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The barn was cold, though still warmer than the snow outside, and humid with the breath and body heat of a dozen horses. One of the men had taken Kieran's coat before binding him to the support column and now he shivered in the dim and dirty building. He wondered if he would catch pneumonia like this. He'd seen folk die of pneumonia before. Maybe he would catch it and die before these people could beat or starve answers out of him. He wasn't sure which he preferred.
The first two days he'd been held, Kieran had begged constantly to be released, or fed, or to have his coat back. The other guards largely ignored him, or told him to be quiet. One, a tall burly man with a black beard, had backhanded him so hard his ears rang. By the third day, Kieran had given up on pleading with the rotating shift of guards and only spoke up when someone new entered. One of them would have to see reason, right? One of them would have mercy?
Several paces away, the guard leaned against one of the stalls, a sawed-off shotgun held loosely in one hand, pointed at the ground. Kieran had heard one of the men call him Charles. It was odd, Kieran thought--the man’s broad chest and scarred face reminded him of the most terrifying of the O’Driscoll men. Yet unlike the other men who had stood guard over him, he had not raised a hand or even his voice to Kieran. He seemed content to stand there, eyes and mind seemingly focused somewhere beyond the walls of the stable, or to talk softly to the horses who snorted and stomped their feet in the cold. Kieran reckoned that a man who was kind to horses couldn't be all bad.
Kieran sagged against his bindings, trying to ease the pain in his shoulders and back from being stuck in an unnatural position. His lips were cracked from lack of water, he ached all over, he was desperately hungry, he was freezing, and worst of all he was terrified.
He only noticed the tears when he felt the wetness leaving cold trails down his filthy cheeks. By then it was too late to stop, and he was happy that Charles wasn’t looking in his direction. He tried to use his shoulder to wipe at his face, but couldn't reach high enough. Frustrated and miserable, he couldn't suppress letting out a sob.
Charles's eyes shot to him, and he immediately regretted making a sound.
"I-I'm sorry," he mumbled, bowing his head to hide from that intense gaze. He heard the other man move towards him, and he cowered against the post at his back, whimpering "P-please don't hit m-me."
The other man stopped in his tracks. Kieran could see the toes of his boots only a step or two away from him.
"I'm not going to hit you," Charles said, soft and calm, like he was talking to a scared animal. He huffed a sigh and continued, "It would be easier to just tell Dutch what you know."
"I c-can't. I don't know nothin'. And--and if I say anythin', and Colm finds out...I'd r-rather starve." Colm could, and would, do so much worse than starving a man. Kieran had seen it happen.
Even without looking up, Kieran could feel the other man's heavy gaze on him. He fidgeted with his fingers against the ropes, waiting to see if Charles was about to change his mind about hitting him. To Kieran's surprise, Charles holstered his gun, opened his satchel, and began fishing around inside for something. Kieran lifted his head in time to see the other man pull out a tin canteen.
"Drink," he said in the same quiet and level tone, lifting the vessel to Kieran's lips. Kieran pulled back, eyeing the contents.
"It's just water," Charles said. After another moment of Kieran's nervous gaze, he pulled back and took a drink himself, then offered it again with a pointed look. Kieran leaned forward and took a hesitant sip, then another. The water was cold, which didn't help with how chilled he already was, but it did wonders to soothe his throat and fill his aching belly. With Charles' help, he drank nearly half the contents before it was taken away.
"Thank you," Kieran murmured. He licked his lips, finally able to moisten them properly. "Fer the drink, and not hitting me."
Charles tucked the canteen back in his satchel. "I can't save you from your own stubbornness," he said, so quiet it was almost to himself. "But I'd rather not watch you die."
Kieran didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded. Charles returned to his post and drew his sawed-off shotgun, leaned back against the stable wall, and did not look at Kieran again.
It had been about two weeks since the gang made their way out of the mountains to the green and pleasant land of Horseshoe Overlook. Their fortunes seemed to have turned for the better. Between Arthur and Charles hunting every few days, there was plenty of wild game to be had. And even with a few freeloaders (Uncle and Reverend Swanson, for starters) the camp donation box was doing a good job of providing them with money for provisions.
