So we could all find our own versions of this.”

Sadie isn’t satisfied with his answer, sucking on air around the cigarette clenched between her teeth.  Charles isn’t sure Sadie will ever see it that way.  Losing her husband to the O’Driscolls is still as fresh a wound as the one to her stomach; violent and merciless.

But then it’s taken this long for Charles to come to terms with Arthur choosing their lives over getting vengeance on Micah.

Finishing the cigarette, Sadie flicks it away rather than add it to her growing pile.  “So, Canada.”

“Canada,” Charles confirms.

Despite how low he was when he was last there, Charles has never found acceptance like he did among the Wapiti – like he has here at Beecher’s Hope.

But he misses the wide, open spaces and he needs the distance from all this.

“That’s a long ways away.  You know Abigail will kill you if you miss her wedding, don’t you?”

A laugh bubbles up inside him, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Healing will take some time; Charles isn’t planning on going anywhere just yet.

----------

He didn’t intend to come this way and he can’t blame Falmouth for taking him down this road, but Charles doesn’t change course.

This visit is long overdue.  Still, he takes his time traveling this particular route.  There’s a kind of comfort in knowing the mountain passes won’t ever be tamed and civilized like the Heartlands for nothing should ever disturb Arthur’s resting place.

There isn’t a cloud in the blue skies for miles when Charles reaches the peak, but he shivers as he lays eyes on the marker, bright orange flowers covering the grave.  It is a more perfect spot than Charles remembers.

With each step closer, Charles becomes less sure of what to say.  He’s ashamed how long he’s spent avoiding this moment.

“Hello, Arthur.”

There is no response, but Charles remembers every intonation of Arthur’s greetings.

“I should’ve come by sooner.  Guess I was too much of a coward to tell you how much I’ve been squandering the time you should’ve had.”

He pictures how Arthur would’ve rolled his eyes at him.  How Arthur would’ve told him how ridiculous he’s acting.

“But I’m going back to Canada and I probably won’t be back again.”

Arthur’s silent.

“I just wanted you to know that’s all going to change.  That I’m going to be a better man because of you.”

More silence.

Tears spill onto Charles’ cheeks, “And though I don’t think I’m ever going to stop loving you, I think I’m finally ready to find love again – I thought you should know that too.”

As a warm breeze passes over the cliff, Charles feels his heart lift.  Of course, Arthur wouldn’t have wanted him to spend the rest of his life alone.

Charles doesn’t linger, there is a long road ahead of him still, but he brushes the dirt from the marker before continuing his journey.

O

Chapter Text

Most days are spent in the company of the tribe; Charles prefers hunting as a solitary activity.

When he was young, hunting was merely a matter of survival; when he was with the gang, a matter of providing.  He’s still providing for others nowadays, but he spares a moment to appreciate the subtle differences in the tracks.

The ground is soft from rain; the imprints are visible, but don’t sink deep into the mud.  The herd moves north and so does Charles.

In truth, his return to the Wapiti was more humbling than Charles anticipated.  Paytah welcomed him back warmly, relating all the latest news, but when Charles went to see Rains Fall, there was no recognition in his eyes.

Rains Fall has flashes of recollection, moments of lucidity where he sees Charles, but Paytah shakes his head and tells Charles not to get his hopes up.  Rains Fall’s mind and body are frail and failing.

Even when Rains Fall can’t seem to recall who Charles is, Charles chooses to sit beside him, providing an old man with quiet company.

We all have our time, Charles reminds himself, trying not to consider the unfairness of it all.

Not long after Charles’ return, a letter arrived from John, bearing the best of news: the birth of Susanna Marston.  Charles hastily writes back his congratulations, almost wishing himself back to Beecher’s Hope, where he might be surrounded by great joy rather than deep sorrow.

But he is here now and Charles must make the most of it.

For the moment, Charles enjoys his solitude.  He’s getting close now.

A smaller set of prints wanders curiously away from the rest of the herd.

“Where are you off to, little one?” Charles murmurs to himself.

It isn’t long before he hears the anguished whine of the fawn, its leg caught in a snare, clearly not meant for him.

Glancing over his shoulder for the mother, Charles approaches the fawn.  “Hey now.  It’ll be alright.  I’m just going to get you out of this.”

The fawn responds to his calmness, panicking less as Charles gets closer; moving slowly, he examines the wound.  Thankfully, the laceration is not severe.

“Easy there,” he near whispers to himself as he cuts the tether, letting the fawn go free.

The fawn springs up on its spindly legs and limps in the direction of its herd.  Charles sigh in relief, but does not follow it; he will have to seek out a new quarry.

Turning back, Charles is met face to face with another wanderer.  Though dressed more like a white frontiersman than any man of the tribes which share the reservation with the Wapiti, the man is Indian.

He stares ashamedly at the cut snare.  “That wasn’t meant for deer.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t set traps meant for beavers so far from the water.”

The man hangs his head lower, “Of course, you’re right.  It appears I’m more hopeless at trapping than I thought.”

All at once the stranger perplexes and strikes pity in Charles.

“I’m not much of a trapper myself, but beaver don’t usually stray so far from their dams.”  He points upstream, “You’d be better off further upstream.”

He nods, but still looks unsure, “Would you mind showing me?”

Charles outright laughs, “You can’t be serious.”

“As a hole in the head.”

“Must be pretty serious then, cause I’ve seen a hole clean through someone’s head before and there wasn’t much left after that.”

The stranger flinches, realizing his misstep, “It’s been quite some time since I was last in these parts and I was hoping to prove I still had it in me before heading home.”

Looking back in the direction the fawn went, Charles exhales.  It’s not as though he has his own prey to catch.  He glances at the stranger again, who grins hopefully.

In spite of himself, Charles’ jaw goes slack.  He might not mind the extra company as much as he thought he would.    “Alright then.  How about I reintroduce you to this unfamiliar terrain.”

“I’d appreciate that.”  Sticking out his hand, “George Leigh.”

“Charles Smith,” he grasps George’s hand.  His palm and fingers are rough, but not nearly as calloused as Charles’ own.

They travel along the creek together for a while; Charles pointing out good spots to leave traps, George setting them.  He isn’t as incompetent as Charles initially took him for; it’s instinctual, how he makes each snare.

George talks about learning the craft from his grandfather through observation; his hands eventually growing nimbler at the practice than his grandfather’s.  Learning the various intricacies of animal habits from a man who barely spoke wasn’t as easy.

His explanation is simple.  “He just knew where to leave them and I never thought to ask why.”

Charles is reminded of giving Jack tracking lessons, only that boy had a seemingly endless series of questions to ask.  Charles did his best, but he didn’t always have the answers; sometimes he just knew, an instinct learned through experience.

He does his best to explain to George why each location has potential for trapping, but all his answers feel like they fall short of useful.

But it’s growing late and Charles should catch something before returning to the reservation.

“Thank you for the help,” George takes Charles by the hand once more.

“My pleasure.”

“Maybe we’ll meet each other in the woods again some time.”

“I’d like that.”

George hasn’t let go of Charles’ hand, though Charles hasn’t pulled away either.  Looking at anything, other than George or George’s hand, Charles clears his throat.

The warmth of George’s hand slips away almost instantly as his arm falls back at his side.

“I’d better be off,” Charles manages, turning on his heel.

Glancing once over his shoulder, George watches his retreat.   Charles’ face grows intensely hot, though he controls himself from breaking out into a run.

Charles doesn’t stop until he’s returned to the place where he left Falmouth.  He buries his face into the horse’s neck, willing his heart to drop back down from his throat into his chest.

It was just a chance meeting in the woods.  You won’t ever see him again, Charles tries to convince himself.

Except his heart won’t settle down.  Not since Arthur has his heart behaved so irrationally.  He can’t let his heart do this to him – not again.  He came back to make a home and do something worthwhile, not forget himself over hopeless fantasies.

