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He’s six and the woman is dead. For some reason, the only thing he can focus on is the pretty flower she has on her bedside table.
He’s eleven and an old woman is holding her hands over his eyes. He peaks through the cracks between her fingers, sees the way he jerks and spasms. He should be sad, but he isn’t. He’s angry. Looking at the mangled neck, it feels as if every bruise he’s ever given him blooms and burns once again, and Arthur wants to claw at his father’s face until it’s unrecognizable, wants to make sure his last memory of him won’t be those dead eyes.
But the old woman gently urges him away, asks him where his parents are and, when Arthur doesn’t respond, eyes flickering to the body, clasps a hand over her mouth to hide a gasp, and all Arthur can do is run.
He keeps his hat.
He’s twelve and the girls are laughing at him. Of course they are, because he’s skinny and pathetic and he’s got mud all over him from falling in the rain. He hates girls, he decides, because they always seem to know something he doesn’t. They smile at him until they don’t because they begin to notice how often he’s being hauled in and out of the sheriff’s office. Their giggles turn to whispers and it’s then Arthur leaves for another small town.
He’s thirteen and a girl is holding him tight, shielding his body with her own and begging the large man to leave him alone, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s stiff, doesn’t like being touched and there’s blood in his mouth, but the man has stopped even if he still looks like he wants to strangle him.
She offers the mean man something, but Arthur can’t hear it because there’s thunder in his ears and he wants to scream.
He’s fourteen and the pretty girls are giggling from behind their colourful fans, eyes flickering between each other and the two men at the bar. One of them is blond and the other is dark-haired, and Arthur has been following them since they entered the town looking all fancy, heads held high as they pranced into the saloon, loudly announcing that Drinks are on use tonight, fellers!
No one notices him anymore, he’s a regular now, darting between the saloon and the rooms the girls have out back for themselves. He sleeps there from time to time, snuggling into whatever blanket he can find, sometimes cuddled by one of the girls and sometimes not. They always coddle him, giving him scraps of food, letting him sit by the fire and warm his hands, and – if he puts on a real sad face – they even let him take a bath with hot water that makes his skin look all raw and pink. It’s nice, it’s real nice, even if he doesn’t like how much he owes them.
He’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for the pretty girls. That’s why he’s eyeing the satchel thrown over the loud, dark-haired man’s chair: there's bound to be something in there he can give back.
He’s fifteen and the girls are on his mind. He misses them, but when he tells Dutch he just laughs, loud and boisterous, and slaps him on the back and says Don’t worry, son, well take you to a proper whorehouse in the next town, and Arthur cringes because he never liked that mean word and it can’t just be any brothel, it has to be their brothel. But Dutch doesn’t seem to understand and he’s so scared that they’ll leave him behind if he makes too much of a fuss, already shaking from the simple confession of missing anything from his old life, so he just nods and walks away.
They do end up going to a brothel, Dutch and him, money burning in their pockets from their latest score, Hosea off somewhere to run a scam. Arthur gets ushered into a room as Dutch goes to another, a girl on each arm smiling at him and twirling their hair around their fingers. For a few minutes, he’s alone and then a girl comes into the room, but this is an actual, small, tiny girl, around Arthur’s age and she looks so small, even compared to him, who’s still too skinny for a boy of his age.
Silence stretches between them as they stare at each other. He doesn't want to be there. She goes to the bed, head lowered, asking in a voice that’s barely above a whisper, do you want me on my back or my stomach, and he feels sick.
He’s fifteen and the girl has all his money, because She looked so sad and she was crying and she didn’t want it and it’s not fair Dutch, it’s not fair. That’s what he tells Dutch when he asks for the money back at camp, Hosea sitting off to the side, quiet, and it’s too dark for Arthur to see his eyes, doesn’t know whether he’s angry or annoyed or both and he’s sure they’re going to leave him, or – if they’re merciful – just beat him until he’s learned his lesson.
They look at each other, something unspoken between them, and then Hosea nods and Dutch tells Arthur to go to bed, and he’s so confused until he hears Hosea whistle, his horse whinnying at the sound; They’re going to leave him.
He’s fifteen and the girl is at an orphanage now, at least that’s what they tell him, and maybe, he thinks, just maybe, Hosea and Dutch aren’t going to abandon him.
He’s sixteen and the woman teaches him how to play dominos. She’s also pretty, but in a different way from most of the other women he’s known. Maybe it’s the way she smiles, or the way she snorts when she laughs at a stupid joke Hosea tells her, his lips curled into a smirk, but there’s something about her that just makes Arthur want to be near her all the damn time.
He confesses this to Hosea one night, and Hosea’s gaze falls to her, a tender smile painted across his visage, and says, Yes, my dear Bessie has that effect on people. Then he turns his attention back to Arthur, smile equally tender, and something in Arthur chest aches a bit, but for once it’s in a good way.
He’s seventeen and the girls are still laughing at him, and even though he doesn’t hate girls anymore, he still doesn’t understand. Dutch tells him they’re laughing because they think he’s handsome, and it’s strange because he can’t see it. Sure, he’s getting taller and stronger, but he’s still so skinny. Worse still, he looks more and more like his father and he wants to claw at his face until it’s unrecognizable.