The O'Driscoll boy was still with them. He'd survived the cold and hunger in the barn--Charles made sure the man had a drink while he was on guard duty. When they moved, Arthur hogtied him and threw him into the back of one of the wagons, with a sack thrown over his head to keep him from seeing where they were going. His new situation was little improvement from the barn--he was bound to a dead tree near the edge of camp where they had set up the chuckwagon. Charles wasn't sure whose cruel genius that particular arrangement was, allowing the poor man to see and smell food all hours of the day while not being allowed so much as a crumb. The women of the camp were at least kind enough to bring him water a couple times a day, and Charles took him a few yards away into the bushes to let him relieve himself before his own guard shift every night.
But Charles could not deny that their captive was growing weaker. Though he occasionally begged for mercy, he was more often listless, bent double or slouched back against the tree like it was too hard to stay upright. When retying him to the tree the past few evenings, Charles noticed how bony his arms had become, how sunken his cheeks and eyes seemed. How slowly he was moving.
Just after dusk, Charles found Hosea lounging at the table with a book in hand, reading by the glow of an oil lamp. The others in camp had finished dinner and were gathering around the fire or by the women's canopy to talk, or sing, or whatever their night's entertainment was. Often Charles would join them, sitting quietly to listen in or rarely even sharing a story of his own. But he was preoccupied that night, constantly glancing over at their bound captive by the tree.
"Hosea," he greeted the older man.
"'Evening, Charles," Hosea responded. He must have noticed the pensive look on the other man's face, because he marked his place in his novel and set it down, turning his full attention to him. "Something on your mind?"
Charles nodded towards the captive. "You think Dutch is really going to let the O'Driscoll starve to death if he doesn't talk?"
Hosea glanced at the boy in question and huffed out a breath. "I don't know. I'd like to believe he's not capable of that level of cruelty."
"But?"
"But his grudge against Colm…" Hosea trailed off. "It's more than anger, or rivalry. It's pure hatred, and I think there is very little Dutch wouldn't do for the chance to destroy Colm O'Driscoll."
Charles sighed, leaning against the table with both hands, and looked Hosea in the eyes. "Are you willing to watch a man die for a grudge?"
Hosea looked over his shoulder again at the captive, who had managed to maneuver himself to sit in the dirt, knees bent up towards his chest, head leaning back against the rough bark of the dead tree, eyes closed. The older man considered for a moment before looking back to Charles.
“I believe we’ve all had our fill of Pearson’s stew this evening, don’t you think?”
Charles blinked and nodded, once.
“Might be a bit of broth left over,” Hosea continued. “No harm if we give the boy some of that to drink, instead of water.”
Charles felt a knot in his chest unclench as he nodded again. “No, no harm in it.”
“And,” Hosea said, “If a bit of leftover vegetable or meat were to fall into the cup, well, that's probably unavoidable.”
Charles swallowed and let out a relieved breath before straightening up. As he passed Hosea on his way to the stew pot, he gently squeezed the older man’s shoulder and murmured, “Thank you.” Hosea merely patted his hand, and went back to his novel.
A stack of recently cleaned tin cups sat next to the washtub. Charles grabbed one and, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he went up to the stew pot. It was mostly empty, but a few ladlefuls of broth simmered in the bottom along with the last few scraps of meat and vegetables. He scooped some broth into the cup, making sure to snag a few of the most filling leftover pieces--cubes of potato and wild carrot, and bits of stringy, unidentifiable meat. When the cup was full, he took a spoon and slipped into the shadows behind the chuckwagon. He mashed up the pieces of vegetable and meat until they resembled a thin porridge--something drinkable, rather than needing a spoon to eat it. When he was satisfied that the mixture was smooth enough, he stepped out of his hiding place, checked again to make sure he wasn’t being watched, and approached the prisoner.
Kieran looked up wearily as Charles knelt in front of him, holding the tin cup.
“Iss’at water?” he asked, his eyes drawn to the cup. “Please, c-can I have a drink?”
“Better than that,” Charles responded, lifting the cup to Kieran’s lips. “Drink slow, and stay quiet.”