Admittedly, Charles has been taking the former part of his plan more slowly than he thought he might.  Not that the women of the tribe aren’t sensible or attractive, Charles did briefly think of asking Leotie if she might consider him as well, but he could not bring himself to do it.

Each of them has a place and purpose among their people.  Even if they didn’t go far from the reservation to make their home, Charles wouldn’t dare to separate anyone from that sense of belonging, not when it’s the very thing he’s been seeking his whole life.

Charles wonders if he and Arthur would’ve been happy together or if it was the fever of Arthur’s illness which heightened their connection.  He thinks they could have been, far beyond the reach of Dutch or Micah or the Pinkertons or civilization.  Maybe they could’ve come here or gone west as Arthur always talked about; Charles wouldn’t have minded either way, so long as they were together.

Thoughts of Arthur drive the chance encounter out of Charles’ head as he continues his hunt.  And eventually the hunt drives even Arthur from his mind, as Charles realizes he’s on the trail of a mule deer.  Perhaps, he’ll have some luck today after all.

----------

Sacrificing the parts he cannot stow on Falmouth, Charles returns to the reservation.

Tired, Charles means to get some sleep when Paytah hails him over.  “Charles, come meet Lalawethika!”

Not particularly in the mood to speak to anyone, Charles joins Paytah, keeping his eyes lowered, staring at his feet.

“Charles, this is Lalawethika.  He’s been arguing our case with Indian Affairs.  Lalawethika, this is –”

“Charles Smith,” a newly familiar voice says his name.

His head snaps up and Charles locks eyes with George Leigh once more, apparently as stunned to see Charles as Charles is to see him.

Paytah puzzles it out, “You’ve met before?”

“Briefly.  Out hunting,” Charles explains.

“As there are other things I must see to before dark, I’ll let the pair of you continue to acquaint yourselves.  He won’t say it, Lalawethika, but Charles has helped us through a difficult time.  He’s been a brother to me and to the tribe.”

George swallows, “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Once Paytah has gone, neither of them knows how to start the conversation, each of them as tongue-tied as the other.  Charles starts and stops to say something – anything several times before George manages to speak.

“You didn’t mention you came from this reservation.”  It’s not an accusation; he is just as bewildered by the chances of them meeting twice in one day.

“Neither did you, Lalawethika.”

He winces, “Please, it’s George.”

Charles knows that look.  That feeling of being given something he hasn’t earned – doesn’t feel he deserves.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  It is my given name, but it never much suited me – only Paytah and some others have insisted on using it since I began petitioning the government on their behalf.”

“That’s a noble cause,” Charles assures him.  More good than Charles has ever done the Wapiti anyway.

“It’s the least I can do.  After all, it’s not like I’m much of a provider, as I’m sure you can tell,” George laughs at himself.

Grinning, “I might have noticed some room for improvement.”

They move beside the fire as they trade stories – rather, George talks, Charles listens.  George tells Charles about growing up on another reservation, more about how his grandfather raised him until he was taken away to a residential school, never to see his grandfather again.

As George explains how he began lobbying, Charles realizes how long they’ve been talking, the fire warming their backs.

The sky has turned to a deep, rich blue; the moon and stars glow brightly overhead.  Somehow, George outshines them all, though firelight cast his face in partial shadow.  Given what his life has been, Charles marvels how George still clings to the promise of better days to come.

“I resented my education for a long while, separating me from my family, but it’s served its purpose.  White politicians are somewhat more willing to deal with me if I approach them on their terms –” George laughs to himself out of nowhere, “Listen to me carrying on.  What about you, Charles?”

Chuckling nervously, “What about me?”

“You must have quite the story to have found yourself way out here.”

Scoffing, Charles shakes his head.  “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?  You are a stranger to these parts, but Paytah calls you a brother to him and the Wapiti.  How come I never met you before?”

“After helping the Wapiti relocate, I went back to the States for a while,” Charles answers.  “I only returned a few months ago.”

George watches him closely, perhaps staring at the same shadows across Charles’ face, patiently waiting on him.  It isn’t fair of Charles to want to bury his past when George has laid his own out so plainly, but he’s been trying so hard to leave it all behind.

More anxious laughter escapes him, “You’re certain you want to hear my story?  It’s a long one and I was a different a very different man then.”

“Weren’t we all at some point?  But you’re right, it’s getting late – maybe just the short version for now.”

Charles lets go a long exhale, beginning with his parents.  He can hardly believe how much he tells George on such short acquaintance, recalling another meeting in the dark beside an open fire; how Hosea conned him into telling his story, though it was much shorter then.

But at a point, Charles becomes more sparing with details.  “Joined a gang, rode with them for near a year.  Entangled myself with the Wapiti as an oil company was trying to pry them off their land.  Fell in love, lost him to disease.  Helped the Wapiti relocate.  Drifted for a long time, started boxing.  Helped a friend start his life over, finally realized I could do the same, and came back.”

George is silent a long time.

Charles wonders what he could’ve said to have stunned him so, when in a near whisper, he asks, “Lost him?”

It is gentle, as though not to startle him, but Charles’ heart stops all the same.  He hadn’t meant to mention Arthur, but Charles can’t deny Arthur’s impact on his story.  Not now – not ever.

Accepting that George might never speak to him again, Charles nods.  “Yeah.”

But George’s reaction isn’t what Charles expects, putting a hand on Charles’ shoulder.  “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Charles sighs.  Only now that Charles has brought him up, he wants to tell George everything about Arthur – to keep his memory alive.  He settles for a sentiment he knows Arthur would do his damnedest to refute, “He was a good man.”

“I’m sure he was, knowing what I do of you.”

Charles wipes his nose on his sleeve to disguise that he’s sniffling.  Redirecting the conversation back at George, “You must have someone in your life that you care about.”

George shakes his head, “Not as such.  I move around too much.  Act too much like a white man or too much like an Indian.”

Years ago, Charles might’ve thought the same thing about himself.  Too much of one thing, not enough of another; yet for some reason, Arthur loved him anyway.  Charles wonders if it crossed Arthur’s mind that the only place Charles really ever fit was in Arthur’s arms.

“Some day you will find someone who sees both sides of you and loves you because of them, not in spite of them.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Charles nods.

“Then you’ve been one of the lucky ones.”

The shadows make it impossible to decipher the expression on George’s face; envy or longing, Charles can’t be sure.  Whatever it is, Charles feels his heartbeat thud harder, something else stirs in his stomach.

Charles can’t deny how strongly he is drawn to George, but he is torn by the notion they only just met.  It is too soon to know if these feelings are true or if he is just afraid of letting himself care that deeply for someone again – someone he might lose.

Contemplatively, “Maybe I was, but I’ve so rarely known lightning to strike the same place twice.”

To that George has no response, instead finally taking notice of how late it’s become.

George stays on the reservation near two weeks, discussing with Paytah and the other chiefs what work must be seen to, what their priorities would be if Indian Affairs would listen to them.  George hears them, but cannot make any real promises.

He laments as much to Charles the night before he is supposed to leave for the next reservation, “Truth is: the politicians only listen to me when it suits their needs.”

“Sounds like someone I used to know,” Charles mutters under his breath, puffing on his pipe.

George smirks, though he doesn’t fully understand why, but it’s a sort of game they’ve devised.  Any time Charles alludes to the past he won’t elaborate on, George guesses as to what it’s about.

Tonight, he leaves well enough alone.  Instead, he leans his weight against Charles, shoulder to shoulder.  “I’m going to miss your company.”

The comment gives Charles pause.  Not that Charles won’t miss George – he will, immensely – but if he ought to say something more.  He let so much time slip away from him with Arthur by not speaking up sooner.

Every day he has felt the bond between him and George strengthen.   But it is still so soon to know with any certainty how he feels about George – how George feels about him.

Patting George’s arm, “I’ll still be here when you come back.”