And maybe Hosea can read minds or something because he sits him down one night and says, You might look like him, but you ain’t him. You’re a good kid, Arthur.
He doesn’t believe him because why would he?
He’s seventeen and the girl hasn’t complained yet, so he must be doing something right.
He’s twenty-two and the prettiest girl he’s ever seen insists that she’s a woman, sir! And she’s a bit mean, and he likes that because he’s a bit mean too, and they fit so nicely together, her soft hand in his. It’s so nice, going on walks with her, having a girl on his arm, but not in the way Dutch has, and Mary is proud when she’s with him, looking all fancy, head held high, and she teases him, and he teases back, and everything feels like a blur when he’s with her.
Her father is a prick, but that’s okay, he can deal with it, he’ll deal with anything if it means being with Mary.
He’s twenty-three and the woman is still there for some odd reason; It’s been years since Dutch left her for Annabelle. He asks her about it, and Susan’s quiet for some time, real quiet, in a way he’s not used to. Then, with a small, barely-there smile, she says, Well, you’re my family. Even if you are a bunch of lazy, no good, dirty boys, WHO REALLY NEED TO CLEAN THEMSELVES UP!
John flips her the bird and Davey follows suit. They regret it immediately, much to Arthur’s delight.
He’s twenty-four and the woman breaks his heart.
Despite himself, he still loves her. She loves him too, he knows that, just not enough.
He’s twenty-five and the woman who is pretty in a different way dies. Cancer, Dutch mutters to him, all quiet and low by the fire, because Hosea hasn’t said anything for days now, and Arthur’s scared he might never speak again.
It affects everyone, Hosea’s decline, Dutch more than anyone else, and Arthur takes as much of the burden as he can. It takes a long time, but eventually, Hosea gets better, moves past his grief, or perhaps just gets better at hiding it. Either way, one cold morning he apologises to Arthur, who just stares at him like he’s grown a second head. What's he apologising for?
He’s twenty-six and the girl says he has a son. And he doesn’t understand, barely remembers her, but she’s so young, but he can’t leave Hosea and Dutch and Susan and everyone else, but he doesn’t want to be like his father or like John’s father or like Hosea’s father either. So, he tries. He really does.
He’s twenty-seven and the girl can’t say anything. He doesn’t have a son anymore.
The rage is back, but he keeps it inside, drinks because that’s what Hosea did.
Maybe Mary’s father was right.
He's twenty-nine and the girl is the cutest thing he's ever seen. And the saddest. It doesn't take long for him to grow far too protective of her. Susan tells him off, then Tilly herself tells him off. He reckons this must be what Dutch and Hosea had to deal with – feels slight guilt over all the times he's gotten himself into fights he shouldn't have.
He’s thirty-one and the girl reacts a bit too slowly when Susan calls for her help. When he brings it up to Hosea all he says is Took you long enough. They let her spill the truth when she’s ready for it, and when she does, she tells them My name is Abigail, not Anna.
They let her stay, even if Dutch is annoyed that Abigail wasn’t honest with them from the beginning, and it makes Arthur smile because he likes her. He likes her quiet strength, but he likes her loud strength even more. What a woman, able to put a man in his place so easily. And he’s weak and a fool because when she comes to him, he nods and lets her into his tent, making sure they have their privacy, and then he’s kissing her soft and deep, hands roaming over her, and he imagines, for a second, that she’s offering the intimacy under different circumstances.
In the morning, he apologizes to her, and she looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
Still, he doesn’t touch her again.
He’s thirty-two and the woman doesn’t cry, doesn’t say a thing, eyes cold when she realizes what the rest of them already have. It only serves to make Arthur’s anger all the more evident, burning beneath his skin in a way bruises and cuts and burns never have. Maybe it’s because he likes Abigail more than he originally thought. Maybe it’s because he knows John knows about Eliza.
He’s thirty-three and the woman makes him promise that he won’t break John’s goddamn neck, no matter how much he deserves it. He isn’t sure he has the strength to keep it, but he tries – for Abigail and Jack – and for every cruel comment the fool throws their way, Arthur is there to take the brunt of it.
If you care about her so much, why don’t you marry her?! I’m sure you’d make a great father, better than me anyway, John spits at him one day, and then he’s quiet, real quiet, something passing over his expression and maybe it’s regret, maybe it’s guilt, but Arthur doesn’t care to find out because his clenched fists are stirring, and he’s not sure whether he wants to hurt John or himself. He does neither, leaving the camp for a couple of days.
They don’t speak of it again.
He’s thirty-six and the woman is drunk and desperate. He pities her. Dutch’s former lover shoots Dutch’s present lover. He never gets close to Dutch’s lovers for a reason.
He's thirty-six and the woman kisses him on the cheek – He doesn't deserve it, not after all the other lives he's ruined. He hopes Charlotte will be alright.
He hopes Mrs. Downes and her son are better off than they were when he last saw them.
He’s thirty-six and the woman tells him that aside from her husband, you’re the best man I’ve known. He doesn’t believe her because why would he?
He’s thirty-six and he hopes the girls and women know he tried. He really did.