Kieran flinched away at first when the hot liquid touched his tongue, but within moments his eyes widened in shock and he leaned in as far as he could, desperate to get the brothy mixture into his stomach as quickly as possible. Charles let him have a few swallows, then moved the cup away.
“Slowly,” Charles reminded him. “You’ll make yourself sick if you gulp it down.”
Kieran nodded desperately, and Charles lifted the cup to the prisoner’s mouth again. He seemed less frantic this time, obviously making an effort to slow down, but his eyes darted everywhere as if he was afraid that someone was going to come and rip the cup away from him at any moment.
Even with Charles pulling the cup back every few swallows to force the prisoner to breathe and slow his pace, the broth was gone in only a few minutes. Charles set the cup down nearby, still kneeling close to the boy so they could speak without being overheard.
“Th-thank you,” Kieran whispered, nearly crying. He was breathing hard, as if he had just run ten miles.
“Don’t mention it. To anyone. Understand?” Charles said, gripping Kieran’s chin firmly to force him to look in his eyes. Kieran licked his lips and nodded as much as he could with Charles still holding his face in one hand.
“Not a word, m-mister. Promise.”
Charles released Kieran’s chin from his grasp with a rueful chuckle. “You don’t seem to have a problem keeping quiet, I’ll give you that.”
To his surprise the comment drew a weak, watery giggle from the boy. “I s’pose not.”
“Please,” Charles found himself near pleading with the captive, “just tell Dutch what he wants to know. If you’re honest with him, he can protect you.”
Kieran bowed his head, shaking it sadly. “D-don’t think there’s no one can protect me from Colm, if he gets a mind to come after me.”
“You don’t know Dutch,” Charles said. He’d seen how fierce their leader could be, and the hatred that boiled from him at the mere mention of his rival.
“You don’t know Colm,” Kieran retorted.
Charles sighed and moved to stand, taking the cup with him. “I’ll be back later, before my guard shift.”
Kieran just nodded and leaned back against the tree again, closing his eyes.
It took threatening his balls to make him break, but Kieran did speak a few days later. He even proved himself, if not loyal, then at least clever and quick enough to keep Arthur from getting killed. That bought him a place within their ranks, low as it might be. Too afraid to leave the camp unescorted, lest he be discovered by the O'Driscolls, he busied himself with chores around camp.
Kieran was happy that, even if the gang rarely spoke to him, at least the horses seemed grateful for his presence. He quickly won over even The Count with sugar cubes, peppermints, and ample praise. And he had Branwen there--his most loyal friend. The gang was rough on tack, but Kieran kept it all in good repair, spending much of his day oiling the leather and making repairs.
He was hesitant to spend much time around the main campfire, hoping to avoid the attention of Bill, Sadie, and Javier. So instead he often found himself seated near the scout fire, cleaning saddles and repairing bridles. It was quiet enough, and kept him warm in the still-chilly spring mornings and evenings.
It was a surprise the first time Charles sat down across from him, a bundle of arrow shafts in his hand, and began to work on fletching them. Kieran was in the middle of cleaning Brown Jack's saddle, and it nearly slid out of his lap when the other man sat down on a crate next to him. He expected to be told to leave, or to be warned that he was being watched, but Charles simply got to work quietly, not even looking up at Kieran's wary expression.
Kieran tried to continue working, rubbing oil into the leather with a rag until it shone, but watching Charles from the corner of his eye was mesmerizing. The other man's hands were quick and precise, binding the fletching to the arrows with lengths of sinew and dabs of hide glue, then trimming the shafts of the feathers with a flick of his whittling knife.
“You keep that up, Bill’s going to slip right off his horse,” Charles said without looking up. Kieran looked down at the saddle in his lap, seeing the dribbles of oil he’d poured on without watching what he was doing. He set down the oil bottle and forced himself to look down at his rag as he continued working.
“S-sorry, mister. Just g-got distracted.”
Charles hummed in acknowledgement, but said nothing else.
The silence dragged on, and Kieran felt the tension growing in his chest. It had been so long since he’d had a simple, friendly conversation with anyone. The O’Driscolls certainly hadn’t been much interested in having a chat with their pissant little boot boy.
He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “That horse of yours--the appaloosa? Sh-she’s a nice one. Real smart.”