----------

Aside from a few fleeting visits, George does not make any more extended trips to the reservation; Charles barely gets a word in edgewise as he passes through.

George apologies profusely, he cannot stay longer; Charles tells him not to worry on his account.

Despite how Charles’ heart pounds against his chest each time he catches a glimpse of George, he convinces himself nothing will come of it.

He convinces himself it is time to move forward and finally build himself a home.

Paytah takes the news harder than Charles anticipated.

“Your hospitality has been more than generous, but I’ve been saving money and there’s a plot of land not so far away in the mountains that I won’t be back.”

It is even harder to make his farewells to Rains Fall; he barely rises from his bed anymore, his eyes clouded and unfocused.  Charles takes Rains Fall by the hand and thanks him, hoping Rains Fall might have one of his lucid moments to assure Charles he’s doing the right thing.

With Falmouth loaded up with supplies, Charles departs the reservation for his own land.

Breathing the air in deep, Charles feels it at last – he has come home.

“Now I just have to build it,” he laughs to himself.

Falmouth snorts, apparently not amused by Charles.

Though there was a certain amount of convenience in building a precut house and barn for John, it is impractical out here in the wilderness.  Even if Charles could figure a way to transport all the materials here, he doesn’t need anything quite so large.

Slow-going as it is with just one person, there’s a certain pride in building his own home; it isn’t much more than four walls and a chimney, but it’s sturdy.

Of course, he chooses the hottest day of the summer to begin roofing the cabin.  The morning is pleasant enough, but the afternoon is scorching.  Charles peels his damp shirt off and throws it to the ground.

Shingling is at once tedious and hypnotic; Charles and John would often sing while they shingled the roof over Beecher’s Hope, Uncle keeping time was about his most useful contribution to the process.  Charles hums to himself now, until Falmouth’s whinnying disrupts the tune.

Looking up from his work, Falmouth is joined by another horse; its rider slowly approaching the cabin.

“George?”  Charles climbs down.  “What are you doing here?”

George looks at anything except Charles.  “Paytah told me I would find you here.”

“And so you have, but why?”

Avoiding the question, “You really built all this yourself?”

“I’ve had some practice, but George –”

“It’s good, solid work.  Strong –”

“George.  Why are you here?”

“Because I needed to see you,” George finally looks Charles in the eye.

Charles isn’t sure what makes him more out of breath, the labor or George’s revelation.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful when I said I hadn’t ever loved anyone, but those were a schoolboy’s flights of fancy.  God knows what sort of punishment we would’ve received if the other boys and I had ever been found out.”

“You don’t have to tell me any of this.”  Charles can’t believe what’s happening.  George is here and confessing all sorts of things, he couldn’t have even guessed at.

“But I want to.  I’ve wanted to share every detail of my days with you since I left.”

“Why me?  I don’t know anything about negotiating with politicians.  The one time I tried my hand at diplomacy, well – let’s just say it ended in gunfire.”

George laughs, “Because you are honest, and thoughtful, and don’t run your mouth like me, and funny in a completely humorless sort of way.  And because I think I’m falling in love with you.  This is what being in love is like, isn’t it?  Wanting to share everything with someone?”

Charles is at a loss for words.  Of all times, he thinks of Arthur; how he must’ve felt when Charles confessed to him.  There were so many forces against them and yet they loved anyway.

What really stands in his way with George now?  That they hardly know each other?

Charles knew Arthur for all of seven months without really knowing anything about him.  How long after opening up to each other did it take before Charles was certain of his feelings?

He would’ve spent a lifetime getting to know Arthur if they had the chance.  Maybe he could have that chance with George, if he would allow himself to unguard his heart for just a moment.

Remembering what it felt like to be in love, Charles finally unties his tongue, “Yes, partly.  It’s compromise and trust too.  Those are everyday trials, but there’s passion and tenderness also.”

He thinks on how easily Arthur would melt at the touch of his lips, but it was Arthur’s caresses which always lingered longer on Charles’ skin.  It’s strange to be standing, remembering Arthur, but not aching for him quite so immensely.

“Losing someone like that must be harder than I can possibly imagine,” George sympathizes.

“It was,” Charles sighs.

“I’m sorry if this is inappropriate, but can I kiss you?”

George makes the same leap Charles did to Arthur; he supposes he has more in common now with Arthur, having been hurt by love.  Charles misses being so bold.

“Just once,” George implores.  “If it feels wrong or if you don’t feel about me as I do about you, you’ll never see me again.  I promise.”

“Alright,” Charles says beneath all of George’s rambling.

Charles’ answer takes a moment to sink in.  George’s gaze flicks from Charles’ eyes, to his bare chest, to his mouth, and back to his eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Exhaling, George closes the distance between them, but his nerves are still plainly written on his face.  Charles can’t read them precisely, but he can guess.

Even if George doesn’t know him by name, Arthur looms over their discussion.  Charles hasn’t stopped thinking of him; George is afraid how he could ever compare, but Charles is determined for it not to be a competition between George and his memories.

Timidly, George reaches up and pulls Charles toward him.  His lips graze Charles’, barely even touching before retreating, but it’s as if some electric current reignites Charles’ boldness.

Charles wraps his arms around George’s waist, refusing to let him go, not until George has kissed him properly.

George stammers an excuse, “That was – I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have –”

Thickly, “Try again.”

This time, Charles isn’t so passive, responding to the touch of George’s lips with more urgency and parting George’s mouth with his tongue.

He can feel George sinking into his arms, so Charles holds tighter, spinning George around to press him against the wall of the house.  George tangles his hands into Charles’ hair as if to make them inseparable; Charles wouldn’t mind if they never were again.

As the kiss grows more fierce, a heat swells up inside Charles; he wants to know all of George.  His mouth starts to blaze a trail down George’s neck, plucking at the buttons of George’s shirt with one hand, keeping him pinned against the house with the other.

It is almost too easy, not that George is a particular small man, though shorter and lither than Charles, but he gives no resistance.  Then all of a sudden, he lets out a chuckle.

Annoyed, Charles slows and gives him a cross stare.

“It’s a good house,” George grins wickedly back at him.  “Sturdy.”

“How would you like the full tour?” Charles jokes back.

George’s nod is eager and it takes almost nothing for Charles to lift him over the threshold of the not yet existent doorway.  Unfurnished, Charles guides George backward on the mussed bedroll and tears away at his clothes.  It isn’t long before George goes for Charles’ belt buckle and trousers.

Happening upon a sensitive spot on George’s belly with his thumb, George shivers.  Charles places a kiss on the mark and George’s whole being shudders pleasantly.

Pushing away the creeping sensation they’re going about this all wrong, that they somehow missed some steps before getting to this point, Charles continues his pursuit.

He doesn’t care they have only known each other a few short months.  Charles is willing to spend a lifetime getting to know George; his likes, his dislikes, his habits, his tastes, every little details down to the awkward angles his hair will stand at when he wakes in the morning.

Though Charles already has some idea of that as they lie on the floor, staring at the stars through the unfinished roof.

Breaking the peaceful silence that’s come over the evening, “You should stay.”

“And intrude on your solitude?”

“Cabin’s plenty big for two.”

“Seems like it might be sort of drafty in the winter,” George teases.

Charles rolls his eyes, “So we’ll huddle close for warmth.”

Humming to himself, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Then you’ll stay?”

“Of course.”

Charles throws an arm across George’s chest and buries his face in George’s neck.  A feeling of safety comes over Charles hasn’t felt since his hand was last entwined with Arthur’s.

Secure beside George and secure in his heart, Charles confesses, “I love you.”

Arthur will forever have a place in Charles’ heart, but there is plenty of room for George too.

----------

Charles writes to John and Abigail to tell them he’s settled and built a house and barn, never mentioning George by name.

Their relationship is private, even to those they consider family.

Still, Charles seeks out George’s hand during the burial ceremony for Rains Fall.  If Paytah or anyone notices, Charles doesn’t care; he needs George for strength.

John’s correspondence is light, much like talking to the man himself; news of the farm, a picture of Jack and little Susanna, Uncle’s never-ceasing lumbago flare-ups.  Charles writes of driving his own flock, though hunting still brings in more money.  There’s an unmistakable yet unspeakable grief in John’s last letter Charles cannot place.

When George is absent for long periods of time, picking fights with the Department, Charles cares for the homestead on his own.  It’s a miracle he makes it into town at all to check the mail.

Charles hasn’t heard from John in over a year, yet when a letter postmarked from Blackwater finally arrives, it is in another hand and signed Jack Marston.

It is my sincerest wish this letter finds you well and does not distress you, but it is with a heavy heart and a leaden hand that I write to tell you that my pa and Uncle were killed have passed.

Momma and I are making arrangements to have them buried on the ridge overlooking Beecher’s Hope near Susanna.  I know it is a lot to ask, but if this letter finds you in time and you are able to come, your presence would be deeply appreciated by us both.

Jack was no more a carefree child than Charles ever was, but it strikes him how much an adult Jack comes across in his writing.

It takes more than one reading for his message to fully sink in.  The news makes Charles hollow, but his grief does not turn to tears.

Jack’s scratched out words were a fate they all accepted in joining Dutch Van der Linde’s gang, he just didn’t expect it would find them so many years gone.  John and Uncle’s will be the first grave not dug by Charles’ hand.

The letter is still clutched in his fist when Charles returns to the cabin.  He sits down at George’s writing desk.

Beecher’s Hope is too far and Jack’s letter likely already came too late.  Much as Charles would wish to, he cannot simply drop everything and rush to Jack and Abigail’s sides.

A letter must suffice, but the right words won’t come out.  Putting down his pen, he abandons the blank page and Jack’s letter on the desk.

Days pass in a haze; Charles isn’t sure he could distinguish one from the next.

Coming in from the pasture, Charles finds George, standing over his desk, returned home early.

“How was your –?”

Charles doesn’t give George the chance to finish, sweeping him up in an embrace; Charles needs to feel something other than numb.

Without words, George seems to understand, but rather than lead them toward the bed, he leads Charles back outside to watch the sun go down.

Their backs pressed against the side of the cabin, Charles croaks, “John Marston’s dead.”

“I saw,” George affirms.  In disbelief, “But killed?  How?  Why?”

Charles swallows.  He’s told George more over the years, but there are still blanks in what he knows about Charles’ days with the gang.

Quick as ever to fit the missing pieces of Charles’ story together, “You think it had something to do with his days as an outlaw, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe,” Charles shakes his head.  “Things weren’t so clear-cut at the end, but stubborn as he is, John was done with that life.  He was.”

George wraps his arm around Charles’ shoulders, “You are too.”

“I’m not sure how much of a difference that makes.”

“It does to me.”

Charles leans his head against George’s.  Having George home makes it easier, but Charles still wonders.

Any day they could die; by sickness, by accident or by someone else’s hand, premeditated or unintentional.  Charles accepted that long time ago and he convinced himself once before he didn’t need to know what became of John – this time, he’s not so sure.

A harsh storm passes over the mountain.  Charles rereads Jack’s letter; too formal and too sparse to relay anything of substance.

He’s read it over so many times, it seems impossible he could glean anything else from it when Jack’s words about Susanna finally sink into his chest.

He finally understands what John couldn’t ever bring himself to say; it’s the same unspoken reason Arthur never talked about his son.

Oh, that poor child.

Charles regrets he never made the journey to meet her, to see them all again as a whole family, just as he regrets his behavior when he learned about Arthur’s boy.

Though Arthur was convinced he was heading for Hell til the end, Charles hopes he was wrong.  That Heaven has reunited him with his boy, that Susanna is in John’s arms again too.

Water drips onto the page; for a moment, Charles thinks the roof is leaking, but it is his own tears causing the ink to run.

He picks up the pen, only for his words to utterly fail him once again.

What comfort could he possibly give to Abigail now she’s lost her husband as well as her daughter?  Charles may not know what to say to Abigail, but he knows a thing or two about being a young man on his own in this cruel world after all.

Words spill out onto the page; they aren’t the ones Charles intended, but they are heartfelt and honest.  Charles is sure Jack will get his meaning.

George rides to town with Charles’ letter for Jack when the rain finally lets up some.  He comes back as another downpour traps them inside once more and shoves another letter into Charles’ hand.

He doesn’t immediately recognize the handwriting, but it couldn’t be more clear who’s writing him by the message.

It were them Goddamn Pinkerton agents who killed John.  They used him to get to Dutch, taking out Williamson and Escuella in the process.

Abigail seems to think this whole business ended with John – just keep your head down all the same.  I’ll see everything’s taken care of.

“Sadie,” Charles exhales.

At the crook of George’s brow, Charles passes him the letter.  He’s got no more secrets to hide.

George sounds far more relieved than Charles feels, “That’s three more of your former associates gone.  Van der Linde among them.”

Though Charles doubts he crossed any of their minds over the intervening years, it is not Bill or Javier or Dutch or even the Pinkertons that worries him, but Sadie.

He has to hope the ‘everything’ she’s referring to is the looking after of Abigail and Jack and not yet another never-ending hunt for revenge.  Only he knows Sadie better than that.

Once that woman gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her.  God knows Charles has tried.

But if Sadie insists on getting into trouble, at least Abigail and Jack have got each other.

----------

He receives the occasional missive from Sadie – updates on her hunt for an explanation for John’s murder.  Charles can’t bring himself to call them letters because they aren’t exactly of a personal nature.

Tossing the latest one aside, Charles resumes his daily activity.  George stares crossly at it when Charles comes back in.

“You intending on joining her in this suicide mission?”

“What?  No.  Course not.  What possibly gave you that idea?”

George points out a passage Charles doesn’t remember reading: When we catch this bastard…

Charles shakes his head, “I never told her I was participating in this.”

“But you haven’t told her you wouldn’t either.”

Charles knows that look in George’s eye; he saw it in Abigail’s every time John set out on yet another dangerous venture.  It is both worry and warning.

Kissing George’s temple unfurrows his brow.  “You make enough trouble for the both of us.  I’m not going on some revenge mission, I promise.”

He finally writes Sadie back, begging her to leave it be.

Her response is curt.

First Arthur’s killer, now John’s, and you’d just let them both live.  You’re a Goddamn coward, Charles Smith.

It is a low blow, but if it is a choice between cowardice and losing George, Charles chooses cowardice.

She doesn’t write again; Charles doesn’t take that as a sign she’s put an end to her pursuit.  The world better pray it doesn’t hurt anyone else Sadie Adler cares about.

George snorts at the remark.  “What’s the boy say about all this?”

“Jack?  I don’t know.”

Aside from the note thanking Charles for his condolences, Charles hasn't heard from Jack since John died.  Charles wrote, reminding both Jack and Abigail, if there was anything he could do for them, he gladly would.  He never heard back.

Last time Charles saw Jack, he was little more than a nervous boy, preferring book reading over riding or shooting or ranch work.  He can’t picture Jack at that age wanting anything to do with Sadie’s revenge mission, but he doesn’t know how much losing John affected him.

He does know what Abigail would say.  She always hated that Sadie kept up with dangerous work – legal or otherwise.

“I suppose he’s mostly concerned with the farm now.”

Hopefully it is reason and not temper which guides Jack nowadays.  And just maybe Abigail will have better luck keeping her son from stepping out of line than she did her husband.

George nods, but doesn’t volunteer any further comment on the subject; Charles wishes he would.

There is so little they don’t discuss from the farm to the reservations to finding purpose in this life; it is strange for any subject to be so untouchable.  Perhaps remaining so tightlipped about his days with the gang for long has finally backfired; just when Charles needs George’s insight, he does not feel at liberty to share.