“Taima.” Charles responded.
“Taima?” Kieran asked, his mouth feeling out the unusual word. “That her name?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Okay, w-well. Taima. Like I said, she’s real smart. Figured out which pocket I keep the treats in and everythin’. Think she figured out how to undo her hitch, too--I found her wandering around yesterday morning, gettin’ ready to challenge The Count for his feed. Nearly had to drag her back!” Kieran chuckled to himself, but stopped when he saw that Charles wasn’t joining in.
Still, there was an upward quirk to Charles’ lips. “She does that. Unhitches herself, and goes off to harass the stallions. She’s fearless. Knows when to back off, though.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Three years.”
“Where’d you get her?”
“Found her wandering near Owanjila, hurt and starving in the middle of a bad storm. Took a while, but I got her to let me put a rope on her and walked all the way back to the stable near Strawberry to fix her up. She’s been with me ever since.”
"That's awful kind of you.”
“She needed someone. Not her fault she ended up out there all alone.”
“Still, not everyone would care.”
“Not everyone, no. But it only takes one.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right about that,” Kieran said, considering. Their conversation lapsed into silence as he finished with the saddle and set it down carefully on the log next to him to keep it out of the dirt. Fidgeting with the polishing rag, he watched Charles work for a long moment, entranced by the care and precision of his movements.
“Mister Smith?” he asked finally.
“Hm?”
“I’ve been meaning to thank you. F-for being kind to me, I mean. Don’t know if I would have survived if you hadn’t brought me water. Or fed me.”
“You’re welcome. I’m impressed you held out so long.”
“You were right, though. I shoulda just told ‘im.”
“To be fair,” Charles said, glancing up to meet Kieran’s gaze, “I can understand why you didn’t. From what I hear, Colm O’Driscoll is not a forgiving man.”
“No,” Kieran said, swallowing hard, “he really isn’t.”
“Has Dutch been treating you all right?”
Kieran shrugged, gazing into the fire. “He’s hardly spoken to me, ‘cept to tell me that he’s got his eye on me. And that I better not turn traitor.” He didn’t miss Charles’ momentary scowl at his comments.
“And the others?”
“Mostly I avoid folk.” Kieran shrugged. “Some of the girls are nice, though. Tilly and Mary-Beth. I been trying to help them out, carrying wash water and things.”
“I’m sure they appreciate that,” Charles said with a nod. He set the last newly-fletched arrow into the pile at his feet and picked up a small, rattling sack, plucking a worn steel arrowhead from it to examine.
“Lenny and Hosea ain’t so bad either. Don’t think Arthur likes me much though, even if I did shoot that feller who was going to shoot him.”
“He’ll come around.”
“If he don’t decide to drag me out into the woods and shoot me first,” Kieran said, finishing with a high, nervous giggle. It was funny, he thought, and it wasn’t, and it was thoughts like that that kept him waking up with a start every couple hours at night.
“He won’t.” Charles picked up one of the fletched arrow shafts and began affixing the arrowhead to it. “Arthur...well. For all he claims he isn’t, he’s a good man.”
“If you say so.”
Charles hummed noncommittally, and the two men fell silent. Kieran picked up Bill’s saddle and moved it over to the hitching post next to Brown Jack. The horses nearby nibbled sedately at the hay he’d spread out for them earlier in the day. Branwen wickered as he passed by, and he stopped for a moment to stroke his soft nose. He gazed at the other horses spread out near the camp entrance. Boaz needed brushing--it looked like Javier had been back to Valentine and the poor thing was splashed with crusty mud. Hosea had just come back from Emerald Ranch, and Silver Dollar would need to be un-tacked and cleaned up too.
Branwen nudged at his jacket pocket, and Kieran snorted a laugh and pulled out a peppermint for his horse, offering it to him on his palm. Branwen, for his part, slobbered all over Kieran’s hand in his rush to get the treat, but Kieran didn’t mind, just wiped his hand on his pants and patted the horse’s neck. He looked back at the scout fire where Charles still sat, head down and focused on his arrows. He considered what the man had said. He hoped he was right, that he was safe, and Arthur really was a good man.
At least, he thought to himself, he already knew that Charles was.