The tension between George’s shoulders finally eases when more ill news arrives.  Tilly Pierre – née Jackson – is both utterly caring and wickedly sharp with her pen.

A few weeks past, our darling Abigail passed away.

While it is a relief she suffers no longer, her death leaves our poor Jack in quite a predicament.  The farm’s in a ghastly state and he is in over his head with his father’s debt and he hasn’t got a soul to help him.

I’ve done all I can to convince Jack to come to Saint Denis, but he mulishly refuses to leave Beecher’s Hope.  I’m so worried about him out there all alone.  Won’t you please help me talk some sense into Jack?  It’s the least you could do, now both his folks are gone.

His cheek stings from the slap of her words and Tilly would be well within her right to strike him again.  Reaching out to Jack would be the least Charles could do, but it’s harder now to know the right thing to say.

He scoffs that the irony he should find the right thing to say in the wake of the passing of a distant father, but not that of a devoted mother.

Charles should have something to say about Abigail – anything, but he was hardly old enough to cope with his own mother’s disappearance; he has no advice to give.  Charles has no memory of Abigail he can share that will make up for what Jack has lost.

So long as Charles knew Abigail, there was no one she loved as well as her son.  She would’ve done anything to protect him, feed him, shelter him.  The one constant in the boy’s life.

Charles takes a moment to remember her kindness to him as well.  They were never especially close, until those few months at Beecher’s Hope, when the day and their work was done and they’d sit by the fire; Charles would play harmonica, Uncle his banjo, and Abigail would sing.

What jolly evenings those were.  It pains Charles to think Abigail will not be so carefree again.

Jack must find his footing in this world without her now, but as to Tilly’s plea, Charles isn’t sure what good his advice could do.

No one Charles has ever tried to help has ever heard him out.  Hotheaded and reckless, Sean and Lenny didn’t much care to listen to anybody; Charles had better luck restraining Sadie than he did the headstrong Eagle Flies.

But Jack isn’t like any of them.  Jack is hurting, but he doesn’t carry a fury so volatile he’s liable to burst at the slightest provocation.  He isn’t like John in that respect – or even, Charles thinks, like Arthur or himself.

Charles doesn’t know how Tilly got it into her head that Jack needs any advice Charles has to offer – not when Jack has always been one of the most level-headed among them.

Slipping Tilly’s letter into the box where he keeps his correspondence with John, Charles doesn’t even start one to Jack.

He joins George in the pasture, perching himself atop the fence as George herding the sheep into the pen for shearing.

Corralling the last of the stragglers, George leans his arm on Charles’ knee, “We really ought to have a dog in order to do this for us.”

“Mhmm,” Charles hums, unfocused.

“You know it would be a wise investment.”

“Mhmm.”

George stares at him intently, examining every passive flicker on his face as Charles tries to bury the Marstons in his heart alongside everyone else he’s lost.

“More news relating to Mrs. Adler’s crusade?”

“What?  No.  Though I had word from another former member of the gang.”

George poorly disguises his bristling at the subject.  It was one thing, when it was all in the past; it is another now that Sadie’s digging up trouble and could possibly disrupt their happiness here.

“Abigail died earlier this month.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.  You always spoke well of her.”

“Tilly wants me to persuade Jack to join her in Saint Denis,” Charles explains.

George frowns, “Which one’s Tilly again?  The writer?”

“The sweet one, so long as you didn’t get on the wrong side of her.  She was always real fond of the boy.”

“So, if I understand this correctly, a woman you haven’t heard from in years is asking you to help her convince a boy you have no responsibility toward to leave his home because?”

Charles mouth hangs open.  While he knows Tilly means well, he doesn’t know how to convince George of that fact.

“Not to mention, you keep calling him a boy, but he must be about grown now – older than you were when you struck out on your own.  A young man capable of making his own decisions.”

Charles grips the fence railing tighter, unable to look George in the eye and make a case against him.  Of course, Jack’s old enough to make his own choices; Charles doesn’t feel any less guilty.

“I’m sorry.  That was harsh, but this gang has a way of drawing you back in and I can’t lose you.”  He squeezes Charles knee, bringing him back to him.

“You won’t.”

Charles means to write to Jack – he does, but days slip by into weeks.  Weeks into months and a single letter can’t fill the length of his silence.

----------

I killed Edgar Ross.

No signature, only a Blackwater postmark, and in a hand Charles has only received letters from twice before.

Much in the way Micah had to be dealt with, this was inevitable; only Charles assumed it would be Sadie who would see it done.

How wrong he was in his estimation of Jack.  There must have been a fury lingering far beneath his surface, too deep for anyone to see.

Too late to advise Jack against such rash action, Charles does feel a little relief over the death of the Pinkerton agent; George won’t ever come home to find him dead on the agency’s orders.

However else this came to be, whatever else the result, what’s done is done.

----------

George was right to correct Charles for continuing to think of Jack as a child, for the young man who appears without warning at his threshold is not at all the boy Charles remembers.

There’s a haunted look about Jack with which Charles is all too familiar.  The kind that’s not just seen death, but been its harbinger.

Looking Jack in the eye and telling the young man he understands Jack did what he had to do was easier than reaching toward the battered, leatherbound journal across the table.

Charles’ hand trembles as he runs his fingers along the spine.

He remembers it in Arthur’s hands so clearly, scribbling away as if he were about to lose track of his own thoughts; Charles watched with curiosity, wondering what Arthur kept close to the chest, but not daring enough to pry.

Even on the few occasions he caught John jotting something down in its pages, Charles couldn’t bring himself to ask for a glance.  Afraid of both what he might discover and what he might not find.

But now Jack has read it, and what’s more, Jack has offered it to him.  Nothing Arthur wrote could be so terrible.

The worn binding wants to fall open to specific passages, but Charles must start from the beginning.

He stares at Arthur’s meticulous notes on each job he ran and the take split between participants longer than he intends to, recalling each job or the fallout thereafter with greater clarity than the next.

When he finally begins reading in earnest, Charles is transported back to those days.  The smell of the campfire and the horses and the mud is trapped within the pages.  Arthur’s drawings and words capture every sight and sound, every familiar face, every thought he carried with him but never shared.

Blackwater, Colter, Horseshoe Overlook, Valentine, Uncle, the girls, Hosea – each of them just as they were; Charles didn’t realize how much he missed them all – Uncle included.

He’s feeling a bit foolish for ever having been intimidated by the journal when a heavy-handed drawing of a camp in a dark forest sends a chill down Charles’ arms.  The accompanying words crammed on the adjoining page, do not alleviate the sensation.

Something about this debt collection unsettled Arthur, something he couldn’t quite name.  What Charles wouldn’t have given for Arthur not to have beaten that famer senseless – to not know the end of this story.  But Arthur did and Charles does.

Charles isn’t sure he’s ready to relive this story’s conclusion, but regardless he aimlessly turns the pages, drawn in back in by the illustrations of the flora and fauna of the Heartlands.

His stomach somersaults at the portrait of a woman Charles never met, but whose presence was felt in all his doubts Arthur might ever care about him the same way.

Except Arthur’s portrait of Mary doesn’t quite match the demur photo he kept in his tent; her lips fuller and eyes forward.

It is utterly foolish, but Charles feels a stab of jealousy.  Mary captured and held onto Arthur’s affections for so long, despite the heartache she and her family caused, when Charles had almost no time at all with him.

Unable to bear Mary’s gaze any longer, Charles turns the page; there is another prick at his heart, seeing Arthur and Mary’s initials with a heart drawn between them.

He can’t move on quick enough; a loose paper slips out, nearly falling to the floor.  Replacing it, Charles comes face-to-face with renditions of Abigail and young Jack.  Arthur’s confession on the adjoining page digs even deeper at his heart.

Mary was an open secret through the camp – a love Charles knew he might always be competing with and comparing himself to in Arthur’s eyes.  But Abigail…

Even with Arthur’s journal in hand, Charles doesn’t know how Arthur came to the notion of marrying her.  On account of Jack is the only reason that makes sense to Charles, but even that wasn’t enough to shake Mary’s hold over Arthur.

Distracted, Charles only skims the account of the relocation to Clemens Point, almost glossing over his own name among the scrawling letters.

It is not the first his name has appeared, but it was only ever in passing before – not here.

Here is proof of Arthur’s regard – evidence he thought Charles admirable.

Charles scoffs at the notion he was any better a man than Arthur, but he can no longer doubt if Arthur was indifferent to him as Charles was just beginning to realize his true feelings.

Quick as he mentions Charles, Arthur moves onto his next subject.  Arthur put his everything into these pages, but even so, it is no replacement for the man himself.

Fingering the remaining pages, Charles sighs; he has so far left to go, but he is already drained.

George returns inside with a gust of chilled air, rustling the pages further.

Hanging his coat by the door, “Jack’s settling into the barn – offered to take up some work so long as he’s with us”

“Always was a good kid.”

“I can tell.  Still wish you would’ve consulted with me before telling him he could stay.”

Charles isn’t in any headspace to rehash their earlier disagreement.  Jack is here now and Charles won’t rescind his offer.

And though John made it clear Charles didn’t owe him a damn thing, Charles still feels he owes something to Jack for not being there when Jack needed someone.

“He won’t make trouble,” Charles insists, albeit rather absently.

Taking note of his distraction, George slowly approaches.  “What’s this?”

Charles swallows, “Arthur’s journal.”

George stiffens.

It isn’t fair to George – how close Charles keeps his memories of Arthur to his chest.

But the gang has always been a tricky subject for Charles to discuss with George, and Arthur is an inextricable part of that time.

Harder still, he’s never wanted to make George feel as though he was playing second fiddle to a lost love – as Charles often times felt about Mary.

But perhaps that’s what staying silent all this time has done, casting a shadow so unimaginably large George can’t escape that it.

Inhaling Charles’ silence, “Should I go?”

Charles grabs George by the hand.  “No, stay.  I want to tell you about him.”

George nods solemnly, “Okay.”

Charles sets the journal aside as George takes the seat next to him.

“This might surprise you, but I hardly spoke a word to Arthur in the first several months I knew him.”

George snorts, “Doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“But you can understand why I didn’t want to make the same mistake with you.”

Locking eyes with George, makes telling him about Arthur all the easier.

Though tenuous, George is a patient listener; interjecting with questions and allowing Charles to be overcome by his feelings for Arthur.

George brushes the tears off Charles’ cheeks, unexpectedly admitting, “I never thought I would relate to the other man in your life so much.”

Charles hiccups, “You have more in common than you know.”

“Maybe.  Mostly I was thinking of how deeply I care about you.  It seems to me, Arthur did too.”

“He would’ve liked you,” Charles assures George.

“Well, that at least makes one of us.  I think I would’ve been too jealous to extend the same courtesy,” he grins to show there aren’t really any hard feelings.

“Jealous?  Of what?”

“Of winning over your affections first.”

Charles shakes his head, “George…”

“It’s okay – I understand.”  He squeezes Charles’ hand, “If you could hear yourself, you’d get what I mean, but in lieu of that, I think you should finish reading that journal.”

Without letting go of his hand, George turns his attention to his latest petition to Indian Affairs.  It is the permission and strength Charles didn’t know he needed.

Starting from Arthur’s insistence that unlike him, Charles didn’t have to try so hard to be a good man, Charles reads on.  But on each of the following pages there are more strangers, more acts of selflessness, more evidence Arthur was a better man than he gave himself credit for.

Charles tried to tell Arthur; he wouldn’t have fallen for the man Arthur always described himself to be.

The afternoon is growing late and Charles is still not finished, but spying the crosses beside Hosea and Lenny’s names, Charles knows he can’t continue any further today.

Excusing himself to stretch his legs, Charles finds himself around the back of the barn with his pipe.  He thinks on Arthur and on George and on how would not trade one for the other.

Jack joins Charles with a cigarette of his own; he looks so like John.

Neither of them says much.  Despite the small trouble Jack’s arrival caused, Charles can’t help but be grateful he came all this way.

Jack brought Arthur back to him, and in doing so, allowed Charles to let George ever closer to the recesses of his heart.

----------

The journal turns impossibly dark.

Arthur draws less, worries more; mortality looms over Arthur like a noose as Charles struggles to read his weakening hand.

It is just as horrible to watch Arthur wither away on the page as it was in person, and perhaps even more difficult, seeing it from Arthur’s perspective – wishing he was dead already.  Every action, every choice marching him closer to an inevitable end, trying to leave something good behind him.

As Arthur’s world grows dimmer, Charles’ heart pounds at every instance of his name.

Arthur spares no words about Mary breaking his heart for the last time, about finally finding it in him to forgive John, about Dutch taking leave of his senses.

Surely Arthur must’ve written something more about him too.

But Charles is disappointed by every page.  Arthur never wrote a word about them – not even in the margins of his entry about rescuing Eagle Flies from Fort Wallace.

Arthur apparently had more to say about Sadie and the O’Driscolls than he did how he felt about Charles.

The torn edge of a missing page doesn’t escape Charles’ notice and he wonders if just maybe…

Abruptly, Arthur’s entries stop; John’s slanted but ruled hand taking over filling the last of the pages.

Charles misses John and as a curtesy to Jack, he will read John’s entries eventually, but for the moment, Charles must put the journal down again.

He takes the flock out to the furthest pasture in order to avoid Jack’s questions.

He knows some part of him hope for a profession of Arthur’s feelings, but he shouldn’t have expected anything more than what Arthur wrote.  After all, it’s not as though Arthur made any mention of Isaac either.

Perhaps there was a reason Arthur chose to take certain secrets with him to the grave.

Charles shakes his head.  He shouldn’t be comparing himself to Arthur’s long dead son; it isn’t fair of him to do so.

George offers his opinion as they turn in, “Maybe he was trying to protect you.  That was your reason for never mentioning anything about us to Marston.”

Countering, “Arthur wasn’t especially well-known for being sensible.”

“Even so, he couldn’t have known you would read it all these years later.  He probably didn’t think anyone would read it,” George insists.

Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, Charles reads the rest of the journal by candlelight.

John’s entries capture him just as Charles remembers, but much like his letters, they are brief, direct, and few.  John wasn’t one for exploring the inner workings of his own head or expressing himself artistically the way Arthur did, remaining as much as mystery to his son in death as he was in life.

He thumbs through the pages again, not really reading, not even looking at the illustrations; the journal wasn’t exactly the balm he was hoping it would be for the dull ache in his heart.

George stirs, rubs his eyes against the dim light, “You’re still up?”

Hand not leaving the journal, “I’m coming back to bed.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“No,” Charles shakes his head.  “Just John’s entries – not that he had much to say.”

“You know what I think?” George asks with a sigh.

“What do you think?”

“I think John had plenty to say, he just didn’t know how write it all down.  Same goes for Arthur.  You know how he felt.  What does it matter he never put it in writing?”

Even half-asleep, George manages to be patient with Charles’ inability to let Arthur go.

From the moment Jack placed the journal on the table, Charles was preoccupied by Arthur’s entries, but maybe this is why Jack shared it with him, so Charles could fill in the gaps John left.

When Jack’s ready, he will.  And though Charles may wish there were anyone who could do the same for the holes left by Arthur, George is right.

Charles has no reason to doubt Arthur loved him, he knows it with every fiber of his heart.

Leaving the journal where it lies, Charles nuzzles his face into George’s neck.

“You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Tough.  You’re stuck with me.”

“Good.”

Charles will love George til the day he dies.  And he means to never give George any reason to doubt it.

Returning the journal, Charles thanks Jack for the loan.

Jack doesn’t immediately put it away, “You sure you’re done?  You’re welcome to it any time.”

It’s tempting, but Charles is content with his memories and what he knows to be true.  “Arthur gave it to John.  It belongs with you.”

Smiling, Jack clutches the journal tightly; Charles is sure it is better off in his hands.

----------

Very little touches their peaceful existence on their quiet farm.  Charles and George are quite content to let the world simple pass them by.

If it weren’t for Jack showing up on their doorstep again to avoid getting called up, the rumble of the Great War across Europe might’ve completely them by.  Almost.

George cannot let the conscription of their Indian brothers go without a fight. 

“Why should they be expected to fight in a war for a country that doesn’t consider them their own?” he argues.

Neither Charles nor Jack has anything to say against him, but neither do they have anything to contribute to his new petition.  Still, Charles beams lazily at him as George feverishly writes.

When not clinging to the letters he’s received from West Elizabeth, Jack pours over pages and pages of his own writing.  His slack-jawed grin near matches Charles’ own as he unfolds the latest communication to read it again.

Softly, so as not to disturb George, “Eleanor must be some girl.”

Jack lights up at the opportunity to discuss his sweetheart, “I don’t know how I got so lucky – don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to support her though.”

“You’ll manage.  Ranching’s tough work, but you’ve lived a tougher life.”

“You say that like you don’t already know Beecher’s Hope is barely turning a profit.”

It was nothing short of a Goddamn stroke of luck the Blackwater money made its way back into their pockets, affording Charles the savings to purchase this parcel of land outright and allowing John the opportunity pay off his debts.  Whatever new debts Jack’s incurred on the farm, Charles knows he won’t let it go – not everything John and Abigail worked so hard to gain.

“I have faith you’ll make something of it,” he says more assuredly.

Jack shifts in his seat, twirling his pen.  “Do you think I could support a wife and farm on an author’s wages?”

Though Jack’s hasn’t said anything about it specifically before now, Charles had the sense Jack wasn’t scribbling away keeping a journal; though fulfilling in its own way, sheep herding’s too dull a subject for the number of pages Jack’s filled in his notebook since he’s been back.

Charles doesn’t want to discourage Jack, but he can’t give him false hope either.  He scratches his chin, “As a supplementary income, but it’s not as though it’s George petitions keeping food on this table.”

“To be fair, it’s not the money we make off the flock either,” George counters, nodding in the direction of Charles’ bow where it hangs over the door.

Charles glowers at George for undermining his point, but George merely shrugs it off, intently focusing back on his work.  Jack smirks at them both.

“The point is, maybe don’t pin your financial future on something that might be a long shot.”

Running a hand through his hair, Jack sighs, “But what if I need this – for me.”

“Then that’s what you need to do.  What are you writing about?”

Jack tucks the letter from Eleanor into his notebook and pulls it closer, “It’s not ready to read.”

Flatly, “I didn’t ask to read it.”

“It’s about pa – well, Arthur.  I don’t know.  The hero keeps changing.”

Charles’ heart stutters, but otherwise Charles doesn’t know how to feel.  Rather wryly, he thinks this is a better way for Jack to work through his grief than boxing was.

Of course, Jack wants to write about John, but it’s Arthur’s account of everything he has in his possession.

“So do people.  You think John died the same man he was when you were born?”

Jack shakes his head.  “I just – I feel like I owe it to him to do his story justice.  Doesn’t he deserve that?  Don’t they all deserve that?”

Charles tenses; why exactly, he isn’t sure.

They weren’t heroes – none of them; John would’ve been the first to admit that.  Charles can’t speak to what any of them deserved.

More sharply than he intends, “Justice would’ve seen us all swinging from a rope.”

Jack draws back in his seat.  George looks up from this work.

“You don’t think any of them deserve to have their stories told?  Not pa or Arthur?  Hosea, Sean, Lenny – none of them?”

“It’s not that they don’t, but at best, we were thieves.  At worst, murderers –”

“I haven’t forgotten, Charles,” Jack is quiet, but resolute.  He keeps his gaze down; his knuckles are white, clutching his notebook.  “But they were also human and I want others to know that – to see that side of you all.”

George rests a hand on Charles’ clenched fist.  “It’s a noble intention, Jack, but I think what worries me – what worries us – is the attention a book will draw on the surviving members of the gang.”

Ever grateful for George’s ability to read his moods, the tension in Charles’ neck eases, but he is not at ease.

As many of them as they lost that year, dwelling on the dead never did any of them any good; they always made sure to look after the living first.  Drumming it all up in a book… Jack might as well put a target on each of their backs.

Maybe he’s out of touch, too accustomed to letting the mountain shield him and the world pass him by, but Charles it doesn’t sit right with him.

Trying to put it in his own words, “Maybe it’s not what we deserve, but Tilly, Mary-Beth, Pearson, Reverend Swanson – Hell, even Sadie, wherever that woman has gone off to – haven’t they earned some peace?”

Peace that was so violently ripped away from John and Abigail.  A chance for something more that Arthur never had at all.

Unable to voice his last few thoughts, Charles swallows.

Somehow Jack hears them, hanging unspoken in the air between them, and nods.  “Of course, they do.  You all do.”

Charles exhales.

“But I’m going to keep writing.”

He seizes George’s hand, squeezing it tight.

“Writing’s the only thing that keeps those days alive to me.  Keeps momma and pa alive.  I promise, I would never do anything hurt any of you, but I have to do this.”

Jack holds Charles’ gaze as though allowing Charles to search him for any shred of falsehood.

Charles doesn’t need any assurance of Jack’s honesty; Jack knows the weight and consequence of taking a life, hurting someone he cares about is beyond question.

It is Jack’s conviction which Charles stares back at: so like John and so like Abigail too, but more hauntingly, like Arthur, despite how little Jack knew him.

He trusts Jack to do right by all of them, living and dead.

“Of course, you won’t,” Charles finally breathes again.

Jack smiles softly.

----------

Charles doesn’t think he’s put on a suit since John and Abigail’s wedding.  It’s only fitting he does for their son’s.

Though the suit itself doesn’t so much fit anymore.  George teases how he likes Charles a little rounder about the middle.

“I am just as active now as I ever was,” Charles grumbles, giving up on his fussing.

There’s nothing to be done about it now; they’re expected at Beecher’s Hope by noon.  Hiding the embarrassing tug of his shirt and vest beneath his jacket, Charles focuses instead on his tie.

His hands shake uncooperatively, tying it too tight or too sloppily.   Sweeping Charles’ hair over his shoulder, George adjusts the tie for him just so.

“Last chance.  We can still send our regrets – tour the countryside instead,” George reminds him they aren’t obligated to attend.

Charles sighs, “We came all this way – I want to go.  It’s just –”

“Awkward?”

“Yeah.”

He hasn’t been back to the States in years, let alone as far south as West Elizabeth.  It’s been even longer since he’s seen anyone from the gang – apart from Jack.

Not to mention this sudden burst of anticipation at meeting Jack’s bride’s people and what they might think of Jack’s family, cobbled together from the broken fragments of a gang of bandits.

For Jack’s sake, Charles wants to make a good impression, but he can’t easily slide into situations he’s unaccustomed to.  He isn’t like George in that respect, though it’s one of the things Charles admires most about him.

He stares at the concentration furrowed in George’s brow as his practiced hands accomplish what Charles’ couldn’t.  Finished grooming him, George turns Charles to look in the mirror.

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about,” George assures him with a peck to the cheek.

Charles takes in his reflection, but his gaze wanders back towards George.

“You’re pretty good at this.”

“I should hope so.  I’ve spent enough time playing the white man’s game to know how to dress like one.”

Charles meant settling his nerves, but he supposes he’ll cut a halfway decent figure at the wedding too.

The road out of Blackwater is dusty and dry, effectively rendering all their preparation useless, but they aren’t the only dirt-coated guests upon their arrival at Beecher’s Hope.  A group of strangers stare at Charles and George as they hitch their horses in front of the house.

Charles gets the sense one of them is about to tell them to go around back when Jack appears, leading a blonde woman with an appraising eye about the property.

She’s more interested in the enhancements Jack’s talking about making to the silo when Jack catches sight of them.

“Charles!  George!  You made it!”

The incredulous stares turn bewildered as Jack embraces them each in turn.

Jack’s broad grin infectiously tugs at the corners of Charles’ own mouth.  “Wouldn’t have missed this.”

“Gonna introduce me to your friends, Jack?” the woman asks pointedly, though not unfriendly.

“Right – Bonnie, this is Charles Smith.  A great friend of my father’s and one of Beecher’s Hope’s original architects.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Smith.  You and John did a fine job making something of this place.”

“Not so fine, improvements couldn’t be made,” Charles marvels at how much has changed, how much is exactly as he remembers it.

“Only ones that needed to be made in order to keep up with the times, Mr. Smith.”

“Just Charles, please.  And this is George, my – partner in our own little farming operation.”

“I’m glad and impressed you could both be spared in order to join us for this happy occasion.”

Unlike the folk still seated on the deck he helped build, Charles gets the sense Bonnie means it and drops his guard some.

“I’ve known Jack since he was barely higher than my knee, how could we not?  What do you think, Jack?  You ready to depart our bachelor ranks?”

Jack hides his flush behind the rim of John’s hat, “Actually there’s something I want to tell you and Tilly –”

A motor horn interrupts, announcing its arrival with a blast.  Stopping well before it reaches the house, a pair of young girls spill out.  They flock to Jack, chattering excitedly; another calmer voice chastises them for overwhelming Jack as she exits the automobile on the arm of a well-tailored man.

In practically twenty years, there are iron-grey streaks in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes, but Tilly’s smile hasn’t faded one bit.  She envelops Jack in a hug before noticing Charles.

Her face falls, “You’ve got a lotta nerve showing your face around these parts.”

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Tilly.”

“That’s Mrs. Tilly now,” she wags a finger at him and laughs.  Opening her arms for him, “Come here.  It’s been far too long.”

Introductions are made all around.  George takes to Tilly and her husband as though they were lifelong friends; he is particularly interested in Nicholas’ work as a colored lawyer.  Charles has better luck with Flossie and Irene, complimenting what fine, young women they’re becoming.

If the bride’s folks were shocked by Charles and George’s appearance on Jack’s doorstep, they are even more dismayed by Tilly and her family, despite their standing in Saint Denis society.   Bonnie keeps Eleanor’s more distant kin in line so as to not cast a pallor over the happy day.

“Oh!”  Tilly suddenly exclaims.  “You’ll never guess who I ran into just the other day.”

“Who?”

“Josiah Trelawny.  He barely recognized me.  To be fair, I didn’t recognize him either behind the monocle and an even thicker mustache than he had before.  Not only that, he introduced the two men he was with as his sons!”

“You’re joking,” Charles insists.  “I always thought Tarquin and Cornelius were made up.”

“So did I!”

Though George and Nicholas are completely befuddled, but Jack is at least amused by their recollections.  Lightheartedly lamenting the missed opportunity, “You should have invited him.”

“I couldn’t presume to extend the invitation on your behalf, Jackie, but I did mention you were getting married and he sends his congratulations.”

Charles can’t help but think they narrowly dodged a bullet, but someone else is missing.

Tapping Jack on the shoulder, “Are we expecting Sadie?”

His face turns bright red once again and mutters, “Says she’ll come through once the honeymoon period is over.”

“Shame,” George voices his remorse.  “I was looking forward to meeting the intrepid Mrs. Adler at long last.”

And Charles to seeing her again.  He regrets how they left things between them in the wake of John’s death, though he supposes he’s as much at fault as her.

“That might be sooner than you think,” though still flushed, Jack’s tone emboldens.  “Eleanor’s pregnant.”

Tilly squeals in a manner not befitting her fine station and throws her arms around Jack again; Charles reels from the sound and the news.

“That would explain the rush in setting a date,” Charles remarks wryly, delighted by the reason.

Jack couldn’t be grinning any bigger – at least, Charles doesn’t think he could be, until Eleanor joins Jack before the reverend.

Standing beneath the streaming sunlight across Beecher’s Hope and while all eyes are on the young couple, George slips his hand into Charles’, a silent reminder of the solemn promises they made to each other, no state or church would recognize as binding.

So long ago, Charles thought he wanted everything Jack will have: a home and a family.  But somewhere along the way, he found George and the life they share became all that and more.

They don’t need any institution’s approval – all that matters is the feel of George’s hand in his and that Charles never wants to let it go.

Witnessing Jack pledge his troth, it becomes clear; it wasn’t freedom which continuously evaded Dutch Van der Linde’s grasp, but love – unbeholden by money or law.

Each surviving member of his gang is lucky – not because they escaped, but because they’ve found love in the time they’ve had.  Well, almost all of them.  Charles hopes, wherever she is, Sadie has discovered a balm for her aching heart.

He and Tilly are poor substitutes for John and Abigail, Charles hopes Jack understands how happy and how proud they are to see him follow in his parents’ footsteps, living a life of love.

The celebration in full swing, Charles leads George away for a long overdue visit.  Upon the ridge, the four graves have the greatest view of the ranch to watch over the festivities.

Charles’ gaze lands on Uncle’s grave first; the man finally resting in uninterruptable peace.  He snorts at the epitaph despite the tears already welling up behind his eyes.

Avoiding the center plots, Charles stares at the smallest among them.  Below the words ‘Beloved Daughter’, Susanna’s grave is the greatest tragedy, but at least she is buried beside the ones who loved her.

It is more than Charles can say for so many of the gang, laid to rest wherever most convenient and left behind.  But not John and Abigail, here upon the land which they called their own.

Shifting his attention to their graves, Charles reads the markers.  Truer words couldn’t have been chosen for Abigail’s marker, but it is the scripture on John’s which breaks Charles.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” George reads aloud.

He has no idea if it is coincidence or if Jack specifically selected this passage to match the words upon Arthur’s grave, but he can’t think of a more befitting verse to honor John’s memory.

Looking northeast towards the Grizzles, Charles can’t help but feel Arthur is watching over Beecher’s Hope from afar.

George’s grip brings Charles back to the ranch.

Leaning his head on George’s shoulder, “I wish you could’ve known them.”

“In a way – I feel like I do.  Through Jack, through you.”

They stay for a few days after the wedding; reminiscing with Tilly before she leaves with her family, soaking in as many memories as Charles can.

Readying to depart themselves, Charles promises Jack not to be so much a stranger in the days to come.  Jack and Eleanor wave from the deck as their horses kick up dust.

Not pressed for time as they were on the journey south, Charles and George travel at their own pace; impressed by how much smaller outposts have grown up and admiring what remains of the untouched countryside.

Turned around and disoriented by the amount of progress being made in the region, Charles almost doesn’t recognize the turn off the road toward Arthur’s grave.

He reigns in Falmouth, staring at the path.

After a moment, George realizes Charles is stopped a few paces behind.  “Something the matter?”

“This is Arthur’s resting place.”

George glances into the trees, then back at Charles.  “Would you like to stop?”

Not a day has gone by Charles hasn’t thought about Arthur.  Even now, he can’t deny how strong a pull he feels.

Though neither of them could’ve known it at the time, Charles thinks falling in love with Arthur was the first time he felt truly free.

But Charles shakes his head.  Perhaps one day he’ll come back this way, but for now, the pull ahead of him is stronger than the one behind.

“No.  Let’s go home.”

O